The relationship between the United States and Russia is tenuous at best. Between potentially tampering with the 2016 election to threats of war, the two superpowers are constantly at odds with each other and have been for decades. It has become white noise, a buzzing in the background that we occasionally notice when it gets suddenly loud. How can one begin to process something that feels so normal? It is through Egor Abramenko’s debut feature, Sputnik, a sci-fi body horror that interrogates heroism and national identity through the use of a rather adorable alien. In borrowing from sci-fi tropes of the past, Abramenko addresses the government’s manipulation of its people through propaganda, violence, and lies to the media.
The film begins in 1983 as two cosmonauts float above Earth’s atmosphere. The Cold War is on the horizon and the Soviet Union wants its citizens to feel nothing but hope. So these two heroes are in space, completing their duty and showing the world how powerful Russia is. However, things don’t go as planned. Their ship malfunctions, lights flash, and something comes back with them to Earth.
Only one of the cosmonauts, Konstantin Sergeyevich (Pyotr Fyodorov), survives the crash with a special visitor hitching a ride inside of his body. He remains under constant military guard, kept in a small prison where he eats, sleeps, and exercises. In an effort to separate the creature from the cosmonaut, Colonel Semiradow (Fedor Bondarchuk) brings in controversial psychiatrist Dr. Tatiana Klimova (Oksana Akinshina) to help. However, she slowly discovers that this is not a parasitic relationship; it is a symbiotic one.
A sense of duty and desire for heroism is imbued in every male character, with Semiradov repeatedly calling Sergeyevich a national hero and emphasizing that he needs to be saved because he is a figure of hope for the nation. This concept becomes intertwined with toxic masculinity as men continue to try to prove themselves through actions they’ve deemed brave. Tatiana then weaponizes their own patriotism, using it to manipulate the men around her to do their “duty.” This manipulation both empowers her and showcases the dangerously unwavering dedication these men have to their country. This dedication to one’s country is seen today not just in Russia, but in the United States, as many citizens will do anything to prove their love for a crumbling system.
Sputnik brings Russia’s transgressions to the forefront as news outlets are shown reporting false information about the crash to placate the masses. Abramenko is openly calling out Russia’s history of lying to its people in the name of control; it is not about what is best for Russia, but what is best for its leaders. This desire to maintain the government-sanctioned status quo again also ties this story to the United States in 2020. President Trump turns to Twitter to slander those who oppose him and spews lies to protect his idealized vision of himself, just like Putin in Russia. Both leaders, who have such disdain for one another, employ the same violent and manipulative tactics to exert control over their citizens. In relying on these tactics, the truth has lost all meaning.
While the narrative is focused on interrogating Russia’s relationship with national identity and obedience, it does so with its adorable alien, who becomes an empathetic figure rather than an antagonist. This long slug-like creature is not cute on first look, but it is imbued with a personality that is instantly charming. It looks with curiosity, not just rage. It vocalizes excitedly, like a cat chirping at a bird. Of course, it turns deadly, but that is not the extent of its personality. Sputnik’s alien lies between E.T. and a Xenomorph, not quite friendly but not quite evil either.
The symbiotic relationship between Sergeyevich and the parasite creates a strangely sweet dynamic between the two. As Sergeyevich looks at x-rays of the creature in his body, he does so with fondness, gently touching his chest as if caressing what rests under his skin. This is not the Xenomorph bursting from Kane’s chest in Alien, killing its host and leaving behind a trail of blood. Sputnik evokes something more complicated, a relationship wavering on the border of love and violence. Abramenko subverts the typical evil alien narrative and creates a special sci-fi tale that will make you fall in love with its creature while also being terrified of it.
Sputnik’s unfortunate flaw is in its last ten minutes, which tacks on unnecessary exposition and completely contradicts its message. It is too neat of a package and too saccharine, completely shifting the nihilistic and grim tone of the rest of the film. While the film often tries to forge its own path and avoid constant comparison to Alien, it ultimately falls into the cheesiest tropes of the sci-fi horror genre.
Despite its stumble at the finishing line, Sputnik remains an empathetic version of the parasitic alien story in a way that I could have never expected. It blends the cultural context of the 1980s Soviet Russia with an homage to alien movies of the past, creating something deeply affecting and fascinating about what it means to be a hero. In having the alien be more than just a murderous force, there is room to empathize with the unknown and expand what it means to be human. Sputnik is a confident debut from Abramenko, who demonstrates a mastery of the genre by paying homage to the sci-fi of the past while also creating something unique and breathtaking.
