The Russ­ian Woodpecker

‘The Russ­ian wood­peck­er’ was the name giv­en to Duga‑1 – a hulk­ing sil­ver spi­der­web of a radar sys­tem that worked from 1976 – 1989 in Cher­nobyl. The radar dis­rupt­ed local trans­mis­sions with a rever­ber­at­ing ​‘tap-tap-tap’, like a mech­a­nised woodpecker.

The trans­fix­ing infi­del heart of this doc­u­men­tary by Amer­i­can Chad Gra­cia is an Ukrain­ian artist named Fed­er Alexan­drovich. He is a the­atri­cal poet, a knowl­edgable provo­ca­teur, a sad jester with a fam­i­ly his­to­ry that includes peo­ple being shot and sent to the gulag. He was four in 1986 when the Cher­nobyl dis­as­ter hap­pened. Amid the suf­fer­ing and chaos, he was sent to an orphanage.

Oth­er chil­dren told him that he would remain there for­ev­er. He believed them and has felt strange about him­self ever since. This per­for­ma­tive dif­fer­ence is a ton­ic for the eyes. At one points he stands trussed up naked in cling film, hold­ing a flame that illu­mi­nates a decrepit class­room, car­pet­ed entire­ly in children’s gas masks.

The Fed­er sto­ry – the hows and whys of his becom­ing a truth-obsessed cre­ative – is giv­en its dues but there are broad­er goals. The Russ­ian Wood­peck­er is about Fed­er attempt­ing to step up estab­lish­ment ques­tion­ing in order to link the 1986 Cher­nobyl cat­a­stro­phe to Duga‑1, and expose Sovi­et will­ing­ness to sac­ri­fice human life.

Theme and tone eclipse an inel­e­gant­ly jammed nar­ra­tive. There are too many inter­views with a slew of bare­ly iden­ti­fied pro­fes­sion­als. Let­ting an artist steer a polit­i­cal expose as opposed to, say, an inves­tiga­tive jour­nal­ist or lawyer means a mood shaped by hands that are vul­ner­a­ble and enter­tain­ing rather than slick and inci­sive. Our man on the front­line is not a pol­ished tool. Feder’s fin­ger­nails are dirty and he doesn’t brush his teeth.

The most mean­ing­ful point is when he – with his unwa­ver­ing ideals forged in the fire of his­to­ry – turns tail and flees. A fam­i­ly is a major weak point for any­one seek­ing to take on a vio­lent pow­er and his fear is that his son will be killed by the secret police. Wit­ness­ing our hero so unchar­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly cowed con­veys the spec­tre of state bru­tal­i­ty more stark­ly than any noble quest.

The con­tem­po­rary hook and updat­ed source of polit­i­cal sor­row is the upheaval that took place in ear­ly 2014 in Ukraine’s Maid­an Neza­lezh­nos­ti (Inde­pen­dence Square). Spe­cialised sto­ry arcs tying into the­o­ries about Cher­nobyl car­ry less pow­er than the sight of police beat­ing unarmed indi­vid­u­als and the tear­ful tes­ti­mo­ny of the film’s cin­e­matog­ra­ph­er over ​“the suf­fer­ing of the people.”

The pay-off for more con­found­ing moments in the film are staunch ideals that reveal them­selves in lit­tle throw­away moments amid chaos. In a world in which some rul­ing states are armed and organ­ised Goliaths will­ing to kill those that protest about them, The Russ­ian Wood­peck­er​’s heart­felt rebel­lious­ness is a trea­sure for any David in search of a slingshot.

The film is avail­able to watch at rus​sian​wood​peck​er​.com