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Soviet orientalism across borders: documentary film for the Turkish Republic.

In the early 1930s, Ankara's requests for productions about Turkey created a dilemma for Soviet filmmakers. (1) How could a single propaganda film satisfy two governments with conflicting ideologies? Moscow knew that Communists languished in Turkish jails, and the Turkish military had already blocked screenings of Sergei Eisenstein's Bronenosets Potemkin (Battleship Potemkin). (2) Yet Mustafa Kemal (Ataturk) and many of his supporters sympathized with elements of the Soviet project, and their proposition was intriguing. (3) Ultimately, film as a revolutionary tool brought representatives of the Turkish and Soviet states together, and their joint cinematographic endeavors help explain similarities in practices across state and ideological borders.

A Bolshevik faith in the persuasiveness of scientific truth facilitated cooperation, for it suggested that objectivity could overcome subjective difference. When Boris Shumiatskii--head of the Soviet film industry for much of the decade--reviewed an early proposal for Soviet-Turkish cinema, he argued that the creation of a common set of images would avoid "ideological concessions" for both sides. The trick, he claimed, was to produce a work that was "logical, true, and historically founded." (4) Shumiatskii echoed prominent members of the Soviet avant-garde who maintained that film was an artistic medium uniquely capable of documenting reality. Supraideological alliance led one enthusiastic Soviet reviewer to hail cinematographic cooperation as a world historical event. He alluded to the Tower of Babel and proclaimed the Soviet-Turkish venture evidence that national and ideological "boundedness" (ogranichennost') could be breached. (5) Shumiatskii and the reviewer both underestimated the challenge of making a Soviet representation of reality recognizable to their Turkish counterparts, but Shumiatskii's logic is revealing. Turks who participated in these efforts also appreciated film's capacity to be a documentary tool, and both sides hoped the camera could historicize Turkey--that is, simultaneously capture Turkey's particularity and situate the country in a broader historical process. The latter was particularly important, for Soviets and Turks felt that Turkey had long been the subject of ahistorical orientalist fantasies.

During a brief but intense moment, Soviet and Turkish elites negotiated how best to present an image of modern Turkey on the screen. Forgoing Istanbul's alleyways, Sergei Iosifovich Iutkevich's Ankara--Serdtse Turtsii (Ankara--The Heart of Turkey) celebrated the Republican capital and was released in Turkey and the Soviet Union in 1934. Novelty was in the title of Idet novaia Turtsiia (The New Turkey on the Move), which Esfir' Il'inichna Shub worked on in 1934 and early 1935. Shub's experience testifies to the difficulty of these projects, as she had long left the project by the time Ha-Ka Studio released the 1937 Turk Inkilabinda Terakki Hamleleri (Steps of Progress in the Turkish Revolution). (6) She had complained when her producer, Halil Kamil, refused to let her film camel caravans and peasant women riding donkeys because they would inevitably be cut, but her plan for the film suggests she was perfectly ready to speak a language acceptable to Turkish censors. (7) Her script promised "factory buildings stretching out" along the Golden Horn as symbols of progress, "nothing like" the romanticized depictions left by the French writers Pierre Loti and Claude Farrere, whom she dismissed as retrograde. (8) Industry was one of many themes recognizable to both Soviet and Turkish audiences, and finding shared symbols was not difficult. Iutkevich's Ankara presented the hallmarks of modern times--not only factories but also what one reviewer called "the face of the new Turkey ... institutes, the art of the youth, scientific laboratories, construction, new factories, new buildings, and hydroelectric plants." (9) In the discussions of these films, participants and viewers repeatedly staked claims to define internar Turkey. Propaganda film was a favored instrument of contemporary states, but here representatives of two competing states employed the practice together. The sense of a shared foe evident in Shub's reference to French novelists proved crucial in this collaboration.

This episode offers a new perspective on what a line of distinguished historians has referred to as "Soviet modernity." (10) Soviets and Turks used documentary films that played across borders as a space to engage with what it meant to be modern, and it was a space that was prominently transnational. (11) In histories of the Soviet Union "modernity" has thus far been largely an analytical term, an important part of a comparative approach that has helped integrate Soviet history into a "pan-European" context. That comparison has, however, produced a remarkably Western-centric narrative. (12) From the European perspective, Soviet difference is unsurprisingly read as national (Russian) or ideological (Marxist-Leninist) peculiarity. David Hoffmann's most recent book constitutes a valuable corrective, as he concludes that, while aspects of Soviet modernity were "unique" in a European context, they were common to what he calls "late-developing nations," among which he includes Turkey. (13) Yet Hoffmann's compartmentalization of modern practices within various national contexts points to commonalities without explaining their intertwined development. Michael David-Fox's and Katerina Clark's books move us toward transnational history, but they still focus less on border crossings themselves than on what those border crossings tell us about standard subjects--"the Soviet system" and "Stalinist civilization," respectively. (14) David-Fox has called for "an army of transnational historians" to study the process of "domesticating foreign models," but we may hope that army will not merely join the existing battle lines defined by states' borders. (15)

A transnational perspective might indeed help us move beyond "models" of modernity that assume cohesive domestic spaces. The Soviet and Turkish governments certainly had their own international relationships, among which were contentious dealings with the Western-dominated international order that emerged after World War I. But overlapping international stances produced state sponsorship for transnational processes, including in cinema. Soviet-Turkish collaboration on documentary film was shaped by a broader documentary moment in global cinema, and placing the process at the center of inquiry locates both Soviet and Turkish actors in a web of interlocking conversations. An approach to the documentary that was shared--and in important ways anti-Western--points to a diverse but nonetheless transnational phenomenon. Of course, despite their investments in Turkey, Iutkevich and Shub retained a strong sense of cultural difference, a helpful reminder that the transnational is not antithetical to the national, that a supranational identity need not be the litmus test for transnational exchange. To understand Soviet-Turkish cinematographic collaboration in the 1930s requires the reconstruction of a particularly Soviet genre, "film for the East," as well as of a longer Turkish encounter with Soviet cinema. Soviet and Turkish attitudes were not constants of political cultures but were, rather, transmitted by particular institutions. (16) Institutional trajectories converged in the 1930s, and that convergence illustrates much about how Soviet and Turkish elites engaged with the idea of modernity.

Together, Soviet filmmakers and their Turkish partners hoped documentary film could be an antidote to Western art's presentation of the East as an exotic place that modernity visited in the form of foreign tourists, only to be left behind at the end of the voyage. When Halil Kamil warned Shub that scenes with peasant women on donkeys would be cut, he spoke with a knowledge of Turkish censors' sensitivities. The Turkish government sought to preempt historical films that cast Turks or their Ottoman forebears in the role of oppressors and to portray contemporary Turkey as a site of progress. (17) The censors' focus on symbols of development coincided with Soviet filmmakers' instructions for portraying the East. Over the course of the 1920s, on paper and on screen, the Soviet film industry formulated prescriptions to distinguish its depictions of the East from Western, imperialist analogues. (18) Initially, Soviet filmmakers were to document the reality of everyday life, to demonstrate that discrete Eastern nations were part of the historical process, and to oppose Western "fantasies" of an undifferentiated East. (19) A programmatic statement published by the central orientalist association of the USSR on "the tasks of cinema in the East" accused Western and prerevolutionary Russian artists of creating "phantasmagoria" and argued that Soviet films must reproduce "the most accurate and authentic 'reality.'" (20) This rhetoric borrowed from a 1920s "factography" common among the Soviet avant-garde, but for Soviet Eastern film the documentary impulse acquired distinct connotations. (21) When it came time to depict Turkish reality in the 1930s, the Soviet documentary was technologically consistent with pan-European practices, but ideologically quite different.

Soviet and Turkish elites may have shared opposition to Western orientalism, but they were conditionally united in how to confront it. Shub's camel caravans formed part of a standard Soviet contrast of the old and the new; Halil Kamil's refusal reflected Turkish fears that the Soviet gaze was insufficiently reconstructed. A number of historians have stressed the similarities between Soviet and Western orientalisms, and with hindsight Iutkevich himself admitted that the screenplay he brought to Turkey was not quite the anti-orientalist tract he had imagined it to be. (22) Indeed, Michael G. Smith has cogently argued that "the realist style" in Soviet films made about Azerbaijan represented a form of "cultural imperialism," presenting ethnic prejudices as local "reality." (23) While much the same could be said about Soviet footage of Turkey, Halil Kamil paid Shub's expenses and sought her services despite her predilection for stereotypical images. The production and reception of Ankara and Idet novaia Turtsiia demonstrate the ways that Soviets and Turks negotiated representations--ones that we might condemn as Soviet orientalism--for their own purposes.

Newspapers in both the Soviet Union and Turkey hailed the newness of Soviet documentary film--often because the medium itself was a mark of the modern--but many of the assumptions that guided Shub and Iutkevich had a long pedigree. (24) Nineteenth-century Russian intellectuals claimed they could achieve a more accurate understanding of the East than their Western counterparts, and Soviet orientalist academic institutions drew upon their tsarist predecessors when they set out guidelines for films for the East. Accordingly, the first section of this article argues that a pre-Soviet Russian sense of distance from the West contributed to the formulation of an Eastern genre of Soviet cinema in the mid-1920s. The second section turns to the 1930s and Iutkevich's and Shub's trips to Turkey, a moment when Soviet film for the East contributed to the transnational development of cinematographic practices.

Filming the "Real" East

The Bolshevik Revolution promised a new era and new challenges for art, challenges that film seemed particularly suited to address. (25) Cinema might reconcile the tension between objectivist pretentions and a belief in the subjectivity of art. When Dziga Vertov famously reveled in the camera's ability to "catch life unawares," he fought against the theatricality of bourgeois fictional film. Associated so prominently with "documentary" film, Vertov in fact described his art as "unacted [neigrovaia] film." (26) Just what was not acted, however, was carefully selected. In part because art was to be instrumental and accelerate the transformation the state pursued, much of Soviet unacted film sought to document industrialization. (27) The heterogeneity of the Soviet landscape, however, thrust "film for the East" onto the pages of the same film journals in which Vertov and others debated how best to use film to capture reality. The drive to present an "objective" and "authentic" East on screen situated "film for the East" firmly within contemporary discussions of a new documentary genre. Yet some of the most prominent films for the East--even ones billed as documentary--demonstratively incorporated elements of fictional film. The acted material in Soviet film for the East suggests that the claims to objectivity were not just replications of the central tenets of Soviet documentary cinema, but that they were shaped in equal measure by assumptions from within the Soviet orientalist tradition.

The preposition in the phrase "for the East" was important, as it indicated aspirations to define the East as audience rather than as setting. The early Soviet "Eastern" had been a genre of adventure film that served as an ideologically acceptable alternative to the American Western or the French colonial cinema--dramatic revolutionary narratives were framed against backdrops calculated to appeal as exotic to the Soviet Union's metropolitan population. (28) These Easterns, as with other genres at the beginning of the 1920s, were made with an eye to profit. The 13th Party Congress in May 1924, however, highlighted the need to use film more effectively as propaganda, and this, together with a broader shift toward more ideological cinema, encouraged a new genre of film for Eastern audiences. (29) To properly appeal to Eastern viewers, responsibility for Easterns was transferred from popular directors to people who "know the East." (30)

The Soviet orientalists who contributed to film for the East were themselves part of a profession seeking relevance in a new world. In 1921, after deciding that tsarist-era scholars lacked the appropriate political credentials, the Central Committee mandated the creation of a new All-Russian Scientific Association of Oriental Studies and a corresponding journal, Novyi Vostok (The New East), both to be headed by Mikhail Pavlovich Pavlovich (given name Mikhail Lazarevich Vel'tman). (31) Pavlovich, not an orientalist by training, had a mandate to implement an ethos ostensibly at odds with that of the prominent orientalist school in Petrograd. Soviet Russia's new orientalists were to forsake linguistics and ancient history for study of the contemporary East and political economy. They were to rework oriental studies into a Soviet discipline with a revolutionary mission, and consequently they were also given a say in film. Eastern films from the mid-1920s advertised stamps of approval--Moisei Grigor'evich Rafes, a contributor to Novyi Vostok with extensive experience in China, provided "political consultation" for Il'ia Zakharovich Trauberg's 1929 Goluboi ekspress (The China Express); Anatolii Filippovich Miller, already on his way to becoming the preeminent Soviet scholar on Turkey, consulted on Iutkevich's Ankara. (32)

The new generation of orientalists, despite their ostentatious denunciations of past practices, worked within categories and institutional frameworks shaped by prerevolutionary traditions. One contributor to Novyi Vostok challenged the order to produce relevant work on political economy and maintained a regular section on literature. Solomon Lazarevich Vel'tman, Mikhail Pavlovich's brother, demonstrated his distance from the tsarist past by criticizing Russian poets--he denounced, for example, the "chauvinism" and "zoological patriotism" of Vladimir Sergeevich Solov'ev's "Panmongolism." (33) Yet he also celebrated a strand of Russian literature that proved Russians' gift for presenting an "accurate representation" of the East. (34) He claimed that Pushkin, Lermontov, and Tolstoi had all possessed a special ability to know and accurately represent the East. (35) The objectivity celebrated here was not that of the Soviet avant-garde but that of a Russian literary tradition gifted by geography and history with a particular knack for knowing the East. (36)

As for many prerevolutionary Russians, Vel'tman's imperative for authenticity was shaped more by his desire to distance himself from the West than by a special relationship with the East. (37) Most of his articles for Novyi Vostok targeted the works of Pierre Loti and Claude Farrere, the same authors who served as foils for Shub's screenplay. (38) Loti and Farrere wrote romance and adventure novels that were popular across Europe and featured heroes who ventured east to escape from all that was new in the West. (39) Vel'tman used their works to generalize and denounce the common characteristics of what he called "the colonial novel." Emphasizing that French authors did not know the East, he argued that the central element of the colonial novel was not the representation of reality, but rather "invention." French authors had a rotating set of romantic stories, to which they added an imagined local color. (40) The answer to the colonial novel was, according to Vel'tman, "literature in which the East found its authentic reflection." (41) Knowledge of the East could produce literature that corresponded to reality, but it should also seek to transform that reality. The Guyanese author Rene Maran's 1921 novel, Batouala, was read in France as anticolonial, but Vel'tman argued that Maran's harsh criticism of French imperialism was not the manifesto a black author should have written. Maran wrote about the French exploitation of Martinique and assumed that metropole and colony were worlds apart; worse still, he had written in French and for the metropole. Vel'tman maintained that the true anticolonial novel had to be produced in and for the East. (42) His critique was not particularly original--criticism of "fantastic" and "exotic" images of the East were common in prerevolutionary Russian orientalist circles--but his role at Novyi Vostok makes his writings an unusually clear link between these ideas and conversations about film. (43)

In 1925, writers for Novyi Vostok joined a broad reevaluation of Soviet Eastern film. Mikhail Pavlovich contributed to conversations in cinema-focused periodicals like Kino, and Solomon Vel'tman published a lengthy article in Novyi Vostok that was later published as a separate volume. (44) In writing about Soviet cinematographers' obligations, Vel'tman drew attention to the functionality that he claimed Rene Maran's novel was missing: Soviet film should "create a completely new viewer." (45) Vel'tman provided little evidence for his assertion that Soviet screenwriters needed to turn their attention to the East because Eastern peoples were not making their own films; instead he dealt with that statement's implications. He pointed to what he clearly thought was a quintessentially Eastern country--Spain--and admitted that, thanks to Carmen, flamenco dancers and knife fights could make a film shot in the Soviet Union look Spanish. To do so would make Soviet artists guilty of the "phantasmagoria" that plagued the authors of colonial novels. After all, Vel'tman pointed out, Spain also had its own telephone boxes and highways, and to document them was the Soviets' task. It was not enough to mix images of Spanish tradition and a generic modernity; film was to historicize a particular, authentic Spanish reality.

Iutkevich and Shub did not begin to make films for the East until eight years later, but Iutkevich at least was almost certainly aware of Vel'tman's writings in the 1920s. Just months after Vel'tman denounced facile replications of Carmens imagery, Iutkevich published a cartoon that ridiculed the patterned nature of Eastern films and their lack of authenticity. The images he highlighted were dancers and daggers--precisely those Vel'tman had used.

The need to capture a historicized reality became a common refrain in the 1920s. When Kino devoted a special issue to the East, one of the leading articles reminded readers that films were to be "about the East and for the East," that they were to play a transformative role in the "emancipation of oppressed peoples." (46) Soviet film was to avoid the well-trodden Western path, to banish the "saccharine-fairytale East in the style of 1,001 nights" and "excursions into operatic exoticism." (47) A review in Pravda criticized Dmitrii Bassalygo's 1926 Andoziia's Eyes for gathering bits and pieces from different Eastern places into an "awkward and confused exotica." (48) The problem was not necessarily that Bassalygo had invented the East, but that he had failed to capture a particular national setting. Discussions of Eastern film emphasized that separate films needed to be made for each of the nations of the Caucasus, Central Asia, and the Far East. (49) In the celebration of Soviet access to so many Easts, moreover, the Soviet Union itself appeared less confidently a part of a European modernity. Izmail Abai, himself the director of a number of prominent films for the East, argued that proximity gave Soviet filmmakers unique opportunities, "greater than any European state." (50) Extolling Soviet landscapes from Sukhumi to the Amu-Darya, Abai proclaimed that the "entire kaleidoscopic East is in our hands, waiting for its artist, for the screen." The idea that Soviets could authentically interpret the East was repeated in reviews which proclaimed that Soviet filmmakers would finally show "Europeans" "not a sham [ibutaforskii] but an authentic East." (51) Emphasizing the contrast between Soviet and European film, these reviews also suggested similarities between Soviet and Turkish works. Soviet reviews hailed Turkish cinematographers who discovered a yet unseen Turkish reality for "Europeans." (52)

For all the injunctions to document reality, many new films for the East were remarkably theatrical. One of the most prominent examples of the genre, Vsevolod Pudovkin's 1927 Potomok Chingiskhana (Storm over Asia), was based on a fictional account of revolution; the location was not identifiably national. Goluboi ekspress featured recognizable Soviet actors playing "Europeans." This is not to say that film for the East was unconnected to the most celebrated unacted films. Sergei Mikhailovich Tret'iakov, author of the 1925 play Rychi, Kitai! (Roar, China!) and contributor to the journal LEF, is but the most obvious evidence of the personal connection. (53) Viktor Borisovich Shklovskii, another leading member of the avant-garde, wrote the screenplay for one of the most successful Eastern films of the decade, Viktor Aleksandrovich Turin's 1929 Turksib. Yet as much as Turksib demonstrates the connections between unacted film and film for the East, it also reveals divergence. Intended as a documentary about the construction of theTurkestan-Siberian railroad, Turin relied heavily on intertitles and staged scenes to create a dramatic narrative. (54) Turksib was advertised as a documentary, but Turin's background was entirely in acted film. He acknowledged that he sought to create a film that bridged genres, that was "both fictional and a little unacted." (55) Reviewers of Turksib recognized that this Eastern film tested the boundaries of genre, that it was "a new form of documentary." (56) Turksib fit awkwardly into the genre of documentary film, but it adhered to many of the prescriptions of "films for the East," and it was one of the examples cited frequently in discussions about films for Turkey. (57)

Eastern Film for Turkey

On the face of it, given the Turkish governments strident anticommunism, it is remarkable that Soviet Eastern films made it to Turkey. In 1933, the head of the Turkish General Staff, Fevzi (Cakmak), indicated that he would have preferred if they had not. He warned the prime minister, ismet (Inonu), that a Soviet film about the latter's recent trip to Moscow was playing in Istanbul, and that a retired army major in the censorship office had labeled it "a propaganda film." (58) The former officer indicated quite a low tolerance--he complained even about the presence of Lenin's statue in the film--but he concluded with a substantive point: this film, unlike most films playing in Turkey, was not the work of a "civilian entrepreneur" and it represented the perspective of a communist state. (59) The reply, signed by both Ismet and Mustafa Kemal, acknowledged the objections but concluded that no harm would come from showing the film. (60) The Turkish prime minister and president shared the general staffs fear of communism, but they saw value in Soviet film. Over the course of the next two years they helped ensure that Soviet films presented Turkish reality in an acceptable form. As a result, Turkish reviewers came to engage with the documentary impulse that shaped Soviet film for the East.

When moving images had first arrived in the Ottoman Empire in 1896, they offered a way for the Ottoman elite to lay claim to modernity and simultaneously undermined that claim. (61) Sultan Abdulhamit II commissioned photographs and film of the Ottoman army and political ceremonies, but he commissioned them from foreign companies. (62) Indeed, film in the late Ottoman Empire and the early Turkish Republic was called a "foreign" (gavur) art. (63) The epithet was warranted, as early Republican cinemas primarily showed foreign feature films. (64) The adaptation of foreign titles--Groucho Marx was renamed Ar[section]ak Palabiyikyan and Eddie Cantor became Yani Babanoglu--both played to local audiences' tastes and exposed an anxiety. (65) Muhsin Ertugrul, the most prominent figure in early Turkish film, wrote stridently--if hopefully--about the need to create a "national" film industry. (66)

Whereas Vertov and many of his Soviet counterparts attacked theatricality in film, Ertugrul reconciled a career in dramatic theater with his contributions to the development of Turkish cinema. Indeed, historians of Turkish cinema have labeled the cinematographers of the interwar period "the dramatists" (tiyatrocular), as many of them had been trained in the theater and incorporated that training into their filmmaking. (67) Ertugrul did spend two years in the Soviet Union, where he directed the 1926 films Tamilla and Spartak, and he brought elements of a less theatrical Soviet style with him when he returned to Turkey. (68) In particular, his 1932 Bir Millet Uyamyor (A Nation Awakes) and his 1935 Aysel, Batakli Damm Kiz (Aysel, Girl from the House of Sin) incorporated elements of montage and even direct allusions to Bronenosets Potemkin. (69) But Ertugrul enjoyed less government support than his Soviet colleagues and was dependent on the tastes of Turkish viewers. A number of his early films, like other productions in interwar Turkey, were remakes of German operettas and French vaudevilles. (70)

In contrast to private filmmakers and like their Soviet counterparts, the Turkish political elite sought to use film to mobilize society. The military had taken an early interest in film and the army was both an initiator and an inhibitor of cinematographic exchange. (71) While Turkey was in the midst of the War of Independence, the Soviet representative in Ankara spoke with Mustafa Kemal about propaganda work among Turkish troops and asked Moscow to provide several portable projectors. (72) Although the Turkish military rejected Bronenosets Potemkin, diplomats viewed Soviet productions more favorably. Zekai (Apaydin), Turkish ambassador in Moscow, was asked to attend a 1926 screening of films that were being considered for distribution in the East. He watched and ultimately approved a number of Soviet films made specifically for the East but stressed Turkey's particular interest in a different kind of film, one that demonstrated "Soviet development." (73) Nonetheless, in his correspondence with Ankara, Zekai recommended many of the films for import. He even condoned a vehemently antireligious film, Abbas Mirza Sharifzade's 1925 Vo imia Boga (In the Name of God), provided that the last two, overtly procommunist scenes were removed. (74) Turkish translations of the films that were imported made clear that the subject was foreign--the title of Vladimir Pavlovich Kas'ianov's 1926 Pod vlast'iu adata (In the Grip of Custom) was given a geographic referent that located custom safely outside Turkey: Kafkas Kam (Caucasian Blood). (75) Petr Pavlenko described the film's significance for Turkey in terms that Solomon Vel'tman would have recognized--"this was perhaps the first film from real Eastern life ... without false and humorous exoticism"--but the Turkish response seems to have been more muted. (76) Soviet films for the East enjoyed much less popularity in Turkey than the melodramatic Hollywood and German Easterns they condemned. (77) Nikolai Ekk's 1931 Putevka v zhizn ' (Road to Life) seems to have been one of few Soviet films that moved Turkish viewers. (78)

Political cooperation peaked in 1932-33 and generated more substantial Soviet-Turkish cinematographic exchange. Ismet's arrival in Moscow in May 1932 prompted calls for a cultural campaign to mark diplomatic achievements. Citing Viacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov's injunction for more direct contact between Soviet and Turkish artists, director Grigorii L'vovich Roshal' and a pair of young screenwriters sought support for a project to make one or more films about Turkey. (79) Roshal' and his colleagues' plans were in significant part documentary: they wanted to incorporate newsreels taken during Ismet's visit and then travel to Turkey for additional footage. The combination of documentary and "acted" material would produce a "document" of friendship. (80)

Roshal' and his team did not get the backing that they sought, but work on a film for Turkey was now underway. Anatolii Miller, a graduate of the Moscow Institute of Oriental Studies, drafted guidelines whose recommendations adhered to a narrative that was orthodoxy in Novyi Vostok: the film should emphasize Western capital's penetration into the Ottoman Empire and demonstrate European imperialism's responsibility for the Turkish Republic's challenges. (81) Although Miller's proposal lacked the documentary element proposed by Roshal', it was deeply historical.

The screenplay produced on Miller's recommendations illustrates just how easily Soviet filmmakers slipped into the Western orientalist tropes they so eagerly rejected. Natan Abramovich Zarkhi and Sergei Iutkevich chose a title that situated them firmly within the tradition of anti-Western critique: "Chelovek, kotoryi ne ubil" (The Man Who Did Not Kill) reversed Claude Farrere's 1906 L'homme qui assassina (The Man Who Killed). (82) For a story set in the early 1920s about the Turkish War of Independence, however, the text is remarkably Russocentric. (83) The narrative rests on the relationship between Hikmet, a young Turk, and Broveri, a wily former tsarist diplomat. The two work together to procure arms from Soviet Russia ostensibly for Mustafa Kemal's forces, but in the climactic scene Hikmet realizes that Broveri seeks to deliver the arms to Greece. The story thus ties Soviet and Turkish fates together--the imperialist Broveri tricks them both--but the partnership is unequal. The catalytic role of the Russian revolutionary is unmistakable, as the last line of the screenplay kills off Broveri, "shot by a Russian, a Communist." (84) The story was entirely fictitious, and even its authors seem to have had qualms about it. In a preface, Zarkhi and Iutkevich confessed that their reading--"unfortunately, not very much"--had not provided enough material to write confidently about Anatolia. (85) Zarkhi had, in fact, spent one and a half months in Turkey, guided by the Turkish novelist Recat Nuri (Guntekin). (86) Zarkhi unsuccessfully tried to persuade Re[section]at Nuri and Muhsin Ertugrul to return to the Soviet Union with him for a month, to finish writing the screenplay together. Zarkhi knew the language of Eastern film--he claimed that Turkish viewers had appreciated the "realism" of previous Soviet films and he insisted that his historical film was going to be "realistic"--but the resulting screenplay was implausible. (87)

Even before Zarkhi and Iutkevich arrived in Turkey, Soviet colleagues alerted them to the screenplay's faults. Excerpts were published and the full text was reviewed in the Soviet press according to the standards for Eastern film established in the 1920s. (88) Although Velt'man did not comment directly on "Chelovek, kotoryi ne ubil," he published essays on the Eastern genre in the same publications that discussed the screenplay. (89) At least one reviewer, Evgenii L'vovich Shteinberg, shared Vel'tman's institutional background: he had graduated from the Moscow Oriental Institute and worked for five years at the oriental association established under Mikhail Pavlovich. (90) Shteinberg began his review with a reference to the colonial novel, whose counterpart he identified as "'Western cinematography's" Eastern genre. (91) At this stage, Shteinberg assumed that Iutkevich and Zarkhi would follow in the footsteps of Turksib, that they would offer a Soviet alternative to "trivial eroticism." (92) The issue of the moment, he argued, was the question of audience, the same question that had been crucial to Vel'tman's discussion of Batouala. Soviet film had to be at least equally for a Turkish viewer, he argued, because that viewer lacked images on screen of the country "as it is in reality." (93) As had been the case in the 1920s, Shteinberg used a Western foil to advocate realist film for the East. Mikhail Shneider, writing for the journal Kino, was less forgiving. Shneider pointed out that, just as someone who flees an object turns back to look at it, Zarkhi and Iutkevich had not so distanced themselves from Western orientalism that they could not see it over their shoulders. (94) The story, Shneider argued, had an "exotic-adventurist flavor." On the eve of their departure for Turkey, Zarkhi and Iutkevich were repeatedly reminded of the realistic, anti-Western depiction of Turkey they were expected to present.

Archives in Moscow and Ankara offer no record of the Turkish government's reaction to the screenplay, but the response seems to have pushed Iutkevich and Zarkhi toward a more documentary tack. From Turkey, Iutkevich wrote to Shub that people in Ankara did not share her enthusiasm for the screenplay. (95) Iutkevich chose Shub in part because she was known for her documentary film, and, with his screenplay on hold, Iutkevich joked with Shub that he had adopted for himself the role of "documentalist." (96) "Chelovek, kotoryi ne ubil" was never filmed; instead, Lenfil'm and the Turkish Ministry of Education jointly released Ankara. In Moscow, Shumiatskii claimed that Iosif Stalin singled out Ankara as representative of a documentary genre that required more attention. (97)

Shumiatskii's description of Ankara as khronika does justice neither to the film's explicit argumentation nor to its dramatic qualities. Approximately an hour long, Ankara is structured around the acted story of an old partisan making his way to the capital for celebrations of the tenth anniversary of the Turkish Republic. The partisan--played by the professional actor Ibnireffik Ahmet Nuri (Sekizinci)--is accompanied by a young girl--played by the daughter of the Soviet embassy's Turkish chauffeur--who serves as his guide. (98) Her tour of the city allows the director to include documentary shots of various locations and live footage of the anniversary. The film begins with a speech delivered by Ismet especially for the film, and the camera pulls back to emphasize the Soviet occasion, emphasizing that Ismet has no audience and is being photographed. Lest the viewer not recognize the East, the film quickly cuts to a parade of donkeys and camels. This shot reminds us of the strictures within which Iutkevich worked. Just as for Shub, the donkey proved problematic. Iutkevich could not fathom why Ahmet Nuri refused to deliver a monologue to a donkey. The monologue could deliver context, and Iutkevich dismissed the actor's claims that it was "beneath his dignity" to address the animal. (99) Iutkevich seems to have slipped the beasts past the censors by successfully using them as contrast for the new Ankara. It is, after all, the modern capital that dominates the film, with long sections dedicated to the Republic's anniversary celebrations. Here, in addition to footage of Mustafa Kemal's speech and military parades, the film becomes a chronicle of buildings: houses of government, scientific institutions, and the Ismet Pasa Girls' Institute. It emphasizes throughout the supportive role of the Soviet Union, with the Soviet embassy--"one of the oldest buildings in Ankara"--prominent among the city's modern structures. But Ahmet Nuri's presence belied the film's claim to be documentary. In his memoirs, Iutkevich asserted that he had intentionally pushed the boundaries of the genre, that he had "openly incorporated two 'acted' characters." (100)

Turkish reviewers engaged not only with the content of Ankara but also with its genre. Burhan Asaf (Beige) contrasted the Soviet footage of the anniversary celebrations with that of the Americans and the French. (101) The Fox and Pathe companies had taken the "reportage path," which required nothing more than a camera operator. In arguing that Ankara was a "composition" (tahrir) and that Iutkevich had "authorship," Burhan Asaf acknowledged that this documentary style was more than a snapshot of reality, that it was an attempt to explain its historical context. The idea that a documentary presented an argument was clearly new, as an article in Milliyet similarly stressed that Ankara had "in addition to its documentary value, another virtue as well." (102) Milliyet commended the film's ability to transmit the excitement of the anniversary celebrations and proclaimed "every Turk would benefit from seeing this film." Burhan Asaf, however, did not agree with all Iutkevich's authorial decisions. He argued that the symbolic presentation of the "flow" of visitors to the capital in the form of a single partisan did not do justice to the mass nature of the anniversary celebrations. Iutkevich's choice to focus on musicians practicing instead of performing did not capture the splendor of Turkey's achievements. Yet Burhan Asaf also praised the interweaving of Mustafa Kemal's speech with footage of the Republic's achievements as the film's greatest success. He claimed that Iutkevich had created a model for Turkish filmmakers to work with in the future. "One day," Burhan Asaf claimed, "when our film authors are ready," Ankara's footage could be reworked into a new film, "the way we wish it to be." (103)

This critical remark on the unpreparedness of Turkish filmmakers echoed a common theme. A number of reviews faulted Turkish cinema for its dependence on romantic, Western tropes. While the Soviet crew was still filming, Falih Rifki (Atay), one of Turkey's most prominent journalists, hoped the Soviets would set an example. He had just seen Muhsin Ertugrul's 1933 Soz Bin Allah Bir (One Word, One God), which he claimed was, like so much of Turkish film and literature, "trapped" in stories of marital infidelity. (104) Zarkhi and Iutkevich's interest in the Turkish Revolution would, Falih Rifki anticipated, "reveal the impoverishment" of Turkish cinema. On Ankara s release, a review in Hakimiyeti Milliye praised the film's presentation of "national characters" and the absence of a "fictionalized subject." (105) Burhan Asaf questioned the authenticity of so-called " national' organizations" that continued to produce variations on La vie parisienne, whose only selling point was nudity. Iutkevich, he argued, had demonstrated the benefit of drawing from the "real flow of our national life." (106) Here, albeit in a different form, Burhan Asaf brought together ideas central to Soviet Eastern film: the French foil and the depiction of an authentic national "reality" through documentary film. The criticism of the West was not as radical as in Soviet sources, but neither were Turkish newspapers shy to publish their Soviet counterparts' words. Vakit relayed Iutkevich's disappointment that "Turkish films do not possess a symbol or a style that is particularly Turkish," that Turkish films were merely copies of European films. (107) One review cited at length a Soviet description of Ankara as "the new Turkey as it really is, not as the exotic land that bourgeois writers make it out to be." (108) Many Turkish viewers doubtless understood the context in which Iutkevich had produced Ankara.

Following Iutkevich's success, Esfir' Shub's invitation to Turkey a year later is perhaps the strongest evidence that Ankara was well received. Shub was invited to make a film about "the new Turkey" by Halil Kamil, owner of Ha-Ka Studio. Unlike Iutkevich and Zarkhi, Shub arrived without a screenplay, but she eventually settled on Idet novaia Turtsiia as her working title. Shub left a rich written record of her work in Turkey and described the film on which she and Halil Kamil agreed as a combination of two seemingly contradictory genres: it was to be a "documentary, fictional [khudozhestvennaia] film." (109) According to Shub's outline, the film would be similar in style to Iutkevich's Ankara but geographically broader. It would present Izmir as the economic capital of the new Turkey, Istanbul as the fusion of old and new culture, and, unsurprisingly, Ankara's leading role as the "brains of the new Turkey." (110) While the records of Ankara's production only hint at the input of Rejat Nuri, Ismet, and others, Shub's account suggests the tensions inherent in writing of Ankara as a "Soviet" film, even if Turkish reviewers referred to it as such. Ha-Ka Studio had participated in the distribution of Ankara and Halil Kamil liked what he had seen enough to invite Shub to take part in a commercial venture. (111) While in Turkey, Iutkevich presented three Soviet films and later claimed that Mustafa Kemal and the Turkish elite were particularly impressed by Shub's Komsomol--shef elektrifikatsii (The Komsomol--Leader of Electrification). (112) Shub's friendship with Iutkevich would have recommended her, but, along with Dziga Vertov, she was one of the most prominent documentary directors in the Soviet Union. (113) Yet Halil Kamil and Shub struggled to find common ground. In a letter to Sergei Eisenstein, Shub referred to Halil Kamil as her "disgusting 'boss,'" reflecting both her dislike for the Turkish producer and her need to work with him. (114) Although she was formally the film's director, Shub was restricted not only by the possibility of government censorship but also by Halil Kamil's insistence on profitability. Indeed, both Shub and Halil Kamil agreed that Turkish governmental support--including financial--was necessary. (115) Together Shub and Halil Kamil worked out a list of objects to film, but she complained that they would merely be repeating the work done by Iutkevich. (116) Ankara had created a framework, and Halil Kamil's requests suggest that Shub was to fill in gaps that Iutkevich had missed. (117) For example, Burhan Asaf had criticized Iutkevich for showing only lessons in the conservatory and not their result; Shub was to film a concert. Halil Kamil also asked for shots of agricultural institutes, hospitals, schools, and speeches by Ismet and other party members. The list of scenes filmed indicates that Shub's itinerary was remarkably similar to Iutkevich's. The similarities speak to appreciation for Iutkevich's model, but they also point to the role played by the Turkish hosts, who drew up schedules for both Iutkevich and Shub.

Moreover, it seems likely that Turkish hosts determined more than just the locations for filming. Among the photographs left from Shub's time in Turkey, many are from a classroom. Rows of primly dressed schoolchildren gaze petulantly at the camera, but the film singles out just one. She stands alone at the front under lights, with long blonde hair that differs starkly from the dark, cropped cuts of her classmates. It is, perhaps, tempting to read Shub's focus on the girl as an imposition of Soviet iconography and European ideas of beauty. Indeed, the unveiled Eastern woman, transformed by the modern institutions of the Soviet state, recurred in Soviet films of the interwar period. (118) Yet it is quite possible that Shub chose neither the classroom nor the composition of the scene. Shub's work diaries show that Halil Kamil's plans required stops at schools in Izmir and Ankara, and these stops were part of an established pattern. Anatolii Glebovich Glebov, a member of one of the first Soviet delegations to Turkey in 1922, records entering a small village outside of Corum where local officials immediately took them to a school. (119) Glebov was struck that a blue-eyed girl had been prepared to recite a poem in praise of Soviet-Turkish cooperation. The schoolgirl was, as historians have noted, a central element of contemporary Turkish discourse about what it meant to be modern. (120) The Turkish government and popular magazines encouraged European fashions, with the result that Turkish understandings of beauty became increasingly European. (121) Iutkevich had traveled to Turkey with a male-dominated screenplay and left with a film starring a schoolgirl. It is probably impossible to ascertain whether it was the Soviet or Turkish participants in these exchanges who chose to feature the young girls Iutkevich and Shub filmed, but it is clear that, in their shared frustration with Western claims of superiority, the logic of mimicry worked for both. (122) Despite frustrations with French writers' fixation on an exotic past, modernity was distinctly European. Iutkevich hailed the Turkish capital because it "was a thoroughly Europeanized city," and when Shub's screenplay turned to Ankara, she pronounced triumphantly, "Nothing reminds us that we are in Asia." (123)

Conclusion

When Zarkhi and Iutkevich arrived in Turkey to shoot "Chelovek, kotoryi ne ubil," some of their counterparts would have recognized the indictment of Claude Farrere from a Turkish context. In 1925, shortly after returning from several years in Moscow, Nazim Hikmet (Ran) published a poem whose title was a Turkish version of the other favorite French author's name: "Piyer Loti." (124) Like so many Soviet authors, Nazim castigated Loti for fantasizing an "East that never was, and never shall be!" (125) But Nazim was repeatedly put on trial by the Turkish state for his radicalism. On the principle that any publicity not related to the Turkish treatment of non-Turkish minorities was good publicity, the official Turkish line on French orientalism was often much softer. (126) During the War of Independence, Mustafa Kemal personally thanked Pierre Loti for his support of Turkey and feted Claude Farrere in Izmit. (127) Halil Kamil and the Turkish government paid for Soviet Eastern films but they solicited visits from other foreign filmmakers as well, French and American included. (128) Nonetheless, Ankara's success was striking. In 1934, the Turkish Ministry of Education sought and received Mustafa Kemal's and Ismet's approval to have the film shown abroad. (129) The politicians who discussed the film's foreign distribution did not elaborate their reasons, but Turkish reviews suggest that Turkish appreciation of Soviet film was, at least in part, a product of Soviet practices defined by the attempt to historicize a Turkish "reality" in opposition to Western depictions of an exotic and timeless East.

Within the Soviet Union, film for the East enjoyed some of the same success that it did in Turkey. Much as Turkish reviewers argued that Ankara possessed a form of authenticity, Uzbek reviewers celebrated Kazimir Aleksandrovich Gertel's 1927 Shakaly Ravata (The Jackals of Ravat) as the "first Uzbek film." (130) And Uzbek directors like Suleiman Khodjaev and Nabi Ganiev used film to historicize the Uzbek nation on camera. (131) Documentary film was one of a set of Soviet practices dedicated to statist mobilization and nation building that drew the participation of colonial elites within the USSR. (132) The broader set of practices also played a role in the appeal of Soviet film in Turkey. Falih Rifki, who enthusiastically welcomed the presence of Soviet film crews in Turkey, had already visited the Soviet Union twice and written the most prominent Turkish endorsement of Soviet political methods, the 1931 book Yeni Rusya (The New Russia). (133) When Dmitrii Shostakovich and a group of Soviet musicians visited Turkey in 1935, the newspaper Ulus gave context to their visit with a celebration of the transformation of Uzbek music in the Soviet period from "backward" and primitive" to a "harmonized" and "national" repertoire. (134) As the opposition of "backward" and "harmonized" indicates, achieving modernity was not only a question of mobilization and nation building in the abstract; it also involved challenging a Western monopoly on the concept. Ankara, a film that displays so prominently a Soviet version of what it meant to be modern, projects a frustration that shaped Soviet practices and put them at the center of interactions with people who defined themselves in equal measure against the West.

Given the Soviet and Turkish states' patronage of Ankara and Idet novaia Turtsiia, a historical account of the films' production inevitably highlights the motivations of two discrete political entities. Ankaras footage of a Soviet delegation visiting Turkey and Ismet's speech suggests that the two sides wanted the film to be seen as international cooperation rather than a transnational cause. Yet Shumiatskii's hopes that historical and truthful images would allow for cooperation across borders help explain Iutkevich's and Shub's reception in Turkey. A shared conviction in documentary film's ability to historicize the subjects of orientalist fantasy was transnational. Displays of factories, hospitals, and schools became part of what might be described as Soviet, Turkish, or Uzbek modernities. Definitions of modernity that privilege these national categories would surely have pleased the supporters of state--and nation-building projects, but for historians to do so obscures similarities. These films were not so much characteristics of modernity as a space for their creators to grapple with the idea of what it meant to be modern. For many who engaged with Ankara and Idet novaia Turtsiia, the films' documentary potential offered a way to challenge an idea that others had defined in pan-European terms.

Dept, of History

European University at St. Petersburg

ul. Gagarinskaia 3

191187 St. Petersburg, Russia

hirst@eu.spb.ru

I am grateful for assistance and suggestions from Katerina Clark, Rossen Djagalov, Ahmet Gurata, Igal Halfin, Derek Hirst, Lori Hirst, Peter Holquist, Katharine Holt, Artemy Kalinovsky, Masha Kirasirova, Ani Mukherji, Anna Pavlova, Anatoly Pinsky, Willard Sunderland, Daniel P. Todes, and two anonymous reviewers.

(1) On the Turkish solicitation of Soviet film, see Gosudarstvennyi arkhiv Rossiiskoi Federatsii (GARF) f. 5283 (All-Union Society for Cultural Relations [VOKS]), op. 4, d. 55, 1. 24 (Pastukhov to Sovkino, 6 May 1930); Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi arkhiv noveishei istorii (RGANI) f. 3, op. 35, d. 86,1. 8 (B. Z. Shumiatskii to L. M. Kaganovich, 17 October 1933).

(2) Arkhiv vneshnei politiki Rossiiskoi Federatsii (AVP RF) f. 4 (Secretariat of G. V. Chicherin), op. 39, pap. 242, d. 53268,1. 54 (Transcript of conversation between la. Z. Surits and Tevfik Rujtu, 3 February 1927). See also Petr Pavlenko, Stambul i Turtsiia (Moscow: Federatsiia, 1932 [1927]), 102-3.

(3) Mustafa Kemal, like a number of other individuals who appear in this article, had two given names. At every instance I use both given names. For Turkish citizens who later complied with the 1934 law on surnames, I give the family name in parentheses only at the first instance.

(4) Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi arkhiv literatury i iskusstva (RGALI) f. 2003 (Personal collection of N. A. Zarkhi), op. 2, d. 3, 1. 2 (Preliminary comments on "Chelovek, kotoryi ne ubil," 9 June 1933).

(5) Aleksandr Petrovich Matskin, "Tema molodoi Turtsii," Sovetskoe kino, no. 9 (1933): 15-26, here 15.

(6) Nijat Ozon, Turk Sinemasi Tarihi, 1896-1960 (Istanbul: Doruk Yayimcihk, 2013 [1962]), 128-29; Sava? Arslan, Cinema in Turkey: A New Critical History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 54.

(7) RGALI f. 3035 (Personal collection of E. I. Shub), op. 1, d. 159,1. 12 (letter from Shub to Halil Kamil, 13 November 1934).

(8) The original screenplay is in RGALI f. 3035, op. 1, d. 16; a version was published in Esfir' Il'inichna Shub, Zhizn 'moia--kinematograf (Moscow. Iskusstvo, 1972), 347-53. On Loti and Farrere, see Katerina Clark, "European and Russian Cultural Interactions with Turkey: 1910-1930s," Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa, and the Middle East 33, 2 (2013): 201-13.

(9) For the review, see L. Kassil', "Litso novoi Turtsii," Izvestiia, 8 March 1934. On modern times, see Stephen Kotkin, "Modern Times: The Soviet Union and the Interwar Conjuncture," Kritika 2, 1 (2001): 111-64.

(10) For an excellent summary of this literature, see Michael David-Fox, Crossing Borders: Modernity, Ideology, and Culture in Russia and the Soviet Union (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburg Press, 2015), esp. 21-33, reviewed in Kritika 17, 4 (2016): 926-29.

(11) Frederick Cooper argues for the use of "modernity" as a "native's" category in his Colonialism in Question: Theory, Knowledge, History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005), esp. 130-31.

(12) Stephen Kotkin is careful to include Japan in his "modern times," but many others have adopted an explicitly pan-European framework. See, e.g., Peter Holquist, "'Information Is the Alpha and Omega of Our Work': Bolshevik Surveillance in Its Pan-European Context," Journal of Modern History 69, 3 (1997): 415-50; and David L. Hoffmann, "Mothers in the Motherland: Stalinist Pronatalism in Its Pan-European Context," Journal of Social History 34, 1 (2000), 35-54.

(13) David L. Hoffmann, Cultivating the Masses: Modern State Practices and Soviet Socialism, 1914-1939 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2011), 30, 100.

(14) See Sven Beckert's argument that "transnational history" differs from histories that provide broader geographical context while retaining traditional boundaries for the object of study in the "AHR Conversation: On Transnational History," American Historical Review 111, 5 (2006): 1441-64, 1446; Michael David-Fox, Showcasing the Great Experiment: Cultural Diplomacy and Western Visitors to the Soviet Union, 1921-1941 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011); and Katerina Clark, Moscow, the Fourth Rome: Stalinism, Cosmopolitanism, and the Evolution of Soviet Culture, 1931-1941 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2011).

(15) David-Fox, Crossing Borders, 32.

(16) See David-Fox, Showcasing the Great Experiment, 18.

(17) See Ebru Boyar and Kate Fleet, '"Mak[ing] Turkey and the Turkish Revolution Known to Foreign Nations without Any Expense': Propaganda Films in the Early Turkish Republic," Oriente Moderno 24 (85), 1 (2005): 117-32.

(18) Edward Tyerman has referred to Soviet prescriptions for the representation

of China as an "internationalist aesthetics"; while apt in many ways, that term emphasizes Soviet particularity and novelty ("The Search for an Internationalist Aesthetics: Soviet Images of China, 1920-1935" [PhD diss., Columbia University, 2014]). See also Katharine Holt, "The Rise of Insider Iconography: Visions of Turkmenia in Russian-Language Literature and Film, 1921-1935" (PhD diss., Columbia University, 2013), esp. 122-29.

(19) Vera Tolz has identified links between the Russian critique of Western orientalism and Edward Said's critique, and one can certainly see parallels here. See Tolz, Russia's Own Orient: The Politics of Identity and Oriental Studies in the Late Imperial and Early Soviet Periods (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), chap. 4. On the ahistorical characteristics of Western orientalism, see Said, Orientalism (London: Penguin, 2003 [1978]), 208, 240.

(20) S. L. Vel'tman, Zadachi kino na Vostoke: Pravda i nepravda o Vostoke (Moscow: Nauchnaia assotsiatsiia Vostokovedeniia pri prezidiume TsIK SSSR, 1927), 5.

(21) Devin Fore, "Introduction," October, no. 118 (2006): 3-10; Elizabeth Astrid Papazian, Manufacturing Truth: The Documentary Moment in Early Soviet Culture (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2009); Bill Nichols, "Documentary Film and the Modernist Avant-Garde," Critical Inquiry 27, 4 (2001): 580-610.

(22) S. I. Iutkevich, Sobranie sochinenii: Put' (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1991), 2:86. The literature on Russian and Soviet orientalism is extensive, but for works that specifically address Soviet representations of the East on film, see Michael G. Smith, "Cinema for the 'Soviet East': National Fact and Revolutionary Fiction in Early Azerbaijani Film," Slavic Review 56, 4 (1997): 645-78; Matthew J. Payne, "Viktor Turin's Turksib (1929) and Soviet Orientalism," Historical Journal of Film, Radio, and Television 21,1 (2001): 37-62; and Farbod Honarpisheh, "The Oriental 'Other' in Soviet Cinema, 1929-1934," Critique: Critical Middle Eastern Studies 14, 2 (2005): 185-201.

(23) Smith, "Cinema for the Soviet East," 647.

(24) Krasnaia zvezda, 6 May 1934; Burhan Asaf Belge, "Tiirkiye'nin Kalbi--Ankara," Hakimiyeti Milliye, 25 March 1934.

(25) John MacKay, "Vertov and the Line: Art, Socialization, Collaboration," in Film, Art, New Media: Museum without Walls?, ed. Angela Dalle Vacche (London: Palgrave, 2012); on the broader dilemma, see Papazian, Manufacturing Truth.

(26) Graham Roberts, Forward Soviet! History and Non-fiction Film in the USSR (London: I. B. Tauris, 1999), 2.

(27) John MacKay, "Film Energy: Process and Metanarrative in Dziga Vertovs The Eleventh Year (1928)," October, no. 121 (2007): 41-78; Fore, "Introduction."

(28) On Easterns, see Denise J. Youngblood, Movies for the Masses: Popular Cinema and Soviet Society in the 1920s (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 76-80, 87-88. See also Cloe Drieu, Fictions nationales: Cinema, empire et nation en Ouzbekistan (1919-1937) (Paris: Editions Karthala, 2013).

(29) Il'ia Pavlovich Trainin, "Pud k vozrozhdeniiu," Sovetskoe kino, no. 1 (1925): 8-14.

(30) Anatolii Evgen'evich Skachko, "Kino i vostochnye narody SSSR," Sovetskoe kino, no. 1 (1925): 23-25; Skachko, "Kino dlia Vostoka," Kino-zhurnal A.R.K, no. 10 (1925): 3-5; "Prodvizhenie kino na Vostok (Beseda s t. Pavlovich-Vel'tmanom)," Kino, 16 June 1925. See also Tyerman, "Internationalist Aesthetics," 240-45.

(31) I draw here on Michael Kemper, "Red Orientalism: Mikhail Pavlovich and Marxist Oriental Studies in Early Soviet Russia," Die Welt des Islams 50, 3-4 (2010): 435-76.

(32) The translation for Goluboi ekspress is from Mordaunt Hall, "Mutiny on a Chinese Train," New York Times, 10 March 1930. On Miller, see M. S. Meier and M. S. Lazarev, "Anatolii Filippovich Miller (1901-1972)," in Portrety istorikov: Vremia isud'by, ed. G. N. Sevost'ianov (Moscow: Nauka, 2004), 4:303-11.

(33) S. L. Vel'tman, "Literaturnye otkliki: Vostok v nashei khudozhestvennoi literature," Novyi Vostok, no. 12 (1926): 264-80, here 267.

(34) Ibid., 264.

(35) Ibid., 272. Susan Layton explains these same three authors' particular place in Russian literary orientalism in different terms. She argues, for example, that Pushkin's depiction of the Caucasus was a product of his relationship to the imperial state rather than "anthropological 'objectivity.'" See Layton, Russian Literature and Empire: Conquest of the Caucasus from Pushkin to Tolstoy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), chap. 6.

(36) For the context of Vel'tman's claim, see Layton, Russian Literature and Empire, 91 n. 5; and Katya Hokanson, Writing at Russia's Borders (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008).

(37) See, e.g., Jane Ashton Sharp, Russian Modernism between East and West: Natal 'ia Goncharova and the Moscow Avant-Garde (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), esp. 4; the larger point is eloquently put in Adeeb Khalid, "Russian History and the Debate over Orientalism," Kritika 1, 4 (2000): 691-99, here 697.

(38) S. L. Vel'tman, "Kolonial'nye romany," Novyi Vostok, no. 4 (1923): 474-81; Vel'tman, "Belye i chernye (kolonial'nye romany)," Novyi Vostok, no. 5 (1924): 443-52; Vel'tman, "Literaturnye otkliki (kolonial'nyi byt)," Novyi Vostok, no. 1 (1925): 302-11.

(39) Clark, "European and Russian Cultural Interactions with Turkey," 205.

(40) S. L. Vel'tman, "Literaturnye otkliki (kolonial'nyi byt i vydumka)," Novyi Vostok, nos. 8-9 (1925): 324-33.

(41) Vel'tman, "Literaturnye otkliki: Vostok v nashei khudozhestvennoi literature," 264.

(42) Vel'tman, "Belye i chernye (kolonial'nye romany)," 443.

(43) Tolz, Russia's Own Orient, 11; on German scholars' claim to a "unique objectivity," see Suzanne L. Marchand, German Orientalism in the Age of Empire: Religion, Race, and Scholarship (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 483.

(44) "Prodvizhenie kino na Vostok (beseda s t. Pavlovich-Vel'tmanom)," Kino, 16 June 1925; S. L. Vel'tman, "Pravda i nepravda o Vostoke (vostochnye stsenarii), Novyi Vostok, nos. 10-11 (1925): 290-306; Vel'tman, Zadachi kino na Vostoke.

(45) Vel'tman, "Pravda i nepravda," 306.

(46) lu. R. "O Vostoke i dlia Vostoka," Kino, 1 September 1925.

(47) Skachko, "Kino dira Vostoka"; "Fil'mu na Vostok," Kino, 1 September 1925.

(48) Fevral'skii, "Shest' vostochnykh kartin," Pravda, 21 May 1926.

(49) "Kino v soiuznykh respublikakh," Kino, 28 April 1925; I. Trainin, "Put' k vozrozhdeniiu," Sovetskoe kino, no. 1 (1925); 12.

(50) Izmail Abai, "Poddel'nye kartiny," Sovetskoe kino, no. 2 (1926): 14-16.

(51) G. A. Levkoev, "Kino-ekspeditsii na Vostok," Kino-zhurnal A.R.K, nos. 6-7 (1925): 28.

(52) "Kino v Turtsii," Kino-zhurnal A.R.K., nos. 4-5 (1925): 32.

(53) Papazian, Manufacturing the Truth, chap. 1; Tyerman, "Search for an Internationalist Aesthetics," esp. 36.

(54) See the thorough analysis in Payne, "Viktor Turin's Turksib."

(55) Quoted in ibid., 45.

(56) Ibid., 49.

(57) E. L. Shteinberg, "Fil'ma o novoi Turtsii," Kino, 4 September 1933.

(58) Bacbakanlik Cumhuriyet Arsivi (BCA), 30.10... 146.43.19, 3-4 (Fevzi Cakmak to ismet Inonu, 19 April 1933).

(59) Ibid., 5.

(60) Ibid., 2.

(61) On the relationship between claims to modernity and changes in another medium, see Onur Isci, "Wartime Propaganda and the Legacies of Defeat: Russian and Ottoman Newspapers in the War of 1877-1878," Russian History 41, 2 (2014): 181-96.

(62) Mustafa Ozen, "Visual Representation and Propaganda: Early Films and Postcards in the Ottoman Empire, 1895-1914," Early Popular Visual Culture 6, 2 (2008): 145-57, here 147.

(63) Ozon, Turk Sinemasi Tarihi, 39; Arslan, Cinema in Turkey, 30.

(64) Ahmet Gurata, "Hollywood in Vernacular: Translation and Cross-Cultural Reception of American Films in Turkey," in Going to the Movies: Hollywood and the Social Experience of the Cinema, ed. Richard Maltby, Melvyn Stokes, and Robert C. Allen (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007): 333-47.

(65) Gurata, "Hollywood in Vernacular," 341; on the "Turkification" of foreign films, see also Arslan, Cinema in Turkey, 44-53.

(66) Boyar and Fleet, " 'Mak[ing] Turkey and the Turkish Revolution Known,' " 121.

(67) Ozon, Turk Sinemasi Tarihi, 75, 97; Arslan, Cinema in Turkey, 23, 53-59.

(68) A. V. Macheret, ed., Sovetskie khudozhestvennye fil'my: Annotirovannyi katalog (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1961), 1:168-69, 229.

(69) Aysel, Batakli Damin Km is often translated as The Girl from the Marshes after the Swedish novella on which it was based. I have opted for a direct translation of the Turkish title. Ozon, Turk Sinemasi Tarihi, 106-12.

(70) Ibid., 107-9; Arslan, Cinema in Turkey, 59.

(71) Arslan, Cinema in Turkey, 32; Serdar Ozturk, Erken Cumhuriyet Doneminde Sinema, Siyaset, Seyir (Ankara: Elips Kitap, 2005), 27-30.

(72) Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi arkhiv sotsial'no-politicheskoi istorii (RGASPI) f. 5 (Lenin's secretariat), op. 1, d. 2204, 1. 94 (Semen Ivanovich Aralov to Lev Davidovich Trotskii, 17 April 1922).

(73) "Kino-fil'my dlia Vostoka," Kino, 6 April 1926.

(74) Oztiirk, Erken Cumburiyet Doneminde Sinema, 39.

(75) Petr Pavlenko, Stambuli Turtsiia (Moscow: Federatsiia, 1932 [1931]), 103.

(76) Ibid.

(77) Ahmet Giirata, "Tears of Love: Egyptian Cinema in Turkey (1938-1950)," New Perspectives on Turkey, no. 30 (2004): 55-82, 60-61.

(78) "Kino vTurtsii," and "Beseda s Falikh Rivki-beem," Kino, 30 April 1932; Rifat N. Bali, The Turkish Cinema in the Early Republican Years (Istanbul: Isis, 2007).

(79) GARF f. 5283, op. 12, d. 312,11. 13-15 (G. L. Roshal' to VOKS, 12 June 1932).

(80) Ibid., 1. 14.

(81) RGALI f. 2003, op. 1, d. 114,11. 1-3 (29 July 1932). M. P. Pavlovich was known for his work on the relationship between capital flows and imperialism. See Vladimir Aleksandrovich Gurko-Kriazhin, "Bor'ba za prolivy," Novyi Vostok, no. 2 (1922): 83-125, here 92.

(82) Klod Farer (Claude Farrere), Chelovek, kotoryi ubil (Paris: Franko-russkaia pechat', 1921).

(83) The first text of the screenplay is in RGALI f. 2003, op. 1, d. 61, with further materials in d. 62.

(84) Ibid., d. 61,1. 171.

(85) Ibid., 1.2.

(86) RGALI f. 3070, op. 1, d. 1327,1. 98 (Interview with N. Zarkhi, April 1933).

(87) "Fil'ma o Turtsii," Kino, 28 January 1933.

(88) "Chelovek, kotoryi ne ubil," Kino, 15 August 1933; "Chelovek, kotoryi ne ubil," Kino, 22 August 1933.

(89) A. Arsharuni and S. Vel'tman, "Puti natsional'nogo kino," Kino, 6 November 1933; S. Vel'tman, "Puti natsional'nogo kino," Kino, 28 August 1933.

(90) Ia. V. Vasil'kov and M. Iu. Sorokina, eds., Liudi i sud'by: Biobibliograficheskii slovar' vostokovedov--zhertv politicheskogo terrora v sovetskii period (1917-1991) (St. Petersburg: Peterburgskoe vostokovedenie, 2003), 427.

(91) Shteinberg, "Fil'ma o novoi Turtsii."

(92) Ibid.

(93) Ibid.

(94) M. Shneider, "Na styke stilei," Kino, 22 August 1933.

(95) RGALI f. 3035, op. 1, d. 148,1. 4 (S. I. Iutkevich to E. I. Shub, 29 November 1933).

(96) Ibid.

(97) K. M. Anderson and L. V. Maksimenkov, eds., Kremlevskii kinoteatr, 1928-1953: Dokumenty (Moscow: Rosspen, 2005), 86, 227.

(98) RGALI f. 3070, op. 1, d. 1327 holds a number of Turkish reviews of the film. Where the original publication is clear, I have indicated the original publication. See "Ankara Turkiye'nin Kalbidir!" (newspaper name and date unclear).

(99) RGALI f. 3035, op. 1, d. 148,1. 5.

(100) Iutkevich, Sobranie sochinenii, 2:90.

(101) Burhan Asaf Beige, "Turkiye'nin Kalbi--Ankara," Hakimiyeti Milliye, 25 March 1934.

(102) Milliyet, 27 April 1934.

(103) Ibid.

(104) Falih Rifki Atay, "Iki Ornek," Hakimiyeti Milliye, 25 October 1933.

(105) "Turkiye'nin Kalbi Ankara," Hakimiyeti Milliye, 23 March 1934.

(106) Beige, "Turkiye'nin Kalbi--Ankara."

(107) "Turkiye'nin Kalbi," Vakit, 11 December 1933.

(108) "Turkiye'nin Kalbi Ankara," Hakimiyeti Milliye, 23 March 1934.

(109) RGALI f. 3035, op. 1, d. 159,1. 8.

(110) Ibid., 1. 10.

(111) RGALI f. 3070, op. 1, d. 1327,1. 152.

(112) S. I. Iutkevich, "Volshebnitsa montazhnogo stola," in Shub, Zhizn ' moia-- kinematograf 5-18, here 16.

(113) See Roberts, Forward Soviet!, esp. chap. 3.

(114) RGALI f. 1923, op. 1, d. 2259,1. 13 ob. (5 October 1934).

(115) Ibid.; RGALI f. 3035, op. 1, d. 17,1. 20.

(116) RGALI f. 3035, op. 1, d. 159,1. 12.

(117) Ibid., 1. 11.

(118) Smith, "Cinema for the 'Soviet East,' " 660-62.

(119) RGALI f. 2503 (A. G. Glebov), op. 1, d. 93,1. 21 ("Notes about Turkey," January 1922).

(120) Zehra F. Arat, "Educating the Daughters of the Republic," in Deconstructing Images of "The Turkish Woman," ed. Arat (New York: St. Martins, 1998): 157-82; Hale Yilmaz, Becoming Turkish: Nationalist Reforms and Cultural Negotiations in Early Republican Turkey, 1923-1945 (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2013), chap. 2.

(121) Yilmaz, Becoming Turkish, 108; Jenny B. White, "State Feminism, Modernization, and the Turkish Republican Woman," NWSA Journal 15, 3 (2003): 145-59.

(122) Homi Bhabha, "Of Mimicry and Man: The Ambivalence of Colonial Discourse," October, no. 28 (1984): 125-33.

(123) RGALI f. 3070, op. 1, d. 503,11. 12-13; Shub, Zhizn ' moia--kinematograf, 348-49.

(124) Asim Bezirci, Nazim Hikmet ve Secme $iirleri (Istanbul: A. Yayinlan, 1975), 224-26.

(125) Bezirci, Nazim Hikmet, 224.

(126) Andrew Mango, Ataturk: The Biography of the Founder of Modern Turkey (New York: Overlook Press, 2002), 331.

(127) Ataturkun Butun Eserleri: Cilt 12 (1921-1922) (Istanbul: Kaynak Yayinlan, 2003), 79; Ataturkun Soylev ve Demecleri (Istanbul: Maarif Matbaasi, 1945), 2:36-41.

(128) Shumiatskii reported that the Turkish government paid in foreign currency for all expenses connected to Ankara--The Heart of Turkey. See RGANI f. 3, op. 35, d. 86,1. 8 (B. Z. Shumiatskii to L. M. Kaganovich, 17 October 1933); and Boyar and Fleet, "'Mak[ing] Turkey and the Turkish Revolution Known,' " 126-27.

(129) BCA 030.0.01 ... 146.43.20, 2 (20 March 1934).

(130) Cloe Drieu, "Birth, Death, and Rebirth of a Nation: National Narrative in Uzbek Feature Films," in Cinema in Central Asia: Rewriting Cultural Histories, ed. Michael Rouland, Gulnara Abikeyeva, and Birgit Beumers (London: I. B. Tauris, 2013), 49.

(131) Ibid., 50-53. See also Drieu, Fictions nationales.

(132) Khalid, "Backwardness and the Quest for Civilization," esp. 239-43; Tolz, Russia's Own Orient, chap. 6.

(133) Falih Rifki, "Iki Ornek," Hakimiyeti Milliye, 25 October 1933; Rifki, Yeni Rusya (Ankara: Hakimiyeti Milliye Matbaasi, 1931). For an account that emphasizes mobilization through education in Soviet film in Uzbekistan, see Cloe Drieu, "Cinema, Local Power, and the Central State: Agencies in Early Anti-Religious Propaganda in Uzbekistan," Die Welt des Islams 50, 3-4 (2010): 532-63, esp. 533-34.

(134) Ulus, 18 April 1935. For a related discussion of harmony as progress, see Artemy Kalinovsky, "Opera as the Highest Stage of Socialism," paper presented at ASEEES, 22 November 2013.

Caption: S. Iutkevich, "For Eastern films the script is clear: daggers aplenty, but no East here!"

Source: Kino, 12 January 1926.

Caption: Sergei Iutkevich and Zhosef Kliment'evich Martov filming in Ankara Source: RGALI f. 3070, op. 1,d.102,1.44.

Caption: A still from Ankara, with Ismet Pasha delivering a speech for the camera Source: RGALI f. 3070, op. 1,d.101,1.91

Caption: Classroom photograph taken during the production of Idet novaia Turtsiia Source: RGALI f. 3035, op. 1, d. 18, 1.26.

Caption: Pupil selected for closeup during the filming of Idet novaia Turtsiia Source: RGALI f. 3035 f. 3035, op.1,d.18,1.24.

Caption: Shub, with her back to the camera supervising filming in a Turkish classroom Source: RGALI f. 3035, op.1,d.18,1.24.
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Date:Jan 1, 2017
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