Abai and Zhambyl:

The Reconstruction and Decolonisation of National Past in Soviet and Post-Soviet Kazakhstan

Author

Assiya Issemberdiyeva

Abstract

This article examines the portrayal of Kazakh historical figures in Soviet and post-Soviet cinema, focusing on four films about two iconic Kazakh poets – Abai Qunanbaiuly and Zhambyl Zhabaev. The study draws on archival material and textual analysis to provide valuable insights into the process of constructing Soviet, Marxist-Orientalist historical narratives in The Songs of Abai (1945) and Zhambyl (1953). In the example of films Abai (1995) and The Youth of Zhambyl (1996), it examines how Kazakhstan sought to decolonise and reclaim its identity by breaking free from the Soviet-era Orientalist gaze.

Keywords

Abai Qunanbaiuly, Zhambyl Zhabaev, Auezov, Kazakhstan, Kazakh cinema, Soviet film, Soviet Orientalism, Decolonisation, historical film, biopic.

Introduction

The Soviet propaganda apparatus canonised certain individuals, ranging from Lenin and Pushkin throughout the Union to figures like Abai or Khamza “in lower national orbits,” all in the name of legitimising Soviet power (Smith 1997: 673). This practice was established during the Stalinist era and propagated myths of these (re)usable pasts and personalities through the “imperial knowledge machine.” Notably, the realms of film and literature played instrumental roles in this endeavour. Historical biographical films, in particular, overshadowed other cinematic genres during the Stalinist period (Belodubrovskaya 2011: 30), primarily due to their immense importance in managing the past. Evgeny Dobrenko (2008: 1, 8) demonstrated that such films were “institutions for the production of history” rather than reflections of original history. However, many discussions about Soviet biopics have primarily focused on Russian films, overlooking how central politics influenced peripheral, national screens (Dobrenko 2008, Graham 2010, Belodubrovskaya 2011). Consequently, insufficient attention has been given to the epistemic violence committed against non-Russian peoples’, including Central Asians’ memory and the colonial management of their identity-building figures. This paper aims to contribute to an analysis of the construction of a usable past in Soviet Kazakhstan, as well as the efforts to decolonise such a past in contemporary Kazakhstan, by examining four films about Abai Qunanbaiuly and Zhambyl Zhabaev.

Abai Qunanbaiuly (1845-1904) and Zhambyl Zhabaev (1846-1945) became cornerstones of the Kazakh identity during the Soviet Union, while some alternative voices were silenced (Campbell 2017: 93). These two poets, although contemporaries, experienced contrasting destinies. Abai pioneered the written poetry in Kazakhstan, whereas Zhambyl carried forward the age-old oral poetic traditions. Abai’s identity-forming works primarily targeted the Kazakh audience, and he passed away long before the revolution, while Zhambyl’s poetry from the 1930s onward became synonymous with intense Stalinist propaganda and was widely promoted across the Soviet Union. Within the confines of the Soviet Orientalist framework (Kemper 2010: 476), writer Mukhtar Auezov reintroduced Abai, while a cohort of writers at the Writers’ Union of Kazakhstan worked to align Zhambyl’s persona with the Soviet environment (Batyr 2021). Abai was constructed as a follower of Pushkin and progressive Russian thought, while Zhambyl – as an avid promoter of the Soviet state. Symbolically, Abai anderi / Pesni Abaia / The Songs of Abai (Grigorii Roshal’, 1946, USSR), sometimes regarded as the first Kazakh film (Nogerbek 2013: 66), became the first feature of the Almaty Studio (now Qazaqfilm), whereas Zhambyl / Dzhambul (Efim Dzigan, 1953, USSR) was the first Kazakh coloured film.¹ Both of these films were conceived before the war, and subject to heavy ideological scrutiny for their “correct” Orientalist depiction of Kazakhs, ultimately completed as post-war productions.

In the early years of Independence, Kazakh filmmakers set out to remake films on these key figures. Abai (Ardaq Amirqulov, 1995, Kazakhstan) and Zhambyldyn zhastyq shagy / Iunost’ Dzhambula / The Youth of Zhambyl (Qanymbek Qasymbekov, 1996, Kazakhstan) were among the first films to receive funding from an independent Kazakhstani budget (Amirqulov 2023). All four films were made during state commemoration campaigns, within a tradition established by the Soviet Union. However, when considering the contrasting colonial and postcolonial contexts of their production, the treatment of history, class, and national identity differed, as these films were expected to define and redefine not only Abai and Zhambyl but also the Kazakh nation as a whole. They indicated Kazakhstan’s intent to continue shaping these figures as identity-defining characters and marked the country’s initial efforts to reframe the past. Later, particularly in the 2000s, Kazakhstan promoted historical films in a bid to both decolonise the public consciousness and to legitimise the statehood. The cinema rediscovered silenced voices from the past, including Alash intellectuals and steppe elites such as Kenesary and Qunanbai, while some Bolshevik heroes like Amangeldi were deprioritised.² In Kazakhstan, therefore, much like in other post-Soviet countries, certain cultural strategies from the Soviet era persist. Simultaneously, these countries endeavour to dismantle the colonial restrictions imposed on their national memory, and to subject the figures promoted during the Soviet era to critical re-evaluation, even though these efforts may sometimes be insufficient. These multifaceted processes are shared experiences in the nation-building practices of numerous post-Soviet societies.

In this paper, I apply a postcolonial lens, drawing on the scholarship which views the Soviet Union as a colonial empire (Sahni 1997, Thompson 2000, Abashin 2014, Dubuisson 2017, Tlostanova 2018, Koptaladze 2019), as well as more recent decolonial approaches (Kassymbekova, Chokobaeva 2021, Kassymbekova, Marat 2022). I will situate the two Soviet films within the tradition of Soviet screen Orientalism, thus drawing on the research which uses Edward Said’s (1979) concept of Orientalism in terms of the representation of Central Asia (Smith 1997, Payne 2001, Sarkisova 2003, Drieu 2018). In my comparative analysis of Soviet and post-Soviet interpretations of Abai and Zhambyl, I pay close attention to how these films treat certain topics, including references to Russian culture. As this paper demonstrates, pre-revolutionary Kazakhstan was construed by Soviet filmmakers as the inferior, primitive other who could only be rescued via Russian and Soviet enlightenment, much in the tradition of the Western Orientalism (Said 1979: 2). Thus, the Soviet films defined Kazakhs only in relation to Russians and the Soviet state, while the post-Soviet films strived for more cultural authenticity and excluded references to Russia altogether. The paper, therefore, analyses the means of stereotyping Kazakhs during the Soviet era on the one hand, and attempts to break free from Soviet categories in the 1990s on the other.

If the goal of decolonisation is to reverse the impacts of colonialism and confront its consequences, the initial stride in this direction involves recognising and examining Soviet colonialism and understanding the ways in which it manifested itself. The term “Soviet colonialism” in this study denotes complex interrelationships among various entities, including the Committee for Cinematography under the Council of People’s Commissars of the USSR (Film Committee) headed by Ivan Bol’shakov, the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Kazakh SSR (Communist Party of Kazakhstan) led by Nikolai Skvortsov, the Council of People’s Commissars of Kazakh SSR (Kazakh Sovnarkom) headed by Nurtas Ondasynov, the Central United Studio (TsOKS) managed by Mikhail Tikhonov, along with individual screenwriters and directors: relocated Muscovites and Leningraders as well as native Kazakhs. Each of these institutions and individuals had their own agendas and did not necessarily receive direct commands from Stalin (Belodubrovskaya 2011). However, under Stalin’s leadership, the Soviet system created circumstances in which everyone was compelled to think and act in a certain way. Therefore, Soviet colonisation was executed by all these actors, with some less willing to convey or acknowledge native peoples’ interests than others.

I intend to examine in detail the wartime inception of The Songs of Abai and Zhambyl from a film production perspective, something that no scholar has explored previously. This analysis aims to understand how policies influenced and shaped these films’ narratives. I draw on archival material from the Archive of the President of the Republic of Kazakhstan (APRK) and the Central State Archive of the Republic of Kazakhstan (TsGARK), the majority of which remains unexplored in academia, making this the inaugural endeavour to reconstruct the process of planning, numerous rewritings, and production nuances involved in the creation of these films. I draw upon publications in the Soviet press and existing scholarship to assess the nuances of their reception. Unable to locate archival material pertaining to the later films, Abai and The Youth of Zhambyl, I employed a comparative textual analysis and relied on Kazakh press publications and interviewed the filmmaker Ardaq Amirqulov for my research. I also examined narratives surrounding Abai’s figure, including Auezov’s (1979a, b, c: 307-382) novel Abai Zholy / The Path of Abai and his play “Abai” to compare them with the film texts. I engaged with recent Russian and Western research on Zhambyl (Bogdanov et al. 2013), as well as his pre-1936 image in Kazakhstan (Seifullin 1932, Smanov 2018). Therefore, below is an attempt to analyse how these films interacted with each other and with broader narratives concerning the poets and the Kazakh identity.

Abai: A Prolonged Production

Scholars often gloss over the inception years of Kazakh cinema which coincided with the wartime evacuation of Mosfil’m and Lenfil’m to Almaty to unite with the newly formed Almaty Studio at TsOKS. “At the end of the Second World War TsOKS was disbanded, and while the majority returned to their homes, a portion of film crew and equipment remained, along with the invaluable transfer of experience” writes Gulnara Abikeyeva (2018: 225). However, a closer look at the archives presents a more complex picture, in which Kazakh-themed films were subject to constant negotiations between local authorities and the Soviet film administration, often leading to cancellations and delays.

The Songs of Abai was planned by Kazakh ideologues before the war. On April 4, 1940 Kazakh officials considered Abai by Mukhtar Auezov to be included in 1941 production plans along with Zhambyl by Abdilda Tazhibaev, Qyz Zhibek by Gabit Musirepov, Baluan Sholaq by Sabit Muqanov, and others. The completion date was set for July 1, 1941 (APRK 708/4-1/1364/25). Five months later, the list was reduced to two: Abai and Zhambyl (APRK 708/4-1/855/54). In January 1941, a decree of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Kazakhstan on “further development of film network and film art in the Kazakh SSR” reiterated their inclusion in the Film Committee’s plans (APRK 708/5-1/1356/18-23).

In March and June 1941, Nurtas Ondasynov, a chair of the Kazakh Sovnarkom, discussed with Ivan Bol’shakov, the head of the Film Committee, the establishment of a Kazakh studio (Fomin 2005: 273, Pozner 2018: 33, Ivanov 2017). The plans, however, changed drastically due to the German invasion. On July 28, 1941, Bol’shakov decided to send Lenfil’m to Almaty, and the studio departed in August (Pozner 2018: 33). Meanwhile, on September 12, 1941, the Kazakh Sovnarkom passed a resolution N762, calling for the establishment of the Almaty Studio (APRK 708/5-1/1359/199). It appeared that local authorities’ longstanding hopes were about to be realised with Lenfil’m bringing in essential professionals and equipment for the new studio to function. The resolution contained paragraphs prioritising Kazakh-themed films. Additionally, Mosfil’m also departed for Almaty on October 14. Bol’shakov, perhaps to maintain total control over the studios despite the enthusiasm of Kazakh officials, organised TsOKS on November 17, 1941, uniting Mosfil’m, Lenfil’m, and Almaty Studios (APRK 708/506/16). One of Bol’shakov’s trusted film managers Mikhail Tikhonov was appointed as its director (TsGARK 1708/1/5/1). From that point on, the entire evacuation (1941-1944) was marked by tensions between local authorities and the central Film Committee. Kazakh-themed films were continuously included in the studio’s plans as per local officials’ persistent requests, but very rarely realised or even taken seriously. Already in 1942, a Kazakhstan-appointed Deputy Director of TsOKS Sergali Tolybekov reported that the studio chiefs did not view the plan for Kazakh-themed films seriously, regarding it as “fantastical and alien” to the studio’s needs (APRK 708/61/56/11). In such a context, Abai was continuously postponed.

In 1942, the film featured in the TsOKS plans for 1943 (APRK 708/6-1/566/12, APRK 708/6/568/22). On April 13, 1943, TsOKS reported to local authorities that the Film Committee had approved the screenplay for production in recognition of Abai’s centenary. “The screenplay portrays Abai as a fighter against obscurantism (mrakobesie) and xenophobia,” reads the report, emphasising the “profound connections of kinship that unite Russian and Kazakh cultures” (APRK 708/7-1/708/107). From this initial comment, it became evident that the film needed to focus on Russian and Kazakh interactions. The screenplay had to be first approved at TsOKS, then by the top official in Kazakhstan, Skvortsov, and ultimately, the Film Committee. Thus, only after a year of endless changes, in June 1944, the final script was approved (TsGARK 1708/1/49/8).

On October 15, 1943, the Film Committee’s Production Department informed Tikhonov that the screenplay was pre-production ready, pending local government approval (TsGARK 1708/1/49/2). On November 3 and 22, 1943, Tikhonov wrote to the Communist Party of Kazakhstan, requesting their approval (TsGARK 1708/1/49/4, TsGARK 1708/1/49/3). The government’s approval letter is yet to be located, but it must have been issued, because on November 24, 1943, the Film Committee issued a decree on pre-production (TsGARK 1708/1/49/5) expected to be finalised by March 10, 1944 (TsGARK 1708/1/49/5).

The screenplay was approved only on June 10 and its budget on June 22, 1944 (TsGARK 1708/1/123/17). The film was put into production on July 22 but was postponed amidst the re-evacuation chaos (TsGARK 1708/1/123/30). Only due to the robust support from the Kazakh government it was followed through next year. On April 2, 1945, the Kazakh Sovnarkom expressed the urgency to expedite the production “given the preparations for the 100th anniversary of Abai” (TsGARK 1708/1/123/30). It requested from local officials 50-60 elderly men and up to 100 Kazakh women as extras for mass scenes, along with up to 1000 sheep, 200 horses, 50 mares with their young, 100 cows, and twenty camels for the period from mid-April to mid-May. This reflected the conventions of framing crowd scenes set in pre-revolutionary Kazakhstan through women, elders, or children, as opposed to healthy-looking young males and females seen in the scenes of Soviet Kazakhstan. Prior to that, the Sovnarkom had made necessary arrangements to provide the production with costumes, props, and actors, even going so far as to order the temporary closure of the Kazakh theatre (TsGARK 1708/1/123/24). The filming took place as planned and was shown to the Film Committee in October (TsGARK 1708/1/123/35). In November, the Technical Commission reviewed the film and deemed it suitable for mass production, despite the unsatisfactory photographic processing (TsGARK 1708/1/123/37). The film was approved by Bol’shakov on November 22, 1945, albeit shortened to 2645 from 2800 metres (TsGARK 1708/1/123/98). In a week, it received its permit to be shown across the country (TsGARK 1708/1/123/39) and premiered on January 20, 1946, marking the debut feature by Almaty film studio (Rollberg 2021: 59). Initially titled Abai, the film, according to the studio’s artistic council, did not correspond to its name, as it portrayed Abai “only as a founder of a poetic school rather than an outstanding and forward-looking public figure” (TsGARK 1708/1/123/32). Consequently, the film was renamed The Songs of Abai.

Abai: Construction and Reconstruction

Biography films played a significant role in the rebranding of Soviet nationalities. According to Michael Smith (1997: 673), the “ideal” subjects for a biography film for the “Soviet East” were “contemporaries and admirers of A. S. Pushkin, newly minted as [...] ‘father’ of the Russian literary language.” From this perspective, Abai was a fitting candidate, as he translated from Pushkin and other Russian poets, and his canonisation as a foundational figure of Kazakh literature resembled Pushkin’s. However, Abai was not merely a product of Soviet invention; his introduction started before the revolution by Kazakh nationalist elites while his significance transcended straightforward Soviet narratives.

Abai was introduced to the Russian audience in 1903 through the efforts of Alikhan Bokeikhanov, who later became a leader of the Alash nationalist movement. Bokeikhanov engaged in publishing Abai’s first collection and endorsed him further (Turysbek 2016). Other Alash figures, including Akhmet Baitursynuly, Mirzhaqyp Dulatuly, and Magzhan Zhumabaev, were among the first to promote Abai as “the chief poet of Kazakhs” (Baitursynuly 1913, Zaikenova 2020). Alash intellectuals sought to redefine the Kazakh identity and positioned Abai as a central figure in their vision of a new nation. Following the Bolshevik victory, however, Alash members were accused of nationalism, leading to their eventual execution in the 1930s. One of the younger members of the pre-revolutionary nationalist movement, writer Mukhtar Auezov, also faced similar accusations but renounced his “bourgeois-nationalistic views” in 1932 “to save Abai,” and devoted his life to championing the national identity through Abai’s figure (Kudaibergenova 2017: 59-60). Auezov collected Abai’s complete works in 1924, wrote a comprehensive biography in 1933, published the play “Abai” in 1940, followed by the libretto, screenplay, and his efforts culminated with the four-volume novel Abai Zholy (Auezov 1979a, b, c). Therefore, although Abai was widely promoted as the “chief poet” through the omnipresent Soviet apparatus, his image was not solely a creation of the regime. Instead, he had been an existing idol, which required reshaping, with certain aspects like his Islamic views and the influence of Eastern thought concealed, while others, such as his empathy for the underprivileged, were highlighted. Auezov played an active role in this process, and often reluctantly, “incorporated the required Stalinist dogmas” (Rollberg 2021: 62).

Such was the case with The Songs of Abai. It was based on Auezov’s play “Abai,” which premiered at the Kazakh drama theatre on October 30, 1940. Since the screenplay’s initial version is yet to be located, it is important to compare the film with the source play (Auezov 1979c: 307-382). In both works, the narrative centres on a love story between Aidar and Azhar, two talented youths whom Abai shelters from the powerful members of his clan. Abai is seen as a patron of poets. This approach emphasises the reverence people hold for him, constructing him as a Soviet-style monumental figure. Both works are set within a Kazakh universe, with only limited references to Russian culture. When presented at the Kazakh theatre for Kazakh audiences, the play encountered no objections. However, film officials had a binary, Russian/Kazakh, advanced/primitive framework and Auezov faced criticism for failing to adhere to this viewpoint. Therefore, the film became a site of both colonialist vision of the Kazakh past, and its subtle contestation.

The Committee’s feedback during the script approval process reflected the Orientalist framework. They described Abai as embodying “Renaissance culture, progressive tendencies of the 1870s Russian thought and the folk wisdom of Kazakhs” and saw him as a “fierce opponent of archaic and wild notions” (TsGARK 1708/1/123/26). While Auezov created contradictory, complex characters, the Soviet black-and-white perception could not embrace such nuanced portrayals. This was particularly true of negative characters. For instance, Narymbet, Abai’s opponent throughout the story, uttered in the end: “I don’t want Abai’s blood in my hands.” The censors suggested removing this line to make him a clear-cut villain (TsGARK 1708/1/123/34). Sharip – alluding to Shakarim Qudaiberdiuly, a prominent Kazakh poet and Abai’s nephew – was depicted in a way that vilified him during the Soviet era as a reactionary figure. The censors advised to rewrite him as “less of an outcast and talentless poet in the style of Salieri with an abstract hatred towards the genius, and more as a malicious being who intentionally aligns with Abai’s enemies” (TsGARK 1708/1/123/26). Nevertheless, the reference to Mozart and Salieri remained in the film, and Sharip, though depicted as evil, still admired Abai.

One intriguing aspect of both the play and screenplay is the treatment of female characters as spirited and independent individuals. Zeinep, a talented poet with outspoken personality, commands respect and admiration from the people including Abai. Azhar defies societal norms and takes control of her destiny by choosing to be with Aidar. Magysh also asserts her autonomy first by disobeying Narymbet, then by preferring to share Abish’s last days against the latter’s wishes. Qarlygash defies the norms of court attendance – a domain reserved for men – when she goes there dressed as a man. These strong-willed women challenge the status quo and demonstrate their readiness to confront traditional expectations. Historically, it was customary for Kazakh brides to receive a collection of Abai’s poems, handcrafted and stitched together, as part of their dowry (Tursynbaiuly 2016). Other poets’ books, such as Mirzhaqyp Dulatuly, were also reported to be found among young women’s precious possessions (Dulatuly 2004: 295). However, this view of pre-revolutionary Kazakh women did not align with the Soviet imagination. As the Film Committee commented, the female characters – Azhar, Magysh, Qarlygash – need “more liveliness and folk simplicity, to avoid appearing too erudite” (TsGARK 1708/1/123/26). Censors also imagined Zeinep as only a “mouthpiece of Abai’s ideas, promoter of his poetic oeuvre,” and proposed that “during the most culminating points – Aidar’s death scene, etc. – Zeinep has to sing songs that could be identified as Abai’s” (TsGARK 1708/1/123/26). These comments suggest that the Soviet ideologists saw Kazakh women as subaltern and denied their voice. Despite the pressures, however, neither Auezov nor Roshal’ followed them unequivocally. In the final film, Zeinep’s character stands firm and she criticises Abai, demanding that he pay attention to the “plight of weeping women and widows, not just fair maidens.” In the narrative, this speech serves as an introduction to Tat’ana’s song from Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin which Abai translated. Yet, Zeinep’s strong-willed character is not overshadowed by either Abai or Pushkin.

In the screenplay, the role of the only Russian figure Dolgopolov underwent significant changes in comparison to the play. The archival materials reveal revisions at TsOKS: officials approved of the fact that the screenplay underlined “tribal discord and Abai’s environment” and criticised it for showing “Abai’s friendship with the Russian people only in passing” (APRK 708/71/25/1). The Orientalist framework was clearly in play as the studio officials saw Abai’s main purpose as “enlightening the Kazakhs by combating reactionary forces and ignorance, and promoting European culture, particularly the advanced culture of the Russian people” (APRK 708/71/25/1). This line reflected the Soviet meta-narrative that Kazakhs were ignorant and primitive before their exposure to Russian culture.

Of greater significance was the subsequent remark from the Department of Propaganda of the Central Committee of the Communist Party on October 7, 1943, that the roles of Russian revolutionary democrats of the 1870s were “unreasonably subdued and restricted from flourishing” in the screenplay (APRK 708/71/25/91). This is a very out-of-place comment considering the story’s setting, yet for the Soviet functionaries a Kazakh-only story was deemed inadmissible. Moreover, depicting Abai as an independent thinker was unacceptable, too:

The contribution of Dolgopolov is limited to his sympathy for Abai. […] He exerts no influence on Abai nor does he steer the poet towards social themes. Instead, Abai is portrayed as an already-established poet. Meanwhile, it is difficult to imagine a revolutionary democrat from that era who would not be eager to enlighten the peoples of the colonial East and introduce them to the social movements occurring in Russia. […] The author should have depicted the development of their friendship based on Abai’s, and through him the Kazakh people’s, introduction to Russian culture and the revolutionary-enlightening ideas, aimed against feudal-bai nobility and tsarist autocracy (APRK 708/71/25/91-92).

Note how the Kazakh poet, along with the Kazakh nation, is depicted as needing to be ‘awakened’ by a Russian revolutionary. The officials were dissatisfied that the Russian character is portrayed merely as a friend who benefits from Abai’s support and shelter. But when considering Abai’s position as an aristocrat and Dolgopolov’s as an exile, this arrangement would seem most natural. Nonetheless, such a portrayal contradicted the Orientalist framework which viewed Kazakhs as eternally subordinate.

According to this framework, a peripheral character of Dolgopolov was reworked considerably. In the play, Dolgov was an external character introduced in the sixth scene. In film, Dolgopolov is introduced in the first scene and has considerably more screentime. On October 15, 1943, the Film Committee commented on the screenplay’s reworked version, praising its “improved composition” and the decision to allow for more screen time for the influence of the “Russian intelligentsia of the 1870s” on the Kazakh steppe (TsGARK 1708/1/123/17).

The film opens with Abai walking next to a background of the steppe, caravan, and yurts – expectedly stereotypical images. He reaches a kurgan where Dolgopolov is making excavations, surrounded by local Kazakhs. Dolgopolov unearths a human skull and comments, speculating that ancestors of Kazakhs, “when migrating to these places, should have fought hard with local semi-wild tribes.” Contrary to Rollberg’s (2021: 50) interpretation of this scene as a testament to “Abai’s materialist worldview and his openness to modern science,” I would read it as entirely serving the image of Dolgopolov. He embodies the educating mission of Russia, teaching the history of this land to its very inhabitants, and defining who they are. In addition to Abai and Aidar calling their distant ancestor Kengirbai a “swine” in the film, this act of unearthing the skull challenges the traditional Kazakhs ancestral worldview (a deep-seated reverence held towards ancestors, and the belief in the connections between the living and the dead) (Dubuisson 2017). Hence, the disrespect for ancestors and the deceased undermines the cultural beliefs and is filmed in the logic of downgrading everything that preceded the Soviet Union. The source play, besides, had staged the skull scene differently: while Dolgov had no role in it, highlighted was Baimagambet’s talent in adapting Western stories for Kazakh listeners. Baimagambet’s references were Shakespeare, Pushkin, and European art, and he was seen as a witty, shrewd character. In the film, Baimagambet, an archetypal Kazakh, was simplified to represent primitiveness, in contrast to Dolgopolov as a beacon of progress. Unsurprisingly, Literaturnaia gazeta compared Baimagambet to Robinson Crusoe’s naïve Friday (Markov 1946). This simplification led to Baimagambet’s stories being transformed into crude and naive anecdotes, merely serving to enhance Dolgopolov’s image. For instance, “Why are fingers different in length?” asks Baimagambet and tells the story of how different fingers were more-or-less arrogant towards the Creator. Dolgopolov replies that fingers can unite in a fist: “A fist can hit. When the people unite, they are a force.” This scene was clearly added as a response to the studio’s request to highlight Dolgopolov’s role as a precursor and messenger of the revolution.

The following scene with Dolgopolov was also introduced during the screenplay revisions. When Abish returns from St. Petersburg and sees a gathering, he asks Dolgopolov for an explanation. In response, Dolgopolov remarks, “Middle Ages in full bloom.” Learning about Aidar and Azhar’s situation, Abish replies: “My wide steppe – the same old ignorance.” Here, Kazakhs’ backwardness is commented on by both Russian and Kazakh characters. In general, Abai, as well as Abish in this film, represent “civilising agents,” a “good native who overlooks the ‘difficulties’ of foreign domination” (Said 1979: 33). They are moulded in the image and likeness of idealised Russians. The colonial enlightenment mission of the Soviet Union becomes apparent in the film’s deliberate omission of the fact that originally, Ospanov, serving in the tsarist administration, used to be a Russian-educated teacher (TsGARK 1708/1/123/34). This would, apparently, compromise the education mission, hence teachers were not supposed to be portrayed as antagonists.

Soviet films often depicted historical figures from the distant past in an ahistorical manner, as heralds of the Socialist Revolution (TsGARU 2356/1/118/9). Perhaps in this vein, officials from Kazakhstani Party Committee complained that the screenplay failed to portray Abai as giving “a new direction” to societal thought, thus his image as an “enlightener and fighter for the bright future of his people” was incomplete (APRK 708/71/25/91-92). No one in the 1940s needed an explanation for the euphemistic “new direction” and “bright future.” Class consciousness was one of the major concerns when Bol’shakov and Pyr’ev approved the film on November 22, 1944. While acknowledging the film’s success and importance, they pointed out that it over emphasised the luxury of the rich, neglecting the living conditions of poor Kazakhs (TsGARK 1708/1/123/33). Similar in sentiment was the conclusion of the studio’s artistic council when it commented that the film “prettifies and sugar-coats the Kazakh life in the nineteenth century” (TsGARK 1708/01/123/32). Though acting as a spectacle, the traditional Kazakh court (biler soty), wedding ceremonies, and lifestyle were organically woven into the film narrative and were elegantly constructed by production designer Qulakhmet Qozhyqov and beautifully captured by cinematographer Galina Pyshkova. This did not sit well with the Orientalist view, according to which Kazakhs’ old ways were often mocked or disparaged. Thus, criticism that the film omitted the lives of the poor was linked to the fact that scenes of “luxury” would inevitably invite a positive perception of pre-Soviet times, imagined through the Orientalist framework as dark, wretched, and unclean (Drieu 2018: 69). Therefore, the Film Committee, stating the best qualities of the film, expressed a concern that it depicted nineteenth-century Kazakhstan “in romantic tones” (TsGARK 1708/1/123/26).

Beyond these comments, the film still employs exoticisation techniques. For example, it opens with a long shot of grazing horses and laden camels, locating the audience in the nomadic Kazakh steppe. Scenes with the caravan are recurrent throughout the film, and lacking narrative justification, merely cater to the non-Kazakh viewers’ expectations of the ‘exotic East.’ Similar is the scene where Abish, Sharip, and Aidar compete horseback to lift a dombyra from the ground, with Abai cheering them on enthusiastically. This scene, absent from the original play, was introduced in the film only to comply with the audience’s preconceived notions about Kazakhs as skilled equestrians. As Literaturnaia gazeta noted, Kazakhstan was seen as a “country of shepherds and riders,” after all (Markov 1946). Therefore, such episodes which add little to the overall narrative are apparently included only to reinforce stereotypes about Kazakh culture

Working within the Orientalist grand-narrative, Auezov could only shape Abai as a spiritual ally of Russia – and by extension of the Soviet Union – to make him acceptable. Yet the writer’s stated aim was to highlight Abai’s crucial role in consolidating Kazakh progressive ideals (Auezov 1949). Abai was intended to embody “the complex contradictions of his historical epoch” – a goal more fully realised in his Abai Zholy, and the post-Soviet film Abai based on the novel. Rollberg (2021: 62) observed that the ideological frame of The Songs of Abai was “profoundly Soviet” and “its dilemma was in many ways unavoidable.” Bringing in the archival evidence, I attempted to argue that the film’s frame was, more precisely, Orientalist, while the screenwriter Auezov had somewhat different perspectives about the Kazakh past. As a result, the film contained contradictory messages coming from different actors.

Abai in the Independence Era

There were intentions to make a new film on Abai in 1972, when Mazhit Begalin and Satimzhan Sanbaev submitted a proposal to Qazaqfilm on a two-episode film The Youth of Abai; later, Bolat Mansurov with Abish Kekilbaev and Arnol’d Vitol’ wrote a screenplay for a ten-episodes film based on Abai Zholy (Korenowska & Nurmanova 2017: 147). It was not until 1995 that the second film project on Abai came into fruition and mostly because, much within the Soviet tradition, the Republic of Kazakhstan decided to commemorate the 150^th anniversary of Abai. This marked a significant step in incorporating Abai into the identity-building program of the nascent state.

Before 1992, film production decisions and funding were determined by the Film Committee in Moscow. The local Kazakh budget had no such item as “production of films.” Ardaq Amirqulov, a celebrated filmmaker of the Kazakh New Wave known for his historical film Otyrardyn kuireui / Gibel’ Otrara / The Fall of Otyrar (1990, USSR) was appointed as head of Qazaqfilm studio in 1992. In this capacity, he approached the Kazakh government with a proposal to make a film about Abai for the poet’s upcoming anniversary. With the approved funding, Amirqulov started working on the screenplay along with Leila Akhynzhanova, Aleksandr Baranov, and Serik Aprymov(Amirqulov 2023). The celebrated writer Abish Kekilbaev contributed as a literary consultant. As the filmmaker recalls, they did not intend to make a film adaptation of Auezov’s Abai Zholy but followed the first two books of the novel to recreate Abai’s formative years. It is worth noting that Auezov’s novel meticulously chronicled Abai’s life and, in the process, rewrote Kazakh history. Abai Zholy won the Stalin and Lenin Prizes (1949, 1959) making it the most celebrated literary work in Soviet Kazakh literature. More importantly, it founded the Kazakh historical novel genre which became indispensable in maintaining the national identity and vision of the past throughout the Soviet period (Kudaibergenova 2017: 62-65). However, the novel could not escape the Soviet Orientalist perspective, according to which Abai, born into “feudal despotism,” was transformed through Russian education (Caffee 2013: 56-57). Auezov “sacrificed” Abai’s father, Qunanbai, portraying him as a “cruel and mercenary,” opposing figure to Abai (Kudaibergenova 2017: 62). This view of Qunanbai has been heavily contested, including by the film under discussion (Erdembekov 2020).

The post-Soviet Abai shows various aspects of adolescent Abai’s life: his schooling in medrese where he stands up to bullies and defends the weak; his disillusionment with his community after Qodar and Qanqa’s killing (for an illicit affair); his silent protest after he sees an armed clash between two communities; his compassion to the less fortunate (Darkembai) and tenderness of his first love; his light-heartedness around his younger brother Ospan; his conflicts with his more rigid, older brother Takezhan and respect for his father Qunanbai. In The Songs of Abai, Abai was constructed according to the conventions of the Soviet biopic as a wise, towering figure. Amirqulov (2023) instinctively resisted the Soviet canon: his Abai was allowed to be more grounded and flawed.

Additionally, as discussed in the previous paragraphs, The Songs of Abai was more concerned about Russians than the Kazakhs, striving to define Russia as the herald of enlightenment against backward Kazakhstan, as per the Orientalist tradition (Said 1979: 1). In search for a renewed, decolonised identity, Amirqulov strived to make a Kazakh-centred film: the cinematic representation of the past he recreated had no direct reference to Russia. Abai attempted to consolidate all major myths and narratives about the poet and consequently reinterpreted both Abai’s figure and that of his father, Qunanbai, to salvage them from Soviet dogmas.

According to Rico Isaacs’s (2018: 127) conclusive summary, the film “draws on key elements of Kazakh identity such as the nomads’ relationship with the steppe and the veneration of ancestors.” Undoubtedly, the Kazakh worldview stands out in two distinct aspects: the perception of time and space. Kazakhs perceive time as a continuous entity that embraces their ancestors and extends to their descendants, suggesting a broader perspective on life than an individual life. Furthermore, they view space as vast, with the Kazakh steppe considered a collective possession of the nation, and each person holding a personal connection to it. This is due to the historical division of land among Kazakh tribes, where each member had a designated role and place within the allocation.

If in The Songs of Abai, Abai and his followers directly downgraded the ancestral worldview, the post-Soviet Abai is more sensitive towards this issue. Qunanbai – authoritative and respected steppe lord, the central character of the film (Nogerbek 1995) – upholds the traditions of honouring his predecessors. While the source novel’s grand narrative was about the pre-Soviet existence in the steppe with a Soviet-style hint of class antagonism, Amirqulov does not attack the “feudal system” but acknowledges the class disparity. The continuous power struggle between Qunanbai and other tribal leaders – Bozhei, Suiindik, and Baisal – represents the battle over land. During the nineteenth-century Russian settler colonialism, Kazakhs faced a scarcity of this vital resource. When Bozhei speaks against the mosque-building project initiated by Qunanbai, implying that Qodar and Qamqa’s “sin” is Qunanbai’s responsibility to deal with, the subtext is his discontent with Qunanbai’s land-related decisions. Amirqulov (2023) states that his intention was not to criticise the traditional modes of living but rather to illuminate their intricate nature, as tribal identity and the corresponding distribution of land have been integral aspects of Kazakh national identity.

One of the principal distinctions of Amirqulov’s text is perhaps its interpretation of Qunanbai. Abai Zholy was praised and gained acceptance during the Soviet time mainly because its meta-narrative was identified as class conflict, and Qunanbai was portrayed as an evil bourgeois, extending his wealth via tribal disputes (Kudaibergenova 2017: 62). In this film, Abai is portrayed as Qunanbai’s heir rather than his adversary, and their mutual respect is emphasised. Qunanbai is centre stage for most of the time and is portrayed as a personification of power. He, thus, is someone who makes contradictory decisions: he condemns to death Qodar and Qamqa, clashes with Bozhei and gives away his child to Bozhei as a sign of reconciliation. But he also carries a greater mission of uniting the people. The film opens with the commencement of a mosque’s construction and culminates with its completion, threading this as a recurring motif throughout the film. Bauyrzhan Nogerbek (1995: 11) interpreted the mosque as a “symbol of people’s unity and its historical development.” Rollberg (2023) reads it similarly, as a symbol of national unification much like Andrei Tarkovsky’s depiction of the construction of a church bell in Andrei Rublev (1966, USSR); the final scenes of both films share the theme of people coming together. Amirqulov (2023) agrees: “Qunanbai’s motivation for constructing the mosque extends beyond his religious devotion; he recognises its significance as a spiritual symbol that unites people.” During the Soviet Union, Kazakhs were forcibly stripped of their religious practices. In the early years of Independent Kazakhstan, much like in the rest of Central Asia, Islam symbolised the effort to decolonise the national identity and to return to an idealised pre-Soviet past (Khalid 2003: 586). Thus, the mosque construction in Abai was a metaphor for revival of the pre-Soviet cultural heritage. Considering the mosque motif, Abai’s time in medrese and citation of Islamic poetry, there are more references to Abai’s religious views in the film than to his Russian, or European influence. Amirqulov’s film, therefore, strived to contribute to nation-building and decolonisation by engaging with the figures of Abai and Qunanbai from a new perspective.

Yet the film’s reception was mixed. Nogerbek (1995) criticised Abai, maintaining that it depicted the poet in a totalitarian manner, as “a ray of light in the darkness,” suggesting the lack of distancing from the Soviet Orientalist perspectives. He also noted the “eroticisation” of Togzhan, Abai’s first love, pointing to a scene featuring her nudity. This scene became a key argument for those advocating for the restriction of the film’s distribution during the Ministry of Culture’s collegium discussion (Amirqulov 2023). As a result, the film did not receive widespread distribution and was unable to fulfil its role in the process of nation-building to the extent that was initially envisioned.

Zhambyl: from Folklore to Propaganda

The Stalinist agenda of a “national in form, socialist in context” found its embodiment in Zhambyl’s oeuvre. Zhambyl was a people’s poet (aqyn), known for his skill in improvised poetic contests (aitys) in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan from the 1860s (Shoiynbet 2021, Bogdanov 2013: 9). Already in his 90s, he became a project of the Writers’ Union in the 1930s, particularly around 1936, when he visited Moscow for a festival (dekada) of Kazakhstani art (Bogdanov 2013: 7). Zhambyl was provided with secretaries and translators, and this concerted effort in shaping his image raised questions about his authorship in more recent times (Witt 2011: 160, Kibal’nik 2015). Some Russian-language and Western publications suggest and occasionally assert that Zhambyl was a total myth referencing an indirect memoir of Dmitrii Shostakovich (Svidetel’stvo: 274), while neglecting its limitations (Garstka 2013: 262-263, Dobrenko 2013: 36-37, Bogdanov 2013: 8-9, Toury 2005: 14). Such scholarships claim that “not a single line of Zhambyl was published prior to 1935” (Garstka 2013: 260), overlooking the oral nature of Zhambyl’s oeuvre, or assert outright that “since no one knew about Dzhambul before 1936, his pre-revolutionary biography and oeuvre were not written down” (Dobrenko 2013: 24). However, as early as 1925, the Kazakh scholar Shamgali Sarybaev provided initial biographical information about Zhambyl in an article on collecting samples of oral Kazakh literature, published in the journal Terme (cited in Smanov 2018, Shoiynbet 2021). In 1932, the prominent poet Saken Seifullin (1932) included Zhambyl and Qulmambet’s aitys in his textbook, Qazaq adebieti /Kazakh Literature. Disregarding such facts highlights the authors’ limitations in dealing with oral literature, especially when it is created in a language they are not familiar with.Even though writing about Zhambyl, their focus remains fixed on Stalinist propaganda practices (V’iugin 2013, Murashov 2013, Bulgakova 2013, Lents 2013, Nicolosi 2013). Both Russian and Western scholarship, therefore, while rightly questioning the authorship of Zhambyl’s Stalinist verses, reduce him to those contested poems. They often overlook his pre-Soviet oeuvre, including his versions of Kazakh long poems (epos), aitys, and other samples of oral Kazakhs literature as these are predominantly available in the Kazakh language. Additionally, they dismiss Kazakh-language scholarship about Zhambyl (Qalizhan 2018, Zholdasbekov 2020) labelling it as “mythologised and tabued” despite being unable to read it (Bogdanov 2013: 12). Thus, Zhambyl becomes an empty sign of Stalinist propaganda, initially exploited by the Soviet propaganda machine to promote Stalin and Socialism, then overlooked by Russian and Western scholars whose concern is again the Stalinist propaganda itself. A thorough analysis of Zhambyl’s body of work, as well as the Soviet system’s utilisation of poets like him (given that he was not an isolated case), lies outside the purview of this paper.

During the Second World War, each region in Kazakhstan was expected to have its own Zhambyl to glorify Stalin and inspire people to mobilise their resources. The state provided these – often living in poor conditions – poets with accommodation and other minimal sustenance and in return utilised them during frontline aid fundraising campaigns across the republic (see about the similar transactions by Aqtobe region officials and Baiganin – APRK 708/6-1/550/1-19).

It is not surprising therefore, that the film about Zhambyl was approved for production, despite having a turbulent history. The project figured in the pre-war plans of Kazakh officials, along with Abai (APRK 708/4-1/1364/25). As soon as TsOKS was tasked with screening Kazakh life, it was mentioned again in 1941 (APRK 708/5-1/693/2). This coincided with Zhambyl’s soaring fame in connection with his poem “Leningraders, My Children” / “Leningradtsy, deti moi” published to great acclaim in Pravda (Zhabaev 1941). On February 10, 1942, a TsOKS meeting decided that director Leo Arnshtam will start the pre-production (TsGARK 1708/1/49/1). The screenplay had to be finished by April 15, and the film by December 10, 1942 (APRK 708/6-1/566/16-17). In a report from June 23 by the Writers’ Union, the screenplay’s status was indicated as approved (APRK 708/6-1/708/552/51). However, only on August 8, Mikhail Romm, a representative of the Film Committee in Toshkent, issued a decree to initiate pre-production. The director’s script was anticipated to be completed by November 25, 1942 (TsGARK 1708/1/37/1). The TsOKS-prepared project of a decree by Kazakh Sovnarkom on Zhambyl’s production stated ambitious plans: museums had to provide artefacts, theatres – costumes and props, and actors to be freed from theatre productions; local authorities were tasked with providing extras, accommodation, as well as other provisions (APRK 708/5-1/57/24). However, the screenplay faced further objections and corrections.

The Kazakh writer Abdilda Tazhibaev’s initial screenplay was a two-episode massive project, paralleling events in Russia and Kazakhstan. It contained the images of Russian emperors (Nicolas I, Alexander II, Alexander III, and Nicolas II) as well as of Bolshevik leaders (Lenin and Stalin) scrutinised by the censors. On December 9, 1942, Senior Editor of the Film Committee Moisei Aleinikov formulated his suggestions as follows:

Images of tsars symbolise the oppression of Kazakh people by Russia. […] The scenes of the tsarist treatment of Kazakhs /without contrasting it with the tsarist attitude to other peoples of Russia/ suggest a one-sided depiction of Russia towards the conquered East. I consider this approach extremely dubious (TsGARK 1708/1/49/4).

He also criticised the director’s script for intending to show Russian tsars as “lazy slackers,” and noted: “Do not forget that these are the pages of Russian history.” These criticisms highlighted the disparity between the self-perception of Kazakh writer Tazhibaev (similar to Auezov in The Songs of Abai), and the views held by the centralised film industry regarding Kazakhstan. Aleinikov also drew attention to a scene depicting Zhambyl’s meeting with Lenin and Stalin, noting, “The following remark by Stalin needs to be corrected: ‘Look, look, Vladimir Il’ich, how dashingly this native (tuzemets) rides.’” Interestingly, Aleinikov criticised Roshal’s directorial approach for framing Zhambyl’s surprise on seeing a train, and stated that considering the poet’s reputation within and beyond the country, this “portrayal of primitive peoples, commonly used in older films,” diminishes Zhambyl’s image (TsGARK 1708/1/49/4). In a subsequent letter from April 7, 1943, Aleinikov reiterated his request for the removal of all scenes related to the tsars and suggested replacing the final Leningrad scene, in which Zhambyl’s “Leningraders” would be recited, with an episode highlighting Zhambyl’s and the Kazakhs’ contributions to the war effort (TsGARK 1708/1/49/7). On January 6, 1943, the Sovnarkom of Kazakhstan issued a resolution setting a new completion date for the film: November 25, 1943. Various non-film organisations were assigned specific responsibilities, from the production of sufficient wool for 25 yurts to the allocation of special train wagons and buses (TsGARK 1708/1/37/3).

The film written by Tazhibaev (and edited by Arnshtam) was supposed to be directed by Roshal’. By this point, Qapan Badyrov had been approved for the role of Zhambyl. The filming aimed to be completed by August 1943 (APRK 708/5-1/57/28, 30). The director of TsOKS Tikhonov wrote to the Communist Party of Kazakhstan, on March 25, 1943: “To create a wind effect, a U-2 plane has been allocated, and transportable power stations were provided for artificial lighting. However, [...] as the studio is unable to provide it, we request a total of 1890 kilolitres of fuel” (APRK 708/7-1/708/87). Taking into account how the country struggled during the war, and the studio with it, the allocation of aircraft and power stations for a film production seems extravagant. Films being funded via the Film Committee, these significant demands on local authorities suggest that TsOKS treated Zhambyl as if it were doing Kazakhstan a favour by making it. Kazakhstani organisations felt overwhelmed by such requests. For example, in a report to the Communist Party of Kazakhstan on February 2, 1943, Tolybekov, the Head of the Art Department, deemed supplying costumes and props for Zhambyl utterly unfeasible. He further stated that complying with the request to release the Kazakh theatre artists would disrupt its normal operation (APRK 708/7-1/688/92).

On February 10, Bol’shakov’s editors submitted another report on the screenplay, recommending its reduction from 2950 to 2300-2500 meters (TsGARK 1708/1/49/6). At the same time, another obstacle emerged. As early as November 1942, some TsOKS employees were summoned to Moscow, and by January 1943, Tikhonov was criticising the remaining staff for their yearning for Moscow and neglecting their responsibilities in Almaty (TsGARK 1708/1/95/5, 36). On March 18, 1943, Zhambyl was discussed in a closed party meeting, where it was reiterated that the production was suffering from a sense of relocation (APRK 1302/1/1/22-23).

On March 25, 1943, the artistic director of TsOKS Fridrikh Ermler and its chief editor Aleinikov wrote their comments on the filmed material they were shown. They noted that the footage was lacking in poetic quality and the overall mise-en-scene had not been thoroughly planned (TsGARK 1708/1/49/9). Tikhonov sent a letter to Roshal’ on April 8, 1943, suggesting that the screenplay should be revised to reduce the number of scenes in the palace (TsGARK 1708/1/49/7). The filming stopped again for further revision of the screenplay.

On December 12, 1943, TsOKS’s Deputy Artistic Director Iulii Raizman reported that the screenplay is approved but stressed that the Kazakh people’s struggle with the tsarist authorities must be rewritten as a struggle of “all peoples of Russia, particularly the Russian poor.” Furthermore, he recommended rewriting the episodes depicting the 1916 revolt in a way that “avoids creating the impression that the Kazakhs were the sole initiators of the revolutionary movement in Russia.” A similar request was made about Zhambyl’s song as well: a couple of lines had to be added, stressing that peoples across the country were rising, and Kazakhs were not alone in their hate for tsarism (TsGARK 1708/1/37/5-6). From these and similar comments, it is clear that the role and place of Kazakhs in the “friendship of peoples” could not exceed the set limitations. Similar to The Songs of Abai, the screenplay shifted from centring on Zhambyl and the Kazakh people to focusing on the Soviet Union and the Russian people. This shift adhered to the Orientalist framework, where the East is defined in relation to the West, with Central Asia being viewed as “Russia’s own Orient” (Tolz 2011).

In 1943-1944, TsOKS was slowly moving back to Russia, and the project was put on hold. On December 24, 1943, the Screenplay Studio of the Film Committee informed Tikhonov that resuming work on the Zhambyl screenplay was currently considered “inadvisable” (TsGARK 1708/1/37/8). However, Kazakh officials remained optimistic, and following the complete re-evacuation and dissolution of TsOKS, the screenplay underwent a comprehensive rewrite. Since Tazhibaev’s screenplay previously invited critique, particularly from a nationalist perspective, Nikolai Pogodin was brought on board to oversee the project. It was publicly discussed (Kazakhstanskaia Pravda 1949) and excerpts of it were published in a Kazakh party newspaper (Pogodin, Tazhibaev 1950). The revised screenplay took a less ambitious approach but still included Moscow sequences depicting Zhambyl’s involvement in the Kazakh art festival (dekada). In both screenplays, Zhambyl’s humble background prevented him from marrying his love, therefore class antagonism was personalised. Eventually, Zhambyl was produced in 1952, a decade after its initial initiation, under the direction of Efim Dzigan. The film adopts a highly Orientalist perspective, depicting pre-revolutionary Kazakhstan as a land of suffering, as well as tsarist and bai exploitation of the poor. The opening scene shows the old poet Suiinbai passing his dombyra to Zhambyl against the wishes of bai Qadyrbai. As a forerunner of Socialism, Zhambyl confronts Qadyrbai and the tsarist authorities, aligning himself with the poor and supporting anti-tsarist figures like Bekbolat. Upon learning about Lenin’s promise to the people, the 70-years-old frail Zhambyl undergoes a sudden transformation, embracing Bolshevik ideals and inspiring people to defy Qadyrbai, and preventing his escape to China with the herds. Given the criticism of The Songs of Abai for portraying Abai as insufficiently active, Zhambyl takes on the role of a Red Army soldier, with a dombyra in hand. This reflected a general convention in Soviet biopics of the time. For example, the Azerbaijani poet Mirza Fatali Akhunzade (Sabukhi, Amo Beknazarov, 1941, USSR) was transformed “into an active, class-conscious figure, an eager student of the early Russian revolutionary movement and admirer of Pushkin’s poetry” (Smith 1997: 673). Similarly, after the criticism The Songs of Abai received for neglecting the poor, Zhambyl goes to great lengths to stress how miserable the Kazakhs were before the revolution. Zhambyl and his allies like Bekbolat wear worn-out, tattered costumes to testify the conditions of the Kazakh poor. The Kazakh village is composed of dilapidated, dim yurts and makeshift shelters (qos). The presence of the latter seems incongruous as qos were traditionally intended for temporary use during periods of war, hunting, or similar activities – an aspect seemingly unknown to the non-local art directors of the film.

Predictably, a character akin to Dolgopolov emerged in Zhambyl too – a “white saviour” Vasilii Vlasov. Initially introduced as a guard in Zhambyl’s prison sequence, Vlasov later transforms into a Bolshevik commander who returns Zhambyl’s lost dombyra and eventually becomes a Soviet official who sends him to the Moscow decade. According to Isaacs (2018: 74), Vlasov’s act of returning the dombyra symbolises the idea that “the self-determination of the Kazakh nation [...] can only be achieved through cooperation with Soviet power.” Notably, the dombyra is symbolically wrapped in a red cloth, signifying the Sovietisation of the Kazakh national identity. The representation of Soviet power through a Slavic character perpetuates the Orientalist notion of Russians/Central Asians as leaders/followers. Unlike The Songs of Abai, Zhambyl starkly contrasts the portrayal of Tsarist Russians as malevolent governors and military personnel with that of Bolshevik Russians, who are depicted as party leaders, teachers, and doctors, aligning with the narrative of Soviet enlightenment. This underscores “the patronising role of the Russian ethnos in the ‘family’ of Soviet peoples, in line with the broader trend of reinforced Russification” (Lents 2013: 212).

The film also employs Orientalist visual elements that aim to exoticize the Kazakh nomadic lifestyle. One such example is the opening scene, where riders gallop in a thin row from the right side of the frame to the left, and then to the centre, creating a spectacle of “Kazakhness.” Even as Zhambyl travels across the new Kazakhstan, the filmmakers include a scene featuring a horserace, reminiscent of the race scene in The Songs of Abai. In it, the 90-year-old Zhambyl enthusiastically joins the race, demonstrating his riding skills to the younger generation.

Notably, a tomb (mazar) serves as a recurring symbol throughout the film, representing the old ways of the Kazakh people. In the opening scene, it stands tall and undamaged as Qadyrbai gallops past it. However, with each subsequent appearance, the mazar becomes more and more deteriorated. By 1918, when the Bolsheviks pass by with their enormous red flags, the mazar is crumbling, overshadowed by the vibrant red of the flag. This scene transitions to a Bolshevik demonstration in Almaty, set against an elegant classical building. This visual storytelling technique implies the replacement of the old, dilapidated structures with new and graceful architecture, symbolising the transformation from old ways to a promising new life. In a scene from 1936, the mazar is depicted as completely dilapidated, and the camera pans to reveal a sparkling new road with cars racing on it. Shots of industrial sites, trains loaded with vehicles, and industrial workers align with the imagery seen in Soviet newsreels of the time. This parallel perpetuates the modernisation myth. For a Kazakh viewer, however, the destruction of the mazar image comes with a bitter undertone, symbolising the loss of cultural heritage and disregard for the ancestral worldview.

Similar to the scene in The Songs of Abai, when little girls sing Abai’s song, the bright future in Zhambyl is also signified by the singing girls. Zhambyl, talking to them, reflects on the hardships and misery of his pre-revolutionary life, stating how everything changed with the rise of the new era: “Old Zhambyl saw the Sun – Lenin the Great led the caravan.”

Much within the Stalinist traditions, the film adopts an overtly propagandistic approach in constructing the myth of the Kazakh people’s affection for the Soviet state. Throughout various scenes, taking place in 1918, 1922, 1936, and 1945, it portrays the enthusiastic embrace of Bolshevik slogans and the wholehearted support for the Soviet war effort. The stoic Soviet character is exemplified when Zhambyl declares that “bad news won’t break” him upon receiving news of his son’s passing. The film reaches its climax with scenes of Leningraders writing about their siege and Zhambyl improvising his “Leningraders,” standing next to wall-hanged photos of the luminaries of Russian literature Pushkin, Maiakovskii, and Gor’kii. It concludes with a celebratory scene in Almaty, where the crowd exclaims, “Glory to the Great Stalin! Hurray!” Zhambyl is presented on stage with a red banner as he sings the triumphant words, “Conquer lands and sing with might, The desert blooms, a wondrous sight. With Stalin’s name, we rise and soar, In victory’s embrace, forevermore.” The portrayal in these verses of the Kazakh land as a desert, transformed by the Bolsheviks, adhered to the conventions of Soviet screen Orientalism (Payne 2001: 37-62, Drieu 2018: 67). The laudatory words about Stalin attributed to Zhambyl correspond to the convention of using non-Russian poets and fostering an Orientalist ambiance to strengthen the canon of worshipping Stalin, excusing their naïve hyperbolas with the perceived backwardness of the Eastern peoples (Garstka 2013: 259). The film reflects the peak of the Stalin cult during which it was produced, featuring scenes with Stalin himself, portrayed by Mikheil Gelovani. Apparently, in 1968, during a re-editing process, the Stalin scenes were removed, and the film’s original version was lost (Rollberg 2021: 73). Overall, Zhambyl served as a biography of the Soviet state rather than a comprehensive exploration of Zhambyl’s life and was uninterested in the poet’s voice, using him instead as a mouthpiece for propaganda.

Since the Soviet media shared the same ideological framework, the film was met with great acclaim at the time. Sovetskii Kazakhstan praised Zhambyl for depicting “an extraordinary moment in the life of the Kazakh people, who, with the fraternal assistance of their elder brother, the Russian people, made an unprecedented leap from a feudal-patriarchal society to socialism, bypassing the excruciating capitalist stage of development” (Butenko 1953: 86). Kazakhstanskaia Pravda echoed this perspective: “Kazakh people, who long sought a path to happiness found it with the help of their elder brother – the Russian people” (Cherkesov 1953). Despite some criticisms of the screenplay for its fragmented and unfinished episodes, both Sovetskii Kazakhstan and Kazakhstanskaia Pravda were satisfied with the emotional impact and artistic quality of the film. They hailed it as an impressive work that provokes thought and touches hearts, attributing the success to the talents of Shaken Aimanov, as well as the cinematographers N. Bol’shakov and I. Gelein, who created a poetically expressive panorama of Soviet life (Butenko 1953: 87, Cherkesov 1953: 90). In conclusion, the film exploited Zhambyl’s figure to glorify the Soviet state and Stalin, and utilised Orientalist visual elements to exoticize and degrade Kazakh culture.

The Youth of Zhambyl, the Youth of Kazakhstan

The decision to make a film about Zhambyl in the 1990s was driven by the recognition that the previous Soviet picture was not suitable for the new era (Berdimukhammeduly 1996). Written by literature scholar Myrzatai Zholdasbekov and directed by Qanymbek Qasymbekov, this film focused on Zhambyl’s late twenties and was set in the late nineteenth-century Kazakhstan. This allowed for a portrayal unburdened by the Soviet influence on his legacy. The narrative structure, moreover, was constructed around the events depicted in Zhambyl’s own verses from that era (Zhabaev 2008, Qalizhan 2013). Narrated by the author, these encompassed his birth, the blessings he received from Suiinbai and Sarybai, his first love for Burym and their subsequent separation, his emotional connections with poetesses Asel and Qyrmyzy, his pilgrimage to Turkistan, and his renowned aitys with Qulmambet. While these events may not be inherently dramatic, they allowed for a decolonised portrayal of Zhambyl. If in Zhambyl, the reborn poet was seen as the product of the Revolution, The Youth of Zhambyl was hence constructed around his neglected, pre-Revolutionary image and verses.

The film falls short of being considered a cinematic masterpiece. Its essence lies in its auditory experience rather than its visual presentation – and needs to be listened to rather than looked at – akin to the traditional oral literature and aitys contests that form the heart of the film. 39 minutes throughout the film – effectively 36 percent of the screen time – are dedicated to either aitys or songs. But exactly because of this The Youth of Zhambyl lets Zhambyl’s voice be heard in an unabridged manner, and authentic aitys could be heard. This is in contrast to Zhambyl, which first of all, concentrated on his laudatory verses dedicated to the proletariat cause or Stalinism; and secondly, misrepresented aitys with Zhambyl alternating the dombyra playing and plain reciting of verses (while aitys involves singing in a certain maqam, of the improvised verses, accompanied by the performer’s dombyra playing). Oksana Bulgakova (2013: 202) analysed how in Zhambyl, the pentatonic scale of the dombyra gradually disappeared, and Zhambyl’s aitys performances melodically became closer to Russian songs, while in the second part, he did not “sing” at all, but recited. In general, she sums up, the film’s melodies gradually lost their oriental ornamentation, and the poet his voice. Therefore, if Zhambyl effectively turned Zhambyl to a modern, published poet, The Youth of Zhambyl presents him first of all, as an aitys performer, and retains cultural authenticity music-wise (both diegetic and non-diegetic), drawing on traditional dombyra sounds throughout. Interestingly, soundscape, particularly the voices and noises of crowd scenes are more realistic than dialogues in The Youth of Zhambyl. Dialogues use grandiloquent language which seems unnatural and often disconnects the audience from the story. Expressionless performance by non-professional actors Mukhametzhan Tazabekov (Zhambyl), Gulnar Imangasheva (Burym), Aigerim Shaidikarimova (Sara) contributed to this limitation. On the other hand, the crowd scenes during the migration, feasts, and gatherings are portrayed realistically. The joyful commotion and audible conversations among the people accurately depict the day-to-day communications within a Kazakh community. In this regard, the film effectively captures the essence of kinship communications characteristic of Kazakhs, including jokes playfully directed at Zhambyl’s father Zhapa by his flirtatious sisters-in-law. These scenes offer a glimpse into the interpersonal dynamics within a traditional Kazakh environment, distinct from the schematised, Sovietised interactions depicted in Zhambyl.

The unique code of Kazakhness, “invisible for outsiders,” is based on the intricate network of genealogies (shezhire) and tribal identities that every Kazakh is aware of (Kudaibergenova 2017: 70, Yessenova 2002: 27). This system of preserving identity has been deeply embedded in Kazakh culture, with poets (aqyn) playing a crucial role in creating and transmitting oral history through their aitys contests. Therefore, it is important that Zhambyl, in his numerous verses recounted in the film, touches upon his bloodline and the tribal affiliations of historical figures within the Kazakh nation. One significant episode in the film revolves around Zhambyl’s return from a contest in Kyrgyzstan, where he proudly recounts hearing and memorising the aitys of Suiinbai and Qatagan. The film devotes seven minutes to this retelling: various Kazakh tribes are named and celebrated in Suiinbai’s words, which serves as a significant cursor for national identity and pride, even in contemporary Kazakhstan. This fulfils a purpose of building Kazakh-centred nationalism and reinforces the idea of unity, the backbone of Kazakh presidents’ political discourses. Besides, Zhambyl’s learning and retelling of this aitys shows how oral poetry was preserved and transmitted.

The film portrays nomadic life as predominantly harmonious, with people from different tribes amicably sharing the summer pastures (zhailau). Most scenes are shot in summertime, opening picturesque landscapes. However, Burym’s case suggests that intertribal relationships were not entirely without tensions. Despite his privileged position as a poet, Zhambyl must send away his beloved to maintain peace between the tribes. The tribal rivalry depicted in the film, nonetheless, is less intense than in previously discussed films such as The Songs of Abai or Abai. Furthermore, against the Soviet narratives, Zhambyl in this film does not harbour resentment against the powerful members of his clan (Sarybai) for separating him from Burym; instead, he accepts it as a gesture of concern.

Notably, the Soviet film Zhambyl downplayed the poet’s religious beliefs, departing from historical records that claim he performed namaz in the Kremlin during the Kazakh art dekada (Myrzakhmetov 2021, Qalizhan 2013: 112). In The Youth of Zhambyl, there is a scene where the protagonist travels to Arystanbab and recites Quranic surahs according to Kazakh customs, highlighting the religious aspect of his identity. Similarly, in Zhambyl, as it was previously noted, the poet served as an intermediary between the Kazakh and Russian peoples (Lents 2013: 210). In contrast, The Youth of Zhambyl avoids references to Russia altogether and instead focuses on depicting a warm relationship with the Kyrgyz people, showcasing numerous aitys exchanges between Kyrgyz and Kazakh poets. This portrayal underscores the unity and kinship between the two Turkic countries as a revived direction in identity building.

Gulnara Abikeyeva (2018: 260) noted that both Abai and The Youth of Zhambyl produced in the mid-1990s were neither a festival nor box-office successes. She expressed concerns that such films had a negative impact on the nascent cinema industry. Similarly, the Qazaqfilm executive secretary Anuar Zharylgapov criticised both films for attempting to blend the conventions of large-scale historical productions with auteur cinema, arguing that this approach resulted in protagonists whose characteristics were overly influenced by the filmmakers’ personal perspectives (Karpykova 2001). However, focusing on Abai and Zhambyl’s early years, a time unaffected by Soviet propaganda, they provide an opportunity to explore the pre-Soviet Kazakh culture, representing an endeavour towards decolonisation in itself.

In conclusion, while Soviet films about Abai and Zhambyl were integral to a broader effort to control Kazakh history and identity, the two post-Soviet films worked towards rewriting Soviet narratives and legitimising sovereignty. It is true that Abai and Zhambyl both emerged as iconic figures during the Soviet era and later played a role in the nation-building process of independent Kazakhstan. However, it is important to recognise that these figures were acknowledged before the revolution, and consequently, they inherently hold the potential for decolonisation. Abai was canonised by Kazakh nationalist intellectuals as a uniting figure and the foremost poet of the nation, while Zhambyl was renowned for his skills in traditional oral poetry. Hence, by highlighting various facets of Abai and Zhambyl’s life stories and creative works, the discussed films illustrate the evolving view of the poets and Kazakh identity between the Soviet and post-Soviet eras. Through a meticulous examination of archival material and comparative textual analysis, this paper attempted to provide insights into the process of shaping historical narratives, as well as the nationhood, on screen.

In this paper, the exploration of the wartime inception of The Songs of Abai and Zhambyl attempted to fill the gap in academic knowledge and provide a deeper understanding of how Soviet policies shaped Orientalist narratives. This, in turn, contributes to the broader discussion on biographical films of the Stalinist era and sheds light on the Soviet portrayal of various nationalities. Comparing the two Soviet films, numerous parallels were discussed in terms of asserting Russian dominance and Kazakh backwardness, as well as constructing an active class-conscious hero. These similarities were evident in various aspects, including the portrayal of Russian characters as symbols of enlightenment, the use of mise-en-scène elements, and the selection of musical compositions, among others. Furthermore, the films depict not only the construction of Soviet thought (The Songs of Abai) and life (Zhambyl), but also underscore the destruction of pre-revolutionary Kazakh life. This was exemplified by the antagonism displayed towards ancestral worldviews in the former film and the symbolic erosion of mazar, a place of burial, in the latter. While The Songs of Abai is somewhat ambiguous and Zhambyl is openly propagandistic, they both illustrate how Soviet colonial policies managed and schematised the portrayal of the Kazakh nation. These strategies discussed here are applicable to other non-Russian Soviet settings as well.

In the post-Soviet era, Kazakhstan continued Soviet approaches in canonising historical figures, but also endeavoured to reclaim its cultural heritage. Films like Abai and The Youth of Zhambyl, through different artistic techniques, sought to depart from the Orientalist gaze, situating their characters in Kazakh-only environments. If the Soviet films could not envision Kazakhs charting their own course and confined them to a state of subordination to Russians, Kazakhstani films legitimised sovereignty by visualising a vibrant pre-Soviet Kazakh identity. By focusing on the youth of these poets, the films sought a fresh portrayal of Abai and Zhambyl, uncorrupted by the Soviet overlay, and attempted to reclaim these personalities from Stalinist narratives. Continuous references to Islam in Abai and the use of the mosque as a unifying, state-forming symbol represent just a few of the film’s elements serving this purpose. Similarly, references to Kazakh genealogy (shezhire – a cornerstone of Kazakh identity that endured through the Soviet era), along with dialogues that underscored unity, and the generous representation of aitys on screen, among other elements, allowed The Youth of Zhambyl to seek decolonisation. The poets’ reconnection with their origins, such as the reconciliation between Abai and Qunanbai in Abai, and between the feudal lords and Zhambyl in The Youth of Zhambyl, countered the Soviet narrative depicting poets in conflict with their “feudal” surroundings. Overall, the filmic focus on traditional attitude to time and space demonstrated Kazakh filmmakers’ commitment to challenging the legacy of colonialism and constructing a revived narrative of Kazakhstani identity.

These films are not the final attempts at revisiting Abai and Zhambyl from a decolonising perspective. More recently, new interpretations of Abai and Zhambyl emerged, including TV-series Abai Zholy / The Path of Abai (Murat Eszhan, 2020, Kazakhstan) and Abai (Murat Bidosov, 2020, Kazakhstan), as well as Zhambyl: Zhana dauir / Zhambyl: A New Era (Zhandos Qusaiynov, in production, Kazakhstan). These more recent adaptations call for a more extensive examination, a task that falls outside the scope of this paper. Overall, such efforts demonstrate that Kazakhstan is actively engaged in the ongoing process of reshaping its identity by continuously reinterpreting its Soviet icons.

Assiya Issemberdiyeva
Queen Mary University of London
a.issemberdiyeva@qmul.ac.uk

Acknowledgements

I want to thank Qaragoz Smadil, Sabit Shildebai, and Qairat Alimgazinov for their invaluable assistance in acquiring pertinent archival material from the Archive of the President of the Republic of Kazakhstan (APRK) and the Central State Archive of the Republic of Kazakhstan (TsGARK). I also want to thank Jeremy Hicks, the editorial team, and the anonymous reviewers of the journal Apparatus for their stimulating comments and discussions.

Bio

Assiya Issemberdiyeva is a PhD student in Visual Cultures at the Queen Mary University of London. She holds a fully funded Collaborative Doctoral Award from the London Arts and Humanities Partnership, a doctoral training program funded by the Arts and Humanities Research Council. Her thesis, supervised by Professor Jeremy Hicks and Doctor Guy Westwell, explores the representation of Central Asia in wartime Soviet cinema.

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Suggested Citation

Issemberdiyeva, Assiya. 2023. “Abai and Zhambyl: The Reconstruction and Decolonisation of National Past in Soviet and Post-Soviet Kazakhstan”. Decolonising the (Post-)Soviet Screen I (ed. by Heleen Gerritsen). Special issue of Apparatus. Film, Media and Digital Cultures in Central and Eastern Europe 17. DOI: http://dx.doi.org/10.17892/app.2023.00017.347

URL: http://www.apparatusjournal.net/

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