At first Soviet cinema relied on recycled Tsarist-era films and carefully screened foreign imports - even allowing the film, Father Sergius, a religious film completed during the last weeks of the Russian Empire to be screened in 1918. State funding could only support short, educational films, designed to ignite revolutionary fervour and denounce opposition. Brightly painted agit-trains, their cars emblazoned with slogans and political art, carried these films to the most remote corners of the country. These trains even boasted special auxiliary cars equipped with printing presses, libraries, and mobile cinemas.

In 1921, Moscow lacked a single functioning cinema, but just two years later, there were 89 new cinemas. Filmmakers aligned with the state thrived, their creativity shaped and constrained by watchful censors. Sergei Eisenstein's Battleship Potemkin presents a dramatisation of the mutiny that occurred in 1905 when the crew of the Russian battleship rebelled against their officers. Its iconic scenes, like the Odessa Steps sequence, cemented the power of Soviet propaganda film. Soviet cinema had become a potent tool for reinforcing the official narrative.

Avant-garde film posters mirrored innovative techniques used in Soviet films. Bold colours, dramatic angles, and eye-catching typography grabbed attention. Artists weren't shy about experimentation: they adopted techniques like extreme close-ups and unusual angles, even combining photography with lithography. The juxtaposition of scale is responsible for much of the dynamism and originality of composition in the posters. This period of artistic exploration wouldn't last - Soviet Realism would soon become the official style. 

Cinema of the Conquered: Trophy films

In the aftermath of World War II, Soviet movie theatres grappled with a peculiar dilemma. Public hunger for cinema soared, yet domestic studios, ravaged by the war, struggled to meet the demand for new films. The solution lay in an unexpected source: "trophy films". Around two thousand foreign films were seized by the Red Army during its occupation of Eastern Europe and Germany.

Next the state took a surprising step. In August 1948, the CPSU Committee Meeting allowed fifty of these "trophy films" to be released to the public. However, they imposed restrictions: twenty-four primarily European films received general screenings, while the remaining twenty-six, consisting mainly of American productions, were relegated to restricted private viewings, likely reserved for party officials.

This decision seems baffling. In an era of strict censorship, where Soviet artists faced severe restrictions, the government suddenly permitted foreign films that could easily contain subversive ideas. Historians offer several possible explanations. Perhaps the state recognized the urgent need to keep cinemas afloat in the face of a crippled domestic film industry. Or, more cynically, they saw the "trophy films" as a potential source of revenue to support the nation's staggering postwar reconstruction. Meeting minutes support the economic motive, outlining specific financial targets – expecting a net income of 750 million roubles within a year. Film posters promoting trophy films sometimes remained in use, but with altered slogans or translations, transforming them into tools aligned with Soviet ideology – a repurposing of the marketing tools of capitalist cinema.

Creativity Under Constraint: The Shadow of Stalin

The Soviet Union's planned economy and state-backed film industry offered a peculiar paradox. Filmmakers were freed from the financial burdens of independent production, allowing them to focus entirely on creativity without worrying about box office returns. This system, though ideologically restrictive, unintentionally fostered a surprising diversity of styles and techniques as there was no commercial pressure to adhere to a single, marketable approach.

The death of Stalin in 1953 signalled a turning point. Filmmakers gained a degree of freedom to explore themes and characters that better resonated with audiences, breathing life into a cinema that had become stale from Socialist Realism. However, the state remained the ultimate arbiter of artistic expression. Censorship was a fact of life, with films being edited, reshot, or even completely shelved if deemed politically unacceptable. Sergei Eisenstein's Ivan the Terrible Part II, completed in 1945, suffered this fate, and was only released in 1958 after Stalin's death.

Even within this framework, control fluctuated with each leadership change. The definition of "socialist realism" evolved, sometimes allowing for more nuanced portrayals of humanity as long as the core tenets of communism remained unquestioned. Khrushchev's rise led to a brief liberalisation, followed by a tightening grip under the conservative Brezhnev during the "Stagnation Era". Film posters also grew more experimental, mirroring the thematic shifts in cinema. The focus on an individual hero often receded, replaced with abstract concepts or scenes of everyday life. Interestingly, this latter period saw a subtle shift—censorship focused more on a film's message than its stylistic approach. This offered filmmakers and animators a slightly wider, though still precarious, margin for expression.

In the smaller Soviet republics, like the Baltics, filmmakers pushed boundaries even further. Films produced there often carried subtle, or sometimes overt, challenges to the prevailing ideology, a testament to both artistic bravery and the varying degrees of scrutiny across the vast Soviet nation. 

Soyuzmultfilm: The Animation Powerhouse 

The late 1970s saw a seismic shift in Soviet media consumption. As television sets became ubiquitous, reaching 90% of households by the mid-1980s, audiences could now enjoy animated films from the comfort of home. This mirrored trends in the West and solidified television's dominance within the media landscape.

It was within this context that Soyuzmultfilm, the legendary Soviet animation studio, produced its "Golden Collection”, including films like the stop-motion, poetic masterpiece Hedgehog in the Fog that is often considered the best animated film of all time, and other films like Cheburashka, and Well, Just You Wait! " Founded in 1935 as a response to Disney, the studio created over 1,500 cartoons. The Soviets closely studied Walt Disney, seeking to replicate his success in captivating children's imaginations. By the 1930s, open admiration for Disney was evident, culminating in demands for a "Soviet Mickey Mouse." While politically at odds with the United States, the Soviets recognized the power of animation to entertain and subtly shape young minds.

Its best works from the 1950s to the 1980s became not only Soviet classics but globally recognized masterpieces. The studio's output was heavily influenced by Pop Art and films like Yellow Submarine ignited a wave of Soviet pop-psychedelic animation in the late 1970s, a number of Soviet pop-psychedelic animations emerged as a result of the latter – Puzzle Box (1976), Contact (1978), and most famously, The Mystery of the Third Planet (1981). Many of the films rank among the classics of world animation, garnered a multitude of international awards. Between 1936 and 1989, no other Soviet studio was allowed to make cartoons, and what comparatively little was being produced was immediately lionised and replayed for decades.

Cinema as Cultural Mirror: Decoding a Nation’s Soul

Soviet films tend to be rather culture-specific and are difficult for many foreigners to understand without having been exposed to the culture first. This is especially evident in films from the Stagnation Era, where bleak lyricism and a focus on the plight of ordinary people prevailed. Midhat Ajanović identifies this as "humoristic pessimism," a defining feature of the period. This pessimism directly challenged the relentless optimism of state propaganda and its promises of a utopian communist future. It reflected the growing disillusionment of artists and intellectuals with the stifling Soviet bureaucracy.

Directors like Andrei Tarkovsky, Sergei Parajanov, and Nikita Mikhalkov gained renown for films that embodied this era. Their work delved into spiritual and metaphysical themes, often marked by slow pacing, long takes, and hauntingly beautiful imagery that emphasised nature and memory. Animated films increasingly assumed a social role, which was previously reserved for fairy tales – as agents of cultural memory, national consciousness and identity. 

The state's grip on expression was inescapable. Films faced rigorous censorship, leaving no room for overt political critique. This forced filmmakers to master the art of subtlety and hidden meanings. Mikhail Gorbachev's reforms of perestroika and glasnost in 1985 finally brought a degree of artistic freedom. Filmmakers seized the opportunity to explore diverse themes and openly dissect the flaws within Soviet society. Self-reflection became a hallmark of the period, with artists boldly confronting contemporary issues.

Soviet cinema films are more than mere relics of a vanished system. They offer a window into the hearts and minds of those who lived under the red banner. But even amidst propaganda, traces of beauty, longing, and quiet defiance shine through.