Robert Ziganshin is one of Kazakhstan’s most in-demand film composers. A graduate of the Lyon Conservatory in France, where he studied classical guitar and earned master’s degrees in both music for the visual arts and musicology, he returned home to rapidly establish himself in the country’s film and television industry.
Ziganshin’s credits include music for popular TV series and films such as Alisher Utev’s crime drama 5:32 (IMDB), the box office hit Kazakh Business in Brazil, and Malika, a feature film by Russian director Natalya Uvarova about a family of Ingush migrants.
In an interview with The Times of Central Asia, Ziganshin spoke about the influence of the French school, the ethics of film composition, and why writing music “that simply comments on the action” can mean sacrificing artistic integrity.
TCA: Robert, you graduated from KIMEP in Kazakhstan. How did you end up in France?
Ziganshin: I’ve been passionate about music since early childhood. Even when I was playing with building blocks, I was always humming something, as if adding a soundtrack to my own stories. I didn’t get into music school, and it wasn’t until I was fifteen that I started taking private guitar lessons. There were times I practiced six hours a day.
There was no higher education in classical guitar in Kazakhstan at the time, so I enrolled at KIMEP. After graduating, I applied to two conservatories in France and was accepted to the one in Lyon.
TCA: Why France?
Ziganshin: I spoke fluent French. My father had sent me to language school, and I took part in competitions. Later, a professor from Lyon gave a master class in Almaty, and I helped translate for him. He assessed my level and encouraged me to apply to his course.
TCA: Was tuition really that affordable?
Ziganshin: For foreign students, it was about €900 per year, including health insurance. Compared to the UK, it was a bargain. I spent four years there and earned a bachelor’s degree.
TCA: How did you shift into composing for film?
Ziganshin: I met students from the program Musique appliquée aux arts visuels, music created for film, theater, performance, and media art. I wanted to try it. The entrance exam was creative: we had to score scenes and compose music for a three-minute video in a week. I got in on my second try, only twelve of us were accepted.
It was a two-year program, starting with orchestration and sound engineering, then moving into practical work on student film projects.
TCA: What was the subject of your master’s thesis?
Ziganshin: When should a composer start work on a film? Personally, I prefer being involved from the script stage. After finishing that degree, I also enrolled in a master’s in musicology.
In 2021, I returned to Kazakhstan. I struggled to find paid work in music and almost joined my father’s printing business. I even started hand-making notebooks, neat and beautiful ones. But soon, small offers started coming in, and I returned to composing full-time, initially working on short films for free. Gradually, I gained access to the industry.
TCA: Your collaboration with Alisher Utev began with 5:32. What was your first impression?
Ziganshin: He arrived late to the script reading and didn’t pay much attention to the team. When they called my name, he didn’t seem to hear it. I thought I’d leave after the session. But during a break, he unexpectedly asked to talk, questioned me about music, and actually listened to my views. We clicked immediately and I stayed.
The fact that he invited a composer to the script reading already showed respect for my work. That’s rare. The more deeply I understand a project, the more precise the musical choices can be.
We still collaborate. I recently finished scoring his new series 1286, a crime drama that took about six months to complete.
TCA: You’ve been critical of the practice of using music to cue audience reactions.
Ziganshin: I call it “Mickey Mouse-ing.” The music becomes a caricature, where every gesture gets a musical comment. It reduces artistic value and turns the film into a puppet show, manipulating emotions.
Music should be a language of its own, not just an illustration. In Kazakh Business in Brazil, I used percussion instead of obvious musical cues to enhance the protagonist’s emotional highs. I even collaborated with a Brazilian artist who recorded Portuguese-language rap, though it wasn’t included in the final cut.
TCA: Tell us about scoring Malika.
Ziganshin: It was a rare case where the filmmakers welcomed experimentation. The music is almost invisible but sets the tone. At first, I questioned whether it was needed at all. Eventually, we chose two instruments, accordion and xylophone, as contrasting layers.
The accordion is significant in Ingush culture, but I didn’t want to use traditional folk motifs. Instead, I sampled and distorted chords to create a sound that blended tradition and modernity. The xylophone represented the heroine’s childhood and innocence. The music appears only in fragments, except during the credits.
TCA: Would you call yourself more disciplined or more inspired?
Ziganshin: I work every day, but the process isn’t easy. I’m always trying to find solutions that surprise and resonate. At first, everything often sounds wrong. I need time to “sleep on” the music and return with fresh ears.
I usually work four to five hours a day, nearly without breaks. I aim for high-quality production. Sometimes I feel embarrassed to release my music on streaming platforms because mixing is so expensive. For instance, 1286 has about thirty tracks, and mixing one track costs around $200.
I hope Kazakhstan will invest more in film music. That would strengthen the whole industry.
