«I understand that Ukrainians may not want to watch this film right now.» Interview with the author of «Russian Winter»

The protagonists of “Russian Winter” are young Russians who left their country, refusing to support or participate in the war. Many of them first ended up in Istanbul—one of the main transit cities for those fleeing mobilization in 2022—and then moved to Paris and other European cities. There, they live in a state of uncertainty: unable to return home, and without the feeling that they are truly welcome in their new places. Among them are Margarita, who translated interviews with other protagonists and ultimately became the film's central figure, musician Yuri Nosenko, who composed the film's music, and other young people with very different experiences of pre-war life in Moscow.

“Russian Winter” does not attempt to answer whether it was right for opponents of the invasion of Ukraine to leave Russia. The filmmaker observes people who find themselves in limbo between their past lives and an uncertain future. The characters talk a lot, reminisce, doubt themselves, and question their own responsibility, guilt, and the possibility of resistance. The director himself describes their state as “frozen time.”

Patrick Chiha's films regularly appear at Berlinale. In 2016, the festival premiered his documentary “Brothers of the Night”—an observation of young Bulgarian Roma working as sex workers in Vienna. In 2020, he released “If It Were Love,” about the troupe of Austrian-French choreographer Gisèle Vienne and her rave performance Crowd (which won the Teddy Award—the festival's prize for best LGBT film). Three years later, his feature film “The Beast in the Jungle” premiered—a free adaptation of Henry James's novella, set in a nightclub over several decades.

For an Austrian director who studied in France and has such a filmography, the theme of Russian anti-war emigration might seem illogical. However, the experience of exile is well known to Chiha's family: one grandmother fled Hungary, the other Lebanon—escaping wars and political upheaval.

A film that sympathetically tells the story of Russian emigrants predictably drew sharp criticism from Ukrainians. Film critic Natalia Serebryakova, who saw the film at Berlinale, called it one of the festival's biggest disappointments: she writes that the director “gazes attentively and even lovingly at the faces of Russian emigrants, but with the same attention looks past the Ukrainian perspective—turning a real catastrophe into a backdrop for subtle reflections 'about all of us'.” The film's very title—“Russian Winter”—also sparked separate debate: critics noted that while many Ukrainians are fighting the cold in their homes without electricity, water, or heating, such a metaphor can sound painful.

We met with Patrick Chiha in Berlin to talk about whether it is possible to discuss politics through personal stories, and why sometimes simply creating space for doubt can be a political act.

- In 2026, when Ukraine was enduring a terrible winter, the title of your film took on a different resonance. Did you intend it as a metaphor—for atmosphere, emotional state, the political situation in Russia?

- I came up with the title a year ago, and of course, I could have changed it. But it seemed to me that changing it now would be vulgar. The winter Ukraine is experiencing is an absolutely horrific reality. I have friends there, I keep in touch with them, and I understand how terrible it is. The film is about a different state. These people left their country because they oppose the regime. Now they are somewhere in Europe and are in a rather static situation, as if their lives are frozen. That's where the title comes from. I searched for it for a long time and still don't know if it's a good one.

It was important for me to convey the sense of no movement. Even if they are constantly talking or going somewhere, there is no inner movement.

And what is happening in Kyiv is terrible! I saw a video from a theater—maybe you saw it too—there was no electricity, people were sitting in big coats, and the actors on stage were lit by phones.

- Yes, and by candles too!

- Yes, by candles too. I almost cried. Because that means theater, cinema—are still meaningful. Maybe it matters. Maybe it helps.

- Why did you decide to make a film about Russians in exile?

- In September 2022, after the mobilization was announced, I was shocked by what I saw. One evening I was watching TV—though I usually don't—and saw men fleeing the country: in cars, with bags, cycling through the Georgian mountains.

For me, cinema is not a way to explain something or make a statement about Russians. It's more a reaction to an internal question. I didn't understand this escape. What would I have done in their place? What can anyone do under a dictatorship? Why are they fleeing? Did they resist? These were questions without judgment.

Gradually, I felt that this could become a film. It wasn't a decision, but a feeling that there was something strange and complex here. We go to the movies to see what we don't see elsewhere. And as a director, I try to step aside a bit and observe. I could have made a completely different film, but there were difficult questions here.

- Don't you think that by focusing on Russians in exile, you shift attention away from Ukrainians' suffering?

- No, these are different things. I try not to compare suffering. If you start comparing, that's the end. I don't compare. I was in Ukraine in 2024 at a festival. I was invited with my previous film, I was the only foreign director who came there. I filmed a little, and also gave a master class for young directors—women and men. Amazing young people who need to tell their stories. They want to speak. And I felt that filming there would have been wrong. It's not my place to do that. I don't live under bombs. So I don't compare.

I hope that “Russian Winter” is not only a film about Russians. It's the story of four people. Maybe it's a film about us. We live in strange times.

In France, we are at a crossroads. In the US, we see what's happening. I'm not a politician and I try to stay positive, but strange things are happening. Maybe one day we'll have to leave too. What then? How can we resist? What can I do?

These are very personal questions. The feeling of helplessness—that's what this film is about. I tried to give it shape, not to provide an answer. I absolutely understand that Ukrainians may not want to watch this film right now. That's normal. Maybe later.

- Tell us about the editing process. Your film has a complex structure, the protagonists' stories intertwine, locations change.

- When I was a student and worked as an editor, I realized that editors are incredibly important, but rarely can explain exactly what they do. Although, maybe for some, my film looks very staged or something like that, but in fact, it's improvisation. I tried to create a space for reflection. It took a lot of time, the characters talk a lot, there are things they want to say, but I never tried to pull something out of them, sometimes I didn't understand what they were saying, even though I had a translator. The process was very open. For me, it's not a film about Russians or even about them as objects. I try to make a film together with people. And I consider this a political way of working—what can we do together? Editing is about respecting people's complexity. It's long and hard work that requires respect and almost friendly closeness. You spend a lot of time with people, and it almost becomes a friendship. But at the same time you have to keep your distance, so you can ask critical questions.

- You said that at the start of the film you had many questions. Did you find any answers by the end?

- In the end, it's strange, but maybe I'm too sentimental. I think the main thing is that friendship helps us get through everything. It's a film about friendship. In Kyiv, someone took me to a big club. It worked during the day because everything had to close at 11 p.m. due to the attacks. There was techno playing, not many people, but you could feel they were holding on to each other. At the end of my film, the characters stand on a beach and hold on to each other too. Yuri holds Margarita very tightly—suddenly, for no particular reason. And maybe friends can keep us from falling into violence, into helplessness. It sounds sentimental. But maybe I'm just trying to hold on to my friends.

- Why do you think your film was selected for the Berlinale competition? Maybe because it's political, and this festival specializes in films about conflicts?

- This is my fourth film at Berlinale. This time they wrote me a long and beautiful letter explaining why they wanted me in the program—I won't tell you what they wrote, but it was very convincing. Maybe the film suits the Berlinale style. But the East is also very close here, closer than at other festivals. There are also many Russian immigrants in Berlin. Berlinale is a special place for discussing the connection between aesthetics and politics. It's not just about political or aesthetic films, but about how we can shape today's world. It's not just about political or aesthetic films, but about how we shape the world today. There are risky formats here. I watch a lot of my colleagues' work. Sometimes it's not so much what the film is about, but how it's made. How can we film the world?

- How did you address the safety of your protagonists?

- I have never been to Russia. Some journalists ask why the characters don't talk more about Putin and the regime. I don't want to speak for them. But they are careful. They have families there. Maybe one day they'll have to return. It's a delicate issue. We were careful during editing as well.

- Do you consider this film political?

- Yes, this is my most political film. Because the questions the characters ask themselves are the main political questions today: what is their role in society? What is power? What is responsibility? There is no direct message in the film, but the absence of a slogan does not mean the absence of politics.

If I had known in advance what I wanted them to say, I could have said it myself. Then I wouldn't need the protagonists. Making a film takes two to three years. Finding money is hard. No one wants to give it.

- How did you achieve such candor from your protagonists?

- When you work with people, you build a relationship of trust with them—and so you can't afford to treat their stories carelessly. It's important to respect them, their boundaries, their vulnerability. But at the same time, you strive for authenticity, for real feelings, for a living experience, not for declarations. And for that, you need a team—people who share responsibility and understand the delicacy of the process. If I just needed to express my opinion or state a political position, I probably wouldn't have made a film. I would have just written a letter.

- How do you think the film will be received by an international audience?

- I showed it to my Ukrainian friends. It's hard for them to watch it now—and that's absolutely understandable. They are going through things we can't imagine. Maybe later Ukrainian viewers will be able to watch the film. Or maybe not. I hope that cinema still leaves room for reflection. So viewers can think about themselves: what am I doing? Where is my strength? What's happening in my country?

- The words “shame” and “guilt” are heard in the film. How did you work with that?

- We filmed for about six months—winter and summer, with a break. It's a film about people trying to formulate their questions and not always finding how. Words appear: shame, guilt, death, melancholy, snow.

For me, guilt is a key word. Maybe because I'm Austrian and grew up in a society with a historical sense of guilt. But I didn't pressure the protagonists. I observed. Yes, I'm tall, I have a loud voice, I bring a certain energy. But I don't tell people what to feel or say. It's a search.