Albanian Cinema through the Fall of Communism: Silver Screens and Red Flags 9789048529339

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Albanian Cinema through the Fall of Communism

Eastern European Screen Cultures The series Eastern European Screen Cultures publishes critical studies on the screen cultures that have marked the socialist and post-socialist spaces in Europe. It aims to unveil current phenomena and untold histories from this region to account for their specificity and integrate them into a wider conception of European and world cinema. The series aspires to fill gaps in research, particularly by approaching Eastern European screen cultures in a transnational and comparative framework and exploring previously underrepresented theoretical issues. It considers moving images in all stages and aspects: production, text, exhibition, reception, and education. Eastern European Screen Cultures will also publish translations of important texts that have not been able to travel outside of national and/or regional borders. Series editors Greg de Cuir, University of Arts Belgrade Ewa Mazierska, University of Central Lancashire Francesco Pitassio, University of Udine Advisory Board Anikó Imre, University of Southern California Dina Iordanova, University of St. Andrews Pavle Levi, Stanford University Eva Näripea, Estonian Academy of Arts Dominique Nasta, Université Libre de Bruxelles Elzbieta Ostrowska, University of Alberta Katie Trumpener, Yale University

Albanian Cinema through the Fall of Communism Silver Screens and Red Flags

Bruce Williams

Amsterdam University Press

Cover illustration: Mevlan Shanaj and Raimonda Bulku in Piro Milkani and Kujtim Çashku’s Ballë për ballë/Face to Face. Courtesy of the Albanian Central State Film Archive with special gratitude to the directors of the film and the actors depicted. Cover design: Coördesign, Leiden Lay-out: Crius Group, Hulshout isbn 978 94 6298 015 0 e-isbn 978 90 4852 933 9 doi 10.5117/9789462980150 nur 670 © B. Williams / Amsterdam University Press B.V., Amsterdam 2023 All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of both the copyright owner and the author of the book. Every effort has been made to obtain permission to use all copyrighted illustrations reproduced in this book. Nonetheless, whosoever believes to have rights to this material is advised to contact the publisher.



Table of Contents

Preface 9 A Personal Journey towards and through Albania and Its Cinema

Acknowledgements 15 Introduction 19 Albania—the context for a little-known cinema

Some words on the Balkans at large and at small Albania in a postcolonial context Additional words on the complete isolation of Albania The arts in Albania Albanian cinema and the project of this book Films chosen for discussion and analysis Structure of the book I. The Roots of Cinema in Albania

The Ottoman period, independence, and the Fascist occupation

A sequel as a prequel Pictures—still and moving The Manaki brothers Early filming in Albania Mihallaq Mone

21 23 26 32 34 36 37 47 48 49 52 58 64

II. The Birth and Development of a Socialist Cinema 71 Albania and the Soviet Union 73 Soviet films as entertainment 75 Early Albanian newsreels and documentaries 76 The training of young film professionals in Moscow and linguistic and continued cultural ties between Albania and the Soviet Union 80 Sergei Yutkevich’s Luftëtari i madh i Shqipërisë Skënderbeu/ Великий воин Албании Скандербег/The Great Warrior Skanderbeg: A Soviet-Albanian coproduction 84 Another level of documentary: Endri Keko 92 Innovation silenced: Viktor Stratobërdha 95 From documentary to storytelling: Hysen Hykani’s Her Children 97 Kinostudio’s first feature film: Kristaq Dhamo’s Tana 99

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Kristaq Dhamo: A coproduction with the Soviet Union

102

III. The Flourishing of Kinostudio 107 Albania’s rapprochement with China and Albanian films during the Cultural Revolution 108 Enver Hoxha on the arts in a socialist society 112 Continued work in documentary 115 Hysen Hasani’s DEBATIK: Children and vigilance 121 Feature films of the early to 1960s through 1976 125 Ngadhnjim mbi vdekjen/Victory over Death (1967): Heroines of the partisan movement 129 Dhimitër Anagnosti’s Duel i heshtur/Silent Duel (1967): A Cold War thriller 134 Viktor Gjika’s Clear Horizons/Horizonte të hapura: A hero of the working class 139 Viktor Gjika’s Rrugë të bardha/White Roads: The New Man reexplored 144 Fehmi Hoshafi and Muhharem Fejzo’s Kapedani/The Captain (1972): In communist Albania, women had the last laugh 146 Imagining Albania’s landscape, both bucolic and harsh 150 Dhimiter Anagnosti’s Lulëkuqet mbi mure/Red Poppies on the Wall: Totalitarianism defied 153 IV. A Cinema in Isolation Historical context of the years of isolation Thematic diversity of Albanian cinema in the period of isolation Xhanfise Keko’s children’s films Music and national identity Piro Milkani and Kujtim Çashku’s Ballë për ballë/Face to Face: Nostalgia for Soviet friendship Kujtim Çashku’s Dora e ngrohtë/The Warm Hand: A wayward youth redeemed V. Kinostudio in the Post-Hoxha Era Ramiz Alia’s Albania Late Kinostudio productions Adaptations of Kadare A stance against corruption Esat Musliu’s Rrethi i kujtesës/The Circle of Memory (1987): Posttraumatic stress and memory loss

161 163 165 168 173 177 187 191 192 193 194 201 203

Table of Contents

Eduard Makri’s Shpella e piratëve/The Pirate Cave (1990): Childhood and adventure Some Words in Conclusion

Towards an Albanian cinema of postcommunism

Esat Musliu’s Vitet e pritjes/Years of Waiting (1990): Emigration and women Towards the future

7

206 211 213 218

Bibliography 221 Filmography 235 Index 241

Preface A Personal Journey towards and through Albania and Its Cinema Perhaps it was the fact that my first United States passport, issued when I was only seventeen, bore the menacing inscription, ‘Not valid for travel to Albania, Cuba and North Korea’ that my attention was first drawn to this Balkan nation. It was, for me, who grew up in the west of the United States, terra incognita. I subsequently learned of its politics and isolationism in a secondary school class called ‘Current World Problems’, and I was at once daunted and charmed. Although my curiosity was aroused, I knew that Albania was not merely out of reach, but also forbidden. And hence it disappeared from my radar for seven years or so. During my unrelated graduate studies in Hispanic Languages and Literatures at the University of California, Los Angeles, in the late 1970s and early 1980s, my obsession with Albania was rekindled. At that time, an extensive bibliography project was required as part of my doctoral coursework. I opted to explore scholarly work on Brazilian literature in Eastern Europe. Although Yugoslavia was rather extensively represented, I was chagrined that I could not find anything at all published on the topic in Albania. During my doctoral studies, I quenched my thirst for all things Albanian by purchasing a typical 1970s audio-lingual method for the language at a small boutique for educational materials on MacArthur Park. This was the only course available at the time with an audio supplement that used the current spoken language. I further invested in a dated language course from the Defense Language Institute. More will be said to this effect in the ‘Introduction’ to this book. I was determined to ascertain whether Albania was really all that inaccessible. Could Americans somehow get there? Through the kindness of a stranger, I was put into contact with Rose Dosti,1 a culinary writer for the 1 Rose Dosti is now the director of the Santa Monica-based Albanian Human Rights Project. She has directed two documentaries on the victims of the communist dictatorship in Albania: Prison Nation—1943–1990 (2008) and Lost Voices Making History: Albania—1943–1991 (2011).

Williams, B., Albanian Cinema through the Fall of Communism: Silver Screens and Red Flags. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789462980150_pre

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Albanian Cinema through the Fall of Communism

Los Angeles Times, who dispatched me off to Ajeti’s Albanian restaurant in Hermosa Beach, where I was able to meet my first live Albanian, Haki, a young gentleman born in Vlora. Also, through Rose, I entered into contact with the late Mary Romano, an Albanian-American, who had visited Albania multiple times. Although I never met Mary face to face, I was enthralled by her over-the-phone anecdotes on Albanian travel and culture. I learned that I was not alone in my interest. Los Angeles actually had a group of individuals studying Albanian dance—and the language to boot—from a course originating in the homeland! Nonetheless, Mary confirmed to me that my lack of Albanian heritage made any prospects of visiting my promised land virtually impossible.2 My academic efforts, however, remained focused on Brazil, and they migrated from literature to cinema, and research for my dissertation took precedence over travel pipedreams. Albania remained a distant fairy tale. Yet, it was on my bucket list before this term was even in vogue! Some eighteen months after completing my dissertation, I made by first trip to the then Eastern Bloc in the summer of 1988, and was able to visit Hungary, Czechoslovakia, and East Germany. My fascination with the region grew considerably. In 1991, while on a Visiting Assistant Professorship at California State University, Chico, I was browsing through travel books in a shopping mall and learned that Albania had opened up—at least for day trips from Podgorica! Although I had made plans to take my first trip to the Soviet Union in March of that year, I knew that Albania was summoning me as well. After phone calls with the very helpful AlbTourist in Tirana—it is necessary to stress that telephone lines between the US and Albania had only been open for a year!—, I immediately began to undertake the visa process.3 This entailed my need to spend a couple of hours in Budapest en route from Moscow to Tirana to visit the Albanian embassy, which graciously remained open for me after hours until I arrived. My excitement and passion betrayed me. The embassy off icials thought I was up to something, and when I ultimately arrived in Tirana, the infamous Sigurimi, the secret police, were my constant escorts and dining 2 Romano was knowledgeable about Albanian cinema and felt that she could pack an auditorium at UCLA if offered the opportunity to screen a film. I learned then that, somehow, some Albanian films could be found in the US. In 2001, Romano translated an unproduced screenplay by Kujtim Çashku into English. 3 Albanian has both definite and indefinite forms for all nouns, including place names. The choice between these two forms in English is hit and miss. This book will use the definite form for places that end in ‘a’ (e.g. Tirana, Korça) and the indefinite for all others (Shkodër, Durrës). This seems to be consistent with the most common English usage.

Preface

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companions over the course of my days in the forbidden land. This was in March, and, to cause even more consternation for Albanian security, my visit overlapped with the first ‘free’ elections held in some five decades. Albania, however, did not let me down; I was haunted by its synthesis of East and West and by the genuine warmth towards foreigners its people demonstrated. Thus, my obsession with this country was converted into a love affair with what I had come to see first hand, and since then, with the exception of the so-called ‘Pyramid’ years4 and the more recent pandemic, I have been a regular visitor. Although I have never had the opportunity to live for an extended period of time in what I love to call my second home, I have travelled from Durrës and Saranda in the west to the border with North Macedonia and Kosovo5 in the east, and from Han i Hotit, the frontier outpost with Montenegro in the north, to Kakavija, the southernmost town lying between Ali Pasha’s strongholds in Tepelenë, Albania, and Ioannina, Greece. By the time of my first visit in 1991, my academic direction had already expanded from Brazilian cinema to film studies at large. For this reason, it was inevitable that my interest in Albania would lead me to explore its cinema, for which I quickly acquired a love. On this initial visit, AlbTourist graciously arranged for me to visit Kinostudio, where I was granted a personal meeting with the institution’s director, Kritaq Dhamo, who had also been the director of Albania’s first feature film, Tana (1958). Although I knew nothing about Albanian cinema at the time, Kristaq received me most enthusiastically and promised me that the doors of Kinostudio’s archives were open to me as a researcher. They would even provide me with a car and driver to get me from the centre to the northern outskirts where the complex was located. But who could predict the extent of the transformations that were in store for Albania only weeks and months later? By 1992, 4 Unlike other post-communist nations, Albania was precipitated into economic turmoil and civil war in 1997 due to the collapse of multiple financial pyramids. These Ponzi investment schemes had begun immediately following the fall of communism, and by 1997, some 26 of them had failed. Christopher Jarvis (2001) has articulated that these schemes were significant given that their scale in relation to the overall economy was ‘unprecedented’, and the political and social impacts of their collapse were tremendous. He attributes the popularity of the pyramids—some two-thirds of the population had invested in them—to numerous factors, including the lack of familiarity among Albanians with financial markets and the deficiencies of the old financial system, which allowed for the development of informal markets and government failure (Jarvis, 2001). 5 Throughout this book, the spelling ‘Kosovo’ will be used as opposed to the more authentically Albanian form, ‘Kosova’. Such a choice does not apply a political agenda, but rather, more closely reflects the most common international practice.

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Albanian Cinema through the Fall of Communism

Kinostudio had ceased operations, and inroads were being made towards the development of independent cinema in Albania.6 In the years following the chaos of 1997, I began to make frequent trips to Albania, during which I initiated serious research. My mentor in my new endeavor was Natasha Lako, the then director of the Albanian Central State Film Archive. Lako, a poet and screenwriter, had been a significant figure in the Albanian cinema world during the Kinostudio era. Author of several critical studies on Albanian cinema, among these Energija filmika (Film Energy) (2004a), Lako guided me not only in key concepts regarding Kinostudio’s production mechanism, but also opened my eyes to the existence of Albanian films prior to the enterprise’s first features. Through Lako, I met director Mevlan Shanaj, and later, the grande dame of Kinostudio, Xhanfise Keko, who has become one of the focal points of my research. In March 2005, I attended a lecture by Faruk Basha on early American cinema held in the auditorium of the Albanian National Library.7 At this event, I was introduced to director Kujtim Çashku, who had recently opened Albania’s first private institute for the training of film professionals, the Marubi Academy of Film and Multimedia (Akademia e Filmit dhe Multimedias Marubi), built in a former sound studio complex between the main edifice of the former Kinostudio and the Central State Film Archive. I returned to Tirana in May of the same year to teach a master class on the Brazilian avant-garde director Mário Peixoto’s Limite (1931). Over the course of the past eighteen years, Marubi has become my second academic home, and is the epicentre of my activities related to Albanian cinema. This work began as an overall study of Albanian cinema from its origins through the present era of international coproduction. Its original intent was also to study Albanian-language films from Kosovo and Macedonia, as well as films made in Albanian and in Albania by such non-Albanophone directors as Johannes Naber, Joshua Marston, and Angeliki Antoniu. Such a project would have been far too massive, given the diversity and scope of the films involved, for a single book. I thus plan to remain working on the broader notion of Albanian and Albanophone film for the foreseeable future! Who was it, Confucius or Mark Twain, who said, ‘Find a job you enjoy 6 By the early 2000s, not only was coproduction the wave of the future, but moreover, Albanian films from the communist era were available on VHS, and it was thus possible to view at home what would have required an archival visit a decade before. 7 Although the lecture was on silent film, the screening that accompanied it was of Citizen Kane. It is necessary to note that, after lacking access to foreign films for so many years, the viewing of any American film in Albania was a treat. Hence the incongruity between the lecture and the screening mattered relatively little.

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doing and you will never have to work another day in your life’? Whoever it was, he must have been thinking about Albania! This present work is intended to introduce Albania’s dynamic cinematic patrimony to Western readers. I hope that it will inspire them to become acquainted with a cinema history that is only now becoming more readily accessible. This book project will have accomplished its primary goal if, through it, I can convey just a small part of my passion for Albanian cinema, which arguably remains one of the least known of European film traditions. Although Albanian films of the Kinostudio era were governed by the restraints of the authoritarian communist regime, they are replete with fissures of genuine creativity and innovation. Please join me in uncovering the dynamic imagination behind these rarely studied works.

Acknowledgements I am greatly indebted to numerous individuals, without whom this work would have been impossible. Since 2005, I have had the opportunity to give regular masterclasses at the Marubi Academy of Film and Multimedia in Tirana, and I thank rector Kujtim Çashku for his friendship and support over the years. He has tirelessly oriented me in so many ways in my research. Likewise, both Eol Çashku and Magali Perrichet have been invaluable resources for all my efforts. Few individuals have so generously assisted me throughout this present work and my previous articles on Albanian cinema as Eriona Vyshka of the Albanian Central State Film Archive, whose dedication to the field and passion for Albanian films from all periods is so greatly appreciated. Likewise, I must acknowledge the support of three of the Archive’s former directors, Iris Elezi, Elvira Diamanti, and Natasha Lako, who have all shared my enthusiasm, in so many ways. Elvira has expressed thought-provoking views on the future of Albanian film, while Natasha has drawn my eyes back to its origins before the establishment of the People’s Republic of Albania. Iris is passionately engaged in bringing the world of international cinema home to Albania and making her country’s film tradition accessible to outsiders. Also, at the Albanian Central State Film Archive, Erand Meça has provided me with numerous copies of films, which have proven indispensable to my analysis. Moreover, over the course of my many visits to Tirana, I have come to appreciate the encyclopaedic knowledge of Abaz Hoxha, whose volumes were continually by my side in the writing process. Assistance from so many Albanian film professionals has been essential as well. I appreciate my many talks and email correspondence with such individuals as Piro Milkani, Mevlan Shanaj, Dhimitër Anagnosti, Roza Anagnosti, Vladimir Prifti, Joni Shanaj, Faruk Basha, Gentian Koçi, and Artan Puto. Particular recognition goes to the late Xhanfise Keko, with whom I was able to speak prior to her death and from whom I gained numerous insights into the artistic processes at Kinostudio, and to her son, Ilir Keko, and niece, Adriana Çipi. Other Albanian friends in Tirana have never let me down, among these, artists Leonardo Voci and Floriana Paskali.

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I am gratefulto a number of colleagues in other parts of the world and am humbled by the interest in and enthusiasm for Eastern European cinema at large. Specifically, I wish to thank Lars Kristensen, Ana Grgić, and Lydia Papadimitriou, who have been excellent editors of my prior work. I offer a special thanks to Kledian Myftari at Charles University for his undaunted support. He has been not only a superlative co-writer on a piece related to Albanian cinema in the wake of the 2008 economic crisis, but also an inseparable companion. A young and burgeoning scholar, Kledi holds himself to the highest of academic standards. I look forward to our next project together, which will somehow tie our divergent fields together! Stateside, I would like to express my gratitude to Agron Alibali for his rich insights into the production of Yutkevich’s The Great Warrier Scanderbeg (1953). His mother, Adivije Alibali, who was one of the film’s stars, is a wealth of information on production details, and Agron graciously tapped her knowledge on my behalf. This film was a particular bug-a-boo for me, inasmuch as I had heard contradictory reports regarding its production. I therefore thank thank Elidor Mëhilli, whose insightful and innovative explorations of communist Albania have helped me contextualize my arguments. Elidor’s extensive work on the overall historical context of Albania and its relations to the Soviet Union and China was invaluable for my deeper understanding of the context in which Kinostudio operated. From a different perspective, Michael Burrows assisted me with access to key Soviet files on production and shared his own valuable ideas. Drake Stutesman, moreover, provided me with great support for my early research on Xhanfise Keko, and her editorial suggestions were instrumental to me in formulating my ideas. I also recognize a number of colleagues at the William Paterson University of New Jersey. Former Associate Provost Nina Jemmott was instrumental in my receiving several mini-grants to offset travel expenses. Deans Isabel Tirado, Kara Rabbitt, and Wartyna Davis have always encouraged me in any way possible. Jim Miles has been my cornerstone for all technical issues. The late Paul Vouras instilled in me an understanding of the need for a study of the ethnic relations between Albania and Greece; Octavio de la Suarée lifted me with his humour; and Ellen Frye has been a constant source of encouragement and new research ideas. Vanja Ludović, moreover, assisted me with Serbian-language materials. One of my fondest memories in the preparation of this book was screening Xhanifise Keko’s Pas gjurmëve/ On the Tracks (1978) for my colleagues Charlotte Nekola and George Robb, professors of English and history respectively. Finally, Violeta Fernández has encouraged me in many years, over almost the entire process of working on this book!

Acknowledgements

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Special thanks go to Eva Näripea of the Estonian Film Archives and Regina Longo of the Albanian Cinema project. I am indebted to them for their strong support of this manuscript! Also, I am extremely grateful to the editors of Amsterdam University Press’s Eastern European Screen Cultures series: Greg de Cuir, Ewa Mazierska, and Franceso Pitassio for their support. Ewa has been a source of ideas and encouragement over the course of a good number of years. Several individuals granted permission for the use of images. I am truly grateful to Marinela Ndria, director of the Central State Film Archive of Albania; Vladimir Angelov, director of the Cinematheque of the Republic of North Macedonia, and Mike Wurtz, director of the Holt-Atherton Special Collections at the University of the Pacific. Small portions of this book have been previously published in earlier versions. In Chapter III, an initial version of the discussions on Gjika’s Clear Horizons and Fejzo and Hozhafi’s The Captain was published in ‘It’s a Wonderful Job! Women at Work in the Films of Communist Albania’, Studies in Eastern European Cinema 6.1 (2015), pp. 4–20. The same chapter’s discussion of Milkani and Çashku’s Face to Face is a reworking of ‘Chronicle of a Rift Reread: The Discourse of Nostalgia in Kujtim Çashku and Piro Milkani’s Face to Face’, KinoKultura Special Issue 16: Albania (2016). In Chapter III, an earlier version of the discussion of Milkani and Erebara’s Victory over Death appeared, and, in Chapter IV an earlier version of the discussion on Circle of Memory was published in Albanian in ‘Cherchez la femme: Gratë revolucionare në filmat e Kinostudios.’ (‘Cherchez la femme: Revolutionary Women in the Films of Kinostudio’), Politikja 2 (2018), pp. 129–143. Finally, the discussions on Xhanfise Keko in Chapter IV rework analyses from ‘It’s a Wonderful Job’ as well as ‘Two Degrees of Separation: Xhanfise Keko and the Albanian Children’s Film’, Framework 54.1 (Spring 2013), pp. 40–58. Last, but far from least, I would like to thank four special people at Amsterdam University Press. Maryse Elliott has been ever so patient with me over the years and supportive of this book. Mike Sanders has been an excellent gatekeeper of this manuscript. Finally, Chantal Nicolaes and Bria Heffernan have taken superlative care of the preparation of the manuscript.

Introduction Albania—The Context for a Little-Known Cinema The Albanian earthquake of 26 November 2019, which was especially devastating in the port city of Durrës and environs, led to an international outpouring of humanitarian aid. Although considerably less affected, the capital city of Tirana, located only some 37 kilometres away, was also catapulted into chaos and panic. Yet this was short-lived. The invincible children of Skanderbeg rallied, and the country was soon vibrating with energy. There were only a few short months separating the earthquake from the arrival of COVID-19, and in this context, Albania once again proved itself to be rebellious in spirit, in many ways living on the edge. While most of the European Union closed its borders, the neighbouring land of the eagle remained defiantly open. The quake and the virus notwithstanding, Albania has welcomed foreign visitors even from countries whose citizens, at the time of the pandemic, were barred from most places.1 Slightly over a decade ago, the Australian-based Lonely Planet guides picked Albania as the number-one tourist destination in the world for 2010. It announced that this country, which had once been considered ‘only for the brave’, is indeed one of ‘azure beaches, confrontingly good cuisine, heritage sites, nightlife, affordable adventures and the possibility of old-style unplanned journeys complete with [a welcoming populace] for whom travellers are still a novelty’. Lonely Planet asserts, ‘Sick to death of being dismissed with blinged-up crime-boss clichés, […] Albania won’t be off the beaten path for much longer’ (Lonely Planet, 2010). Indeed, during the few years prior to the Lonely Planet homage, the Balkan outpost had exchanged armed for open-armed locals! In April 2020, Prime Minister Edi Rama announced his goal to make Albania the tourism champion of the Western Balkans (Semini, 2021). An emphasis on this transformation 1 An 18 March 2021 report by US News and World Report titled ‘Where Can Americans Travel Right Now?’ indicates that, while US tourists were barred at the time from the likes of the European Union, Canada, Australia, and Russia, among numerous other nations, Albania required neither a COVID-19 negative test nor a vaccine for entry.

Williams, B., Albanian Cinema through the Fall of Communism: Silver Screens and Red Flags. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789462980150_intro

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is not an exaggeration. Over the course of its history, Albania has arguably been the most remote and mysterious of all European nations in the eyes of both East and West. Depending on the period, it has been alternatingly exoticized or vilified, or both at once. Albania has conjured up the romance of Lord Byron and Ali Pasha’s court, not to mention the remote forests of Harry Potter. It has further been a paradise for anthropologists with its ancient blood feuds and sworn virgins. From a more negative perspective, Albania has been regarded as the erstwhile land of the world’s most hardlined Stalinist dictatorship and, in the postcommunist world, the home of one of the most brutal of mafias. One must note, however, that few of its twentieth-century detractors, particularly during the communist period, had ever been to Albania since it was so doggedly inaccessible! Yet who could imagine that Albania was home to a cinematic tradition, and a rich one at that? How could anyone, besides China under the Cultural Revolution, have conceived of the mere notion of an Albanian cinema? Albanian films, like the country’s privileged position in Lonely Planet, are now on the map! Recent works are winning numerous international awards, and older classics are being restored and shown throughout the world. For decades there had been a dearth of scholarly discourse on Albanian cinema, but this is slowly changing. In 1997, Dana Ranga did not allude to it in her insightful and entertaining documentary on communist musicals, East Side Story, even though there did exist a few musical numbers in the films of Enver Hoxha’s Albania. In contrast, from a scholarly perspective, Dina Iordanova made reference to foreign films made in Albania, as well as to non-Albanian f ilms with Albanian themes in her 2001 Cinema of Flames: Balkan Film, Culture and the Media. Four years later, of the 24 Balkan films thoughtfully and provocatively discussed in her The Cinema of the Balkans (2005), two are Albanian, and one of these is analysed by Iordanova herself. In the past two decades, we have witnessed a considerable growth in attention to Albanian film within a short period of time. A 2007 issue of Cinéaste published two pieces devoted to Albania, one by Iordanova and another by Gareth Jones. Since then, Albanian cinema has been discussed in multiple peer-reviewed journals, one of which was a 2016 special issue of KinoKultura devoted to the subject. It has also been the focus of essays in numerous scholarly books, including one in Portuguese. Albania’s slow, but growing presence in scholarly discourse on Balkan cinema, moreover, stands in firm recognition of the fact that the country is an integral part of the region and shares, to a large extent, a good number of political, economic, and cultural processes. Yet it remains unique in other aspects, and one must look at both convergences and divergences with its Balkan neighbours.

Introduc tion

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Some words on the Balkans at large and at small ‘Once upon a time there was a country, and its capital was Belgrade’. These opening words of Kusturica’s Podzemlje/Underground (1995) allow us to reflect on the apparent unity forged by Tito in Yugoslavia and the notion, however fleeting, of Yugoslav cinema. As Iordanova asserts, this statement at once foregrounds Kusturica’s (2002, p. 83) claim that Yugoslav union had been ‘an artificial political construction built on lies and mutual betrayal’ and evokes an undeniable nostalgia for the defunct state. In wake of the bombardment of Dubrovnik, the wars in Bosnia and Kosovo, and unrest in Macedonia, we recall with certain fondness an era in which Yugoslavia provided a peaceful and accessible portal between East and West. The case of Albania is distinct, although it indeed bears certain similarities. The ambivalence of Kusturica’s stance recalls Edward Said’s reconsideration of the relationship of divergent communities to the ever-fluctuating nation-state, an argument which has provided a theoretical framework for recent re-figurations of the notion of national cinema by such critics as Mette Hjort, Scott Mackenzie, Andrew Higson, and Ian Jarvie. These scholarly debates have explored national cinema from the loci of production, reception (both local and international), and critical assessment. Moreover, Iordanova’s seminal study Cinema of Flames pluralizes the turf of the national and examines the phenomenon of national cinematic voice in the context of the complex cultural entity known as Balkans, which she argues is widely defined by ‘shared Byzantine, Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian legacies and by the specific marginal positioning of the region in relation to the western part of the European continent’ (Iordanova, 2001, p. 6). As Michael Moodie (1995, p. 102) has pointed out, the fragmented world of the Balkans dates back to the millet system of governance created by the Ottomans, ‘which divided populations into semiautonomous religious groups’. Moodie further explains that the notion of nationality, which was introduced into the context of ‘interdependent ethnic groups’ in the nineteenth century, ultimately led to Balkan nationalism and to the ‘powder keg of World War I’ (p. 102). Galip Veliu (2011, p. 5), along similar lines, explores how, for the West, it was necessary ‘to disintegrate [the Ottoman Empire] and thereby create national successor states, which would ease the way for the West to build their own power’. At the same time, even before the communist period, Russia had deployed pan-Slavic imperialism against the Ottoman control of the Balkans. As Veliu stresses, Russia was a primary actor in the Balkan wars in that it promised every nation a national state (p. 6). Later, such nationalism would prove the primary obstacle to a communist

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agenda (p. 6). In response to these pan-Slavic goals, such countries as Italy and Austria-Hungary strongly supported the creation of an independent Albania, particularly inasmuch as 85% of its population was Muslim. As Veliu argues, ‘[…] the westerners were not so much concerned to help Albania, but they were in need of it, for their own interests’ (p. 6). In the film industry, the Balkans have played an unwitting, yet pivotal role in Hollywood. Dušan Makavejev (2006, p. xvi) emphasizes that Hollywood has been trading in Balkan stories for ages ‘without knowing where the Balkans are exactly, who lives there and how Hollywood’s favourite bad dreams are about the blood-thirsty Transylvanian count and vampire, Vlad-Ţepeş—Dracula’. Makavejev notes that a website about the ‘son-of-the Balkans’ identifies 307 films all about Dracula. He stresses that a similar fantasy is presented by Jacques Tourneur’s Cat People (1942), which tells of Serbs who have morphed into savage panthers and terrorize Manhattan from their cages in the Central Park Zoo (p. xvi). Makavejev further points out a canny irony: Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express has its ‘eleven stabs by eleven relatives’ at the exact same place where, in 1991, the Yugoslav army would brutally attack the city of Vukovar, ‘marking the break-up of Yugoslavia and triggering an endless chain of choreographed crimes committed by relatives only’ (p. xvi). Aware of the difficulties implicit in setting the boundaries of the Balkans, Iordanova (2001, p. 7) seeks an expanded definition of the region to embrace Turkey and Greece. In her edited collection, The Cinema of the Balkans (2005), her agenda is clearly to go beyond the confines of national cinemas and seek out commonalities. She is forceful in her argument that there is indeed a cinema ‘of the Balkans’. Iordanova (2005, p. 1) writes: A closer examination of Balkan cultural output, however, reveals an astonishing thematic and stylistic consistency. Cinema in particular testifies to a specific artistic sensibility, possibly coming from shared history and socio-cultural space. The issues across borders are the same: turbulent history and volatile politics; a semi-Orientalist positioning which some see as marginality, and others define as a crossroads or a bridge between East and West; a series of adverse encounters between Christianity and Islam; a legacy of patriarchy and economic and cultural dependency.

Through her work, Iordanova hopes to address the ‘shortage of scholarship that recognizes the affinities within the region and draws it all together. [Her work is] an exercise in connecting the disconnected Balkan space’ (p. 3).

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By having a different agenda with this present book, I am in no way intending to run counter to the strides that Iordanova has made in viewing Balkan cinema in interconnected terms. Rather, I hope to fill a noticeable void in scholarly discourse on the region, thereby tackling a problem that is only beginning to be recognized. Yet the task is not a simple one. To understand the twists and turns of Albanian cinema, one must apprehend, at least in general terms, Albania’s historical and geographical position.

Albania in a postcolonial context Of all the nations of the Balkans, Albania’s postcolonial and postcommunist heritage is doubtless the most complex. Bill Ashcroft, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin have pointed out changes in postcolonial theory and argue that the term has broader implications than originally intended. For them, now that European imperialism has retreated further into the past, ‘questions of resistance, power, ethnicity, nationality, language and culture and the transformation of dominant discourses by ordinary people provide important models for understanding the place of the local in an increasing globalized world’ (Ashcroft, Griffiths, and Tiffin, 2002, p. 222). By implication, postcolonialism can be extended to the postcommunist heritage of the former ‘second world’. The application of postcolonialism to Albania is of particular consequence. In this case, the notion of ‘traditional colonial rule’ includes the heritage of the Ottoman Empire; the impact of the Fascist occupation; the legacy of Stalinism; Maoist orthodoxy, and Albania’s own totalitarian past. The major ‘colonial’ influences on Albania have been Ottoman and second world. From the Ottomans, it at once inherited Islam and was, for reasons to be explained below, able to perpetuate tribalism. During the Cold War, Albania was needed by the Soviet Union to weaken the spread of Yugoslavia’s liberal form of communism. In turn, it was essential for China in its efforts to solidify its influence over Russia in Vietnam. Together with these major factors contributing to Albania’s postcolonial condition, we must also recall that the country was greatly impacted by Italy and the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Nonetheless, of all these factors, it is clearly Albania’s own former totalitarian regime that has provided the most powerful legacy with which contemporary society must come to terms. The emerging democracy needs to face residues of the communist regime that are still in place today. Albania’s intricate history can, to a great extent, be accounted for by geography and language. It lies on the southwestern edge of the Balkan Peninsula, and has, since the time of the Italian Renaissance, looked across the Adriatic

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to Italy as a trade and cultural partner. This position actually worked in its favour during the communist period. Since it had no borders with the Soviet Union, it never suffered the fate of Hungary in 1956 or Czechoslovakia in 1968. In contrast, its position made it fall under Ottoman rule for over 400 years. One other factor that has complicated Albania’s history is linguistic in nature. Albanian is an Indo-European language, yet it is neither a Slavic nor a Romance language, to which groups, with the exception of Greek, Turkish, and Hungarian, the other major languages of the Balkans belong. Albeit differences in religion have been of strong concern in the Balkans, diverse peoples have at least been united by their Slavic roots. Albania was left out of the equation, and fiercely defended its linguistic and cultural uniqueness. The Rilindja, or ‘National Awaking’, which took place between 1870 and 1912, attests to the extent to which Albanians have been defiantly proud of their language. One could well link Albania’s history of subjugation to the Romans, but for our purpose here, the Ottoman Empire provides a useful point of departure, in that its heritage is relatively recent. Ramadan Marmullaku (1979, p. 15) has argued that one of the characteristics of the Ottoman Empire was that non-Turks could attain high positions in government as long as they were Muslim. For this reason, Albanians ‘[linked their fate] with that of the Turkish empire for five centuries’ (p. 15). The mountain tribes, moreover, were able to retain their tribal autonomy through tax payment (p. 15). The legacy of the Ottoman Empire thus rendered Albania the least ‘European’ of all European nations. The vast majority of its population, at least for bureaucratic expediency, had converted to Islam. Tribalism prevailed, and particularly the mountainous northern regions had little, if any, contact with the rest of the world. A growing sense of nationalism led to the Rilindja, and though the League of Prizren (1878–1881) sought Albanian autonomy, Albanians were not culturally prepared for independence. As Stavro Skendi has argued, such lack of preparedness distinguished Albania from other Balkan nations. There was thus a gradual path to national awakening, and ‘the fate of [the] country now lay mostly in the hands of the great powers’ (Skendi, 1967, p. 472). Nicholas C. Pano (1968, p. 24) has likewise examined how Albania as a fledgling independent nation was unable to transform itself from a ‘backward province of the Ottoman empire’ into a modern state. When its appeal to the League of Nations for assistance was denied, Albania turned to Italy, which had been its trading partner hundreds of years earlier.2 But Italian aid proved to be a double-edged sword. When Albanians 2 During a March 2005 meeting with the author, director Xhanfise Keko, introducing herself, apologized by proclaiming in Russian, ‘Ya nye govoryu po-italianski’ (Excuse me, I don’t speak

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took cognizance in the 1930s that close ties with Italy posed a problem for their nation’s sovereignty, the Fascist occupation of Albania was already inevitable. Albania became a puppet state for Mussolini. Although tragic for Albanian self-determination, the Italian occupation and the subsequent German invasion would later provide ample material for Albanian films during the communist period. Fascists and Nazis would become the ‘them’ for the partisan ‘us’. Probably it was Stalin’s opposition to Tito’s plan in the late 1940s to incorporate Albania into Yugoslavia that led to close ties between Albania and the Soviet Union. However, when Khrushchev fostered tighter relations with Belgrade, Albania feared that the new alliance would cause it to be swallowed up by Yugoslavia. When Tirana ultimately broke with Moscow and aligned itself with Beijing, this was most embarrassing for the Soviet Union. As Pano (1968, p. 176) explains ‘[the Soviet Union] failed above all, to crush a country so small, so Balkan, so poor, so isolated, and to the world at large so nearly ridiculous that Moscow itself ever since has run the risk of being thought impotent’. Of special consequence in this case for Albania was that the breach with Moscow showed to the world just how small, unknown, and isolated the Balkan nation was. Pano (1968, p. 182) stresses that, for Albania, ‘The vehemence with which the Albanians have waged their campaign against Moscow stems from the belief of their leaders that they are fighting for the preservation of Albania’s independence’. The affinities between Albania and Maoist China were primarily the result of similar ideologies between Enver Hoxha and Mao Zedong, the latter of whom had rejected the three bonds of the Confucian code of ethics. As Anton Logoreci (1977, p. 181) has explained, Mao eschewed bonds between ruler and subject, father and son, and husband and wife. Logoreci (p. 181) asserts that Hoxha was quick to abolish similar traditional loyalties so that the modernization of the country along communist lines would be accomplished. Hoxha’s call for all communist parties to join Beijing and Tirana in a ‘bloc’ against breaches with Stalinism demonstrated his faith in the Chinese Cultural Revolution as the most effective weapon to prevent the spread of bourgeois ideas (Pano, 1968, pp. 177–178). Finally, one can argue that the ultimate postcolonial thread, Albania’s own totalitarian regime as felt in the present, may well be unique among postcommunist nations. Logoreci (1977, p. 213) has described Hoxha’s leadership as ‘an enclosed camp where Mao’s totalitarian doctrines, interlaced Italian), proudly underscoring her Soviet education in the early 1950s and perhaps hinting at a degree of scepticism towards Albania’s continued fascination with Italy.

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with Stalinist practices, have been tried out under perfect laboratory, almost test-tube conditions’. He maintains that the very mechanisms that improved education, social welfare, public health, and industry were also responsible for ‘squeezing Albanians into a totalitarian straight-jacket of an all-enveloping character and vicious strength’ (Logoreci, 1977, pp. 213–214). Thus, it is a combination of extended periods of subjugation and deeply entrenched isolation that constitute Albania’s postcolonial history. From the Ottomans it inherited Islam, and today, one witnesses a strong revival of this religion in Albania. Moreover, age-old tribal systems were perpetuated by the feudal system coupled with the autonomy the Ottomans conferred upon Albania’s remote mountainous regions. Even today, Albania, to a large extent, still perceives itself as ‘primitive’. Secondly, the vestiges of Italian Fascism have offset Albania’s defiant nationalism; as the postcommunist state sought links with the West, Italianism seemed the most opportune path. Finally, it is difficult to determine which aspects of Albanian totalitarianism were the results of the country having co-opted the Chinese Cultural Revolution, or which were autochthonous in nature. In any case, what renders Albania distinct from other Balkan nations is that, combined with the expected influence of the Ottomans and the Soviets, one finds the impact both of two highly distinct pressures, those of Italy and China, as well as of its own profound isolationism.

Additional words on the complete isolation of Albania It is difficult to imagine a European country gradually becoming the world’s most isolated state over the course of the 1960s and 1970s. Yet one can assert that, under the Ottomans, it was also Europe’s least-known region. When Lonely Planet emphasized Albania’s transformation into an accessible, welcoming destination, it implied that the nation had a history of being the most remote and exotic of all European nations in the eyes of both East and West. Doubtless, it first became known to the Anglophone world through Lord Byron’s Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage (1812–1818), a work that foregrounded the romance, valour, and exoticism of the court of Ali Pasha. At this point, Albania was a remote outpost of the Ottoman Empire, an uncharted land where the values and codes of the West were unknown. In the early twentieth century, Britain gained further insight into Albania through the ethnographic writings of Edith Durham, in particular, High Albania (1910). This work opened Western eyes to the age-old social practices and traditions of the northern Albanian mountains. As I have emphacized,

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(Williams (2012a, p. 92) , Durham’s work was not limited to a discussion of rites of passage and the exotic. Rather, she also undertook an extended study of ethnicities, further historicizing and contextualizing Albania within the intense conflicts of the Balkans. Durham would subsequently extend her analysis in Twenty Years of Balkan Tangle (1920), a work that claimed that no solution to the region’s long-standing problems could ignore the ethnic Albanian issue. From the other side of the Atlantic, American Rose Wilder Lane, the daughter of Little House on the Prairie writer Laura Ingalls Wilder, chronicled her experiences as a woman ethnographer in areas adjacent to those traversed by Durham in Peaks of Shala (1923).3 Lane would later publish Travels with Zenobia: Paris to Albania by Model T. Ford (1983), which rendered an account of an automobile trip made by Lane and her companion, children’s writer Helen Dore Boyleston, from France, through Italy, and ultimately to the port of Durrës on Albania’s Adriatic coast. 4 The United States, moreover, gained further, yet limited insight into Albania when a Hungarian-American became the consort of King Zog. The marriage between the Albanian regent and Géraldine Margit Virginia Olga Maria Apponyi de Nagyappony, granddaughter of Virginia millionaire John Henry Stewart and a distant cousin of Richard M. Nixon and Robert Frost, failed to have a long-term positive effect on Albanian-American relations. Queen Géraldine’s reign was cut short by the invasion of Albania by the Italian Fascists in April 1939, at which time the United States officially ended its diplomatic ties with Albania. Although a United States mission was set up in Tirana in 1945, the government of Enver Hoxha cut off all ties the following year, a breach in relations that would last almost half a decade. The United Kingdom also broke off all diplomatic relations with 3 A friend of writer Ayn Rand, Rose Wilder Lane (1886–1968) was not only a passionate Albanophile, but also a fervent proponent of libertarian ideology. The rugged individualism of her travels through the Shala region of northern Albania attest to her independent spirit. Her purportedly merciless treatment of her aging parents has been widely discussed, as has been her claim that she was the true author of the Little House series. In her later years, her world travels were financed by the royalties from her mother’s books. Lane, however, did somehow manage to have a humanitarian streak. On her first trip to Albania in 1921, she met Rexh Meta (1906–1985), an adolescent boy who served as her translator and guide. She later adopted him and sent him to Cambridge, where he earned his doctorate in Economics. Meta later became the Director of Albanian Finance. When he was imprisoned by the communist government after the Second World War, Lane, a hater of communism, petitioned President Truman to come to his aid. Although he was not released, Enver Hoxha did indeed pardon him from the death penalty. Meta spent 27 years in prison under the regime. 4 Boyleston was the author of the Sue Barton series for girls interested in becoming nurses and the Carol Page books for aspiring actresses. She was also a close friend of actress Eva Le Gallienne, whose lesbianism endangered her career in the American theatre.

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Albania following the destruction of two Royal Navy cruisers off the shore of Corfu in May 1944, which resulted in 44 fatalities. In 1991, the two nations sought a rapprochement. Albania remained a land of mystery and intrigue for most Americans and Britons from 1946 until 1991. Such intrigue was built upon both its exoticism and its political isolation. And together with this isolation, one had the sense of an impoverished country with very little to offer.5 Even telephone service was unavailable between the United Statess and Albania until March 1990.6 Not only were telecommunications blocked for the larger part of the communist period for calls from the United States, but travel was also extremely difficult. While very few Westerners were granted the possibility of visiting the country, Americans were obviously the least welcome of all. As late as the 1970s, the United States claimed that its passports were invalid for travel to Albania, although it later clarified that the original meaning of the warning was that Americans were allowed to travel there, but they could not avail themselves of any consular assistance (‘United States Appellant v. Lee Levi Laub et al., nr. 176’, 1966-1967). Albania, nonetheless, permitted selected Albanian-Americans whose families had emigrated to the United States before the communist period to visit. Tourists would travel inside the confines of Albania in groups of fifteen to 30, and since they were conspicuous, they were easily ‘policed’. Moreover, a barber was stationed at Rinas airport to assure that visitors would maintain an appropriate appearance. Williams (2012a, p. 93) argues that ‘Albania’s tourism policies at once served to make the country accessible and preserve its aura of mystery. Tourists were permitted to see “something”, but what they saw was limited and often reflected remote eras of the past rather than contemporary reality’.7 5 In the United States, parents would sometimes admonish their children who had not eaten all of their lunch or dinner by saying, ‘Think about the starving children in Albania’. 6 Telephone contact for an American citizen was possible only when travelling abroad, or when crossing the border to Canada or Mexico, where phone calls to Albania were allowed. When the lines opened, it was somewhat of a surprise. Albania allowed outgoing telephone traffic before service negotiations even began. Americans with ties to Albania suddenly began to receive phone calls from their relatives and friends! When the lines officially opened via a connection in Rome, The New York Times quipped ‘It is unclear as to how many Americans want to call Albanians […]’ (‘Upheaval in the East—Dial “A” for Albania’). 7 Van Christo, president of Frosina, an Albanian immigrant culture resource based in Bpston, was instrumental in coordinating the trips. They were restricted to Americans of Albanian heritage who had left or whose parents had left Albania for economic and not political reasons. Christo describes the trips, ‘”Many of those who visited Albania during Hoxha’s regime saw that

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Although Britain as well suffered a complete severance of ties, there did exist an Albania Society established by the Communist Party of Great Britain. The group ceased its activities in the wake of Hoxha’s growing criticism of Soviet revisionism. Its dormancy was short-lived; an active defender of communist Albania, Bill Bland, reactivated the society in 1957 and remained at its helm until the collapse of communism. Growing to a membership of several hundred people, the Albania Society published a quarterly journal, Albanian Life, edited from Bland’s home in Ilford, Sussex. Bland had learned the Albanian language and was active in the translation and publication of texts from communist Albania. In 1984, Bland received a special invitation, as an ardent supporter of the Hoxha regime, to visit Albania.8 Travel was never as off-limit to Britons as it was to Americans. Feminist f ilm maverick Laura Mulvey has spoken of a group excursion through Albania in the 1970s in which she and her then husband, theoretician Peter Wollen, participated. She spoke of the strangeness of the country. (Laura Mulvey, personal contact, January 1992). Londoners were able to obtain books, periodicals, sound recordings, and memorabilia from Albania in the early 1980s at an establishment simply dubbed ‘The Albanian Store’ and located in London’s Covent Garden district. With a purchase, patrons were allowed to take with them a couple of canned goods from Albania! The official Albanian publications available in this store reinforced the notion of Albania as an isolated, communist country marching to its own drummer. There were, nonetheless, a surprising number of individuals from around the globe who were able to visit. A case in point is Ronald Taylor, a New Zealand dentist and president of the New Zealand Communist Party, who was invited in 1967 to proof the translation of the works of Enver Hoxha into English. His daughter, June Taylor, who accompanied him, was schooled in Albania. In 1974, she was hired by Radio Tirana to be the English-language voice for its broadcasts.9 Today, Taylor is the Political Officer for OSCE in their homeland had advanced from when they left it. They saw a new hospital or bridge built and got good impressions. However, this was not the case with young people”’ . The first trip, in 1957, was led by Dr. Jojn T,Nasse’ (quoted in Williams, 2012,pp. 103-103. 8 Bland published an article about his visit to Albania. ‘Albania—1984’ was originally published in Albanian Life in 1984 and is available online at the Marxists Internet Archive. Among the issues discussed in the article were education in Albania, the well-being of the Greek minority, whose situation Bland argued had been viewed negatively in the West, and the Albanian penal system. Bland explained that Albania had a very low criminality rate and that, contrary to reports in the West, the prisoners there were well taken care of and fed properly. 9 The reader is referred to John Escolme’s 2022 radio interview with June Taylor.

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Tirana. Numerous speakers of other languages who were communists were invited for short-term assignments in similar capacities.10 Part of the reason for the exoticization of Albania, not only in the United States and the United Kingdom, but also throughout Western Europe was linguistic in nature. Some words regarding language issues are in order given that the overall lack of knowledge of the Albanian language is a contributing factor to the dearth of scholarship on Albanian cinema. In Europe, the Albanian language was rarely studied outside of highly specific university courses. Neither the German Langenscheidt series of foreign language courses nor the French Assimil series offered—or offer to this day, for that matter!—a comprehensive course in Albanian. In this regard, the United States and the United Kingdom, albeit the most distanced from Albania during the communist period, were, and are, at the vanguard. During the communist period, the Defense Language Institute of Monterey, California, published an extensive basic course, released in ten volumes between 1965 and 1970.11 In 1980, a basic course was released by Spoken Language Services of Ithaca, New York.12 In Britain, Routledge’s Colloquial Language series published in 1991 an Albanian course with an audio component based upon the language variant spoken in Kosovo. This course was thoroughly 10 During the Cold War, Radio Tirana broadcast internationally in some 22 languages. 11 Between 1965 and 1969, the Defense Language Institute published a ten-volume audiolingual course accompanied by ancillary materials. This work, however, was difficult for anyone interested in standard Albanian, inasmuch as it was written in the Gheg language variety of the north. Albanian was taught at the institute by Zev Logoreci, father of Thomas Logoreci, who in 2014 would be co-director with Iris Elezi of an internationally acclaimed feature film, Bota. Eduardo Mayone Dias, an instructor of Portuguese at the Institute, explained to me that there was very little need for Albanian among members of the US Army and other governmental branches who studied at the Institute. Hence, Albanian was used primarily to teach instructors of other languages the pedagogy used by the Institute (Eduardo Dias, personal contact, January 1980). In recent years, the Defense Language Institute’s course, deemed in the public domain, has been made available, on various Internet sites. 12 At the time of the publication of Spoken Albanian by Spoken Language Services of Ithaca, New York, in 1980, the University of California at San Diego was home to an Albanian language project funded by the US Department of Health, Education and Welfare. The project was under the direction of Leonard Newmark, the author of a seminal work on the structure of the Albanian language (1957) and who would later publish an Albanian-English dictionary (2000). Other authors of the Spoken Albanian course included Ismail Haznedari, who would subsequently co-author with Sami Repishti a manual of Albanian language competencies for Peace Corps volunteers (1992), and Peter Prifti, who lent the Albanian voice to the audio tapes and was the author of a 1978 study on communist Albania, and Philip L. Hubbard, doctoral candidate assigned to the project as a research assistant, who had travelled to Kosovo in 1977 for a seminar on Albanian language and culture for foreign scholars (personal contact, Philip L. Hubbard, June 2020). Hubbard’s 1980 dissertation on the Albanian word complex has recently been republished.

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revised in 2015 by two linguists, one Albanian and the other a Chilean/ North American, placing emphasis on standard Albanian as spoken in the Republic of Albania.13 All the while disdaining the Anglophone world, communist Albania maintained much more positive ties with France and Sweden. After all, Enver Hoxha’s formative years were spent either studying in a French lycée or spending time in France and Belgium. Having completed secondary school in French in Korça, where he was exposed to French history, philosophy, literature, and culture, he matriculated at the University of Montpellier to pursue scientific studies. Hoxha subsequently withdrew, this due to his personal inclination towards law and philosophy. In Montpellier, however, he was closely aligned with the French Communist Party and attended conferences of its Workers’ Association. Hoxha continued his university education in Paris, where he also wrote articles related to Albania under the pseudonym of Lulo Malësori for L’Humanité. From 1934 to 1936, he served at the Albanian consulate in Brussels in the personnel office of Queen Mother Sadije Zogu-Toptani, who had been the sponsor of his early education in France. The position was short-lived, and he was soon fired for his Marxist tendencies. Hoxha’s education left him multilingual and, as evidenced by his speeches, a cautious Francophile. Albania’s 1960s diplomatic ties to France are wittily referenced by a scene in Godard’s Bande à part/Band of Outsiders, when Madame Victoria, (played by Flemish actress Louisa Colpeyn) the guardian of the film’s female protagonist, announces that she is on her way to a cocktail party at the Albanian embassy! Close ties also existed between the French communist movement and Albania. Large factions of French communists were disillusioned with Moscow’s revisionism and the Sino-Soviet split, and these sentiments were evident in French intellectual and cultural life. Jean-Paul Sartre was fervently supportive of the Maoist cause. Simone Signoret actively visited hunger strikers of the Gauche Prolétarienne while her husband, Yves Montand was making Godard’s Tout va bien (Ross, 1995, p. 17). Albanian studies, moreover, were not unheard of in France. In 1975, Gérard Girard, a Marxist professor, started a working group on Albanian cinema in the Department of Film Studies of the University of Paris, Vincennes. The Groupe de Travail sur le 13 Colloquial Albanian was originally written by Isa Zymberi and published by Routledge in 1991. It was a reasonably extensive course. The updated Colloquial Albaniani by Linda Mëniku and Héctor Campos, released in 2015, is far less comprehensive, but pedagogically it is considerably more in tune with current practices that use one of the more communicative approaches to foreign language acquisition.

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Cinéma Albanais published what is most likely the first study on Albanian cinema either within Albania or abroad.14 Their brief treatise, Le Cinéma albanais/The Albanian Cinema includes a cursory discussion of the history of Albanian film, excerpts from Enver Hoxha’s speeches on the arts and literature, and numerous film summaries. In 1969, Sweden opted to initiate diplomatic ties with Albania, and, to launch the process, it took advantage of Albania’s close ties with France, reaching out to Albanian diplomatic channels through its embassy in Paris. Sweden’s current ambassador to Albania, Elsa Hǻstad (2020), looks back to the 1960s when a good number of Swedish intellectuals and workers were interested in communism. In a 2020 interview, she explains that Sweden in the 1960s was characterized by protests among youth and left-wing activists. Work environment and human values were particularly important. Swedes were, by and large, politically active, and many became interested in the communist regime of Albania. She explains that, in the 1960s, Sweden was home to strong left-wing movements. There were strikes among workers over labour conditions and human values. Intellectuals, writers, journalists, and ordinary citizens with socialist beliefs travelled to such places as the Soviet Union and Cambodia. They were even able to visit Albania under controlled conditions. Aside from France and Sweden, Albania maintained contact with those communist parties that it felt were strong in the battle against revisionism. A mere glance at volume V of the Speeches, Conversations and Articles of Enver Hoxha (Hoxha, 1977), which covers the years 1968 and 1969, is evidence to this effect. It includes portions of talks between Hoxha and delegations of the communist parties of Ceylon, Italy, Peru, France, North Vietnam, and the People’s Republic of Congo.

The arts in Albania The world’s reconceptualization of Albania over the course of the past three decades has been met by a renewed self-imagining on the part of Albania itself. In recent years, the country has re-vamped its National Historical Museum, which had previously been an ode to Albanian communism, even though it presented an overview of the country’s history from the early 14 For an engaging account of Gérard Girard’s later years, the reader is referred to a Frenchlanguage radio documentary by Sophie Knapp, Le Phantôme de l’université: L’esprit de mai-68 dans les couloirs de Paris 8.

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Illyrian days to the Hoxha era. Today, on the other hand, displays related to the communist period are relegated to a much smaller space, and are presented through the lens of genocide. Although critics deem that such a decision was intended to whitewash 46 years of Albanian history and frame the Hoxha regime as a dictatorship, supporters of the change feel the Museum is now more balanced, providing a more objective view of historical transformations on Albanian turf. A similar phenomenon has occurred in the fine arts. Following the fall of communism in Albania, a great deal of attention was devoted to examining the arts in Albania as a continuum, from works made under the Ottomans, through those of independence and Fascist occupation, through the Hoxha years, and to the post-1991 era. The National Art Gallery in Tirana has an excellent collection of socialist realism, housing in 2007 a special exhibition to this effect. Its collections explore the communist period from diverse angles. In fact, it displays socialist-realist pieces that were banned during the Hoxha regime. Nonetheless, even under communism, art criticism was more complex than might be expected. An example is the way in which the sculptures of Odhise Paskali (1903–1985) were read during that period. Andon Kuqali’s Odhise Paskali: People’s Sculptor of the People’s Socialist Republic of Albania, published in 1980 under the auspices of the Gallery of Figurative Arts in Tirana, presents an overview of Paskali’s work from 1924 through his contemporaneous works. The volume portrays Paskali as a patriot and ardent anti-Fascist. Indeed, it foregrounds the artist’s work as an integral part of the state agenda. It stresses: ‘Odhise Paskali’s figures have internal dynamism, heroic pathos, and revolutionary drive. They are the bearers of the lofty ideals of the people and socialist society. His work is well-known and dear to the people’ (Kuqali, 1980, p. 3). On the other hand, other characteristics of Paskali’s work are noted. According to Kuqali, Paskali’s art is at once meditative and philosophical, imbuing his work with strong national traits such as bravery, nobility, and lively temperament (p. 3) More recently, Paskali’s sculptures have been assessed from even more diverse standpoints. Për Paskalin nga Paskali/Paskali on Paskali, a three-volume compendium compiled by the sculptor’s daughter, Floriana Paskali, and published in 2005, examines the artist’s work, foregrounding his aesthetic and philosophical writings. The three volumes include Paskali’s work prior to communism and during the Hoxha period, as well as an assessment of how his work has been read after the fall of communism. Also in 2005, Leonardo Voci, a Tirana-based artist, published Odhise Paskali: Themelues i skultures shqiptare/Odhise Paskali: Founder of Albanian Sculpture, which focuses very heavily on Paskali’s work prior to communism, and to the works the artist

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dedicated to his wife Keti, the great love of his life. Voci indeed devotes a great deal of attention to Paskali’s work during the Hoxha years, but his discussion is aesthetic rather than political. In 2009, Floriana Paskali published Best of Paskali, a book which opens with a quote from Paskali—‘Like beauty and love, the magic of art cannot be told, but felt’—and consists of photographs of the sculptor’s work, presented without commentary. The book includes a one-page biography, a chronology of important dates in Paskali’s life, and a photo montage of bank notes, an Albanian passport, and other artifacts that bear images created by the artist. It closes with a list of five studies devoted to Paskali. Once again, the communist regime is not mentioned. The chronology, however, notes that Paskali was awarded the title ‘People’s Sculptor’ in 1961 and that the President of the Republic attended his funeral on 13 September 1985. It makes no mention of the fact that the president who attended was Ramiz Alia, the communist successor to Enver Hoxha, who had died in April of the same year. The critical studies of both Floriana Paskali and Leonardo Voci clearly eschew political context in favour of exploring Odhise Paskali’s work from aesthetic and philosophical perspectives.15

Albanian cinema and the project of this book Recent years have seen an unprecedented growth in interest in Albanian cinema, and despite the numerous peer-reviewed articles and book chapters mentioned above, no extended scholarly work has yet appeared in any language other than Albanian. Given the high output of the Albanian film industry under communism, it is significant that this country’s cinema has been one of the least studied of Central and Eastern Europe. This is due not only to Albania’s isolation under Enver Hoxha, but also to issues of language. As mentioned before, Albanian is an Illyrian rather than a Slavic language. Hence, much academic criticism and unsubtitled films are inaccessible to Slavicists, whose specialties are most directly related to most scholarship on the Balkans. Two years following the aforementioned publication of Le Cinéma albanais by the Groupe de Travail sur le Cinéma Albanais, Kinostudio released The Albanian Film (1977), a trilingual English/French/Albanian opus, which became the first study devoted to the subject to be published in Albania. It 15 Floriana Paskali and Leonardo Voci have presented homages to Odhise Paskali in the United States. One of these numerous events was held at the William Paterson University of New Jersey in November 2012, to commemorate 100 years of Albanian independence.

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summarizes and categorizes Albanian films produced to date. The volume is closely aligned with the dominant ideology of the era and presents film as an integral part of the overall political and social agenda of the Enver Hoxha regime. The Albanian Film, moreover, is selective in its Hoxha quotes and tends to paint the national leader as monolithic in his views. In 1987, Abaz Hoxha published Filmi artistic shqiptar, an overview of Albanian film from 1957 to 1984. Following a brief historical introduction, the work proceeds film by film and provides production credits, casts, screenings at festivals, and a bibliography of film reviews. Furthermore, published in 1990, Gazmend Hanku’s Filmi shqiptar: realizime të Kinostudios ‘Shqipëria e Re:1977–1987’, a volume which is virtually unattainable at present, discusses a good deal of the final decade of communism. What is most noteworthy is that, during the communist period, critical works on Albanian film, whether published in Albania or France, either foregrounded the country’s socio-political agenda, or were merely descriptive in nature. This book, as its title indicates, explores Albanian cinema from the origins of moving images on the country’s turf through the communist period. It is intended to be followed by a companion volume that will have as its focus the postcommunist era of coproduction. Although it will have as its primary focus the creation and growth of the Kinostudio enterprise, which spanned from the early years of communism and Albania’s growing seclusion through the collapse of the regime, it will also examine early films made by diverse individuals, both Albanian and foreign, within the confines of Albania. These works are included not only because of the important images they present of Albania under the Ottomans, the period of independence, the monarchy of King Zog, and the Fascist occupation, but also due to the fact that they paved the way for Albania’s own cinema, which developed with the foundation of the People’s Republic of Albania. A good number of films made by diverse foreign entities are available, yet there are a number of works which have either been lost, or which never reached the stage of post-production. Considerable consideration has been devoted to the uniqueness of Albanian cinema vis-à-vis Eastern European cinema at large. This book, for its part, attributes this difference to Albania’s own heritage of postcolonialism (Ottoman Empire, Fascist Italy, Stalinism) as well as to its politics of isolationism and the neocolonial heritage thereof. One signif icant aspect of the book is that it penetrates through the apparent propaganda and orthodoxy of the Kinostudio era to look at the subversive nature of such f igures as communist Albania’s sole woman director, Xhanfise Keko, whose child spy series of the late 1970s and early 1980s actually undermined the system they purportedly upheld.

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This book is not intended to present an extended theorization of the colonial context of communist Albania. That has been explored in a number of the peer-reviewed articles that have appeared in the past fifteen years. Nor does it have as its goal a theorization of the complexity of national identity/ ies in the case of Albania. Nonetheless, references will be made to theoretical sources as appropriate throughout the book. This work, rather, is intended to present an introduction to Albanian cinema in the early years and during the communist period. Its perspectives are largely cultural and historical.

Films chosen for discussion and analysis It is essential to stress that this book in no way is intended to constitute an exhaustive study of Albanian cinema from an historical perspective, although it does proceed, for the most part, in chronological order. Albanian film historian Abaz Hoxha has already assumed such a challenge in several of his Albanian-language books, and this study would have been impossible without his work. Moreover, extensive scholarly analysis has been offered through Abdurrahim Myftiu’s thorough-going studies of cinema and literature in Albania, Albanian cinema under communism, and Albanian cinema at the turn of the millennium. I am further indebted to his work, which has offered me significant perspectives to help shape my own. It must be noted that the studies of Hoxha and Myftiu have been intended primarily for a domestic audience. More recently, the Albanian-language analyses, both in Albanian and English, by Julian Bejko have contributed to an ideological understanding of Albanian cinema. The goal of this book is to examine and analyse the phenomenon of Albanian cinema, and to open the eyes of scholars and Albanophiles alike to this engaging film tradition. In each of the chapters that follow, some films are explored in greater detail than others. My choice of films to be discussed in more depth shows, for the most part, an inclination to those films for which subtitled versions are available in English, or occasionally, French or Italian. Thus, this work focuses primarily on films that have been made available to non-Albanophone viewers. The works chosen for more detailed analysis are indeed worthy of close study and undisputedly reflect significant moments in Albanian cinema. Nonetheless, my selection of films in no way implies that other works are not equally important. In short, through the films discussed, I am not attempting to create a canon, or to favour one director over another. Granted, certain names appear far more frequently than others in my analyses, this being due to the fact that a number of directors have

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had their films subtitled and shown abroad more than others. It is of special consequence that two of the films chosen for closer examination were restored by the now defunct Albanian Cinema Project, which constituted a concerted international effort to save Albania’s film patrimony. For these reasons the selection of films to be discussed either briefly or at greater length has been the result of a conscious decision on my part. If for whatever reason, my choice leads to disparities in the discussion, I assume full responsibility and apologize. Any imbalance noted should open the doors to Albanian cinema and pique the interest of viewers for the rich works not discussed here. It is my hope that the works I have chosen will encourage scholars and other readers to pursue their knowledge of Albanian cinema and explore its wealth, which extends far beyond what I have been realistically able to cover in this book. I also hope that this volume will encourage readers to advocate for the subtitling of more works, which will place them within the reach of international viewers. Along similar lines, the focus of this book is on feature filmmaking. Although chapters I and II devote considerable attention to documentary and/or newsreels—after all, this is all there was in the early years—, this focus is greatly reduced once the discussion reaches the feature film output of the late 1950s. There will, however, be limited discussions in later chapters of the documentary work of such figures as Endri and Xhanfise Keko and Dhimitër Anagnosti. In sum, I consider this book, together with recent critical analyses on Albanian film, to constitute an invitation for further debates on the subject. I, myself, relish the opportunity to visit a number of the films mentioned here in less detail or not at all in future projects.

Structure of the book Albania’s film history has indeed been a dialectic between the local context and the outside world. During the Kinostudio era, Albanian cinema was a national one, made by and for Albanians. It is a known fact that, particularly in the early years of the communist period, when Albania was well integrated into the Warsaw Pact, film professionals were often trained abroad, most notably in Moscow, Budapest, and Prague. Nonetheless, Albanian cinema was virtually unconnected to interests beyond the confines of the nation-state. As the country grew in isolation, its film professionals had less and less access to international cinema. In this respect, it is considerably distinct from the works of its Balkan cousins. The structure of the book will attempt to take into account this dialectic by virtue of its division into chapters. It is necessary to stress that there is a great deal of overlap between diverse

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historical periods, particularly with regard to the development of film in communist Albanian. For instance, Albania’s severance of ties with the Soviet Union did not happen overnight, but rather, involved a relatively long process. I have made an effort to divide the chapters in such a way that the prevailing socio-political context can elucidate the films discussed to the extent that this is possible in a case in which political transformations were ongoing rather than instantaneous. The book will be divided into five chapters, each devoted to a period of Albanian cinema prior to the collapse of the communist government. Each chapter will begin with an historical discussion reflecting the specific context under discussion. An overview will be made of significant films produced during the given period, and this discussion will be interwoven with lengthier examinations of individual films. Chapter I will look back to early filmmaking in the Balkans under the Ottoman Empire and will stress that it is difficult or even irrelevant to argue whether given films of the time were Albanian or not. It will also look at footage taken by non-Albanians on Albanian turf, and how the notion of Albania is employed by various foreign regimes, be they Fascist Italy or the United States, to further their own agendas. It will examine, as well, the rudimentary beginnings of an Albanian cinema per se, which occurred primarily during the Italian occupation. Chapter II will begin with early efforts under the communist regime to partner with production entities in other Eastern Bloc countries to produce newsreels and documentaries celebrating the accomplishments of the fledgling socialist state. The focus of this chapter will be on the period when relations between Albania and the Soviet Union were at their apex. It will discuss the early training of future filmmakers in Moscow and the establishment of the Kinostudio enterprise on the outskirts of Tirana. Sergei Yutkevich’s Luftëtari i madh i Shqipërisë Skënderbeu/The Great Warrior Scanderbeg (1953), an epic coproduction between Mosfilm and Kinostudio, is discussed as an example of a work celebrating the close relationship between Stalin and Hoxha. An examination will follow of the documentary work of Endri Keko, one of the future professionals trained in Moscow, and of Viktor Stratobërdha, a highly innovative documentarian who became persona non grata to the regime and was subsequently imprisoned. It will subsequently present a discussion of Hysen Hakani’s Fëmijet e saj/Her Children (1957), a short feature, with elements of both documentary and fiction film, which focuses on the vaccination of children in Albania’s far north. Finally, it will move to an analysis of Kristaq Dhamo’s Tana (1958), Albania’s first feature, which was highly influenced by the aesthetics of Stalinist cinema.

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The Albanian Film Archive has identified a number of prevailing themes, among these the fight for national identity; the Second World War; labour; social problems, and women’s issues. The films discussed in Chapter III represent these themes. Included in this chapter will be a discussion of Enver Hoxha’s official treatises on the arts and documents which attest to the mission of Kinostudio. Documentary filmmaking has been discussed at length in Chapters I and II given that, in the early days of shooting in Albania and the first decade of film production in communist Albania, the documentary mode was dominant. Beginning in Chapter III, however, documentaries will be mentioned only in passing due to the number of fiction films made in Albania from the early 1960s onward. The film discussions of Chapter III will begin with an examination of Hysen Hakani’s DEBATIK (1961), a work exploring the involvement of children and youth in the partisan movement, which set the prototype for the child spy films of the following years. The chapter will explore the golden age of Kinostudio and its flourishing under increasing isolation. It looks back to a time when Albania was severing itself from membership of the Warsaw Pact and shifting its alliances from Moscow to Beijing. A significant work discussed will be Piro Milkani and Gëzim Erebara’s Ngadhnjim mbi vdekhen/Victory over Death (1967), which tells of two young women who become martyrs under the Nazi occupation. This was one of the first Albanian films to gain a high level of popularity in China during the Cultural Revolution. Special attention will be drawn to such works as Muharrem Feijo and Fehmi Hoshafi’s Kapedani/The Captain (1972), a comedy focusing on the modernization and gender equality attained by the socialist state. Of special importance are the films of directors Viktor Gjika and Dhimitër Anagnosti. Their jointly directed Komisari i dritë/The Commissary of Light (1964) tells the story of a partisan who returns to his home town in Albania’s north to fight against the age-old traditions that must be discarded in order for the country to embrace the new ideology of communism. In subsequent discussions, the chapter will explore Gjika’s Horizonte të hapura/Open Horizons (1968), an ode to the New Man of Communism replete with poetic dynamics. Another Gjika film, Rrugë të bardha/ White Road (1974), which returns to the visual dynamics of the earlier film will be examined, once more in light of an innovative approach to the theme of the hero of socialism. Dhimitër Anagnosti is arguably the most celebrated director of communist Albania. This chapter’s discussions of Anagnosti will begin with Duel i heshtur/The Silent Duel (1967), at once a political and psychological thriller, focusing on the kidnapping of a young sailor and the hijacking of a ship from the port of Durrës by Western sympathizers. A film of special consequence is Anagnosti’s Lulëkuqet mbi mure/Red Poppies

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on the Wall (1976), probably the most famous film of communist Albania, which explores the partisan movement from the enclosed space of a school for orphans. Chapter IV focuses on Albanian cinema during the country’s period of isolation following its split with China. It will, as did the previous chapters, offer a look at the political and social context of the period. The late 1970s and the first half of the decade of the 1980s constituted a period in which Albanian society, at the height of the country’s isolation, felt considerable angst and alienation. This was also a period in which Albanian cinema began to eschew the strict formulas and narrative outcomes of its early productions. Themes began to turn away from the expected topics of the partisan movement and Albania’s struggles under the Fascist and Nazi occupations and embrace topics that engaged in more depth social issues, all the while maintaining the strong party line of what the cinema should depict. Although f ilms of this period continued to explore Albanian history, they did so from a more innovative lens. The chapter will be ushered in with a discussion of the thematic diversity of films of this period, including Gjika’s Nëntori i dyte/The Second November (1982), which was made to celebrate the seventieth anniversary of Albanian independence. It was one of the films selected by the Albanian Cinema Project in 2012. This will be followed by a longer discussion of Xhanfise Keko, one of communist Albania’s rare woman directors, whose work has brought international attention, both critical and academic, to Albanian cinema in recent decades. Keko is known for her children’s films, which have been controversially dubbed ‘child spy films’. Special attention will be devoted to Tomka dhe shokët e tij/Tomka and His Friends (1977), which was restored in 2014 by the Albanian Cinema Project. Two additional Keko films which will be discussed are Pas gjurmëve/On the Tracks (1978), a child spy film which, unlike Tomka and His Friends, is not rooted in the partisan struggle, and Kur po xhirohej një film/While Shooting a Film (1981), which foregrounds the role of professional women in the communist state and the defiance of traditional patriarchal society. Discussions will then ensue of two films that foreground the role of music in popular struggle: Salim Kumbaro’s Koncert në vitin 1936/Concert in the Year 1936 (1978), a work exploring the role of music in popular struggle and Gjika’s Gjeneral gramafoni/General Gramophone (1978), which foregrounds Fascist Italy’s attempts to draw upon popular music in its colonization efforts. The chapter will further look at Milkani and Kujtim Çashku, Ballë për ballë/ Face to face (1978), and this film will be analysed from the perspective of nostalgia for Albania’s close friendship with the Soviet Union. Of all films

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discussed in this book, Face to Face is afforded the longest analysis, this due to the complexity of the film and its thematic. Among the films from the early 1980s mentioned or discussed is Çashku’s Dora e ngrohtë/The Warm Hand (1983), a provocative study of a youth who has srayed away from the ideals and norms of communist culture and society. Çashku’s film has been read as an auteur film, and it is exemplary of the innovative film discourse of the 1980s. Enver Hoxha died in 1985, and from that time, until the fall of communism, Kinostudio continued its portrayal of sociological and psychological issues. Following a brief examination of Hoxha’s successor Ramiz Alia’s commitment to continue Albania’s anti-revisionism, Chapter V will explore two films drawn upon Ismail Kadare novels, Çashku’s Të paftuarit/The Uninvited (1985) and Anagnosti’s Kthimi i ushtrisë së vdekur/The Return of the Dead Army (1989) in terms of their narrative complexity and quality of productions. There will then follow a discussion of Spantak Pecani, Mos të heshtësh/Speak Up! (1985), a bold indictment of official corruption, which would likely have been difficult to produce a decade earlier. In 1987, Esat Musliu made Rreth i kujtesës/The Circle of Memory (1987), which may well be deemed one of Albania’s f irst psychological thrillers, and this f ilm will be analysed in terms of the broadening of genre in Albanian films made under isolation. The chapter will conclude with a discussion of Eduard Makri’s Shpella e piratëve/The Pirate Cave (1990), a tale of youthful imagination and daring exploration. This film was made during the final year of Kinostudio.16 In the Conclusion, an exploration of the cultural climate of Albania immediately prior to the collapse of the communist regime wilbe followed by a discussion will be undertaken of Esat Musliu’s Vitet e pritjes/Years of Waiting (1990), one of Kinostudio’s final productions, which anticipates the theme of emigration that will characterize much of the early cinematic production of postcommunist Albania. The brief conclusion will look ahead to Albania’s emergence in the global film market following the demise of communism. It is hoped that the above introductory discussion will help clarify what this book is and what it is not. I understand that there will be disagreement among diverse readers with regards to the works mentioned and/or chosen for analysis. Disagreement leads to fruitful debate, and such debate should 16 The focus in this chapter will be on Kinostudio productions rather than on work made for television by Radiotelevizione Shqiptar. Nonetheless, a separate study of Albanian television productions deserves to be made.

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Image 1. Kinostudio in the mid-1950s. Courtesy of the Albanian Central State Film Archive.

be thought of as a chance to open doors to further studies and conversations regarding early images of Albania, the birth of a socialist cinema in Albania, and the Kinostudio period. The world outside of Albania knows so little about the country’s cinema, and further discussions will offer tremendous insights into the creativity and innovation that were indeed present, even under the most restrictive of circumstances.

Works cited Ashcroft, Bill, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin (2002), The Empire Writes Back: Theory and Practice in Post-Colonial Literature, London: Routledge. Bejko, Julian (2012), Shoqëria e kinemasë I: Regjimi i vjetër dhe lufta e popullit, Tirana: Eklora. Bejko, Julian (2013), Shoqëria e kinemasë II: Reforma—detyra—ndërgjegje, Tirana: Eklora, 2013. Bejko, Julian (20016), ‘Albanian Cinema in Transition: A Comparative Analysis of Motion Pictures from the End of the Communist Era’, KinoKultura Special Issue 16 (Albania), http://www.kinokultura.com/specials/16/bejko.shtml. Accessed 8 June 2020. Bland, Bill (1984), ‘Albania—1984’, Albanian Life 29.2, n.p., Marxists Internet Archive, https://www.marxists.org/archive/bland/1984/x01/x01.htm. Accesssed 13 May 2021.

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Defense Language Institute, (1965-1970), Albanian Language Course vols. 1-10, Monterey California: Defense Language Institute. Durham, Edith (1909), High Albania, London: Edward Arnold. Durham Edith (1920, Twenty Years of Balkan Tangle, London: George Allen and Unwin. Durham, Edith and Helen Dore Boylston (1983), Paris to Albania with Model t Ford. Columbia: Mo, University of Missouri Press. Escolme, John (2022), Voice from the East: Interview with June Taylor, London: Resonance FN [radio programme], http://www.monitorproductioninsound. eu/voice-from-the-east. Accessed 19 November 2022. Groupe de Travail sur le Cinéma Albanais (1975), Le Cinéma albanais, Paris: Université de Vincennes-Paris VIII. Hǻstad, Elsa (2020), ‘Sweden, Albania’s Friend without Looking for Anything in Return’, Tirana Times, 14 February, https://www.tiranatimes.com/?p=144182. Accessed 28 July 2020. Hanku, Gazmend (1990), Filmi shqiptar: realizime të Kinostudios ‘Shqipëria e Re’: 1977–1987, Tirane, 8 Nëntori. Haznedari, Ismail and Sami Repishti (1992), Albanian Language Competencies for Peace Corps Volunteers in Albania, Washington, D.C.: Peace Corps. Higson, Andrew (2000), ‘The Limiting Imagination of National Cinema’, in Hjort, Mette and Scott Mackenzie, eds., Cinema and Nation, New York and London: Routledge, pp 57-68. Hjort, Mette and Scott Mackenzie, eds. (2000), Cinema and Nation, New York and London: Routledge. Hoxha, Abaz (1987), Filmi artistk shqiptar, Tirana: 8 Nëntori. Hoxha, Enver (1977), Speeches, Conversations, and Articles 1963-1964, Tirana: 8 Nëntori. Hubbard, Philip L. (1985), The Syntax of the Albanian Verb Complex, London: Routledge (published 2016 as an e-book). Iordanova, Dina (2001), Cinema of Flames: Balkan Film, Culture and Other Media, London: British Film Institute. Iordanova, Dina (2002), Emir Kusturica, London: British Film Institute. Iordanova, Dina (2006), ‘Introduction’, in Dina Iordanova, ed., The Cinema of the Balkans, London: Wallflower, pp. 1-11. Iordanova, Dina (2007), ‘Whose is this memory?: Hushed Narratives and Discerning Remembrance in Balkan cinema’, Cinéaste 32.3, pp. 22–27 Jarvie, Ian (2000), ‘National Cinema: A Theoretical Assesssment’, in Hjort, Mette and Scott Mackenzie, eds. (2000), Cinema and Nation, New York and London: Routledge, pp. 69-80. Jones, Gareth (2007), Koronel Bunker/Magic Eye, Cinéaste 21.3, pp. 52–53.

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Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ (1977), The Albanian Film, Tirana: 8 Nëntori. Knapp, Sophie (2012), Le Phantôme de l’université: l’esprit de mai 68 dans les couloirs de Paris VIII,Paris: ArteRadio [radio documentary]. Kuqali, Andon (1980), Odhise Paskali: People’s Sculptor of the People’s Socialist Republic of Albania, Tirana: 8 Nëntori. Lane, Rose Wilder (1923), The Peaks of Shala, New York: Harper Brothers. Lane, Rose Wilder and Helen Dore Boylston (1983), Travels with Zenobia: Paris to Albania by Model T Ford, Columbia, MO: University of Missouri Press. Logoreci, Anton (1977), The Albanians: Europe’s Forgotten Survivors, Boulder, CO: Westview. Lonely Planet (2010), ‘Albania: Lonely Planet ’s Top 10 destinations for 2011’, 31 October, http://www.lonelyplanet.com/albania/travel-tips-and-articles/76164#. Accessed 4 June 2013. Makavejev, Dušan (2006), ‘Preface’, in Iordanova,Dina, ed., The Cinema of the Balkans, London: Wallflower, pp. xiv–xvi. Marmullaku, Ramadan (1979), Albania and the Albanians, London: Archon. Mëniku, Linda and Héctor Campos (2015), Colloquial Albanian, London: Routledge. Moodie, Michael (1995), ‘The Balkan tragedy’, Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 541, pp. 101–115. Myftiu, Abdurrahim (2002), Nga letërsia te filmi, Tirana: Botim i Akademisë së Shkencave. Myftiu, Abdurrahim (2003), Koha e filmit I, Tirana: Botim i Akademisë së Shkencave. Newmark, Leonard (1957), Structural Grammar of Albanian, Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Research Center in Anthropology, Folklore, and Linguistics. Newmark, Leonard (2000), Albanian-English Dictionary, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Paskali, Floriana (2005), Për Paskalin nga Paskali, Tirana: Ilar. Paskali, Floriana (2009), Best of Paskali, Tirana: Toena. Prifti, Peter R. (1978), Socialist Albania Since 1944: Domestic and International Decelopments, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Ranga, Dana (1997), East Side Story. Paris and Cologne: Anda Films, Canal+, and WDR, [motion picture]. Ross, Kristin (1995), Fast Cars, Clean Bodies: Decolonization and the Reordering of French Culture, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Said, Edward (1994), Culture and Imperialism, New York: Vintage. Semini, Llazar (2021), ‘The Prime Minister Hopes to Make Albania a “Tourism Champion”, Associated Press, 20 April. , https://www.washingtontimes.com/ news/2021/apr/20/prime-minister-hopes-to-make-albania-a-tourism-cha/ Accessed 4 June 2023.

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Skendi, Stavro (1967), The Albanian National Awakening: 1878-1912, Princeton: Princeton University Press. ‘Upheaval in the East: Dial “A” for Albania’ (1990), The New York Times, 12 April, https://www.nytimes.com/1990/04/12/world/upheaval-in-the-east-dial-a-foralbania.html. Accessed 31 December 2022. Veliu, Galip (2011), ‘Balkan Diversity under Two Contradictory Philosophies of Ruling: Ottoman and Communist’, Akademik Araştırmalar Dergisi/Journal of Academic Studies 49, pp. 1–13. Voci, Leonardo (2009/2010), Odhise Paskali: Themelues i skulptures shqiptare, Athens and Tirana: Universiteti Kristal. ‘Where can Americans Travel Right Now?’ (2021), US New and World Report, 18 May 7, https://travel.usnews.com/features/where-can-americans-travel-right-now. Accessed 20 May 2021. Williams, Bruce (2012), ‘Spotting the Eagle on Anglophone Turf’, in Kristensen, Lars, ed., Postcommunist Film—Russia, Eastern Europe, and Word Culture: Moving Images of Potcommunism¸ London: Routledge, pp. 89-104. Zymberi, Isa (1991), Colloquial Albanian, London: Routledge.

I.

The Roots of Cinema in Albania The Ottoman Period, Independence, and the Fascist Occupation Abstract: This chapter examines the cultural and historical factors that set a context for the birth and growth of Albanian cinema. It explores the problem of determining exactly what constituted Albania during the early phases of the arts of photography and cinema in the Balkans. The photography of the Shkodër-based Marubi dynasty, who were instrumental in developing a visual culture in Albania, will be briefly explored. This will be followed by a discussion of the Manaki brothers, who, though not ethnically Albanian per se, arguably made the first moving images of life in the Albanophone territories in the Balkans. Subsequent images made in Albania are discussed, among these works by the Near East Foundation and other international entities. The chapter concludes with an exploration of the work of Mihallaq Monë, Albania’s primary film-maker, prior to the advent of communism. Key words: Albania, cinema, photography, Ottoman Empire, Fascist occupation

Prior to tackling the issue of what constituted early Albanian cinema, it is useful to explore the question of just what Albania was in the initial years of the twentieth century. Was it def ined by turf or ethnicity? To whom did it belong and who belonged to it? Such questions were probably irrelevant at the time, but nonetheless inform current considerations of national cinemas. The notion of Albania during the infancy of the cinema is, moreover, muddled by an array of interlocking concerns. One might deem Albania a western outpost of the Ottoman Empire and end it at that. Or one might consider the Albania of the League of Prizren, which brought Albanian national interests to the outside world, or of the 1908 Congress of Monastir, which standardized the Albanian alphabet. After 1912, Albania

Williams, B., Albanian Cinema through the Fall of Communism: Silver Screens and Red Flags. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789462980150_ch01

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could have referred to the confines of independent Albania or to the broader Albanophone territories. At the time and for the cinema, these issues did not really matter, since film was silent and the universal language of the cinema had not been restricted by words.1 Later, there was the Albania of the Fascist occupation. Just who was making films and who was viewing them? Such is the puzzle that surrounds the mere notion of an Albanian cinema. Def ining Albanian cinema of the early years of the twentieth century would be as tricky as defining the Balkans themselves! And even if we arrive at a definition, there is yet another hindrance. A good number of the films of the period that might be deemed Albanian have been lost or only exist as fragments.

A sequel as a prequel The complexity of just what constituted Albania in the initial days of the moving image can be elucidated by a recent feud, benign as it may be, which brings to bear on early debates on the conundrum of Balkan frontiers. This recent entanglement involves the appropriation by Albania and (North) Macedonia of the late Mother Teresa, a dispute which has looked back at questions of the nation-state at the time of the nun’s youth. As Gëzim Alpion (2004, p. 227) clarif ies, this ‘war’ broke out in the summer of 2003 when Macedonia opted to erect a monument to the beatified nun not far from the centre of Rome, a move that aroused the ire of Albanians, ‘who felt they were being robbed of their Mother Teresa’.2 The issue is complex; after all, Anjezë Gonxhe Bojaxhiu was born in Skopje to an ethnic Albanian family. So initially, it appears that both countries may have valid arguments. Yet, even her place of birth can be deemed a weak argument in that, in 1910, Macedonia and Albania did not exist as independent states. Rather, both were still part of the Ottoman Empire. 1 One is reminded here of the words of Lillian Gish, who in her acceptance speech for the 1984 American Film Institute Lifetime Achievement Award, extolled the virtues of the silent cinema and reminded us of the toll that the introduction of oral language had on American cinema. Gish articulated: ‘[…] we in the silent film, as an audience, write all the lines so none of the characters say anything to displease it. [The United States is] a little country. We’re only five percent speaking English in the world. This and that little other island in England. Because when we went into words, we lost 95% of our audience’. Couched within a charismatic talk combining historical anecdote, signs of gratitude, and displays of genuine wit, Gish’s reference to language and film was most astute. 2 Gëzim Alpion, a sociologist at the University of Birmingham, was an active advocate for the canonization of Mother Teresa, which ultimately occurred on 4 September 2016.

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This, however, is only the first layer of the problem. One must take into account linguistic issues. The Croatian government issued Mother Teresa a Croatian passport in the early 1990s and made the claim that she spoke Serbo-Croatian better than Albanian. In fact, both Croatia and Serbia use a Slavic version of her surname, ‘Bojadžijević’ (Alpion, 2004, p. 227). And to support the Croatian claim it was added that Mother Teresa was a Catholic, and neither a Muslim nor an Eastern Orthodox Christian. Hence, from the point of view of religion, she may have related more closely to what is now Croatia than to Macedonia or Albania. Albanians, for their part, proffered a counterargument. As Alpion (2004, p. 227) points out, Mother Teresa’s biographer and friend Lush Gjergji has asserted that she spoke Albanian very well, ‘but was [simply] not very confident of her ability to use literary Albanian in public’. This assessment seems accurate given that, in a 1988 Voice of America report, which presents an address made by Mother Teresa to Albanians in the Bronx, the venerated nun indeed spoke Albanian, but an online version of the talk with still photographs offers an Albanian-language transcription of her speech (Gjonlekaj, 1988). Her use and command of formal Albanian may indeed have been somewhat weak and hard for many Albanians to understand. Mother Teresa, as Alpion (2004, p. 228) stresses, is but one of the ‘international high-flyers’ for Albanians, together with such figures as actors James Belushi and Eliza Dushku. And she certainly is one that calls into question the notion of Albanian-ness, especially with regard to ‘Greater Albania’ at the turn of the twentieth century.

Pictures—still and moving The history of Albanian cinema, as Natasha Lako has argued, is very closely tied to that of photography, and in particular to the pioneering work of the Marubi dynasty. Exploring how the Marubis documented the lives of mountain women, fighting men, weddings, the opening of the first Albanian school in Korça in 1887, and the overall struggle of Albanians against their Ottoman occupiers, Lako (2002a, p. 7) asserts that such early Albanian photographs revealed national pride and a sense of dignity towards life itself. Born in Piacenza, Italy, in 1834, Pietro Marubi emigrated to Shkodër in 1850 for political reasons, where he opened a photography studio. In Shkodër, he hired two young assistants, Rrok and Kel Kodheli. The latter, who was born in 1870, took control of the studio following Pietro’s death and changed his own name to Kel Marubi. He further refined the techniques

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Image 2. A Pietro (Pjetër) Marubi photograph. Late 19th to early 20th century.

devised by Pietro. Describing Kel Marubi’s contribution to photography in Albania, Loïc Chauvin and Christian Raby (2011, p. 30) explain: ‘He established a close intimacy and a complete transparency between the individual and his natural environment. The painted background before which he photographed the whole society of Shkodër represented mountains, forests, plains, and fields’. Kel Marubi died in 1940. His son, Gegë Marubi, prolonged the dynasty until the third generation and was considered one of the finest Balkan photographers of his time. Chauvin and Raby (2011, p. 22) assess the cultural contribution of the Marubi family, stressing that the Marubis built a visual culture in a land dominated by oral tradition and writing, where both painting and theatre were, by and large, absent. They focused on both the history of Shkodër as well as that of the entire country. They photographed the waning of the Ottoman period and ‘the new Albanian state as it was barely formed, which in turn was transformed into a republic, a kingdom and often merely in chaos […]’ (p. 22). The significance of the Marubi dynasty for the photographic image in Albania is undisputed, and their work has been linked to the development of the moving image in the region.3 3 The contribution of the noted Marubi family to the birth and development of the cinema in Albania is evidenced by the name of Albania’s f irst private f ilm university, the Marubi Academy of Film and Multimedia, which was founded in 2004. The walls of the Academy’s John and James Belushi Screening Room bear blow-ups of Marubi photographs that depict diverse aspects of Albanian life from the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The decision to name the Academy ‘Marubi’ underscores the extent to which rector Kujtim Çashku believes the

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Lako, moreover, is one of several scholars who have explored the nature of early Albanian cinema, despite the murkiness that engulfs the problem. Another is Abaz Hoxha, arguably the foremost historian of Albanian cinema, eight of whose numerous books focus exclusively on Albania. These books run the gamut from the early days of the cinema in what is now Albania to the presence of Albanians in world cinema. Without Hoxha’s extensive dedication to this little-known national cinema, the present work would have been impossible. Lako, a poet and scriptwriter, served as director of the Albanian State Film Archive from 1997 to 2006. She has dedicated a great deal of passion and energy to the uncovering of Albania’s cinematographic past. Over the course of her tenure as director of the Archive, she oversaw the editing of four volumes of Film Muzeum, which, although defined as a ‘catalogue’, has many elements of a film journal. Published in 2002, Film Muzeum 1895–1952: Nga aparati fotografik tek kamera/Film Muzeum 1895–1952: From the Still Camera to the Movie Camera reproduces historical documents, letters, and historical documents, and further includes ten brief articles, two of which bear Lako’s name. The volume has extensive filmographies and biographical notes. 4 It is not the purpose of my study here to examine the presence of foreign films in Albania during the early days of the cinema. Such a project has been undertaken at length by both Abaz Hoxha (1994, 2002b, and 2007) and Natasha Lako (2002a, 2002b, and 2002c). It has further been explored in a history of the cinema in Tirana by Spiro Mëhilli (Arti i shtatë në Tiranë/The Seventh Art in Tirana). Nonetheless, a few remarks are in order. As Hoxha (2002b, p. 19) articulates, movies were first screened in Albania in 1897, two years following the invention of the medium. They were shown as parts of travelling circuses, combined with acrobatics, sketches, and comedy acts . Films were also screened in the homes of aristocrats to select audiences. Hoxha (2002b, p. 19) further notes that the cinema soon became an integral part of the cultural scene along the axis Durrës-Elbasan-Korça-Florina (Greece)-Manastir-Skopje. He stresses that the cinema, albeit first used to attract spectators to broader circus events and later shown in impoverished bars and other locales, soon became appreciated as an art form by patriots, photographers, journalists, and teachers, who deemed it a tool towards national progress (Hoxha, 2002b, p. 19). Hoxha identifies Kolë Idromeno, photographs of the Marubi dynasty to be precursors of Albanian cinema, a view which closely parallels that of Lako. 4 In 2013, Lako travelled to the British Film Institute, where footage by the Manaki brothers was being restored (Natasha Lako, personal contact, 2013).

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a patriot and intellectual, who had set up his own photography studio in Shkodër in 1883, as one of the key figures in bringing the cinema to Albania. As early as 1908, Idromeno began to show films to Shkodër’s Albanian Language Club, Gjuha Shqipe, and subsequently along the Dalmatian coast. He undertook extended correspondence with Pathé in Paris in a manner not unlike the relationship that Gegë Marubi, the third generation of Albania’s foremost photography family, would have with the Lumière Brothers.5 Arguably one of the world’s foremost authorities on early photographic and moving images in the Balkans, Ana Grgić (2021, p. 3; 2022, p. 132), clarifies that in 1911, Idromeno moved the film screenings to his home because he had not obtained permission from the local authorities for the events. She further clarifies that one of the itinerant cinema exhibitors who travelled throughout Albania was associated with the Austrian company Josef Stauber, and that, in 1912, this entity helped organize public screenings in Idomeneo’s home under the name Grand Kino-scioptiko-Theater Elektrikut (Grgić, 2021, p. 3). Nonetheless, while foreign films were being shown in Albania in the early twentieth century, footage of the region was actively being taken, whether by chroniclers from abroad or individuals native to the Albanophone lands.

The Manaki brothers The earliest moving images taken on Albanophone turf were doubtless those of the Manaki brothers. Yet one can scarcely make a definitive argument that the Manakis belonged to Albania, whatever that meant during the Ottoman period. In fact, ownership of the Manakis is widely contested, particularly among North Macedonia, Greece, and Romania. In 1997, the Organization for the Cultural Capital of Europe Thessaloniki published a volume by Christos K. Christodoulou entitled The Manakis Brothers: The Greek Pioneers of the Balkanic Cinema. The book’s intent is to reclaim the Manaki brothers for Greece, and consequently, it is most nationalistic in nature. This is particularly felt in its introductory remarks, by a diplomat and a government minister. The book opens with a statement by the former Greek consul in Skopje, G. Eleftheriadis, who discusses his friendship with Milton Manaki. In the 1950s, Manaki had offered to sell his archive to Greece, which he described as his ‘homeland’. Eleftheriadis relates 5 One must note that Gegë Marubi was the first foreigner to enrol in the school of photography and cinematography opened by the Lumière Brothers in Paris, studying there from 1923–1927 (Hoxha, 2002b, p. 20).

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that his efforts to assist the filmmaker in the sale fell on deaf ears under several administrations. He explains that he also failed in his attempts to secure admission for Manaki’s son to a Greek military academy. The photographer subsequently became embittered and cut all contact with the former consul. Eleftheriadis (1997, p. 1) articulates his dismay that a filmmaker of Greek origin and consciousness, who even held a Greek passport, was being rejected by his own country due to the political climate of the time and his parents’ identification with Romanian culture. Elefheriadis’s remarks are followed by a preface authored by former state minister Nikolaos Martis (1997, p. 2), who indicts the authorities in Skopje for having exhibited the Manaki brothers’ work ‘as their own historical, cultural and intellectual heritage, thus violating not only elementary rules among nations, but also directives concerning the ownership of intellectual property’. In a manner not unlike Melina Mercouri’s impassioned call for the Elgin Marbles to be returned to Greece, Martis (1997, p. 2) adds that the publication of Chriostodoulou’s book in English invites an international denouncement of Skopje’s activities and encourages the return of historical archival material related to the Manakis to Greece. Although Christodoulou concedes that the Manaki brothers were ethnic Vlachs, he clearly identifies them as Greek. Christodoulou (1997, p. 77) discusses the demographics of Monastir in the mid-eighteenth century, arguing that of the 69 guilds, 41 were Greek, 19 Turkish and 9 Jewish. He further stresses that in 1883 there were 31 Greek schools, compared to 5 Bulgarian and 3 Romanian (p. 77). Christodoulou’s acknowledgements in the introduction further corroborate his nationalistic agenda. He thanks Mrs. Violetta Papathanasious, president of the Association of Monastirians in Thessaloniki and the organization’s director, Fotos Lambrinos (p. 4). For Christodoulou, Monastir was indeed Greek. Regarding his project, he attempts to mitigate somehow his nationalism by arguing: We in Greece have indeed let slip a remarkable opportunity unlike the authorities in Skopje. Now, however, in a period when sincere efforts towards trans-Balkan rapprochement are being made, it is time to recognize the real magnitude of what the Manaki brothers—and particularly the younger brother, Miltos—did for the people of this region (p. 4).

Despite its title, Christodoulou’s book is much more concerned with the intricacies of the Manaki brothers’ lives and with their entanglement in ethnic, national, and international issues than with their films. One exception is a description of their coverage of the May 1911 visit by Turkish Sultan

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Mehmed Reshid V to Monastir and Thessaloniki. He discusses how Milton Manaki had labelled the films when he handed them over to the Yugoslav government. The films were tagged with such designations as ‘The Sultan at the railway station in Monastir, before his departure from Monastir’; ‘The Sultan at the mosque, coming out of the mosque, at the Tounbee Café’, and ‘The Sultan at the window of the prefecture with schoolchildren, soldiers and others marching past’ (p. 119). The exact year in which the Manaki brothers began filming is somewhat disputed, but it is most likely that they made their first film, The Weavers, in either 1905 or 1906, after having purchased a 35mm Bioscope camera from the Charles Urban trading company. The Weavers depicts the Manakis’ grandmother Despina—who purportedly lived to be 120—at a spinning wheel, surrounded by other women of the family as they prepare wool for weaving. Marian Ţuţui, former director of the Romanian Film Archives, offers the most complete details about the Manaki brothers’ initiation into film. Agreeing, for the most part, with Christodoulou’s accounts of their family and birth, Ţuţui (2008, pp. 111-126 (clarifies that in 1898, Yanaki opened a photo studio in Ioannina, where he was working as a teacher of drawing and calligraphy at the Romanian gymnasium. He was forced to flee from Ioannina and later from Avdella due to conflicts between Hellenistic Vlachs and those who were pro-Romanian. In 1905, the brothers moved to Monastir where they opened their own school for art and photography. Yanaki, once again, taught at the local Romanian gymnasium, a position he held until 1916, when the government of Serbia, of which Monastir had become a part, closed all foreign schools. According to Ţuţui, the brothers visited the Jubilee Exhibition in Bucharest, where they not only won prizes for their photography, but moreover, made important contacts, becoming the official photographers of the Romanian royal court. This is where Ţuţui’s account differs substantially from that of Christodoulou. According to Ţuţui, Yanaki received a grant from King Carol I of Romaniaa that allowed him to travel to Vienna, Paris, and London, where he purchased Bioscope camera number 300 from Charles Urban & Co. Ţuţui asserts that the camera was purchased in 1906. Shortly thereafter, they made a film entitled Domestic Life with the Vlach Women in the Pindus, which Christodoulou has called The Weavers and to which he has assigned the date 1905. In any case, Ţuţui’s 2011 study of the Manaki brothers is extremely well researched and documented. It is, to date, the most definitive exploration of their work. No mention is made by Christodoulou, moreover, of the fact that the brothers travelled to the Jubilee Exhibition in Bucharest in 1906, where

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other sources claim they first became acquainted with the Bioscope camera. Moreover, with the exception of a cursory mention of debts owed to them in Albania at the time of their bankruptcy (c. 1940), Christodoulou fails to discuss anything related to Albania. Nothing in his discussion even remotely suggests that the Manaki family, though ethnically Vlach, had been Albanophone. In Albania, both Hoxha and Lako make a case for the Manaki brothers as precursors of Albanian cinema. Hoxha (2007) has, like Christodoulou, argued that their first film, The Weavers, was made in 1905. However, in contrast to the Greek accounts, Lako and Hoxha have stressed that the brothers were Albanophone. In the 2002 issue of Film Muzeum, which Lako coordinated, we find excerpted memoires by Irian Tërshana, a noted Albanian sportsman and builder of sports buildings, who describes having had the opportunity to view photographs taken by the Manaki brothers of the Congress of Dibra, which was held by local Albanians in 1909, that were shown to him by an ethnic Turk in 1936. He subsequently travelled to Monastir, accompanied by Hali Stërmalli, brother of writer Haki Stërmalli to meet Milton Manaki. Initially, Tërshana spoke Macedonian to the photographer, requesting a copy of the photo of the congress, in which his father had been involved. Manaki, learning that his visitor was from Tirana, spoke to him in Albanian, and gave him the photo for free since Tërshana was an Albanian patriot (Tërshana, 2002, pp. 12–13). Abaz Hoxha (2007, p. 97) further cites the above meeting as evidence that the Manaki brothers were Albanophone, stressing that Tërshana had reported that Milton spoke a pure Tosk variant from the south. Although such accounts do not disprove the close association of the brothers with Greece and Macedonia, they indicate that they had considerable ties with the Albanian language and culture. We must recall that multilingualism was the norm in the southwest Balkans. Although Tërshana’s account indicates that Milton spoke perfect Albanian, no mention was made of the possibility that he spoke with a slight or considerable accent. Jane Cowan discusses further aspects of the brothers’ background. Born to a bourgeois and multilingual ethnic Vlach family, the family purportedly identified with Hellenism. Yet the brothers’ father had strong sympathies for the Romanian national movement. Young Yanaki also became involved in this movement in his native Avdella. Milton, however, took another path, being photographed on several occasions between 1900 and 1908 with Macedonian f ighters. As Cowan (2008, p. 339) explains, ‘[…] sources disagree on whether he was fighting against the Ottomans in support of the Greeks, the Bulgarians, or for an autonomous “Macedonia for Macedonians”. Both brothers allegedly supported Balkan federation’.

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Foregrounding their peripatetic existence (Avdella, Yanina, Monastir, Plovdiv, Bucharest, and London), Cowan notes that they have been dubbed Greek, Romanian, Yugoslav, or Macedonian (pp. 339–340). (She fails to mention Albanian!) Yet she stresses that none of these appellations is truly appropriate given the complexity of the local, national, and civic aff iliations that mingled during the time period. According to Cowan, ‘a man could be Greek when he traded, Albanian when he married, and Muslim when he prayed […] without this raising a sense of contradiction for the actors involved—even if it did for the nationalists’ (p. 340). Cowan identif ies the Manaki brothers as typical of ‘turn-of-the–century intellectuals [who were] frequently educated in Paris, Bucharest, Odessa, or Geneva, saw [themselves] as Europeans, and identified with Europe and the European ideals of liberty, fraternity, equality, the Rights of Nations, and the Rights of Man’ (p. 342). Either title, The Weavers, or Domestic Life with the Vlach Women in the Pindus, is appropriate for the Manakis’ first film. Static master shots of some ten women of several generations depict activities related to weaving. Each engages in her own work, appearing unaware of the presence of the camera. Through these takes, the viewer gets a strong sense of everyday village life in the region. We see portions of the exterior of a home, household objects, and the clothing worn by the women. A one-shot of Despina, filmed from a high angle, is especially evocative. For a split second, it appears that she makes eye contact with the camera, yet this is ambivalent. Her gaze seems intense and pensive. The Weavers constitutes a document of turn-of-the century domestic space, of quotidian household activities that, especially when combined with such Manaki footage as the arrival of Turkish dignitaries, the funeral of an Orthodox metropolitan, or the Congress of Monastir, presents a picture of life in the Balkans, village and urban, public, and private. The Weavers took on a new life in 1995 with Theo Angelopoulos’s Ulysses’ Gaze. The film opens with the sequences from the Manaki brothers’ film described above and questions whether these were truly the first moving images of the Balkans. The film’s premise is a quest for three missing reels of motion pictures by the Manaki brothers, which most likely contain blissful images of peaceful multiculturalism and might well provide a solution for the current conflicts in the Balkans. The film’s protagonist, a Greco-American filmmaker played by Harvey Keitel, describes the lost films as ‘the first glance, the lost glance, the lost innocence of the Balkans’. As Keitel’s character asserts, ‘They recorded everything: landscapes, weddings, local customs, political changes, village fairs, revolutions, battles,

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Image 3. Women at work in the Manaki Brothers’ The Weavers. Courtesy of the Cinematheque of the Republic of North Macedonia.

official celeb rations, sultans, kings, prime ministers, bishops, rebels. All the ambiguities, the contrasts, the conflicts’. For Jane Cowan (2008, p. 339), the Manaki brothers not only regret the loss of an old way of life, but rather look forward to new possibilities, celebrating the arrival of the ‘modern’ ideals of citizenship, liberty, equality, and fraternity, all of which appear to assure redemption. In a discussion of Theo Angelopoulos’s Ulysses’ Gaze (1995), Dina Iordanova (2001, p. 103) cites a moment in the film when a character informs the protagonist that the Manaki brothers depicted all of the suffering of the Balkans and were more interested in the people than in the politics. Iordanova describes the growing identification of the protagonist, simply known as ‘A’, with the brothers. She argues that he experiences their fascination with motion pictures, their excitement for their cinema theatre in Monastir (which was burned down in 1939), their Kafkaesque relationship with the Bulgarian authorities, and the Balkan animosities which tore their lives apart. Iordanova stresses that this is all conveyed through a combination of archival footage, re-enactment, and the Manaki brothers’ own films (p. 104). Iordanova indeed underscores, in her analysis of Ulysses’ Gaze, the visionary significance of the Manaki brothers. Yet their work was far from the only films being shot in the Albanophone world.

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Early filming in Albania With regards to the making of films in Albania in the early decades of the twentieth century, Abaz Hoxha emphasizes the importance of Western European interests. Noting that Western powers sought to foster the splintering of the Balkans for their own interests, Albania was in a particularly vulnerable situation given that it was one of the few areas that had not gained independence from the Turks. For this reason, it was a region extremely susceptible to annexation by both its Balkan neighbours and Western European powers. The West developed an interest in this little-known territory, and journalists reported widely on developments in the area. As Hoxha asserts, the cinema constituted the newest and most effective medium for Western journalism (Hoxha, 2002b, p. 24). Hoxha identifies the British Charles Urban Company as an entity which filmed in Albania and other parts of the western Balkans from 1902 to the Balkan Wars of 1912–1913. Hoxha’s 100 vjet kinema në trojet shqiptare/100 Years of Cinema in Albanian Dwellings presents a year-by-year chronology of films made in Albania and/or shown in Albania, from the early works of the Manaki brothers through the establishment of the communist government’s film initiative in 1946. The chronology is detailed, and thus, the discussion here will make only brief mention of the period and discuss select pieces of footage. Following the pioneering work of the Charles Urban Company, one can mention such enterprises as the Italian Unitas, Aquila, Savoia, Comerio and Luce; the French Albert Kahn, Pathé, Gaumont and Éclair; the Austrian Sascha Filmfabrik and Wiener Autorenfilm; the German UFA, KabinetFilm and Olimpia Werberfilm; the American March of Time, Paramount, and Fox Movietown News, together with other Swiss, Belgian, and Hungarian companies (Hoxha, 2002b, pp. 70–71). Regarding the lack of Albanians in the film profession, Hoxha explains that most of these films were made by foreigners, with the exception of the work of the Manaki brothers and a handful of Albanian amateurs. He stresses that, despite the strong desire on the part of the artists to work in the cinema, the state was not interested in film and did not have the inclination to support the art. This explains why, in the first half of the twentieth century, films in Albania were mainly shot by foreigners (Hoxha, 2002b, p. 71). Today, thanks to the efforts of Eol Çashku, it is possible to view some of the images shot in Albania in September and October 1913 as a part of Albert Kahn’s ambitious project to capture the entire earth through photography. Çashku’s Albanie 1912 (2012) was filmed to celebrate the centenary of Albanian independence. The production was supported by the French embassy

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in Tirana, the Albert Kahn Museum, and the Centre d’Études Albanaises. In 1913, Kahn had charged Jean Brunhes, the project director of les Archives de la Planète (which would ultimately house ethnographic records of some 50 countries) and photographer Auguste Léon with examining through film and photography the cultural uniqueness of Albania. Brunhes, a pioneer in the field of human geography, taught in Paris at the École Practique des Hautes Études and at the Collège de France. Through his ethnographic work in Albania, he concluded that, despite the many diverse political influences on Albania and the different religions and alphabets circulating among its people, ethnic origin and language overrode all other factors for Albanians. There was, indeed, a strong sense of national identity. The text of Çashku’s documentary is a report on Albania delivered by Brunhes at the Paris peace conference in 1919. Albanie 1912 opens with some four and one-half minutes of black and white footage taken by Brunhes and Léon of three streets in Albania. With the exception of one slight pan, all of the footage consists of long shots with stationary camera. The footage comprises a silent ethnography of everyday life in Albanian cities. We see horse-drawn carts, men and women clad in traditional clothing, soldiers, vendors, and children, all engaging in quotidian activities. The presentation is neutral, devoid of judgment or political agenda. In close alignment with Brunhes’s scholarly work, it focuses on human as opposed to purely geographical aspects. The use of long shots suggests that Brunhes was more interested in documenting society at large rather than in undertaking a Flaherty-style study of individuals. The clarity and precision of the images is most impressive. In Çashku’s film, the images are presented initially in their original silent format, and street sounds are gradually added. Nonetheless, it is easy to imagine how they were received in their original form as a veritable testimony to life in Albania less than one year following independence. Ana Grgić, has analysed the Albert Kahn footage as presented in Çashku’s film. Examining the clothing of soldiers and officers depicted, she concludes that one of the cities depicted was Shkodër under the Montenegrin occupation of 1912–1913, which was reinforced by Serbian troops. Working with period picture postcards as well as images of contemporaneous clothing, she has determined that some of the street scenes most likely depict Durrës (Grgić, 2022, p. 182). Regarding the authenticity of the footage, Grgić notes: In the first view, the inhabitants are not aware of the camera filming, and therefore seem to conduct their daily business and activities unobstructed, while in the other two takes, the children, the soldiers, and the merchants stand on the side looking towards the camera, returning the spectatorial

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gaze. While the aim of Brunhes and Kahn’s project was to simply record life as it unravels in front of the camera, at least one instance suggests that the camera operator and his assistant invited the subjects to be filmed, and, therefore, I conclude that parts of the footage were staged (p. 182).

Drawing upon the work of Pierre Nora (1989), Grgić (2016, n.p.) argues that modern memory is an archival memory, ‘relying almost entirely on the materiality of the trace and immediacy of the recording […], as in the case of Albert Kahn’s footage in Albania and its subsequent re-usage in [Çashku’s] documentary’. For Grgić (2016, n.p.), small national cinemas sometimes rely upon ‘earliest film footage taken by foreign filmmakers, raising questions about the notion of whose memory, and cultural heritage, these moving images belong to’. Grgić deems the street scenes to be part of a mosaic, inasmuch as it is impossible to pinpoint dates, exact locations, and who actually shot the images. Referring to the Kahn collection at large and the Albania images in specific, Grgić argues: The film collection is composed of fragments which are inter-related through the approach of human geography–—the study of man’s activity as transferred onto the skin of our planet. The Albert Kahn footage acts at once, as a visual substitution for the imaginary and real Balkans, and as a prosthetic and substitutive visual memory of early Albanian cinematographic heritage (n.p.).

Among other films by foreigners during this period, Grgić (2021) mentions two works of note. Albania ribelle was made by the Torino-based Unitas. It has not survived. In contrast, a chronicle by Pathé, Reddition de Scutari/Siege of Shkodra (1913) was recently restored by the Montenegrin Cinémathèque and the Albanian State Film Archive. Referring to the latter film, Grgić describes its depiction of the horrors of the six-month siege—destroyed houses, the exodus of survivors, food distribution, etc. (Grgić, 2002, p. 189). In the possession of the Albanian State Film Archive there is slightly over 90 minutes of footage made by American ethnographer Elliott Taylor of the Near East Foundation’s developmental activities in Albania, which is indexed as dating from between 1932 and 1935. The footage consists of silent black and white shots labelled with simple intertitles that describe the work of the foundation, primarily, but not necessarily exclusively, in rural areas of central-western Albania near the city of Kavaja, which is directly mentioned in one of the intertitles. The compiled fragments open with the caption, ‘Albania—beautiful and primitive’, and at once the country is

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Image 4. From Jean Brunhes’ footage of Albania for Albert Kahn.

exoticized and orientalized. We see the ruins of a castle with an Albanian flag and a mountain village. The film then takes us to the country’s capital, which is identified by a title card. In Tirana, it presents street scenes and images of marketplaces, where groceries, meat, dry goods, pottery and hardware are being sold. Although most subjects are clad in traditional Albanian costume—one notes the prevalence of white fezzes on the men—, a woman appears shopping, dressed in stylish Western clothing. The film subsequently travels to Kavaja and the village of Herbert, named after British diplomat and intelligence officer Aubrey Herbert, who was a champion of the Albanian cause. A caption reads ‘Looking East: Albanian-American Institute of the Near East Foundation, Twin Rural Schools for Boys and Girls’. At this juncture, we are privy to only the activities of the boys’ school. We follow a meal for eight ‘families’, which obviously represent the groupings of boys in the school and note the relatively modern edifices constructed by the foundation. The viewer is invited to watch a game of volleyball. Images of animal husbandry follow, and we watch a tractor reclaiming swamp land. A title card states ‘Contrast of native and Near East Foundation corn’, and highly phallic images of two men comparing their ears of corn ensue. A second major section of the footage is introduced by a title card reading ‘Near East Foundation Program of Youth Education: Training Leaders in

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Social Progress’. Schools for boys and girls bear Greek inscriptions. One might assume that these stem from Greek-speaking communities in southern Albania, however a sequence in a classroom for girls shows pupils working with a map of Athens! This is followed by images taken in Sofia, Bulgaria. Very little distinction is made between Albania and its Balkan neighbours. The footage addresses the American or Western viewer as if all were the same! The latter part of the footage finally introduces peasant women, and we see them at work and relaxing. It is essential to note that, throughout the entire footage, activities reflect, from the perspective of traditional Albania, gender-appropriate activities, both work and leisure. And these end with a suggestion of marriage and family. Near the end of the film, a bride appears, veiled in white and mounted on a horse. This sequence is followed by images of a baby in a cradle. The final sequence shows a group of women walking along a country road, who, when spying the camera, immediately cover their faces. The Elliott Taylor footage indeed presents impressive ethnographical images of life in rural Albania in the early to mid-1930s. Nonetheless, its insistence on foregrounding the developmental activities of the Near East Foundation decisively positions the images along an east-west divide. Albania is clearly presented as an eastern country, but which now has the opportunity to be westernized. One decidedly has the ‘lay of Albanian land’. The final images of marriage and early childhood recall Annette Kolodny’s (1975, p. 150) positioning of America as a female body, with the westward movement implying in part ‘embrace, enclosure, and nurture’. Yet we must recall that she cautions us that such a process involved ‘eroticism, penetration, and raping’ (p. 150). The footage of the Near East Foundation’s work in Albania reveals the neo-colonial underpinnings of the organization and its work. A distinct perspective on Albania of the 1930s can be found in a 1936 newsreel made by the American series, The March of Time. ‘Albania’s King Zog’ (1936) is a six and one-half minute exploration of the Albanian monarch, composed of silent black and white footage of the king himself; the Albanian army; the architecture of Tirana; British soldiers sent to train the country’s military forces; a royal wedding, and Albanian schoolchildren marching. Zog is described as a once penniless mountaineer who strove to protect the country’s sovereignty for 20 years, but whose death is now sought by 800 of his fellow highlanders. Hence, poor King Zog is a lonely monarch, unsafe at home or abroad. The voice-over discusses how the king had once sought to marry any American heiress who could bring his country an income of one million dollars, but that there had been no takers. It stresses that Zog’s

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Image 5. From Elliott Taylor’s footage of Albania for the Near East Foundation. Courtesty of the Holt-Atherton Special Collections, University of the Pacific.

government has been snubbed by virtually all European powers, with the exception of Fascist Italy, and hence, four of the king’s five sisters have been unable to marry into European royalty. The film documents the marriage of the one lucky sister to a Turkish prince, an event at which the only foreign delegation present is Italian. Stressing Zog’s desire to learn about the world outside of Albania, the newsreel foregrounds how he often meets foreign tourists in hotels to chat and hear their points of view. Foregrounding the king’s loneliness, it includes a dramatic reconstruction of Zog peering out his window with binoculars, spying a poker game, and telephoning the players to ask if he can join in, to which they gladly consent. The film stresses that Zog has been forced, for financial reasons, to sell Albania to Mussolini. It explores the construction of military highways by the Fascist government; the dredging of the port of Durrës to accommodate Italian warships; the construction of docks to foster trade with Italy, and the implementation of Italian education in Albania. The newsreel’s final commentary explains that while ‘Mussolini’s right hand grabbed in Ethiopia, his left hand was snatching for his new empire, little Albania, the finest piece of colonial plunder left in Europe. Time marches on!’ The question of nation is thus problematized in early films made in Albania, and such dynamics involved not only the images depicted, but also the

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sites of production and reception. In the case of the Manaki brothers, Avdella and Monastir were microcosms of the complexity of the south-western Balkans, and the multilingualism was inscribed into the region’s population in a manner unlike virtually anywhere in Western Europe. Nevertheless, the vivid images made by the Manaki brothers undisputedly depict what life was like in Albanophone territories in the early decades of the twentieth century. One discovers both domestic activities and official pomp and circumstance. Jean Brunhes may have been an ethnographer documenting the cultural other from a metropolitan standpoint, but the moving images that he and August Léon made of Albania speak for themselves. Direct and unmediated, they could easily have been made by an Albanian, had the resources been available. Yet, one must wonder if film images taken by Albanians or Albanians from the diaspora existed? The answer is ‘yes’. But can these images be found? In 1926, an ethnographic film on Albania was produced by the Albanian consul in Boston, George Prifti. According to Regina Longo of the Albanian Cinema Project, this film constituted the first moving images taken in Albania made by Albanians, and not by foreigners. Prifti showed the film at numerous venues, primarily in Massachusetts with the intention of raising money for the Albanian Red Cross (Regina Longo, personal contact, January 2014). Agron Alibali has affirmed the Albanian connection to the footage and asserts that Faik Konitza, Albania’s then minister to Washington, D.C., endeavoured to have the film duplicated at the best laboratories in the nation’s capital (Agron Alibali, personal contact, March 2015). Unfortunately, attempts to locate the film have to date proven futile.

Mihallaq Mone Prior to the communist period, the most extensive film images of Albania were shot by Italians, many by the Istituto Luce. In the Luce Archives of Cinecittà, over 700 newsreels related to Albania are housed, the majority of these made between 1927 and 1944. A good number of the pieces have a strong political agenda and focus on such topics as the arrival of the Italian military in Albania; Albanian children greeting Italian officers; the Italian cemetery in Vlora, and the marriage of King Zog’s sister to Prince Abid. Others highlight the socioeconomic advances of Fascist Albania and include such topics as work on the harbour of Durrës; a dentistry campaign, and life in a Tirana girls’ school. Still others explore Albanian customs, traditions, and landscape, or celebrate the anniversary of the country’s independence.

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Lako (2002b, pp. 34–35) foregrounds the ironic juxtaposition in such Luce vehicles between the gazes of Albanians, clad in traditional costumes, and the ‘scintillating medals of the rank bars of the generals that visit Albania’. For Mussolini, the cinema represented a powerful vehicle for the political and moral education of Albanians. Granted, films from around the world were shown in Albanian cinemas, but these were introduced by newsreels replete with strong Fascist propaganda. The occupation was especially complex in that there emerged a three-way relationship among the points of view of the people, the camera, and the invader (p. 28). Lako (2002b, pp. 31) has viewed films made in Albania under the Fascist occupation as ‘the imagination of free human being under a very forced control’. The Fascist occupation of Albania perpetuated the pattern that only foreigners could film on Albanian soil, but with a noteworthy shift; a limited number of Albanians could be involved in the process. Lako (2002b, p. 28) stresses that, under the Fascist occupation, Albanians demonstrated a strong desire to have their own cinema, but this dream was never realized under Mussolini. Albanians could be involved in filmmaking, but it needed to be Italian-sponsored. The foremost Albanian filmmaker associated with the Italian industry was Mihallaq Mone. Born in Vlora in 1917, Mone studied at Rome’s Centro Sperimentali di Cinematografia together with a number of other Albanian film professionals, among these, actor Kristaq Antoniu. He subsequently returned to Albania to make newsreels for the Luce company, which, although a vehicle for Fascist propaganda, produced rich images of life in Tirana and other Albanian cities. On 30 September 1942, the Tomorri Society was launched for the purpose of making films in Albania. Although it was founded on the express orders of Mussolini, its director was Mihallaq Mone. Referring to those artists who had studied at the Centro Sperimentali di Cinematografia, the Tomorri Society stressed that these young men had understood and accepted ‘the importance of cinematography as a means of education and propaganda’ [my emphasis] (Lako, 2002a, p. 34) Yet things were, in all actuality, not that one-sided. Lako argues that a documentarian, like a director of a feature film, must assume an active role in the production of meaning (p. 32). And Mone did just that. ‘He became known for his short films that focused on Albanian ethnography, customs, and folk traditions’ (p. 32). Moreover, he captured with his lens the zeitgeist of occupied Albania.6 One of the f ilms for which Mone is most noted is I figli del aquila di Scanderbeg-- Bijtë e shqipes së Skendebeut/The Eagle Sons of Scanderbeg, a 6 For more details on the work of Mihallaq Mone, see Lako (2002a) and (2002b).

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fifteen-minute study of Albania’s youth under the Fascist occupation. The English title of the film, as provided in Film Muzeum 1895–1952: Nga aparti fotografil tek kamera, indeed reflects the spirit of the film, inasmuch as it suggests the strength and determination of young Albanians. Yet a more accurate translation would be ‘Children of Scanderbeg’s Eagle’. To a certain extent, the English title provided by the Albanian State Film Archives is much more powerful—‘eagle sons’ rather than ‘sons of the eagle’. Yet there remains a possible inaccuracy. The choice of ‘sons’ as opposed to ‘children’ results from an ambiguity in the plural forms, figli and bijtë, in Italian and Albanian respectively. In Italian, figli is either masculine or gender-neutral. In Albanian, the general-neutral plural bijtë is very close to the masculine plural bijte.7 A gender-neutral form is more appropriate given that the film records the activities of both young women and young men, with special emphasis being devoted to the former. The Eagle Sons of Scanderbeg, as housed in the Luce Archives of Cinecittà, consists exclusively of silent footage, which is highly unusual for the 1940s pieces found in the Luce Archives. It is thus likely that the sound elements have been lost. The film’s opening credits inform the viewer that it was made under the sponsorship of the Albanian Ministry of Popular Culture and the Albanian Fascist Party. The Eagle Sons of Scanderbeg is composed of three closely related and interlocking elements: the beauty of Albania’s landscape, the orderliness of its cities, and the physical dexterity and discipline of its youth. It opens with images of the Albanian mountains followed by long shots of villagers in traditional clothing crossing a bridge. It then cuts to images of healthy and happy Albanian children playing in water, alternatively showing master shots of groups of children and close-ups of smiling faces. The subjects of the film range from young children to adolescents in Fascist youth camps. We see children playing on seesaws and swings, riding bicycles, and roller-skating. The skating consists of an intricate ballet, with young women dancing on skates, performing a complexly choreographed pas de deux, and moving in flowing formation. Young girls dance in a circle and older girls play volleyball. Boys jump hurdles and engage in other sports. Numerous activities are gender-specific; while young women sew and iron, young men engage in rifle practice. In all cases, exercises are performed with high precision, and all movements are carefully synchronized. Individual youths are presented as part of a well-organized and disciplined group. 7 Albanians are notorious for replacing the character ‘ë’ with ‘e’, which in many cases does not lead to confusing results but in others is ambivalent. This tendency has worsened in the age of the internet and text messaging.

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Special attention is devoted to the health of the young people. We see a doctor performing routine tests on boys and watch the treatment of a leg injury. We furthermore note that all the film’s subjects are well-fed on nourishing food, which they appear to enjoy. Mone incorporates urban images of Tirana into his film as well. The Albanian capital is presented as a clean, orderly, and well-disciplined city. Traffic moves cautiously, and children of diverse ages march methodically to their classrooms. The city’s residents appear calm and dignified. Albania is thus presented as a utopia of sorts, its venerable cities echoing the majesty of its natural landscape. The concluding sequences of The Eagle Sons of Scanderbeg interweave urban and rural. Children perform behind microphones in what appears to be a radio broadcast. Girls dance in traditional Albanian costumes in a bucolic setting, while boys go boating. The closing image of the film shows a road through the vast reaches of Albania’s mountains. Mussolini has deftly made in-roads into the land of the eagle. Aside from the emphasis on uniformity and strictness, there are other cues that denote Fascism. Above the entrance to a youth facility is a slogan in Italian (first!) and Albanian, reading ‘Believe, Obey, Fight’. Other propaganda is present. At a mass gymnastics event, which mirrors on a smaller scale the Arirang performances held in today’s North Korea, an Italian-language slogan reads ‘Vogliamo la grande Albania’, ‘We want great Albania’. These words are double-edged. While they certainly suggest Albania’s potential to develop into a great Fascist state, they also make a menacing reference to expansionism, to the potential occupation by Italy of all Albanophone lands. At the gymnastics event, we cut from the performances to the faces of adults in the audience, who appear to smile in support of Albania’s youth. Despite its depiction of propaganda, to describe The Eagle Sons of Scanderbeg as a work of propaganda may well be too one-sided. All the while giving a bow to Fascism, it nonetheless presents a portrait of Albania and its people in 1942. Lako (2002b) argues eloquently to this effect. Asserting that, through his films, Mone attempted to transcend direct propaganda, she describes his compositions as ‘careful, almost angular and with intercepted perspectives’ (p. 39). In her discussion of the 1942 documentary, Lako describes ‘the human faces filled with forced hope, unconscious for what lay ahead of them, filled with forced hope by a forced future that will never exist’ (p. 32). Lako, moreover, was key in uncovering information regarding a 1943 short film by Mihallaq Mone, Takim në liqen (Meeting at the Lake),8 which 8 It is essential to note that the film never had an official English title. The title was translated into English many years later, most likely by the Albanian State Film Archive.

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celebrated the Albanian folksong, and which, like so many other early films, has been lost. The film featured Kristaq Antoniu,9 Merita Sokoli, and Viktori Xhaçka. Very little is known about this work, and it is unclear whether a positive print was ever struck. Efforts to locate a negative or print in vaults in Rome have proven unfruitful (Eriona Vyshka, personal contact, May 2013).10 Koço Nini, husband of Violeta Xhaçka, Viktori’s sister, recalls the production. At that time, Violeta was employed in the art department of the Ministry of Culture, while Viktori was singing in concerts in Tirana and Durrës together with Merita Sokolli, a prominent singer at Radio Tirana. The two artists were invited to appear together with Antoniu in Mone’s film, which was to be made in Pogradec (Nini, n.d., p. 39). Violeta Xhaçka provided invaluable cultural and logistic assistance to the film-makers. The disappearance of Meeting at the Lake and the overall lack of information as to its production may be partially due to the fall of the Fascist government and to Mone’s having become persona non grata for the Communist Party. In 1945, he left for Italy and later spent the remainder of his life in the United States. The work of Mihallaq Mone may well have been sponsored by Fascist Italy. Nonetheless, together with the lost footage of George Prifti, it represents the initial steps towards an Albanian national cinema. Such a dream could not be realized under the Fascist occupation, and it would only come to fruition with the establishment of the People’s Socialist Republic of Albania. The path would be slow—it would take until 1958 for Albania to produce its first feature film—, yet great rewards would be forthcoming. The films of the new state’s first twelve years would be but a harbinger of what Kinostudio would develop.

Works cited Alpion, Gëzim (2004), ‘Media, ethnicity, and patriotism—the Balkans’ unholy war for the appropriation of Mother Teresa’, Journal of Southern Europe and the Balkans 6.3, pp. 227–243. Chauvin, Loïc and Christian Raby (2011), Marubi: A Dynasty of Albanian Photographers. Marubi: njè dinasti fotografèsh shqiptare, Paris: Écrits de Lumière. 9 Kristaq Antoniu, known in Romanian as Christache Antoniu, was an ethnic Albanian operatic and folk singer born in Bucharest in 1909. A star of the Romanian cinema of the 1920s, Antoniu was internationally recognized for his operatic performances as well as for a number of recordings of folk songs. For a discussion of his career, see Koço (2004, pp. 62–63). 10 My own efforts to locate the film through Cinecittà have also led to nothing.

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Christodoulou, Christos K. (1997), The Manakis Brothers: The Greek Pioneers of the Balkanic Cinema, Thessaloniki: Organization for the Cultural Capital of Europe. Cowan, Jane K. (2008), ‘Fixing National Subjects in the 1920s Southern Balkans: Also an International Practice’, American Ethnologist 35.2, pp. 338–356. Eleftheriadis, G. (1997), ‘Statement from Ambassador G. Eleftheriadis’, in Christos K. Christodoulou, The Manakis Brothers: The Greek Pioneers of the Balkanic Cinema, Thessaloniki: Organization for the Cultural Capital of Europe, 1997, p. 1. Gish, Lillian (1984), Acceptance speech upon receipt of the 1984 American Film Institute Life Achievement Award,https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CG7t_hxIoU. Accessed 12 May 2021. Gjonlekaj, Gjeke (1988), ‘Reportazh për takimin e një grupi të shqiptareve të NewYork-ut me Nënen Tereze, Bronx, 17 June, 1988’, Voice of America, 17 June, https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=gPbHUdJXV64. Accessed 12 May 2021. Grgić, Ana (2016), ‘The Archaeology of Memory: Tracing Balkan(ist) Fragments in Albert Kahn’s Albanie’, KinoKultura Special Issue 16 (Albania), 12.3, pp. 276–292. http://www.kinokultura.com/specials/16/grgic.shtml. Accessed 21 May 2021. Grgić, Ana (2017), ‘Laughter and Tragedy of the Absurd: Identifying Common Characteristics of Balkan Comedies under State Socialism’, in Armina Galijaš and Hrvoje Paić, eds.,, Special Studies in Eastern European Cinema 17. Issue on Film and Society in South-East Europe, Contemporary Southeastern Europe: An Interdisciplinary Journal on Southeastern Europe 4.2, pp. 47–66. Grgić, Ana (2021), ‘Building a New Socialist Art: A Short History of Albanian Cinema’, Studies in Eastern European Cinemas 12.3, pp. 276–292. Grgić, Ana (2022), Early Cinema, Modernity and Visual Culture: The Imaginary of the Balkans, Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Hoxha, Abaz (1994), Arti i shtatë ne Shqipëri, Tirana: Albin. Hoxha, Abaz (2002b), 100 vjet kinema në trojet shqiptare/100 Years of Cinema in Albanian Dwellings, Tirana: Marin Barlett. Hoxha, Abaz (2007), Historia e kinemasë në Shqipëri: Vëllimi i pare—1897–1944, Tirana: Ilar. Iordanova, Dina (2001), A Cinema of Flames: Balkan Film, Culture and Other Media, London: British Film Institute. Koço, Eno (2004), Albanian Urban Lyric Song in the 1930s, Lanham, MD: Scarecrow. Kolodny, Annette (1975), The Lay of the Land: Metaphor as Experience and History in American Life and Letters, Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press. Lako, Natasha (2002a), ‘Lajo e imazhit 1895–1945’/‘The Game of Albanian Film Image 1895-1945’, Film museum 1895–1952: Nga aparati fotografik tek kamera, Tirana: Arkivi Qëndror Shtetëror i Filmit, pp. 6–7. Lako, Natasha (2002b), ‘Mihallaq Mone—Intriga e iniciativës personale kundrejt diktaturës koloniales më extreme’/‘Mihallaq Mone—The intrigue of

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the personal initiative towards the most extreme colonial dictatorship’, Film Muzeum 1895–1952: Nga aparati fotografik tek kamera, Tirana: Arkivi Qëndror Shtetëror i Filmit, pp. 28–39. Martis, Nikolaos (1997), ‘Preface’, in Christos K. Christodoulou, The Manakis Brothers: The Greek Pioneers of the Balkanic Cinema, Thessaloniki: Organization for the Cultural Capital of Europe, p. 2. Nini, Koço (2002.), ‘Kujtime’, Film Muzeum 1895–1952: Nga aparati fotografik tek kamera, Tirana: Arkivi Qëndror Shtetëror i Filmit, p. 39. Nora, Pierre (1989), ‘Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de mémoire, Representations 26: pp. 7-14. Tërshana, Irian (2002), ‘Kujtime’/‘Memories’, Film Muzeum 1895-1952: Nga aparati fotografil tek kamera, Tirana: Arkivi Qëndror Shtetëror i Filmit, pp. 12–13. Ţuțui, Marian (2011), Orient Express: The Romanian and Balkan Cinema: Bucharest: Administrației Fondului Cultural Național NMP, pp. 111-126.

II. The Birth and Development of a Socialist Cinema Abstract: This chapter first explores Albania’s cultural and political ties with the Soviet Union. It then proceeds with a study of Albanian-made newsreels and documentaries, the sole existing film genres made in the early years of the country’s cinema trajectory. It looks at the training of future Albanian film professionals in Moscow and examines a large-scale coproduction between the two countries. The documentary work of Endri Keko and Viktor Stratobërdha, who were both trained in the Soviet Union and who brought the genre to a higher level of artistic integrity, will be foregrounded. The chapter concludes with a discussion of Kinostudio’s first feature film productions, an ode to socialist realism and an exploration of the partisan movement, the latter coproduced with Mosfilm. Key words: Albania, cinema, Soviet Union, documentary, socialist realism, film education

This chapter explores the establishment of a socialist film industry in Albania following the birth of the communist state. It examines early works in the newsreel and documentary genres, which, for the country’s first decade, constituted its sole film output. These years saw the consolidation of the People’s Republic of Albania and the formation of the Warsaw Pact, of which Albania was a founding member. During this period, Albania had strong ties with the Soviet Union, which considered it a very strategic ally given its proximity to the West. The newsreels and documentaries produced by Albania gave strong voice to the triumphs of the young state, and this was framed in the context of Albanian-Soviet friendship.1 Films for entertain-

1 The history of the establishment of the national cinema of communist Albania is dealt with at length by Hoxha (2002b).

Williams, B., Albanian Cinema through the Fall of Communism: Silver Screens and Red Flags. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789462980150_ch02

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ment were imported, a good number from the Soviet Union.2 Given that the new Kinostudio had few trained professionals, and moreover, was not yet in a position to provide its own training, future film artists and technicians were sent abroad to study in the Soviet Union, Hungary, and Czechoslovakia. This chapter will discuss the first cohort of these students. Although brief mention will be made here of Stalinist film practices, references to Enver Hoxha’s views on the arts and cinema will be reserved for Chapter III, given that these topics stem from Hoxha’s speeches and documents of the 1960s and 1970s, as well from a contemporaneous Kinostudio manifesto. The foregoing discussion will primarily proceed in chronological order, though not exclusively. It will first undertake a brief examination of political and cultural ties between Albania and the Soviet Union. This will be followed by an exploration of Albanian newsreels and documentaries—the distinction between the two being often blurred—from the late 1940s. It will then explain how Albania created a cadre of film professionals trained in Moscow. A discussion will be presented of a coproduction with Mosfilm focusing on Albania’s national hero, Skanderbeg. Subsequently, an examination will be made of documentary and newsreels from the 1950s, which reveal considerable sophistication in comparison with their counterparts of the 1940s. Special attention will be devoted to the films of Endri Keko and Viktor Stratobërdha. The chapter will conclude with an examination of the first feature-film productions of the new Kinostudio complex during the years 1957–1959. Albeit not a fan of the medium to the degree of Stalin, Enver Hoxha, nonetheless, understood that the development of a national film industry was a burning issue. In any case, the communist government was quick to recognize the importance of the cinema in the development of the socialist state, and hence, it sought to nationalize cinema houses and construct more of them in small towns and remote areas. Film production was, in a like manner, nationalized. Such measures were ushered into effect by decrees of the council of ministers on 9 and 10 April 1947, at the time of the establishment of the national film industry.3 The emphasis the regime placed on spreading the cinema throughout remote areas attests to the value it placed on the mass appeal of the medium. Nevertheless, in the early years of the 2 For a discussion of foreign films viewed in Albania during the early years of communism, see Mëhilli (2011, pp. 134–160). 3 See ‘Korrespondencë e Këshillit të Ministrave me Ministrinë e Shtypit dhe Propagandës, mbi krijimin e Entit Kinematografik Shqiptar’, Arkivi Qendror Shteterer i Filmit, F.490, dos. 154, V.1946, Fl.2. 17.

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communist regime, there were no Albanian films to be seen. Moreover, a good number of films from the decadent West were confiscated. 4

Albania and the Soviet Union An especially significant examination of ties between Albania and the Soviet Union can be found in a 2017 study by Elidor Mëhilli, and the following remarks, which contextualize the early growth of Albanian cinema will be drawn primarily from his work. In 1947, Enver Hoxha had the opportunity to visit Moscow and meet Stalin. On this occasion, his delegation brought the party statute and key documents for feedback from officials of the Soviet Union. Stalin recommended that Hoxha name his party the Party of Labour of Albania given both Albania’s demographic reality and its agenda for future industrialization (Mëhilli, 2017, p. 43). Upon his return to Albania, Hoxha extolled the greatness of the Soviet Union and spoke of its modern factories. Mëhilli stresses, ‘The Soviet Union was an example of order, discipline, and above all, political will. Without the Soviet Union, Albanians would have been haunted by “ominous fate”. They were ground to the Soviets “by blood”’ (p. 43). Nonetheless, Stalin was adamant that Hoxha must strengthen his ties with Tito; a Soviet representative in Tirana would later stress that, for Albania, the road to Moscow must pass through Belgrade (p. 43). Cooperation between Albania and Yugoslavia was short-lived. The 1948 rift between Moscow and Belgrade led to an irreparable breach between Hoxha and Tito. The death of Stalin in 1953 marked the beginning of major shifts in Albania’s alliances within the socialist world. The leadership of Nikita Khrushchev brought about immediate changes in Soviet policy. The new government advocated peaceful coexistence with the capitalist world, something Albania did not support. Yet more of a concern to Albania was its notion that there was not a single path to socialism. Moscow’s level of openness towards other varieties of communism was disconcerting to Hoxha, whose policies were faithful to Stalinist ideas. This new level of tolerance on the part of Khrushchev of Tito’s brand of communism posed a threat to Hoxha, who feared attempts to incorporate Albania into Yugoslavia. As a concession to Khrushchev, Albania re-established ties with Yugoslavia in 1953, but the Hoxha regime became increasingly staunch in its Stalinist dogma, in stark contrast to both Yugoslavia and Khrushchev’s Soviet Union. In February 1956, Khrushchev spoke of the cult of personality that had 4

For further information on confiscated films, see Mëhilli (2011, pp. 141–143).

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defined Stalin’s regime and indicted the former leader for despotic crimes and lies. Elidor Mëhilli (2017, p. 87) describes the Soviet premier’s ‘secret speech’ and its resonance in Albania, stressing that ‘it made for high drama’. Although the speech was not circulated by the Albanian party leadership, word got out anyway. There were hopes for similar changes in Albania on the part of some members of the Party. Yet critical stances towards the Hoxha regime were difficult, if not impossible, to express (Mëhilli, 2017, p. 87). Two years later, the situation was such that Hoxha interrupted a conference of the Albanian Party of Labour, and ‘insisted that the party was democratic, that no cult of personality existed and that outside powers were trying to destabilize Albania’ (Abrahams, 2015, pp. 18–19). Hoxha attacked dissenters and expelled critics from the party, sending the most vocal of these into internal exile or prison. As Abrahams asserts, dissent within the party had been squelched, ‘and along with it any hope of challenging Hoxha from within’ (p. 19). Although Albania’s position as a founder of the Warsaw Pact in 1955 and subsequent membership in the alliance served as a promise that its borders would be protected, Albania was still extremely leery of Yugoslavia. One of the conditions of Khrushchev’s first and only official visit to Albania was that the topic of Yugoslavia would be off limits, an interdiction that Hoxha promptly broke. Khrushchev was further annoyed that Albania requested continued monetary aid. Albania’s relationship with the Warsaw Pact was problematical for a number of reasons, mostly related to Moscow’s intervention in the internal affairs of member nations.5 Although its stance against the Soviet Union led to condemnation on the part of the Pact in 1962, at which time it ceased participation in the activities of the group, it did not formally withdraw its membership until 1968, in protest of the Pact’s involvement in the invasion of Czechoslovakia.6 The six years between the initial rift and Albania’s final departure from the Pact reveal that the separation between Albania and the Eastern Bloc was a gradual process. In a like manner, despite the formal collapse of diplomatic ties with the Soviet Union, Hoxha praised Albania’s friendship with the Russian people in 1962, and the journal of the Society of Albanian-Soviet Friendship continued publishing until 1966 (Mëhillu, 2017, p. 209). 5 For more on the complex entanglement among Albania, the Soviet Union, and the Warsaw Pact see Vucinich (1963). 6 Esat Musliu’s 1987 Rrethi i kujtesës/The Circle of Memory, one of Albania’s few f ilms that might be deemed a psychological thriller, opens with a young woman watching coverage of the invasion of Czechoslovakia. This film will be discussed in Chapter V.

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Soviet films as entertainment The role of the cinema in the development of the socialist state cannot be underestimated. Josef Stalin, for instance, was very closely involved in the Soviet Union’s film industry and in guiding it towards his own ideological and aesthetic values. As early as 1932, the Soviet Central Bureau followed up on Stalin’s passion for comedy and called a meeting of film directors and scriptwriters under the umbrella of ‘Smekh—rodnoi brat sily’ (‘Laughter is the Brother of Strength’) (Salys, 2009, p. 25). A year later, a film commission (Kinokomissia) was established by the Organizing Bureau of the Central Committee, which designated Stalin the ‘chief curator of the arts in Russia’. As Rimgaila Salys (20009, p. 23) explains, Stalin’s love for the cinema explains both the relatively low number of filmmakers who suffered under the purges and, ironically, the decline in production compared to the last half of the 1920s. Indeed, Stalin and members of the Politburo ‘viewed and vetted all Soviet films before their release, and his taste and reactions determined their ultimate fate’.7 Prior to the development of Albania’s own cinema industry, Soviet films were an entertainment mainstay. We need only mention the familiarity Albanians had with the musicals of Aleksandrov, in particular Volga-Volga (1938).8 These were mostly imported by the Society of AlbanianSoviet Friendship and shown throughout Albania on mobile projectors (Mëhilli, 2018, p. 616). In 1951 alone, 21 feature films and 87 documentaries were imported from the Soviet Union. In 1952, Albania received nine feature films and 77 documentaries (Mëhilli, 2018, p. 617). As Mëhilli (2018, p, 617) explains, Soviet films were often shown in Russian given the shortage of translators as well as the Hoxha regime’s suspicion of older intellectuals who knew foreign languages. Despite the language barrier, the Friendship Society was determined that Albanian audiences should understand the films, Mëhilli (2018, p. 617) clarifies, To address the problem [of language], the Friendship Society sent agitators [my emphasis] along with the film reels to explain the proper context and meaning of the film to be screened. We are left speculating about the reception of such screenings. Unofficial sources are scarce. What existing 7 Stalin’s passion for the cinema is exemplified by his love for Grigori Aleksandrov’s Volga-Volga, a copy of which he sent to Franklin Delano Roosevelt as a gift in 1942. The Soviet leader had seen the film so many times that he could recite jokes from the dialogue before they came up in the soundtrack (Clark, 2002, p. 185). 8 During my March 1990 meeting with Kristaq Dhamo, then the director of Kinostudio, he mentioned the popularity in Albania of the films of Grigori Aleksandrov.

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records do show, however, is an ongoing preoccupation with workers’ and peasants’ cinematic taste, as well as deliberate attempts to modify it.

Mëhilli (2018, p. 618) clarifies that, when available, subtitles did, indeed, make a notable difference. He notes that a 1949 screening of a subtitled film reported some 3000 spectators more than an earlier Russian-language showing of the same film without subtitles.

Early Albanian newsreels and documentaries Although the focus of this book is not on newsreels and documentaries, an understanding of the early developments of communist Albania in the production of these genres is essential to a contextualization of the feature films that constitutes the core of the analyses of this work. During the initial years of communism in Albania, the newly established cinematic initiative produced hundreds of newsreels and documentaries, the distinction between the two being difficult to delineate. They were quite standard fare for a fledgling communist state and focused on political conferences and Albanian delegations to other socialist countries, agricultural advances, and urban development. Other topics broached included ideological education for young Albanians and the country’s cultural treasures. Even the concern of traffic safety was not ignored! These non-fiction films were exclusively aimed at a domestic audience with the obvious intent of imbuing in viewers a sense of national pride and an affinity with the ideological goals of the regime. They did not receive international attention at the time. And by and large, even to this day, they have only received scant recognition abroad, this due to their lack of dissemination to any noteworthy extent outside of the confines of Albania.9 The dominance of newsreels and documentaries persisted until the late 1950s inasmuch as Albania lacked an infrastructure for feature film production. The following brief overview of documentaries and newsreels made from 1947 up to and including 1949 does not intend to offer an exhaustive discussion. Rather, it is designed to give a general idea of the themes included, as well as to provide a look at the coproduction processes involved during the period in which Albania began to consolidate its own film industry. In some cases, no director is credited. there may well be, for instance, a Soviet 9 Although these early newsreels and documentaries constitute valuable historical records, the Albanian overseas diaspora takes an extremely harsh approach to the former communist regime, and hence, considers these works to be examples of pure propaganda.

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director mentioned together with the names of Albanians participating in the production. In at least one case, it is difficult to determine the exact place of post-production since the Albanian-language credits have, as is very common with foreign names in Albanian, changed the spelling of Slavic names, making it somewhat challenging to ascertain the language of the original partners. In 1947, Mandi Koçi, known for his work with the f ilm industries of Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, and the Soviet Union, filmed a documentary on an official visit made by Enver Hoxha to the country’s south. Komandanti viziton Shqipërinë e mesme e të jugut/The Commander Visits Central and South Albania follows the leader Comrade Enver to such cities as Vlora, Gjirokastër, Berat, Përmet, Pogradec, and Korça, and concludes with the pomp and circumstance of his return to Tirana. The film abounds with folkloric imagery. We see shots of traditional dancing and exuberant crowds. These are interspersed with tales of Comrade Enver kissing children and speaking to the masses. Hoxha is often photographed from low camera angles, and he appears to be a massive and imposing figure, in contrast with images of him stemming from future years, where he appears to be much more accessible. Gjirokastër is celebrated as Hoxha’s birthplace, and Vlora is presented as the site of Albania’s 1912 declaration of independence. Of special significance are signs praising Hoxha, Stalin, and Tito, which, in contrast to the atmosphere that would be prevalent in the early 1960s, bear witness to a sense of unity among nations of the Soviet bloc at this time. Such unity is further evidenced by the fact that post-production on the film was completed by Ayala Film in Belgrade, Yugoslavia’s first postwar studio. The use of the studio attests to the political situation of the era. Hoxha was a strong proponent of the Stalinist agenda of the Soviet Union and, in turn, the relationship between the latter and Yugoslavia was still strong. Hence, Albania, at this time, enjoyed positive relations with the Soviet Union and, under duress from Stalin, developed ties with Yugoslavia. In 1947, a ten-minute newsreel was made by the Central State Documentary Studio in Moscow documenting an official visit by the Albanian delegation led by Enver Hoxha. Qëndrimi i delegacionit qeveritar shqiptar në Moskë/ Visit of the Delegation of Albania to Moscow opens as the delegates arrive at the airport where Enver Hoxha greets the Soviets on behalf of the Albanian people. It follows the group to the Lenin Mausoleum, where Hoxha leaves a large arrangement of flowers. Obviously, official protocol did not allow for the depiction of the ceremony inside the mausoleum in front of Lenin’s corpse, so the film only shows their entry into the landmark. The delegation also admires Russian art at the Tretyakov Gallery and attends a sporting

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parade in Dynamo Stadium. As is typical of all newsreels of the period, it consists of black-and-white images explained by a male voice-over. The film is accompanied by an intrusive orchestral score reflecting the pomp and circumstance of the occasion. Visit of the Delegation of Albania to Moscow, once again, attests to the strong relations between the countries at that time. Credited by the Albanian State Central Film Archives as a work of the Albanian national film enterprise, Ndërmarrja Kinematografike, Shqipnija në rrugën e lirisë/Albania on the Road to Freedom (1948) is a nine-minute film documenting Albania’s struggle against the Fascists and the Germans, and its modernization under the communist government. A silent film with voice-over, it depicts the arrival of Italian troops in Durrës; the struggle of the partisans; a school in communist Albania, and the newly constructed war museum. An opening title shows the name of a production company called ‘Zvezda’, and most of the Slavic names listed in the credits are spelled in Albanian. Significantly, the film uses the Gheg name for Albania ‘Shqipni’, rather than the standard form ‘Shqipëri’. Post-production was most likely undertaken in Yugoslavia. The same year, Hoxha, in the wake of Tito’s severance of ties with Moscow, would label ‘the Yugoslav leader a corrupt, revisionist communist who had betrayed Marxist ideal’, and would give Yugoslav technical and economic advisors 48 hours to leave Albania (Abrahams, 2015, p. 18). A 61-minute documentary, Ilia Kopalin’s Kongresi i pare i PKSh/The First Congress of the Albanian Communist Party (1948a) was coproduced by Moscow’s Central State Documentary Studio and Tirana’s Committee of Arts and Culture. It follows events in Albania during the days of the first congress of the Albanian Communist Party, including the inauguration of the Enver Factory, during which a good number of bureau members are present. A sequence of the funeral of four members of the Central Committee, at which Enver Hoxha is in attendance, is depicted. At 15:00, the congress is officially opened, and welcomes are heard from dignitaries from Bulgaria, Hungary, Romania, Czechoslovakia, as well as from representatives of the Greek and French communist parties. A congratulatory telegram is read from Stalin, and the crowd chants ‘Enver! Stalin Enver! Stalin’! Many attendees are clad in traditional Albanian clothing. The film closes on Skanderbeg Square, where Hoxha is scheduled to deliver a speech. Again, Kopalin’s film consists of black-and-white images with a male voice-over. Portions of the welcoming speeches are heard, unsubtitled, in the original languages. Although the director is Soviet, a number of Albanian names appear in the credits. Hence, it is clear that the film was a joint effort between the two countries. In the same year, Kopalin (1948b) filmed Shqipëria e re/New Albania, a 72-minute documentary detailing progress made by the young communist

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state. It opens with an image of an eagle flying over the Albanian mountains, and travels through the country’s southern cities Korça and Gjirokastër, the latter described as the birthplace of Enver Hoxha. It then visits Albania’s northern city of Shkodër and travels southward along the coast through Durrës, Vlora, Saranda, and the ruins of Butrint. Kopalin looks back at the Fascist occupation and draws parallels between Albania’s liberation and those of Romania, Bulgaria, and Yugoslavia. Modern agricultural progress is shown, and the film points out that both supplies and trucks are furnished from abroad. The inauguration of the work on a new railroad is shown, as well as the construction of factories. In Tirana, New Albania depicts a speech by Enver Hoxha and a parade. Classrooms are visited, where students learn subjects ranging from engineering to music. The film concludes with the singing of a patriotic song, and once again, the flight of an eagle. Sometimes it is unclear as to the level of Albanian authorship on 1940s newsreels and documentaries. For instance, a fifteen-minute film documenting a 1949 official visit by Enver Hoxha and an Albanian delegation to Moscow bears only the credits of the Soviet Central State Documentary Studio and the names of Soviet participants. This is the case of Qëndrimi i delegacionit shqiptar në Moskë/Visit of the Albanian Delegation to Moscow, which depicts the arrival of the Albanian delegation at Moscow’s Vnukovo Airport, where the group is met by the Soviet foreign minister. At the airport, Hoxha gives a speech lauding Soviet-Albanian friendship. The film follows the group as it visits the Lenin Mausoleum and Red Square and travels throughout the city of Moscow. A visit is paid to a textile mill. After an agreement has been reached regarding Soviet aid to Albania, Hoxha delivers a farewell speech at the airport, and the plane departs. Structurally, the film resembles numerous Albanian newsreels of the period. The images are silent, and they are accompanied by lively military marches. The Albanian-language voice-over, titles, and credits notwithstanding, it is next to impossible to determine the level of Albanian involvement, if any, in the production. Yet it is also impossible to rule out the possibility of Albanian participation in the film, given that, at the time, the Kinostudio complex had not been erected, and Albania would have had no post-production facilities of its own. The film attests to the strengthening of relations between Albania and the Soviet Union, which offered the young communist country ongoing foreign aid. This aid, however, as Abrahams asserts, did not solve all problems: ‘[…] the country remained an agricultural backwater, neglected and remote’ (Abrahams, 2015, p. 18). Albanian film production, spurred by the decrees of April 1947, was taking its first steps towards self-sufficiency. The newly founded Albanian film

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enterprise, Ndërmarrja Kinematografike, in 1949 undertook a film that was a completely Albanian production. Festivali Folklorist 1949/Folklore Festival 1949 is a ten-minute newsreel that reports on this event, which was attended by Enver Hoxha, high-ranking Albanian governmental officials, including Deputy Prime Minister and Minister of the Interior Mehmet Shehu, as well as the Soviet ambassador. The film depicts performances by folkloric groups combined with songs celebrating the Two-Year Plan10 and praising cooperation with the Soviet Union. Elidor Mëhilli (2017) has described the dynamics of visits from the Soviet Union. A delegation might well be treated to circus performers with high-brow classical musicians. National diversity was also of utmost importance. Visitors travelling together often came from Ukraine, Georgia, and the Central Asian republics (2017, p. 58). The frequency of such visiting delegations would increase during the 1950s. Soviet visitors to Albania perceived the country from their own point of view. Mëhilli (2017, p. 58) stresses that when a team visited the oil fields at Qyteti Stalin, they referred to the site as an Albanian Baku. Other themes in newsreels and documentaries of the 1940s include: a visit by an Albanian delegation to Bulgaria (1945); the Second Congress of Anti-Fascist Youth (1946); a parade celebrating the peace and happiness of the people (1948); the welfare of people’s lives (1948); the first Unification Congress of Youth (1949), and other similar topics that reflect the consolidation and growth of the socialist state. Together with the so-called documentaries were numerous newsreels on the events of the months. Again, what the Albanian State Central Film Archive has designated as a newsreel is virtually indistinguishable from a documentary, although the latter terms also encompass longer works, such as the abovementioned New Albania. The 1950s would witness a growth in the production of more sophisticated documentaries, as evidenced by the work of Endri Keko and Viktor Stratobërdha, discussed below.

The training of young film professionals in Moscow and linguistic and continued cultural ties between Albania and the Soviet Union Given that, in the early years of film in communist Albania, there was no infrastructure for the education and training of film artists and technicians, it was necessary for a group of future professionals to be sent abroad to 10 For more information on Albania’s 1949–1950 Two-Year Plan, which resulted in industrial growth of 367 % compared to the previous year, see Svetlov (1952, pp. 61–62).

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study. Albania’s communist government had grown out of a local partisan movement and not through the direct intervention of the Soviet Union. Enver Hoxha, moreover, developed his understanding of communism while in France. Nonetheless, Albania’s close ties with the Soviet Union and other Eastern Bloc countries were essential to the development of the country’s cinema. Sharing an ideological vision with its neighbours, Albania could profit from their expertise in the film industry. In 1950, a group of six young people in their early to mid-twenties were sent to study for two years at the Moscow Central Studio for Documentary Film. The cohort consisted of Jani Nano (cinematographer); Mihal Çarka (laboratory technician); Koço Tollko (sound engineer); Petraq Lubonja (cinematographer); Endri Keko (cinematographer and future director), and Xhanf ise Çipi (f ilm editor and future director of children’s films).11 The latter would marry Endri Keko and become Albania’s foremost woman director.12 The training of students in Moscow was the start of a more extensive initiative of training film professionals in other socialist countries. Dhimitër Anagnosti, whose name is synonymous with Kinostudio, would later study in Moscow at the Gerasimov Institute of Cinematography (VGIK) (Hoxha, 2002a, pp. 19–22). Two additional venues of particular importance were Budapest and Prague. Kristaq Dhamo, director of Albania’s first feature film, Tana (1958) studied in the former, while Hysen Hakani, director of Albania’s first short fiction film, would study at Prague’s prestigious FAMU. Only a few years later, Piro Milkani, a major figure of the 1970s, would have his education at FAMU interrupted by Albania’s initial steps towards isolation.13 The training of the Moscow cohort was a significant piece of the linguistic and cultural landscape of Albania as it entered the decade of the 1950s. A number of Albanians, including peasants, made the journey eastward to the Soviet Union. As Elidor Mëhilli (2017, p. 57) articulates, there they found ‘a modern, well-ordered society’. Even Albanian Muslim clerics visited Moscow, Samarkand, and Tashkent! In order not to intimidate Albanian visitors with the frenzy and modernity of Moscow, they were often sent off to such areas as Georgia, Azerbaijan, or Dagestan, where they might feel more at home (Mëhilli, 2017, p. 59). The Moscow cohort was just an early manifestation 11 Biographical sketches of the members of the Moscow cohort can be found in Abaz Hoxha (2002b). 12 The experiences of the young students in Mosvow are detailed at length in Xhanfise Keko’s 2008 memoires, Ditët e jetës sime (‘The Days of My Life’). 13 It is significant to note that Dhamo maintained knowledge of the Hungarian language over the course of his life. Milkani, for his part, has not only kept up his Czech, but moreover served as Albania’s ambassador to the Czech Republic from 1992–1999.

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Image 6. Xhanfise Çipi (Keko) and Endro Keko, students in the first Moscow cohort of aspiring film professionals. Courtesy of the Albanian Central State Film Archive.

of educational exchanges to the Soviet Union. By 1958, some 1240 Albanian students had graduated from Soviet and Eastern Bloc universities while another 820 were still enrolled (Mëhilli, 2017, p. 63). Studying or undergoing training in the Soviet Union was not an easy task. Students would take a six-day boat trip to the port of Odessa, and then continue onward by train for a day or two. They were forced to negotiate in a foreign language. When on summer breaks back home in Albania, party officials often sent them throughout the country as ‘ambassadors’ of the Soviet Union (or, in other cases, of the Eastern Bloc country where they had studied). In Albania, Russian became a language of prestige, although many party leaders did not know it. Nonetheless, there was a concerted effort in the early 1950s for language training. In 1949, the Russian language was introduced at the Tirana Pedagogical Institute, and by 1950, some 850 individuals were enrolled in Russian language study throughout Albania (Mëhilli, 2017, p. 83). Mëhilli explains that the first language courses were aimed at governmental officials, party leaders, and a few intellectuals. A good deal of the courses given throughout Albania were organized by the Society for AlbanianSoviet Friendship. In 1951, Soviet linguist Nina Potapova prepared a Russian language method aimed at Albanians, which Elidor Mëhilli describes as ‘[…] basic, but amply illustrated, with an introduction hailing Russian as the language of “the immortal geniuses of humanity—Lenin and Stalin”’ (2017, p. 83). The courses, which met two or three times per week, led to

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a certificate in two to three years (2017, pp. 83–84). Nonetheless, Russian language courses were a hard sell, and due to work demands and sheer exhaustion, many students dropped out or failed to take exams. The Russian language had entered the primary school curriculum by 1953. Mëhilli stresses that the mode of instruction was not actually conducive to learning the language, inasmuch as adult learners were unable to independently handle Russian texts (2017, p. 84). In any case, the development of Russian language instruction was indicative of the importance of everything Soviet in 1950s Albania. The Kinostudio complex itself was an homage to the Soviet Union. Constructed in a neighbourhood in the northern outskirts of Tirana traditionally occupied by Roma, its main edifice was modelled after the cathedral of Vilnius, a surprising prototype given the atheistic dogma that would define the Hoxha regime. It is essential to note that the first newsreels made in the studio focused on the construction of the building and celebrated ‘the wonderful architecture of the palace, the beautiful rooms and the complex machines sent by the Soviet Union’ (Mëhilli, 2018, pp. 618–619). Once again, considerable homage was paid to the Soviet Union. As Elidor Mëhilli (2018, p. 611) argues, referring to the building, ‘[…] it was a manifestly Soviet product of the 1950, as the architecture attests, offering an opportunity to consider how international engagement produced a national icon’. On 10 July 1952, film editor Xhanfise Çipi, recently graduated from the Moscow institute, handed a pair of scissors to Comrade Enver Hoxha who, in turn, cut the ribbon to open the New Albania Kinostudio for its first work day.14 In his speech at the opening, Hoxha cautioned filmmakers to ‘Take from foreigners what is necessary, what is best, but first of all, find inspiration in the glories and heroic labour of our people’ (Keko, 1952). And the members of the Moscow cohort were among the new enterprise’s leaders. In line with Ndërmarrja Kinematografike, the infancy of Kinostudio was dominated by newsreels and short subjects that served to further the ideological path of the state. And once again, much emphasis was placed on Soviet-Albanian friendship. It was not until 1958 that Dhamo made Tana, which epitomized Albania’s debt to earlier socialist realist films. The studio would remain Albania’s sole cinema enterprise until the fall of communism.

14 Footage of Xhanfise Çipi handing the scissors to Enver Hoxha appears in Mevlan Shanaj’s 2017 documentary, Xhanfise Keko: A Woman Director in the Age of Celluloid.

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Image 7. Enver Hoxha arrives for the inauguration of Kinostudio, 10 July 1952. Courtesy of the Albanian Central State Film Archive.

Sergei Yutkevich’s Luftëtari i madh i Shqipërisë Skënderbeu/ Великий воин Албании Скандербег/The Great Warrior Skanderbeg: A Soviet-Albanian coproduction One of the fruits of the abovementioned 1949 official visit of the Albanian delegation to Moscow was the opening of discussions regarding a coproduction between the Soviet Union and Albania of a biopic based on the life of Albanian hero Gjergj Kastrioti, more commonly known as Skanderbeg. The negotiations proved successful, and work began on the script and production planning. Великий воин Албании Скандербег/Luftëtari i madh i Shqipërise Skënderbeu/The Great Warrior Scanderbeg would depict the Albanian hero as a boy; his relationship with the Ottomans; the battles he led to protect Albania’s sovereignty; his defiant stance towards Serbia, and the betrayal of Albania by Venice. The film would end on a positive note and would make no mention of the ultimate victory of the Ottomans, which would lead to Albania’s obscurity from the West for well over 500 years. It would be a tribute to the greatness of Albania as a nation, and by implication, the strength of the relationship between Albania and the Soviet Union. In 1951, a film file on The Great Warrior Scanderbeg was opened by the Ministry of Cinematography of the Soviet Union. It was decided, following the precedent of the Soviet Union’s earlier coproductions with Mongolia, China, and the German Democratic Republic, that each country would pay

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for the production costs incurred on their respective turf. The end result would be that the Soviet Union would pay 80% of the production cost and Albania 20%. Albania would be responsible for providing extras, bit actors, transportation, labour, accommodations, interpreters, and experts on Albanian history and culture (Ministry of Cinematography of the Soviet Union, 1954, pp. 12–13). The initial entries in the file discuss the streamlining of the screenplay and the elimination of unnecessary elements. For instance, a sequence depicting Skanderbeg’s journey to Rome was deemed superfluous, and the presence of two dogs of an unknown breed was viewed as evoking too closely the dogs of Josip Broz Tito and creating an unnecessary parallel (Ministry of Cinematography of the Soviet Union, 1954, pp. 5–6). The use of the expression, ‘Science has no motherland’, was thought to come directly from an American newspaper, and moreover, was anachronistic. After all, in the fifteenth century, the term ‘science’ was not used in the modern sense (Ministry of Cinematography of the Soviet Union, 1954, p. 7). Some anachronisms present in the screenplay were caught. For instance, scenes of men smoking were removed given that tobacco was not in use in Albania in the fifteenth century. In one planned sequence, Skanderbeg uses rice, a grain unknown in Albania at the time, to explain his battle strategies. In some cases, battle scenes described in the original screenplay were considered superfluous, while on occasion, additional depictions of battle needed to be added. The Soviets and the Albanians were not always in complete agreement on the development of the script. For instance, the Albanians wanted to remove a sequence in which Skanderbeg brokers a peaceful solution to a local blood feud and argues that Albanians should fight the enemy not each other. The Albanian side of the production felt the sequence included cultural and historical errors (Ministry of Cinematography of the Soviet Union, 1954, pp. 100–111). The Soviet contingent insisted that the sequence added dramatic tension and that the subject of blood revenge was relevant in the fifteenth century and is still relevant today (Ministry of Cinematography of the Soviet Union, 1954, pp. 127–128.) The sequence is present in the final cut of the film. A final flash forward to the German occupation followed by the appearance of the present-day leaders of Albania was considered both superfluous and stylistically incompatible with the rest of the film. It was replaced by an image of the flag of communist Albania waving in front of a statue of Skanderbeg (Ministry of Cinematography of the Soviet Union, 1954, p. 4). Most of the film was ultimately shot in the Soviet Union, in the Mosf ilm Studio and on location in Yalta and Sudak in Crimea (Ministry of

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Cinematography of the Soviet Union, 1954, p. 64).15 A July 1953 entry in the film file of the Soviet Ministry of Culture mentions further filming in Kislovodsk (p. 198), and the use of this additional location has been corroborated by actress Adivije Alibali. Alibali clarifies that Kislovodsk was the site of an equestrian workshop where there were high-quality horses and equestrian experts available. Hence, all cavalry scenes were filmed there (Agron Alibali and Adivije Alibali, personal contact, July 2020). In Albania, shooting took place in Gjirokastër, a southern city, which would double for Skanderbeg’s stronghold in Kruja, a city considerably further to the north, and in Berat. The sequences set in Venice were filmed in Tirana’s Saint Procopius Church (Eriona Vyshka, personal contact, July 2020). Together with the locations spread out between the two participating countries, the cast was international and multiethnic. Among the Albanian actors were Besa Imami as Skanderbeg’s wife, Donika; Adivije Alibali as Mamica, the sister of the national hero; Naim Frashëri as the love interest of Mamica, and Marie Logoreci as the countess. The Soviet actors, who made up the majority of the cast, included among others, Akaki Khorava, as Skanderbeg, Semiyon Sokokovs, Veriko Anjaparidze, Georgi ­Chernovolenko, and Aleksander Vertinski. A number of the important Soviet actors, among them Akaki Khorava and Veriko Anjaparidze, as well as a good number of technicians were ethnic Georgians. As Michael Burrows argues, Georgians were seen as model examples of the Soviet people as Stalin himself was from Georgia. He stresses, ‘The film’s two purposes were to educate Albanians on how to be Soviet Albanians, using the Georgian super-Soviets as embodiments of the ideal citizen […] and to explore why Soviet citizens should care about Albania as a battleground in the conflict between the USSR, the West, and Yugoslavia’ (Burrows, 2016, p. 10). Khorava was actually chosen to portray Albania’s national hero by the Ministry of Cinematography of the Soviet Union. This choice was doubtless due to both dramatic and metaphoric concerns. Khorava was ‘dramatic’ and had a ‘giant body’. These traits emphasized his positive heroic attributes. He was ‘a distinguished diplomat, a famed strategist, a sworn enemy of treachery, a fiery lover of everything that is beautiful, noble, and progressive’ (Mëhilli, 15 Elidor Mëhilli (2018, p. 621) asserts that the Soviet locations were Moscow and Crimea. This has been confirmed by the notes of the Ministry of Cinematography of the Soviet Union, as well as by actress Adivije Alibali. Nonetheless, my personal contacts in Tirana have insisted that the filming was done in Moscow and Georgia. This confusion is most likely due to the heavy presence of Georgian actors and technicians that worked on the f ilm. I have found nothing mentioning production in Georgia in the file of the Ministry of Cinematography of the Soviet Union.

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2018, p. 621). One must recall, however, that when Albanian groups visited the Soviet Union, it was believed that they would relate most closely to the republics of the Caucasus or Central Asia (Mëhilli, 2017, pp. 59–60). Also, when Stalin himself visited Tirana, he saw no difference between it and Georgia (Salisbury, 1947, p. 8). The multiethnic production caused challenges from a linguistic perspective. The Soviet actors performed in Russian, and the Albanians in Albanian. None of the Soviet actors knew Albanian, and the opposite was true for most of the Albanian actors. Hence, Khorava devoted a great deal of attention to facial expressions, which, as Elidor Mëhilli (2018, p. 621) stresses, gave the film an exaggerated tone that amused Albanian children watching it on television reruns in the 1980s. Actress Besa Imami (1953, p. 19) describes the language and cross-cultural dynamics on the set, stressing that, although she did not know Russian, she felt Khorava was the best actor to portray Skanderbeg. All she needed to do was look in his eyes to see the hero in the flesh. In March 1953, Soviet director Sergei Yutkevich, an artist highly committed to the socialist cause, arrived with Georgian actor Akaki Khorava and other Soviet talent at the port of Durrës, accompanied by six white horses to be used in the shooting.16 Albanian Viktor Stratobërdha, who was studying at Moscow’s Gerasimov Institute of Cinematography (VGIK), accompanied the group and served as assistant director on this project. The level of integration between the sequences filmed in Albania and those made in Crimea and Kislovodsk is quite impressive. Moreover, the use of Gjirokastër for the filming of the sequences set in Kruja appears plausible.17 Arguably, with regards to the heterogeneity of its cast, its multiple locations, and the two languages in which it was ultimately released, The Great Warrior Skanderbeg was one of the most complex instances of international coproduction that had been produced to date in the Eastern Bloc. The dubbing of the film in Moscow and Tirana was not without a certain level of contestation. The Albanian dubbing of the Russian actors was not done truly professionally, and the mismatch between voice and lip movements was very obvious. This has been corrected through the tireless efforts of the remastering process undertaken in 2012 under the direction of Piro Milkani and 16 Unfortunately, the horse that had been selected as the hero Skanderbeg’s steed had died, and a replacement had to be found (Spiro Mëhilli, 2011, p. 180). It is unclear as to whether the six horses had been brought to Albanian from the equestrian workshop in Kislovodsk alluded to by Adivije Alibali (Agron Alibali, personal contact, August, 2020). 17 For other insights into the production in Albania, see Petrela (1953).

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Eno Milkani.18 Upon hearing the original Albanian dubbed version, Yutkevich was very unsatisfied. He particularly objected to the monotone voice used for the hero Skanderbeg, which he felt conveyed only 50% of the original expressiveness. He actually proposed that Khorava’s voice be dubbed by Naim Frashëri, who portrayed another key character in the film (Mëhilli, 2011, p. 161). The intent was for the film to premiere in Moscow and Tirana at the same time on 8 November 1953 (Mëhilli, 2011, p. 161). The date was chosen to mark the forty-first anniversary of Albania’s independence. It was highly acclaimed in both Albania and the Soviet Union, winning numerous prizes and accolades. Within Albania, it achieved the status of a true cult film, this due both to 1950s screenings as well as to re-showings on television decades later. In a 2011 interview with Voice of America, actress Adivije Alibali underscored the film’s enormous popularity. Subsequent to the release of the film, Alibali and her family were sent into internal exile due to alleged political dissidence and forced to spend some fifteen years in the town of Shen Gjergji, not far from Tirana. Following a local screening of the film, most likely facilitated by a mobile screen and projector, a group of young children recognized the actress on the street and asked her if she had been interned in the town because she had killed the Turks (Alibali, 2011). Yutkevich’s film, moreover, travelled throughout the socialist world. It was one of the first films about Albania to be seen in China, anticipating the popularity of Albanian films during the Chinese Cultural Revolution. It was also screened in Western Europe, leading to a protest from the Turkish embassy in Paris. Following the film’s premiere in the United States, Howard Thompson of The New York Times, all the while lauding its impressive visual dynamics and the stunning landscapes it depicts, chided it for its heavy-handedness and redundant utterances against the Turks. Thompson criticizes the quieter interludes, describing them as ‘ponderously, slow, broad and simplified in both incident and interpretation’ (Thompson, 1954).19 18 The 2012 restauration of the film, undertaken by Piro Milkani and Eno Milkani, was sponsored by the Albanian Ministry of Tourism, Culture, Youth and Sports, with participation by the European University of Tirana and the Mediterranean University. Although the dubbing in the 2012 remastering of the film is much more professional, purists have critiqued the use of standard Albanian as opposed to a northern variant in the restoration. Others have felt that the sound appears quite unnatural. Eno Milkani has stressed that the redubbing has made the film accessible to younger Albanians, who would have had problems understanding the language as spoken in the original version. Future plans include the production of a DVD with sound options for the original Russian, the original Albanian, and the redubbed Albanian (Eno Milkani, personal communication, July 2020). 19 For more information on the reception of The Great Warrior Skanderbeg, see Spiro Mëhilli (2011, pp. 161–165).

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Image 8. Advije Alibali as Mamica in Sergei Yutkevich’s The Great Warrior Skanderbeg. Courtesy of the Albanian Central State Film Archive.

The selection of The Great Warrior Scanderbeg for the 1954 Cannes Film Festival was of particular consequence. One of the goals of the festival was to unite divided nations (Ward, 2015, p. 37), and the Soviet Union had been absent from the festival from 1947 to 1949. It garnered the International Prize, and Yutkevich was award a special mention as director. The jury of the seventh edition of the festival was chaired by Jean Cocteau, and among the jury members were Luis Buñuel and André Bazin. In addition to Sergei Yutkevich and Akaki Khorava, the members of the Soviet delegation included director Grigori Aleksandrov and actresses Lyubov Orlova and Klara Luchko. The Soviet delegation’s float in the festival’s opening parade was adorned with flowers, and it bore the inscription paix, ‘peace’, well in line with the festival’s overarching goals (Flower Parade—USSR Float (1954). An authority on Yutkevich’s film, Agron Alibali, son of actress Adivije Alibali, has described the atmosphere between the Soviets and Americans present as a sort of ping-pong diplomacy, which brought fraternity across the opposite camps of the Cold War. For instance, Yutkevich and Lutsko bonded over lunch with actress Shelley Winters (Agron Alibali, personal contact, August 2020). The Great Warrior Skanderbeg served the purposes of both Albania and the Soviet Union. The Albanians were able to celebrate their history and

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introduce it to the outside world. Most of all, it would make Albania and its historical oppression better known in the Soviet Union. As Elidor Mëhilli (2018, p. 623) explains, this was of particular consequence given that the country was encircled by enemies. At the same time, by virtue of the highquality production values of the film, Albanians were able be future-oriented and cognizant of their path to socialist modernity. Regarding the Soviet intent for the film, Elidor Mëhilli (2018, p. 624) points out an interesting paradox. Mosfilm drew upon the history of occupation and resistance that had plagued the specific context of Albania to emphasize broader historical dynamics, to demonstrate the transnational similarities of socialism. The Soviet Union also deployed The Great Warrior Skanderbeg to further its own political agenda vis-à-vis its adversaries. In line with Moscow’s tension with Belgrade, the Serbs were portrayed as arrogant, cruel, deceptive, and, as per Michael Burrows (2016, p. 24), effeminate. The Venetians appeared as equally untrustworthy, and this generalization played into Moscow’s overall distrust of the West. Burrows identifies both effeminate and homosexual traits in the Venetians. Describing the doge, he stresses: [He has] the most vast and loose costume [rendering him] so physically undefined that one cannot be sure he even has a male body. He also speaks with an exaggeratedly frail, feminine voice, to the point where he barely enunciates his words, whether in Albanian or in a Latin prayer (2016, pp. 23–24).

One word of caution, however, in what concerns the above analysis, is that Burrows bases his discussion of the doge’s vocal timbre on the Albanian dubbing and not on the original voice of Soviet actor Alexander Vertinsky. Nonetheless, the effeminate portrayal of the Venetians metaphorically represents the decadence and depravity of the West. Burrows (2016, p. 24) contrasts the ambivalent gender and sexuality of the Venetians with the unbridled masculinity of Skanderbeg’s soldiers. It is essential to note that homosexuality was always a taboo in the Eastern Bloc countries, and still is, to a large extent, in most of the successor states. In contrast, the film evokes the positive relationship between Skanderbeg and the Hungarian, John Hunyadi, which suggests the present-day fraternity among the nations of the Eastern Bloc, the production of Yutkevich’s film having been completed some years prior to the 1956 protests that would lead to the Soviet invasion of Hungary. Of all the ethnicities depicted in The Great Warrior Skanderbeg, the most negative portrayal is reserved for the Turks. Burrows (2016, p. 24) views them

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as ‘a Mongol-like horde of Oriental barbarians led by the morbidly obese and wealthy Sultans […]’. The Soviet Union’s ties with Turkey at the time of the production were fraught with tension. During World War II, Turkey had allowed German ships to pass through its straits, an act that the Soviet Union found inimical. The recent enactment of the Truman Doctrine, moreover, provided assistance from the United States to Greece and Turkey to prevent the further spread of communism, which again placed Turkey in the enemy camp. Arguably the most heinous event for the Soviets was Turkey’s integration into NATO in 1952, which occurred only months prior to the start of the production of Yutkevich’s film. Given tensions with Turkey and Yugoslavia, Albania was, thus, of special strategic significance for the Soviet Union. Sharing with Turkey the heritage of the Ottoman Empire, yet adhering fervently to the Stalinist agenda, it could provide a socialist model for the Muslim world. At the same time, its geographical position represented a strong Soviet bastion in the proximity of both Turkey and Western Europe. When Tito split from the Stalinist perspective in 1947, Albania was quick to denounce Yugoslavia as revisionist. This helped solidify Tirana’s ties with Moscow. Albania represented the ideal location for the stationing of Soviet air and naval forces in the Mediterranean. The Soviet Union constructed a submarine base on the island of Sazan near the city of Vlora.20 The Great Warrior Scanderbeg is of special significance for a number of reasons. The recent death of Stalin had shaken Soviet culture. The film was significant in that it broke with rigid moral indoctrination and, hence, with the Mosfilm party line. After all, it focused neither on Leninism nor other Communist doctrines. From the perspective of Albania and the Soviet Union, it was indeed a testimony to the ideological proximity between the two countries. Albeit the film is an action-packed historical epic, it, nonetheless, bears a number of the hallmarks of socialist realism. Present in many socialist-realist texts is a mentor, an individual who is already enlightened with the message of socialism, who is able to guide others along the way. Burrows posits Skanderbeg as the mentor and the Albanian people at large as the mentee. In the sequence in which the national hero cautions villagers against the dangers and counterproductivity of the tradition of the blood feud, Skanderbeu demonstrates that he is a true socialist-realist mentor, endowed with ‘discipline, awareness of the broader context of his 20 The strategic importance of Albania for the Soviet Union, Yugoslavia, Italy, and Greece is outlined in a CIA memorandum of 5 October 1951 titled ‘The Significance of Albania’, which was approved for release in 2000.

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actions, and icy calm’ (Burrows, 2016, p. 12).21 In this regard, Yutkevich’s film anticipates the party line of future Kinostudio productions of the following decades, including Albania’s first feature film, Kristaq Dhamo’s Tana.22

Another level of documentary: Endri Keko Endri Keko was the sole member of the Moscow cohort to be trained as a director. Keko had been active in the struggle against Italian Fascism and in the partisan movement. He later was a military officer in Gjirokastër, prior to his activity with the Ndërmarre Shtetëtore Kinematografike, which would blossom into the Kinostudio enterprise. During his training in Moscow, he worked closely with noted Soviet documentarian Ilia Kopalin, who is most known for his films on the Yalta Conference and Yuri Gagarin’s spaceflight. Keko as a filmmaker has been highly regarded as a major innovator in Albanian cinema; in 1989, he was posthumously granted the title Artist i Popullit (People’s Artist). Nonetheless, at home and especially abroad, his name has been eclipsed by that of his wife, Xhanfise. In 1951, the students of the Moscow cohort worked as a group, together with other Albanian artists, on a film directed by Ilia Kopalin, Për paktin e paqes/Peace Pact. This documentary was coproduced by the Albanian Committee on Arts and Culture and the Moscow Central State Documentary Studio, with the Albanian enterprise receiving top billing. The eight-minute film documents the signing in Albania of a pact for world peace. The document is endorsed by governmental leaders, artists, scientists, workers, women in a maternity ward, and peasants. Although not the major focus of the film, the theme of Soviet-Albanian friendship is omnipresent, as is the celebration of Stalin and Hoxha. It is most likely that each member of the Albanian student group worked according to her or his speciality. Thus, Keko obviously had a hand in the film’s direction. Kopalin, this time, receives the credit of consultant and director. 21 See Clark (1981, p. 63). 22 A recent reading of The Great Warrior Skanderbeg places the film in a more contemporary context. Andrei Rogatchevski (2016) views Yutkevich’s work as transcending historical relevance. He argues that the sequences which portray the hero’s guerrilla war tactics, including the locking of the enemy into a gorge before an attack, closely resemble actions deployed during the recent Chechen wars. In a like manner, scenes depicting the destruction of classical Greek and Roman monuments recall similar actions perpetrated by ISIS. He affirms, ‘All in all, the film can be examined as a fictionalized visual representation of a temporary autonomous zone (or TAZ, where a successful attempt is made to escape an externally imposed control’ (n.p.).

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Endri Keko’s first credited documentary was made during his studies in Moscow. He served as second director on Ilia Kopalin’s Miqësi e pathyeshëm/ Unbreakable Friendship (1951), a twelve-minute film following a Soviet delegation of artists to Albania that is essentially an ode to Soviet-Albanian friendship and to the affinity between Stalin and Hoxha. The film continued the standard documentary and newsreel fare of the 1940s. The delegation visits the Stalin Textile Mill, where professor Isayev, leader of the Soviet delegation, greets the workers in the name of the Soviet Union. A male worker, in turn, extends greetings with the aid of a written speech that he appears to have trouble reading. The delegation proceeds to a sugar factory in Maliq. In Rembec, they interact with peasants in sugar fields, where the Soviets warmly embrace their Albanian comrades. In Vlora, a celebration is held, in which Albanians entertain with traditional dances, and a Soviet singer performs an ode to Stalin. At the rear of the crowd are seen posters of Stalin and Hoxha facing each other. Like in most documentaries depicting official events, shots of participants applauding enthusiastically abound. The orchestral score, once again, is intrusive, and at times overrides the voices of the male narrator or of the speakers. Despite the predictability of the content, Unbreakable Friendship is considerably sophisticated with regards to its visual images. The shots of peasants in the fields recall Soviet films of the 1930s and 1940s. Among Keko’s extensive documentary work is a 37-minute homage to the success of a collective farm, Letër nga fshati/A Letter from the Village (1955). The documentary shows considerable sophistication compared to earlier works from the previous decade, especially in what concerns the harmonious blending of sound and image. The film, once again, consists primarily of black-and-white footage explained by a male voice-over. On occasion, the words of a speaker attesting to the accomplishments of the collective are heard. Never does the upbeat, somewhat folkloric music override either the speaker or the voice-over. A Letter from the Village is partially staged. It uses as a framing device a young man writing to a friend who has gone to study in Moscow. His letter praises the gains of the agricultural cooperative Bulgarec near the southern city of Korça, which is located in close proximity to Keko’s place of birth. The letter gives way to the images of the film. One sees irrigation canals; women making carpets; the construction of houses; a village power plant, and a tractor station. In the latter case, it is made clear the tractor used was made in the Soviet Union. The leader of the collective farms inspects the work underway, and the prospect for this year is not particularly good, given the lack of rain. The essential role of the irrigation canals is explored. When in need, students from a secondary school in

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Korça come to help out at the village. On a human note, Letter from a Village depicts an engagement between a young woman from the collective to a young man from another farm. Of special consequence is the theme of education, and a school is depicted where students enthusiastically take part in lessons. The fostering of literacy among the rural workers is especially important. One of the closing sequences of the film is a visit to the collective’s library, where an image of a sickle and a hammer are proudly displayed. The collective farm is visited by a delegation from the Soviet Union. The workers have the opportunity to demonstrate to their international friends the strides made not only by the village, but also by Albania. The Soviets and Albanians dance together in celebration. The shots of the collective farm workers tilling the fields recall Soviet films, and the plasticity of images of the fruits of their labour –apples, potatoes, beets—are akin to Dovzhenko. The importance of the Soviet Union is underscored by a sequence in which the villagers watch on a screen a documentary entitled The U.S.S.R. Today. With the exception of the depiction of the massive structures of Moscow, a number of the images in the embedded documentary are scarcely distinguishable from Keko’s film. A Letter from the Village follows the work of the collective farm through several seasons. In the winter sequences, an assembly is depicted where the previous work is assessed. Villagers buy bicycles and radios, contributing to the well-being of the collective. As the film closes, an image of the young man writing the letter is once again shown. It has been a long letter, indeed! In 1956, Keko directed an eighteen-minute documentary on the strides made by a collective farm near Gjirokastër between 1947 and 1956. Pranvera e nëntë/The Ninth Spring attests to Keko’s progressive aesthetic growth as a director. It opens with the voice of actress Besa Imami (uncredited) reciting verses from a work by poet Naim Frashëri (not to be confused with the homonymous actor), ‘Bagëti e bujqësi (‘Livestock and Agriculture’). The text is juxtaposed with images of the mountain landscape near Gjirokastër. A conventional male voice-over then describes the work of the collective. Peasants are then shown in the city depositing money at a bank. Children aid in the construction of temporary houses and the building of stone stables. The film follows regular activities of the villagers, including the preparation of milk and cheese; gardening; the shearing of sheep; and the dispatching of wool to a fabric factory in Tirana. The process of artificial insemination of the sheep is shown. A medical doctor visits the collective farm to explain methods for the prevention of disease to the inhabitants. Despite the conventional celebration of the gains of socialism, the visuals

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of Keko’s film are noteworthy. Keko’s close-ups on the expressive faces of the villagers are highly evocative and attest to the development of the art of the documentary since Albania’s early productions of the previous decade. Throughout The Ninth Spring, fissures of genuine creativity emerge through the mundane conventions of a socialist documentary.

Innovation silenced: Viktor Stratobërdha One of the most significant figures of the 1950s in the realm of documentary film was Viktor Stratobërdha, whose career lasted only thirteen months before he was arrested and imprisoned due to his unorthodox ideological and aesthetic views. According to Lako (2002), Stratobërdha was one of the pioneers of Albanian cinema, despite his extremely short career. Lako notes that the director strove to achieve the essence of cinematic language. Stratobërdha, a cosmopolitan in many ways, was caught between his own fervour for world cinema and the Soviet films from the World War II era that served as models for the Albanian film industry. Lako (2002c, p. 50) clarifies, ‘Viktor Stratobërdha made a choice for his big dilemma and he found a solution. He focused his camera [on] the most cheerful world, the world of children and of the students’. As Lako asserts, one of the director’s strengths was his ability ‘to show the inner world and see sparks of character […] [separating] the man from the crowd’ (p. 51). Characterized by humorous tones, his work was, nonetheless, influenced by Italian neo-realism. Lako describes his depictions, in contrasting black and white, of a Tirana apartment occupied by recent migrants from a village, a southern Albanian mother with axe in hand, and passengers on a bus. For Lako, ‘these pictures will remain among the chronicles and documentaries true to the life of the first period of the 50s. These are the years when the establishment of the new Albanian citizenship began and [they are] full of humor elements’ (p. 51). It is significant to note that, together with his work in documentary, Stratobërdha served as second director on Yutkevich’s Soviet-Albanian epic Skenderbeg. Two of Stratobërdha’s films survive to this day and are available online through the Albanian Central State Film Archive.23 These are Pushime të 23 Stratobërdha’s existing documentary work has been highly edited. The Albanian State Film Archives (Arkivi Qendror Shteteror i Filmit) provide free online access to the existing form of the afore-mentioned films at http://www.aqshf.gov.al/arkiva-kerko-1.html?category=2&title= &screenwriter=stratoberdha&description=. Accessed 4 May 2021).

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gezuara/Happy Vacation (1955) and Urime shokë studentë/Congratuations, Comrade Students (1955). Happy Vacation is a fifteen-minute study of a group of Young Pioneers at a house of rest, or summer camp. Consisting of black-and-white images, it is accompanied by a female narrator, who describes the activities enjoyed by the children. Although the images are silent, occasional sounds, such as the blow of a trumpet or the music of an accordion, are overdubbed. Participants arrive at the camp, which is located near Durrës, and are warmly welcomed by children who have gathered there earlier. The campers play such sports as boxing and enjoy active games, including hide-and-seek. The children partake in lunch, which consists of diverse regional dishes. Young artists perform songs. Of particular consequence is cleanliness; Stratobërdha pays particular attention to personal hygiene and grooming, and in this regard, Happy Vacation bears a certain similarity to American hygiene films of the 1950s (Williams, 2020a, p. 56). In one sequence, a group of children look at a photo on a wall of other children marching to the Enver hydroelectric plant. The still image shifts to live action, and we follow the other group as they visit the plant and observe the work activities. Happy Vacation documents the socialization of the children as they engage in both work and play. One particular child stands out; the narrator identifies her as Sanja Mara and explains that she has never been away from home. In a number of ways, she anticipates the city boy of Xhanfise Keko’s Beni ecën vetë/Beni Walks on His Own (1975), which follows the protagonist as he matures and develops independence while visiting the countryside. Congratulations, Comrade Students is a nine-minute film documenting the July 1955 graduation of students from Albanian higher education institutions and universities. It is a hybrid film, consisting primarily of silent black-andwhite images, yet, nonetheless, we hear a speech given to the graduates by the then chairman of the council of ministers. The speech is introduced by a silent image of the Minister of Culture, Ramiz Alia, who would later succeed Enver Hoxha as the last leader of communist Albanian, introducing Shehu. In retrospect, the film depicts the activities of the students that would lead to graduation—studying early in the morning, the state exam in the pedagogical institute, and the final exam of the polytechnic institute. A Chinese student who is receiving his diploma is introduced. Homage is made to the Soviet lecturers, who have been engaged with higher education in Albania. The film concludes with a champagne toast and an organized dance party for the graduates. Unfortunately, Stratobërdha’s critical realism failed to respond to the exigencies of Albanian socialism. The first Albanian director to have a

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university education, Stratobërdha was imprisoned in 1956. Upon his release in 1990 from a concentration camp in Lezhë, he sprinkled his prison clothes with fuel and burned them symbolically so that nobody else could live through the same experience (Stratobërdha, n.d., p. 52). Stratobërdha later emigrated to Greece and Canada. He died in Montréal on 31 May 2000. His relations with the communist government and ultimate exile recall, yet in a much more accentuated manner, the plight of Mihallaq Mone. It is significant to note that Stratobërdha’s documentaries are not only aesthetically innovative, but moreover, they anticipate the most significant documentary work of Xhanfise Keko, which will be in the following chapter. There is a glaring self-contradictory process and obvious irony in the censorship to which Stratobërdha’s work was subjected. Given that he was deemed a dissident, his films were re-assembled in a way that effaced their visual and structural dynamics. In contrast, Drite mbi Shjqipëri/Light over Albania (1958), the work of Endri Keko, a figure far less controversial to the regime, remains available in all of its subversive power. It is tragic that Viktor Stratobërdha, like Mihallaq Mone, was an instrument of one regime and an outcast from another. Yet both were granted the opportunity, however brief, to hone their unique cinematic visions. This possibility, although only realized in part foreshadowed the dynamics that would soon emerge as the artists of Kinostudio found their respective visions.

From documentary to storytelling: Hysen Hykani’s Her Children The late 1950s and the early to mid-1960s were a key period during which Albania developed its individual film discourse. Hysen Hakani’s Femijët e e saj/Her Children (1957), in a number of ways continued the documentary tradition of the late 1940s and early to mid-1950s. Nonetheless, there was a marked change; the work was a hybrid film, what today one might term a docudrama. Her Children constitutes the first entry in Abaz Hoxha’s Filmi artistic shqiptar: filmografi (1986). Its director, Hysen Hakani, had completed his training at FAMU in Prague, and Her Children was the first of a number of important films he made in the 1960s and 1970s. He is best known for his second film, DEBATIK (1961), which focuses on the role of children and youth in the resistance against the Fascist occupation and which will be discussed in the following chapter. Her Children is double-pronged in its thematics. First, it foregrounds the importance of community over the individual. Second, it speaks of the importance of modern medicine as

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opposed to traditional, folkloric cures. The film opens with a panorama of the rugged Albanian Alps. It then moves to a kindergarten in a mountain village where Fatimeja, a middle-aged teacher, played by Marie Logoreci, who would become one of the first ladies of the Albanian cinema, brings a crying boy to a schoolteacher and nurse, who have set up an outdoor table for the purpose of vaccinating the local children. The boy’s tears are squelched, and he bravely receives his vaccination. The nurse asks Fatimeja if this is her son, and she sadly replies that she has no children. The schoolteacher, played by Naim Frashëri, then begins to relate her story to the nurse, and the film looks back in retrospect some thirteen years. We see a mountainside peasant household, where women and children diligently perform their domestic tasks. Screams are heard; a mad dog is approaching. The women quickly rush the children to safety inside. Unfortunately, Fatimeja’s young son, Petrit, is headed home along a rural road and is attacked by the dog. Urged by the same schoolteacher we have seen in the opening sequence, Fatimeja sets off to transport the wounded boy to a doctor by mule. It is evident by her words and facial expression that she fears and distrusts doctors. On the way, Fatimeja encounters a villager, who mocks the idea of modern medicine and convinces her to take her son to a local woman, who cures with traditional means. The film cuts to the hut of an older woman, who is in the process of performing a folk cure on a younger village woman. The old woman’s face is grotesque and distorted, suggesting that her traditional medicine is nothing short of evil. Smoke from burning herbs obscures the younger woman, who thanks the other for her services, and pays her with what appears to be a sack of grain. Fatimeja subsequently arrives and explains to the village woman that her son has been bitten by a dog and is crying for water. The schoolteacher subsequently arrives at Fatimeja’s house with the doctor, but it is too late. The boy has died. Fatimeja falls crouches to the floor, crying for her son. The retrospective ends, and the film cuts back to the present day. We see Fatimeja crouched in the same position as the kindergarten children dance around her. The schoolteacher explains to the nurse how the woman, who had suffered a devastating tragedy, has become dedicated to ‘her children’. Thirteen years following the death of her own son, Fatimeja has become a part of the new socialist society. She has exchanged the rugged life of an impoverished peasant for that of a school assistant determined that no child will suffer the fate of Petrit. Nonetheless, Fatimeja still maintains her maternal role, but she is mother to a community and no longer just to her own child. Modern medicine has triumphed over folk cures, and the collective over the individualistic.

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The propaganda of Her Children is heavy-handed, arguably more so than in many Kinostudio productions. Yet its depiction of life in the 1950s Albanian Alps offers insights into the disjunction between isolated parts of rural Albania and the new society of the early years of the communist regime. By virtue of Fatimeja’s transformation, the film suggests the ongoing evolution of even the most remote parts of Albania. From a cinematic perspective, Her Children marks a midpoint between the newsreels and documentaries that characterized the early films of communist Albania and the debut feature of Kinostudio. Given that it was presented as Hakani’s diploma film at FAMU, it marks a transition point between Albania’s close reliance upon other Eastern Bloc cinemas and the development of its own creative path. Hakani would soon become the director of Kinostudio’s second feature film, which will be briefly discussed later in the following chapter.

Kinostudio’s first feature film: Kristaq Dhamo’s Tana Having recently returned to Tirana from studies in Budapest, Kristaq Dhamo in 1958 directed Kinostudio’ first feature film, Tana. Despite its clear status as a Kinostudio work, its opening credits bill it as a Shqipëriafilm production. Nonetheless, it remains today as a noteworthy testament of the studio, now in its seventh year. One notes significant convergences between Tana and Her Children, which had been released only one year earlier. Of special consequence is that the two principal actors from Hasani’s work, Naim Frashëri and Marie Logoreci, are featured as the romantic lead and his mother in Dhamo’s film. Tana, moreover, echoes the same dynamics as Her Children, namely the need to integrate villagers bound by traditional morals and ethics into the collective bent of the 1950s. Filmed on and around a collective farm near Korça, Tana is replete with many of the hallmarks of socialist realism, most importantly the presence of a strong female protagonist, who, in this case, is pitted against age-old male-dominated beliefs and institutions. Tana tells the story of a young collective farm worker who is in love with a man from a neighbouring village. Stefan (Naim Frashëri) as well is passionate in his love for Tana (Tinka Kurti) yet is bound by the tradition that the bride must accompany the groom to his home and live with his family. Tana, whose values align with the new socialist ideals, refuses to leave her beloved collective farm. This situation is further complicated by three factors: 1) the desire on the part of Tana’s grandfather to choose her husband; 2) Stefan’s mother’s wish to remain in her own home, and 3) the

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jealous meddling by Lefter, a member of the collective, who is also vying for Tana’s attention. Stefan ultimately sees the error of his ways and decides to join the collective. The farm’s council is resistant to admitting a stranger into the collective. Despite Lefter’s frequent attempts to separate Tana and Stefan, the young woman’s grandfather slowly comes to accept her choice of a husband. Ultimately, the collective votes to override its council and admit Stefan into its fold. The ensuing moment of great jubilation, however, is followed by near tragedy. As Stefan approaches the village with his mother, who has reluctantly agreed to accompany her son to his new home, Lefter shoots Stefan. The perpetrator, believing that his rival has died, turns himself into the authorities. Stefan recovers, surrounded by Tana and his mother, and cheered by the collective farmworkers, who now have accepted him. Visually recalling Soviet films of the 1930s and 1940s, the title sequence of Tana consists of a long shot of villagers hard at work clearing rocks from a mountain side. Although most of the workers are men, we catch sight of an occasional woman in their midst. The camera then focuses its attention on one particularly woman pushing a wheelbarrow, who is then aided by a young man in dumping the rocks. We later see the two walking along a mountain road and kissing in medium close-up. As the titles continue, the woman emerges from a village post office, intently reading a letter. She jumps aboard a truck with a group of male workers and subsequently is seen walking along a path separating fields of crops. The young man waits her. The two run playfully through the field and embrace. We learn that the pair are Tana, the chairwoman of the collective farm, and her lover, Stefan. Tana accepts Stefan’s marriage proposal but insists that the wedding take place on the collective and that they reside there, since living conditions are much better than in Stefan’s village. Stefan, for his part, expects that Tana will follow tradition and go to live in his home. Tana rejects this arrangement, and a forlorn Stefan departs through the field. The dynamics of their relationship and the fact that Stefan is not a member of the collective farm invite a rereading of the title sequence. One questions why Stefan was working on the mountainside with Tana, since it is obvious that he is not a part of the collective. A sequence then ensues depicting highly evocative images of Stefan in silhouette, walking briskly towards distant mountains. A full moon is on high, and we see the reflection in a stream of a group of male workers as they approach Tana, who is returning from a conference. It is at this point that we learn of Lefter’s affection for her. There then ensue parallel sequences in which Tana and Stefan gaze at the moon from their respective homes. Tana recalls an incident in which Stefan, while working with her on the mountainside, had risked his life to save that of a young

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Image 9. Tinka Kurti as the protagonist of Kristaq Dhamo’s Tana.

boy, who was herding his goat above a mine on the verge of detonation. The frantic cutting among the faces of those witnessing the rescue, Stefan’s desperate attempts to intervene, the innocent boy unaware of the danger, and the fuse of the bomb recalls early Soviet films and reveals the extent to which such directors of Eisenstein and Pudovkin were very familiar to young Albanian directors. Tana as an exemplary piece of socialist realism is defined by its frequent images of physical labour. The near-synchrony of the hoeing of the collective farmworkers and the presence of diligent tractor drivers, which evokes the films of Grigori Aleksandrov and Ivan Pyryev, provide a backdrop for Lefter’s determined courtship of Tana. The song and dance of the Stalinist musicals is echoed by the sometimes obtrusive orchestral score, which punctuates the movements of the women in the field, as well as by depictions of men, clad in traditional regional clothing, engaging in dances characteristic of the Korça region. In sharp contrast to such collective activities are depictions of a solitary Stefan mending the roof of his house, in sad recognition that it is unlikely that he will ever bring Tana there as a bride. Tana as protagonist is indeed a woman of socialist realism, symbolically standing in front of the men of her collective. Although she may well be deemed a unidimensional, flat character, Tana, nonetheless, has what may be perceived as conflicting traits. She is a strong leader, but like Tanya in

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the final sequences of The Shining Path, she is imbued with femininity. In Albanian cinema of the Kinostudio era, women could still be women. And such a traditional image plays an essential role in the inscription of gender into heteronormality that was characteristic of Albania’s socialist ideal (Williams, 2018, p. 137). Tana is an homage to the waning years of friendship between Albania and the Soviet Union. It draws directly upon Stalinist aesthetics and the Soviet celebration of the bucolic glories of the collective farm. Although these dynamics would continue throughout the 1960s on an occasional basis, they would immediately give way to an exploration of the history of the Albanian communist movement, as evidenced by Dhamo’s following film, a coproduction with the Soviet Union.

Kristaq Dhamo: A coproduction with the Soviet Union In 1959, Dhamo directed a second feature film, this time a coproduction between Kinostudio and Mosfilm. Although Dhamo is often listed as codirector with Yuri Ozerov of Furtuna/The Storm, in the original Russian titles, Dhamo receives sole credit as director, and Ozerov appears under postanovka, ‘production’. In any case, the credits, both in the Albanian and Russian versions display Mosfilm in first position, followed by Kinostudio. What is of special significance is that in the case of the earlier Soviet-Albanian coproduction, The Great Warrior Skanderbeg, the director is Russian while, in that of The Storm, the director is now Albanian. The Storm constitutes a prototype for the subsequent Kinostudio productions that focus on the partisan movement, a motif that was omnipresent through the first two decades of communist Albanian film production. With an overarchingly Albanian cast, its diegetic space spans the Fascist occupation through the liberation of Albania from the Nazis, which would lead to the birth of the communist state. The film is further noted for its presence of strong female characters, underscoring that the partisan movement involved both sexes. The storyline itself is fairly conventional, yet there are a number of innovative sequences and cinematic devices that render it worthy of consideration here. Of special aesthetic significance is the opening of The Storm. We see a group of men standing singing ‘Për mëmëdhenë, për mëmëdhenë’ (‘For the Motherland, for the Motherland’) as they stand before a firing squad.24 We 24 Për mëmëdhenë, për mëmëdjenë’ is a patriotic song by Mihal Grameno, a leader of Albania’s 1912 independence movement.

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progressively hear one less voice as the prisoners are shot, the song continuing until there is only one singer left. The dramatic movement pauses on a close-up of the face of the final victim, who recalls his father’s voice imploring him to contemplate his homeland. The film abruptly cuts to an insert from The Great Warrior Skanderbeg depicting a charging Albanian army. Not only does this anticipate the extensive battle sequences of Dhamo’s film, but moreover, it attests to Soviet/Albanian cultural ties. These processes are of special interest in that The Storm was made near the end of diplomatic ties between the once friendly nations. Following the insert and the opening Russian-language credits, Dhamo cuts back to the man’s face as he hears his father’s voice explaining that he does not die in vain. Rather, he dies for freedom. The Storm, albeit a coproduction, constitutes a significant moment in the evolution of Albanian cinema. It reveals a shift, albeit tentative, from the Stalinist aesthetic and thematic of Tana, to an investigation of Albania’s partisan movement, a motif that would characterize so much of early Kinostudio production. So much of Albania’s early film productions, including the first feature films for which Kinostudio is credited, celebrate Albania’s closeness to Moscow. This dynamic is underscored by the number of film professionals who received training either in VGIK or at the Moscow Central Studio for Documentary Film. Even following the breach with Moscow, Kinostudio productions would still, for a few more years, be influenced by the aesthetics and themes of socialist realism, as will be demonstrated in the next chapter. Nonetheless, The Storm anticipated only by one year the introduction of a new thematic direction, that of the partisan movement that developed Albanian communism along a different path from most of the Eastern bloc states.

Works cited Abrahams, Fred C (2015), Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe, New York: New York University Press. Alibali, Adivije (2011), Interview, Voice of America, 25 November, https://www. facebook.com/watch/?v=10150423138038684. Accessed 8 June 2020. Burrows, Michael (2016), ‘The Gaze of Others: The Colonial Gaze in Albanian Film Coproductions’ (honours thesis).Williamsburg: The College of William and Mary, https://scholarworks.wm.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1908&conte xt=honorstheses. Accessed 12 May 2021.

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Central Intelligence Agency (1951), ‘The Significance of Albania’, 5 October (confidential memo released in 2000), https://www.cia.gov/library/readingroom/ docs/CIA-RDP79R01012A001200030017-6.pdf. Accessed 4 April 2020. Clark, Katerina (1981), The Soviet Novel: History as Ritual, Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Flower Parade—USSR Float (1954), Festival de Cannes. 2 April, https://www.festivalcannes.com/en/medialibrary/flower-parade-ussr-float//. Accessed 22 April 2023. Hoxha, Abaz (2002a), Enciclopedi e kinematografisë shqiptare, Tirana: Toena. Hoxha, Abaz (2002b), 100 vjet kinema në trojet shqipatare/100 Years of Cinema in Albanian Dwellings, Tirana: Marin Barlett. Imani, Besa (1952), ‘Për here të pare n’ekran’, Miqësija 7, pp. 19–20, 29. Keko, Endri (1951), Për paktin e paqes/Peace Pact, Tirana and Moscow: Albanian Committee of Arts and Culture and Central State Documentary Studio (motion picture). Keko, Xhanfise (2008), Ditët e jetës sime/The Days of My Life, Tirana: Adrian Laperi. Korrespondencë e Këshillit të Ministrave me Ministrinë e Shtypit dhe Propagandës, mbi krijimin e Entit Kinematografik Shqiptar’, Arkivi Qendror Shteteror i Filmit., F.490, Dos. 154, V.1946, Fl.2. 17. Lako, Natasaha (2002c), ‘Viktor Stratobërdha: Një lojë tjetër e imazhit f ilmic shqiptar’/‘Viktor Stratobërdha: Another game of Albanian moving image’, Film museum 1895–1952: Nga aparati fotografik tek kamera, Tirana: Arkivi Qendror Shteteror i Filmit, pp. 50–53. Mëhilli, Elidor (2017), From Stalin to Mao: Albania and the Socialist World, Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Mëhilli, Elidor (2018), ‘Globalized Socialism, Nationalized Time: Soviet Films, Albanian Subjects, and Chinese Audiences across the Sino-Soviet Split’, Slavic Review 77.3, pp. 611–637. Mëhilli, Spiro (2011), Arti i shtatë ne Tiranë, Tirana: Arkivi Qendror Shteteror i Filmit. Ministry of Cinematography of the Soviet Union (1954), Скандербег/Skanderbeg, Delo kartiny, Fond 2329, opis 12 ed ka 3949, available in RGALI Russian Archive of Literature and Arts (Moscow). Petrela, Hasan (1953), ‘Më xhironjësit e filmit me nhjyra Skënderbeg’, Miqësija 5.15, pp. 16–20. Rogatchevski, Andrei (2016), ‘Sergei Iutkevich—The Great Warrior Skanderbeg’, KinoKultura Special Issue 16 (Albania), http://www.kinokultura.com/ specials/16/R_skanderbeg.shtml. Accessed 4 April 2020. Salisbury, Harrison (1957), ‘Chance for West Seen in Albania: A New Approach, it is Felt, May Reorient Country’s All-Soviet Outlook’, The New York Times, 13 September, p. 8.

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Salys, Rimgaila (2009), The Musical Comedy Films of Grigorii Aleksandrov: Laughing Matters, Bristol: Intellect. Stratobërdha, Viktor (2002), ‘Kujtimi’, Film Muzeum 1895–1952: Nga aparati fotografik tek kamera, Tirana: Arkivi Qendror Shtetrror i Filmit, p. 52. Svetlov, I. (1952), ‘A Historic Date in Albania’s History’, USSR Information Bulletin 12:2, pp. 61–62. Thompson, Howard (1954), ‘The Screen in Review: Scanderbeg Arrives at the Stanley’, The New York Times, 5 July, https://www.nytimes.com/1954/07/05/archives/thescreen-in-review-skanderbeg-arrives-at-the-stanley.html. Accessed 8 May 2020. Vucinich, Wayne S. (1963), ‘The Albanian-Soviet Rift’, Current History 44.261, pp. 299–304. Ward, Elizabeth M. (2015), ‘Screening out the East: The Playing out of Inter-German Relations at the Cannes Film Festival’, German Life and Letters 68.1, pp. 37–53. Williams, Bruce (2020a), ‘Cinema in the “Local Perfect Position”: Children and Education in the Documentary Work of Xhanf ise Keko’, Studies in Eastern European Cinema 11.1, pp. 54–66.

III. The Flourishing of Kinostudio Abstract: This chapter focuses on Albanian cinema from the early 1960s up to and including the mid-1970s. It provides a contextualization of Albania’s close ties with Maoist China and will examine briefly the importance of Albanian cinema during the Chinese Cultural Revolution. Following an explanation of Hoxha’s views on the arts in general and the cinema in particular, it provides an overview of salient documentary tendencies during this period. It looks at how these years witnessed the reconfiguring of thematic tendencies that had been a part of Kinostudio’s output of earlier years. It explores Kinostudio’s feature productions of the period, which were particularly popular in China. Special attention is devoted to Gjika and Anagnosti, as well as the bucolic visions of Dhamo. A discussion of a 1972 comedy, one of communist Albania’s least developed genres, attests to the growing diversity of Kinostudio productions. Key words: Albania, cinema, China, comedy, New Man of Communism

By the early to mid-1960s, Albania’s relations with both the Soviet Union and the Warsaw Pact had deteriorated, and the People’s Republic of China was becoming its closest ally. Both Albania’s leaving the Eastern European bloc and its entering into allegiance with Maoist China were ongoing processes and the transition impacted Albanian cinema in gradual and subtle ways. Over the course of the early 1960s up to and including the mid-1970s, Kinostudio’s production of feature films, moreover, witnessed exponential growth, expanding from one film per year in 1961 to eleven films in 1977.1 The chapter will begin with a brief contextualization of the political and cultural context of Albania’s friendship with China and an overview of cinematic ties between the two countries. It will then discuss Enver Hoxha’s views 1 Abaz Hoxha (1987) notes that Kinostudio produced one film in 1957, one in 1958, zero in 1959 and 1960, and one in 1961. He then notes zero films in 1962, and one per year from 1963 up to and including 1967. Subsequently, production gradually increased from the late 1960s onward.

Williams, B., Albanian Cinema through the Fall of Communism: Silver Screens and Red Flags. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789462980150_ch03

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on literature and art, and how these were interpreted by a 1977 Kinostudio manifesto. After an overview of documentary work—which, with the films of Endri and Xhanfise Keko, was now being produced with a level of greater sophistication—, this chapter will offer an exploration of Kinostudio feature film productions prior to Albania’s period of most extensive isolation, which arguably began in 1978.2 Once again, the selection of films to be discussed in a more extended analysis is, by and large, limited to those which are available with English subtitles and can be viewed by readers of this book. Following Albania’s f irst feature f ilm, Kristaq Dhamo’s Tana (1959), the early to late-1960s were a mixed period; while some works, e.g. Hysen Hakani’s Toka jonë/Our Land (1964), continued in the socialist realist vein, others, beginning with Hakani’s DEBATK (1961) and Dhamo’s Detyrë e posaçme/Special Task (1963) dealt with problematics germane to Albania’s recent history and struggles. By 1967, this latter dynamic had evolved to a level of sophistication that anticipated the highly acclaimed films of the following decade. The two feature films produced in 1967, Gëzim Erebara and Piro Milkani’s Ngadhnjim mbi vdekjen/Victory over Death and Dhimitër Anagnosti’s Duei i heshtur/The Silent Duel, were ref ined works that set the standard for Albanian cinema, the latter being extremely popular in Maoist China. The early to mid-1970s witnessed development of both the themes and the aesthetic quality of Albanian films. Although Albania’s prime international audience remained China, these works have been re-discovered and reassessed in recent years.

Albania’s Rapprochement with China and Albanian films during the Cultural Revolution Despite their homages to Stalinist socialist realism, the early feature films of Kinostudio were made during the final stages of the country’s breach with the Soviet Union, a period during which Albania was strengthening its ties with China. Albania’s rapprochement with China dates back to at least 1960, when Moscow denied the small country grain in an attempt to discipline it. Prime Minister Mehmet Shehu approached the Chinese embassy in Tirana. Not only did China provide the needed grain, but 2 Albania’s rift with China, like its breach with the Soviet Union, was a gradual process. China formally ended economic and trade relations with Albania in 1978. Nonetheless, in 1977, the two countries were already growing distant. Hence, Chapter IV, which focuses on cinema under Albania’s isolation will begin in 1976.

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moreover, its Central Committee offered ongoing support for Tirana’s fight for the true meaning of Marxist-Leninism. Shehu responded to this offer by quoting Mao, ‘One good friend is just enough’ (Mëhilli, 2017, p. 200).3 Albania’s break with Moscow, however, was a multi-layered undertaking. And the same was true in case of its exit from the Warsaw Pact. Albania still needed technological expertise from other Eastern European countries, and the Albanian government called for close examination of technical materials and blueprints received from Warsaw Pact nations prior to 1961 (Mëhilli, 2017, p. 212). The slow process of rupturing with the Soviet bloc notwithstanding, Albania and China upped their synergy. In 1964, China was involved in the construction of some 20 industrial plants in Albania, and it sent numerous teachers to the small country. The early years of Albanian-Chinese relations, however, were not unidimensional. While China assisted Albania in its developmental needs, it urged its tiny ally to become self-sufficient, which, given the political course Albania would soon assume, was not bad advice. Xianing Lu describes the special place that Albania held for China following the onset of the Maoist Cultural Revolution. She stresses that, inasmuch as Albania was China’s sole remaining ally in Europe, ‘it acquired more symbolic significance as the Chinese Communist Party endeavoured to assert its leadership role in Third World in the face of growing isolation from European communists’ (2021, pp. 221–222). Lu refers to a message of greeting to the Fifth Congress of the Albanian Party of Labour on 25 October 1966, in which Mao called Albania ‘a bosom friend afar’ and ‘a great beacon of socialism in Europe’ and promised that the parties and peoples of China and Albania would always be united in the fight against imperialism and revisionism (Mao, 1966, p. 5). 4 The language dynamics at play between China and Albania, moreover, were considerably different from the Albanian-Russian situation of only a few years earlier. While there were a reasonable number of Russian speakers in Albania, this was not the case with Chinese. After all, Russian was the language of Lenin and the lingua franca of communism. In a similar manner, Chinese specialists had little command of Albanian. For the purposes of technical materials and contracts, Albania requested that China send these 3 Mëhilli (2017, p. 200) notes the bellicose tone of the correspondence between Hoxha and Shehu during the latter’s 1960 visit to the United Nations and refers to both as two former guerrilla fighters. 4 Lu adds that the words of Mao’s speech were adopted into a ‘quotation song’, based on a quote by Mao, which was widely sung by Chinese masses (p. 222).

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in Russian.5 When Beijing suggested in 1964 that the end of the Khrushchev regime heralded a chance for rapprochement with Moscow, Tirana compared this to the Soviet Union’s betrayal of Marxist-Leninism in its relations with Yugoslavia. Albania was initially suspicious of China’s Cultural Revolution. Nonetheless, for years it had been waging its own campaign against residual bourgeois tendencies. For instance, youth detachments attacked churches, destroying icons and giant posters on walls, decrying such offensive practices. What was at play was a war against ‘backwardness’. Yet cultural and ideological differences with China were becoming increasingly evident. Upon the death of Mao Zedong in 1976, the Chinese government sought closer ties to Yugoslavia. This led Albania to denounce China as a revisionist nation in a manner similar to its earlier indictment of the Soviet Union. Albania, moreover, was critical of the Three World Theory which now governed Chinese foreign policy.6 Albania increasingly asserted itself as a tiny, but powerful force to be reckoned with. Its breach with China was considerably more rapid than had been its separation from the Soviet Union and the Warsaw Pact. For the purposes of this discussion, the period of friendship between Albania and China was of particular consequence to the international reception of Albanian cinema. Especially during the years of the Chinese Cultural Revolution, Albanian films were more popular in China than they had ever been in the Soviet Union or the Eastern Bloc. The presence of Albanian films in China, however, dates back to well before their extreme popularity. Lu exemplifies this by discussing a celebration of the fifteenth anniversary of Albanian liberation, on 27 November 1959. On that day, the International Liaison Office of the People’s Republic of China’s Foreign Ministry and the Chinese-Albanian Friendship Association hosted the Chinese premiere of Dhamo’s The Storm, also known in China as Shanying zhige/The Song of the Eagle. On the same evening, Dhamo’s Tana was also 5 Foreign language proficiency often involved study abroad. A few Albanians studied Vietnamese in Vietnam, Spanish in Cuba, and Arabic in Iraq. China was mainly a place to study Russian or English (Mëhilli, 2018, p. 214). 6 The Three World Theory posited that the First World comprised the United States and the Soviet Union, the Second World Japan, Europe, and Canada, and the Third World all other Asian nations, Latin America, and Africa. For more information on this doctrine, see Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the People’s Republic of China (2014). Albania had furthermore been outraged by a 1973 meeting between Mao Zedong and US Secretary of State Henry Kissinger in which the former urged the United Statesto develop a closer relationship with the Second World to guard against Soviet hegemony.

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screened at a special event organized by the Chinese-Albanian Friendship Association, this time with the Chinese Writers’ Association and the Chinese Musicians’ Association, which celebrated Albanian literature and music. Prior to the Cultural Revolution, Albanian films were growing in popularity in China. In addition to Tana and The Storm, f ilms that reached China included Hakani’s DEBATIK and Toka jonë/Our Earth (1964), and Dhamo’s Detyrë e posaçme/Special Task (1963) and Vitet e para/The First Years 1965). During the Cultural Revolution, the Chinese f ilm industry virtually ceased all production. Domestic films shown included newsreels and documentaries, war films made before 1966 and their remakes, opera f ilms, and a small number of new f ilms that respected the governing principles of the Three Prominences (Lu, 2021, p. 221).7 There were, moreover, strong restrictions on the importation of foreign films. Films from nonrevisionist states (North Korea, Romania, Albania), were shown, as well as Soviet f ilms produced under Stalin (p. 222). Lu identif ies the years 1967–1969 as the peak of the Cultural Revolution, the time during which Chinese cultural life was particularly impoverished. During this period, Albanian f ilms were immensely popular. The f ilms shown included a number of typical works focusing on Albania’s struggle against Fascism as well as more provocative pieces, such as Piro Milkani and Gëzim Erebara’s Ngadhnjim mbi vdekjen/Victory over death (1967), Viktor Gjika’s Horizonte të hapura/Clear Horizons (1968), and Dhimitër Anagnosti’s Plagë të vjetra/ Old Wounds (1968). The following years would include additional Albanian f ilms of diverse genres, among these Gjika’s I teti në Bronx/The Eighth in Bronze (1970) and Keko’s Beni ecën vetë/Beni Walks on His Own (1975). From 1966–1976, approximately 20 Albanian films were shown in China (Lu, 2021, p. 222). Nonetheless, the abstract images of such films as Clear Horizons may well have been challenging to Chinese viewers, who were used to more straightforward film. There was a popular saying in China about the films being shown—‘A Chinese film: news and reports; a Vietnamese film: planes and canons; a Romanian film; hugging and cuddling, and an Albanian film: puzzling and baffling’ (Lu, 2021, p. 222). Total incomprehensibility notwithstanding, Albanian films were immensely popular in China during the Chinese Cultural 7 The Three Prominences refer to the theatrical aesthetics formulated by Mao’s wife, Jiang Qing, who argued that in theatre, positive characters should be stressed, their heroic aspects should be focused upon, and the central character of the main characters should be foregrounded. It was essential that these characters were to be played realistically, always as the centre of action. They should, moreover, be illuminated by sunlight or other light sources. For more on the Three Prominences, see Gu (2010, pp. 283–303).

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Revolution. As Ming Jian (2014) asserts, the special place of Albanian cinema as opposed to North Korean and Vietnamese film was that they reflected an exotic Western world. In China, a fondness for these still exists today as part of a broader nostalgia for the Cultural Revolution. Actor/director Mevlan Shanaj, in a 2005 discussion with the author, quipped that, in China, he is ‘more popular than Robert De Niro’. Even at present, Albanian films with Chinese subtitles can be found on the internet and are purchasable from unofficial sources in China. On the other hand, following Albania’s split with the Soviet Union, the presence of Albanian films in other communist countries was extremely rare. In the West, the situation was only slightly better. Xhanfise Keko’s films were represented on several occasions in the Giffoni Festival in Salerno. Perhaps this is due to the notion that children’s films are, by nature, more universal and tend to transcend local political contexts.

Enver Hoxha on the arts in a socialist society Despite the wide-spread belief that Kinostudio was merely an instrument of propaganda, its history was complex and its ideology more ambiguous than many acknowledge. These problematics reflect the official state view of cinema aesthetics, which, in and of itself, was somewhat contradictory. Enver Hoxha argued that ‘Revolutionary art is created by revolutionary artists whose hearts beat with the heart of the people’, and this quote opens a 1977 Kinostudio manifesto (Kinostudio Shqipëria e Re, 1977, p. 3). Kinostudio further interprets and clarifies his remarks: [An] important feature of Albanian films is that the positive hero, the new man educated by the Party, occupies the central position. Socialism is the affirmation of the new, the positive, and the progressive. This is brought out clearly on the screen through heroes who are distinguished by their spiritual strength and moral purity, their readiness to sacrifice themselves. They are completely devoted to the Party, the people and socialism, and have a profound hatred for the enemy, either internal or external (Kinostudio Shqipëria e Re, 1977, p. 9).

Though far less passionate about the medium than Stalin, Hoxha was adamant about the importance of the cinema for the education of the Albanian people. In a 1965 speech, Hoxha spoke directly of this didactic role, and his words helped set the Kinostudio agenda for the following year

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(Hoxha, 1965).8 Such a pedagogical aim for the cinema is underscored by the 1970s tradition of two screenings per week at Young Pioneer homes of films appropriate for youth. The artistic agenda of Kinostudio thus was closely tied to the educational goals of the Hoxha regime. The Kinostudio doctrine deemed that form and structure must mirror the social and national content of individual f ilms. Realism was key.9 ‘The simplicity and clarity of the narration [was] a permanent feature in all the works of Albanian cinematography’ (Kinostudio Shqipëria e Re, 1977, p. 9). The chief of state further argued that artists and writers must follow the norms of socialist realism and fight against the influence of foreign ideologies, be they old or new, conservative or modernist (Groupe du Travail sur le Cinéma Albanais, 1975, p. 37). Furthermore, mass audience was of particular consequence: The implementation of the mass line as a characteristic feature of all creative work in every field of artistic activity, has served the Albanian film producers not only [sic], but also to train a whole army of new artists and young talents, many of whom have been discovered during the broad participation of the masses in the actual process of shooting feature and documentary films’ (Kinostudio Shqipëria e Re, p. 9).

Nonetheless, Hoxha’s ideas on artistic activity were not uniformly so simple. In contrast to a blatant condemnation of all foreign influences and styles, Hoxha, in all actuality, called for a study of these art forms and an assessment of their potential for expressing Albania’s reality. He, in fact, challenged artists to greater levels of creativity. Hoxha stressed, ‘the study of the works of foreigners must serve the acquiring of knowledge of the life, struggle, and development of those peoples’ (Hoxha, 1965). He cautioned, however, that Albanian struggles may have similarities to foreign contexts, but they are decidedly not the same. Hoxha (1965)added: […] this experience from foreign works must serve you to open horizons in order to study the history of your own people better, but your people’s history has its own peculiarities, your people’s ideas have their own particular development in the particular situation of your people. 8 It must be emphasized that Kinostudio met annually with its artists to establish a yearly agenda (Kujtim Çashku, personal contact, January 2010). 9 This emphasis on realism explains the virtual lack, at least until the very end of the communist period, of the speculative or adventure genres in Kinostudio productions.

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Hoxha underscored his remarks through reference to French literature and specifically to Balzac’s La comédie humaine. He concluded his discussion of foreign influences by emphasizing: We should learn their art of writing, their style, their method of work, rhythms and meter, but we should learn them not to become slaves to them, because our people have their own style and rhythms, we are creating our socialist style which is our basis, on which we shall work, build and create our own originality, for only in such a way will our people understand us and will we inspire them (Hoxha, 1965).

Kinostudio followed Hoxha’s national agenda and his views on Albanian films through the mid-1970s in terms of their thematic. These included the National Liberation War; the socialist construction of the country; vigilance to protect the victories of the socialist revolution; the reconstruction of Albania; the role and figure of the working class; the collectivized socialist countryside; social transformations and the formation of our new man; the struggle against erroneous concepts and ‘hangovers’ [sic] in the human mind; the struggle for the emancipation of women, and family life (Kinostudio Shqipëria e Re, 1977, pp. 8–9). It is significant to note that Kinostudio also played a pivotal role in the training of film professionals. Following the initial period during which future filmmakers were educated in the Soviet Union, Hungary, and Czechoslovakia, professional development became an ‘in-house’ phenomenon, particularly in light of the country’s growing isolation. Nonetheless, there are a few noteworthy cases of Albanian film professionals who were educated in Romania at the Luca Caragiale Institutul de Artă Teatrală ʂi Cinematografică during the early-to-mid-1970s, taking advantage of a period of good relations between the Eastern Bloc’s two most Stalinist leaders. These professionals included directors Kujtim Çashku, Spartak Pecani, and Vladimir Kasa, and actor Jorgaq Tushe.10 A number of theatre professionals and musicians also studied in Bucharest.11 Nonetheless, most film people studied or were trained in Tirana. Describing the climate of Kinostudio in this regard, Abaz Hoxha (2005, p. 77) stresses that the entity was the ‘only school that trained the film-makers by working and learning’. He clarifies that, while directors received training at the Institute of Arts and screenwriters were prepared 10 Çashku studied under veteran director Elisabeta Bostan from 1972 to 1975. 11 Pianist Nora Shkaba, who would later marry Kujtim Çashku, studied in Bucharest. Many years later, she would perform the solo piano music in Çashku’s Coronel Bunker (1996).

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by a literature department at the University of Tirana, other professionals did not receive a university education (p. 77). Instead, Kinostudio erected a creative studio near its premises for the preparation of film technicians. As Abaz Hoxha (1994, p. 81) stresses, admission to film education was based largely on student ‘militarism’ and nepotism. Hoxha further indicts the education offered by the Institute of Art and other post-graduate courses for being too general in nature and not cinema-specific, stressing that the nation’s isolation had kept filmmakers away from modern, international film developments. He asserts, ‘The majority of them knew only what they had theoretically learned from the ex-socialist countries, 30–40 years ago and never had the smallest contact with world cinema’ (Hoxha, 2005, p. 78).

Continued work in documentary Together with the extensive production of newsreels, between 1957 and 1967, Kinostudio made some 195 documentaries, and brief mention of these is made here in order to better contextualize the development of feature films. The majority of these continued with the theme of the great accomplishments of communist Albania in agriculture and industry. Well in line with Albania’s membership on the Warsaw Pact, a good number focused on international friendship with such countries as Bulgaria and Czechoslovakia, in addition to the celebration of Soviet-Albanian friendship. An uncredited documentary from 1957, Mik në Berlin/Guest in Berlin, follows a young Albanian’s visit to the capital of the German Democratic Republic. The film foregrounds the modernity of (East) Berlin, and follows the friends’ visits to Alexanderplatz, Humboldt University, the Soviet monument, etc. A 1958 film by Kristaq Dhamo and Gëzim Erebara, Ne u dashuruam me Shqipërinë/We Fell in Love with Albania, portrays Soviet painters who are impassioned by the landscapes and cityscapes of Albania. Despite mounting tensions between the Soviet Union and Albania, a series of documentaries from 1959 follow Khrushchev’s visit to Albania and portray the events in the best of light. Other films on international friendship involve Vietnam, Cambodia, and China, the latter revealing the burgeoning ties between Mao and Hoxha. To a lesser extent, the documentaries of this period focus on friendship between Albania and non-communist countries, including the Arab world. North Africa is included by virtue of the visit of an Albanian folk song and dance group to Morocco and Algeria. A French-language production from 1964 (with the Kinostudio credits in French), Les amis belges en Albanie/Belgian Friends in Albania, follows the visit to Albania of delegates of the Belgian communist

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party. Other documentaries focus on culture, including a portrait of actor Aleksandër Moisiu, which includes German-language recordings of one of his performances of Hamlet. Another film documents Tirana’s National Theatre. Health care concerns are examined, including the protection against anthrax, a campaign to fight tuberculosis, and children’s health concerns. Albania’s friendship with China is visually portrayed by two films with almost identical titles. A coproduction between Kinostudio and the Chinese National Studio of Documentaries and Chronicles produced Krah për krah/ Side by Side (1964), a 27-minute documentary focusing on Albanian-Chinese friendship, co-directed by Endri Keko and Ho Y Shen. Rather than the traditional logo of Kinostudio, the film presents an emblem that symbolizes both sites of production, the double-headed eagle of Albania capped by a star, linked by a garland to the five stars representative of the People’s Republic of China. The credits consist of both Albanian and Chinese names, usually assigning one of each for each production capacity. The film’s music, moreover, for whom both an Albanian and a Chinese composer are credited (Prenkë Jakova and Sy Sy) and which is performed by the Beijing Cinematic Philharmonic Orchestra, consists predominantly of the Internationale in multiple iterations, fused with music typical of Albania and of the Chinese Maoist period.12 Side by Side opens with remarks made by a Chinese woman elegantly clad and in traditional costume, addressing a Chinese audience. Her remarks remain unsubtitled for a relatively extended period, until a voice-over translates her introduction of an Albanian men’s quartet singing in Beijing. Her speech is accompanied by a Chinese pianist. Close-ups on audience members reveal a high-level of enthrallment by such cultural cooperation between the two countries. Images of diverse parts of China in which the performance was heard, including the Yangtze River and an expansive field being ploughed by tractors, are then presented. These images are followed by views of the port of Durrës, where we see an arriving ship from China meeting one departing to a Chinese port, both a part of a Chinese-Albanian maritime effort, destined to transport materials essential to the flourishing of socialism in both countries. Albanians warmly embrace their Chinese counterparts. The film continues, alternating sequences in Albania and China, to stress the love and friendship between the two countries. Albanians and Chinese dance together and sing songs of everlasting friendship. Side by Side shows Chinese students who study at the Enver 12 The importance of the Internationale in communist Albania cannot be overstated. Although Radio Tirana used the Albanian communist song Në njërën dorë kazmën, në tietrën pushkën as its signature tune, it routinely closed its broadcasts in multiple languages with the Internationale.

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Hoxha University and Albanian students actively engaged in higher education in Beijing. The latter sequences of the film include a meeting in Albania between Enver Hoxha, Zhou Enlai and Chen Yi, in which the leaders warmly embrace, stressing how this international friendship will endure across generations. Throughout the film, references are made to the geographical distance between the two countries; when the Albanians bid each other goodnight, their Chinese counterparts are saying ‘good morning’. By and large, very little is stated or implied regarding the immense size difference between the two countries, although it is known that most Chinese could not fathom just how small Albania was in comparison to China. At one point, however, there is a brief mention about how international friendship is not bound by the size of countries. In 1966, Kinostudio produced a chronicle titled Kurdoherë, krah për krah/ Side by Side at Any Time, for which the directorial credits are not provided. The f ilm reassesses the theme of Albanian-Chinese friendship, but in contrast to Keko and Shen’s work, it is lacklustre and much more typical of the chronicles of official visits common in the mid-to-late 1940s. Keko and Shen had documented Zhou Enlai’s first visit to Albania in 1964, and this chronicle focuses on his third and final visit made in 1966. In contrast to the 1964 film, it is exclusively a Kinostudio production. Although it maintains the exuberant exaltation of Albanian-Chinese friendship—leaders embracing, crowds cheering, rousing performances of music and dance in honour of the guests—it delves a bit more deeply into Zhou Enlai’s visits to factories and collective farms. It must be noted that the production of this film followed on the tails of the signing of a joint statement affirming the Sino-Albanian alliance and condemning the US, the Soviet Union, and Yugoslavia. Outside of the political arena, Vitori Çeli’s Bekim Fehmiu në Shqipëri/ Bekim Fehmiu in Albania (1972), a nine-minute f ilm, documenting the visit of ethnic-Albanian/Yugoslav actor Bekim Fehmiu’s to Albania, is of particular consequence in light of Albania’s fraught relationship with Yugoslavia.13 Fehmiu, arguably most known in Yugoslavia as the protagonist of Aleksander Petrović’s Skupljači perja/I’ve Even Met Happy Gypsies (1967), had gained an international reputation as Homer’s hero in Franco Rossi’s international mini-series The Odyssey (1968), in which he played opposite Irene Pappas. The series was made into a film the following year. Fehmiu became known in North America playing an international playboy based 13 Born in New York City in 1928, Çeli studied film dubbing in Moscow prior to becoming an editor at Kinostudio, subsequently turning to newsreels (Hoxha, 2002, p. 73).

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closely on Dominican playboy Porf irio Rubirosa in Lewis Gilbert’s The Adventurers (1970).14 Unlike the majority of chronicles from this period, Bekim Fehmiu in Albania supplants the male ‘voice of God’ with a female voice-over. The f ilm is composed of silent footage following Fehmiu as he visits historical sites throughout Albania and his childhood home in Shkodër.15 In Tirana, he meets with such film directors as Viktor Gjika, Piro Milkani, and Endri Keko, and looks on as Xhanfise Keko shoots a scene of Kryengritje në pallat/Uprising in the Apartment Block (1972) with two of her child actors. By intercutting shots of Fehmiu attending a May Day parade in Tirana and of Enver Hoxha smiling at the crowds passing by, the film creates a noteworthy illusion—that Fehmiu had personally interacted with the Albanian leader (Bruce Williams, 2007, p. 73). Bekim Fehmiu in Albania celebrates pan-Albanian brotherhood, and this is exemplif ied by the very persona of Fehmiu.16 Poet and screenwriter Natasha Lako, nonetheless, is not in agreement with the overall tenor of Fehmiu’s visit as depicted by Çeli: […] she frames Fehmiu within the broader context of ethnic strife. Inasmuch as Albanians were cognizant of the actor’s close ties with Serbian culture and language and with the cultural mechanism of the former Yugoslavia, they treated Fehmiu with a certain distance and caution (Williams, 2007, p. 73).

It is clear that Vitori Çeli’s film presents an official view of Fehmiu’s visit, and that the actual events were far more nuanced. Nonetheless, it is essential to note that, by 1973, documentaries had proceeded into arenas other than the growth of the socialist state. It was also in the early 1970s that Xhanfise Keko honed her craft as a director of documentaries, prior to her work in children’s films, for which she is most noted.17 She made two films focusing on children and education. Tinguit dhe fëmijët/Sounds and Children (1970) explores the world of musical 14 Despite its all-star cast, consisting of Candice Bergen, Olivia de Havilland, Ernest Borgnine, Charles Aznavour, and Leigh Taylor Young, The Adventurers was a critical and box-office failure. It also led to a scandal in the operatic world when mega-star Anna Moffo, playing a character based on Maria Callas, opted to do her own nudity in a love scene with Fehmiu. 15 Bruce Williams (2007) explains that the film’s foregrounding of Fehmiu’s Albanian birth was a device to counter Yugoslav claims that the actor had been born in Kosovo. 16 One must recall that Fehmiu studied theatre in Belgrade, was a star of the Serbian theatre, and was married to an ethnic Serb (Williams, 2007, p. 74). 17 For more on the documentary work of Xhanfise Keko, see Shanaj, 2017. Cf. Williams (2020a).

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education, and A, b, c…zh (1971) focuses on a teacher and her classroom over the course of an academic year.18 A 25-minute black-and-white film documenting life at a music school in Korça, Sounds and Children explores the passion for learning and teaching characteristic of an ideal educational process. Although it is, by and large, a film devoted to the process of education, it nonetheless focuses on the individualized transformation of two young children and their growing love for the path they have chosen. In this respect, albeit in a far more subtle manner, it follows Hakani’s Her Children in the melding of fiction and documentary. Rather than simply following school activities from an omniscient point of view, it approaches them through the eyes of two children who are embarking on their music education. The film opens with a snow-covered road in Korça, along which children are walking to school. Two pupils, Linda and Piro, purchase musical instruments for the first day of their training at the Themistokli Gërmenji Music School, an institution named after a leader of the Albanian Awakening of the early twentieth century. In this respect, early on in the film, one notes the undeniable presence of Albanian-ness. Yet this national discourse is far from overinscribed as attention immediately turns to the children as they approach the school and enter through the main door to attend their first class. The classroom dynamics are highly conventional, and the female teacher guides learning efforts through rather predictable questions. Linda and Piro observe other students who are playing the violin, flute, accordion, piano, and other instruments, and their fascination with learning music steadily grows. Not only does the film follow pupils as they make their first contact with musical instruments, but, of equal importance, it shows their enthusiasm as they attentively listen to a concert presented to them by adult musicians and imagine themselves as accomplished artists. Sounds and Children follows the class throughout the academic year, and a good deal of attention is devoted to their play, be it with snowballs or on skis. Such depiction of play not only provides a break from the extensive classroom and learning sequences, but it anticipates key directions that Keko will take in her future dramatized films. Although Sounds and Children is a highly conventional documentary, it attests to Keko’s burgeoning creativity and ability to innovatively offset the dogmatic orthodoxy of Kinostudio (and Albanian classrooms!) In subsequent years, in her work with child actors, she would visit schools 18 ‘Zh’, which corresponds to a sound close to the English ‘s’ in ‘leisure. Is the last letter in the Albanian alphabet. A number of letters in Albanian consist of two characters.

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to choose possible candidates with whom she felt she could interact. Keko would then have the children play and interact in her Tirana apartment as she learned how best to approach and direct them. In this process, play was of particular consequence (Williams, 2013, 2015). Although Keko, herself, may not have been familiar with the theories of Lev Vygotsky (1933) regarding the pre-eminence of play in the educational process, this dynamic is clearly evidenced in Sounds and Children. Keko pays attention not only to the individual personalities of the children she films, but also to their socialization. Still at a rudimentary level, this examination of social interaction would become a hallmark of her fiction films, reaching its apex in Kur po xhirohej një film/While Shooting a Film (1981). As Kristaq Dhamo stresses, Keko’s work spoke to both children and adults, and her emphasis on building children’s character far transcended the political slogans of her time (Shanaj, 2017). Appearing one year following Sounds and Children and one year prior to Keko’s first short fiction film Uprising in the Apartment Block, A, b, c….zh constitutes a considerably more ambitious project than the earlier documentary. 39 minutes in length, it once again follows a first-grade class over the course of an academic year. As does Sounds and Children, it includes a number of obviously dramatized sequences. It opens with a depiction of a young girl preparing her clothing and supplies for the first day of school. She then joins other children, some with their mothers, as they walk to school bearing bouquets of flowers to celebrate the start of school. Unlike the earlier film, which focuses on a specialized academy, A, b, c…zh presents a conventional first-grade classroom in Tirana. Although the film includes segments with synchronized sound that depict learning activities, the majority of its images are silent, and are accompanied by jolly music which conveys the joy the children have in the learning process. Alternating in a relatively conventional manner long shots, semi close-ups, and close-ups of the children, it foregrounds their interaction. Children comfort a young boy who is obviously frightened to be away from home. They work cooperatively in the learning process. Like those of Sounds and Children, the classroom activities are extremely conventional. Children learn by rote. Although much of the film may initially appear to constitute a single day of school, the mastery with which the pupils recite memorized material suggests that time is transpiring. The class learns to write letters and words, and they study arithmetic by use of an abacus. In a manner not unlike Sounds and Children, A,b. c…zh foregrounds spaces of play. The children gaze through the window at falling snow, which again suggests the passing of time. They then play in the snow and cooperate with each other in the building of a snowman. The teacher joins in their play. In subsequent sequences set in

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the spring, the teacher takes the class on a nature walk through a Tirana park, and later the children put their reading knowledge to work and sound out signs on the streets of the capital. A, b, c…zh is considerably more overtly politicized than Sounds and Children. In the film’s final sequence, in which the children demonstrate their mastery of memorized material, one sees a bulletin board, on which letters of the alphabet are displayed, together with the phrase lavdi partisë, ‘glory to the party’. The juxtaposition of the alphabet and the political phrase underscores the importance of literacy in communist Albania. An educated populace is indeed the glory of the party! The children subsequently break into a rendition of the familiar ‘Alphabet Song’, which is quite surprising given that the song is international and that it is sung by the children at a time in which Albania was growing in its isolation. Keko, in any case, transcends the film’s overt political ideologies through her delicate depiction of the children’s delight in learning and their interaction. Once again, one notes their process of socialization and the development of their character in the way they support each other and cooperate in the learning environment. One only needs think of the group dynamics that would later characterize Tomka and His Friends. Of equal importance is that A, b, c…zh offers today’s viewers an authentic document of everyday life and schooling in what was, arguably, the world’s most isolated society. And herein lies its primary connection to Keko’s subsequent work as director of fiction films. The street scenes it presents as the children and teacher walk through the parks and streets of Tirana recall the opening sequences of both Uprising in the Apartment Block and Mimoza the Brat as viewers gain a glimpse at living and recreational spaces in 1970s Albania. Indeed, Keko imbued her fiction films with the sense of reality which had characterized her work in documentary.

Hysen Hasani’s DEBATIK: Children and vigilance Tana and The Storm reflect two completely different genres in the cinema of communist Albania. While Tana is an ode to socialist realism and to the legacy of the Stalinist cinema, The Storm is the first of many films devoted to the partisan movement and to the struggle against the Fascists, the Nazis, or both.19 Released in 1961, the second feature-length film produced exclusively 19 Although many Albanian films of the communist period display numerous elements of socialist realism, the bucolic setting of the collective farm did not gain much currency over the

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by Kinostudio, Hysen Hasani’s DEBATIK, served as a prototype for the future production in Albania of another sub-genre, the so-called ‘child spy’ films.20 DEBATIK as a title is an acronym for ‘Djem e Bashkuar Anetarë të Ideve Komuniste’ (United Boys of Communist Ideas), and it is often written in all capital letters to underscore that it is an acronym and not a dictionary word.21 It continues in a certain manner with the partisan tendency of The Storm—DEBATIK is set during the Fascist occupation—yet it focuses on the activities of children. The name of the DEBATIK organization to which the protagonists belong is, to a large extent, a blatant misnomer. Although the focus of the film is indeed on the vigilance activities of a group of young boys, girls and adolescent women are also involved in the organization.22 The pre-title sequence begins with an aerial view of a Tirana residential area. A male voice-over describes the poor houses in which Albanians suffered the Fascist occupation and where the children of war suffered unforgettable experiences. This very declamatory introduction refers to the location as simply ‘our town’, with no reference being made to any given location.23 This choice renders the location ambivalent; it could represent any town in Albania. The film cuts to a sequence in which three boys bury the secret documents of their DEBATIK organization and mark the location by referring to the triangle formed by electric wire poles and a tree. They pledge secrecy. Following the titles, the film introduces Coli (Shpëtim Zani), a young boy who lives by himself and hitches rides about town with an old man who drives a horse and buggy through the city streets. Although not yet a member of DEBATIK, he shares the vision of the group and actively course of the Kinostudio years. A notable exception is Dhamos’s 1973 Brazdat/Furrows, which is akin to Tana in both setting and imagery. In June 2022, the ‘Albania Si Gira!’ film festival in Rome paid a special tribute to Kristaq Dhamo, sadly only two months prior to the director’s death. In a session entitled ‘Bucolic Utopias: Genre and Ecology in Socialist Albania’, Furrows was screened. At this event, Bruce Williams spoke on the bucolic dynamics of Tana. 20 ‘Child spy films’ is a label that has been extended primarily to the work of Xhanfise Keko, whose child protagonists actively engage in vigilance for the state. Although this denomination is offensive to some ears, it clearly serves to identify a sub-genre, whose proponents include not only Keko, but also Hasani and Dhimitër Anagnosti. 21 Some databases, such as IMDb and Mubi mistakenly provide the English title The Discussion for the film, not understanding that the Albanian DEBATIK is an acronym. ‘Debatik’, nonetheless, exists in and of its own as a word in Albanian, meaning, more accurately, ‘debate’ rather than ‘discussion’. 22 The name of the organization would more accurately be Fëmijët të Bashkuar Anetarë te Ideve Komuniste. However, the acronym FEBATIK (United Children of Communist Ideas) would lose the implied reference to ‘debate’, which is present in the present title. 23 Eriona Vyshka of the Albanian State Film Archive has informed the author that the film was actually shot in the hills near Tirana’s Elbasan Street.

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supports the partisan movement. Coli has befriended an Italian soldier who guards a Fascist garrison and bribes him with a turtle to gain entrance to the facility, claiming he wants to visit his friend, the garrison’s chef. As the soldier ogles the creature that will soon become a delicious soup, Coli is able to ascertain the precise location of the arsenal. The child, like the members of DEBATIK, takes full advantage of his young age to succeed in gaining the trust of the enemy in a way that would be impossible for adults. Coli, like the members of DEBATIK works closely in tandem with adult partisans, and this anticipates the tenor of the films of Xhanfise Keko, where young boys (and an occasional girl!) perform reconnaissance and other activities on behalf of adult partisans. DEBATIK, as mentioned earlier, also relies on the support of adolescent girls. Yet the nature of the work undertaken is somewhat different. While the boys are ‘in the field’ performing more dangerous tasks, the girls work behind the scenes, drafting documents and coordinating meetings and activities. When Coli, due to his high level of commitment and bravery, is inducted into DEBATIK, a young woman named Shpresa (Luigjina Leka) administers the oath. Shpresa, a very common Albanian woman’s name, means ‘hope’, and this suggests that, despite the tragic outcome of the film, the partisan struggle will eventually triumph. Boys and girls notwithstanding, it is clear throughout the film that grown-ups in the community support the partisan cause. The distinction throughout the f ilm between the partisans and the Fascists is, for the most part, clear cut. The Fascist police are shown to have no redeeming qualities as they beat and interrogate the members of DEBATIK regarding such activities as the distribution of communist tracts in a school classroom. Albanian families, in contrast, are presented with somewhat more ambiguity. In order to protect their son, who has been expelled from school as a suspect in the tract incident, a couple coerces their son into identifying the real culprits, which leads to the detention of two members of DEBATIK. Of all the children, it is Coli who most decidedly upholds the organization’s secrecy. The confidential documents of the organization have fallen into the hands of the Fascist police, and the officers have further tracked the activities of a local schoolteacher who is active in the communist cause. Coli is able to warn him in time yet is shot dead in the process. A group of the townspeople of all ages gather around his body. Close-ups on the faces of the witnesses reveal the extent to which the tragedy has touched them. The driver of the horse and buggy stops near the crowd and approaches the centre of interest. Although he tries to awaken Coli, the boy is dead. The man carries him to the buggy and places his lifeless body in

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Image 10. Shpëtim Zani as Genci in Hysen Hakani’s DEBATIK. Courtesy of the Albanian Central State Film Archive.

the back seat, where the boy had often ridden through town. A number of people, mostly older citizens, follow the vehicle as it pulls away. An elderly woman cries for the perpetrators to be damned. A young man next to her tells her not to cry, that the Fascists will pay a hundredfold for their crimes. A brief epilogue shows the activities of the boys and girls of DEBATIK following the death of Coli. Boys write VFLP on a wall, a recognized abbreviation for ‘Vdekje Fashizmit—Liri Popullit’ (Death to Fascism—Freedom to the People), a popular greeting among supporters of the communist cause. Boys spread glue on walls, and girls follow them, pasting communist tracts. A Fascist flag is torn off the front of a government building. The film concludes with an aerial view of the town, which runs parallel to the pre-title sequence, yet this time, two DEBATIK boys are running through the streets. The male voice-over lauds the activities of the members of DEBATIK, who fought alongside their older counterparts. In comparison to later works, such as Dhimitër Anagnosti’s Lulekuqet mbi mure/Red Poppies on the Wall (1976) or Xhanfise Keko’s Tomka dhe shokët e tij/Tomka and His Friends (1977), DEBATIK may appear simplistic, with relatively little psychological complexity and the overarching presence of stock characters. Nonetheless, it is important for the significant role it

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delegates to females and children in the partisan cause. Cinematically, it is engrossing as shots follow the boys through narrow streets and around corners. These anticipate the urban dynamics of such directors as Dhimitër Anagnosti and Xhanfise Keko.

Feature films of the early to 1960s through 1976 Albania’s third feature, Kristaq Dhamo’s Detyrë e posaçme/Special Assignment (1963) is an action-packed spy thriller focusing on Tomori, an ardent communist who infiltrates an anti-communist front operated by foreign spies. Gaining the trust of the group, he obtains access to secret documents detailing the organization’s plans and locations. Through his carefully orchestrated efforts, he succeeds in annihilating many of the members of the enemy group, and eventually puts an end to their attempted movement. The film contains a number of the dynamics of DEBATIK, yet it more overtly deals with international efforts to undermine the establishment of the communist regime. Like Hakani’s film, it eschews topics that textualize the transnational nature of the communist cause and focuses instead on Albania’s own partisan struggle. Shot by Piro Milkani and Viktor Gjika, the film’s urban images are most often nocturnal, and the darkness foregrounds the secrecy of the spies and of the efforts of the double agent. Day shots are also replete with shadows, with some showing light passing through Venetian blinds, casting pattens on the walls. The latter half of the film is dominated by sequences set in Albania’s rugged mountains, although there is a brief bucolic interlude in which a group of partisans enjoy the arrival of spring. Special Task represents a marked shift for Dhamo from his earlier ode to socialist realism with Tana, and a number of its themes will be further developed and refined in his 1965 film, Vitet e para/The First Years. Based on an eponymous play by Kolë Jakova from 1954, Hysen Hakani’s Toka jonë/Our Land (1964) is a family drama set in northern Albania during the rural reform period that took place in the years immediately following the establishment of the People’s Republic of Albania. Julian Bejko (2013, pp. 38–74), in an extended discussion of the film, views it as not only a personal drama, but also a broader reflection of society. For Bejko, what is at stake is not only the implications of social transformation for the upward mobility of the poor, but also the consequences of such change for the rich (pp. 53–54). A work of quintessential socialist realism, Our Land is spoken in the Gheg variety of Albanian characteristic of the north. The film focuses on a family who has been victimized by a greedy landowner. Upon the

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death of their father, the brothers Leka and Murrashi are raised by the landowner, who had separated them from their mother and who, as is made clear at the end of the film, had actually killed their father. The mother, played by veteran actress Marie Logoreci, had become an outcast in the village due to malicious rumours of her immorality and had consequently abandoned her home. As the film opens, she returns to the village after an absence of many years, but both the villagers and her son, Leka, initially reject her. The landowner has made Leka his son-in-law in order to protect his property. As the reforms of the new order expropriate the landowner’s holdings and distribute them among the impoverished villagers, Leka is, at first, infuriated by what he has lost. Murrashi, who has been active in the partisan movement, returns home to spread the new ideology of socialism. Although his relationship with his brother is fraught with tension, he gradually succeeds not only in exposing the landowner as a murderer, but also in helping Leka understand the new order. The landowner, however, takes revenge by killing Murrashi. The film ends with Leka and his wife ploughing the land, as Leka’s mother contemplates their labour and the land, musing ‘Look, how beautiful our land is’. Our Land is an ode to the rebuilding of agrarian society. Its wide-angle imagery of open fields and its depiction of physical labour, like those in Tana, recall the aesthetics of Stalinist cinema. Out Land’s characters are non-stereotypical, and particularly vivid are its depictions of the conflicted feelings of the villagers towards the new transformation. Not only was the film based on a stage play, but moreover, it was reworked as a stage comedy focusing on the fall of communism and the path of Albania towards a market economy.24 Like Our Land, Dhamo’s The First Years intersects the portrayal of personal drama and the transformation of socialist society. Stavri, a former partisan, returns to his village, where he is believed dead and revered as a hero. His return, however, is not without significant disappointment: Rina, the woman he loves, has married another. Nonetheless, Stavri is empowered with a passion for the socialist cause, and energetically seeks to transform the conditions in his village. Appointed party secretary, he directs his efforts to a construction site that will reap considerable benefit for the community. 24 In May 2016, playwright Stefan Çapaliku staged Danimarka, toka jonë/Denmark—Our Land in Shkodër, a play drawing upon Hakani’s film which comedically intersects motifs from Shakespeare’s Hamlet with recent Albanian history, which premiered at the Migjeni Theatre in Shkodra. See ‘Danimarka Toka jonë’, komedi nga Stefan Çapaliku (2016). The work was published in Prishtina in 2020.

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Local residents volunteer and work collectively under Stavri’s guidance. Their endeavours are thwarted by an American, who is determined to undermine the popular efforts. The villagers, however, continue to pursue their goal, and a successful irrigation project is completed. On the personal level, the relationship between Rina and Stavri provides dramatic tension. Rina is a strong-willed woman, who defies the wishes of her husband and, under the mentorship of Stavri, joins the villagers in their collective efforts. The final images of the two together, which follow the successful opening of the irrigation, leave open the possibility of a renewed love relationship that will offer her the opposite of the bourgeois lie she has had in her marriage. The extensive long and medium shots of the villagers at work recall Tana, particularly the sequences set in the quarry. Emphasis is placed on the strength and form of the male bodies engaged in hard labour, and these are reminiscent of Endri Keko’s Light over Albania, yet they are not as erotically charged. In the concluding sequences of The First Years, Dhamo presents a montage of the gushing water that will revitalize the village fields; the celebration of the villagers; shots of fields of grain; workers tilling the soil; the embrace of the lovers, and the smiling face of a young boy, who represents the positive future of socialism. The montage is replete with rapid pans that reflect the energy and dynamics of the work completed. The film’s concluding image, like the boy’s face, is forward looking. It consists of an aerial shot of the orderly and well-tilled fields. Brief mention is in order of another film from the mid-1960s, one of the earlier Albanian films to have an impact in China. Hakani’s Oshëtimë në Bregdet/Echoes on the Coast (1966) focuses on an industrious fisherman and his four sons. Two of the sons are committed to the communist movement, either as a local leader or a partisan. The third is a medical doctor, who, although not involved in the Party per se, saves the life of a communist. The oldest son is the complete opposite of the others, seeking material gain and pleasure. Towards the end of the film, Jonuz and his three enlightened sons dynamite a bridge in order to rescue partisans imprisoned by the Fascists. The oldest son, who is accompanying a Fascist in the first vehicle to cross, is killed in the explosion. Lu underscores that one of the reasons for the film’s popularity in China was that Chinese films tended to cast every member of a proletariat family in a positive light. Thus, the notion of revolutionary struggle within the confines of a single family was very ‘refreshing’ (Lu, 2020, p. 225). In 1966, Dhimitër Anagnosti and Viktor Gjika co-directed a film foregrounding communist Albania’s commitment to literacy and education. Komisari i dritës/The Commissar of Light focuses on a young partisan, Dritan

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Shkaba, who returns to his hometown in Albania’s Mirdita region, in the northern mountains, to lead a literacy campaign, assuring the opening of schools in the remote villages. The film is unusual in that the partisan must no longer confront the Fascists or the Nazis—World War II is over—but rather, reactionary forces from within, including the powers that be in the regional Catholic Church, who actively encourage locals not to send their children to school. Dritan (Rikard Ljarja) begins his stay in the town by forgiving a traditional blood feud, and the school is opened in a rustic hut. The orphaned woman, Rudina (Roza Anagnosti), loses faith in the Church and allows Dritan to mentor her into becoming a teacher, gaining the admiration of both pupils and her fellow villager. Nonetheless, Dritan soon learns that the partisan struggle is not over. A group of local reactionaries firmly opposes the literacy campaign, associating it with communism. The film concludes with Dritan’s death in the schoolhouse. The Commissar of Light’s cinematopraphy is of special significance, both Anagnosti and Gjika serving as cinematographers as well as directors. For the most part, it is filmed in dark and dull shades, with Dritan’s face often being illuminated by an uncertain light source. Education and literacy are thus associated with enlightenment. As the film concludes, a brilliant dawn breaks over the landscape of Mirdita, metaphorically suggesting the awakening of a region to the new ideology and the abandonment of ancient tradition and religious beliefs that had kept them in darkness for centuries. Viktor Gjika’s I teti në bronx/The Eighth in Bronze (1970) is a film foregrounding the theme of the national hero from a perspective unusual in Albanian cinema at that time.25 The hero is dead, and the story is told through the recollections of seven of his friends, who are carrying a bronze bust of him, which will be erected in his hometown on the anniversary of his death. Thus, Ibrahim Kovaçi (Mevlan Shanaj) never appears in the framing time of the film yet is the focus of each recollection. A second theme, which was new to Albanian cinema, was that of the artist, who celebrates the outstanding accomplishments of heroes in the fight to establish the People’s Republic of Albania, and the construction of the bust recalls the work of Odhise Paskali during the communist period. Lu (2021, p. 224) speaks of the popularity of The Eighth in Bronze in China, although the film’s structure 25 The film’s title has been grossly mistranslated into English as ‘The Bronze Bust’.This is due to confusion between the words i teti, meaning ‘the eighth’ in Albanian, and the French word tête, meaning ‘head’. Although either title could make perfect sense, particularly in light of the storyline, The Eighth in Bronze underscores the seven characters who recall their late friend and, hence, better reflects the film’s structure.

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was difficult for Chinese audiences due to the use of retrospective and parallel montage, narrative techniques with which they were unfamiliar, accustomed, as they were, to their aesthetics of the Cultural Revolution. Unlike Hollywood films in which the same events are told from different perspectives to offer a more well-rounded understanding of a situation, the characters of The Eighth in Bronze each recall different situations, presented, by and large, in chronological order. Each recollection, nonetheless, does shine distinct light on the story of the hero. When the bust eventually reaches the village, Ibrahim’s mother, who would like to take it home, has come to realize that her son now belongs to the people.

Ngadhnjim mbi vdekjen/Victory over Death (1967): Heroines of the partisan movement Of the early years of Kinostudio, 1967 was one of the most significant. It saw the production of Piro Milkani and Gëzim Erebara’s Ngadhnjim mbi vdekjen/ Victory over Death and Dhimitër Anagnosti’s Duel i heshtur/Silent Duel, both among the most aesthetically complex and psychologically engaging films of the first decade of Kinostudio production.26 The two films gained popularity in China, and the latter even succeeded in influencing clothing and hairstyles there.27 Regarding Victory over Death, Ming Jian (2014) explains that the depiction of a beautiful and feminine revolutionary countered the gender erasure characteristic of Chinese film. After all, the pursuit of feminine beauty in China was deemed bourgeois and diametrically opposed to the revolution! Hence, a gender-neutral dress code had been implemented in the Chinese workplace, and women wore very much the same drab hairstyle. Victory over Death led to new trends in female fashion and hairstyle in a number of Chinese cities.28 Victory over Death was extremely popular in China not only because of its guerrilla song and the decadent. Western instrument, the guitar, which accompanied it—it is necessary to stress that many Chinese who were raised on Albanian cinema can still sing the theme song in Chinese! Chinese émigré writer, Chen He (2007) describes 26 In English translation, Victory over Death is also known as Triumph over Death, and either title makes perfect sense given the film’s diegesis and thematic. 27 Ming Jian discussed the impact of actress Eglantina Kume’s hair and clothing on Chinese fashion in a t paper presented at the British Association for Slavonic and East European Studies in Cambridge in April 2014. 28 Although the afore-referenced remarks by Ming Jian are unpublished, they are discussed in Bruce Williams (2018).

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in his short novel Black and White Film in the City that the more feminine of the two female protagonists had become a lifetime infatuation for him. Its popularity in China notwithstanding, Victory over Death could easily have become a run-of-the-mill partisan tale. Yet, its psychological depth and poetic imagery reveal how genuine creativity can emerge even in the most hackneyed of thematic discourses. Lu opens her study of Albanian f ilm in China by a description of a sequence in Xiao Jiang’s Electric Shadows (2005), a Chinese film recalling the passion of audiences throughout China for the cinema in general and for Albanian films in particular. In Jiang’s film, a young woman is in the process of leaving her hometown to give birth to an illegitimate child in secrecy. Her departure, however, is waylaid when she cannot resist the temptation to attend a screening of a foreign film—such an event in the village! Although no mention is made of its title or country of origin, the film is Victory over Death, and the sequence shown on the screen within the screen depicts a romantic moment between the female protagonist and her love interest, a partisan, who sings a revolutionary song as he accompanies himself on the guitar.29 Lu (2016, pp. 216–217) describes Jiang’s diegetic audience as ‘transfixed’ and the female character as ‘mesmerized’. The female protagonist confesses to her companion, ‘I’ve never expected that a revolutionary could play the guitar’, a line that Lu asserts ‘at once foregrounds sentimentalism and aestheticizes revolution’ (p. 216), Lu describes how Jiang’s protagonist’s eyes ‘sparkle with delight’ as the onscreen couple softly sing ‘Brave people, hurry up and go into the mountains. We will join the guerrillas in the spring’ (p. 217). At this point, Jiang’s protagonist feels the pain of labour, and ends up bearing her love child at the improvised outdoor movie theatre. Lu’s discussion of the enthrallment that Chinese audiences had for the film indeed reflects the affective appeal of Victory over Death. Erebara and Milkani’s film draws upon the true story of Bule Naipi and Persefoni Kokëdhima, two young communist women who were tortured and executed in Gjirokastër by the occupying Nazis. A monument to the partisan heroines commemorates the heroism of the two. In the film adaptation of the events, Mira (Eglantina Kume) is an impassioned supporter of the communist movement, whose dear friend, Afërdita (Edi Luarasi), has actively fought as a partisan. The protagonists are clearly differentiated one from the other; Albanian audiences knowing the story of the partisan heroines would easily recognize them, despite the name changes used in the film. Victory over Death, moreover, distinguishes itself from Stalinist cinema in that, rather 29 Jiang’s film gives no credit to Victory over Death, its directors, or to Kinostudio.

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than the single heroine of such directors as Grigori Aleksander, there are two female protagonists! Victory over Death was filmed on location in Gjirokastër, and the city’s hilly and narrow streets lend a sense of historical authenticity to the story even though the directors favour drama over historical accuracy. It opens with an aerial view of the city, and this is accompanied by soft and lilting music, which gradually becomes increasingly dissonant. It cuts to a view of loudspeakers, from which the occupying Nazis broadcast orders to the populace. The music changes into a march rhythm, equally dissonant. We see ordinary citizens as they undertake their daily tasks in the city. A young woman approaches a vendor and buys two puddings. She informs him clearly and concisely of the time and place of a meeting, obviously of communist supporters. Her movements are being followed an observed by a middle-aged man in a suit. We later learn that she is Mira, a high school student who has become engaged in the communist cause. The film then cuts to a shoe repair shop, where a young man enters to convey the same information to the worker there. He repeats the same message at another shop where men are working diligently with wood to construct what appear to be picture frames. In a subsequent indoor sequence, Mira is depicted with two partisans, who try to convince her that a woman should remain active in the cause but not participate in dangerous tasks. We later learn that her family is housing Afërdita (Edi Luarasi), a young woman partisan, with whom Mira has developed a close friendship. Afërdita has been wounded in battle, and Mira is nursing her back to health. The two have similar ideals, but their roles are quite distinct. Mira is a young woman who is actively engaged with the partisan movement and is well-aware of the identities and locations of the movement’s operations. Afërditë, on the other hand, is a rough-and-ready fighter who has served the partisans in actual trench combat. Afërditë is athletic, demonstrating a strong level of physical dexterity. At the same time, she is highly practical, eschewing romantic love in favour of the partisan cause. Mira, in contrast, displays traditional feminine traits, and is caught up in romantic love with a partisan. Despite the differences between the two young women, they are so entrenched in the revolutionary cause that they virtually function as one character. Above the city, a German military official observes both the city from on high and Albanian prisoners walking in a circle. As we see a group of German soldiers together, ‘Lili Marleen’ is played on a harmonica, and this becomes the musical motif for the occupiers. Following a sequence in which we follow German convoys through the arches of the city and along narrow streets, we observe the man who has been observing Mira informing

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a military commander that there are no communist cells in the city and that the communists have moved to the mountains. The official stresses that Mira must be arrested. A skirmish ensues in which Afërdita shoots and wounds a German soldier. The two young women are arrested and taken to Gjirokastër castle, a portion of which the Nazis have converted into a prison.30 In the wagon en route to the castle and in their cell, the two women remember key moments in the struggle against Fascism and later against the Nazis. Mira has a love interest, a young man (Rikard Llarja) from out of town who boards with her family. He has purportedly come to Gjirokastër to open up a small store and, aware of her involvement in the partisan movement, urges caution. Mira later discovers that he, himself, is a partisan. One of Mira’s memories that are provided in retrospect is the sequence with the guitar depicted in Xiao Jiang’s film. Stressing that his love for music is not in contradiction to the partisan cause, the young man explains to Mira that even partisans need music. Music is related to life and beauty. The Nazi off icials, aware of Mira’s affection for the young partisan, attempt to elicit information from the young woman by showing her his guitar, hoping for an emotional outburst and a confession. Mira remains silent. The officials decide to execute the pair without delay. The women are in different places when the officials come for them. They are united in a corridor leading to the castle courtyard. There, two nooses are in place for their hanging. They bravely march to gallows, side by side. Although marching soldiers accompany them, the non-diegetic music is not a German march. Rather, it is the partisan song that was played earlier on the guitar. The partisan march suggests victory, and even though the heroines will die, the communist cause will triumph. The women, in fact, walk to the gallows with such resolve that they appear to be leading the march to their own death. The film ends as the pair approaches the gallows. Albanian viewers were familiar with the historical incident on which the film was made and, thus, it was clear that the execution, although not shown, would indeed take place. Victory over Death, although continuing with the typical thematic of the partisan struggle, does so in a unique way. Although other Albanian films depict female partisans, it is one of a handful of films in which the feminine presence comes to the forefront. A number of the characters may indeed 30 The castle was home to a prison during the Zog years, and the facility was also used by the communists until the late 1960s. This detail was certainly known to those viewers familiar with the prison system in contemporaneous Albania.

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Image 11. Eglantina Kume and Edi Luarasi in Piro Milkani and Gëzim Erebara’s Victory over Death. Courtesy of the Albanian Central State Film Archive.

be stock, yet others are far more multidimensional. The young partisan merchant is complex, especially with regard to his over-protection of Mira. A German soldier displays a soft side as he questions why Mira would have to pay for Afërdita’s actions. Although Mira and Afërdita are both steadfast in their dedication to the communist cause, both display subtle nuances of character that render them human on multiple levels. Afërdite is highly intuitive and feels that the Nazis are afraid of them, for they know their days are numbered! And Mira displays caring in her relationship with Afërdita and her love for the partisan. At the same time, she demonstrates the strength of character necessary for the communist struggle at hand. The two women complete each other, and it can be argued that they represent two sides of a single character. If Kinostudio was to foreground the official egalitarianism of communist Albania, then indeed women had to play key

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and strong roles in its fiction films. Whether they were leaders of a collective, heroines of the partisan movement, or victims of torture by a foreign regime, they often assume a key place in the narrative (Williams, 2018, pp. 138–140).

Dhimitër Anagnosti’s Duel i heshtur/Silent Duel (1967): A Cold War thriller Dhimitër Anagnosti’s Duel i heshtur/Secret Duel (1967) reinterprets the theme of the New Man of Communism in the context of a Cold War political thriller. Although the film is predicated upon the conventional ‘them and us’ dichotomy of Albania versus the decadent West—hence, its outcome can be easily predicted—its protagonists are far from stock characters and are imbued with psychological depth. It focuses on three Albanians, agents for foreign interests, who kidnap a navy sailor at the port of Durrës to assist them in an escape to Italy. Set aboard a patrol vessel en route to Italian waters, the majority of the film employs the claustrophobic sense of the confined space to invoke ideological and interpersonal tension. Duel i heshtur is based on an historical incident of which the details have, to date, been highly contested in Albania. It took place in June 1947, when a marine officer named Spiro Kote returned to the port of Durrës on the patrol ship Mujo Uqinaku with two dead bodies and a third dying sailor.31 Kote was arrested and served five days in prison in Durrës. The officer explained that, some 30 kilometres from shore, he had been informed that they were escaping to Italy. Pretending to cooperate with his kidnappers, he located a weapon onboard, killing them so that the escape to Italy could not happen. Through the personal intervention of Enver Hoxha, Kote was subsequently released and declared ‘Hero of the People’. There was no military investigation or trial.32 Despite controversies involving the exact circumstances, the events were of special consequence to Albania in that investigations were ongoing into the Corfu Channel incident in which several British ships had been damaged by mines while traversing the strait, leading to the deaths of 36 people. Britain opened a claim against Albania in the International Court of Justice in the Hague in May 1947, a few weeks prior to the Mujo Uqinaku events. Diegetically, Silent Duel plays upon these events. 31 The historical patrol vessel was named Mujo Uqinaku in honour of a sergeant of the Royal Albanian Navy who had fought in 1939 against the Italian invasion. 32 For an academic analysis of the Corfu Chanel incident, see Ana Lalaj (2014). For further details on this contested historical incident, see Imaj (2021).

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In the film, the protagonist based on Spiro Kote is Skënder Guri (Rikard Ljarja) and the patrol vessel is the Skanderbeu. Hence, there is a direct link posited between the sailor and his ship and between both of them and Albanian patriotism. The film opens in an iterative mode in which we see the Skanderbeu traversing its waters in what is obviously one of its many patrols. The direction in which it is travelling is left unclear. The takes of the vessel at sea are accompanied by an orchestral score by Nikolla Zoraqi, which recalls, but does not cite, the overture to Wagner’s The Flying Dutchman. The musical reference is ambiguous. On the one hand, it is majestic and appears to reinforce the bravery of the sailors of the patrol reference. On the other, the homage to Wagner serves to reverse a number of the opera’s dynamics. Whereas the events of the opera take place, by and large, on shore, during one of the condemned ship’s dockings, which occur only every 100 years, those of Silent Duel unfold aboard the vessel. Rather than dealing with offshore romances—which are suggested briefly in a short sequence—the focus is on the psychological and ideological dynamics that take place ashore. Despite this initial orchestral theme, Silent Duel is a sparse musical score for a Kinostudio production, especially in light of the high level of tension and drama unfolding within the confines of the vessel. We then cut to an establishing shot of the shipyard from which we view the daily activities of diligent sailors prepping and painting the ship. The mood surrounding and aboard the vessel is at once collegial and jovial. A postman arrives, and Skënder receives a letter from his mother, who praises the agricultural reform that has taken place in her village. Another sailor receives a visit from his fiancée (Eglantina Kume), who is the film’s sole female character, appearing only for a few moments. The sailors warmly send their greetings to her as he takes a few minutes free to walk along the shore with her. From the opening sequences, it is clear that the relationship among the sailors of the Skenderbeu is one of strong cooperation and invigorating friendship. From the letters to the soldiers as well as from the visit of the sailor’s fiancée, the notion of strong support from families for their loved ones in the navy is clear. Albania appears a world of harmony and hope. In a night sequence, we are transported to the grounds of the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Agency. Lively pop music is heard and then is squelched as the complex closes for the night. A car stops and, an Albanian officer (Ndrek Luka), after double checking the vehicle’s number plate, exchanges a few words in code with the chauffeur. As the car radio blasts a news programme where a female announcer reports on the proceedings related to the Corfu Channel incident, indicting the British for falsehood

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and espionage, the officer enters the car and sits next to a man he does not recognize. The officer states that he is expecting to see Mr. Hunt. The stranger introduces himself as Mr. McCormick and explains that the officer will henceforth be dealing with him. Mr. Hunt has quit. In a moment of pure exaggerated synchronicity, the woman’s voice on the radio says that a man named Hunt has been expelled from Albania and that he is now persona non grata on the country’s soil. From the dialogue between McCormick and the officer we learn that the plan in which they are involved is still intact, although Albania is on alert. Through the exchange, we learn that the two are part of a conspiracy to discredit the Albanian government by supporting the British side in The Hague. The officer will hijack a vessel and escape to the West to testify. The officer, whose name we have learned is Rahmiu, protests that the plan is impossible. McCormick insists, praising Rahmiu for his bravery. Rahmiu clarif ies that the Skanderbeu will be completing overhaul and hence, will be located at a certain distance from other ships. Now is indeed the time to act! Later the same night, in a sequence reminiscent of film noir, we see Rahmiu describing the plot to the two men who will be his co-conspirators, Islam (Reshat Arbana) and Bepini (Bujar Kapexhiu). Although reference is made to the freedom of Albania, Rahmiu underscores that business is business. His loyalty will be dedicated to the country that pays him best. More details of the plan emerge. Rahmiu is obviously a high-ranking commander of the port, and he will organize volunteer work on Sunday so that the vessel will be empty except for the guard. He explains that the guard is a martyr’s son, an intelligent man, but one who will never come to their side. A debate ensues as to whether the guard should be killed. Ultimately, they decide to abduct him with the ship. We then see the volunteer efforts on Sunday. Men and women break ground and operate heavy machinery. For the purposes of establishing place and time, the sequence is long and redundant. Nonetheless, its master shots of the collective work and details on the task being performed celebrate the beauty of manual labour. In sharp contrast to this collective effort, we see Skënder alone on the ship. Islam and Bepini stand nearby and pretend to be fishermen. When Skënder reprimands them for being too close to a military vessel, they chide him for being more severe than other sailors. Rahmiu boards the ship, marches through its decks and pilothouse and informs Skënder that the tugboat of the craft’s commander has broken down at sea. The Skenderbeu must be immediately deployed to rescue him, Skënder questions as to why Rahmiu has ordered the crew to participate in the volunteer work, to which the officer replies that the sole option is to recruit the nearby fishermen to aid them in the search.

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Bepini and Islam pretend to be hesitant to accept the responsibility, concerned about the time of return. Rahmiu assures them that the voyage will take two or three hours, no more. The ship sets sail under the control of Rahmiu, and the four characters are now together in the confined space. The interior shots of the pilothouse and other enclosed spaces contrast with the open sea. No other vessels are in sight. Tensions grow aboard the ship. Bepini and Islam appear to have a particularly strained relationship. Rahmiu, for his part, reveals himself to be a heavy drinker. As Skandër steers, Rahmiu exits to the desk to gaze with binoculars at the sea. He pretends to see something that might be the tugboat but declares it a false alarm. Silent Duel now engages in a play with space and geography. The distance between Albania and Italy is obviously much greater than the strait that separates Corfu from Albania. For the purposes of the narrative, the space can be divided into three parts, each corresponding to a geographical space: 1) Albanian land and waters, international waters, and Italian waters. Skënder disconcertingly notes that Rahmiu is steering the vessels towards the open sea and away from Albanian maritime space. He wonders whether it is likely that the commander’s tugboat has gone that far astray? Once safely outside of Albanian sea territory, the conspirators inform Skënder of their plan. Skënder, having already ascertained that something is amuck, pretends to lend his cooperation. Safely in international waters, Rahmiu describes the Skenderbeu as their ‘personal yacht’. The conspirators pass a bottle of raki, anticipating the free world and beautiful Italian women. Rahmiu toasts to himself. Refusing drink, Skënder, in an interior monologue, thinks about his mother, and knows that his death will at least allow her to live in honour. He silently apologizes to his commander, explaining that the enemy was so close. Rahmiu asks Islam to explain the complete strategy to Skënder. Even though none of them know the truth about the Corfu incident, they will testify that Albania did indeed mine the channel. Inasmuch as Skënder is a navy off icer, his testimony is of particular consequence. On deck, Skënder and Bepini share a bonding moment, as Bepini reveals the damage the reforms have caused his family’s status. He explains that he was led into the movement by Islam, whose wealth had also been lost. This moment between the two suggests true bonding, which may well have been the case. The exchange is one of mutual honesty, and the viewer must wonder whether the level of friendship depicted will last, given the situation in which it was born. The tender moment is juxtaposed with a scene of Rahmiu drinking in a cabin, whistling a decadent Western tune, ‘Mademoiselle from Armentiers’. Skënder discovers Bepini rummaging

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Image 12. Rikard Ljarja as Skënder in Dhimitërr Anagnosti’s Silent Duel. Courtesy of the Albanian Central State Film Archive.

through the belongings of the sailors of the Skanderbeu, denigrating the men for their poverty. Viewing a photograph of the young woman who came to the port earlier in the film, he refers to her as a collective whore, a remark that infuriates Skënder. Bepini later cries out that he will never be Skënder’s friend. In the final sequence, an armed Skënder takes on the three conspirators. Rahmiu and Bepini die, and Islam is left wounded as a witness. A triumphant Skënder turns the vessel back from enemy waters and towards Albania, proudly raising his nation’s flag. The title of Silent Duel is evocative. In Albanian, the noun duel is in the indefinite case; the title could well be translated as ‘A Silent Duel’. The use of this form may well help the title escape the confines of the diegesis and embrace broader issues of ideological struggle. In any case, the duel the film describes is indeed ideological. A duel often refers to a deadline

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struggle between two people. In the case of Anognosti’s film, there are four individuals aboard the ship, and the dynamics are three against one. Hence, Skënder must not fight just one opponent. Nonetheless, when interpreted on a broader level, there is indeed a one-against-one struggle implied. It is the fight of communist Albania against Western foreign enemies who would gladly see its demise. The duel, moreover, is silent. Albania must quietly engage in a quiet, yet ongoing process of vigilance to uphold its national identity and maintain the purity of its ideology.

Viktor Gjika’s Clear Horizons/Horizonte të hapura: A hero of the working class Viktor Gjika is an example of an Albanian director who had the opportunity to study in Moscow prior to the break between Albania and the Soviet Union, and who hence escaped what Abaz Hoxha has described as the isolation that prohibited contact with world art and culture (2002a, p. 80). He has been highly lauded for the formal qualities of his films and for the strong development of his characters. Natasha Lako (2007, p. 135) has described Viktor Gjika as ‘a violent river that animates life’. For Lako, Gjika’s work is characterized by fertility, dynamic movement, transformation, and the reconfiguration of human continuity (p. 135). She stresses that Gjika ‘continues to bring on the screen the life, concerns of people [and] to identify their Albanian and civilized existence’ (p. 135). Similarly, director Gjergj Xhuvani describes Gjika’s films as a ‘school containing a deep meditation on our nation, our history, nature and our people, and all this has been embraced in great and infinite love’ (p. 138). Like Silent Duel, Clear Horizons is based on a historical incident. Once again, it deals with an individual who would become a national hero, this time a Hero of Socialist Labour. In 1966, a mere two years prior to the production of the f ilm. Adem Reka, a worker at the port of Durrës was on a floating dock, where ships were repaired, during a bout of rough weather. He was killed, due both to the storm and to work safety issues (Giakoumis, 2016). Reka was declared a hero at a time in which the regime was in search of heroic f igures to inspire citizens to work harder. Clear Horizons is arguably the most quintessentially socialist realist film from the Kinostudio era. Its protagonist Uran, a port worker, sacrifices his life to save a floating crane that is essential to the port’s operations. The f ilm opens with a shot of a crowd at the Durrës shipyard, and the opening credits

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recognizes workers of the Durrës port in general and of the Adem Reka crane, named after the real-life hero, in particular as performers in the film. Despite significant changes between historical anecdote and film, such an acknowledgement intertextually links the diegetic hero to the national hero. It, moreover, establishes early on the importance of labour in Clear Horizons. The film is characterized by the omnipresence of heavy machinery and of the crane, which is central to the story. Its relatively simplistic plotline is subordinate to imagery which serves to render the workers’ work environment central to all diegetic events. Throughout Clear Horizoms, the crane is shot from diverse angles, many of which are very low and accentuate its stately grandeur. Special emphasis is devoted to the materiality of work machinery, and tools and instruments are treated with equal importance to the human characters. On several occasions, the crane itself appears humanoid. At key moments in the film, Uran and other workers are photographed carrying heavy parts, and such juxtaposition underscores that the ideal worker is inseparable from his work. Workers, moreover, evince a strong sense of pride in their work environment, as rendered clear by sequences depicting the cleaning or hosing down of their corner of the port. For a feature film of almost 90 minutes, Clear Horizons tends to minimalize the use of close-ups of a single character. Instead, it favours long or medium shots in which images of workers engaged in diverse activities in the background provide counterpoint to the dramatic events taking place in the foreground. One notes a preponderance of scenes with several workers thoughtfully and intensely engaged in their tasks. Clear Horizons, moreover, eschews the shot/countershot dynamic of the classical cinema in favour of rapid pans from face to face during meetings and encounters. Such a process reminds us that each individual is part of a group. A number of shots depict Uran alone, attending to his duties. Yet, the context of the port and of the crane is always clear. The model worker is frequently shot, like the crane itself, from a low angle, foregrounding his role as the ‘new person’ of socialist society. And his eye is surveying the port to assure that all is in order. The film’s sound dynamics, moreover, emphasize the importance of physical labour. At times, dialogues between characters are muted by the sound of heavy machinery. Present near the site of the crane are a number of wall posters foregrounding the relationship between production and education or the importance of organization and discipline. Foreshadowing the film’s tragic end is a slogan that advocates technical safety, stressing that a lack of attentiveness carries the risk of death. (This detail is of special consequence given that the death

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of Reka was largely due to work safety issues.) Following a sequence in which Uran questions the true motives of the project’s director, the protagonist is shown reading a Marxist-Leninist text which decries personal interest and stresses how this is a great detriment to the development of the socialist society. All of these discourses merge through Uran’s death. The film indicts carelessness and lack of dedication, and the glorification of the personal. Uran’s sacrifice is indeed didactic. It is essential to note that Uran is not only a model worker, but also an ideal husband and father. Although very few sequences depict him at home as opposed to at the work site, one notes the caring attention devoted to his young son. Nonetheless, work remains Uran’s foremost endeavour. Prior to sunrise on his day off, Uran dreams of a number of cranes together, working in harmony in a manner not unlike a ballet.33 His attention then is drawn to the crane that is central to his existence, to the machinery necessary to its operation, and to the Albanian flag. In the protagonist’s dream, work and nation are thus inseparable. Uran awakens and, hearing the mounting storm outside, realizes that he is needed at the port. Given that he will be unable to remain home with his son, he accompanies the boy to a nursery, where they embrace goodbye. For an Albanian audience already familiar with the story of Adem Reka, it is clear that this is a final embrace. Although the vast majority of the workers on the crane are men, one notes the presence of a very dedicated female engineer who demonstrates a level of professional commitment similar to that of Uran. Her interactions with her male counterparts, moreover, suggest a high level of gender equality, recalling the typical presence of a female at a construction site in Albanian socialist realist paintings. Her stride is bold and assertive, and evident throughout is her passion for her work. Her collegiality is most evident through her highly-emotional reaction to Uran’s death. The film responds to the demands of the Albanian Cultural Revolution, and specifically to

33 The notion of work on a day off is textualized in a highly entertaining fashion in Ladislav Rychman’s Czech musical Dama na kolejıch/Lady on the Tracks (1966) in a song-and-dance number in which women dressed in red, blue, and yellow throw buckets of the same primary colours from the windows of an apartment building to a group of men standing by colourcoordinated cars. The number celebrates the joy of Sunday, the day of rest. Nonetheless, the men wash their cars in synchronized dance movements, suggesting that, even on a day off, there is work to do.

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the social climate in the wake of 1967, in its unequivocal call for the entry of women into the labour force.34 Clear Horizons is doubtless one of the most orthodox of Kinostudio films. Yet, it breaks with this orthodoxy through its visual dynamics, which transcend the work’s predictable diegesis. In Gjika’s film, the crane and heavy machinery become objects of contemplation. They are abstracted or photographed at Dutch angles which force the viewer to see them with new eyes. In this respect, the evocative images in Clear Horizons, a combination of Gjika’s vision and the masterful cinematographer of Faruk Basha, far exceed the propagandistic agenda of the film. Gjika’s visual dynamics are subtle yet subversive. Most likely, Clear Horizons fell through the cracks of Kinostudio’s censorship mechanism, which easily could have banned it due to its inherent level of abstraction, because of the simple fact that the evocative images are always those of machinery and work. Albeit a film with strong poetic processes at play, Clear Horizons celebrates, at least diegetically, work and the worker’s state. It survived as one of the most venerated films of the Kinostudio era, and its structural complexity can now be properly assessed. As Josif Papagjoni (2007, p.16) has underscored: Let us recall Clear Horizons, so full of poetry. Cranes bend their necks like giraffes, as though pecking with their beak, as though embracing, and kissing each other […]. And then an open horizon and sea and sky converging [sic], while the floating crane [dives] into the blinding morning light.

Ridvan Peshkopia, Skerdi Zahaj, and Greta Hysi (2014, p. 78), in a psychoanalytic study of the myth of Enver Hoxha in Kinostudio f ilms, argue 34 Clear Horizons stands in noted contrast to Hollywood films dealing with heavy industry. Although the visual dynamics of Gjika’s film are surprisingly similar to Lewis Seiler’s Pittsburgh (1942), the ideological underpinnings are strikingly different. Pittsburgh follows two coal miners, played by John Wayne and Randolph Scott, who rise from a life of hard labour to the top of the corporate ladder. The countless images of machinery and labourers in factories take on a patriotic meaning as the protagonists find their raison d’être in the war effort, deploying their expertise to create ‘the arsenal of freedom’. In Seiler’s film, although very few women workers appear throughout the better part of the film, a coda describing industry’s response to World War II shows women operating press drills and driving tanks. The two male protagonists have as their sidekick and love interest a socialite, played by Marlene Dietrich, who claims to have ‘coal mining origins’, despite the fact that she does not appear to work, until the very end of the film. As Pittsburgh concludes, Dietrich approaches the pair with her own designs for a recreation centre, replete with entertainment stage that will be a key component of the model city that the protagonists are designing for their workers. Labour and capital are depicted as working together harmoniously for the nation’s (bellicose!) good.

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Image 13. Dock workers in Viktor Gjika’s Clear Horizons. Courtesy of the Albanian Central State Film Archive.

that the Uran, as a New Man of Communism, is ‘the f irst in sacrif ices and the last in claims’. Firstly, the New Man is the prime consumer of the Hoxha. Moreover, the creation of the New Man, as per the Hoxha myth, is the leader’s legacy, not only to Albanians but to humanity at large (pp. 78–79). Peshkopia, Zahaj, and Hysi identify the 1960s and early 1970s as the period during which the Hoxha myth grew most significantly. They clarify: […] schematic as they were, the heroes of the films of the 1960s and early 1970s may have been more beloved by the public than those of the late 1970s and the 1980s […] the heroes of the 1960s represented some lofty ideals; the general expectancy about them was that they were surrealistic models of the future (p. 79).

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Viktor Gjika’s Rrugë të bardha/White Roads: The New Man reexplored In 1974, Gjika revisted the theme of the New Man of Communism, once again drawing upon a real-life working-class hero. In this case, the film’s protagonist is based on Pjetër Llesh Doda, a telephone technician from the village of Domgion in the Mirdita region of the northern Albanian Alps. Married and the father of five children, Doda died on 31 December 1966, while trying to repair remote telephone lines that connected the region to Kukës. He never returned home (Giakoumis, Lockwood, Anderson, 2016). Believing that he had fled to Yugoslavia, the Sigurimi visited his home, threatening to arrest his family.35 Some five weeks later, his frozen body was found along the path of the telephone wires by local shepherds when the snow began to melt. He was soon thereafter declared a socialist labour martyr, with Enver Hoxha himself sending presents from Tirana to the very home where the Sigurimi had carried out their threats only a few weeks before. His wife received an appointment as a telephone operator. She remained in this capacity until 1994 (Giakoumis, Lockwood, and Anderson, 2016).36 Gjika’s protagonist, Dedë (Rikard Ljarja), differs from his historical antecedent in that he is single and has a love interest, a telephone operator named Zana (Elida Cangongji), who is equally passionate about her work and encourages Dedë to venture out into the storm to repair the lines. Unlike Doda, his body is not found in a snowdrift. Rather, he freezes, suspended from a telephone that he is attempting to repair. It is unclear as to whether he has died. One of the film’s final sequences is a montage in which Dedë ascertains from multiple perspectives the arrival of the rescue squad. The credits and opening images of White Roads underscore the theme of communication and connection that permeates the film. The Kinostudio credit and the film title are presented juxtaposed with the sound of the typing of a telegram. They appear as strips emerging from the upper right of the screen and crossing it towards the left. No other credits are given at this time. A montage of still images of telephone poles and wires then ensues, crossing the rugged countryside of Albania’s northern mountains and homing in on a small city. The images cut across all four seasons, the 35 This initial reaction on the part of the Sigurimi recalls the temporary imprisonment of Spiro Kote following the return of the Mujo Uqinaku to the port of Durrës. 36 Giakoumis, Lockwood, and Anderson (2016) further clarify that the Albanian model of the socialist labour martyr combines earlier versions of such a reward and the notion of Stakhanovism, which rewards workers who produce more by working harder and more efficiently.

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most dramatic of which appears to be winter. Such a device implies the importance of connecting the country at all times and in all conditions. Inside a small city’s post office, we see eager faces as individuals of all ages and diverse walks of life, both civilian and military, talk to their loved ones. We are privy as well to the individuals with whom they are speaking, usually in larger urban centres. Images appear of telephone operators, hard at work in switchboard centres, attentively connecting callers throughout Albania. The operators appear to be an essential element in permitting contact from remote regions in the Albanian Alps to the rest of the country. Zana, moreover, operates a small telephone station in a small town. In a like manner, Dedë, who works as a telephone lineman to assure the reliability of the phone service, undertakes a considerable part of his duties in remote mountain areas. Giakoumis, Lockwood, and Anderson (2016) argue: By utilizing the literal and symbolic metaphor of the telephone network, the film presents the hero’s primary role and mission as a kind of linking together of the community at the expense of his own satisfaction and happiness. […] and as the film progresses towards its final climax, our hero prefers instead to continue undaunted in his mission. In this way, he is lead like a sacrificial lamb towards the offering up of himself for the greater good of the nation (n.p.).

Giakoumis, Lockwood, and Anderson (2016) read Dedë’s final trek through the bitter snow and the hero suspended on the telephone pole in terms of the passion of Christ. They assert that the use of religious imagery together with the notion of martyrdom was a device through which the communist regime, consciously or unconsciously, could advance its agenda, reaching out to those whose lives had been framed by the religiosity that had once constituted an integral part of the Balkan subconscious. Giakoumis, Lockwood, and Anderson astutely argue that White Roads, although upholding some of the tenets of socialist realism, is markedly different. The ending is more akin to Tarkovsky than to films of the Stalinist era. White Roads perturbs, and it is one of the few Kinostudio productions that offers such a high level of open-endedness, both with regards to its conclusion and to the diverse levels of interpretation on which it can be read. Although its colour images may lack some of the abstraction present in the crane sequences of Clear Horizons, they are powerful and open to a wide range of interpretative strategies. White Roads is, thus, one of the mid-1970s films that most anticipates the structural and psychological advances of Albanian cinema at the apex of the country’s isolation.

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Image 14. Rikard Ljarja as Dedë in Viktor Gjika’s White Roads. Courtesy of the Albanian Central State Film Archive.

Fehmi Hoshafi and Muhharem Fejzo’s Kapedani/The Captain (1972): In communist Albania, women had the last laugh Of the 286 films from the communist period listed in the filmography of the Albanian State Film Archives, only sixteen fall under the rubric of comedy. It is clear that this genre was far less developed in Albania than, for instance, in communist Czechoslovakia or the Soviet Union. The Captain (1972), jointly directed by Fehmi Hoshafi and Muhharem Fejzo, is arguably the most celebrated of Albania’s film comedies. The Albanian Cinema Project, which had originally committed itself to restoring The Captain as one of the five selected films intended for international re-release has described the work as ‘the Albanian It’s a Wonderful Life’ due to striking similarities between it and Frank Capra’s 1946 classic. One reason for the selection of The Captain for restoration by the Project is that comedy was such a rara

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avis during the Kinostudio years. Unfortunately, for fiscal reasons, the restoration was never completed. Unlike Gjika and Anagnosti, Hoshafi and Fejzo were products of exclusively Albanian training. Perhaps for this reason, The Captain lacks the formal beauty of Clear Horizons and the greater dramatic complexity of Silent Dual. Its plotline is simple, focusing on Sulo, a retired military officer unable to come to terms with the emergence of women into communist Albania’s workforce. Due to his age, Sulo is left out of the collective farm’s efforts to prevent a flood, and he blames this disgrace on the election of a woman as the farm’s leader. Sulo subsequently visits his son and daughter-in-law in Tirana, where he is forced to confront the emergence of women in all sectors of society. The film’s portrayal of gender is somewhat over-inscribed, as is its exploration of the inter-generational conflicts that retarded Albania’s modernization in the wake of its Cultural Revolution. Of special importance is that The Captain foregrounds work from divergent perspectives. Its notion of work comprises not only the activities of the collective farm worker or of the urban labourer, but also that of the skilled professional or the artist. The Captain is framed by two dream sequences which depict the ideological state of the protagonist at two distinct junctures, one at the film’s opening and the other immediately prior to its conclusion. Sulo’s first dream recalls his bygone days of glory as an army captain. He is leading an Albanian regiment against a combined army of Turks, Nazis, and Fascists, and has ordered his troupes to fire their canons once he has given a signal by pulling his long moustache. Sulo’s moustache and overall pompous demeanour provide humorous counterpoint to the canons, which are depicted in an exaggeratedly phallic manner. When his soldiers fail to respond, Sulo notes that they have been ordered not to fire by a woman, who we will soon learn to be the chairwoman of the collective farm where the residents of the protagonist’s small community work. The woman, dressed as a military officer, explains that they only have two projectiles left, which cannot be wasted. The appearance of the chairwoman as a military officer underscores the convergence of workers and soldiers present throughout the film, positing both as essential to the nation. This early dream frames the former captain as a man unable to come to grips with the gender equality that constitutes a key ideal of communist Albania. Sulo falls out of bed at the end of the dream and hears the siren alerting villagers of the water emergency at the reservoir. The second dream sequence takes place in Tirana, where Sulo, during a visit to his son and daughter-in-law’s apartment, has swallowed a few sleeping pills too many. In this dream, he is put on trial by all of the women, from

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a taxi driver to the collective chairwoman, whose status he has deprecated throughout the film. The trope of a trial taking place in a dream is not unique in Albanian cinema. Also in 1972, Xhanfise Keko’s Kryengritje në pallat/Uprising in the Apartment Block focused on two brothers who, having wreaked havoc on other children’s playthings, are put on trial by their victims and sent off to space in a hot-air balloon. They awaken, socially redeemed, and actively engage in repairing the broken toys. Although we do not see Sulo’s transformation within the dream itself, it constitutes an ideological cleansing inasmuch as he awakens a changed man, ready to accept his daughter-in-law’s vocation as a dancer and even to embrace his other son’s love for the cooperative’s chairwoman. During the water emergency, the chief of the collective assigns tasks at a meeting not in accordance to gender, but rather with regard to health and ability. Hence, any man or woman duly able to assist should report immediately to the reservoir. Others will be assigned to guard the cows and chickens as appropriate, or to stay at home if necessary. In this sense, The Captain presents an idealized vision of gender equality. Women and men are granted equal access to whatever tasks they are physically able to do. Such a vision is underscored by a brief sequence depicting young men and women tilling the fields together. A long shot accompanied by piano and orchestral music suggests the harmony present in their efforts, and as we move to medium close-ups, their dedication to the tasks is depicted by a complete sense of integration of mind and body. The images recall the poetic depiction of the movements of workers and machinery in Clear Horizons. They further evoke the depictions of farm work in the Stalinist musicals of the 1930s and 1940s, and in particular, Ivan Pyryev’s Kubanskie kazaki/ Cossacks of the Kuban (1949). Referring to this Soviet film, Dana Ranga has explained that ‘the Soviet musicals turned physical labour into choreography, giving it the same expression of joy and exhilaration as any Hollywood dance number’. When Sulo and his sidekick attempt to join in the endeavour, ‘making up for lost time’, their clumsy efforts stand in strong contrast to the harmonious movements of the workers, are met with laughter.37 37 Another Hollywood comparison is in order here. The great respect that the labourers demonstrate for the tough collective farm chief stands in stark contrast to Western depictions of the struggle between management and labour. George Abbott and Stanley Donen’s The Pajama Game (1957) uses a romance between the male superintendent of a pyjama factory and the woman who leads the company’s grievance committee to explore such tensions in the workplace. Abbott and Donen’s film contains extensive shots of women and men at work performing genderappropriate activities, the women stitching and ironing, the men lifting crates and repairing

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Image 15. Albert Vërria as the misogynist of Muharrem Fejzo and Fehmi Hoshafi’s The Captain. Courtesy of the Albanian Central State Film Archive.

In the Tirana sequences of The Captain, one notes an immediate shift in the concept of work and its relationship to gender. In contrast to the easily demarcated tasks of the collective farm, a much broader paradigm is present. This runs the gamut from the privileged position of performers (classical dancer, acrobat) and medical doctors to taxi drivers, bus conductors and barbers. Tirana is depicted as a haven of gender equality. Sulo’s age and traditionalism are especially evident in a sequence in which he attends a ballet machinery. As the workers prepare for a strike, the message is ambivalent. They are demanding a seven-and-a-half-cent raise, and in a musical number they calculate what this increase can yield over five, ten, and 20 years. Despite their enthusiasm, there appears no prospect of future raises; if they win, it is probably the best they can do. Like Seiler’s Pittsburgh, the film ends with the restoration of a harmonious environment between labour and management.

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wearing a traditional white Albanian fez, with his enormous moustache a glaring contrast to the snap appearance of other members of the audience. Although the star performer is Sulo’s daughter-in-law, the villager is unable to appreciate the artistic quality of her dance since he is horrified by having caught sight of the panties that the female dancers sport under their tutus. Such a feeling of shock and dismay is further exacerbated when he is shown a photograph of his granddaughter, an aspiring acrobat, being lifted into the air by a boy, who spreads her legs wide and appears to gaze at her crotch. Although not one of the most ground-breaking of Kinostudio’s artistic production, The Captain, nonetheless presents a sketch of a rural and urban Albania seeking to solidify the presence of women as unskilled labourers and skilled workers, as professionals, and as artists. It is significant to note that this theme, which was secondary in Clear Horizons, a film made only four years earlier, has now come to the forefront. The Captain, moreover, accentuates the disparity between rural and urban spaces, and does so in a light-hearted manner accessible to a wide audience. Although its message is heavy-handed and un-nuanced, it nonetheless serves as a valuable snapshot of Albanian society in the years leading to the heightened paranoia of the Hoxha regime of the mid-1970s.

Imagining Albania’s landscape, both bucolic and harsh Two films from the mid-1970s are especially significant, not so much for their storylines, but rather for the imagery which reflects opposing aspects of Albania’s landscape. In 1974, Dhamo made Brazdat/Furrows, a feature which, like Tana, focuses on life on a collective farm. Its protagonist, Marta, is determined to become a highly skilled tractor driver, and she represents, as Abaz Hoxha (1987, p. 74) asserts, the prototypal young Albanian woman with high socialist moral qualities. Her husband’s worldview, however, is diametrically opposed to hers; he displays petit bourgeois tendencies, is a slave to his own interests, and has an inflated opinion of his own strength. His ideology is simply incompatible with that of the new socialist morality. Like Tana, Furrows is replete with bucolic imagery.38 Not only does it celebrate the achievements of the rural collective, but moreover, it is an 38 One of the discussion themes of the aforementioned 2022 Albania Si Gira! Festival in Rome was bucolic utopias. Although a talk on this on this subject by Bruce Williams focused on Tana, Furrow was the work screened on this particular evening of the festival (Papa and Williams 2022).

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ode to the sheer beauty of Albania’s countryside. Filmed in and around the southern city of Vlora, Furrows’ visuals play a peek-a-boo game with abstraction. Furrows opens with a cropped close-up on soil being tilled by a tractor and, although the meaning is unambiguous, it is only when Dhamo presents a long shot of a line-up of four tractors in a field do we have a context for the semi-abstracted image and assign it to the process of work on a collective farm. This interplay between abstraction and clear-cut images of work continues throughout the film. Dhamo is highly intentional in his depiction of both town and country scenes, and at times there is a strong connection between the two contexts. In Vlora, a group of boys dance in spraying water in front of a tractor and, in a playful manner, the image draws attention to the revitalizing qualities of water. In the countryside, Marta washes her hair and face in gushing water, and the sequence seems to foreground water as an essential source of renewal. While washing, she gazes at intense sunlight emerging from behind tall trees. Close-up images of the harvesting and processing of grain assume an abstract appearance and, recalling the film discourse of Dovzhenko’s Earth (1930), images become self-reflexive, allowing the viewer to set aside the storyline to contemplate them in their visual purity. Although there are visual connections with Tana, particularly in what concerns the bucolic beauty of the collective farm, Dhamo ups the ante on technology, and we see the importance of mechanization, especially the use of tractors, in productivity. Arguably, Furrows displays the most self-reflexive use of imagery of all Kinostudio films. It is surprising that the studio’s censors allowed such a high level of abstraction, something communist Albania normally eschewed. Three years later, Ibrahim Muçaj and Kristaq Mitro filmed Dimri i fundit/ The Final Winter (1976), a work which once again explores the partisan struggle from a female perspective. Filmed in the northern Albanian mountains, The Final Winter is set in 1944 immediately prior to the liberation of Albania from the Nazis. It focuses on a group of village women of all ages who must defy the ever-observant German soldiers to deliver clothing and provisions to partisans hiding deep in the forest. The winter is particularly brutal, and the women must fiercely tread into deep snow and penetrating cold to undertake their trek. The Nazi soldiers occupying their village have allowed them to leave since they have explained that they are in search of firewood for the freezing winter. And this was not totally a lie, inasmuch as the film has numerous images of the women chopping trees. Abdurrahim Myftiu (2003) stresses the metaphoric elements of The Final Winter. For Myftiu, winter is not just a season. Rather, it represents the women’s plight and struggle. The snow, moreover, is at once the whiteness of their souls

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Image 16. Elida Topçia and Astrit Çerma in Kristaq Dhamo’s Furrows. Courtesy of the Albanian Central State Film Archive.

and the stoicism they must display in all circumstances (p. 311). Visually, the film is characterized by intense contrast between the whiteness of the snow and sky and the dark clothing of the women as they tread across the harsh landscape. In long shots, their figures are rendered black, and the visual play between black and white recalls certain dynamics of abstract expressionism in painting.39 Kinostudio’s film production from the late-1950s up to and including the mid-1970s indeed revealed an increase in sophistication. While much of its early output was dominated by more conventional films focusing on recent Albanian history and the glories of the partisan movement, works such as Victory over Death offer both psychological depth and strong visual 39 The author finds the heavy-handed orchestral score to be very intrusive, especially when one considers the power of the images that more than speak for themselves.

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Image 17. Intrepid women in Ibrahim Muçaj and Kritiaw Mitro’s The Final Winter. Courtesy of the Albanian Central State Film Archive.

dynamics. And both Furrows and The Final Winter attest to the possibility of an integration between the thematics condoned by Kinostudio and aesthetic innovation. Although lacking the visual complexity of thee works, The Captain presents evidence that Kinostudio could produce films of a diverse range of genres. As Albania entered into its years of isolation, it did so with a cinema that was mature and ready to interrogate more complex societal and personal subjects.

Dhimiter Anagnosti’s Lulëkuqet mbi mure/Red Poppies on the Wall: Totalitarianism defied In 1976, Dimitër Anagnosti made what is arguably the most celebrated Albanian film of the communist era. Lulëkuqet mbi mure/Red Poppies on the Wall is an indictment of Fascism and, moreover, can be re-read today as a condemnation of totalitarianism at large. It is set in a Red Cross school for orphans that is run by supporters of the Fascist occupation. The orphanage’s pupils are all young boys who, despite the political orientation of the school’s administration, have engaged with partisans from outside the walls of the school and have come to support the communist cause. The most common English title, Red Poppies on the Wall, is actually redundant. It may be read as incorrect—but it is such for good reason! The exact translation would

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be simply Poppies on the Wall. In Albanian, the word lulëkuqet, translating as poppies, contains the word kuq, meaning ‘red’. Red can convey the dominant colour of the Albanian flag and hence suggest a resistance to the Fascist occupation. It can also denote the pre-eminence of the communist movement in the film’s diegesis. Although the word ‘poppy’ alone refers to a red flower, the phrase ‘red poppies’, albeit redundant, conveys more explicitly the metaphorical meaning of the title. The wall refers to the partition that separates the complex of the orphanage from the rest of the world. It constitutes the barrier through which individuals and ideas must somehow travel in both directions in support of the communist cause. Nonetheless, the wall is bare. There are no poppies to adorn it. The young students, who climb onto the wall to gaze out from the enclosure onto the street can themselves be deemed the poppies, and the colour of the ‘flowers’ suggests their burgeoning ideology. The opening images of the film show both the courtyard of the school, where a group of boys are engaged in a game of soccer, and the street in front of the orphanage, where a young partisan bicycles to a meeting with a student who desires to become active in the communist movement. These two spaces are separated by the wall, and the outside world in which the partisan moves is the antithesis of what we will see to be the oppressive and claustrophobic realm of the orphanage. Following the title sequence, during which the young boy rides the partisan’s bicycle through the city streets, the film cuts to a night sequence of the boys being awakened in their dormitory and taken to the courtyard by a watchman. From there, they are led to the city streets where they are charged with whitewashing any anti-Fascist graffiti. The pupils reluctantly undertake their task. There is a rebel among them who, instead of painting over pro-communist graffiti, attempts to cover a placard in support of Mussolini. The darkness of the night, illuminated only by an occasional flashlight, anticipates the night movements of the child spies that characterize Xhanfise Keko’s films that will soon follow. Although the communist state has not yet been established, the pupils decisively engage in diverse ways to assure its establishment. After dawn, the boys return exhausted and demoralized to the orphanage, where they are met by their favourite teacher (Timo Flloko). They then sit attentively in the classroom as he reads a poem by Naim Frashëri. This ode to patriotism denounces the weakness of traitors. It is soon clear that the teacher, himself, despite the pervasive ideology of the school, is, himself, a passionate partisan. The orphanage, albeit an enclosed, protected space, is ideologically split. Although its directors are strong supporters of Mussolini—as is the night

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watchman—the boys, the cleaning woman, and the cafeteria cook are obviously followers of the communist movement, although they must be circumspect in voicing their views. The official curriculum of the school indoctrinates the pupils in Fascist ideology, and learning the Italian language is of special importance. A boy is ridiculed by an administrator for his pronunciation. An Italian woman, who appears to be a close friend of the school’s director, comes periodically to lead the boys in Fascist songs. 40 These music lessons are intentionally interrupted by the male cook who loudly sings traditional Albanian songs and bangs utensils in the kitchen. When the boys succeed in tripping the night watchman on the stairs, the director recurs to draconian tactics to discover the identities of the culprits. These include depriving the young boys of food and pitting one boy against the other. By virtue of the pained expression on the faces of the cleaning woman and the cook, the extent to which these two workers subvert the director’s authority becomes explicit. At one point, the cleaning woman is granted permission to take a small group of boys on a walk, under the condition that she returns at an appropriate time. The walk allows the boys to escape, at least momentarily, from the tightly controlled dogmas of the school. As the film progresses, the opposition between the teacher and the administration increases dramatically. Although speaking to his class about patriotism and social justice, he never overtly addresses the communist party. Amidst his readings of Naim Frashëri and other enlightened souls, he nonetheless references a ‘mother’, whose identity is not immediately clear to the boy. The culminating moment of the film is the death of a pupil, who attempts to scale the wall late at night. He is shot, most likely by a patrolman, and falls to his death as his companions watch from the dormitory window. Learning of the tragedy, the director opts to take full political advantage of the situation. He wants to appease the communists, who are rising in power, by accusing the watchman of the murder. Inasmuch as the watchman supports the Italian occupation, the Fascists flaunt their objectivity by indicting one of their own. The boys are grilled relentlessly as to what they know about the incident. Subsequently, the director hand-selects a number of pupils and expels them from the orphanage. No real justification is given for this decision, but it clearly terrorizes the remaining students. In the wake of the events in the school, the teacher’s lectures become more impassioned, and this eventually leads to his dismissal. When he bids 40 All characters, including both Italians and the Albanian supporters of the Fascist movement are played by Albanian actors. Hence, the determination as to which character is Italian and which is an Albanian supporter of the occupation is purely speculative.

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farewell to the boys, his words are muffled, yet the body language of all present make the use of language redundant. The pupils are devastated to lose their mentor. The teacher subsequently makes contact with the group of boys who have now become expelled from the school. These boys have been plastering the streets with anti-Fascist graffiti, which includes threats against the school’s director. In a clandestine meeting, he explains to them that the ‘mother’ to whom he had referred in the classroom was the very Communist Party, and that the director of the school is a dangerous agent who must be eliminated. As the teacher explains his plan of attack, once again, we see his lip movements, yet his voice is muted. It is unclear as to the details of the pan, but it is obvious that the young boys will have an active role. The chiaroscuro with which we view the meeting recalls the secretive atmosphere of a good number of films that depict clandestine meetings of members of the partisan cause. We then see a boy, the same who had cycled through the streets at the beginning of a film. He awaits a cue from another lad and then cycles off. The teacher is seen riding his bicycle in the opposite direction. The coordination between the two riders appears highly coordinated, but we are not privy to the details. The teacher pauses his bike in front of the orphanage waiting for the director to exit. He then shoots the Fascist, executing him in the name of the people. This event is depicted through two shots, which are somewhat disorienting, playing with a level of unexpectedness. From the street, we see the director approaching the exit as the teacher awaits, with his bike posed slightly left of centre. We abruptly cut to the courtyard a follow the director’s exit. As he is shot, he falls backwards into the courtyard. This quick and jarring cut merges, if just for a moment, the internal space of the orphanage and the world outside. It anticipates a world in which the walls of the Fascist school have burst open to new ideals. The film closes as the young boy rides the bike along the streets, looking cautiously at his surroundings. The cast of characters of Red Poppies on the Wall is almost exclusively male. The housekeeper and the singing teacher are notable exceptions, and each is from an opposite side of the ideological divide. On the street, we briefly catch sight of a group of young girls clad in school uniforms and marching in an orderly, almost militaristic fashion. They appear to be products of Fascist education, yet we are not informed as to their backgrounds or ideological orientation. One of the characteristics of the child spy genre, which we have witnessed in DEBATIK and will see in the films of Xhanfise Keko, is that the tasks allocated to children in either the partisan movement or the subsequent vigilance in service of the state are, by and large, age (and gender!) specific.

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In this respect, Red Poppies on the Wall is somewhat distinct in that the boys appear to play an integral part in the murder of the director. Although the teacher’s plan as to exactly what each boy should do remains undefined, the details of the clandestine meeting having been muted, it is clear that the secret messages play an invaluable role in the dynamics of communication and the timing of the bicycle rides. The above discussion, however brief, opens doors to the manner in which Red Poppies on the Wall was read at the time of its mid-1970s release. Nonetheless, it is a film that has opened itself to new interpretive spaces following the collapse of communism. Ana Grgić, all the while acknowledging that the Red Poppies on the Fall follows the convention of the partisan struggle so typical of the films of communist Albania, suggests significant nuances that speak to the time of the film’s release rather than simply to its diegetic time. She underscores: […] the film reveals and offers insights into the systems of spying and everyday social realities through the conflicted relationships and feelings of the boys, and echoes the experiences of Albanians during the 1970s, a decade of great insecurity and increased siege mentality (Grgić, 2021, p. 289).

To Grgić’s thoughtful assessment of the work, one can add the following remarks, which lead to how the film can be read in a postcommunist context. At the time of the release of Red Poppies on the Wall, Albania’s world had dwindled. Its sole friend was China, and this closeness was on the verge of termination. In the years soon following, Albania itself would increasingly become a confined space like that of the school. There would be a wall of sorts, but it would be far more difficult to cross in either direction. In the case of Albania under isolation, the poppies would not be on the wall, because looking outward would be dangerous. Other methods would be needed to maintain any contact whatsoever with the world outside of national borders. Rather, the flowers would be confined to a space inside the partition, and today we are learning more about how dissent would ultimately grow from within. Although the film does not invite an anti-communist reading per se—everything regarding the partisan movement is glorified by the teacher—it does appear to metaphorically address the Hoxha regime, which would be so extensively re-assessed in postcommunist films. Although the actions of the school’s director are, within the film’s diegetic context, antithetical to the partisan clause, they anticipate the extreme levels of intimidation and brutality that would characterize the Hoxha regime. One need only note the ‘show trial’ of the watchman. The film’s original ideology

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Image 18. Boys from the orphanage in Dhimitër Anagnosti’s Red Poppies on the Wall. Courtesy of the Albanian Central State Film Archive.

notwithstanding, it remains a meditation on totalitarianism and the desire to gaze outside from a place of confinement. Kinostudio’s films of the seventeen-year period running from 1960 to 1976 are indeed the Albanian films most known internationally. Although they frequently dealt with such themes as the partisan movement and vigilance in the service of the state, a good number of works were excellent formally. There were works that displayed a sense of visual poetry, and others that were characterized by psychological depth. The finest of these productions paved the way for the films made under isolation. Not only would these be of high production values, but moreover, they would expand the thematic directions of Kinostudio.

Works cited Albanian Cinema Project (2012), publicity card for the proposed restoration of Fehmi Hoshafi and Muhharem Feijo and Kapedani/The Captain. Çapaliku, Stefan (2020), Danimarka toka jonë, Prishtina: Bardbooks. Chen He (2007), Black and White Film in the City, Guangdong: Flower City Publishing House.

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Danimarka toka jonë, komedi nga Stefan Çapaliku (1986), Shkodër: Star Plus, https:// www.starplus-tv.com/danimarka-toka-jone-komedi-nga-stefan-capaliku/. Giakoumis, Konstantinos, Christopher Lockwood, and Trudy Anderson (2016), ‘The Making of the Socialist MartyrL Pjetër Llesh Doda and White Roads’, KinoKultura 65, http://www.kinokultura.com/specials/16/giakoumis_lockwood_anderson. shtml. Accessed 24 June 2022. Grgić, Ana (2021), ‘Building a New Socialist Art: A Short History of Albanian Cinema’, Studies in Eastern European Cinemas 12.3, pp. 276–292. Groupe de Travail sur le Cinéma Albanais (1975), Le Cinéma albanais, Paris: Université de Vincennes-Paris VIII. Gu, Yizhong (2010), ‘The Three Prominences’, in Ban Wang (ed.), Words and Their Stories: Essays on the Language of the Chinese Cultural Revolution, Leiden: Brill, pp. 283–303. Hoxha, Abaz (1987), Filmi artistk shqiptar, Tirana: 8 Nëntori. Hoxha, Abaz (1994), Arti i shtatë ne Shqipëri, Tirana: Albin. Hoxha, Abaz (2002a), 100 vjet kinema nëtrojat shiptare/100 Years of Cinema in Albanian Dwellings, Tirana: Marin Barlett. Hoxha, Abaz (2002b), Enciclopedi e kinematografisë shqiptare, Tirana: Toena. Hoxha, Abaz (2005), Kinematografija shqiptare 1985-2005, Tirana: Toena. Hoxha, Enver (1965), ‘Literature and the arts should serve to temper people with class consciousness for the construction of socialism’, closing speech delivered at the 15th Plenum of the Central Committee of the Party of Labour of Albania 26 October), https://www.marxists.org/reference/archive/hoxha/ works/1965/10/26.htm. Accessed 4 December 2022. Imaj, Afrim (2021), ‘Spiro Kote dhe e vërteta e heroit te f ilmi Duel i heshtur’, Panorama, 15 January, http://www.panorama.com.al/spiro-kote-dhe-everteta-e-heroit-te-filmi-%E2%80%9Cduel-i-heshtur%E2%80%9D/. Accessed 6 January 2023. Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ (1977), The Albanian Film, Tirana: 8 Nëntori. Lako, Natasha (2007), ‘Reading the Albanian Existence in Gjika’s Films’, in Xhokaxhiu, Ilia (ed.), Viktor Gjika, Tirane: Arkivi Qendror Shtatëror të Filmit, pp. 22–25. Lalaj, Ana (2014), Burning Secrets of the Corfu Channel Incident, Washington, DC: Woodrow Wilson International Centre for Scholars, Cold War International History Project, https://www.wilsoncenter.org/sites/default/files/media/documents/ publication/cwihp_wp_70_burning_secrets_of_the_corfu_channel_incident. pdf. Accessed 4 June 2022. Lu, Xiaoning (2016), ‘The Captive Audience and Albanian Films in Mao’s China’, Studies in Eastern European Cinema 12.3, pp. 216–236. Mao Zedong (1966), ‘Comrade Mao Tse-Tung’s Message of Greetings to the Fifth Congress of the Albanian Party of Labour’, Peking Review 9.46, p. 5.

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Mëhilli, Elidor (2017), From Stalin to Mao: Albania and the Socialist World, Ithaca: Cornell University Press. ‘Qingzhu Aerbaniya jiefang shiwu zhounian’ (1959) (Celebrating the Fifteenth Anniversary of Albanian Liberation), Beijing: Rénmín rìbào (People’s Daily), 28 November,, p. 27. Papagjoni, Josif (2007), ‘Lira e Orfeut në një epos kinematografik’, in Xhokaxhiu, Ilia (ed.), Viktor Gjika, Tirane: Arkivi Qendror Shtatëror të Filmit, pp. 12–17. Peshkopia, Ridvan, Skerdi Zahaj, and Greta Hysi (2014), ‘The Myth of Enver Hoxha in the Albanian Cinema of Socialist Realism: An Inquiry into the Psychoanalytical Features of the Myth’, Framework 55, pp. 66–82. Shanaj, Mevlan (2017), Koha e pelikulës: Xhanfise Keko/ Xhanfise Keko: A Woman Director in the Age of Celluloid, Tirana: Zig Zag Film (motion picture). Vygotsky, Lev (1933), ‘Play and Its Role in the Mental Development of the Child.’ Psychology and Marxism Internet Archive 2002, https://www.marxists.org/ archive/ vygotsky/works/1933/play.htm. Accessed 12 September 2018. Williams, Bruce (2007), ‘Double Eagle, Double Indemnity: Bekim Fehmiu and (Yugoslav) Albanian Identity’, Kinema 27 (Spring), pp. 69–84. Williams, Bruce (2013a), ‘Two Degrees of Separation: Xhanf ise Keko and the Albanian Children’s Film’, Framework 54.1 (Spring), pp. 49–58. Williams, Bruce (2018), ‘Cherchez la femme: Gratë revolucionare në filmat e Kinostudios’, (‘Cherchez la femme: Revolutionary Women in the Films of Kinostudio’), Politikja 2, pp. 129–143. Reprinted in Klejd Këllici, and Enis Sulstarova, eds. (2021), Studime mbi periudhën e komunizmit në Shqipëri: Doktrina, imazhe dhe trupa, Tirana: Botim i Departamentit të Shkencave Politike, Fakulteti i Shkencave Sociale, Universiteti i Tiranës, pp. 119–138. Williams, Bruce (2020a), ‘Cinema in the “Local Perfect Position”: Children and Education in the Documentary Work of Xhanf ise Keko’, Studies in Eastern European Cinema 11.1, pp. 54–66. Xhuvani, Gjergj (2007), ‘Faleminderit i dashur mjeshtëri’, in Ilia Xhokaxhiu(ed.), Viktor Gjika, Tirana: Arvivi Qendror të Filmit, pp. 32–33.

IV. A Cinema in Isolation Abstract: This chapter focuses on Albanian cinema from the break with China up to and including 1984, the year prior to the death of Enver Hoxha. It will explore the political and cultural context of these years of isolation. This will be followed by an overview of the diverse themes of Albanian cinema during this period. Discussions will ensue on the children’s films of Xhanfise Keko as well as on two works focusing on Albania’s struggle against Fascist Italy that draw upon the theme of music. Special attention will be devoted to Piro Milkani and Kujtim Çashku’s Ballë për balle/Face to Face, one of the most complex and subtle films of the communist period, which looks back nostalgically on Albania’s years of friendship with Russia. It will conclude with a discussion of Çashku’s Dora e ngrohtë (1983), which focuses on a wayward youth brought back into society by the warmth of the communist system. Key words: Albania, cinema, communism, isolation, social issues

From the split with China through the period immediately prior to the death of Enver Hoxha, Albanian cinema took on new challenges, embracing a far more diverse range of subject matter and reassessing its stock themes from new perspectives. The filmography published by the Albanian State Archive assigns all films produced between 1953 (The Great Warrior Skanderbeg) and 2003 to specific themes. These do not constitute a one-to-one correspondence inasmuch as an individual film may be assigned to several categories. While earlier Kinostudio productions focused primarily on Albanian history, in particular the partisan struggle, and the triumph of the socialist state, themes that had been on the periphery in the 1960s and 1970s came to the forefront in the 1980s. As this decade developed new trends, the number of films dealing with social themes and women’s issues increased dramatically, as per the Albanian Film Archives. Several films are even categorized as thrillers, a genre for which the films of communist Albania were not especially known (Arkivi Qendror Sheteror i Filmit, 2004). This clearly marks a major shift in production

Williams, B., Albanian Cinema through the Fall of Communism: Silver Screens and Red Flags. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789462980150_ch04

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focus. Alongside these themes, a large number of films are set in the 1980s. Hence, Albanian cinema was no longer primarily rooted in the past. Moreover, the years of isolation witnessed a surge in Kinostudio’s production. From 1978 up to and including 1984, Albania produced some 103 films (Abaz, 1986).1 Closely related to the increase in diversif ication that characterized Albanian films of the period of isolation was the Albanian National Film Festival, which was held eight times between 1976 and 2001. Each edition of the festival had an overarching theme. For instance, the 1981 edition focused on the accomplishments of individual film directors, and that of 1989 was dedicated to feminine beauty. It is most interesting to compare the themes of the first and last festivals held under communism,2 which attest to societal transformation during this period. While the festival of 1976 was devoted to happiness and accomplishments, that of 1991 explored social anxiety. Natasha Lako has discussed at length the importance of this Festival in the maturing of Albanian cinema. Viewing the Festival as a venue through which film-makers and the public could dialogue with the art form and view and compare films, Lako (2004, p. 290) argues that such a forum constituted, in essence, a recognition of intellectual property and artists’ rights. A new generation of film-makers was growing, and a number of these would later make a successful transition to the post-Kinostudio cinematic context of international coproduction.3 These directors needed to negotiate the fundamental ideological differences between the two periods. It can be argued that the thematic diversity and increased criticism of social issues that emerged in Albania’s cinema of isolation may have aided them in this transition. They were no strangers to the themes that would characterize the films that followed the end of the communist period. Nonetheless, the presence of Albanian films abroad was very limited. Without Chinese audiences, Albanian films were primarily for Albanians. 1 It is necessary to recall that Abaz Hoxha did not include television productions in his 1986 filmography of Albanian cinema. This is in contrast to his 2005 study, which mentions television productions from time to time. 2 Following the collapse of communism and the closure of Kinostudio, there were two additional editions of the in 1991 and 2000. 3 Kujtim Çashku, Vladimir Prifti, and Fatmir Koçi are among the directors who emerged during Albania’s years of isolation and successfully continued their careers in the postcommunist context. Other directors from earlier generations, such as Piro Milkani and Dhimitër Anagnosti, would also continue to direct in the world of international coproductions. Finally, Gjergj Xhuvani is an example of a film professional who had non-directing responsibilities at Kinostudio, yet would emerge as a director following the closure of the studio. For more information, see Arkivi Qendror Shteteror i Filmit (2004) and Abaz (2005). Although neither work provides a specific list of film directors working in both periods, their extensive filmographies and discussion permits readers to piece this together.

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There were rare exceptions. For instance, Xhanf ise Keko’s f ilms were particularly well-represented in the Giffoni Festival in Salerno. Perhaps this is due to the notion that children’s films are, by nature, more universal and tend to transcend local political contexts. The dearth of exposure of audiences outside of Albania to Albanian cinema is well in line with the lack of contact the rest of the world had with Albania during period of greatest isolation. It must be noted, moreover, that even those directors who would become international figures in the postcommunist era were virtually unknown outside of Albania during the period of isolation. This chapter will discuss Albanian cinema during from 1977, when the rift with China was well underway, up to and including 1984, a year that ended slightly over three months prior to the death of Hoxha. It will begin with a discussion of the political and social climate of the years of isolation. This will be followed by a general examination of the transformation of Kinostudio productions during this period. Due to Kinotudio having produced over 100 films during this eight-year period, it will be impossible to mention all of them.4 The selection of individual films for further discussion, some in greater detail than others, is primarily based on both their availability with subtitles for readers of this book as well as upon the diversity of the themes present.

Historical context of the years of isolation The split with China left Albania without a true friend. Gjon Boriçi (2020) stresses that, although there was speculation at this time that Albania would open up a small window to the West, this failed to happen. Boriçi (2006, p. 295) emphasizes: Sadly, Albania would open neither a door nor a window. Its complete isolation from the rest of the world was a fait accompli. The East—and above all the West—would remain taboo for Albanians. Only one alternative remained: to build socialism with its own forces.

The end of economic ties with China, coupled with Albania’s continued condemnation of both the West in general and the revisionism underway in 4 For a complete listing of films made during this period, see Arkivi Qendror Shteteror i Filmit (2004) and Abaz Hoxha (2005). The small difference in numbers between the two sources is most likely due to the choice between production versus release dates. The Archive, moreover, includes films made by and for television.

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the East, led inevitably to what Grgić (2016, p. 81) describes as an economic depression worsened by the country’s lack of foreign aid and its dependence on internal production. Grgić further foregrounds the impact of Albania’s isolation on state repression, with the Sigurimi increasing its reign of terror. There were deaths, imprisonments, and disappearances (Grgić, 2021, p. 83). One must stress that, given Enver Hoxha’s general paranoia and fear of foreign invasion, it was inevitab;e that he construction of some 175,000 bunkers that were omnipresent throughout the Albanian countryside. Although production on these began in 1967, their number had exponentially increased by the 1980s.5 The bunkers became arguably the most emblematic symbol of communist Albania.6 The story of the man in charge of Hoxha’s bunkerization plan was made into a film by Kujtim Çashku in 1996, some five years following the closure of Kinostudio.7 Even prior to the break with China, Enver Hoxha had spoken extensively on self-reliance. In his 1976 report to the Party of Labour of Albania, the term ‘self-reliance’ is used 20 times. He argued, ‘By undeviatingly pursuing the Marxist-Leninist course of self-reliance, Albania will attain new, even greater, victories in the complete construction of the socialist society’ (Hoxha, 1985, p. 15). Such a remark constitutes a clear indicator that Hoxha was prepared, if necessary, to pursue a path of isolation. In a 1980 address to the Central Committee of the Party of Labour, Hoxha likened the importance of the arts to that of science. He asserted, ‘The sciences, both technical and natural, like literature, art, and so on, are a form of the social consciousness. Science acts upon the general development of the civilization, of the society, just as the [arts and literature] do’ (Hoxha, 1985b, pp. 1007–1008). Doriana Matraku Dervishi and Marianne Johnson (2020, p. 111) maintain that, economically, the period of isolation was distinct from other models of economies developed in isolation, in that an echo-chamber developed in which ‘[…] theory was functionally irrelevant to policy-making or practice. Decreed economic theory was substantively empty, and new ideas were shut out’. In 1982, Hoxha (1985c, pp. 605–606) elaborated further on these remarks, stressing the importance of the arts in the socialist society: Creative literary and artistic work, sound in content and varied in form, enriches the spiritual life of our people. Literature, music, figurative arts, 5 See discussions in Taylor (2019). 6 Cf. Boriçi (2016, p. 295). 7 Çashku’s film Colonel Bunker (1996) has been studied by Alison Reilly (2016). Cf. Williams (2013c).

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films, the theatre, television, etc., guided by the Party, carry out great political, ideological, and educational work and play an important role in the formation of the socialist traits in the character of our people, in implanting the norms of communist morality.

Thematic diversity of Albanian cinema in the period of isolation The period of isolation saw a continuation of the historical subjects that had characterized so much of Albanian cinema during its earlier decades. As Abaz Hoxha (1985, p. 81) explains, these themes were now intertwined with those of everyday life, including family, morality, and the relationship of the individual to the social environment. The historically based films of the 1980s represent a gradual change towards more unconventional interpretations of such themes. For instance, Ibrahim Muçaj and Kristaq Mitro’s Nusja dhe shtetrrethimi/The Bride and the Curfew (1978) imbues the female partisan with a high level of agency within the narrative. Shpresa has killed an Albanian Nazi collaborator and she must save herself so as to protect her fellow partisans as well. She escapes from the Nazis by dressing as a bride being taken to her groom. Kaj van Zoelen lauds the film’s formal strengths. He stresses that it is shot in high-contrast black and white and recalls European film noir and the work of Jean-Pierre Melville. Van Zoelen (2021) foregrounds the film’s minimalism, which he compares to Robert Bresson. The Bride and the Curfew possesses an economy of vision; ‘every second feels essential’ . Van Zoelen further discusses the cinematography of The Bride and the Curfew: Tension is built through shadows and camera angles as much as through the threat of imminent, deadly violence. Some of the beautifully lit nighttime scenes border on the expressionistic, while a morning scene with Nazis waiting around silently, shot through the legs of their captain, wouldn’t feel out of place in a spaghetti western.

Van Zoelen further notes the film’s similarities to Muçaj and Mitro’s The Last Winter with regards to formal and aesthetic processes. Although Muçaj and Mitro were reprimanded for their formal preocupations, Van Zoelen emphasizes the importance of The Bride and the Curfew in the growth of Albanian cinema. He introduces his discussion by quoting Thomas Logoreci, who told him personally, ‘This is what all communist Albanian cinema should have been’ (Van Zoelen, 2021).

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Another historical drama is Viktor Gjika’s Nëntori i dytë/The Second November, which follows representatives from around the Albanosphere as they converge in Vlora in 1912 to declare the country’s independence. Unlike so many films devoted to past struggles, it is, by and large, devoid of violence. The tools of independence are not the rifle or the sword, but rather the pen and the flag. The Second November is defined by a gentle contemplative discourse. One notes the diverse roles untaken for this historical moment, including the sewing of the Albanian flag to be displayed in Vlora, which has been chosen strategically to be the site of the declaration. It was chosen as the first film to be restored by the Albanian Cinema Project, to mark the centenary of Albanian independence in November 2012. Regina Longo has explained the special challenges implicit in this restoration. Although the film stock originally used was capable of producing rich and saturated colours, at the time of the film’s production, Albania lacked laboratory resources to bring out the true colours captured. Hence, in the digitization process, one of the primary goals was to re-create the original colours intended (Regina Longo, personal contact, October 2012). From a more contemporaneous perspective, Çashku’s Shokët/Comrades (1982) is a structurally innovative film focusing on a young engineer who is testing a new procedure to use in the metallurgical industry. Set at a Chinese-built plant in Elbasan, the young engineer struggles with the outdated mentality of his superiors. During his experiments, an explosion occurs. His rivals arrange for him to be punished for the mishap. Investigations reveal, however, that his opponents had sabotaged his work, and the engineer is exonerated. The film is audacious in that it reveals that, even in the workplace of communist Albania, rivalries are present that break the illusion of a harmonious, communal environment. Comrades is a highly innovative film, both structurally and thematically. As Julian Beiko (2016) explains, its audio and visual elements constitute a marked departure from the Kinostudio tradition. The musical score by Haig Zaharjan eschews the traditional sweeping classical orchestral socres of its predecessors. Instead, it is dissonant, recalling the work of Pierre Schaeffer, Steve Reich, and John Cage. Beiko (2016) asserts: The lush Socialist assurance of comforting strings and piano is replaced by this atonal uncertain future. The musical soundtrack scores of the late Albanian cinema of the 1980s are enriched by organ, autumn and melancholy, an aural reflection of the desolate alienation of the individual constricted by a selfish world (n.p.).

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Image 19. Kujtim Çashku’s Comrades. Courtesy of the Albanian Central State Film Archive.

Beiko further note that the Mendeleev chemical chart is rendered musical in that it emits dissonant sounds that are juxtaposed with idyllic scenes at a nearby lake. Bejko describes the overall visual sense of Comrades as producing a science f iction reality. He identif ies the overall colour scheme of orange, purple, and red and the presence of telephones and remote controls. Bejko analyses this sense of science fiction: [The general] sensation one gets from this use of the science fiction form produces an apocalyptic feeling of impending industrial disaster. This expression of an unconscious fear is perhaps a reflection about the overall symbolic death of a particular social class. This symbolic death as a movie subject will also precipitate the death of Albanian Communist cinema (n.p.).

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Xhanfise Keko’s children’s films The term ‘child spy films’ is often used by Xhanfise Keko’s detractors to disparage her artistic agenda and ideology (Eol Çashku, personal contact, January 2006). Nonetheless, I have recognized the term as an integral subgenre of the notion of vigilance in service of the state and has demonstrated how Keko actually works within the confines of official doctrine to create innovative works that reveal true individuality on the part of her films’ protagonist. I argue argues: While reading the films from virtually 30 years in hindsight, we note a strong separation between the child heroes and the government. They think outside the box and solve problems unconventionally. They become rugged individualists who, although meeting the needs of society, explore their own capacities to the fullest degree (Williams, 2013a, p. 58).

Williams has identified what he terms a series of three child spy films which Keko made between 1977 and 1980. It would be a gross generalization to include all of her work under this rubric. So many additional themes are present. For instance, Mimoza llastica/Spoiled Mimoza (1973) tells of a little girl who is selfish and will not share her toys with her playmates. She is ultimately redeemed and socialized. One of Keko’s most celebrated works, Beni ecën vetë/Beni Walks on His Own (1975) tells of a pampered boy from the city who learns to become more independent during a stay in the countryside, away from his doting mother. Despite the negative resonances of the term ‘child spy’, it is possible to recoup the term to foreground the creativity with which Keko brought a most impressive level of innovativeness to orthodox and hackneyed themes. Officially, the series responds to the need for Albanian citizens to be vigilant in service of the state. (It is striking that all three are set in southern Albania, which was the birthplace of Enver Hoxha.) The screenplay of the first film in the series, Tomka and His Friends, was authored by Nasho Jorgaqi, who later published the story in a print collection in 2002. Jorgaqi, who had initially cooperated with Keko on the screenplay to Spoiled Mimoza, like the director, reveals a much higher level of artistic maturity in Tomka and His Friends. The film tells the story of a group of boys in Albania’s southern city of Berat (now a UNESCO World Heritage Site) who spy on and ultimately aid partisans in blowing up a Nazi outpost that has been built on their beloved soccer field.

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What is most significant about Tomka and His Friends is that it breaks with Albanian tradition and offers a number of sequences that are structurally innovative and daringly test the waters of Kinostudio’s orthodoxy. Such devices retard the narrative and foster an active viewer, something by and large uncommon in Albanian cinema. At one point early in the film, a young boy climbs a tree and interrupts the diegetic flow of the film by breaking into song, putting words to the film’s main theme by praising Tomka’s leadership and the group’s fidelity to him. In Albanian cinema to date, such songs had traditionally been sung by off screen, non-diegetic voices, and served to propel rather than retard the narrative. Recalling Brecht, the sequence allowed Keko to give a nod to the official agenda, all the while creating a highly evocative and poetic moment. In a similar vein, at one juncture, we encounter a series of shots showing the streets and lanes of Berat, which appear unattached to the point of view of any characters. The camera is stationary, and the shot is devoid of the mechanical zooms characteristic of so many Albanian films. The viewer is allowed to contemplate the city as if she or he were a child spy. The following child spy f ilm, Pas gjurmëve/On the Tracks (1978), is considerably more complex and was deemed by Keko to be one of her personal favourites of her own work.8 The film’s narrative is intricate and twisted, and the viewer, together with the central characters—three young boys—comes to learn that two strangers are planning to blow up the town’s prized hydroelectric plant. In contrast to Tomka and His Friends, the female characters in On the Tracks are granted considerably more agency. In light of the Albanian government’s emphasis on education, a mother assists an elderly neighbour who is learning to read. Likewise, women plant trees to beautify the community and speak unabashedly to strangers about the progress the city has seen. Young girls, moreover, work alongside boys in the construction of the Pioneer home. Although not participating in espionage, women have their distinct and significant place in On the Tracks’ narrative. While the townspeople bask in the bright light of electricity and the communist future, the youthful heroes inhabit a realm of dark shadows that masks their espionage efforts. One of Keko’s most significant structural devices in On the Track is the use of the unreciprocated look. We frequently see the boys gazing (or spying!), but rarely does any character look back at their piercing and defiant eyes. The boys, moreover, are frequently shot from 8 This was conveyed to me in a 2005 meeting with Keko. Her son, Ilir Keko, however, denies this adamantly. Perhaps Keko’s enthusiasm over my love for the film, which I had already seen several times, was due to her delight in the fact that I was even familiar with it.

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Image 20. Vigilance in the service of the state in Xhanfise Keko’s Tomka and His Friends. Courtesy of the Albanian Central State Film Archive.

low camera angles, and are sometimes seen as disembodied heads. This, coupled with their grim demeanour, makes them at times appear diabolical. Yet by virtue of the integrity of their task at hand, they are not posited as evil; rather, they appear uncanny and superhuman, attributes that foreground the infatuation and single-mindedness with which they undertake their search. Partizanii i vogel, Velo/Velo, the Little Partisan (1980), the third film of the child spy series, will not be discussed at length here. It is the least complex of the three and focuses on a young boy who is too young to be a partisan. He is told that he must find a gun that is only half his size. He accomplishes this by shooting a German soldier and taking his gun. The boy is now able gain access to the partisans. Velo, the Little Partisan is the only one of the three to have been filmed in colour, and for this reason, it loses some of the power of the black and white chiaroscuro that characterizes Tomka and His Friends and On the Tracks.

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Kur po xhirohej një film/While Shooting a Film is doubtless one of Keko’s most acclaimed works. Written in cooperation with poet Natasha Lako, who had written the screenplay to Velo the Little Partisan, it focuses on issues of family and feminism. Relating the story of Genci, a child actor who is currently a key player in a film about children during the Nazi occupation, and whose ability to perform is hampered by a depression over the absence of his father, the film was intended to instil in children a strong sense of family values and gender equality. In many ways, While Shooting a Film continues along the lines of the didactic films of the 1960s and 1970s, the period of Albania’s Cultural Revolution and its aftermath.While focusing on a film crew and a group of child actors, it nonetheless contains a sub-plot exploring women in highly skilled positions. The segments devoted to the film production, moreover, offer insights into acting as work. The four main characters of While Shooting a Film are Genci, a child actor, his parents, Liliana and Kujtim, and Drita, an assistant director on the film he is making. Liliana is an engineer and holds a key position in the construction of a factory in a remote area. Kujtim, unwilling to accept her absence from home, intervenes and attempts get her reassigned to another project in Tirana. The tense relationship between Genci’s parents leads to Kujtim’s virtual absence from his son’s life. Genci is subsequently taunted by other child actors, who fail to believe that he even has a father. Through the intervention of Drita and other members of the film crew, Kujtim realizes the error of his ways and accepts his wife’s freedom to fulfil her professional duties, wherever they make take her. Once again, both parents become integral parts of young Genci’s life. Genci is extremely proud of his mother’s work, as evidenced by a comment made by Drita, who recalls a time in which the film team had driven past the construction site. Such pride in work is reflected by the film’s choice of locations. The vast majority of the sequences of While Shooting a Film take place in the workplace as opposed to the home, whether it is Liliana’s construction site or the location of the film within a film. A good deal of the dialogue in which Liliana discusses her relationship with Kujtim with a co-worker is either shot at the construction site or in an office where she intently works out the construction details. Although we note that her role in the project is indispensable, Liliana is rarely shot in close-up. Rather, she is depicted interacting with colleagues. The sequences of the f ilm shoot also foreground the collective and cooperative nature of work. The children interact closely with one another and help each other with their homework. They are also extremely close to Drita and to the film’s director. During their spare time, the child actors

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dress up and play act, but not as their characters in the film. Rather, they perform the roles of the film director and other crew members. Recalling debates on the role of play in the education of small children (Vygotsky, 1980); Elkind, 2007), we note another intersection, that of play and work. Through playing, the children explore the world of jobs that they have not yet held themselves, but that they have seen adult professionals do. Albeit in the context of pure fun, they offer a tribute to the work of the artist, reflecting a pride not unlike that of Genci in his mother’s position as an engineer. As Williams (2013, p. 4748) has noted, While Shooting a Film is not without its autobiographical components, yet Keko, herself, is best represented not by the director, but rather by Drita, who most intensely bonds with the child actors. One might argue that such a choice served to perpetuate the pre-eminently masculine realm of the Albanian film director. Nonetheless, particularly in light of the complexity of Genci’s family life, most likely the director himself would not have had time to unravel the story and intervene as Drita does. The assistant director, like Keko herself, combines a dedication to work with indefatigable care for her co-workers and for the child actors. In a like manner, Genci is largely modelled upon Genci Mosho, a child actor featured in Tomka and His Friends, who grew deeply depressed while filming in Berat. Keko, in a gesture typical of the diegetic Drita, arranged to have the boy travel to Tirana for one day to see his parents (Albanian Cinema Project, 2014). Keko’s own methods for preparing her young actors, moreover, mirror, to a large extent, the play dynamics of While Shooting a Film. During the casting process for her films, she frequently visited Tirana schools and chose children who most closely matched the necessary roles. She would then invite them to play in her apartment, located in the centre of Tirana, where they could bond and gain confidence (Williams, 2013, p. 46). By observing their play, Keko was able to flesh out subtle nuances related to the characters they would eventually portray. Thus, in the real world of Albanian cinema, the notions of play and work became inseparable for the child actor. And all of this served to instil in young audiences a sense of moral purity, self-sacrifice and a joy in work itself. The blurred demarcation between film and reality in While Shooting a Film is underscored by both the opening titles and a subsequent sequence depicting the making of the embedded film. Following a brief shooting sequence that establishes both the participation of the children in the film shoot and the embedded film’s story line, the assistant director appears with a clapboard to mark a scene and take. Instead of the name of the film within the film, the clapboard reads Kur po xhirohej nje film, Keko’s film. All credits subsequently appear on a close-up of the clapboard interspersed

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Image 21. Xhanfise Keko directing While Shooting a Film. Courtesy of the Albanian Central State Film Archive.

with sequences portraying happy days shared by Genci with his parents, both at home and in the centre of Tirana. Such a trope appears later during a shooting sequence in which the title of Keko’s film once again stands as proxy to the film that is being shot. Emphasizing the material aspect of the cinema, this device underscores the close relationship between the shooting of the embedded film and the labour implicit in the making of While Shooting a Film.

Music and national identity Both made in 1978, two films explore the theme of colonization and national identity from the perspective of music. Saimir Kumbaro’s Konzert

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në vitin 1936/Concert in 1936 and Viktor Gjika’s Gjeneral Gramafoni/General Gramophone explore the importance of music in the discourse of a nation. They are both structurally innovative films that attest to the richness of Kinostudio in its later years. The films, moreover, are unique in that their choice of weapon is the arts. Kumbaro’s film is based on episodes from the life of Tefta Tashko-Koço, an Albanian soprano who trained at the Paris conservatory from 1932 to 1935. As Grgić (2021, p. 287) points out, Tashko-Koço returned to Albania to perform opera, chamber music, and contemporary Albanian (urban!) songs.9 Concert in 1936 opens as soprano Donika (Manushaqe Qinami) and her accompanist, Elena (Margarita Xhepa), trek through the rough terrain of south-central Albania, alongside their Hartman piano, which is aboard an ox-driven cart. Their destination is Lushnja, where Donika has officially arranged to give a concert. Their arrival in the small city raises strong opposition by the authorities. Afterall, this is the first time such an event has been authorized. The town is patriarchal and conservative, and the locals assume they are gypsies, despite their explanations that Donika has been trained in Paris and Eleni in Vienna. Their proposed programme is also a ground for doubt in that Donika will be performing music by such composers as Verdi, Liszt, and Schubert, none of whom are well known—to say the least—in Lushnja. Another confusing element is that their piano is a Hartman. The authorities believe this is the name of a person involved in the programme and not a fine piano made in Berlin. Grgić stresses, ‘The message is clear: the emancipation of women in modern-day (and communist) Albania, supported by education (teachers of the village) is contrasted with the image of a backwards, monarchical and patriarchal country’ (p. 57). The film’s narrative is primarily focused on the successful performance by the pair, despite all of the hindrances and threats of cancellation. By chance, Donika runs into a post-master with whom she had studied music prior to her departure for Paris. The two rekindle a tender affection for each other, and Donika sings for him Schubert ‘Serenade’. In the concluding segments of the film, he is arrested for his radical ideas. The young man is hauled off by the police as Donika and Elena depart. If there had been a chance for romance between the former friends, this is not developed. The theme of Concert in 1936 is indeed enlightenment versus provincialism, and a romantic involvement may well have diluted this focus. Fabio Bego (2022) analyses Concert in 1936 from the perspective of music and voice. He stresses that the film’s opening and closing images are that 9

Tashko-Koço was posthumously named a People’s Artist of Albania.

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of a phonograph record playing on a La Voce del Padrone gramophone. It is a classical piece sung by Tefta Tashko-Koço (p. 13). We must note that, the British origin of the brand notwithstanding, for Albanians, it was associated with Italy. To Bego’s comments, one can add that the image of the record playing encodes both Italian and Albanian subjectivities. La Voce del Padrone, or ‘His Master’s Voice’ as the English equivalent reads, underscores a hierarchy in which Italy is clearly the master and Albania the servant. Tashko Koço’s voice, thus, plays an extremely ambivalent role. By recording on the label, she is complicit in the celebration of Italian culture that, in many ways, facilitated the Fascist occupation. Bego stresses that the repertoire to be performed in the concert includes such composers as Puccini and Verdi. Nonetheless, they refuse to perform a contemporary song, ‘Triste domenica’ (Sad Sunday), since it has led people to suicide (p. 13). In any case, the concert has become extremely politized. An older conservative gentleman realizes that the individual in Tirana who had organized the concert had been his opponent in the 1920 Congress of Lushnja, which led to the expulsion of Italian forces from the Durrës region. This eventually caused the Vlora War later in the year, and Italy was ultimately forced to abandon its claims to Vlora and other Albanian territories. Concert in 1936 treads a fine line. The concert evoked memories of the Congress, and the crowd gathered to hear the women ultimately break into the patriotic song that defined the events. In this respect, Concert in 1936 is highly ambivalent. It argues for modernization, as represented by the nature of the concert, which would afford a touch of high-brow European culture to the provincial town. At the same time, it celebrates Albanian territorial integrity and national pride. Ironically, only three years following the concert, Italy would return as an occupier. The Fascist presence would only come to an end when Italy surrendered to the Allies in 1943. Gjika’s Gjeneral Gramafon/General Gramophone is a highly nuanced film. Its protagonists are both involved, in one way or another, in the music world. Alberto (Guljelm Radoja) is an Italian who has opened a retail store in Berat to sell La Voce del Padrone gramophones and Italian phonograph records. Business is slow, given that Albanians would prefer to listen to their own music. Hajit Berati (Bujar Lako), on the other hand, is a highly accomplished clarinet player, who is passionate about Albanian music. Throughout the film, the two musical traditions appear, the Italian represented primarily by a tango that is played in the homes of the city’s elite. Alberto demonstrates a genuine affection for Albanians, and particularly for artists. He intervenes to protect members of the ensemble with which Hajit plays from the authorities. Nonetheless, he is in Berat as a representative

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Image 22. Manushaqe Qinami as Donika prior to her performance in Saimir Kumbaro’s Concert in 1936. Courtesy of the Albanian Central State Film Archive.

of Fascism, and he must promote his own culture. Alberto convinces Hajit’s ensemble to travel to Korça to make phonograph records. It is his hope that the records will sell, and his plan is to record an Italian song on the reverse side. The crew becomes outraged in Korça when a producer tries to explain to them how to improve their playing. Hajit is especially offended when the Italian tries to reach for his clarinet to demonstrate. The ensemble plays their own music intuitively and is in no need of tutoring. A closely related sub-plot involves the drilling for oil in nearby Kuçova— an Italian enterprise. In stark contrast to the houses of the rich in Berat, the workers live in deplorable conditions. A tragedy occurs when a young man is paralysed in a work accident. The director of the plant claims that there is no responsibility on the firm’s part for the accident, and that there is no way the disabled youth can receive compensation. In this case, Alberto sides with his Italian counterparts. The film closes as the oil workers rebel.

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Bego (2022, p. 16), notes that Gjika ‘emphasizes the disruptive effects of modernity on local communities and his film shares some similarities with the current postcolonial critique’. He contrasts the flag-waving mob of factory workers who raise the Albanian double eagle in the closing sequence with the small artisans and musicians that are present in the opening sequences in Berat. He stresses, ‘Neither the West, nor communism can recuperate the sense of closeness and intimacy that connected the characters in the beginning of the story. Modernity, as soon as it appears, puts an end to traditional sociality’ (p. 16). Although distinct in their stances towards music and colonialization, Albanian national identity is textualized in both films. It is especially significant that these two artifacts from the early years of isolationism are so radically different from Albanian films of the late 1950s up to and including the mid-1970s. They are far from closed narratives, and they open doors to debate and multiple interpretations.

Piro Milkani and Kujtim Çashku’s Ballë për ballë/Face to Face: Nostalgia for Soviet friendship The ensuing discussion of Piro Milkani and Kujtim Çashku’s Ballë për ballë/Face to Face (1978) is clearly the most detailed and extensive in this book. This is due to the film’s complexity, formal strength, and the way in which it can be read against the grain today. It is a meditation on nostalgia and the passage of time, resonating on the levels of diegetic time (1960), time of initial reception, and the film’s s re-reading today. Face to Face is a highly dynamic work which, all the while documenting events leading to the withdrawal of Soviet troops and civilians from Albania, exposes the evasive nostalgia felt by those who had lived through days of friendship and cooperation between the two nations. What is perhaps of greatest importance is that, now some 35 years following its release, the film can be read against the grain of the zeitgeist of Albania’s isolationism and viewed as a reassessment of an historical moment. From this perspective, Face to Face offers an ongoing re-chronicling of the Albanian-Soviet schism. The film is based on Kadare’s novel Dimri i madh (The Great Winter), a work that bears noteworthy similarities to the author’s own life.10 Granted, Kadare 10 Dimri i madh was originally published under the title Dimri i vetmisë së madhe (The Winter of Great Loneliness). Although it has been translated into French and German, it is not yet available in English.

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lacked the military background of the film’s protagonists. Nonetheless, his education was informed by the warm climate between Albania and the Soviet Union during the early years of communism.11 Milkani was already very familiar with Kadare’s work, having adapted in 1969 the author’s novel under the title Përse bie kjo daulle/Why Is this Drum Beating?12 Çashku, as a young man working in the Mao Zedong Hydroelectric Plant, observed the filming of a sequence from Why Is This Drum Beating? and, although he would not meet the director for many years, knew that cinema was his calling.13 Co-directing Face to Face with Milkani marked the commencement of his career as a director. The two would work closely with Kadare, who cooperated with them on the adaptation of The Great Winter. Face to Face has been read in terms of its thematic as well as in those of its unique structure. Natasha Lako foregrounds the presence of the themes of political and moral confrontation present in the film. Moreover, although her remarks do not specifically refer to the reception of the film, they suggest the feeling of nostalgia individual viewers felt on a personal level, despite the significance of the breach with the Soviet Union on a national level (Lako, 2004, p. 122). In an extended analysis of the film, Abdurrahim Myftiu explores the structure of Face to Face and notes the film’s multiple dichotomies, which are manifested in such polarities as the ‘near’ and ‘far’ and the political and the personal. He further identifies the presence of ‘pairings’ in the narrative—the Albanian and Soviet base commanders; an Albanian and a Soviet soldier; an Albanian and a Soviet journalist. For Myftiu, the structure of Face to Face is poetic, and a great deal of his discussion focuses on the film’s artistic merits (Myftiu, 2003, pp. 232–245). The innovative structure of Face to Face was one of the factors for which it 11 Following the 1956 awarding of his teaching degree from the University of Tirana, Kadare studied at the Gorky Institute in Moscow. In this respect, his educational background was not unlike that of the first generation of Kinostudio professionals who were trained at numerous sites within the Warsaw Pact. 12 For more information on this production of Why Is This Drum Beating, see Fatmira Nikoll (2019). 13 Çashku’s father, an ardent communist, was concerned about his long-haired, guitar-plucking son and arranged for him to undertake an apprenticeship at the Mao Zedong plant following secondary school. Despite the monotony of the job, Çashku fondly remembers observing the film shooting quite by chance and deems it a transformative moment in his life (personal contact, January 2015). This experience was the impetus for the future director to enter the Faculty of Dramatic Arts at the Institute of Arts in Tirana. While working at Kinostudio as an assistant director in the mid-1970s, Çashku met Milkani and related the story to him. A friendship grew between them. In 1979, the senior director invited him to co-direct Face to Face. Their friendship and professional association are still very much alive today with Milkani teaching the history of world cinema at the Marubi Academy of Film and Multimedia, where Çashku is the provost.

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was chosen to be one of five films to be digitally restored by the Albanian Cinema Project. Yet, the quality of the film notwithstanding, the most important reason for its selection was that its negative was badly damaged due to the faulty storage system that had been in place for many years at the Central State Film Archives.14 Face to Face constitutes an excavation of sorts. It uncovers the political and personal dynamics of a decisive moment in time, which was defined by numerous ambiguities. Given the rift with Belgrade, Moscow deemed Vlora its doorway to the West as it had been for the Turks so many years before. For the Albanians, the base has represented a long-standing bastion of national defence. From the f ilm’s opening sequences, it is clear that Moscow and Tirana are at odds, but we have yet to discover the nuances of Albanian/Soviet friendship that are at stake. The dynamics of the rift are fleshed out in a sequence in which the protagonist, Besnik Struga (Mevlan Shanaj), relates to Zana (Raimonda Bullko), his love interest, the details of his recent trip to Moscow in which he served as an interpreter during an explosive meeting between Hoxha and Khrushchev at the Kremlin. Noting that he seemed different when he returned, Zana inquires as to what took place there. He explains that in Moscow, the world that they had known had been shattered. Besnik’s memories are embodied by archival footage of Enver Hoxha at the Kremlin and of the bellicose nature of the meeting between the two leaders. The rift between the two powers is further textualized by slogans posted in Tirana demanding ‘No to Soviet Blackmail’. As a group of Albanians gaze at one such poster, we hear the opening bars of Beethoven’s Third Symphony (Eroica). The music continues as the camera enters Besnik’s apartment and we see his family listening to a televised symphonic concert as they eat dinner and discuss the recent political events. Again, the choice of the Eroica symphony is most intentional. Not only do its powerful and tense rhythms set a bellicose tone, but moreover, it is replete with historical references to another rift, this time between an artist and his 14 Unfortunately, following its digital restoration of Nëntori i dytë/The Second November (1982) in 2012, and Keko’s Tomka dhe shoqët e tij and His Friends (1977) in 2014, the Project was forced to wind down its restoration efforts. Hoshafi and Feizo’s The Captain, Milkani and Erebara’s Victory over Death, and Milkani and Çashku’s Face to Face did not undergo restoration. The latter was in most serious need of restoration. The Project, despite the cessation of its restoration activities, remains active in the support and divulgation of Albanian cinema. It still maintains a website, which details its activities, both realized and intended. A documentary by Mark Cousins (2013), Here Be Dragons documents a visit with members of the Project to the storage facility of the film archive and attests to the plight of its holdings.

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idol.15 Although at the time Face to Face was released, the reference to the symphony was most likely intended to serve as a metaphor for Khrushchev’s betrayal of the Stalinist policies that the Hoxha regime emulated, a reading of the f ilm some 35 years later suggests that the deployment of the symphony reflects instead an outcry against the brutality of the Hoxha regime. From a contemporary standpoint, the two readings coexist. We at once deconstruct the aggressive underpinnings of the Albanian state and discover the iconography that circulated in the public space at the time of the schism. Despite the strongly anti-Soviet stance that one would expect from the political context in which the film was made, Face to Face is structured upon a discourse of similarity between the two opposing forces. The pairings identified by Myftiu are obvious. The Albanian commander Bermama has as his counterpart the Soviet commander, with whom he has developed a long-term friendship. Besnik Struga is paired with a Soviet journalist, who has come to Vlora to cover the events in the same way the Albanian had been present at the pivotal events in Moscow. Besnik’s brother, a young soldier stationed at the base, is paired with a Soviet soldier, with whom he shares a fraught conversation on romance and betrayal. The similarity between the two garrisons is underscored, in a similar fashion, by the numerous parallels made between the troops. Both march in a similar manner. Meetings between commanders and troops are virtually identical, with the exception of the presence of Albanian or Russian language slogans, and the obligatory images of Khrushchev or Hoxha. The blurring of differences is so intense that, noting the impending confrontation, Sergei Ivanovich (Timo Flloko), a Soviet engineer, remarks that the two forces will soon be devouring each other like octopi, an obvious articulation of the belief that they are of the same species. In a sequence that longingly recalls earlier friendships, the Soviet commander retrieves a jack of spades from a playing deck and goes to visit Commander Bermama. Showing his former friend the card, he bemoans that they are now like the jack, with heads in opposite directions. Ripping the card in half and aligning the heads of the jack in the same direction, he asserts that this is the way the two commanders’ relationship should remain. As tensions mount in subsequent sequences, we realize that the sentiment 15 We must recall that when Beethoven composed the symphony, he dedicated it to Napoleon Bonaparte in light of the then French consul’s numerous reforms. When Napoleon declared himself emperor, the composer was so angered at such a betrayal that he crossed out the dedication that he had written on the score.

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felt by the Soviet commander stems from a past that cannot be recovered; a return to the earlier days of friendship is now impossible. Upon leaving the Albanian headquarters, the Soviet throws the pieces of the card down, and we see the two heads in opposite directions, but at a skewed angle. The same image will appear near the end of the film when the torn card is shown amid the rubbish left behind by the departing Soviets. The oblique angle of the heads suggests the ambiguity present in the lives of soldiers and civilians due to the rift. A subtle reference, moreover, to Russian culture is present. The card is a jack of spades, not clubs, swords, or hearts. (Swords would have been a natural choice given the military nature of the film). A jack is immediately below a queen in the hierarchy of a deck of cards. Hence, we are not too far removed from Pushkin or Tchaikovsky’s Queen of Spades, and such a metaphor provides a highbrow counterpoint to the popular Russian music played at a bar frequented by both Russians and Albanians. We must recall the veneration that many educated Albanians felt for the Russian language and its culture, a point underscored by the fact that the rift with the Soviet Union did not put an end to the study of Russian in Albanian schools. So much of the process of similarity involves language, from the very nature of Albanian and its lexicon to overt language choices made in the film. Firstly, one must note the similarity between the Albanian words for ‘friend’ (mik) and ‘enemy’ (armik), a phenomenon pointed out by Sergey Ivanovich. (Here it is suggested that many of the Albanians and Russians knew something of each other’s language.) With regards to written language, the uniforms sported by the two troops are virtually identical. We must rely on the inscriptions on the soldiers’ hats, which read ‘naval garrison’ in the respective languages, to distinguish just who is who. Yet the blending of the two forces is even more thoroughly articulated through the memos authored by the Soviets to report incidences of provocation made by Albanian soldiers. Whether intended to be transmitted to Moscow or delivered to the Albanian command post, they are authored exclusively in Albanian. Similarity is also encoded through spoken language. Obviously, given Albania’s isolation in 1979, it was impossible for any Soviet characters to be played by real Russians; all actors were Albanian. Moreover, no attempt was made to distinguish the two garrisons linguistically. For the purposes of the film, both speak to their friends and foes almost exclusively in Albanian. There are two exceptions. A Soviet journalist arriving at the base is greeted with a firm zdravstvuitye. The same character later makes a short utterance in Russian to his Albanian counterpart, Besnik. In both cases, the Russian is heavily accented.

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Despite human similarities, the pairing of characters is sometimes threatening in nature. During a joint manoeuvre during which a Russian attempts to hijack a submarine and take it to the open sea, Besnik views the war games together with his Soviet counterpart. The Soviet journalist stresses that the communist world needs clear hierarchy; some must fly while others remain earthbound. Although the symbol of Albania is the eagle, the small country must not try to fly. An anecdote from his days in the Soviet air force serves as an allegory for this stance. As an air force commander, the Soviet had known an airplane engineer who longed to fly. One day, the man took control of a plane on which he was working and lifted it into the air. Unfortunately, he did not know how to land it. The commander was forced to shoot him down to prevent a greater tragedy. And such is the warning to Albania. A sense of nostalgia for lost comradery is most clearly felt in a sequence set on a Saturday evening in a tavern jointly frequented by Russians and Albanians.16 Inside the tavern, one senses a combination of carefree denial and heated tension. It is implied that the clientele has historically been a combination of Russians and Albanians, although the only music we hear is Russian. The tension between the two groups is revealed most closely by a conversation at the bar between Besnik’s younger brother and a more experienced member of the Russian garrison, in which the latter tells of his fears that his great love in the Soviet Union has cheated on him. Noting the 16 Soviet nostalgia was throughout the Eastern Bloc, regardless of an individual country’s past relationship with Moscow. A study of the Hungarian director Márta Mészáros by Catherine Portuges (1993) foregrounds the space of memory in the director’s f ilms, at the same time uncovering a noteworthy element of nostalgia for the ‘bad old times’. Portuges discusses Mészáros’s f ilm Utinapló/Travel Diary (1989), in which the director conducts interviews in Leningrad, Moscow, and Frunze in search of her traumatic past. As Portuges (1993, p. 3) articulates, ‘[Mészárós] acknowledges the difficulty of verbalizing the horrors of the early 1950s—the death of her parents in the Soviet Union, the atmosphere of terror and silence that reigned over her youth— as an adult she recognizes that those years were responsible for the difficulties of the present’. Nonetheless, all is not one-sided in the director’s memories. Mészáros, likenumerous Albanian directors of the first generation of Kinostudio, was trained in Moscow, ‘where, despite the extreme privations of the early 1950s, an element of creativity and intense productivity prevailed’ (Portuges, 1993, p. 3). Recalling the atmosphere at the Moscow Film Institute VGIK, Mészáros recalls ‘internationalism, the constant exaltation, and the sense of mutual responsibility that compensated for the material poverty […] trying to find the secret of what happened at that time’ (Portuges, 1994, p. 3). Thus, even within the context of harrowing past experience can be found certain positive elements that, in their own small way, defined the historical positive elements that recall the friendships and conviviality among Albanians and Russians living in Vlora destroyed by Hoxha’s paranoid actions, which a contemporary reading of the film can more clearly bring to the forefront.

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language dynamics of the conversation (which are presented to the viewer exclusively in Albanian), Sergei Ivanovich interrupts the interlocutors and states that when one man speaks Albanian and another Russian, it is a true Tower of Babel. Such a remark suggests the chaos that the impending rift implies. This comment seems somewhat out of place given that Albanian serves as a proxy for Russian throughout the film. The strains of ‘Katyushka’ intensify, and the patrons of the bar drink and dance to abandonment. It is this very sequence in which the sense of nostalgia, or better, a pre-nostalgia for something that is about to be lost, is most clearly felt. The days in which Albanians and Russians will party the night away together are rapidly coming to an end. The cataclysmic nature of the Soviet-Albanian rift is textualized by what I will term extra-diegetic interventions on the part of two characters, one Albanian, and one Soviet. I term these sequences ‘extra-diegetic’ inasmuch as they appear to be addressed more to the spectator than to any diegetic character. Myftiu has noted that Besnik’s poetic description of the events in Moscow transcend the narrative, although they are couched as a dialogue with Zana.17 Besnik describes the events as if they had constituted an earthquake, during which he had been the epicentre. He speaks of chasms, holes, abysses, sulfuric acid, and a stifling atmosphere. ‘The earth would crumble where you would not expect’. These utterances seal together the realms of the political and personal. Although they suggest the destruction of a utopian world, one must approach this reading with caution; Besnik, most likely due to the demands of censorship, will later prove to be a true patriot. One notes to this effect his defiant responses to the Soviet journalist’s warnings to Albania. The Soviet engineer Sergei Ivanovich, whose presence on the base is never totally explained, functions as a Greek chorus, and offers similar verbal commentaries on what he deems to be the catastrophic events at hand. Sergei is frequently seen together with Elena Mihaelova, the wife of a Soviet soldier, whose stylized poses and rare utterances suggest the relative unimportance of her character. Walking with Elena among the ancient ruins, Sergei asks her why she does not leave. ‘What are you doing here? No one understands you in this god-forsaken place. We will be buried in this place and no one will know what happened’. In a conversation prior to the sequence in the bar, Sergei notes that it is Saturday, and that any Saturday might be the last Saturday of your life. The engineer plays with 17 See the extended analysis of Face to Face in Myftiu (2003, pp. 232–245). A considerable amount of attention is devoted to the dynamics of dialogue present in Face to Face in this study.

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a toy skeleton that appears to reference ‘The Day of the Dead’ sequence of Eisenstein’s ¡Que viva México! Despondent, he conveys to Elena his fears that he has fallen out of favour, and that he will soon be sent to Magadan. Later that evening, an intoxicated Sergei lies on the grave of the Turkish commander with a bottle of vodka and inquires of the dead leader, ‘How long have you been here?’ He muses that the Soviet commander wants to be just like the Turk. Indeed, the Soviets had hoped that Albania would be their gateway to Western Europe. Such mediations function as devices that pause the narrative to allow us to meditate on the human toll of the breach. In these interventions, the nostalgic discourse of Face to Face allows us to sense the intense anguish felt by the characters. Given the overarching censorship that defined the production context, the intense emotions expressed by Besnik and Sergei regarding the breach are most surprising. Çashku has spoken of the nostalgia felt by members of the production team for the days of Soviet-Albanian friendship (Kujtim Çashku, personal contact, 8 January 2015).18 Rereading Face to Face today, we are free to explore the subtle subtexts that circulate with the film’s overt message.

18 Both directors, in the postcommunist context, would return to the theme of nostalgia for international personal friendships during the Hoxha regime. In 1998, Çashku’s Colonel Bunker told the story of the descent into madness of a military officer charged with Hoxha’s ‘bunkerization’ campaign, which began in earnest in 1974. As I have stressed in my analysis of the film (Williams, 2014), while dealing with the horrors of the paranoid regime, Colonel Bunker nostalgically looks at the years prior to 1961, when Albania enjoyed friendly relations with the Warsaw Pact. The film’s female protagonist, Ana, played by Polish actress Anna Nehrebecka, is the colonel’s wife, a Polish woman he had met while stationed in Poland. Ana is a pianist, and Chopin is the primary composer she interprets. The couple fondly recall their days together in Poland—their wedding in Warsaw, visits to the Ostrogski Palace, and walks along Nowí Świat. Bruce Williams (2014) stresses that in Colonel Bunker, one finds a depiction of the ‘sharp disconnect between a love for the foreign, in this case, Polish, on a personal level and a need to heighten isolationism on the national’ (Williams, 2014, p. 272).  During the decade following the release of Çashku’s Colonel Bunker, Piro Milkani, together with his son Eno Milkani, made Tristhimi i zonjës Schnajder/The Sadness of Mrs Schneider, 2008). This international coproduction with the Czech Republic was actually autobiographical in nature. It explores a love affair between an Albanian film student at FAMU in Prague (modelled on Milkani himself) and an unhappily married woman in a small Czechoslovak town. Set in 1961, the f ilm reveals how the burgeoning love affair is doomed when the Albanian government orders all students to leave Czechoslovakia due to the rift with the Soviet Union and the Balkan nation’s retreat from the Warsaw Pact. In a manner similar to Face to Face and Colonel Bunker, The Sadness of Mrs Schneider is replete with nostalgia for the earlier years of friendship and cooperation among the countries of the Soviet bloc. Such a period of openness would not return until the fall of communism.

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Image 23. Cold War tension in Piro Milkani and Kujtim Çashku’s Face to Facei. Courtesy of the Albanian Central State Film Archive.

Face to Face concludes as the vessel conveying Soviet soldiers and civilians away from Vlora departs. Superimposed is an image of a single seagull— Chekhov’s maybe?—which mirrors the birds present in the opening shot. While the image may propagandistically suggest a return to peace in the wake of the enemy’s retreat, we are left with the profound sense of shattered friendships and severed human ties, and once again, we are struck by the ambiguity of the rift. After all, the solitary seagull implies the loss of a double; the film’s pairings have come to a halt. Some 35 years after the film’s premiere, we contemplate the complexity of this ambiguity. Concerning memory and the Eastern Bloc, a 2013 collection edited by Marta Rabikowska (2013, p. 1) looks at the practices, subjectivities, and identities ‘that have been influenced by communism and are connected to social and historical spaces and times from “before” and “after” the fall of the Iron Curtain’. Rather than viewing postcommunism in terms of ‘the ending of a previous system and transition towards the future’, Rabikowska (2013, p. 1) stresses that the purpose of the book is to ‘situate the memory of the past in the time and space between communism and post-communism, where “before” and “after” simultaneously merge and collide’. Granted, the historical moment to which Face to Face is pegged does not imply the complete fall of a system. Nonetheless, a process similar to that identified

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by Rabikowska is at play. Although the complete breach between Tirana and Moscow happened gradually over a period of years, the intensity of the events of 1961 was such that all notion of before and after was muddled. Past and future collided, as textualized by the existential angst of the film’s protagonists. This is especially evident in the trauma suffered by an Albanian journalist who had been present ‘when the world shattered’ in Moscow and in the fears of a Soviet engineer stationed in Vlora, who is convinced that, in the wake of this pivotal moment, the world has lost all meaning and that he will be sent to Magadan.19 At the time of its production, Face to Face served to kindle the memory of a bygone era. There was no failed past for which one could long, yet absent was a sense of continuity with the pre-breach days. Moreover, the existential questions posed by its protagonists transcend the historical moment and suggest something inherently universal in a discrete moment in history. Such universality is suggested by the similar sensitivities of Soviet and Albanian characters. Fortunately, a good number of players in the production are still alive and have a wealth of information to share about the making of the film and its initial reception. The anguish of the diegetic characters is mirrored to a large extent by the nostalgia Kujtim Çashku sensed during the production of the film, for the days when the eagle and the big bear were actually close friends. Yet in 1979, it was difficult to articulate such nostalgia publicly, and hence numerous nods had to be made to Albania’s fierce anti-Soviet stance. The nostalgia Çashku and others sensed went against the grain of what dared be pronounced, and, in essence, foretold the freedom through which we can read the film today. Granted, the phenomenon of Ostalgie is less pronounced in Albania than in other countries of Eastern Europe. Nonetheless, when we approach Face to Face against the grain of official propaganda, maybe some of the bad old days were considerably less bad. We can view the film as a testimony to the years of friendship and community, which are now only 19 Attention must be drawn here to Fredric Jameson’s study on Walter Benjamin, which hasbecome a pivotal work in the study of nostalgia. Jameson (1969, p. 53) writes: Benjamin’s work seems to me to be marked by a painful straining towards a wholeness or unity of experience which the historical situation threatens to shatter at every turn. A vision of a world of ruins and fragments, an ancient chaos of whatever nature on the point of overwhelming consciousness—these are some of the images that seem to recur either in Benjamin himself or in your own mind as you read him. Although Jameson’s discussion bears on general existential issues, the longing for a unity of experience juxtaposed with cataclysmic historical processes that he evokes is indeed a defining characteristic of Face to Face.

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remembered by older Albanians. Through it, we come Face to Face with the human side of historical processes that constructed communist Albania, and which still inform it today.

Kujtim Çashku’s Dora e ngrohtë/The Warm Hand: A wayward youth redeemed Kujtim Çashku’s Dora e ngrohtë/The Warm Hand (1983) is a surprisingly nuanced film exploring both the permanent effect that failure to adhere to the norms of the socialist state can have on an individual and the warm hand of communism, which can aid the person who has gone astray, to reintegrate into society. As seen in the film, the permanent effect of wrongdoing actually trumps the reintegration process. The protagonist of The Warm Hand is Besim (Artur Gorishti), a youth who desires to live by his own rule, outside of the social codes of the communist society. Besim is compulsive and seeks individuality over social conformity. He becomes involved in criminal activities, and for this he is imprisoned. Over the course of his problems, he is supported by two individuals, a teacher and a criminal investigator. Even though he is released from prison, his criminal past still haunts him and dictates his future. Iris Elezi (2016) discusses the notorious biografi, which followed individuals under the communist regime. This one-page document attests not only to individual activities, but also to negative issues regarding friends and family, among these emigration abroad. No matter how hard the ‘warm hands’ of communist society have guided him, nothing can remove the negative impact of the biografi. Elezi describes the final sequences of the film, after Besim has been released from prison. We see him dressing himself for what appears to be his wedding with his long-term sweetheart. He then arrives at the celebration, and it is clear that he is there not as the groom, but rather as a guest. His lover is marrying another. Under the communist system, his biografi would have indicted his girlfriend and her family. Hence, the only option is for her to marry someone else. Thus, the warm hands of socialism only work to a certain extent. Elezi notes the evocative introductory sequence in which Besim dives into the ocean, witnessed only by his teacher, who gathers the clothing he has dropped. To Elezi’s comments, it is essential to note that this sequence is one of the only examples of communist Albanian cinema in which one sees (rear) male nudity. This underscores the rebellious nature of Besim, foregrounding his sense of individual freedom and rebellious nature.

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Image 24. Artur Gorishti as the strayed youth of Kujtim Çashku’s The Warm Hand. Courtesy of the Albanian Central State Film Archive.

The Warm Hand is especially ambiguous and could not have been made prior to the period of isolationism, when Kinostudio boldly engaged with sociopsychological issues that would have been taboo only a few short years before. The nudity foregrounds Besim as a rebel, unbound by social convention. The Kinostudio films made during the period of isolation show both a maturing of production values and a growing audacity in subject matter. A number of films still continue to explore Albania’s past, which was an excellent way in which to avoid censorship. Yet they do so in extremely diverse and innovative manners. Moreover, an increasing number deal with contemporaneous sociopsychological issues, and fail to paint communist society in an exclusively positive light. This tendency will be increase in the post Hoxha era.

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Works cited Alia, Ramiz (1985a), Enver Hoxha and His Work Live and Will Live Forever, Tirana: 9 Nëntori. Alia, Ramiz (1985b), Enver Hoxha: The Banner of Struggle for Freedom and Socialism, Tirana: 8 Nëntori. Arkivi Qendror Shteteror i Filmit (2004), Filmografi e filmit shqiptar: Vëllimi I–filmi artistic, Tirana: Toena. Bejko, Julian (2016), ‘Albanian Cinema in Transition: A Comparative Analysis of Motion Pictures from the End of the Communist Era’, KinoKultura Special Issue 16, http://www.kinokultura.com/specials/16/bejko.shtml. Accessed 4 November 2022. Boriçi, Gjon (2016), Marrёdhёniet shqiptaro-kineze nё Luftёn e Ftohtё 1956–1978, Tirana: MIIGERALB. Boriçi, Gjon (2020), ‘The Path towards the Unavoidable Isolation of Albania—1968–1978’, Albanian Studies 2.2, pp. 185–208. Çashku, Kujtim (1996), Kolonel Bunker/Colonel Bunker, Tirana, Warsaw, and Paris: Orafilm, Agencja Produkcji Filmowej, Zespół Filmowy Dom, and Unifrance [motion picture]. Diebold, Alfred (2022), Remains of Paranoia in Albania, Tirana: Botimpex. Elkind, David (2007), The Power of Play Learning What Comes Naturally, Philadelphia: Da Capo. Grgić, Ana (2017), ‘Laughter and Tragedy of the Absurd: Identifying Common Characteristics of Balkan Comedies under State Socialism’, in Armina Galijaš and Hrvoje Paić, eds., Special Studies in Eastern European Cinema 17. Issue on Film and Society in South-East Europe, Contemporary Southeastern Europe: An Interdisciplinary Journal on Southeastern Europe 4.2, pp. 47–66. Grgić, Ana (2021), ‘Building a New Socialist Art: A Short History of Albanian Cinema’, Studies in Eastern European Cinemas 12.3, pp. 276–292. Hoxha, Abaz (1987), Filmi artistk shqiptar, Tirana: 8 Nëntori. Hoxha, Abaz (2005), Kinematografija shqiptare 1985–2005, Tirana: Toena. Hohxa, Enver (1985a), ‘Report to the 7th Conference of the PLA’, in Enver Hoxha, Selected Works, Volume V, Tirana: 8 Nëntori, pp. 1–137. Hoxha, Enver (1985b), ‘The Progress of the Country is Inseparable from the Development of Science and Technique’, in Enver Hoxha, Selected Works, Volume V, Tirana: 8 Nëntori, pp. 106–136. Hoxha, Enver (1985c), ‘Work and Vigilance to Make the People’s State Power Ever Stronger: Address to the Electors I, November 10, 1982’, in Enver Hoxha, Selected Works, Volume V, Tirana: 8 Nëntori, pp. 597–629.

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Jameson, Fredric (1969–1970), ‘Walter Benjamin, or Nostalgia’, Salmagundi 10/11, pp. 52–68. Kadare, Ismail (1968), Dasma, Tirana: Naim Frashëri. Kadare, Ismael (1977), Dimri i madh, Tirana: Naim Frashëri. Lako, Natasha (2004a), Energjia filmika, Tirana: Toena. Myftiu, Abdurrahim (2003), Koha e filmit I, Tirana: Botim i Akademisë së Shkencave. Nikolli, Fatmira (2019), ‘Piro Milkani: Kritikat për filmin Persë bien deto daulle. Kadare: E kanë me mua’, Gazeta Shqiptare, 9 December, https://www.pressreader.com/albania/gazeta-shqiptare/20181209/281728385599631. Accessed 4 November 2022. Paterson, Tony (1985), ‘Albania’s New Leader Pledged Today to Uphold the Isolated’, United Press International, 15 April, https://www.upi.com/amp/ Archives/1985/04/15/Albanias-new-leader-pledged-today-to-uphold-theisolated/2142482389200/. Accessed 8 January 2021. Reilly, Alison (2016), ‘The Following is a True Story: Fiction, Bunkerization and Cinema in Post-Socialist Albania’, KinoKultura Special Issue 16 (Albania), http:// www.kinokultura.com/specials/16/reilly.shtml. Accessed 8 June 2020. Taylor, Alan (2019), ‘The Cold War Bunkers of Albania’, The Atlantic, 13 June, https://www.theatlantic.com/photo/2019/06/cold-war-bunkers-albania-photosphotos/591622/. Accessed 4 June 2022. Van Zoelen, Kaj (2021), ‘Thrilling Minimalist Precision: The Bride and the Curfew, Frameland’, https://frame.land/thrilling-minimalist-precision-the-bride-andthe-curfew/. Accessed 28 November 2022. Vygotsky, Lev. (1933), Play and Its Role in the Mental Development of the Child, Psychology and Marxism Internet Archive, 2002, https://www.marxists.org/ archive/vygotsky/works/1933/play.htmSeptember 2018. Williams, Bruce (2013c), ‘Kujtim Çashku e a emergência do cinema independente na Albânia’, in Alfredo Suppia, ed., Cinema(s) independente(s): Cartografias para um fenômeno audiovisual global, Juiz de Fora, Editora da Universidade Federal de Juiz de Fora, pp. 213–231. Williams, Bruce (2014), ‘The Distant among Us: Kolonel Bunker in a Postcolonial Context’, in Ewa Mazierska, Eva Näripea, and Lars Kristensen (eds.), Postcolonial Approaches to Eastern European Cinema: Portraying Neighbors on Screen, London: I.B. Tauris, pp. 223–243.

V. Kinostudio in the Post-Hoxha Era Abstract: Following the death of Enver Hoxha, the Kinostudio productions, in many ways, continued the themes of the period of isolation. They were works of high production values that dared explore contemporaneous sociopsychological concerns of the present day. Nonetheless, they were even more explicit in their social critique and varied with regards to genre. The period also saw high-quality literary adaptations, including films by Kujtim Çashku and Dhimitër Anagnosti based on novels by Ismail Kadare. At the time of the death of Hoxha, Spartak Peçani’s Të mos heshtësh/Speak Up! (1985) tackles the theme of official corruption. Esat Musliu’s Rrethi i kujtesës/The Circle of Memory (1987), one of Albania’s rare psychological thrillers, explores the psychological trauma induced by past atrocities. And finally, Eduard Makri’s Shpella e piratëve/The Pirate Cave (1990) depicts fantasy and adventure, also virtually unknown in Albanian cinema. Key words: Albania, cinema, communism, social critique, psychological thriller, adventure

The Kinostudio films of the last half of the 1980s decisively continued along the same path as during the earlier years of the decade. Albanian cinema no longer needed to be rooted in a distant past in order to avoid censorship. More overt criticism of sociopolitical issues was hesitatingly possible, and often this was no longer couched in allegory. Although the communist regime in Albania appeared, on one level, to maintain its power at the time of the fall of the Berlin Wall and the ensuing transformations in the former Soviet bloc, this apparent stability would soon be threatened. This brief chapter explores Kinostudio production from the death of Enver Hoxha and the onset of the Ramiz Alia period through the fall of communism. Following a discussion of the sociopolitical climate of this six-year period, it will provide a short overview of the cinema climate during this period. Five films will then be discussed in various levels of detail. They include two adaptations of the novels of Ismail Kadare; an indictment of official corruption;

Williams, B., Albanian Cinema through the Fall of Communism: Silver Screens and Red Flags. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789462980150_ch05

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a psychological thriller, and an adventure film, the latter belonging to a genre especially rarely present in Albanian films of either the Kinostudio era or the subsequent postcommunist period.

Ramiz Alia’s Albania Immediately following the death of Enver Hoxha, his successor, Ramiz Alia, spoke to thousands of mourners in Skanderbeg Square, vowing that he would continue to support his predecessor’s fidelity to Stalin and fight against revisionism. He pledged, ‘The ideological struggle against modern revisionism, which Comrade Enver Hoxha waged with great consistency and determination, has been and always will be the essence of our socialist development’ (Paterson, 1985). Indeed, there was very little speculation outside of Albania that Alia would depart from Hoxha’s isolationism. Patrick Artisien (1986, p. 157) explains: Ramiz Alia and the younger generation of leaders who were trained in almost complete isolation from the outside world have been carefully selected for their endorsement of a strict authoritarian system, and thus will have little incentive to innovate in the fields of ideology and policy.

In his eulogy for Hoxha, Alia (1985, pp. 18–19) stressed his predecessor’s apt ability to negotiate such complex issues as revolution, the dictatorship of the proletariat, and the construction of socialism. Implying a continuation of Hoxha’s agenda, Alia affirmed that the deceased leader would set the standard for the future of communist Albania. ‘His style and method of work as a party leader and statesman constitute an example to which the present and future generations will turn in order to learn and find guidance’ (p. 19). Alia reaffirmed these accolades four months following the death of Hoxha. Although the communist regime in Albania appeared on one level to maintain its power at the time of the collapse of communism throughout the Eastern Bloc, it too would be affected by such massive transformation. The political climate of Albania’s neighbours was too overpowering to be ignored. Afrim Krasniqi (2000, p. 222) stresses that the isolated communist regime had left Albania ‘without Western-educated elites, without any liberal thinkers, without free citizens able to think and act on their own, and without meaningful social mechanisms that promote change’. Specifically, it was the onset of the student movement that most dramatically initiated change. Unlike the country’s intellectual elites, who were a by-product of

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the old system, ‘[…] the students were shaped by their aspirations and ideals’ (p. 223). In February 1991, protests led to the toppling of the statue of Enver Hoxha on Skanderbeg Square, and immediately following this symbolic event, it was announced that the name ‘Enver Hoxha’ would be removed from the University of Tirana. Monuments to Hoxha were torn down in Korça and Gjirokastër. The government resigned, and Alia established an eight-member Presidential Council.1 Albania could no longer ward off cultural influence from the West. One of the domains in which Western influence was most strongly felt was in the pop-rock music scene. Music tapes were routinely smuggled into Albania by the children of diplomats or by other individuals who had the privilege of travelling abroad. Italian pop music, moreover, penetrated through make-shift technology that permitted the reception of Italian radio and television. During the late Hoxha era, music groups would informally gather and perform at the amphitheatre near Tirana’s artificial lake. Such groups became known as liqeni or ‘lake’ groups (Williams, 2016, p. 99). This phenomenon increased following Hoxha’s death. In 1988, a performance was held in a small venue on the second floor of Tirana’s Palace of Culture, where Zëri i Jetes (the Voice of Life), a group started by singer Aleksander Gjoka, performed contemporary Albanian songs, combined with works by Rod Stewart, Pink Floyd, Joe Cocker, Lucio Batisti, and Adriano Celentano. The concert, closely observed by the Sigurimi, was not reviewed by the press due to its sensitive nature (Williams, 2016, p. 101). It would now be difficult to put a rein on the transformation of the arts in Albania.

Late Kinostudio productions The thematic thrust of the early years of isolation continued through the post-Hoxha era, but with increased intensity. Films, rather than rehashing the past, dealt with contemporary social problems. Abaz Hoxha (2015, p, 68) asserts: [Cinema] became closer to life, people and real phenomena bringing into evidence that Albanian reality was not as ‘rosy’ as it was presented by the means of propaganda of the regime in power but was disfigured by the desolated phenomena that had led the country into catastrophe’.

1

See discussions in Abrahams (pp. 51–61).

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Along similar lines, Ana Grgić (2021, p. 90) builds upon the relationship between social angst and past trauma. She writes, ‘Later films increasingly foreground stories of individuals incapable of coming to terms with the past and who fear recalling painful memories’. Ridvan Peshkopia, Arben Imami, and Thomas Logoreci (2016) explore the transformation of the New Man of Communism that had transpired by the mid-1980s. They explain that the new model, ‘[…] that ignored most of the previous schematic traits [had become] the scientific [original emphasis] New Man. No longer did revolutionary enthusiasm and proletarian wit take precedence over scientific reason’ (n.p.). They argue: […] knowledge and righteousness belonged to young professionals who tried to utilize scientific knowledge in resolving development problems. Those efforts reflected the ideological state of late Albanian communism: decimated by internal power struggle and demoralized by dismaying economic outcomes, the Albanian communist leaders employed a scientific twist of their ideology by emphasizing what was, according to them, the scientific character of Marxism and its discovery of the laws of social development, thus reinvesting in their regimes’ righteousness through scientific claims (Peshkopia, Imami, Logoreci, 2016, n.p.)

Abaz Hoxha (2005) identifies 86 Kinostudio productions made between 1985 and the demise of the studio. For this reason, it is impossible to mention films other than the ones specifically being discussed. Although a few films of this period did indeed address historical issues, such as the ravages of World War II and the partisan cause, these are a small minority. Among the themes addressed during the films of the final six years of Kinostudio are the clash between the personal and the collective; the negative environment of work; competitiveness; (official) corruption; marital problems; psychological struggles; psychological trauma; depression, and the role of children in society, among numerous others. The majority of these themes are covered in the films selected for discussion here.

Adaptations of Kadare Two films of the post-Hoxha era are adaptations of novels by Ismail Kadare, and both demonstrate the high production values of the 1980s discussed by Abaz Hoxha. In 1985, Kujtim Çashku directed Të paftuarit/The Uninvited, which was based on Kadare’s 1978 novel Broken April. Kadare himself wrote

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the screenplay. Four years later, Dhimitër Anagnosti made Kthimi i ushtrisë së vdekur/The Return of the Dead Army, an adaptation of Kadare’s The General of the Dead Army (1963). Both films are complex and are exemplary products of Kinostudio at the apex of its quality, albeit in its final years. Çashku’s film was the first of three international productions based on Broken April. In 1987, the Paris-based Franco-Albanian f ilm-maker Liria Bégéja made Avril brisé/Broken April, a film that has been shown at internationally in festivals dedicated to women f ilm-makers.2 In 2001, Brazilian director Walter Salles moved the setting of the story to the Brazilian northeast in Abril despedaçado/Behind the Sun.3 Salles blends two remote regions that are not only among the poorest in their respective countries, but are moreover bound by tradition in a most evocative manner. All three films stand on their own merit. Weaving three storylines into a common ideological thematic, Çashku’s version is especially innovative. It was the only of the three films subject to such an intense approval and censorship process. Finally, The Uninvited is unique in that Kadare participated actively in development of the film, writing the screenplay. The Uninvited is set during the final days of the Albanian monarchy. It follows Besim Vorsi (Vangjush Furxhi), a noted ethnographic writer, who travels with his bride, Diana (Rajmunda Bulku), to the remote northern mountains to assure a local prince of King Zog’s ‘unconditional’ support of the Kanun, which governs the ancient system of blood killings in the region. The Kanun, of which blood killings and revenge are integral components, states that a man who has committed a blood killing—only men are involved in blood or revenge killings—must undergo two distinct periods of freedom before he is open game for a reciprocal killing. During the first period, which lasts only a couple of days, he must participate in the funeral of the man he has killed, standing close to the father and/or relatives of the victim. The second period, which has the duration of one month, is a time of freedom, where he may move about as he pleases prior to being targeted for a blood 2 Bégéja has directed two other films related to Albanian topics. In 1991, she made Rendez-vous à Tirana, a meditation on exile, totalitarianism, and Albania’s slow process of ending isolation. In 1993, she directed Loin des barbares/Far from the Barbarians, a feature focusing on a woman who has learned that her father, who was believed to be a victim of the Hoxha regime, may have actually fled to France. 3 Salles is best known for The Motorcycle Diaries (2004), based on the youth of Che Guevara. A true humanitarian and supporter of the arts, Salles befriended an impoverished Mário Peixoto, director of the avant-garde film Limite (1931), shortly before the latter’s death in 1992. In 1996, Salles established the Mário Peixoto archives in Rio de Janeiro. (Limite was screened for the first and probably only time in Albania at the Marubi Academy of Film and Multimedia in May 2005).

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killing by his victim’s family. The offended family is expected to respective this period fully, although the minute the month of freedom ends, they can immediately seek revenge.4 By virtue of the collection of a blood tax on each killing, the ancient system of blood feuds is a major source of income for the regional administrations. King Zog’s government was undergoing unstable times, and it was necessary for him to placate the northern regions to assure the monarchy’s stability. The narrative draws together three threads, the visit of Besim and Diana to the northern mountains; the tale of Gjorg Berisha (Piro Qirjo), a young man who has blood on his hands for the revenge killing of his brother and who desires to see as much of the mountains during the one month of freedom allotted him by the Kanun, and finally, the plight of Martin Alushi (Timo Flloko), a communist agitator, who has been exiled to the north. Hence, all three of the storylines united in The Uninvited are linked by the theme of travel, either forced or politically coerced. Besim and Diana travel for a combined honeymoon and mission on behalf of the Zog monarchy. Gjorg undertakes a journey by foot across the mountains so that he can see the world once more before his April is broken. And Alushi’s travel is forced, anticipating the internal exiles that would later be integral to the Hoxha regime. The film opens as Besim reluctantly accepts the commission from the Zog administration. Zog’s representative convinces him that he will have considerable influence since his writings are well respected in the north. His hesitation is partially based on his upcoming wedding and honeymoon. It is suggested to him that he combine the official travel with his honeymoon. His fiancée is a photographer, and, after all, she will obviously love the natural splendour of the mountains. This discussion is followed by the couple’s wedding celebration, at which elegant couples, representing Tirana’s elite, dance and congratulate the newlyweds. The diegetic music of the dance is silenced, and instead, we hear an orchestral version of ‘Siegfried’s Rhine Journey’ from Götterdämmerung. The music is incongruous to the sequence. The couples converse, and yet the actual dance music is replaced by the extra-diegetic musical intervention. Although this piece is heard only once in the film, its melody is similar to a tune played on a traditional woodwind influence of northern Albania that is heard throughout The Uninvited, constituting the film’s main musical theme. In Wagner’s opera, the piece is introduced following Siegfried’s farewell to Brünhilde and implies at once travel and separation. Thus, this high-brow reference responds to the travels and separations that occur in each of the three stories. In the case 4

For more information on the Kanun, see Arber and Margjeka (2015) and Cf. Sadiku (2014).

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of Diana and Besim, the honeymoon has become in and of itself a ‘broken April’. Over the course of their travels together, Diana comes to realize that her husband lacks the insight expected of a renowned ethnographic writer. Instead, he perpetuates the official line, unwilling to examine the human toll. There is a separation implied between the couple when Diana admits that she had expected the trip and her husband to enlighten her. Instead, he is the one most in need of enlightenment. Gjorg, for his part, has opted to use his month of freedom to explore the mountains that he loves. He bids farewell to his sister and father and undertakes his journey on foot. Gjorg dies before he can see them again. Finally, Alushi is briefly reunited with his wife, who comes to him with reports on the falling monarchy. Their reunion evokes Wagner’s opera in that ‘Siegfried’s Rhine Journey’ represents at once the journey that the hero will undertake and his ultimate death. If one takes the Wagnerian reference as a metaphor of broader political issues, the film indeed speaks to a twilight of the gods of sorts. The monarchy is coming to an end. Yet what will follow will be no better. The Fascist occupation must also be put to an end. Besim and Diana depart by coach to the north. During their visit, the bride becomes aware of the brutality of the blood system and of the corrupt inner dynamics of the regional governments. Besim has explained to her not to photograph the villagers, as this is very offensive for them. Yet temptation is strong; Diana snaps a photograph of a local villager. She enters a tower where the family of a man who is stalked by a blood feud hide from the outside world. Although her hope is to photograph them, she cannot bring herself to do so, having witnessed the poverty that holds them back and having touched the cold body of their dying son. It is at this moment that Diana’s April is broken. She must come to grips with the brutal custom of the Kanun, which runs contrary to her own humanitarian beliefs. She must further acknowledge her husband’s complicity in its upholding. During their travels, their paths cross both Gjorg and Alushi. Diana is well-aware that Gjorg is victim of a cycle that perpetuates itself, with one revenge killing following another. And these killings enjoy official sanction in that they are officially recorded by the local ruler. Of all of the characters, it is Alushi who, within the narrative, is the most forward thinking. His ideology transcends both the monarchy and the Italian occupation that will follow. Throughout the film, there are a number of views of Italian planes overflying the region. When they ultimately drop flyers announcing the end of the monarchy and the arrival of the Fascists, Besim collapses, understanding that this marks the end of his career. The villagers momentarily come together crying out that blood feuds must end, and that Albanians must unite to fight

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Image 25. Piro Qirjo as the condemned youth wandering during his final days in Kujtim Çashku’s The Uninvited. Courtesy of the Albanian Central State Film Archive.

the enemy.5 The Uninvited is replete with evidence of Çashku’s commitment to humanitarian issues. This dedication would continue in the director’s films of the postcommunist era, Colonel Bunker (1996) and Magic Eye (2005).6 Abaz Hoxha (2005, p. 70), referring to several literary adaptations undertaken by Anagnosti, argues that the success of the director’s film [adaptations] was the result of his refusal to accept a conventional screen adaptation process, his deep penetration into the original literary work, and in particular, his own creative interpretation which serves as an extension of the work. As was the case with Broken April, his 1963 novel, Kadare’s The General of the Dead Army, was brought to the screen three times. In 1976, it 5 Blood feuds did not come to an end with the arrival of the Fascists. They are very much alive today and, in fact, are one of the reasons for emigration among Albanians from the north. The blood revenges, however, are not necessarily put to rest by emigration as they are often perpetuated in the diaspora. See Office of the Commissioner General for Refugees and Stateless Persons (2017). It must further be noted that in 2011, US director Joshua Marston made The Forgiveness of Blood, an Albanian-language film on a young man in northern Albania plagued by a blood feud. 6 Çashku, moreover, has directed the International Human Rights Film Festival Albania, which, in 2023, is preparing its eighteenth edition.

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was the subject of an Albanian television mini-series directed by Vladimir Prifti. In 1983, Luciano Tovoli made a French-Italian coproduction, Il generale del’armata morta/The General of the Dead Army, which starred Marcelo Mastroianni, Michel Piccoli, and Anouk Aimée. The latter was an especially ambitious project, not only because of its all-star cast, but also in light of the intent to film in Albania, which was impossible due to political situations at the time. As Grgić, (2021. p. 290) explains, The General of the Dead Army was ultimately filmed in the Arbëresh regions of Italy. The Albanian in the film sounds awkward due to the use of the Arbëresh language variety (p. 290). According to Grgić, Anagnosti was so disappointed in the international coproduction that he decided to adapt the novel himself, writing his own screenplay (p. 290). The Return of the Dead Army is centred on an official Italian visit to Albania to recover the bodies of Italian soldiers killed there during World War II. Although Kadare’s novel is set in the early 1960s, Anagnosti’s film appears to take place in the late 1980s, this evidenced by the urban images of Tirana that appear throughout the film. Given the age of the actors playing Italian characters who had been in Albania during the war, Kadare’s setting appears, from a logical perspective, the most acceptable. Nonetheless, the contemporaneous setting of The Return of the Dead Army allows the narrative to speak more directly to the time and place of its production. The general in charge of the expedition (Bujar Lako) did not witness the war in Albania, having never visited the country before. Yet he is determined to lead the team as they locate and unearth the graves. The general is accompanied by a priest (Guljelm Radoja), who had come to know the country during the war. The two men and their relationship become the centre of focus of the film. From the onset, it is clear that the Italian government has not singled out Albania. It is also sending individuals to Ethiopia and Bulgaria. Nonetheless, where one military officer will be assigned to Bulgaria and another to Ethopia, four will be sent to Albania. Although Albania had requested that civilians and not soldiers lead the expeditions, it was agreed that the military men could undertake it, as long as they worked in civilian clothing. Also at stake are political issues. The wife of Colonel di Zeta, who belongs to a highly influential family, wishes for her husband’s remains to be returned. The general is committed on both a military and personal level to finding his remains. Hence, much is at stake for the general, both as a military officer and as a human being.7 7 The French-Italian adaptation dilutes the integrity of the theme by introducing a romantic relationship between the general and the young widow. In Tovoli’s film, this love affair leads the general to become jealous of the priest. See Grgić (2021, p. 290).

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Image 26. Roza Anagnosti in Dhimitër Anagnosti’s The Return of the Dead Army. Courtesy of the Albanian Central State Film Archive.

The excavations throughout Albania are fraught with uncertainty. The team relies on locals, who may or may not recall where the bones line. The general, realizing that the mission is as futile as war itself, is troubled by moral issues. The bones of the soldiers, who were carefully buried deep in the ground by other members of the Italian military, should remain together with their comrades in arms. The general suffers recurring nightmares, which are related to a war that he, himself, did not witness. He is not unlike the protagonist of Resnais’s Hiroshima, mon amour (1959), who seeks memories of tragedies that she had not personally experienced. The conflict between of military duty and personal ethics in The Return of the Dead Army is reflected through the use, over the course of the film, of the tense trumpet solo from Mahler’s ‘Symphony no. 5’. The general and the priest finally stumble upon a lead to the whereabouts of Colonel di Zeta’s grave. A village woman (Roza Anagnosti), when learning that the team is searching the colonel’s remains, confesses that she, herself,

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killed him and buried him in a grave filled with black water. She explains that he had been responsible for the deaths of both her husband and daughter. The woman indicates the location of his grave, and the two men retrieve his bones and place them in a sack. Walking across a footbridge, the general suddenly stops and throws the sack into the river below, revealing his refusal, however momentary, to participate in such a futile exercise. The Return of the Dead Army concludes as the general and the priest stand among the many stacked and labelled boxes containing remains. In a delusional state, the general calls out to his dead army to come to life and serve him. The priest finds the remains of a soldier whose height was the same as di Zeta, and with the general’s help, places them in a special coffin. (Earlier in the film, it had been suggested that they find bones that were similar to the colonel’s so that the mission could save face). The Return of the Dead Army is prophetic in that numerous f ilms of postcommunist Albanian cinema seek to unearth and come to grips with tragedies from the Hoxha regime. This is especially the case of Iris Elezi and Thomas Logoreci’s Bota/The World (2014), in which a roadside café named Bota (the World), is located near a swamp land containing the remains of victims of the Hoxha era.

A stance against corruption Spartak Peçani was one of the few film professionals who had the opportunity to study at the Luca Caragiale Institutul de Artă Teatrală ʂi Cinematografică in Bucharest, alongside Kujtim Çashku and other future professions. As a director, he came to the forefront during the period of isolation. In 1985, he directed Të mos heshtësh/Speak Up!, one of the rare indictments of corruption made during the communist regime.8 Set in Durrës, its protagonist Silvi (Matilda Makoçi) is awakened by a phone call advising her of the death of her husband in an accident. Now alone and charged with raising her young son as a single mother, she increases her dedication to her job in an office located at the port. She is one of the individuals charged with the maintenance of payroll records. Her boss, Ardi (Gëzim Rudi), had been instrumental in assuring her employment and has an obvious romantic interest in her. Ardi has recently purchased a home near the Castle of Durrës, and claims that this acquisition was only possible due to an inheritance he 8 An alternative English title, one which is actually closer to the original Albanian is Don’t Be Silent. Either title conveys the film’s message, which was daring for the time and context in which the work was produced.

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had received. For Silvi, this claim is disconcerting given the difficulty that a working family would have in setting aside such a large amount of money. Silvi is a quiet and circumspective individual. She dresses in mourning and has, as a primary focus, the well-being of her son. In her interactions with Ardi, Silvi remains silent in many cases where a response would be expected, including when everyday greetings and pleasantries are exchanged. This reveals a considerable level of disquiet she feels in the relationship. As the film develops, we note that Silvi has two primary outlets. First, she and her son go regularly to a shooting range, where she involves herself in target practice. This activity renders her character complex, since it may appear out of character for such a quiet woman. Second, she has rekindled a friendship with an old male friend, who was unaware of husband’s death. He is a poet and writes an inscription to her in a book he has recently published. This raises the ire of Ardi, who feels that Silvi is wasting her time on minutiae. Ardi asks Silvi to accompany him on a day trip by train to Tirana where he has an urgent meeting related to the business. When they miss the return train and are forced to get rooms in a hotel for the night, Silvi realizes that her job is conflicting with her obligation to her son, a problem that is underscored in a meeting with her father upon her return trip to Durrës. Although Ardi visits her family and asks her father’s permission to wed her, Silvia is silent, unable to come to grips with such a proposal. The complex array of feelings that Silvi confronts—her grief, her happiness at the renewed friendship from years before, and her discomfort at Ardi’s love for her—are rendered even more complex when she notes discrepancies in official payroll rosters at work. Although Ardi attempts to cover the inaccuracies she has uncovered, Silvi is insistent that something is wrong. Finally, Ardi admits that it appears that there has been a history of embezzlement. When Silvi inquires as to whom he suspects, he explains that it does not matter. He, and, by implication, she, are responsible. In the confined and claustrophobic space of Ardi’s new home, where painting and repairs are underway, Silvi is informed by her would-be lover that he, himself, embezzled the money, and that the story of the inheritance was a fiction. He implores her not to say anything, since this would ruin both of their lives. In a struggle, Ardi hits his head on a ladder and is momentarily knocked to the ground. Silvi takes the opportunity to flee the apartment. Speak Up! concludes as Silvi rides her bicycle through the streets of Durrës. The determined look on her face suggests that she will indeed not be silent. Although lacking the structural innovativeness of films such as those of Anagnosti and Çashku, Peçani’s f ilm is particularly noteworthy for

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the psychological dimension it affords its protagonist. Silvia’s conflicted emotions indeed render her a loner, and this is emphasized by the sequences in which she is seen walking along the sea at the port of Durrës. At one point a single vessel approaches in the background, suggesting the solitary journeys that both Silvi and the ship are undertaking. Although it is clear from Silvi’s character and determination that she will denounce Ardi, this is never overtly textualized in the film. Despite an overall high level of narrative closure throughout the film, the conclusion allows the viewer to wonder what exactly the consequences will be of the report Silvi will doubtless soon be making. Speak Up! must be lauded for its audacity, particularly when one considers that it was made prior to the turbulent questioning of the regime that occurred subsequent to the fall of the Berlin Wall.

Esat Musliu’s Rrethi i kujtesës/The Circle of Memory (1987): Posttraumatic stress and memory loss Musliu’s Rrethi i kujtesës/The Circle of Memory (1987) is arguably Kinostudio’s sole attempt at a psychological thriller. Nonetheless, on a surface level, it meets the ideological expectations of the communist period. The film’s protagonist, Margarita Bergolli (Marjeta Ljarja), has been sent back to Albania in the mid-1960s, some 20 years after she had been believed dead in a Nazi concentration camp. She suffers from amnesia, but nonetheless understands and speaks Albanian. During her absence, Margarita had been declared a national martyr, inasmuch as she had been injured in a Nazi raid on Berat, where she had fought as a partisan. Even a school had been named after her! In August 1968, she suffers a seizure while watching through a window as welders repair a pole in front of her late brother’s apartment. Margarita’s fits continue anytime she is exposed to strong lights, particularly those appearing in the form of a circle. Her sole reaction is to scream rrethi, ‘the circle’. At a Tirana hospital, Dr Artani (Agim Qirjaqi) is determined to find the cause of these episodes, even though some of his colleagues feel that such investigations will not help her regain her memory. The doctor learns from another former partisan that both women had worked as laundresses in a hospital, where, one-by-one, female inmates were being drained of their blood, purportedly to save German soldiers. For this reason, the woman believed that Margarita had died. The friend describes to the doctor a strange cubicle in the hospital that had remained off-limits to the workers. The doctor derives a theory that Margarita had

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been the victim of a frightful experiment consisting of exposure to bright lights and loud noises in the cubicle, which was intended to erase memory, and, by extension, historical record. Miraculously, Margarita regains her memory, although it is unclear exactly as to how. Dr Artani is one of the clearest examples of the notion of the new man of science as identified by Peshkopia, Imami, and Logoreci (2020). He is enlightened, thinks out of the box, and approaches his work with true integrity. He is single-minded and is unfoiled by his colleagues’ scepticism. The Circle of Memory plays out during four time period: World War II, the mid-1960ss, the 1968 squelching of the Prague Spring, and a hypothetical past. It opens during the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia, and these events are viewed by two young women on a television screen. The same day, Margarita suffers a seizure in the home of family, and is hospitalized. There, her niece, Genta (Luiza Xhuvani), whom she still does not recognize, relates to Dr Artani how Margarita had been returned home, two and a half years earlier suffering from amnesia. When the doctor speaks to one of Margarita’s comrade-in-arms, retrospectives are presented that cover a battle in Berat, in which women partisans played an active combat role, and Margarita’s subsequent capacity as a laundress in a German war hospital-cum-concentration camp. The doctor develops a theory regarding her torture, and there ensues a sequence that which plays out as if it were an integral part of the World War II flashback. This, however, can be somewhat misleading. The images are actually pure speculation as the doctor clarifies his hypothesis to a medical panel. Margarita ultimately regains her memory, although nothing in the film clearly links such recovery to the doctor’s research. Despite Margarita’s role as a World War II martyr and heroine of the partisan movement, the overall inscription of women in The Circle of Memory remains, highly traditional. Women assume passive and conventional roles, among these, that of caregiver. Although there is a woman on the medical board to which the doctor explains his theory, she remains silent as the male doctors fervently debate. Margarita’s female comrade from the war now works in a traditionally female profession, as a beautician, and comments on the number of brides she has carefully prepared for their wedding banquets. Nurturing roles, moreover, can be attributed to Genta, who attentively looks after her aunt, and to Margarita, herself, who maternally reaches out to a schoolgirl, also named Margarita. Although the protagonist fails to remember her bravery in the partisan movement and the horrors of the Nazi camp, she recalls two key elements: the Albanian language (which she must speak, at least to a certain level, for the dramatic flow of the film),

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and the traditional expectations of a woman. For instance, on her first day back in Tirana, she arises early to clean the apartment! Once recovered, moreover, she actively participates in preparation of byrek dough with her sister-in-law and Genta. The horrors that define existence in the Nazi complex—beatings inflicted by a female guard, a suicide, and the draining of blood—appear exclusively to involve women. One woman, in shear desperation, flings herself into the boiling laundry water. These scenes are accompanied by ‘Siegried’s Funeral March’ from Wagner’s Götterdämmerung.9 Although the sequences in which Margarita is exposed to bright light in the cubicle may well stem from Dr Artani’s hypothesis that what was at stake was an experiment intended to render her mind a tabula rasa, it is significant to note that it is the female body on which such torture is performed. This is one of the rare instances in Kinostudio productions in which such a graphic depiction of torture is present. The dedication of Dr Artani and ultimately his colleagues, coupled with the love and affection Margarita has received from her family, present a positive inscription of the communist regime, which was particularly necessary given the social conditions that prevailed in the years following Enver Hoxha’s death. Retrospectively, The Circle of Memory looks back to a period in which the country had a more clearly- defined agenda in its fight against revisionism. The events depicted on the small screen detailing the invasion of Czechoslovakia, moreover, imply that the Prague Spring had been less of a threat than Soviet aggression! The closing titles extend this decrial of aggression to the United States. A title card references an unrecognizable Swedish source that reports that the US, on unspecified dates, had exposed the women to dangerous microwaves and ultraviolet and infrared rays at the Greenham Common peace camp in England. Illnesses and temporary memory loss were reported among the protesters. Through the intersection of the narrative of Musliu’s film and the title card, United States imperialism is linked to Nazism. Such were the overt intents at the time of the film’s production. However, a contemporary reading of The Circle of Memory can consider the film an allegory for the atrocities of the Hoxha regime, and a contemporary viewer can find in it covert references to a regime at war against its own people. And women clearly were not exempt from this war. Perhaps it was the extremity of the Nazi sequences and the lack of clarity 9 The French-Italian adaptation dilutes the integrity of the theme by introducing a romantic relationship between the general and the young widow. In Tovoli’s film, this love affair leads the general to become jealous of the priest. See Ana Grgić (2021, p. 290).

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Image 27. Marjeta Ljarja in Esat Musliu’s The Circle of Memory. Courtesy of the Albanian Central State Film Archive.

regarding the scientific methods used by Dr Artani that allowed the film to simply pass as a pro-Albanian statement. In any case, the years of voicing opinions were only just beginning.

Eduard Makri’s Shpella e piratëve/The Pirate Cave (1990): Childhood and adventure Eduard Makri’s Shpella e piratëve/The Pirate Cave (1990) was one of the final films of Kinostudio. It is a true deviation from the studio’s norm in that it intersected the world of children with the world of fantasy. The films of Xhanfise Keko, all the while dealing with children, avoided the realms of fantasy and adventure. A possible exception was Keko’s Kryengritje në pallat/ Uprising in the Apartment Block (1972), in which misbehaving and selfish boys are propelled into space on hot air balloons in a dream sequence. Yet this intervention of the fantastic was purely didactic in nature, nudging the boys back into the appropriate behaviour of children in a socialist society. Makri’s film is quite different. The adventure does not take place in a dream, but rather in the real world. Rather than trying to teach children socialist

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values, the fantasy instead focuses on their world and their inherent need for exploration and adventure. The Pirate Cave opens in Tirana, where, on the last day of school in the early summer, a teacher inquires where pupils will be spending their summer holidays and wishes them all the best. In the home of a young couple, Eva (Yllka Mujo) and Martini (Vasjan Lama), we note the strong hand with which Eva disciplines their two children, a boy and a girl. Martini reprimands her for screaming at the children, and we note true domestic tension within the family. Eva accuses Martini of only coming home to eat and sleep, and he counters her by stressing that he is earning money so that the family can take an otherwise impossible holiday. Martini comforts his daughter, who is cowering in a crib (for which she is much too old), due to her mother having spanked her. He requests his son to entertain her. The early sequences are typical of the manner in which Kinostudio productions of the 1980s deal with sociopsychological issues more than with the idealized realm of the communist state. Tensions are eased when the family boards a bus to Vlora, where they will spend their holiday. In Vlora, the emphasis shifts from the lives of the young couple to those of the children, who explore the environs with other holidaying youngsters and a local boy. The children learn of a nearby pirate’s cave, and access to this is only available to them through the intervention of an elderly fisherman, who has a boat. The children befriend the man, who eventually allows them to sail off in his boat, under the condition that they will return to shore at a decent hour. The group immediately sets off to explore the secret cave. Entering this magical realm, they stumble upon an ancient book telling of past adventures and triumphs. Unfortunately, the boat sails away, and the children are stranded. Ashore, the children’s parents and those of the local child are frantic, fearing the worst. The old fisherman as well has a strong sense of guilt, acknowledging that it was he who let the children embark on their dangerous adventure. A group effort which combines holidaymakers and locals set off to determine the fate of the children, who are eventually reunited with their parents. The parents are so grateful to be reunited with their offspring that no child is punished. For the children, it is unfortunate that the book has been lost at sea. Nonetheless, they make plans to recover it during the following year’s holiday. Makri renders the film’s opening sequence a study of preeminent social tensions in contemporaneous Albania. Among these are the conflict between work and family life and the role of women in domestic space. When the film moves from Tirana to Vlora to depict the holiday, there is a marked shift. These themes are set aside in favour of an exploration of the fantasy world of childhood. Granted, childhood has been depicted in films by Hakani and Anagnosi, and of course in the cinematic oeuvre of Keko. Yet in these cases,

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Image 28. Children in a fantasy realm in Eduard Makri’s The Pirate’s Cave. Courtesy of the Albanian Central State Film Archive.

the realm of fantasy and play, so germane to childhood, was absent. Abaz Hoxha, nonetheless, notes their importance. For Hoxha (1985, p. 336), these constitute ‘an appeal to society to become more humane […] by thinking more of our children we think more of our world and ways to improve it’. It is significant to note that fantasy and adventure, radical as they were, given the thrust of Kinostudio during various periods of its history, failed to be continued in the postcommunist period. The Pirate’s Cave, although a very mainstream film with regards to structure and narrative, is a rara avis in an entire national cinema tradition. It is difficult to draw a clear distinction between the films of the postHoxha era and those of the earlier years of isolation. Although traditional themes are perpetuated, new themes emerge, and a number link the period to the postcommunist era. This is obviously one of the least known periods of Albanian cinema on an international level. Even the Albanian Cinema Project did not select any of these films for restoration.10 It is, moreover, a time period in Albanian cinema which has been particularly neglected in 10 One must recognize, however, that the films of the late 1980s may not have been in dire need of restoration. This is most likely due to the much higher level of production values than what was characteristic of previous periods.

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scholarly discourse. Ana Grgić (2021) has made significant steps in filling this gap. Hopefully, the high production values of the works and their impressive level of psychological depth will invite more divulgation and study of them in the near future.

Works cited Abrahams, Fred C. (2015), Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe, New York: New York University Press. Alia, Ramiz (1985), Enver Hoxha and His Work Live and Will Live Forever, Tirana: 9 Nëntori. Arber, Cara and Mimoza Margjeka (2015), ‘Kanun of Lekë Dukagjini: Customary Law of Northern Albania’, European Scientific Journal 11.28, file:///C:/Users/ willi/Downloads/6383-Article%20Text-18594-1-10-20151029%20(5).pdf. Accessed 24 July 2022. Artisien, Patrick (1986), ‘Albania’, in Martin McCauley and Stephen Carter, eds., Leadership and Succession in the Soviet Union, Eastern Europe. and China, London: Routledge: pp. 157, 173. Barjaba, Kosta (2004), ‘Albania: Looking beyond Borders,’ Migration Policy Institute, https://www.migrationpolicy.org/article/albania-looking-beyond-borders. Accessed 4 February 2022. Bégéja, Liria (1987), Avril brisé/Broken April, Paris: Canal+; Centre National de la Cinématographie and Franco American Films [motion picture].Bégéja, Liria (1993), Loin des Barbares/Far from the Barbarians, Paris: K.G. Productions, Prima Vista, Urania Film [motion picture]. Bégéja, Liria (1995), Rendez-vous à Tirana/Rendezvous in Tirana, Paris: Les Films d’ici and La Sept [motion picture]. Bego, Fabio (2022), ‘The Sound of the Other: Albanian-Italian Relations and Kinostudio Films’, Studies in Eastern European Cinema 13.1, pp. 3–20. Elkind, David (2007), The Power of Play Learning What Comes Naturally, Philadelphia: Da Capo. Fatos, Tarifa (2000), ‘Coming to an End: The Fall of Communist Rule in Albania’, in Shinashi A. Rama, ed., The End of Communist Rule in Albania: Political Change and the Rise of the Student Movement, London and New York: Routledge, pp. 34–53. Flower Parade—USSR Float 1954, Festival de Cannes, 2 April, https://www.festivalcFloannes.com/en/medialibrary/flower-parade-ussr-float//. Accessed 22 April 2023. Grgić, Ana (2021), ‘Building a New Socialist Art: A Short History of Albanian Cinema’, Studies in Eastern European Cinemas 12.3, pp. 276–292.

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Hoxha, Abaz (2005), Kinematografija shqiptare 1985–2005, Tirana: Toena. Kadare, Ismail (1963), The General of the Dead Army, New York: Arcade (2008). Kadare, Ismail (1980) (originally published in 1978), Broken April, New York: New Amsterdam Books (1998). Krasniqi, Afrim (2000), ‘What Kind of Democracy? Which Kind of Pluralism? Comparing President Ramiz Alia’s Meetings with the Intellectuals and with the Student Representation’, in Shinasi A. Rama, ed., The End of Communist Rule in Albania: Political Change and the Rise of the Student Movement, London and New York: Routledge, pp. 208–225. Mirjona, Sadiku (2014), ‘The Origins of the Kanun: Exploring the Development of the Albanian Customary Law’, Balkan Arastirma Enstitusu Dergisi; Edirne, 3.2, pp. 77–95. Office of the Commissioner General for Refugees and Stateless Persons (2017), Blood Feuds in Contemporary Albania: Characterisation, Prevalence and Response by the State, https://www.cgrs.be/sites/default/files/rapporten/blood_feuds_in_contemporary_albania._characterisation_prevalence_and_response_by_the_state. pdf. Accessed 22 August 2022. Peshkopia, Ridvan, Arben Imami, and Thomas Logoreci (2016), ‘Construction and Dismantling the New Man Utopia: The Cinematic Reflection of Albanian Communist and Post-Communist Ontology’, KinoKultura Special Issue 16 (Albania), http://www.kinokultura.com/specials/16/peshkopia_imami_kristensen.shtml. Accessed 8 June 2020. Peshkopia, Ridvan, Skerdi Zahaj, and Greta Hysi (2014), ‘The Myth of Enver Hoxha in the Albanian Cinema of Socialist Realism: An Inquiry into the Psychoanalytical Features of the Myth’, Framework 55.1, pp. 66–82. Williams, Bruce (2016b), ‘The Eagle Rocks: Isolation and Cosmopolitanism in Albania’s Pop-Rock Scene,’in Ewa Mazierska, ed., Popular Music in Eastern Europe: Breaking the Cold War Paradigm, London: Palgrave-Macmillan, pp. 89–108.



Some Words in Conclusion Towards an Albanian Cinema of Postcommunism Abstract: The very last years of communist Albania were plagued by massive emigration. Albanians were attuned to economic issues, feared civil war, and lacked confidence in the democratic process. These years echoed back to the early decades of the twentieth century, when waves of emigration left southern Albania to find work abroad. Initially, the immigration was primarily male, leaving women alone in their home villages. Esat Musliu’s Vitet e pritjes/Years of Waiting (1990), set in the 1930s, draws upon the earlier period of emigration to explore the contemporaneous situation. In this respect, it creates a transition between the last works of Kinostudio and one of the primary thematic thrusts of the early decades of postcommunism. Key words: Albania, communism, Ramiz Alia, emigration, Kinostudio, postcommunism

What would emerge from the toppling of the communist regime would be a massive emigration, larger per capita than any other European postcommunist country. Giovanna Campani (1992, p. 7) attributes this to economic issues, the fear of civil war, and lack of confidence in the democratic process. Referring to the results of the shifting of alliances during the communist period and the years of isolation, Campani stresses: This change of ideological and trade partners had a devastating effect on the country’s already weak economy. The results were outdated industries and technology, poor agriculture, hard working conditions, no contacts with the rest of the world and widespread poverty. The government’s attempt to remain ideologically pure did not succeed either. Despite the propaganda, young people were sceptical of socialist principles and would rather have consumer goods (p. 7).

Williams, B., Albanian Cinema through the Fall of Communism: Silver Screens and Red Flags. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2023 doi 10.5117/9789462980150_con

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Michele Colafato mentions another reason for such an exodus. There was a complete sense of claustrophobia. Albanians had been confined within a small territory for some 40 years, and desired to be a part of the world.1 Of all neighbouring and distant countries, it was likely Italy that represented the outside world. Italy was doubtless the epicentre of Albanian emigration. A number of historical factors explain this. As mentioned earlier, municipalities of Albania, including Durrës and Shkodër, had been parts of the Republic of Venice until the end of the fifteenth century, when the regions were lost to the Ottoman Empire. Venetian influence, moreover, extended beyond this period. For instance, the sixteenth-century orthodox icons of Argitis Onufri were influenced by the painters of Renaissance Venice. Perhaps the first major exodus from Albanians followed the annexation of Albanophone territories by the Ottoman Empire. In the fifteenth century, many Albanians fled to Abruzzi, Basilica, Calabria, and Sicily. Even to this day, a minority known as the Arbëresh speak a variety of Albanian in these Italian sub-regions. During the Ottoman period, when Albanians thought of the West, they thought of Italy. Much more recently, for better or worse, the Fascist occupation of Albania strengthened Italy’s cultural stronghold in the country. Despite Enver and Nexhmije Hoxha’s fluency in French, Italian was the de facto second language of the country. During the communist period, a good number of Albanians, not only in the north, developed knowledge of Italian through clandestinely tuning into Italian radio and television using make-shift technology. They were exposed not only to soccer and the San Remo Festival, but also to American films dubbed into Italian. In the Shkodër regions, children were secretly taught Italian at home from old manuals their parents had held onto from the Fascist period (Williams, 2016b, pp. 91–97). Carletto Gologero et al. (2006 p. 771) labelled the year 1990 the ‘Big Bang’ for the Albanian exodus. After all, it was on 21 July 1990 that Ylli Bondinaku rammed his Liaz truck into the rear wall of the German embassy in Tirana, paving the way for 3,127 Albanians to penetrate the complex and seek asylum in Germany. Hundreds also entered the Italian and French embassies (Fatjona Mejdini, 2017). Examining the push factors for this exodus, Gologero et al. identify political, social, and economic crises, as well as continued poverty and unemployment as major factors leading to the desire to migrate (p. 771). As a pull factor, they note the exposure to Italian television under communism that rendered Italy a Shangri-La for Albanians. Gologero et al. refer to Italy as the ‘Shangri-La’ for Albanians in the early 1990s. Explaining this pull factor, they stress, ‘Beyond the allure of wealth and the Italian 1

See extended discussions in Colafato (1992).

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lifestyle projected through TV, significant wage and wealth differentials between Albania and its European Union neighbors were obvious attractions’ (Gologero et al., 2017, p. 772). The ‘Big Bang’ year indeed ushered in a massive wave of exodus that would permeate the fall of communism and the early postcommunist period in Albania. Although the exodus from Albania was dramatic over the course of 1990 and 1991, Albanian migration had been of consequence in the early twentieth century. Julie Vullnetari (2012, p. 60) has looked at the multi-dimensionality of labour migration in the early twentieth century. Among Albanian emigrants were men who were leaving to work in the industrial cities of North America or in Australian agriculture.2 Vullnetari avows that, given that emigrants were mostly males of working age, entire towns and regions in Albania were stripped of their labour force. She, nonetheless, argues: […] emigration also became a motor for economic and social progress, by bringing in much-needed money through remittances as well as skills and knowledge and more open societal and democratic norms. Much of the country’s modernization during the reign of King Zog attributed to return migrants, particularly from the US (p. 61).3

Especially during the early years of the postcommunist period, emigration would become one of the two most common themes, the other being an assessment of the atrocities of the dictatorship. Films dealing with the impact of emigration include Besnik Bisha’s Bolero (1997), Fatmir Koçi’s Tirana viti zero/Tirana Year Zero, and Mevlan Shanaj’s Lule të kuqe, lule të zezë/Black Flowers (2003). The latter is especially poignant in its poetic description of the decimating effects of emigration on a village in Albania’s south.

Esat Musliu’s Vitet e pritjes/Years of Waiting (1990): Emigration and women Esat Musliu’s Years of Waiting, made during the f inal year of Kinostudio, draws heavily upon the massive emigration that was beginning to 2 Vullnetari explains that, while most migrants were initially men, wives and fiancées began to join them in the 1930s. 3 Vullnetari clarif ies that, inasmuch as international migrants from Albania in the early twentieth century were from the south, financial remittances and migrant return benefitted the southern regions, leaving an economic disparity between Albania’s north and south.

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characterize the Albanian landscape at the time of its production.4 Although it is set in the 1930s and deals with the return of an emigrant who had sought employment and financial gain in the United States, it speaks to the socioeconomic concerns that would plague the 1990s. Abaz Hoxha (2005) lists Years of Waiting as the final film made by Kinostudio, and were things this simple, it would have constituted a most appropriate swan song for the enterprise.5 In any case, Musliu’s film, of all of Kinostudio’s final works, most clearly forges a connection between the Kinostudio era and the Albanian cinematic productions of postcommunism. It focuses on Gjon Kodri, a man in his thirties, who returns to his village in southern Albania from the United States where he has lived and work for years. He had been but a boy at the time of his departure. The villagers greet him most enthusiastically, and a number of them ask him the fates of their own loved ones who had also gone to America. The notion that life in the United States leads to riches is soon proven to be illusory. Gjon is destitute. Abdurrahim Myftiu (2003, p. 83), in due recognition of the time period in which the film is set, notes that it is also especially evocative of the challenges faced by Albanian society and particularly by women during the period of the mass emigration that accompanied the fall of communism. Although, from an initial viewing, the film appears rooted in the 1930s, a period during which the economy in Albania’s south was driven so intensely by the return of emigrants from abroad and by their remittances, there is a surprising anachronism that relates it to more contemporary times. In a local bar, a gramophone plays a scratchy recording of John Denver’s ‘Thank God I’m a Country Boy’. Although the gramophone itself and the quality of the sound it emits befit the time period depicted, the song was originally recorded in 1974. The diegetic time of Years of Waiting predates the popularity of American country music in Europe by some 40 or 50 years. In the 1940s, American jazz, and late in the decade, swing music was popular in Europe, and no studies appear to be available as to the extent in which 4 The film’s title has been translated into English either as Years of Expectations or Years of Waiting. Either could be correct, although the former may be more characteristic of the male characters and the latter of the female protagonists. In any case, both titles strongly evoke the theme of the film. 5 Years of Waiting is the last the last Kinostudio production listed in Abaz Hoxha’s 2005 compendium of Albanian cinema. Its release date is listed as 8 August 1990. It must be noted that of the seven Kinostudio productions of 1990, two were released in 1991. Hoxha, moreover, lists dates of release for some films but not for others. He also includes both Kinostudio and television productions. Hence, it is next to impossible to determine exactly which film can be deemed the final film of the communist period.

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such genres reached Albania.6 The presence of the John Denver song is at once disorienting and engaging. As an anachronism, it encourages the viewer to reflect upon mass emigration from southern Albania as a broader socioeconomic factor, crossing divergent generations. Years of Waiting opens as Gjon as a young boy joins a caravan of men departing on foot from a village in the southern region of Gjirokastër near the Greek border to seek a better future in the United States. The guardian, who is leading him on the journey, promises his mother that he will treat the boy as if he were his own. The sequence provides a panoramic view of the residents of the village, and we learn how they are affected by emigration. We see a bride who bids her husband farewell, asking to accompany him. The husband retorts that even he has no idea where he is going. The villager laments the prominence of migration across generations. It is indeed a phenomenon that affects families deeply, and particularly the women who are left behind. Walking down the rough stone steps of the village, Gjon gazes back at the home he is leaving behind. The boy’s grandfather embraces him and places him on a stone marking the entrance to the village. The older man tells the boy that up until now, he has raised him. Now Gjon is on his own. When he returns as a man, the grandfather will no longer be there. An oil lamp sits on top of the stone, and we learn that it is a reminder of the men who have left. Local women pray for their sons and husbands who have left in domestic or international migration. The activities of the village return to normal after the caravan group of men have departed. Left behind, a young girl named Helena contemplates the departure of her childhood friend. She remembers a time when, as playmates, she and Gjon had dressed and danced as if they were a bride and groom. In the middle of the night, Helena and her older sister, Nerenza, awaken and follow their mother (Margarita Xhepa), who walks towards the stone at the edge of the village. Although the mother rekindles it, she laments that there is no more hope given that the lamp is spent. A montage of images in the impoverished village ensues as women’s voices read letters they have sent to their sons abroad. They curse America for having taken them away, anguished at their loved ones not having written. Many of the young men have not sent remittances. The voice of Helena’s mother is heard bemoaning that she needs money for her daughters’ dowries. Seventeen years have passed, and we now see Gjon (Xhevdet Ferri) as a young man, returning to the village. An older villager, who is leading 6 For diverse perspectives on American jazz in Europe during the Jazz age and Italian Fascism, see Asukile (2010), Kenney (1984), and Presutti (2008).

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him to his home, asks him to pause at the stone, begging him to kiss it in honour of his grandfather. Gjon inquires as to what the lamp is; he has dreamt about it often. His older guide explains that it lights the way for those who leave and those who return. The lamp reminds one of a woman’s heart, which thrives on one thing—hope. It becomes evident that the migrant has not returned, like most men who have gone way, on a happy occasion. Almost immediately, the villagers come to realize that Gjon has met with financial disaster in the United States. The young man is forced to stop at the house where Helena (Rozeta Gerri) lives to retrieve the key to his home. The three women in Helena’s household have regularly taken care of Gjon’s house following the death of his mother. This is the first point in the film where it becomes obvious that something is horribly wrong. Rather than rejoicing in the reunion with his long-lost friend, Gjon only wants to be left alone. When Helena brings an oil lamp to Gjon’s home, he is bent over, weeping. He has been contemplating photos on the wall of his loved ones who have died during his absence. Gjon dismisses Helena as quickly as possible. At home, Helena’s sister Nerenza (Rajmonda Bulko) muses that something strange happens to men who have emigrated. They become different, forgetting who they are and not even remembering their own language. Nerenza further stresses that happy memories of childhood are all women have in this village surrounded by stones and fog. Individually and at a gathering to celebrate Gjon’s return, the village women inquire as to the well-being of their sons and husbands who have not written. Gjon stresses that he knows nothing of them. After all, he had migrated to Detroit while others had gone to Massachusetts, or even Alaska.7 When told of how far away and cold Alaska, the land of eternal winter, is, a woman replies that no place is as cold as the village without their men. We learn that residents of the village have taken advantage of those left behind by emigration. A local loan shark has benefitted from women who need money to provide for their sons’ travel documents. Women have resorted to promising their daughters to returning migrants in exchange for money. Nerenza, for instance, has been promised to a man abroad. All her mother has from him is a photograph. In the local bar, where men listen to ‘Thank God I’m a Country Boy’, the walls are decorated in such a way as to remind the clientele of the 7 Massachusetts was one of the primary destinations of Albanian immigrants to the US in the early decades of the twentieth century. Other important destinations included the Detroit area and New York City, most notably Brooklyn.

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Image 29. Xhevdet Ferri as Gjon in Esat Musliu’s s Years of Waiting. Courtesy of the Albanian Central State Film Archive.

Hollywood myth. There are posters of stars from the 1920s and 1930s, most notably one of Rudolf Valentino. There is furthermore an advertisement for the American Merchant Lines. The illusion created by these artifacts from a world of dreams is quite the opposite of the truth about the United States, as we later learn it from Gjon. At Nersenza’s engagement celebration, Gjon blurts out the truth about life in the United States and tells of the fate of some of the emigrants from the village. In America, they had been plagued by unemployment and such illnesses as tuberculosis. Gjon explains that abroad, they are forced to work at degrading tasks such as cleaning sewers. There, they are exposed to lead poisoning. Migrants of various nationalities live together in huts, until these are eventually destroyed by bulldozers. Nerenza breaks down when she realizes that the man to whom she is engaged will never come, that the photo was probably that of a dead man.

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On the evening of the engagement celebration, a man returns from abroad. He is destitute and bitter and somehow has lost an arm. The man accuses his wife of prostitution and sets fire to their marital bed. Nonetheless, he is one of the rare ones who returns. The majority of men do not. The village women dread the receipt of a devastating letter or of the tolling of the church bells, which indicates that a migrant has died abroad. Although Gjon and Helena marry, there are no prospects for Gjon in the village. He promises his wife that he still has his physical strength and is able to work. He will be forced to migrate again. He promises, in any case, that he will never return to the United States. He may possibly find work within the confines of Albania. The film concludes as Gjon and a companion, who has lost his job, leave the village. Gjon has asked his friend to promise that he will not emigrate. It is clear that they will indeed search for possibilities in their homeland. As they depart, they do not pass by the stone and the lamp.

Towards the future The closure of Kinostudio was a metaphor of the uncertainty of Albania as the communist regime was clearly coming to a halt. It is difficult to imagine the cultural angst that prevailed at such a key transition point. Albanians were uncertain as to what their future would be at home. And emigration, like in the 1930s of Years of Waiting, promised dreams of stability and even luxury. The was, however, a key difference between emigration in the early twentieth century and that of the 1990s. Albania was now growing increasingly a part of the world. As mentioned in the introduction, its telephone connection to the United States was now working, and although the age of the Internet was not yet in full swing, there were possibilities for those going abroad to remain in touch on a regular basis with their families and loved ones at home. The years of waiting for word that never arrives had passed. Such connections, however, did not guarantee a smooth passage for Albanians to go abroad. Albania, together with Moldova, represented Europe at its least developed. Adjustment to a higher standard of living posed great challenges. And Albanians soon became associated with a criminal element in countries such as Greece and Italy. Even today, stereotypes regarding the cruel Albanian mafia are rampant in the United States. If we consider Years of Waiting to mark the closure of Albania’s cinema under communism, we note how this waning cinema had a foot in both worlds. All the while dramatizing the socioeconomics that had driven the country into disaster, it still upheld the virtues of Albania against the horrific

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capitalist system, especially in the United States. Years of Waiting thus is marked by strong denouncement of the West. If we assume that the 1930s southern village in Musliu’s film is a proxy for the Albania of 1990, then it clearly addresses the dynamics of the contemporaneous in all its confusion, uncertainty, and fear. The climate of illusion regarding life abroad is very much the same. The demise of Kinostudio was indeed a trade-off. Although for some 40 years, films were censored and could not always express their directors’ intents, at least there was a production mechanism in place. Film-makers worked at the studio, and if their project was approved through the various rounds of scrutiny, they were able to make their films. It was as if there were no budgets, since these details were not released, even to those in the production (Kujtim Çashku, personal contact, March 1986). In the world that was to come, the reverse would be true. Film-makers would be free of censorship, but how could they make or finance their films? Nonetheless, films would be made, and thoughtful and innovative ones at that! It is only natural that a good number of f ilms, especially those made in the 1990s and the early years of the new millennium, would reassess the Hoxha era. Afterall, these were the years that the directors knew the best. Yet, like the Kinostudio films of the years of isolation and the post-Hoxha period, social issues would be of primary concern, among these the impact of migration. Years of Waiting might well be paired with Mevlan Shanaj’s Lule të kuqe, lule të zeza/Black Flours (2003), given their assessment of the impact of emigration on villages in the south, albeit in different time periods. They also both evoke the impact of this emigration on women. Likewise, Fatmir Koçi’s call for Albanians not to emigrate, but rather to build their lives at home, as articulated in Tirana viti zero/Tirana Year Zero (2001), recalls Gjon’s plea to his companion at the conclusion of Years of Waiting. Although the closure of Kinostudio may well be deemed a rupture, which it was, when one considers the fast end that the system that kept it in place suffered, it was, in many ways a transformative continuum. Themes would now be treated with greater freedom, and Albanian cinema would soon reach more audiences than ever expected. Nonetheless, the productions of Kinostudio constitute a rich heritage of works that need to be evaluated and studied on their own terms. As I hope to have demonstrated in this book, among Kinostudio’s productions, there were works of genuine innovation. Now that Albanian cinema is on the world map, these films are being discovered and brought to new international audiences.

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Works cited Asukile, Thabiti (2010), ‘A. Rogers’s “Jazz at Home”: Afro-American Jazz in Paris during the Jazz Age’, Black Issues 40.3, pp. 22–35. Campani, Giovanna (1992), ‘Albanian Refugees in Italy’, Refuge: Canada’s Journal on Refugees/Refuge: Revue canadienne sur les réfugiés 12.4, pp. 7–10. Colafato, Michele (1992), ‘Le onde albanesi e la riva italiana’, Il Mulino, 5 (November/ December), pp. 1072–1081. Cologero, Carletto, Benjamin Davis, Marco Stampini, and Alberto Zezza (2006), ‘A Country on the Move: International Migration in Post-Communist Albania’, The International Migration Review 40.4, pp. 767–785. Hozha Abaz (2005), Kinematografija shqiptare 1985–2005, Tirana: Toena. Kenney, William H. iii (1984), ‘Le Hot: The Assimilation of American Jazz in France, 1917-1940, American Studies 25.1, pp. 5–24. Mejdini, Fatjona (2017), ‘Albanians Turn Memory of Embassy Break-In into Art’, Balkan Insight, 6 July, https://balkaninsight.com/2017/07/06/albanians-turnmemory-of-embassy-break-in-into-art-07-05-2017/. Accessed 24 October 2022. Myftiu, Abdurrahim (2003), Koha e filmit I, Tirana: Botim i Akademisë së Shkencave. Presutti, Fabio (2008), ‘The Saxophone and the Pastoral: Italian Jazz in the Age of Fascist Modernity’, Italica 85.2/3, pp. 273–292. Vullnetari, Julie (2012), Albania on the Move: Links between Internal and International Migration, Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Williams, Bruce (2016b), ‘The Eagle Rocks: Isolation and Cosmopolitanism in Albania’s Pop-Rock Scene’, in Ewa Mazierska, ed., Popular Music in Eastern Europe: Breaking the Cold War Paradigm, London: Palgrave-Macmillan, pp. 89–108.

Bibliography Abrahams, Fred C. (2015), Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe, New York: New York University Press. Adler, Renata (1968), ‘Yugoslavia’s I Even Met Happy Gypsies’, New York Times, 21 March, p. 21. Albanian Cinema Project Home (c. 2013), Albanian Cinema Project, https://www. thealbaniancinemaproject.org/contact.html. Accessed 20 December 2022. Albanian Cinema Project (2012), publicity card for the proposed restoration of Muhharem Feijo and Fehmi Hoshafi’s Kapedani/The Captain. Albanian Parliament (1996), ‘Law of Cinematography no. 8096 of 21 March 1996’. Albanian Parliament (2004), ‘Law of 3 March 2004 on Some Amendments of the Law of Cinematography no. 8096 of 21 March 1996’. Albanian Telegraphic Agency (1998), ‘Greek Council evaluates close Greek-Albanian ties’, Hellenic Resources Network, 29 March, http://www.hri.org/news/balkans/ ata/1998/98-03-29.ata.html. Accessed 8 June 2013. Alia, Ramiz (1985), Enver Hoxha and His Work Live and Will Live Forever, Tirana: 8 Nëntori. Alia, Ramiz (1986), Report on the Activity of the Central Committee of the Party of Labor of Albania and the Tasks for the Future. Submitted to the 9th Congress of the Party of Labor of Albania, November 3, 1986. Tirana: 8 Nëntori. Alibali, Adivije (2011), Interview, Voice of America, 25 November, https://www. facebook.com/watch/?v=10150423138038684. Accessed 8 June 2020. Alpion, Gëzim (2004), ‘Media, ethnicity and patriotism—the Balkans’ “unholy war” for the appropriation of Mother Teresa’, Journal of Southern Europe and the Balkans 6.3, pp. 227–243. Arkivi Qendror Shteteror i Filmit (2004), Filmografi e filmit shqiptar 1953–2003: Vëllimi I–filmi artistic, Tirana: Toena. Arkivi Qendror Shteteror i Filmit (2006), Dhimitër Anagnosti: 70 Vjetori i lindjes, Tirana: Arkivi Qendror Shtetëror i Filmit. Artisien, Patrick (1986), ‘Albania’, in Martin McCauley and Stephen Carter, eds., Leadership and Succession in the Soviet Union, Eastern Europe and China, London: Routledge, pp. 157-173. Ashcroft, Bill, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin (2002), The Empire Writes Back: Theory and Practice in Post-Colonial Literature, London: Routledge. Asukile, Thabiti (2010), ‘A. Rogers’s “Jazz at Home”: Afro-American Jazz in Paris during the Jazz Age’, Black Issues 40.3, pp. 22–35. Bego, Fabio (2022), ‘The Sound of the Other: Albanian-Italian Relations and Kinostudio Films’, Studies in Eastern European Cinema 13.1, pp. 3–20.

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Skendi, Stavro (1967), The Albanian National Awakening: 1878-1912, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Svetlov, I. (1952), ‘A Historic Date in Albania’s History’, USSR Information Bulletin 12:2, pp. 61–62. Taylor, Alan (2019), ‘The Cold War Bunkers of Albania’, The Atlantic, 13 June, https://www.theatlantic.com/photo/2019/06/cold-war-bunkers-albania-photosphotos/591622/. Accessed 4 June 2022. Tërshana, Irian (2002), ‘Kujtime’/‘Memories’, Film Muzeum 1895-1952: Nga aparati fotografil tek kamera, Tirana: Arkivi Qendror Shtetëror i Filmit, pp. 12–13. Thompson, Howard (1954), ‘The Screen in Review: Scanderbeg Arrives at the Stanley’, The New York Times, 5 July, https://www.nytimes.com/1954/07/05/archives/thescreen-in-review-skanderbeg-arrives-at-the-stanley.html. Accessed 8 May 2020. Ţuțui, Marian (2011), Orient Express: The Romanian and Balkan Cinema: Bucharest: Administrației Fondului Cultural Național NMP, pp. 111-126. ‘Upheaval in the East: Dial “A” for Albania’ (1990), The New York Times, 12 April, https://www.nytimes.com/1990/04/12/world/upheaval-in-the-east-dial-a-foralbania.html. Accessed 31 December 2022. Van Zoelen, Kaj (2021), ‘Thrilling Minimalist Precision: The Bride and the Curfew’, Frameland, https://frame.land/thrilling-minimalist-precision-the-bride-andthe-curfew/. Accessed 28 November 2022. Veliu, Galip (2011), ‘Balkan Diversity under Two Contradictory Philosophies of Ruling: Ottoman and Communist’, Akademik Araştırmalar Dergisi/Journal of Academic Studies 49, pp. 1–13. Vickers, Amanda and James Pettifer (1997), Albania: From Anarchy to Balkan Identity, New York: New York University Press. Vickers, Amanda and James Pettifer (2009), Albanian Question: Reshaping the Balkans, London: I.B. Tauris. Voci, Leonardo (2009/2010), Odhise Paskali: Themelues i skulptures shqiptare, Athens and Tirana: Universiteti Kristal. Vucinich, Wayne S. (1963), ‘The Albanian-Soviet Rift’, Current History 44.261, pp. 299. Vygotsky, Lev. (1933), Play and Its Role in the Mental Development of the Child, Psychology and Marxism Internet Archive, 2002, https://www.marxists.org/ archive/vygotsky/works/1933/play.htmSeptember 2018. Ward, Elizabeth M. (2015), ‘Screening out the East: The Playing Out of Inter-German Relations at the Cannes Film Festival’, German Life and Letters 68.1, pp. 37–53. Warrin, Don (2008), ‘Interview with Eduardo Mayone Dias’, Portuguese in California Oral History Project, The Bancroft Library Regional Oral History Office, http://digitalassets.lib.berkeley.edu/roho/ucb/text/dias_eduardo.pdf. Accessed 4 October 2013. ‘What’s on in Peking (1959), Peking Review 48, p. 23.

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‘What’s on in Peking (1959), Peking Review 49, p. 23. ‘Where can Americans Travel Right Now?’ (2021), US New and World Report, 18 May, https://travel.usnews.com/features/where-can-americans-travel-right-now. Accessed 20 May 2021. Williams, Bruce (2007), ‘Double Eagle, Double Indemnity: Bekim Fehmiu and (Yugoslav) Albanian Identity’, Kinema, 27 (Spring), pp. 69–84. Williams, Bruce (2010), ‘Ballkanit, me dashuri…për Bekim Fehmiun’, Tirana: Gazeta, 28 June, p. 8. Williams. Bruce (2012a), Williams, ‘Spotting the Eagle on Anglophone Turf’ in Kristensen, Lars, ed., Postcommunist Film—Russia, Eastern Europe, and Word Culture: Moving Images of Potcommunism¸London: Routledge, pp. 8-104. Williams, Bruce (2012b), ‘Redshift: New Albanian Cinema and Its Dialogue with the Old’, in Anikó Imre, ed., A Companion to Eastern European Cinemas, Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, pp. 224–243. Williams, Bruce (2013a), ‘Two Degrees of Separation: Xhanf ise Keko and the Albanian Children’s Film’, Framework 54.1 (Spring), pp. 49–58. Williams, Bruce (2013b), ‘The Distant among Us: Kolonel Bunker in a Postcolonial Context’, in Ewa Mazierska, Eva Näripea, and Lars Kristensen, eds., Postcolonial Approaches to Eastern European Cinema: Portraying Neighbors on Screen, London: I.B. Tauris, pp. 223–243. Williams, Bruce (2013c), ‘Kujtim Çashku e a emergência do cinema independente na Albânia’, in Alfredo Suppia, ed., Cinema(s) independente(s): Cartografias para um fenômeno audiovisual global, Juiz de Fora: Editora da Universidade Federal de Juiz de Fora, pp. 213–231. Williams, Bruce (2015), ‘It’s a Wonderful Job! Women at Work in the Films of Communist Albania’, Studies in Eastern European Cinema 6.1, pp. 4–20. Williams, Bruce (2016a), ‘Chronicle of a Rift Reread: The Discourse of Nostalgia in Kujtim Çashku and Piro Milkani’s Face to Face’, KinoKultura Special Issue 16 (Albania), http://www.kinokultura.com/specials/16/williams.shtml. Accessed 8 June 2020. Williams, Bruce (2016b), ‘The Eagle Rocks: Isolation and Cosmopolitanism in Albania’s Pop-Rock Scene’, in Ewa Mazierska, ed., Popular Music in Eastern Europe: Breaking the Cold War Paradigm, London: Palgrave-Macmillan, pp. 89–108. Williams, Bruce (2018), ‘Cherchez la femme: Gratë revolucionare në filmat e Kinostudios’, Politikja 2, pp. 129–143. Reprinted in Klejd Këllici and Enis Sulstarov, eds. (2021), Studime mbi periudhën e komunizmit në Shqipëri: Doktrina, imazhe dhe trupa, Tirana: Botim i Departamentit të Shkencave Politike, Fakulteti i Shkencave Sociale, Universiteti i Tiranës, pp. 119–138.

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Williams, Bruce (2020a), ‘Cinema in the “Local Perfect Position”: Children and Education in the Documentary Work of Xhanf ise Keko’, Studies in Eastern European Cinema 11.1, pp. 54–66. Williams, Bruce (2020b), The Albanian State Film Archives in a Transnational World’, Studies in Eastern European Cinema 11.2, pp. 202–204. Williams, Bruce and Kledian Myftari(2020c), ‘Albania: Crossing Borders with a New Imaginary’ in Ana Grgić and Lydia Papadimitriou, eds., Contemporary Balkan Cinema: Transnational Exchanges and Global Circuits, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. 2020, pp. 18–33. Wolfe, Maynard Frank (1970), The Making of The Adventurers, New York: Paperback Library. Xhuvani, Gjerg, (2007), ‘Faleminderit i dashur mjeshtëri, in Ilia Xhokaxhiu, ed., Viktor Gjika, Tirana: Arkivi Qendror Shtatëror të Filmit, pp. 32–33. Zymberi, Isa (1991), Colloquial Albanian, London: Routledge.

Filmography Abbott, George and Stanley Donen (1957), The Pajama Game, Burbank, CA: Warner Brothers [motion picture]. ‘Albania’s King Zog’ (1936), New York: The March of Time [motion picture]. Albania ribelle (1909), Turin: Unitas [motion picture]. Aleksandrov, Grigori (1938), Volga-Volga, Moscow: Mosfilm [motion picture]. Aleksandrov, Grigori (1940), Svyetli put’/The Bright Path, Moscow: Mosfilm [motion picture]. Les Amis belges en Albanie/Belgian Friends in Albania (1964), Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Anagnosti, Dhimitër (1966), Komisari i dritës/The Commissar of Light, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Anagnosti, Dhimitër (1968), Duel i heshtir/Silent Duel, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Anagnosti, Dhimitër (1976), Lulëkuqet mbi mure/Red Poppies on the Wall, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Anagnosti, Dhimitër and Viktor Gjika (1966), Komisari i dritës/The Commissar of Light, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Bégéja, Liria (1987), Avril brisé/Broken April, Paris: Canal+; Centre National de la Cinématographie and Franco American Films [motion picture]. Bégéja, Liria (1993), Loin des Barbares/Far from the Barbarians, Paris: K.G. Productions, Prima Vista, Urania Film [motion picture]. Bégéja, Liria (1991), Rendez-vous à Tirana/Rendezvous in Tirana, Paris: Les Films d’ici and La Sept [motion picture]. Bemberg, María Luisa (1978), Juguetes/Toys, Buenos Aires: María Luisa Bemberg [motion picture]. Bemberg, María Luisa (1984), Camila: Buenos Aires: GEA Cinematográfica [motion picture]. Bisha, Besnik (1993), Zemra e Nënës/A Mother’s Heart, Tirana: Albafilm [motion picture]. Bisha, Besnik (1997), Bolero, Tirana: Albafilm [motion picture]. Bolotin, Craig (1992), That Night, Los Angeles: Alcor Films, Canal+ and Regency Enterprises. Capra, Frank (1946), It’s a Wonderful Life, Los Angeles: Liberty Films [motion picture]. Çashku, Eol (2012) Albanie 1912, Tirana: Marubi Film and Multimedia Academy [motion picture]. Çashku, Kujtim (1981), Shokët/Comrades, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shipëri e Re’ [motion picture].

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Çashku, Kujtim (1983), Dora e ngohtë/The Warm Hand (1983), Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shipëri e Re’ [motion picture]. Çashku, Kujtim (1996), Kolonel Bunker/Colonel Bunker, Tirana, Warsaw and Paris: Orafilm, Agencja Produkcji Filmowej, Zespół Filmowy Dom, and Unifrance [motion picture]. Çashku, Kujtim (2005), Syri magjik/Magic Eye, Cologne and Tirana: Elsani Film and OraFilm [motion picture]. Çeli, Vitori (1972), Bekim Fehmiu në Shqipëri/Bekim Fehmiu in Albania, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Central State Documentary Studio (1947), Qëndrimi i delegacionit qeveritar shqiptar në Moskë/Visit of the Delegation of Albania to Moscow [motion picture]. Central State Documentary Studio (1949), Qëndrimi i delegacionit shqiptar në Moskë/Visit of the Albanian Delegation to Moscow, Moscow [motion picture]. Cousins, Mark (2013a), Here Be Dragons, Edinburgh: Mark Cousins Productions [motion picture]. Cousins, Mark (2013b), A Story of Children and Film, Edinburgh: Mark Cousins Film Productions [motion Picture]. Dassin, Jules (1960), Pote tin Kyriaki/Never on Sunday, Athens: Lopert Pictures Corporation and Melinafilm [motion picture]. Devole, Koço (1992), Gjuetia e fundit/The Last Hunting Party, Tirana: Radiotelevizioni Shqiptar [televion film]. Dhamo, Kristaq (1958), Tana, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Dhamo, Kristaq (1959), Furtuna/The Storm, Moscow and Tirana: Mosf ilm and Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Dhamo, Kristaq (1963), Detyrë e posaçme/Special Task, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Dhamo, Kristaq (1965), Vitet e para/The First Years, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Dhamo, Kristaq (1973), Brazdat/Furrow, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Dhamo, Kristaq and Gëzim Erebara (1959), Ne u dashuruam me Shqipërinë/We Fell in Love with Albania, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Dosti, Rose (2008), Prison Nation: Albania – 1943-1990, Tirana: Rose Dosti [motion picture]. Dosti, Rose (2011), Lost Voices Making History: Albania – 1943–1991, Santa Monica: Albanian Human Rights Project [motion picture]. Dovzhenko, Alexander (1940), Zemlya/Earth, Kiev: All Ukraine Photo Cinema Administration [motion picture]. Elezi, Iris and Thomas Logoreci (2014) Bota (The World), Tirana: Erafilm [motion picture].

Filmogr aphy

237

Erebara, Gëzim (1981), Një natë pa dritë/A Night without Light, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Erebara, Gëzim and Piro Milkani (1967), Ngadhnjim mbi vdekjen/Victory over Death, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Feijo, Muharrem and Fehmi Hoshafi (1972), Kapedani/The Captain, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Festivali Folklorist 1949 (1949), Tirana: Ndërmarrja Kinematograf ike [motion picture]. Gjika, Viktor (1968), Horizonte të hapura/Clear Horizons, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Gjika, Viktor (1978). Gjeneral Gramofoni/General Gramophone, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Gjika, Viktor (1982) Gjika’s Nëntori i dytë/The Second November, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Godard, Jean-Luc (1964), Bande à part/Band of Outsiders, Paris: Anouchka Films/ Orsay Films [motion picture]. Hakani, Hysan (1957), Fëmijët e saj/ Her Children, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Hakani, Hysan (1961), Debatik, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Hakani, Hysan (1964), Toka jonë/Our Land, Tirana: Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Hakani, Hysan (1966), Oshëtimë në bregdet/Echo on the Coast, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Hoshaf i, Fehmi and Maharrem Fejzo (1972), Kapedani/The Captain, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Jiang, Xiao (2005), Electric Shadows, Beijing: Dadi Century [motion picture]. Keko, Endri (1951), Për paktin e paqes/Peace Pact, Tirana and Moscow: Albanian Committee of Arts and Culture and Central State Documentary Studio [motion picture]. Keko, Endri (1956), Pranvera e nëntë/The Ninth Spring, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Keko, Endri (1958), Dritë mbi Shqipëri/Light over Albania, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Keko, Endri and Ho Y Shen (1964), Krah për krah/Side by Side, Tirana and Beijing: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ and the Nation Studio of Chronicles and Documentaries of the People’s Republic of China [motion picture]. Keko, Xhanfise (1970), Tinguit dhe fehmijët/Sounds and Children, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Keko, Xhanf ise (1971), A, b, c…zh, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture].

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Keko, Xhanfise (1972), Kryengritje në pallat/Uprising in the Apartment Block, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Keko, Xhanfise (1973), Mimoza llastica/Spoiled Mimoza, Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Keko, Xhanfise (1975), Beni ecën vetë/Beni Walks on His Own, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Keko, Xhanf ise (1977), Tomka dhe shokët e tij/Tomka and His Friends, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Keko, Xhanfise (1978) Pas gjurmëve/On the Tracks, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Keko, Xhanf ise (1980), Partizani i vogel, Velo/Velo, the Little Partisan, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Keko, Xhanf ise (1981), Kur po xhirohej një film/When Shooting a Film, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Koçi, Famir and Elamur Koçi (1989), Lumi që nuk shteron/Ballad through Bullets, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Kopalin, Ilia (1948a), Kongresi i pare i PKSh/The First Congress of the Albanian Communist Party, Moscow and Tirana: Central State Documentary Studio and the Albanian Committee of Arts and Culture [motion picture]. Kopalin, Ilia (1948b), Shqipëria e re/New Albania, Moscow and Tirana: Central State Documentary Studio and the Albanian Committee of Arts and Culture [motion picture]. Kopalin, Ilia (1951), Për paktin e paqes/Peace Pact, Moscow and Tirana: Central State Documentary Studio and the Albanian Committee on Arts and Culture [motion picture]. Kopalin, Ilia and Endri Keko (1951), Miqësi e pathyeshëm/Unbreakable Friendship, Moscow: Central State Documentary Studio and the Albanian Committee on Arts and Culture [motion picture]. Kumbaro, Saimir (1978), Koncert në vitin 1936/Concert in the Year 1936 (1978), Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Kurdoherë krah për krah/Side by Side at Any Time (1966)‚Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Kusturica, Emir (1995), Podzemije/Underground, Belgrade, Berlin, Paris and Cologne: City 2000, Pandora Film, Novofilm [motion picture]. Leitão de Barros, José (1994), Inês de Castro, Lisbon: Faro Producciones Cinematográficas and Filmes Lumiar [motion picture]. Ljarja, Rikard (1979), Radiostacioni/Radio Station, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Makri, Eduart (1990), Shpella e piratëve/The Pirate Cave, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria a Re’ [motion picture].

Filmogr aphy

239

Manaki, Milton and Yanani Manaki (1905 or 1906), The Weavers aka Domestic Life with the Vlach Women in the Pindus, Monastir: Manaki Studio [motion picture]. Marston, Joshua (2011), The Forgiveness of Blood, New York: Joshua Marston Productions [motion picture]. Milkani, Piro (1969), Persë bie kjo daulle/Why Is This Drum Beating?, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Milkani, Piro and Gëzim Erebara (1967), Ngadhnjim mbi vdekjen/Victory over death (1967) Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria të re’ [motion picture]. Milkani, Piro and Kujtim Çashku (1979), Ballë për ball/Face to Face, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipria e Re’ [motion picture]. Milkani, Piro and Eno Milkani (2008), Trishtimi i zonjës Shnajder/The Sadness of Mrs. Schneider/Smutek pani Snajdrové, Prague and Tirana: Studio Fáma 92 [motion picture]. Mik në Berlin/Guest in Berlin (1957), Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Mone, Mihallaq (1942), Bijtë e shqipes së Skendebeut/I figli dell’ aquila di Scanderbeg/ The Eagle Sons of Scanderbeg, Tirana: Tomorri Film [motion picture]. Mone, Mihallaq (1943), Takim në liqen/Meeting at the Lake, Tirana: Tomorri Film [lost motion picture]. Muçaj, Ibrahim and Kristaq (1978), Nusja dhe shtetrrethimi/The Bride and the Curfew, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Muçaj, Ibrahim and Kristaq Mitro (1976), Dimri i fundit/The Final Winter, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Musliu, Esat (1987), Rrethii i kujtseës/The Circle of Memory, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Musliu, Esat (1990), Vitet e pritjes/The Years of Waiting, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Peixoto, Mário (1931), Limite, Rio de Janeiro: Mário Peixoto [motion picture]. Petrović, Aleksander (1967), Skupljači perja/I’ve Even Met Happy Gypsies, Belgrade: Avala Film [motion picture]. Prifti, Vladimir (1975a), Alexandër Moisiu, Tirana: Radio Televizioni Shqiptar. Prifti, Vladimir (1975b), Gjenerali i ushtrise së vdekur/The General of the Dead Army, Tirana: Radiotelevizioni Shqiptar [television series]. Prifti, Vladimir (1978), Udha e shkonjave/The Path of Letters, Tirana: Radiotelevizioni Shqiptar. Pyryev, Ivan (1949), Kubanskie kazaki/Cossacks of the Kuban, Moscow: Mosfilm [motion picture]. Ranga, Dana (1997), East Side Story. Paris and Cologne: Anda Films, Canal+, and WDR, [motion picture]. Reddition de Scutari (1913), Paris: Pathé [motion picture].

240 

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Resnais, Alain (1959), Hiroshima, mon amour, Paris: Argos Films [motion picture]., Brunello (1982), La voce/The Voice, Rome: Chiara Film Internazionali, Jadra Film, RAI [motion picture]. Salles, Walter (2001), Abril despedaçado/Behind the Sun, Rio de Janeiro: VideoFilmes [motion picture]. Salles, Walter (2004), The Motorcycle Diaries, Buenos Aires: BD Cine [motion picture]. Seiler, Lewis (1942), Pittsburgh, Los Angeles: Charles K Feldman Group [motion picture]. Shanaj, Mevlan (2003), Lule të kuqe, lule të zeza/Black Flowers, Tirana: Zig-zag Film [motion picture]. Shanaj, Mevlan (2017), Koha e pelikulës: Xhanfise Keko/Xhanfise Keko: A Woman Director in the Age of Celluloid, Tirana: Zig Zag Film [motion picture]. Shqipnika në rrugën e lirisë/Albania on the Way to Freedom (1948), Tirana: Ndërmarrja Kinematigrafike [motion picture]. Stratobërdha, Viktor (1955a), Pushime të gezuara/Happy Vacation, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Stratobërdha, Viktor (1955b), Urime shokë student/Congratuations, Comrade Students, Tirana: Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re’ [motion picture]. Tovoli, Luciano (1983), Il generale dell’arnata morta/The General of the Dead Army, Paris and Rome: Films 66, Antea [motion picture]. Vizita e delegacionit qeveritar shqiptar në Bullgari/Visit of the Albania Delegation to Bulgaria (1958): Sofia and Tirana: Fonatsia [motion picture]. Yutkevich, Sergei (1953), Luftëtari i madh i Shqipërisë Skënderbeu/The Great Warrior Scanderbeg, Moscow and Tirana: Mosfilm and Kinostudio ‘Shqipëria e Re [motion picture]. The film was remastered and redubbed in 2012 at Digitalb and Bunker Film of Tirana, under the direction of Piro Milkani and Eno Milkani.

Index Abbott, George 148-149 The Pyjama Game 148-149 Aimée, Anouk 199 Albania Adult literacy 169 Arts 32-34 cinema, nationalization of 72 cinema, postcommunism 211, 214 Communist Party 68, 74, 78 corruption 41, 190, 191, 194 COVID-19 19 Cultural Revolution 141-142, 171 early cinema (traveling circuses, circuit) 51 earthquake (2019) 19 economic policy 164 education 94, 96, 118-121, 127-128, 169 emigration 41, 211-218 feudalism 26 film industry, socialist 71 foreign images of 58-64 Greater Albania 48, 49 health care 115 independence 35, 48, 50, 169 international relations in late communist period 211 Islam 22, 23, 26 isolationis 9, 20, 26, 27-29, 191, 192 mafia 20, modern medicine 97-99 National Historical Museum 32-33 Peoples’ Republic of 71 postcoloniamism 22, 35 postcommunism 23 pyramid (ponzi) schemes 11 Rilindja 24 self-reliance 164 student movement 192-193 telephone connections to 10, 28 totalitarianism 20, 25-26 tourism 10, 19, 26, 27 tribalism 23, 24, 26 Albania ribelle 60 Albanian Central State Film Archive 12, 78, 95, 161, 162, 179 Identification of central themes of Albanian cinema 39 Albanian Cinema Project 37, 4, 62, 146, 166, 179 Albanian film-makers, education in the Soviet Union and the Eastern Bloc 37, 38, 80-82, 97, 125, 139 Albanian language 10, 24, 30-31, 34, 66, 119, 183, 199, 212 Albanian National Film Festival 62

Alexandrov, Grigori 89, 101-102, 131 Shining Path, The 101-102 Volga-Volga 75 Ali Pasha 11, 20, 26 Alia, Rami 34, 41, 84, 87, 89, 192 Amis belges en Albanie, Les/Belgian Friends in Albania 115 Anagnosti, Dhimitër 37, 39, 107, 111, 124-125, 127-128, 129, 134-139, 147, 253-258, 194, 198 Duel i heshtur/The Silent Duel 39,111, 129, 134-139, 147 Komisari i dritës/The Commissary of Light 39, 127-128 Kthimi i ushtrisë së vdekur/The Return of the Dead Army 41, 194 Lulëkuqet mbi mure/Red Poppies on the Wall 39-40, 124-125, 153-158 Plagë të vjetra/Old Wounds 111 Anagnosti, Roza 128, 200 Angelopoulos, Theo 56 Ulysses’ Gaze 56 Antoniu, Angeliki 12 Antoniu, Kristaq 65, 68 Apponyi de Nagyappony, Géraldine Margit Virginia Olga 27 Arab states 115 Arbana, Reshat 136 Arberësh 199, 212 Arirang performance 67 Australia 213 Austria-Hungary 22, 23 Aznavour, Charles 20 Balkans 20-22, 48, 58 Cinema 22 Hollywood mystique 22 Nationalism 21-22 Balkan Wars 21 Balzac, Honoré de 114 Basha, 89 Beethoven, Ludwig von 179 Begeja, Liria 195 Avril brisé/Broken April 195 Loin des barbares 195 Rendez-vous à Tirana/Rendezvous in Tirana 195 Belgian Communist Party 115-116 Belushi, James 49, 50 Belushi, John 50 Benjamin, Walter 186 Bergen, Candice 118 biografie 187 Bisha, Besnik 213 Bland, Bill 29 blood killings 195, 196

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Albanian Cinema through the Fall of Communism

Bondinaku, Ylli 212 Borgnine, Ernest 120 Bostan, Elisabeta 114 Boyleson, Helen Doyle 27 Brazil 195 Brecht, Bertolt 168 Brunhes, Jean 59 bucolic imagery 102, 121-122, 126, 150-153 Bulgaria 115 Bulku, Rajmonda 195, 216 bunkerisation 164 Buñuel, Luis 89 Byron, Lord 20, 26 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage 26 Cage, John 166 Callas, Maria 120 Cangongji, Elida 144 Cannes Film Festival 89 Çapaliku, Stefan 126 Capra Frank 146 It’s a Wonderful Life 146 Çarka, Mihal 81 Çashku, Eol 58-60 Albanie 1912 58-60 Çashku, Kujtim 10, 12, 40-41, 50-51, 114, 161, 164, 166, 177-189, 197-198 Humanitarianism 198 Ballë për ballë/Face to Face 40-41, 161, 177-187, 194 Colonele Bunker 164, 198 Dora e ngrohte /The Warm Hand 41, 167, 187-188 Shoket/Comrades 166 Syri magjik 198 Të Paftuarit/The Uninvited 35, 39, 40, 194-198 Çashku, Nora Shaba 114 Çeli, Viktor 117-118 Bekim Fehmiu në Shqipëri/Bekim Fehmiu in Albania 117-118 Centro Sperimentali di Cinematografia 65 Chechnya 92 Chekhov, Anton 185 Chen He 129-130 Black and White Film in the City 129-130 Chen Yi 117 Chernovolenko, Georgi 86 child spy films 35, 39, 40, 108, 111, 121-125, 153-158, 168-170 children’s films 111, 161, 162, 168-180 China, People’s Republic of and Albanian films 20, 39, 88, 107, 109, 111-112, 120, 122,127, 128-130 breach with 40, 120, 161 162, 109, 110, 111 Cultural Revolution 25, 26, 39, 88, 107 fashion trends in 129 gender erasure 129 friendship with Albania 39, 107, 108, 109, 110-111, 115, 116, 117, 129-131

Chinese language 109 Chinese National Studies of Documentaries and Chronicle 116 Chopin, Fréderic 184 Christie, Agatha 22 Murder on the Orient Express 22 Cinecittà 68 comedy 146 communism, fall in Europe 192 Congress of Lushnja 175 Congress Monastir 47 cooperative far 93-95, 99-102, 147 Corfu Channel incident 27-28, 134, 135, 136, 137 Croati 49 Czechoslovakia 24, 97, 99, 114, 115, 184, 204, 205 invasion of 74, 204, 205 de Niro, Robert 111 Denver, John 214, 216 Dhamo, Kristaq 11, 83, 92, 99-103, 103, 108, 115, 121, 122, 125, 150-151 Brazdat/Furrows 122, 150-151 Detyrë e posaçme/Special Task 108, 111, 125 Furtuna/The Storm 102-103, 110-111, 121 Ne u dashuruam me Shqipërine/We Fell in Love with Albania 11 Tana 11, 38, 83, 92, 99-102, 103, 109, 110-111, 121, 125, 150, 151 Vitet e para/The First Years 111, 125, 126 di Havilland, Oliva 120 Dietrich, Marlene 142 documentary films 37, 38, 39, 71,72, 76-80, 92-97, 108, 115-121 Doda, Pjetër Llesh 144 Donen, Stanley 148-149 The Pyjama Gam 148-149 Dosti, Rose 9 Albania: Prison Nation—1943-1990 9 Lost Voices Making History: Albania—1843-1991 9 Dovzhenko, Alexander 94, 151 Zemlya/Earth 151 Durham, Edith 26-27 High Albaniai 26 Twenty Years of Balkan Tang 27 Dushku, Eliza 49 Eisenstein, Sergei 101, 184 ¡Que viva México! 184 Elezi, Iris 31, 201 Bota 31, 201 Erebara, Gëzim 19, 39, 108, 111, 115, 129-134 Ne u dashuruam me Shqipërine/We Fell in Love with Albania 115 Ngadhjim mbi vdekjen/Victory over Death 30, 108, 111, 129-134

243

Index

FAMU 97, 99, 184 fantasy 41, 192 Fascist 25, 26, 27, 35, 38, 64, 65-67, 68, 78, 79, 102, 121, 153-158, 161, 175-177, 197, 199, 215 Fehmiu, Bekim 117-118 Feijo, Muharrem 39, 146-150, 153 Kapedani/The Captain 39, 146-150, 153 Ferri, Xhevdet 215, 217 Festivali Folklorist 1949/Folkslore Festival 1949 80 film noir 136, 165 Flloko, Timo 154, 196 France 31 Frashëri, Naim (actor) 84, 87, 88, 98, 99 Frashëri, Naim (poet) 94, 164 French Communist Party 31 ties with Albania 31 disillusionment with the Soviet Union 31 Frost, Robert 27 Furxhi, Vangjush 195

Håstad, Elsa 32 Ho Y Shen, Krah për krah/Side by Side 116 Hollywood, 216-217 Hoshafi, Fehmi 39, 146-150, 153 Kapedani/TheCaptain 39 146-150, 153 Hoxha, Enve 9, 20, 25, 27, 29, 31, 35, 38, 72, 73, 77, 78, 79, 80, 83, 93, 96, 107-108, 112, 115, 117, 161, 162, 164, 179, 193, 201, 204, 212, 219 and the arts 35, 72, 107-108, 112-114, 164-165 and the cinema 72, 164-165 cult of personality 74 death of 4-11, 161, 162, 190, 191, 192, 204 foreign influences 113-114 French education 31, 80, 212 Khrushchev, with at the Kremlin 174, 180 pseudonym Lulo Malësori 31 speeches 32 Hoxha, Nexhmije 212 Hungary 24, 114 Hunyadi, John 89

Gagarin, Yuri 92 German Democratic Republic 115 Germany 212 Gerri, Rozeta 216 Giffoni Film Festival 111, 162 Gilbert, Lewis 117-118 Girard, Gérard 31 Gish, Lillian 48 Gjika, Viktor 39, 107, 111, 118, 125, 139-146, 147, 166, 175-177 Gjeneral Gramofoni/General Gramophone 40, 174, 175-177 Komisari i dritës/The Commissary of Light 39 Horizontë të hapura/Clear Horizons 39, 111, 139-143, 147 Komisari i dritës/Commisary of Light, The 127 Nëntori i dyte/The Second November 40, 166 Rrugë të bardha/White Roads 39, 144-146 teti në bronx, I/The Eighth in Bronx 111, 128-129 Gjoka, Aleksandër 193 Godard, Jean-Luc 31 Bande à part 31 Grameno, Mihal 102 Greece 91 Greenham Common 205 Groupe de Travail sur le Cinéma Albanais 3132, 113 Guevara, Che 195

Idromeno, Kol 51-52 Imami, Besa 84, 94 intellectual property 162 International Human Rights Film Festival Albania 198 ‘Internationale’ 116 Istituto Luce 64-65 Italian Language 212 Italy 22, 23-24, 26, 38, 43, 65, 137, 153-158, 175-177, 197, 199, 212, 213

Hakani, Hysen 38, 39, 97-99, 108, 111, 121-126, 156 DEBATIK 39, 97, 108, 111, 121-125, 156 Fëmijet e saj/Her Children 38, 97-99 Oshëtime në bregdet/Echoes on the Coas 127 Toka jonë 108, 111, 125-126

Jakova, Kolë 125 Jakova, Prenkë 116 Jani, Nano 81 jazz 214, 215 Jorgaqi, Nasho 168 Kadare, Ismail 41, 177, 178, 191, 195, 198, 199 Dasma/The Wedding 178 Dimri i madh/The Great Winter 177 General of the Dead Army 198 Persë bie kjo daulle?/Whu Is This Drum Beating? 177 Soviet education of 178 Kahn, Albert 58-60 Kanun 195, 196, 197 Kapexhiu, Bujar 136 Kasa, Vladimir 114 Keko, Endri 37, 38, 72, 80, 81, 92-95, 97,109, 116-117, 118, 127 Drite mbi Shqipëri/Light over Albania 97, 127 Krah për krah/Side by Side 116-117 Letër nga fshati/Letter from the Village 93-94 Miqësi e pathyeshëm/Unbreakable Friendship 92-93 Pranvëra e nënte/The Ninth Spring 94-95

244 

Albanian Cinema through the Fall of Communism

Keko, Xhanfise (Çipi) 12, 35, 37, 40, 81, 82, 83, 96, 108, 111, 118-121, 124-125, 148, 156, 161, 162, 168-173, 206 A, b, c…zh 119-121 Beni ecën vetë/Beni Walks on His Own 96, 168 Kryengritje në pallat/Uprising in the Apartment Bloc 118, 148, 206 Kur po xhirojej një film/While Shooting a Film 171-173 Mimoza llastica/Mimoza the Brat 111 Partizani i vogel, Velo/Velo, the Little Partisan 169-170, 171 Pas gjurmëve/On the Tracks 40, 169 Tinguit dhe fëmijet/Sounds and Children 118-121 Tomka dhe shoqët e tij/Tomka and His Friends 40, 121, 124-125, 168-170, 172 Khorava, Akaki 86, 87, 88 Khrushchev, Nikit 25, 73, 74, 110, 179, 180 Kinostudio 11, 12, 34, 35, 37, 38, 42, 72, 83, 84, 92, 99, 102, 108, 112-114, 116, 117, 142, 158, 161-162, 166, 169, 174, 190-191, 194-195, 203, 204-209, 214, 219 1977 manifesto 107, 112-113 aesthetics of 113 building, modelled off of the Cathedral of Vilnius 83 censorship 142, 191, 192, 219 closure of 11-12, 41, 219 ideology of 12-113, 208-209 themes 114, 158, 161, 162, 164-167, 188, 191-192, 208-209 training of film professionals 114-115 Kissinger, Henry 110 Koçi, Fatmir 213, 219 Tirana viti zero/Tirana Year Zero 213, 219 Koçi, Mandi 77 Komandanti viziton Shipërinë e mesme e të jugut 77 Kokëdhima, Persefori 130-131 Kongresi i pare/The First Congress of the Albanian Communist Party 78 Konitza, Fai 64 Kopalin, Ilia 89, 92 Për paktin e paqes/Peace Pact 92 Korea, North 67, 111-112, 116 Kote, Spiro 134 Kumbaro, Salim 40 Koncert në vitin 1936/Concert in 1936 173-176, 177 Kume, Eglantina 130, 133, 135 Kurdoherë krah për krah/Side by Side at Any Time 117 Kurti, Tinka 99, 101 Kusturica, Emir 21 Podzemlja/Underground 21 Lako, Bujar 175, 199 Lako, Natasha 12

Lako, Natasha (as screenwriter) 170 Lama, Vasjan 207 Lane, Rose Wilder 27 Peaks of Shala 27 Travels with Zenobia: Paris t o Albania by Model T Fore 27 Language and the cinema 48 League of Nations 24 League of Prizren 24, 47 Le Galliene, Eva 27 Léon, Auguste 59, 128, 132, 135, 138, 144, 146 Ljarja, Marjeta 203, 206 Ljarja, Rikard 128, 135, 138, 144, 146 Logoreci, Marie 84, 87, 98, 125 Logoreci, Thomas 31, 201 Bota 201 Luarasi, Edi 131, 133 Luca Caragiale Institute 114, 201 Luchko, Klara 89 Luka, Ndrek 135 Mahler, Gustav 200 Makavejev, Dušan 22 Makoçi, Matilda 201 Makri, Edouard 41, 191, 206-208 Spella e pirateve/Pirate Cave, The 41, 191, 206-208 Manaki brothers 52-57 ethnicity 52-56 The Weavers 54-57 Manaki, Milton 52-53 March of Time, ‘Albania’s King Zog’ 62-63 Mao Zedong 25, 109, 110, 115 Maoism 31, 107, 108 Marston, Joshua 12 Marubi Academy of Film and Multimedia/ Akademia e Filmit dhe Multimedias Marubi 12, 50-51 Marubi dynasty 49-50, 52 Marubi, Gegë 50, 52 Marubi, Kel 49-50, 51 Marubi, Pietro 49, 50 Mastroianni, Marcelo 199 Mendeleev, Dmitri 167 Melville, Jean-Pierre 165 Mercouri, Melina 53 Mészaros, Márta 182 Utinapló/Travel Diary 182 Meta, Rexh 27 Mik në Berlin 87-88, 184 Milkani, Piro 39, 87-88, 111, 118, 129-134, 161, 178, 184 Ballë për ballë/Face to Face 40, 161 Ngadhjim mbi vdekjen/Victory over Death 39, 108, 111, 129-134 Persë bie kjo daulle?/Whi Is This Drum Beating? 178 Trishtimi i zonjës Schnaider/The Sadness of Mrs. Schneuder 184

245

Index

Mitro, Kristaq 151-152, 153, 165 Dimri i fundit/The Final Winter 151-152, 153, 165 Nusja dhe sthetrrethemi/The Bride and the Curfew 165 Moffo, Anna 120 Moisiu, Alexander 116 Mone, Mihallaq 64-68, 97 Figli del aqula di Scanderbeg/The EagleSons of Scanderbeg 65-66 Takim në liqen/Meeting at the Lake 67-68 Montand, Yves 31 Montenegro 59-60 Mosfilm 72, 90, 102 Mosho, Genci 172 Mother Teresa 48, 49 Mulvey, Laura (visit to Albania) 29 Muçaj, Ibrahim 151-152, 153, 165 Dimri i fundit/The Final Winter 151-152, 142, 165 Nusja dhe shttrrethemi/The Bride and the Curfew 165 Mujo, Yllka, 207 music, Western 193 Musliu, Esat 41, 191, 203-206, 213-218 Rreth i kujtesës/The Circle of Memory 41, 191, 203-206 Vitet e pritjes/The Years of Waiting 41, 213-218 Mussolini, Benito 25, 65, 154 Naber, Johannes 12 Naipi, Bule 130-131 NATO 91 Nazi invasion 78, 102, 129-134, 151, 165, 170, 203-204 Ndërmarrja Kinematogtsgike, Albanian National Film Enterprise 78, 79-80, 83, 92 Nehrebecka, Anna 184 Near East Foundation 60-62 New Man of Communism 134, 139, 143, 144 New Man of Science 194, 204 New Zealand 28 New Zealand Communist Party 28 newsreels 37, 38, 71, 72, 76-08, 115 Nixon, Richard 27 North Macedonia 48 Onufri, Argitis 212 Orientalism 22 Orlova, Lyubov 89 Ostalgie 186 Ottoman Empire 23, 24, 26, 35, 38, 47, 50, 84, 91, 212 Ozerov, Yuri 102-103 partisan theme 102-103, 126-128, 129-134, 153-158, 161, 165, 104 Paskali, Odhise 32-34, 128

Pecani, Spantak 41, 114, 191, 201-203 Mos heshtësh/Speak Up 41, 191, 201-203 Peixoto, Mário 12, 195 Limite 12, 195 Petrović, Alexander 117 Skupliači perja/I Even Met Happy Gypsies 117 photography 49-52 Picoli, Michel 199 ping-pong diplomacy 89 pop-rock 193 Prifti, George , footage of Albania to raise money for the Red Cross 62, 68, 69 Prifti, Vladimir 199 psychological thriller 41, 191, 203 Pyryev, Ivan 101, 148 Kubanski kazaki 148 Qëndrimi i delegacionit shqiptar në Moske 88 Qinami, Manushaqe 174, 176 Qirjaqi, Agim 203 Qirjo, Piro 198 Qytetit Stalin 69 radio, clandestine 212 Radio Tirana 29-30 Radio Televizione Shqiptar 41 Radoja, Guljelm 175, 199 Rama, Edi 19 Rand, Ayn 27 Ranga, Dana 20, 148 Redittion de Scutari/The Siege of Shkodr 60 Reka, Adem 139 Resnais, Alain 200 Hiroshima, mon amour 100 Rich, Steve 110, 114 Roosevelt, Franklin Delano 75 Rubirosa, Porfirio 17-118 Rudi, Gëzim, 201 Russia 21-22 and the Balkans 21 pan-Slavicism 21-22 Russian language 83, 109 110, 180 Rychman, Ladislav 141 Dama na klejich/Lady on the Tracks 141 Said, Edward 21 Salles, Walter 195 Abril despedaçado/Behind the Sun 195 Motorcycle Diaries195 Sartre, Jean-Paul 31 Sazan Base 91 Schaeffer, Pierre 66 Scott, Randolph 142 Seiler, Lewis 142 Pittsburg 142 Shanaj, Mevlan 12, 112, 128, 213, 219 Lule të kuqe, lule të zeza, Black Flowers 213, 219

246 

Albanian Cinema through the Fall of Communism

Sheju, Mehmet 80, 108 Shqipnija në rrugën e lirisë/Albania on the Road to Freedom 78 Signoret, Simone 31 Sigurimi 10-11, 144, 164 socialist realism 83, 91, 99-102, 108, 113, 121-122, 139-141 Sokokov, Semyan 86 Sokoli, Merita 68 Soviet Union 23, 24, 25, 26, 80, 90, 91, 94 breach with Albania 37, 39, 107, 108, 109, 110 Central State Documentary Studio 77, 78, 92 Cinema 72, 75, 111 co-production with Albana 336, 72 Crimea 85-86 educational exchanges with Albania 82 friendship with Albania 94, 38, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 78, 79, 82, 93, 101-102, 115 Georgia 86 Stalin, Jozef 25, 38, 72, 73,77, 78, 86, 91, 93, 111, 112 and the cinema 72, 75 Stalinism 35, 73, 77, 91, 180 Stalinist cinema 101, 145 Stewart, John Henry 27 Stratobërdha, Vikto 38, 72, 80, 87, 95-97 Imprisonment 97 Pusjtime të gezuara/Happy Vacation 95-96 Urime shokë student/Congratulations, Comrade Students 96 Sweden 31, 32 left-wing 32 ties with Albani 31, 32 Sy Sy 116 Tarkovski, Andrei 145 Tashko-Toço, Tefta 174 Taylor, Elliott 60-62 Taylor, June 29-30 Taylor, Ronald 29 Tchaikovsky, Pyotor Ilyich 181 Queen of Spades 81 Țepeș, Vlad 22 three prominences 111 Three World Theory 110 thriller 61 Tito, Josip Broz 21, 25, 73, 85 Tollko, Koço 91 Tomorri Society 65 Tourneur, Jacques 22 The Cat People 22 Tovoli, Luciano 199 Il generale del’armata morta 199 Truman, Harry S. 27 Turkey 90, 91 Tushe, Jorgaq 114

United Kingdom 26, 134, 136 Albania Society 29 Communist Party of Great Britai 29 diplomatic ties with Albani 27-28 United States of America 9, 27, 30, 37, 38, 86, 117, 213, 216, 217, 218, 219 Defense Language Institute 9, 30 diplomatic ties with Albania 27 poverty 217 University of Tirana 114-115 Valentino, Rudolf 217 Vertinski, Aleksander 86 VGIK (Gerasimov Institute of Cinematography) 87, 182 Vietnam 111-112 Visit of the Delegation of Albania to Moscow 78 Vlora War 175 Vygotsky Lev 120, 172 Wagner, Richard 135, 196, 197, 205 Warsaw Pact 37, 39, 71, 74, 103, 107, 109, 115 Wayne, John 142 Welles, Orson 13 Citizen Kane 13 Wilder, Laura Ingalls 27 Winters, Shelley 89 Wollen, Peter, visit to Albania 29 women in the partisan movement 129-134, 151-152, 165 women in the workplace 141-142, 146-150, 171-173 women’s issues in the cinema 129-134, 141, 146-150, 151-152, 161, 205 Xhaçka, Viktori 68 Xiao Jiang, 130 Electric Shadows 130 Xhepa, Margarita 174, 176, 215 Xhuvani, Gjergj 139 Xhuvani, Luiza 204 Young, Leigh Taylor 120 Young Pioneers 95-96, 169 Yugoslavia 21, 23, 25, 73, 77, 78, 86, 91, 110, 117-118, 144 Yutkevich, Sergei 38, 84-92, 102, 103, 161 Luftëtari i madh Shqipërise Skënderbeg/The Great Warrior Skenderbeg 38, 84-99, 102, 103, 161 2012 remastering of film 87-88 Zaharjan, Haig 166 Zeka, Luoigjima 123 Zeni, Shpetim 122, 124 Zhou Enlai 117 Zog I of Albania 27, 35, 62-63, 64, 195, 196 Zoraqi, Nikolla 135