A couple, Slava and Anya, make porcelain figures. Slava sculpts and fires them, while Anya finishes them with intricate, hand-painted designs. The figures, which fit in the palm of your hand, take the form of snails, birds, and other woodland creatures. Their massive eyes glisten in the sunlight, with Anya’s illustrations crisscrossing their surface in a seemingly endless pattern of shapes and colors. Outside their apartment, the sound of mortar shells and sirens rings out. The couple lives in present-day Kharkiv, Ukraine, and Slava is one of the men fighting on the front lines. The pair are joined by longtime friend, Andrey, a fellow artist. He and Slava have taken it upon themselves to document the war from their perspective, capturing incredible footage to tell not only their story, but that of all of their fellow countrymen.
Thus, the film observes the daily lives of civilians turned warriors. Slava returns from training a group of recruits, dropping his gear in the living room while Anya greets him from the kitchen; it’s eerily reminiscent of a man coming home from his office job. He remarks how there’s not much to like about weapons, that they’re unpleasant to the touch and have a horrid purpose. Nevertheless, his people must overcome the crude inhumanity of these tools of war, recognizing that weapons give them the advantage of power and the ability to resist “brutal aggression.” Slava notes the paradox of patriotism: to protect your country’s freedom, he says, you must compromise your own. How can you protect what you believe in while still maintaining the art, culture, and individuality that makes you who you are? Slava and his people must learn to become killers, but not at the expense of what made them fall in love with their country in the first place.
As the film progresses, it alternates between the trio’s life in Kharkiv and the frontline combat seen by Slava’s unit, dubbed “Saigon.” Bodycam and drone footage bring us into the action in a way that's equal parts fascinating and disturbing. It’s a uniquely 21st-century war, one with unprecedented transparency. We hear radio transmissions come in, shells erupt nearby, and watch soldiers frantically duck for cover. The audience can hear the soldiers’ breathing, fear in their voices, as they traverse bombed-out residential buildings. While the combat unfolds, we also learn about the inhumane gravity of the conflict, on both sides. The Russians purposely draw in Ukrainian drone strikes, using their casualties to determine the Ukrainian position. “They’re burning their own people like fuel,” one soldier remarks.
The horrific combat is contrasted by images of the porcelain dolls and nature, exemplifying the tranquil beauty that’s threatened by the war. A combination of hand-drawn and computer animation brings Anya’s illustrations to life, dancing across the porcelain surface. The animation recreates the early stages of the war, when thousands of refugees fled the city, again juxtaposing beauty with tragedy. Anya remarks how it’s the soldiers who are “holding the umbrella” over them, allowing art to survive. The film begs the question: what does art mean during times of conflict, and how crucial is its preservation? What does survival mean if we don’t maintain what makes us human?
Through everything, the war taught Anya that people can be truly good, something she’d only read about in books. The resistance isn’t just for Ukraine, but for the entire world. If evil is allowed to run amok, who’s to say it will ever end? Porcelain War is a fascinating snapshot of an immense conflict, one that highlights not just the war, but the people fighting to end it. It shines a spotlight on their daily sacrifices, what they mean, and why they’ll never stop making them. It underscores how, as long as art can survive, there’s still something worth fighting for.
Review by Shane McKevitt for Final Cut Magazine and Brussels Independent Film Festival
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