Somewhere in rural Carpathian Ukraine, just before a significant local festival: dad Leonid (Oleksandr Yatsentyuk) is back in his home village after an unspecified period of time ‘working away’, much to the delight of his adolescent son Nazar (Stanislav Potiak). It seems at first that he’s been in jail perhaps, or otherwise prevented from being around; whilst that doesn’t turn out to be true, we do glean that he has a history of cross-border smuggling which has kept him elsewhere, but he wants to leave all of that behind. Leonid is, or wants to be, a changed man. This all sounds very much like the detective who has one day left on the job, doesn’t it? The penitent criminal, wanting to be around as a good role model for his son, wanting to finally listen to his wife’s advice; however sensitively all of this is done, it feels immediately clear that something ominous is on the horizon. Pamfir (2022) excels, however, in the careful, often subtle way it draws this cautionary tale together.
When it comes to Nazar, his mother Olena’s attempts to steer his path – mainly through getting him involved with the local church – leads to an unfortunate accident: on his watch, after an abortive choir practice, there’s a fire. This precipitates a large debt on the pastor’s behalf, because the church building itself is rented – not to mention a central part of life in this remote part of the world, which means things need to be put right as soon as possible. Leonid feels he has to shoulder this debt, showing a good example to his family and making things right again. This can be achieved via a quick return to crime – which can, in turn, be arranged via his own family: criminality here comes with a skeleton crew, and nearly everyone in the village seems to have a hand in things somewhere along the line. Leonid now starts to go by his old nickname of Pamfir again, and whilst it seems to be a small change, it marks something far more significant beyond itself – as well as precipitating re-entry into a world of scheming, backstabbing and violence.
Whether set in rural Ukraine or anywhere, elements of the ‘one last big scheme’ are of course familiar in film, but it also comes with its differences here: this is a world where the only legitimate work is back-breaking – Leonid/Pamfir digs wells by trade – and necessitates paperwork, work permits. The villagers have a sense of community, but theirs is a subsistence model of living, where one hefty criminal deed could be the only practical means to solve an otherwise insurmountable financial issue. So, elements of the story as old as time intermingle with something which feels very much rooted in a specific locale, with its own set of problems and expectations (and a film which ironically, due to the Russian invasion, had to be completed outside the country it so clearly springs from). There is perhaps a dash of A History of Violence (2005) in Pamfir in terms of the constraints on real personal change from bad to good, but there’s far more besides. The film is minutely observed, with quick, plausible moments of warmth and humour which run through the whole family, grandparents too; Leonid is a plausible, if flawed paterfamilias in a sparsely populated but ultra-macho universe, where he pops steroids to rev himself up enough to see him through a day or night’s illegal work. (He’s a big guy too, and the fight scenes are refreshingly free of those ringing Hollywood punches; here, things look and sound painfully realistic).
At heart, Leonid clearly loves his son, though absence and his own reflections on his lack of education make things difficult: Leonid and Nazar have an imperfect, tangled but loving relationship, exacerbated by Leonid’s own troubled relationship with his own father. The film maintains its careful, modest touch, and in so doing, successfully engages audiences with the fate of this family. The sense of growing peril weighs very heavily, and all whilst the film’s symbolism is allowed to dawn on you, rather than to land on you. Pamfir is full of the tragedy of the common man, his fight against corruption, and his subsequent struggles. All of this comes largely through beautiful wide shots, providing a sense of space and remoteness without absenting the people at the heart of the drama: characters are always held at the centre here, aesthetically and narratively. This is an impressive, painstaking film, made under terrific pressure but appearing as a confident, seamless piece of storytelling.
Pamfir (2022) features as part of the Raindance Film Festival.