Svetlana Romanova, Voyage of Jeannette (still), 2024.
On October 10, 2024, the e-flux Screening Room presented a screening of Voyage of Jeanette (2024), the latest film by Svetlana Romanova. The screening was followed by a conversation between the artist, Lukas Brasiskis, and the audience. The transcript of this conversation was edited for the present publication.
Question: You have been working with the Sakha community for several years, creating a number of films that explore Indigenous identity and history. They all feel like different episodes of one longer project, but Voyage of Jeanette (2024) seems particularly reflective, dealing with both collective and personal memory. Could you share what is your connection to Russia’s Bulunsky District, where this film is set, and how you decided to focus on the story of the Jeannette expedition?
Svetlana Romanova: Sure. I feel like I work in series to some extent. My personal approach to filmmaking is about creating an ongoing archive as a way to engage with the land and its stories. Yakutia is enormous, and it feels impossible to encapsulate its complexities in a single film. There are seven different Indigenous groups in the region, and I belong to two of them. When I film in Yakutsk, the capital, I’m reflecting on my Sakha side. When I go to the high Arctic, where my mother’s family is from, I’m operating more as an Even. Both identities have complicated political, social, and economic histories, not only in relation to each other but also in opposition to Russian occupation.
I never plan a film in advance. I usually start filming while I’m working or engaged in something else. For instance, Simeon, who features prominently in the film, is my neighbor in Kyusyur. My apartment is just above his, and he’s a good friend of my uncle. Simeon was obsessed with the story of the Jeannette expedition—the failed Arctic voyage that revealed the circular currents of Arctic waters. It’s a fascinating story involving George W. De Long, the expedition leader, whose remains and diary were eventually found near Kyusyur. Simeon’s enthusiasm for the history of the region inspired much of the film. His apartment is like a museum, open to younger generations to learn about the region’s history, as you see in the film. In a way, this is not just my film, it’s Simeon’s as well. It’s our collective effort to grapple with the region’s history and its changing relationship with the US and Russia, especially in light of recent geopolitical conflicts like the war in Ukraine.
Q: Does this film serves archive’s role as well? How do you view archiving, especially in a region with limited formal records?
SR: Archiving is about agency. Russia narrates the story of Siberia in its own way and the US in its own way. Even the name “Siberia” is not a word that everyone uses in Russia; it comes from the Western context. By creating our own archives, we reclaim our history and resist imposed narratives. Voyage of Jeanette could be seen as an act of self-historization, capturing our community’s present on our own terms. Simeon’s presence in the film exemplifies this—he is one of the main characters and is also the archivist of the region’s history.
Q: Your film critiques Western colonial narratives surrounding the Arctic while also highlighting the impact of Russian colonialism on Indigenous communities in Siberia. I thought that this dual critique adds complexity to your work. In one of the voiceovers, you mention researching the same place as Simeon but seeing it from a different perspective. Could you elaborate on how this difference shapes the film’s take on the region’s history?
SR: Simeon and I come from different generations. He’s somewhat nostalgic about Soviet times, while my approach is more complex. We both occupy the same space, but our prisms for viewing it are fundamentally different. For his generation, the Soviet Union’s collectivist propaganda erased Indigenous identities, fostering a false sense of belonging to the empire. My generation, with access to the internet and global media, has been able to adopt a more critical stance. These differences shape our relationship to the territory and its history.
Q: There is a striking scene in the film where a child, holding the camera you gave them, looks through the viewfinder and keeps saying: “I want to see, I want to see!” This moment of reflection on whose hands the camera is in and the purpose it serves feels loaded with meaning. Could you discuss your decision to counter more traditional observational style by adding more experimental and participatory elements into your film?
SR: I wanted the film to feel raw. The participatory scenes, like the one with the children using the camera, subvert traditional ethnography. Instead of portraying the subjects as passive, the camera becomes a tool for them to engage with their own narratives. The greenhouse scene, for example, was a deliberate response to how Siberia has been framed through ethnographic lenses. Russia’s insistence on agricultural practices as markers of Indigenous presence excluded nomadic cultures, like ours, from historical narratives. By incorporating experimental cuts and participatory elements, I aimed to disrupt these colonial frameworks and create a more collaborative form of storytelling.
Q: The greenhouse scene you mentioned, where the two local female gardeners are playing out an interview, as if it is given to a TV reporter, felt like a satire of propaganda newsreels. Was that intentional?
SR: There’s a funny story behind that. One of the gardeners is my sister, whose dream was to become a newscaster. The footage was initially shot for a local TV segment about Arctic regions. We were asked by the NVK Sakha to record a segment, but it was rejected for being “unprofessional”! I decided to use it because it perfectly fit the tone of my film—playful and reflective of how media shapes our understanding of place.
Q: The film frequently makes references to signs and artifacts from Soviet times that appear as disconnected remnants, no longer fitting current times. But it also shows memorial sites that seemingly reference people deported to Siberian camps during the Stalin era. Given that the film was edited after the war in Ukraine began, when discussions about repression in Russia have become prominent again, how has the current geopolitical situation influenced this film?
SR: Yes, the monument you mentioned signifies the place where political prisoners deported to Siberia lived. As for the ongoing war, first of all, it has profoundly affected my community. As you know, Russia’s drafts disproportionately target Indigenous people from national republics like ours. The removal of bodies from resource-rich, strategically relevant regions like the Arctic is a form of silent genocide. Many of the people you see in the film have since been drafted. And filmmaking has obviously become challenging for me too. I no longer have access to my homeland.
Q: I found the sound design of the film to be striking. Wind and other environmental sounds add a distinct layer to the experience of the film. Can you share more about that?
SR: My best friend Abiboss is a brilliant noise musician. Her work captures the raw, industrial energy of Siberia. For this film, she scored in analogue way much of the sound after watching the footage, creating a visceral connection between the visuals and the sonic landscape. We also collaborated with other local musicians to reinterpret the French song “Voyage, voyage” by Desireless and recorded it in Sakha language. It’s a blend of contemporary and traditional influences, reflecting the region’s evolving identity.
Q: How did the community respond to being filmed?
SR: They’re used to me filming by now. It usually takes a few months of being around before I start shooting. Their main concern is not portraying the village in a way that makes it seem impoverished or oppressed. It’s a valid concern, and I’m mindful of showing the reality without reinforcing stereotypes.
Q: Given the disruptions caused by the war, how has your communication with your community changed and how it impacted your work?
SR: Communication is minimal. Platforms like WhatsApp and Telegram are monitored, so people are cautious about what they say. It’s a difficult situation. I try to check in regularly, but it’s not the same as being there in person. Being in self-exile has been challenging, but it has also opened new ways of making sense—not only of Yakutia’s unique conditions but also of visual production as a broader practice. I’m deeply interested in how the environmental history of cinema—magic lanterns, oil economies, and so on—has shaped particular territories and how we situate ourselves within its ongoing effects. At the same time, I’m resisting the pressure to create a discourse that fits into the Western tendency toward folklorization, which often traps visual practitioners in racialized brackets and limits their engagement with broader conversations around visuality. In my distance from Yakutia, I’m searching for a new language and form to articulate ideas differently. I am untethered from expectations and open to reshaping what visual practice can mean.
Q: What do you think about the role of cinema in Yakutia and the Arctic regions, particularly for filmmakers like yourself who are working to bring forward Indigenous perspectives?
SR: Reformulating and unpacking the mechanisms of colonial perception is one of the most important tasks for cinema of the alleged peripheries. Indigenous cinema, or films that that come out of a very specific place, let’s say culturally and geographically, carry an inherently political lens. These, I think, are crucial tasks we face as filmmakers—we need to recognize ourselves as natives to our home first for our films to be charged, not empty. For our cinema to fulfill its potential, we should embody the rigor of our own resilience, not shy away from it.