43.3km Transylvanian Timber is a portrait of two professions operating independently in the same remote valley in northern Transylvania near the Ukrainian border: the loggers who chop down trees and load the logs onto fragile-looking rail wagons, and the patrolmen policing what is currently the outer border of the European Union, established at the start of 2007 when Romania joined the club.

But Georg Tiller and Claudio Pfeifer’s film is more meditation than conventional documentary.  Aside from a scene-setting opening title and two brief, elliptical extracts from a patrolman’s anecdote, the film is entirely wordless.  It eschews explanatory depictions of the process of logging or patrolling: most of the film shows workers between shifts, either travelling or whiling away the time fishing, worshipping, dancing or painstakingly chipping ice and snow off the track, their only lifeline to the outside world.

The film’s soundtrack is key to its hypnotic quality.  Fans of the trolley-car scene in Andrei Tarkovsky’s Stalker (1979) will recognise its central motif, which opens the film and recurs constantly throughout: the clank of the carriages and wagons as they negotiate the narrow-gauge track.  Shepherds and their dogs guide their flocks through bitterly cold, snow-muffled landscapes in search of edible sustenance via a complex counterpoint of whistles and barks.  There is no non-diegetic music score, though an impromptu riverside Orthodox service provides some beautiful choral singing while a radio appearance of Wham’s ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’ is delightfully incongruous.

The film’s meditative qualities extend to its silent studies of faces, most of them gnarled and weatherbeaten (one is a dead ringer for Daniel Day Lewis in There Will Be Blood), though women and children appear too.  The happiest face, paradoxically, is of a hitch-hiker of indeterminate non-European origin trying to attract passing cars by waving an EU flag, beaming at them even when they fail to stop.  Brief glimpses are given of the way the loggers live their lives: a neon motel sign, a makeshift dormitory packed with beds bunched tightly together (at least there’s no shortage of wood to heat the rooms), an impromptu dance during which a woman lowers her jeans to reveal a pink thong.

Given the absence of context, it’s tempting to read too much into the patrolman’s spoken anecdote about apprehending a potential illegal immigrant on a bicycle, though this ultimately proves as elliptical as everything else.  There’s a reference to an unhelpful boy in a striped pullover (the same one seen stoking the brazier on the train?) and assistance finally being offered by “a trustworthy person” who nonetheless carefully guarded his anonymity.   The patrolman acknowledges that he should “respect his concealment”, and it’s also made clear visually that the border police are dependent on the loggers’ goodwill.  The only way they can get around at (relative) speed is via vans and minibuses that have been modified so they can run on the tracks, owned outright by the Romanian-Swiss wood processing company whose operations seem to dominate the region.

But one shouldn’t read too much into a film whose primary purpose is to be evocative and impressionistic.  As with any long train journey (in real life, this one takes five and a half hours to travel just 43.3 kilometres), one is just as likely to spend the time staring out of the window or fixating on small, seemingly insignificant details (for instance, a chain linking the wagons that’s bound up with fragile-looking wire).  At just under 43.3 minutes, the film offers enough variety along the way to ensure that it doesn’t outstay its welcome.

Michael Brooke
Curator (Screenonline) at the BFI National Archive and a regular contributor to Sight & Sound

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Karosta is a small town in western Latvia, effectively a suburb of the city of Liepaja, and it’s clear from the opening shots of Peter King’s film that it’s unlikely to top a quality-of-life index. Most of its buildings are crumbling concrete boxes, originally assembled cheaply and quickly, and now boarded up and covered in graffiti (their dilapidation emphasised by the faintly admonishing presence of St Nicholas’ Orthodox Naval Cathedral in the distance). Fresh bloodstains can be seen on a bench, rubbish flaps in long-abandoned rooms through which icy winds howl, and the seafront is far from picturesque, being studded with decaying naval bunkers. Meanwhile, the residents of Liepaja express their fear of the place: its reputation as a good place to dump bodies without getting caught speaks volumes in itself.

The trouble with Karosta is that it was a physically and sociologically artificial creation in the first place, originally commissioned by Tsar Alexander III in 1890 as a strategically important naval base for Russia’s Baltic fleet. But when Latvia declared independence in 1994, after the collapse of the Soviet Union, the Russians abruptly withdrew, dropping the population by 25,000 almost overnight. Unsurprisingly, this devastated the local economy, and those who remained saw their living conditions plummet. Cultural life evaporated, and squatters swarmed into the former naval apartments, impoverished families crammed into small rooms and sharing kitchens and toilets. Latvians were encouraged to move there, but they generally didn’t take up the offer, so convinced were they that the Russians would return and steal everything. Crime and alcoholism ran rampant, and rumour had it that taxi drivers and even ambulances would refuse to drive to Karosta. A close-up of graffiti on the side of one of the buildings is helpfully translated as “horror place”.

But, as long-term Karosta resident Vladimirs Gekovs explains, the reality didn’t always fit the popular image. He loved growing up with so many people, and was able to alternate this with solitary strolls on the beach, a location that gives him space to think and commune with nature (occasionally interrupted by the unwelcome discovery of what turned out to be human bones, presumably executed German POWs during WWII).

Gekovs is the person that the K@2 artists’ centre is aimed at: its Swedish founder Carl Biosmark leased derelict buildings at a peppercorn rent from a grateful Liepaja City Council and set about transforming them into hostels, exhibition centres and student facilities. Footage from Karosta’s LabiChampi festival shows artists taking advantage of the normally hideous buildings’ white fronts by transforming them via projected images of blocks, lines and grids into far more ornate architectural fantasies. The K@2 project was such a textbook example of art-driven urban regeneration that when the Russian-built Eastern Bridge linking Karosta with the mainland was damaged by a tanker and rendered temporarily unusable, the locals immediately assumed that it was deliberate sabotage by those worried that Karosta might divert funds from elsewhere.

King tells Karosta’s story through evocative shots of its buildings and people, accompanied by Richard Canavan’s slow-paced score. These are interspersed with extended interviews with residents and interested parties: in addition to Biosmark and Gekovs (the most engaging speaker, and a perfect ambassador) there’s veteran photographer Vasilis Borjajevs, Liepaja deputy major Gunars Ansins and tour guide Antra Sidla, each offering perspectives on how to deal with the aftermath of sudden historical upheavals when they happen on their collective doorstep.  But it’s the random, often colourfully-expressed vox-pop chats with locals that emphasise that without their help (which means overcoming their prejudices), regeneration projects like Karosta are doomed to failure from the start.

Michael Brooke
Curator (Screenonline) at the BFI National Archive and a regular contributor to Sight & Sound

To read our interview with director Peter King, click here.

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In his latest film Peter King depicted the Latvian port of Karosta through the eyes of its inhabitants. He tells Kamila Kuc why he chose to make a film about this particular town.

Kamila Kuc: Why the town of Karosta?

Peter King: I had been looking through archives of derelict Cold War settlements and structures in an attempt to find the glimpse of a story that would put into perspective what was happening in the world of modern politics in relation to Russia and the US and I came across Karosta. From the moment I started reading I was hooked, it had everything and so much more. It had the history, the tragedy and more importantly the resilience of human spirit. I knew that I had found the subject of my next project and began writing immediately. As it all started to come together I got in contact with producer Rowland Kimber and together we began working out how we could make it happen.

KK: Karosta: Life After the USSR is about the consequences the collapse of the Soviet Union had on people and places. Were you surprised by some of the stories you heard from the people of Karosta?

PK: The initial reason for looking at Cold War remnants was due to Putin and Russia’s change of stance in relation to the West, and the idea that there was a possibility of a Cold War II. I wanted to show people the effects of an arms race on real people, the stories that you don’t see. These are people who had full faith in their superiors, felt that everything would turn out okay and in the end got completely forgotten about. People always say that we will learn from our mistakes but it seems not, as Russia has just stated its intent to rearm. What I found surprising is how some people still held the Soviet Union warmly in their hearts, when it left them isolated both physically and culturally. It just shows how long-lasting an effect ideology and propaganda can have on a person and how it can survive thorough so much stress.

KK: Before shooting Karosta, did you think of your characters or the story first?

PK: The story came first. The narrative arc of the film was to be based on the timeline of the town, seen as though there was a natural three act structure, pre-Soviet collapse, the times of anarchy and the hopeful present/future. With what I had already learned I was sure that there was a good story, and then it came down to finding the right characters to tell it.

KK: Karosta seems like a grim place, but there is something truly captivating about its sea landscape. What were your feelings about the place?

PK: The whole place is mesmerising. The broken fortifications in the water are purely surreal, the conflict between calm and chaos. It feels like there was a battle there between man and nature, and the only remains are the destroyed bunkers half collapsed into the sea. The whole town has a strange juxtaposition between the man-made and the natural. The base served as a holding point for destruction in the form of atomic weapons but sits in a beautiful forest next to a stunning beach. You can walk through a patch of woodland and suddenly come across a weapons store or entrance to an underground bunker. It is unlike anywhere that I have ever been, and I am looking forward to returning there one day.

KK: Despite the wide-spread opinion that only criminals live there, Karosta has a great community. Were people happy about you filming there or were they rather skeptical?

PK: One thing that was particularly notable was how willing people were to be filmed. The majority of people in Karosta wanted to speak to us – albeit many of them to tell us all about their problems – rather than the people of Liepaja centre who were much too ‘busy’ to speak to us. We felt much more welcomed in Karosta.

The sense of community is definitely present. Our fixer, a local from Karosta, instantly knew if a person was from Karosta or not just by looking at them, and when we approached the person to speak to them he was always right. Him being there allowed the people of Karosta to see that we were with a local, therefore we were with them, rather than being outsiders.

KK: Karosta features K@2, an art formation, run by the Swedish artist Carl. The initiative revitalised the town and brought a new perspective to the lives of young people. Can you tell us more about this venture?

PK: Carl is doing a great thing, he and his counterpart Kristine have a great vision for what Karosta can become, all this while making sure that it is in the best interests of the local people. K@2 rent a number of the abandoned buildings in Karosta. They have converted these old abandoned shells into places of study, exhibition and entertainment, and after having the pleasure of staying in one of these buildings for the duration of the trip I can safely say that they have done a fantastic job, making buildings comfortable and warm whilst losing none of the original charm and character.

As Carl says in the film, there is a strong bond between the ‘international’ and the ‘local’. Whilst we were there we witnessed students from all over Europe taking part in a week of workshops and exhibitions, all staying the duration in one of the buildings, the K@2 hostel, and being inspired by the surroundings. Vladimir, the young local man in the film speaks for many when he talks of the good things that they have done for him, and through this and the way that he speaks about them it is possible to see what they stand for. I think the opportunities that K@2 give to the people, especially the young people, are extraordinary and I hope they get the chance to continue these in the same manner.

KK: The cinematography in Karosta is astonishing. Is this the first time you’ve worked with David Procter?

PK: David and I have a long running working relationship and he is my DoP of choice on everything that I do, whether it is factual or fictional. It is vital that the images reflect the tone and content of the story, and are a very important part of conveying the feeling that the audience will leave with. David and I have a great understanding and he knows exactly what I want, and I know that he will do everything within his power to make this happen.

KK: Richard Canavan’s score is also very impressive…

PK: Richard’s music is fantastic. Much like with David, I will work with Richard whenever possible as I know how much he can achieve. I think music is a fantastic tool for capturing a mood and I think a film is much better for it, so to have no music would be difficult, however I do believe that music should be used with care and having moments with no music can really increase the tension and make the moments with music all the more powerful, it is about a fine balance. When Richard first sent me the final track of the film I was so blown away I played it continuously – I actually have it as my mobile ring tone I like it that much.

KK: You are a co-founder of the Agenda Collective. Can you tell us more about it?

PK: David Procter and I set up Agenda Collective back in 2006 with a producer called Andrea Farrena, as a platform for each of us to expand our horizons. The three of us had soon realised that the film industry was a lonely place to be on your own, and with our combined body of work and contacts we could move forward and make the projects that we really wanted to. We don’t subscribe to working within one particular genre but we will always ensure that each project has a strong narrative drive. Andrea moved on in 2008 but we still work with her regularly, and we are always expanding our collective network.

KK: Have you shown the film to the people of Karosta yet?

PK: I am speaking to Carl about a screening however he is having problems with the local council so we will have to wait and see about that.

To read a review of Karosta: Life After the USSR, click here.