Kazakhstani cinema may be entering a “golden age.” Kazakh films are increasingly appearing at international festivals, while television series are reaching major global streaming platforms and attracting millions of viewers. Yet the country has not broken through at the Oscars, and the reasons go beyond funding.
Screenwriter and creative producer Sergey Litovchenko discusses the changes and challenges shaping the industry, why the pandemic unexpectedly benefited Kazakhstani cinema, and which projects he considers the most significant milestones to date.
TCA: Sergey, the Oscars have just taken place. Will Kazakhstan ever win an Oscar? And when might that happen?
Sergey: Our industry is developing rapidly, with the pace increasing every year. I believe we are close to that moment. However, it will probably come sooner in the short-film category. Although it may seem like an unattainable goal, that is not the case. Look at Brazil, for example, which has been prominent in the Oscar race for the second year in a row. Last year, the film I’m Still Here received three nominations and won an Oscar for Best International Feature Film. This year, Brazilian entries have already secured four nominations, including Best Picture. So anything is possible. At present, the main factor holding us back is technical capacity.
TCA: The relatively low-budget film Sentimental Value won Best International Feature Film this year. Is technical prowess really the most important factor?
Sergey: It is technically very well made. We should also remember that it participated in a major festival and featured Hollywood star Elle Fanning. The reason I mentioned the Brazilian example is that Brazilian cinema is not widely known to mass audiences, yet the technical quality and acting impressed me. It is clear they have the time and resources to prepare thoroughly for filming.
For Kazakhstan, the situation is more complex. We often operate in a “we should have filmed this yesterday” mode. The only film to reach not just the shortlist but the nominations was Sergei Bodrov’s Mongol. It is a masterpiece of technical craftsmanship. Its $17 million budget is evident on screen. It is not only technically accomplished, but also a strong film artistically.
There have been other worthy candidates: Sergei Dvortsevoy’s Aika and Tulpan, Yermek Tursunov’s Kelin, and Askhat Kuchinchirekov’s Bauryna Salu. All are high-level works. But for a major breakthrough, we need stronger production capacity.
TCA: Is this primarily a question of money?
Sergey: Not always. I often hear filmmakers say, “Give us a budget and we will make it happen.” I ask them how much they need, a billion? Two?
Asghar Farhadi shot A Separation for $400,000. Andrey Zvyagintsev filmed The Return for about $300,000. So it is not only about money. Nor is it about casting, we have many talented people.
To create a breakthrough film, you need not only a profound story but also extensive preparation and a certain uncompromising attitude, in a positive sense.
In Kazakhstan, however, we often adapt films to circumstances. If the weather is unsuitable, we proceed anyway. If the actor is not ideal, we work with whoever is available. If we cannot find a location, we rewrite the scene, moving it from the street to a hallway, or from a hallway to an apartment.
We have people who can make films on extremely tight budgets. For example, I enjoyed Sweetie, You Won’t Believe It, which was later sold to HBO.
It is unfortunate that this genre is not being developed further. Black comedy about friendship or partnership suits us very well. When the action takes place outside the city, it allows you to create a distinct cinematic world.
TCA: Not everyone realizes that Kazakhstani films are now watched abroad as well.
Sergey: Yes, we have learned to make films not only for domestic audiences. The shift to digital formats has truly liberated us. This happened largely because of the pandemic, strange as it may sound, we should in some ways be grateful for that. At the same time, there is a sense that we are still finding our footing.
Kazakh cinema reminds me of a small child whose growth is being restricted. It has only just begun to develop, yet we immediately hear accusations of promoting violence, crime, or other negative influences.
We are still a young industry, but we are already being treated as though we are fully mature. There is constant pressure and restraint.
Nevertheless, there are areas where we are strong: comedies, crime dramas, and family films. Horror may be the next direction. But because the industry is small, it is difficult to develop the genre. Hundreds of horror films are released annually in the U.S., while only a handful appear here.
TCA: Critics argue that without scrutiny, stereotypes can take hold. Festival programmers often joke that Kazakhstani cinema is recognizable for its steppe landscapes and social themes.
Sergey: Once, a man with great life experience told me, “We settled down too soon.” There is some truth in that.
Material concerns entered our lives very quickly, and we began focusing primarily on them. Life has become expensive, loans, mortgages, constant competition. Naturally, this is reflected in cinema. There are films in which the spiritual triumphs over the material, as in Tarkovsky’s work. We have very few such examples. That is why thematic diversity is often limited.
TCA: Does focusing on box-office success and contemporary audience tastes harm cinema?
Sergey: You cannot focus exclusively on that.
I recently thought about the Yakut film Our Winter by Stepan Burnashev. In one scene, an elderly woman tells a divorcing couple, “You don’t know how to love.” It is a powerful moment. It suggests that relationships are increasingly built on material foundations. That reflects a broader shift in values.
TCA: Yet you are currently writing a story about a courier. Does that also address social inequality?
Sergey: Yes. Urbanization and time pressure have created new professions. It is a story about a young man who comes to the city to survive but ends up being “consumed” by it, somewhat in the spirit of Scorsese’s Taxi Driver.
I want to show this against the backdrop of dense urban architecture, concrete buildings that feel as though they are physically crushing you. It is a story about how a metropolis can break a person.
TCA: Why are characters in local films so often portrayed as struggling, particularly financially?
Sergey: Because audiences need to relate and empathize.
It is difficult to create dramatic tension around a successful person with no problems, although there are exceptions, such as Succession.
TCA: But audiences love Succession. They are not concerned that the characters are oligarchs, it is simply a dramatic story about a dysfunctional family.
Sergey: That is also true. But it is important to understand the narrative foundation. At its core, Succession follows the structure of King Lear: a ruler steps down, the children divide the empire, and he observes how they treat him. It is a timeless plot. What makes the series compelling is the intense clash of personalities. The Roy family members are eccentric, deeply flawed individuals. Their characterization and the actors’ performances offer a masterclass in drama.
TCA: You are currently working as both a screenwriter and a creative producer for the Kazakhstani streaming platform Freedom Media. What are your most notable projects?
Sergey: We have many. One is the QJ League, a project about young football players competing in the Qazaqstan Junior League. Major clubs scout talent there. For instance, Dastan Satpayev, who received an invitation from Chelsea, plays in this league.
A young director, Aitore Zholdaskali, has filmed the series Toxic for us. It is a superhero story, unusual in tone, with a rock-and-roll spirit, aimed at comic-book fans and referencing Zack Snyder’s Justice League.
TCA: What is the plot?
Sergey: In the story, bloggers complete tasks in exchange for donations. One day they find themselves at an abandoned Soviet factory, fall into a basement, and discover a gas chamber. Exposure to the gas gives them new abilities each day, linked to childhood traumas. The result is an intriguing, youth-oriented project. We will see how it develops. I am also supervising a project titled Biba Hurrem.
TCA: Is it set in an Eastern cultural context?
Sergey: Yes. It follows a Kazakh woman who is a fan of Turkish television dramas and suddenly finds herself inside one of them. In real life, she lacks romance and feels disillusioned with men and life in general. Within the fictional world, she searches for her ideal partner.
These projects are written by junior screenwriters working as a team. I assign tasks, develop ideas, and lead the writers’ room. It is continuous work, listening, editing, refining, and guiding.
TCA: So a creative producer is essentially responsible for quality control in creative content?
Sergey: You could say that. I monitor quality, schedules, and deadlines, as well as the atmosphere in the writers’ room, to ensure the team functions cohesively.
It is important to be a genuine mentor to junior writers, creatively and personally, so they remain motivated and continue developing. The quality of writing depends directly on that.
My task is to stimulate their creative process so they generate ideas, write loglines, and eventually handle their own projects.
TCA: Are there talented newcomers?
Sergey: Certainly, and they are very ambitious.
One junior writer suggested applying the dramatic structure of the animated series Arcane to our projects. He analyzed it in detail, the hero’s journey, subplots, conflict, and world-building.
That is impressive. But building such a complex world takes time. That is why we often lean toward realism, it is easier to produce.
TCA: Is being a creative producer difficult?
Sergey: Yes. You must prove your competence every day.
If you are merely pretending to be creative, people will quickly see through it. The industry is small, so maintaining a facade is impossible.
TCA: How do you recruit junior writers?
Sergey: Our creative producer, Asya Omar, manages the process. It begins with an application, followed by an interview and test assignments.
One candidate, Nurbolat, sent us his work, loglines and synopses, over three years. Eventually, we offered him a three-month internship and then a contract.
Many of our juniors come from Astana. There is less industry there and limited employment opportunities, so they relocate, rent apartments, and try to establish themselves.
TCA: How many juniors are on your team?
Sergey: Six, all between 20 and 30 years old. I warned them from the start that the work would be demanding. They said they were ready.
TCA: Is teaching structure the main priority?
Sergey: No. Structure is secondary. Writers must understand fundamentals, beginning, middle, end, theme, and idea. But a perfectly structured story can still be dull, while an unconventional one can be gripping.
Many great filmmakers, Kubrick, Orson Welles, Tarantino, broke conventional rules. Try analyzing Django Unchained using the formula from Save the Cat! it does not fit. Tarantino follows his own narrative logic.
TCA: How original are the ideas you receive? Sometimes it seems that everything has already been done.
Sergey: We live in a postmodern era, so borrowing is inevitable. But sometimes people try to copy Hollywood by pitching stories in which, hypothetically, Almaty is taken over by artificial intelligence systems. I usually suggest staying closer to reality, after all, some villages still experience power outages.
TCA: But Kazakhstan has produced its first technology unicorn. Why not explore such themes?
Sergey: Perhaps. But in my view, it is still too early.
TCA: What prospects do these screenwriters have? Can they work in foreign markets?
Sergey: Absolutely. I have had that experience myself.
Once, director Askar Uzabaev told me that a Russian producer was seeking a story. I had a draft titled Americano. A Glass of Water. It tells the story of a depressed young woman who enters a café about to close, orders coffee, and reveals she plans to terminate a pregnancy. At that moment, a man bursts in with a gun, he has his own crisis.
It is an intimate, single-location story with strong tension, elements of chance and risk, and police involvement. In short, it holds the audience’s attention. I sold the script for $3,000 and was happy, because I had written it without expectations. Screenwriting requires patience and hard work.
TCA: Do you also oversee projects centered on female perspectives?
Sergey: Yes. One example is Forever 29, a series created largely by women from producers and director to actresses and designers. There are also women on our junior team.
TCA: Women’s stories remain relatively rare in Kazakhstani cinema, though the potential is considerable.
Sergey: I once attended a horror screening where about 95% of the audience were women. That surprised me. Women are a very engaged audience. They do not just watch; they discuss and share impressions. If you ask a man how a film was, he might say, “It was fine.” Women, however, often analyze and articulate their emotional responses.
TCA: Today, creative professionals are often expected to act as marketers and bloggers. How do you view this trend?
Sergey: I am somewhat old-school and not very fond of it. Social media can distract from creative focus, undermine inner calm, and encourage constant self-promotion.
Christopher Nolan does not have an Instagram account. Nor does David Fincher. I believe truly talented individuals will be recognized without continuous self-marketing.
