‘Un hiver russe’ Berlinale Review: Portrait of a Generation in Limbo
Following the invasion of Ukraine in 2022, many Russians were forced into exile because they refused to submit to the regime. Shaken by history and unwelcome everywhere, they search for their place in the world.
They don’t want us there, they don’t want us here, they don’t want us anywhere.” More or less, that’s how Margarita —one of the protagonists of Un hiver russe, Patric Chiha’s stylish documentary (or perhaps docu-fiction) about young Russians who left their country after the 2022 invasion of Ukraine— feels. Margarita’s journey has been long and circuitous: after leaving Russia, she spent an extended period in Istanbul before finally securing the paperwork to move to France, where Yuri and other friends from Moscow are waiting for her. Yet despite the apparent comfort and calm of her new home, she never quite feels at ease. She knows —and tells Yuri—that she is not entirely welcome.
That sense of being caught in between is shared by all of them. Back in Russia, they were frowned upon by flag-waving relatives glued to state television, where the invasion is described not as a war but as Russia “helping” Ukraine; they were criticized by the authorities and constrained by laws that would force them into military service. So they left. Abroad, they are beginning to rebuild their lives, to reconfigure who they are. Chiha’s film, which initially focuses on situating its characters through a series of carefully composed, highly stylized scenes—the film, like its protagonists, can at times feel a little too cool—gradually draws out more intimate, personal confessions.
Yuri played in a punk band before the war and relocated to Istanbul once the war began. Others recount the difficulties of leaving Russia at all—a tense flight to Georgia is described like a scene from a thriller—the reactions of their families when they announced their departure, and their encounters with Ukrainians in exile. Margarita, meanwhile, struggles with her immigration papers, with the sheer volume of her belongings stored in a locker in Istanbul (her wardrobe, it must be said, looks like that of a fashion model), and with a constant sense of confusion. These are not direct-to-camera interviews; instead, the film mostly stages conversations among pairs, which we overhear in a deliberately casual, almost accidental way.
Together, these characters embody a generation of young Russians scattered across the world—there are many in Argentina too, however distant that may seem—living in a kind of existential limbo. Their possessions remain packed in bags, their bodies suspended between countries, their lives defined by uncertainty about what tomorrow might bring. Some consider returning to Russia, but only for short visits. Others are unsure, or believe they never will. What they all share is the awareness of occupying a liminal space, an in-between zone of countries, emotions, and life choices.
Un hiver russe does not organize its conversations around clear themes, nor does it present itself as a sociopolitical documentary. Instead, Chiha places these dialogues in notably anonymous settings—non-places that seem to mirror the limbo his subjects inhabit, far from the recognizable urban centers of each country. Observational and carefully stylized (at times excessively so; the protagonists are more than a little hipster), the film by the Austrian-born director of If It Were Love approaches these displaced young people with curiosity and quiet fascination, capturing their uneasy search for a place in the world.
