"Shadows" That Cast Light: How the Greatest Masterpiece of Ukrainian Cinema Was Born

In March 1965, on the Argentine coast of Mar del Plata, world cinema experienced a tectonic shift: Sergei Parajanov’s Hutsul epic heralded the arrival of a new cinematic wave—Ukrainian Poetic Cinema.

Ignored by Moscow bureaucrats, Parajanov and Ilyenko’s Fiery Horses trampled the rigid canons of socialist realism. It was an improbable story: how an Armenian visionary, a Ukrainian visual genius, a Bukovinian prodigy, and a team of young daredevils forged a mythopoetic masterpiece in the brief interstice between the Khrushchev Thaw and the Brezhnev arrests.

While Western audiences applauded this manifestation of Carpathian magical realism, in Kyiv, the film became something far greater than cinema — it turned into a manifesto of protest, shattering the conspiracy of silence surrounding the persecution of Soviet dissidents. Below is the story of an onscreen miracle that proved far too alive for the dead systems of the "Evil Empire."

An Overseas Sensation

March 1965. The Mar del Plata International Film Festival. As the credits rolled for Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors, the audience inside the grand Negaro Cinema erupted into grateful applause. For those present—including numerous international filmmakers, Argentine filmgoers, and three Ukrainians—it was undeniably a triumph.

The Ukrainian contingent consisted of lead actors Ivan Mykolaychuk and Larisa Kadochnikova, alongside the Head of Goskino of the Ukrainian SSR, Sviatoslav Ivanov. Moscow had also attached a "special translator." Sergei Parajanov, however, was conspicuously absent. According to studio lore, he was originally slated to travel, but after making a risky joke that he "only needed a one-way ticket," the authorities changed their minds. By Soviet standards, he was deemed a liability to the country's image.

In an unfinished 1970s memoir titled Who Is Parajanov?, Sviatoslav Ivanov recalled that the film faced few hurdles during its initial approval process in Moscow. Ivanov and the director of the Dovzhenko Film Studios, Vasyl Tsvirkunov, were summoned by the head of the All-Union Goskino, Alexei Romanov. Romanov granted his approval, merely asking about a scene featuring the character Palahna: "Isn’t she a bit too naked there?" "As naked as it gets," came the reply, and the bureaucrat chose not to pursue the matter further.

Interestingly, a censor was also found at the festival in Argentina who objected to the nudity and demanded the scene be cut. Ivanov fiercely pushed back: "Buy the film first, then you will have the right to make demands. Until then, we show it as it is, or we leave the festival!" The censorship board backed down.

The reception was triumphant. After the screening, foreign filmmakers pressed Ivanov with questions: Why didn't the director come? Who is this Parajanov? The film secured two major accolades: the Southern Cross production prize and the FIPRESCI prize for Best Cinematography and Special Effects awarded to Yuri Ilyenko.

For the young Mykolaychuk, the ultimate reward was the adoration of the public, alongside poignant encounters with the Ukrainian diaspora—families who had left their native lands during the Austro-Hungarian era for Canada, America, Brazil, and Argentina. They already knew of Mykolaychuk's talent:

"The moment our plane touched down in Buenos Aires, we were surrounded by journalists. The questions were incredibly diverse. Some correspondents clearly knew the composition of our delegation. They asked me specifically about the film The Dream [Son]—which they hadn't seen, but had heard was purchased by many countries around the world—and they wanted to know if I was truly the actor who portrayed the young Taras Shevchenko." — Ivan Mykolaychuk, A Distant Journey

Mykolaychuk also recounted that on the morning following their arrival in Mar del Plata, two men visited him. They apologized profusely for disturbing him so early but explained they were in a great hurry to see him. They were fellow countrymen: Voloshchuk was born in Bukovyna, and Velychko in Galicia. "It was difficult for them to believe that I—a young man from a Bukovinian village, from a simple, large family—was completing my studies at an institute in Kyiv, receiving a state stipend, starring in films, and had been included in such a high-level delegation."

The film was bought by ten countries and harvested a rich crop of awards at international festivals. The writer Marietta Shaginyan noted that the cash-strapped Ukrainian filmmakers had no idea that massive lines were forming outside cinemas in Paris to see their work. Les Chevaux de Feu (Fiery Horses)—the title under any of its international releases—was racing across the globe.

The Genesis of the Miracle

How did the Kyiv-based Dovzhenko Film Studios, an institution then known primarily for producing mediocre, formulaic pictures, yield such a wondrous, original film—one that remains fresh and alluring more than half a century later?

Cinema rarely favors raw talent, whether operating under ideological or financial censorship. In both cases, a sophisticated artistic sensibility from the commissioning body is the exception rather than the rule. Yet the creators of Shadows were fortunate: their patron, Goskino of the Ukrainian SSR, possessed that very sensibility and secured the necessary freedom for the production.

Two years prior, the republic's film sector had gained autonomous status, led by the ambitious and wise Sviatoslav Ivanov. Management of the Dovzhenko Studios was entrusted to Vasyl Tsvirkunov, and a profound mutual understanding bloomed between the two leaders. Furthermore, 1963—the year the film was shot—still hummed with the energy of the Khrushchev Thaw, a period of sweet freedom nearly forgotten in Soviet cinema. The central authorities in Moscow had relaxed their ideological grip, granting the republics broader creative autonomy.

Scenarios were still heavily monitored, but the adaptation of literary classics remained above suspicion. Paradoxically, it was precisely the adaptation of Mykhailo Kotsiubynsky’s classic novella that became one of the most subversive works in Soviet cinematic history. The film entirely bypassed ideology, focusing instead on primordial human existence and the glorification of beauty.

The emergence of this onscreen miracle belongs first and foremost to Kotsiubynsky. Had the studio not received a letter from Iryna Kotsiubynska—the author’s daughter and director of the Mykhailo Kotsiubynsky Memorial Museum in Chernihiv—the film might never have been conceived. The proposal suited the studio perfectly: Kotsiubynsky was an approved classic of Soviet letters.

The filmmakers did not merely preserve the beautiful text; they elevated its poetic tension, giving it a second life. In the film, literature triumphs: it does not suffocate beneath the weight of exuberant visuality but defines it. Cinema proved it could rival literature in its psychological depth and depiction of ancient rituals. On the screen, the allure of humanity's "childhood era" came alive—a realm where myth and reality coexisted organically.

Parajanov and Ilyenko: The Dynamic Duumvirate

Sergei Parajanov had already spent ten years at the Kyiv studio, directing three documentaries and three feature films. Frankly, the institutional bosses expected nothing extraordinary from him. Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors, slated for production to mark Kotsiubynsky's centenary, was handed to him only because Ivan Kavaleridze—the director initially suggested in Iryna Kotsiubynska’s letter—was occupied with another project. Parajanov, possessing a deep affinity for Ukrainian art, instantly caught the magic radiating from the text and recognized his defining opportunity.

Twenty-four years later, cinematographer Yuri Ilyenko reflected on the fierce chemistry of the crew:

"I do not know how he managed to assemble such a crew—not merely a group of like-minded people, but warriors who fought for an idea, for the film, for the future. They fought ferociously, to the death. For me, a young artist back then, it was a profound lesson in uncovering truth. To this day, I consider the atmosphere that prevailed in Parajanov's crew to be the only normal way to work. It was then that I formed my understanding of how art is actually made, how something entirely elusive, unpredictable, and beyond the boundary of human knowledge is born." — Yuri Ilyenko, The Price of Compromise

The crew was exceptionally young. The studio invited Ivan Chendey, a writer from Uzhhorod, to draft the screenplay (Parajanov later became co-author). Chendey accepted and introduced the director to the ethno-cultural landscape of the Carpathian Mountains. The addition of Mykhailo Rakovsky—a graduate of the Lviv Institute of Decorative and Applied Arts who was already highly regarded at the studio—as production designer was a natural fit.

Yet Parajanov looked far beyond the studio walls. He invited Yuri Ilyenko, who was living in Moscow at the time, to serve as director of photography; Ilyenko agreed only after reading the novella. Parajanov also enlisted artists from other disciplines. For the film’s distinct visual textures, he brought in Georgiy Yakutovych, a graphic artist already famous for his Carpathian landscapes and book illustrations. Yakutovych was vital as an expert on Hutsul life, art, and folklore, though his appointment faced fierce resistance from the cultural hierarchy. Sviatoslav Ivanov recalled the institutional drama:

"Near the end of the working day, Minister of Culture Babiychuk called me:

— 'Vasyl Illich Kasiyan is sitting in my office right now. He heard that you are hiring Yakutovych as the production designer for Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors. He is surprised and outraged. Is this true?'

A brief digression is necessary here. Shortly before this, the Congress of the Union of Artists of Ukraine had taken place. The young Yakutovych had delivered a scathing speech, exposing the bureaucratic, untalented old guard. His speech caused a sensation. The election of the establishment's pre-selected candidate for chairman collapsed. In the ensuing chaos, they were forced to elect Kasiyan—who, while not untalented, was quite old. Yakutovych became an enfant terrible for years to come.

All of this had a massive public resonance. [...] Kasiyan, who owed his position to the chaos Yakutovych had caused, decided to take measures when he learned that cinema was helping this dissident artist survive.

My relations with Minister Babiychuk were in a transitional phase; a separate film committee was being formed, and it was clear my subordination to him was becoming nominal. I replied to the Minister:

— 'Yes, we have commissioned sketches for the film from Yakutovych. He knows the Carpathians beautifully. If the sketches are good, Yakutovych will be the production designer.' Babiychuk muttered something surprised and threatening, and hung up the phone." — Sviatoslav Ivanov, Who Is Parajanov?

For the musical score, Parajanov selected the young Myroslav Skoryk after hearing recordings of contemporary composers on Lviv radio—an impeccable choice that yielded a timeless soundtrack. The production's infatuation with the Carpathians deepened after an exhibition in Kyiv by the Transcarpathian painter Fedir Manailo, whom Parajanov promptly invited to serve as the film's chief cultural consultant.

A Crucible of Cultures

It is common for contemporary films to features artists from different nations, but for Soviet cinema of the 1960s, Shadows was a uniquely radiant melting pot of temperaments and cultures.

The Armenian Parajanov; the Russian actresses Nina Alisova and Larisa Kadochnikova; the Georgian Spartak Bagashvili; the Armenian mime Leonid Yengibarov; the Ossetian Tetyana Bestayeva; alongside Ukrainians Ivan Chendey, Ivan Mykolaychuk, Georgiy Yakutovych, Mykhailo Rakovsky, Lidia Baikova, Myroslav Skoryk, and Fedir Manailo. Yuri Ilyenko, though of Ukrainian descent, was operating as a Moscow-trained cinematographer. The distinct individuality of each participant was subordinated to a shared goal and the creative will of the director. Parajanov was acutely aware of his mission: to resurrect Ukrainian cinema and elevate it to a global stage.

The environment in which this masterpiece was forged was electric. With the arrival of a new generation of artists, writers, and critics—for whom the desire to revive Ukrainian culture superseded personal ambition—a profound creative upsurge took hold of civil society. Artists Hryhoriy Havrylenko and Oleksandr Hubarev, sculptor Mykola Rapai, poet Ivan Drach, and literary critic Ivan Dziuba all participated informally in the film's orbit. Drach was present as an intern from the Moscow Higher Script Courses.

As the director Les Tanyuk aptly observed in his diaries: "If Drach and Dziuba hadn't been involved here, if Parajanov hadn't been a student of Igor Savchenko, if all of this hadn't happened specifically in Ukraine—the film would not have come to fruition." Parajanov was entirely open to Ukrainian art; he loved it with a convert's zeal.

Decades later, Parajanov reflected on the collective authorship of the piece:

"The film did not appear out of nowhere. First, there was the great classic Kotsiubynsky. Struck by the beauty of the Carpathians, he created his own Romeo and Juliet, a poetic parable of love. Remember Titian’s painting depicting two women—Sacred and Profane Love? In my film, they are Marichka and Palahna. Back then, I was surrounded by Ivan Dziuba, Ivan Drach, Georgiy Yakutovych, and Hryhoriy Havrylenko, who acted as a spiritual litmus test. There were Luhovsky and Semykina—I still remember her works in the Hutsul style. The film was prepared by everyone. I felt I needed a highly dynamic cinematographer. From the films Goodbye, Pigeons and 1 Newton Street, House 1, I remembered a young cameraman named Yuri Ilyenko. I approached him, and he accepted the invitation without hesitation. Ilyenko was then riding the wave of the great trend set by Mikhail Urusevsky. But I needed to create a new form of thinking... He possessed an incredible trait—he could instantly grasp a concept and decode it. Later, I found the costume designer Lidia Baikova. She didn’t just create costumes; she lovingly gathered them from old village chests. Add to that the talent of Kadochnikova, Bestayeva... the precise match with composer Myroslav Skoryk... But to create films, works of literature and painting are not enough; you need living people, direct communion with them." — Andriy Yaremchuk, Parajanov: A 'Mad Genius' in the Ukrainian Desert

Ultimately, Parajanov was convinced that the true author of the picture was the Hutsul people themselves, who populated the screen in their own ancestral garments. The participation of the local highlanders and the authenticity of their rituals became an inseparable part of the cinematic fabric, defining its uniqueness.

"To Live It, Not Act It": The Discovery of Ivan Mykolaychuk

It was standard practice for directors at the Dovzhenko Studios to cast established Russian actors in leading roles to guarantee box-office success across the Soviet Union. For instance, the legendary outlaw in Viktor Ivanov’s Oleksa Dovbush (1959) was played by the Russian actor Afanasiy Kochetkov.

Shadows nearly followed this pattern. Gennady Yukhtin, a prominent actor from the Moscow Film Actors' Theater, had already been auditioned, paired with Larisa Kadochnikova’s Marichka, and formally approved for the central role of Ivan Paliychuk. Had he played the part, it would have been a fundamentally different movie.

How the esteemed director Viktor Ivchenko learned of the casting needs for Shadows remains unrecorded, but it was he who suggested his second-year acting student, Ivan Mykolaychuk, to Parajanov. Mykolaychuk had just finished his exams and traveled to his native village of Chortoryia for the summer holidays. Even though the crew was fully formed, the preparatory period was ending, and the team was about to depart for the Carpathians, the student was summoned back to Kyiv by a sudden telegram.

As the film’s co-director Volodymyr Luhovsky recalled, Parajanov was initially unimpressed by the unknown youth. The director did not even want to remain in the pavilion for the screen tests, delegating the shoot to Yuri Ilyenko. Mykolaychuk later recalled his state of mind:

"When Parajanov said, 'Well, let’s give this boy a try...', I understood it was done purely out of respect for my teacher. In the pavilion, I asked the director, 'What should I do?' and heard the reply: 'Do whatever you think is right.' It was the end of the shift—about fifteen minutes remained. Thus, I was completely convinced that I would not get the role... I remember my psychological state: I pulled myself together and decided that I would perform this brief screen test at the absolute limit of emotional tension."

The sheer rapture his performance elicited among those present is well-documented in the memoirs of both Luhovsky and Ilyenko. The dilemma of "Yukhtin or Mykolaychuk" evaporated instantly; Parajanov approved the student. Later, the director frequently praised himself for overcoming his initial prejudice. In 1988, Parajanov explicitly honored Viktor Ivchenko's intervention: "It was he who recommended the great actor Ivan Mykolaychuk to me."

Thus, the unknown student defeated an eminent rival with his sincerity and raw talent. He required no conscious effort to transform into Ivan Paliychuk; the metamorphosis was organic because he carried the Hutsul world within his soul. Had Shadows yielded no other discovery than the young Ivan Mykolaychuk, it would still have secured its place in film history. The actor lived the life of his character—from a radiant youth full of dreams to a grief-stricken, broken man finishing his earthly journey.

"Ivan Paliychuk in Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors, portrayed with a magnificent knowledge of the folk character and the national specifics of Hutsul life, rises in the actor's embodiment to a height of profound philosophical generalization." — Nina Ignatyeva, Film Critic

"That is precisely why a professional from the Moscow Film Actors' Theater — with a distinguished resume and a striking appearance — was entirely unsuited for the role of Ivan. This was that rare, exquisite case where one had to not act, but live inside another body — a literal transmigration of souls, as Hindus believe." — Les Tanyuk, Director and Diarist

Within five years, Ivan Mykolaychuk would become one of the most celebrated actors in the Soviet Union. Yet his popularity bore no resemblance to the fleeting fame dictated by transient fashion; he conquered his audience through a serious, deeply grounded art that spoke directly to the human heart.

Untranslatability, a Duel Averted, and the Historic Premiere

The creative tension between the director and his cinematographer was intense and legendary. Arising strictly on artistic grounds, their friction eventually led to a complete rupture. Ilyenko and Kadochnikova threatened to leave the crew, though a total collapse was miraculously averted.

As Les Tanyuk noted: "Only God helped them not to smash the pots entirely, and I do not know who is more present in the film—Parajanov, Ilyenko, Yakutovych, Skoryk—or the actors with their Carpathian backdrop. Everything was bound into a single knot. This is birth through cross-pollination, which always begins with love, jealousy, and hatred."

In his autobiographical book A Report to the Apostle Peter, Yuri Ilyenko described in vivid detail how he prepared for a formal duel with Sergei Parajanov using antique pistols. The duel failed to take place only because a torrential downpour washed away the bridge spanning the river that separated their respective lodgings.

Another defining phenomenon of this picture was its linguistic uncompromisingness:

"The film is not dubbed, and fundamentally could not be dubbed, because its linguistic element is composed of authentic, live-recorded folkloric forms — laments, wails, incantations, proverbs... We hear the authentic Hutsul dialect of the Ukrainian language, which is sometimes clear and sometimes obscure. Yet the authors turn this potential barrier to comprehension into a magnificent artistic device." — Elena Bauman, For Whom the Trembitas Wail

On September 4, 1965, the long-awaited premiere finally took place at Kyiv’s Ukraina Cinema. Today, this date is cited more frequently by historians than film critics, for it marked the first public political protest against the mass arrests of Ukrainian intellectuals in the post-war era.

Before the screening commenced, literary critic Ivan Dziuba took the stage and unexpectedly announced the secret arrests. From the auditorium, Vyacheslav Chornovil and the poet Vasyl Stus called upon the audience to stand up in a sign of protest. The cinema management panicked, turning on air-raid sirens to drown out the speakers, before cutting the lights and rolling the film.

The protest inside the cinema shattered the KGB's strategy of absolute secrecy regarding the arrests of the Ukrainian intelligentsia. However, the repercussions for the instigators were swift and severe: they were placed under strict surveillance, stripped of their livelihoods, and banned from publishing, effectively cementing their status as dissidents.

Sergei Parajanov was never permitted to direct a film in Ukraine again. Late in 1973, he was arrested on trumped-up charges and sentenced to four years in a hard-labor prison camp. Such was the state's twisted gratitude to the artist for the international triumph of his masterpiece.

Larysa Briukhovetska

Film Critic and Editor-in-Chief of Kino-Teatr Journal