In today’s landscape of media manipulation, storytelling, whether through films or other forms of communication, has become a common field of ideological influence. Even film festivals that are promoted as politically progressive can (at times unknowingly) disseminate various types of propaganda. Recently, films shown at festivals in Australia have caused controversy among the Ukrainian and Georgian diasporas. The Antique (2024), a film by Rusudan Glurjidze, and Russians at War (2024), by Anastasia Trofimova, were accused of promoting pro-Kremlin narratives. These films serve as examples of how cinema can distort sensitive topics of war and displacement while simultaneously claiming to offer critical reflection. They also raise complex questions of epistemic violence that arise when contemporary digital storytelling reaches global audiences who may not understand the nuance of localised political struggles.¹

The most contentious of the two films is Russians at War, a documentary by Anastasia Trofimova that was shown at the Antenna Documentary Film Festival in Sydney. Trofimova’s documentary presents a morally ambiguous view of the war between Russia and Ukraine as it prefaces a human story about Russian soldiers and their emotional struggles during the conflict.

Trofimova’s appearance on Tell Gordeeva, a YouTube program hosted by Russian independent journalist Ekaterina Gordeeva, reveals her motivations. She begins by referencing her work in Iraq, Syria, and Congo. But she also asks that her location during the interview remain undisclosed, claiming she received threats after the film’s release.²

The controversy intensifies when Gordeeva asks how she entered Russian-occupied Ukrainian territory. Trofimova tells a vague story: she started by filming protests in Moscow, then met a man dressed as Ded Moroz (Russian Santa), who turned out to be a soldier named Ilya from Donetsk. He allegedly helped her reach the front.³ She claims this was done without the Russian government's knowledge, and that she entered the occupied zone independently.

This is difficult to believe. Despite her claims of concern for the Russian soldiers’ safety, their faces are not blurred, their units are identified, and their locations are disclosed. Gordeeva questions her about this, particularly about a scene showing a soldier constructing a drone. ‘Did you consider this drone might be used to kill someone?’ she asks. Then Gordeeva continues that ‘the film does not depict what the drone does’. Trofimova responds that she ‘did not have those shots’, but admits she does understand the drone’s purpose. Gordeeva points out that the drone is being used to kill people, ‘and perhaps peaceful civilians’. Trofimova rejects this: ‘No, there were no civilians there on that line of contact’. When asked if she collaborated with people from the other side of the front, Ukrainians, Trofimova gives no meaningful answer.

Gordeeva asks further: ‘Do you consider the heroes of your film war criminals?’ Trofimova replies, ‘war criminals are those who commit war crimes.’ When asked whether invading another country and killing civilians constitutes a war crime, she insists the battalion she filmed did not commit any, ‘at least from what I saw’.

As the interview continues, Trofimova repeatedly justifies Russian war crimes by portraying soldiers as passive victims. She references negative reviews at the Toronto Film Festival and criticism from the Ukrainian embassy, but dismisses them by claiming her critics hadn’t seen the film. When Gordeeva asks if the film’s message is that these are ‘good guys in a bad situation’, Trofimova answers, 'It depends on how you feel’.

There is no mention of Bucha.⁴ No displaced Ukrainians. No confrontation with the reality that these soldiers were part of an invading force. Trofimova consistently redirects moral attention from the victims to the supposed psychological pain of the perpetrators.

Why does this matter in Australia? Because in a media landscape already overwhelmed by disinformation, documentaries are often seen as comparatively reliable sources of knowledge. Russians at War exploits this trust. For Australian viewers, many of whom understand these conflicts through mediated content, the risk is real. Films like these reshape the aggressor as a misunderstood victim and reposition the audience accordingly.

Antique and Russians at War are films that do not show an act of neutral witnessing, but rather a clear political project, for international film festivals. Those films demand a deeper reflection. What happens when empathy becomes a tool of ideological manipulation? In times of war, the ethics of representation are not optional. They are crucial.

While Russians at War employs documentary storytelling The Antique shown at Europa! Europa! Film Festival in Melbourne in February 2025 turns to the narrative form of the feature film. The film is based on the real events of the mass deportation of thousands of Georgian citizens from Russia in 2006, which followed the arrest of four Russian officers in Georgia on espionage charges.⁵ While Russian authorities claimed their actions were part of a crackdown on illegal migration.

Holly Cartner, Director for Europe and Central Asia at Human Rights Watch, stated:

‘The Russian authorities claim that the expulsions weren’t targeting Georgians but were part of the renewed fight against illegal migration. But this was a coordinated campaign orchestrated at senior levels of government that singled out Georgians for a specific period.’⁶

However, in the film, the reason behind the deportations is not addressed or even mentioned. Instead, the plot revolves around a young Georgian immigrant, Medea, and an elderly Russian man, Vadim, with whom she shares an apartment in St. Petersburg. Medea’s boyfriend, Lado, smuggles antique furniture from Georgia to Russia. Medea purchases the apartment on the condition that Vadim remains living there. During the deportations, Lado is arrested and deported.

Though the film appears to critique Putin’s regime, its quiet and humanised way of narrating the tragedy fails to hold anyone accountable. As someone who lived through the deportations at the age of eighteen, I initially failed to comprehend the scale of what had occurred. Only later did I begin to understand the dehumanising practices at play, how Georgian nationals were not only expelled, but made to feel as if their existence was disposable.

The Antique presents themes of human dignity and identity in a “forgiving” tone. Georgian filmmakers and emigrants who criticised the film’s political stance pointed out the dangerous message it conveys citing that,

'The Antique perpetuates subtle but clear propaganda that aligns with Russian interests. While it may seem innocuous, the film echoes harmful rhetoric that supports a regime responsible for immense suffering in Georgia and the region.’⁷

Furthermore, the concerns were raised about the composition of the festival’s selection jury, which included figures such as Zaza Shatirishvili, an academic whose commentary has been criticised for reflecting pro-Russian narratives.⁸

While the film refers to the deportation of Georgian immigrants, this is only addressed in the film’s final moments. In an interview with Variety, Glurjidze speaks of the censorship and suppression she faced from Russian-linked institutions. She recounts attempts to block the film at the Venice Film Festival, where it was eventually pulled due to a copyright dispute, an act she claims is part of a broader effort to silence her. She argues that The Antique is a victim of censorship ‘in the middle of Europe’.⁹

But the question remains: Why are pro-governmental entities involved in its selection? Although Georgian independent cinema has been a target of severe censorship due to the reorganisation of the Ministry of Culture by the current government, Glurjidze’s film manages to reach out to the international festival, not without the involvement of governmental structures.¹⁰ In an open petition to Europa! Europa! Film Festival, members of the Georgian diaspora described the film as backing Kremlin-aligned narratives.¹¹ For an Australian viewer unfamiliar with Russia’s discriminatory policies towards Georgian citizens, the absence of clear political framing creates an interpretive gap that is hard to bridge, even with the film’s sentimentality.

For me it is difficult to view the story of thousands of people wiped away in a day through the prism of Glurjidze’s “humor”.¹² In Georgia today, the anticipation of fear has become a psychological condition, and the anxiety is a coping mechanism for life under a de facto government’s pro-Kremlin policies.¹³ On a societal level, this has created deep moral wounds. Films like The Antique contribute to the erosion of reason and historical awareness. By presenting the deportations as random and faceless, the film reinstates a colonial condition, where injustice becomes unquestioned. Filmmakers like Glurjidze, who prioritise professional comfort by collaborating with state-approved narratives, contribute to erasing the dignity of those who experienced displacement. The Antique does not show both sides. It does not aim to communicate trauma either. Instead, it dismisses the historical reasons for the deportations and in the process erases the lived faces of its victims.

What unites Russians at War and The Antique is their ability to covertly act as propaganda. Shrouded by sentimentality, ambiguity, and a humanising lens, the films redirect attention away from historical and ongoing forms of violence. They take the advantage of the cultural legitimacy of progressive film festivals, which shape international discourse and unwittingly become a vehicle for propaganda.

As seen through the examples of these films, contemporary digital storytelling can obscure as much as it reveals. When distributed for international audiences unfamiliar with the complexities of post-Soviet geopolitics, such films can contribute to a subtle but powerful form of epistemic violence. In this sense, The Antique and Russians at War demonstrates how media manipulation does not always take the form of overt propaganda it can also be incorporated in narrative structure and institutional validation. In today’s media environment, where people rely on film and digital platforms to understand distant conflicts, the ethics of representation really matter. These films remind us that propaganda doesn’t have to be loud or obvious. Sometimes, it hides behind aesthetics, emotion, and the institutions that help it travel.