One of the foundations of Belarusian cinema is feminism and women’s emancipation.

“Do you hear, Belarus? I believe there will be a free Belarus for workers and peasants!” — “We hear!” comes the reply.

Late socialist dystopian science fiction, beautiful and grim.

Teen rebellion during the rise of perestroika: a reflection on the nature of violence.

A forgotten educational retro-utopia from Alphamegacentauri.

Anarchistic subversive satire of the Belarusian regime and the liberal opposition.

A narrow contemplative connection between Belarusian cinema and Jean-Marie Straub.

Scarcity creates its own medium.

One of the most touching and poetic documentary essays on the Belarusian rebellion of 2020.

Possibly the most monumental film in the history of Belarusian cinema. An archive of mobile phone footage filmed and directed by the rebellion itself.

A subjective selection at the intersections of politics and aesthetics in Belarusian (film) history.

An anti-totalitarian fairy tale about how to become human—a true magic lantern.

A poetic and beautifully made film that could have marked the beginning of a great style in Belarusian cinema.

An example of a film that achieved wide audience success because it addressed a relevant social phenomenon—the migration of villagers to cities—and depicted familiar, relatable characters. A gradual, like the story itself, attempt of national self-determination.

A monumental attempt to adapt the American thriller genre to serve Soviet ideology. The concept of “prayers for peace, ” as described by screenwriter Ales Adamovich, failed. The lead actor became a fervent Russian militarist, and Belarus became an accomplice of Russia in its aggression against Ukraine.

Belarusian contribution to “perestroika”-era youth cinema, which also received a massive audience response. There haven’t been such times of freedom in Belarus since. Several generations have passed, but, just like the film’s protagonist, haven’t been able to formulate their life principles.

A poetic and harsh fairy tale that predicted the future of total lies, repression, and political murders in Belarus. But the audience remains hopeful.

Miniatures of post-war Belarus that exude the spirit of the times, with an iconic scene featuring Ukrainian anti-Soviet resistance fighters teaching a communist how to pray.

A very important film made shortly after Belarus gained independence, about the fate of a provincial poet, common for all Belarusian artists. The main character failed to conquer Moscow, but the actor who played him succeeded, although he ended up dying there.

The authors’ postmodernist game turned out to be the most accurate and sincere cinematic statement about modern Belarus. and a quote from the film—“Beavers are not slaves”—even became a slogan of people’s protests in Babruysk.

An outstanding attempt to view World War II from a Belarusian—and modern—perspective. Two theses from the film—“there are no Belarusians left” and “there is no Belarusian cinema”—are always a good reason to remember both.

Dating the history of Belarusian cinema back to the decree “On the Regulation of Cinema in the BSSR” issued by the Sovnarkom determines its fate as neo-Soviet. Therefore, the emergence of a national cinema remains a matter for the future.

A philosophical statement that not only reflects its time but also speaks in a visual language and raises themes that resonate even after 60 years. The film seems to invite us to delve into the depths of a nation’s memory.

A hyper-realistic, horrifying reminder of the cost of any war. “If we forget our past, we are doomed to relive it. ” A film that leaves a lasting impression after just one viewing.

Like a snapshot from a distant Polesian village, essential to understanding the Belarusian soul. An important poetic document reflecting the daily lives of many Belarusians.

These animated stories resemble a kaleidoscope or mosaic of Belarusian words and images, coming together into a warm, cozy tale filled with the ironic wisdom passed down through generations.

A film that will resonate with everyone. A philosophical contemplation filled with acceptance of the inevitability of death, yet full of desire to live. The film is overfilled with magic of space – in 50 minutes, you literally fall in love with the place that the characters and director immerse you in. A slow-paced film that gives plenty of time to notice details and ponder eternal existential themes.

A documentary that, besides showcasing the artistic phenomenon of communal services art, preserves the time before 2020 with its punitive censorship, unspoken rules of life in Belarus, and the thirst for freedom in an unfree country. Pure Art is a portrait of Minsk in the late 2010s, showing through the lens of contemporary art and artist Zahar Kudin how the state censors various expressions of people’s freedom, starting with what they see around them on the city streets.

A film where “nothing happens,” and that’s exactly what one likes about it.

A gem of “Belarusian cinema konchenyy,” directed by its leader. The film is convincing proof that adherents of the “idea over budget” film religion are right. Because you can indeed shoot a film on an iPhone, with a typical date as the plot—it’s all about how you do it and the meanings you put into it.
A Date in Minsk is a cinematic ride where every word and every glance carries weight. Entering the territory of single-shot filmmaking, Nikita Lavretski handles it convincingly. The combination of current themes with archival footage enhances the effect of authenticity. When you are presented with “evidence” of real-life stories discussed by the main characters Nikita and Volha (who, of course, are very aptly named after real people), it’s hard not to be filled with doubt: is it really all fiction, as the filmmaker claims in the opening title?
This is also an important cinematic reflection of the thoughts and experiences of young Belarusians in turbulent times.

A brilliant depiction of the consequences of propaganda, framed as a dialogue with its victims. Additionally, the film explores the culture of denunciations, which not only remained in the Soviet past but have become part of the present for Belarusians.

A monumental cinematic statement proving that Belarusian cinema has something to offer to European audiences. Speaking about Belarus, this film analyzes the post-Soviet condition from the perspective of youth and offers an original view on contemporary events.

If I had to show aliens 10 Belarusian films from the last 100 years to help them understand us, I would choose these. Balancing between fiction and documentary, I aimed to reflect both the “yesterday” and “today” of Belarusian cinema and Belarus itself: its unique traits, people, their outlook on life, the unique “Belarusian code,” and distinct cultural identity.
The traumatic experiences of the 20th century are processed into cinema by Elem Klimov in Come and See and Viktor Turov in Across the Cemetery. These films form the foundation of Belarusian cinema: painful stories that help understand the historical context and the fates of Belarusians of that time. We Are Living on the Edge by Viktor Asliuk, Summa by Andrei Kutsila, and Pure Art by Maksim Shved are about us today, our perception of the world around us. These directors guide us through spaces where life takes on a modest but very touching character.
Animation holds a special place in Belarusian cinema. Belarusian Proverbs by Mikhail Tumelya is an example of how concise stories with imaginative animation can reflect the Belarusian character. Each plot is not just a fairy tale but a memory of how our grandparents’ words sound.
The Last Day of This Summer by Yulia Shatun and Nikita Alexandrov and A Date in Minsk by Nikita Lavretski reflect the voices of a new generation of Belarusian directors who boldly experiment with form and content. These sincere films reflect not only personal feelings but also the pulse of today’s life in Belarus. Current documentaries Everything Is Fine. I’m Sleeping by Olga Abramchik and Motherland by Hanna Badziaka and Alexander Mihalkovich can be considered chronicles of modern Belarusian history. They deeply illuminate societal issues and are powerful testimonies of our “today,” forever preserving a part of this era.
In the overall list, each film is a part of a large picture, where there is room for pain, irony, and hope. Watching them is like reading a history written not with ink but with light and shadows, in which Belarus lives, feels, remembers, and moves forward into “tomorrow.”

It’s better to vote for fiction films and documentaries separately.

A masterfully crafted psychological drama.

Excellent anti-Soviet retro.

An indisputable masterpiece.

A top shelf experimental release.

The best one about the traumatic summer of 2020.

A paragon of local indie – with all the consequences.

A perfect camp product – post-propaganda, almost-porn.

Pure poetry of the outskirts.

The folk universe in which one wants to stay.

The Belarusian cinema of tomorrow.

Everything’s in my latest writings.

This film was the final work of the renowned Belarusian filmmaker Igor Dobrolyubov, who, though born in Russia, deeply understood and embraced Belarusian identity, becoming “one of us. ” Released in 1994, the film proved prophetic, with its exploration of Belarusian culture and identity remaining relevant 30 years later.

Another film by one of the greatest Belarusian directors of the 20th century. It highlights the problems of urbanization and disconnection from roots through complex life experiences and love stories.

A classic of children’s cinema by a master of the genre.

A masterpiece by a master with outstanding direction.

A snapshot of Belarus transitioning into a new era.

An excellent adaptation of the classic Belarusian novel.

A well-made film tackling themes rarely explored in Belarusian cinema.

A touching film with very good performances.

A solid attempt at making an action film on a shoestring budget.

Although this series wasn’t filmed in Belarus, it is an absurd reflection of the post-2020 era in the country. We love this film for its humor and pain.

And all of Lavretski’s films too, of course!

Fearless, funny.

A vital film with people full of love.

Beautiful white snow, wonderfully shot long takes.

I had a day just like that.

Clearly. You can’t do without it. It’s great that it can still genuinely disturb viewers and run them out of the theatre.

It scared me a lot as a kid. The scene where the actors look at themselves, at their characters – pure genius!

Excellent pacing, blocking, and editing. Brilliant use of the Vorovayki band’s song.

My parents like it, so we watched it together.

I know it’s a series, but it’s funny, poignant, sad, and goes beyond all of that.

Brilliant poster!

Thank you for this poll.

My list reflects how I envision the qualities of Belarusian identity and the shelters under which Belarusians preserve themselves, in the order the films that are mentioned:
– Partisanship,
– Resilience,
– Allegory,
– Nobility,
– Tragic trauma,
– Homesickness,
– Search for meaning,
– Longing,
– Resentment caused by external circumstances hindering development,
– Overlapping cultures.

It’s very hard to choose just ten films. I think I even made a mistake in picking my favorites. But I made this list to show how diverse Belarusfilm can be.

I picked films from recent years, made by Belarusians about Belarus and in Belarus. I decided not to include films from the BSSR, as they feel more Soviet than Belarusian to me. The main criteria for my selection are sincerity, Belarusianness, and the ability to touch on the essence of human and societal life.

A captivating socialist realist fairy tale about female superheroism – so radical in its corporeality that it had to be released in the U.S. with cuts.

A magnificent and melancholic masterpiece of world -class modernist cinema about the quiet happiness of new life after the apocalypse.

The most important testament to the tragedy of a people, the gold standard of documentary filmmaking. A deafening island of absolute straightforwardness and humble truth in the midst of an ocean of ideological mythmaking.

An expressionist horror actioner based on said key testament to a people’s tragedy – an explosive combination unmatched in its direct impact in cinema history.

The gold standard of political video essay—measured, biased, and aesthetic. What if the only sensible explanation for recent Belarusian history is satanism and esotericism?

The Terminator 4 premake by teenagers from Kuntsevshchina is more interesting than the official Hollywood film, not just because of the personal traits, swagger, and circumstances of the Belarusian creators, but also for the surprising reason that, in terms of clarity, tension, and dynamism, Bazhko and Lyudchik’s action scenes are head and shoulders above McG’s.

A cinematic novel for the era of video diaries and ubiquitous live streams – a flawlessly precise parade of archetypes and interactions. Such a perfect hour -and-a-half snapshot of its time that even the director couldn’t replicate it.

Still the most accurate, unflinching, and heart-wrenching chronicle of the war in Ukraine—even though it was entirely shot in Brest as a supernatural horror about a pyrokinetic vlogger.

Vladimir Kozlov is a rare realist in Belarusian cinema. Not a socialist realist (a.k.a. a fabulist), not a political essayist (another fabulist), not an ethnographer (yet again, a fabulist), and not even a master of horror (still a fabulist). Summer of 1989 is a one-of-a-kind realistic chronicle of coming of age in the BSSR during the summer of 1989. Its magic lies in defying the pessimists’ expectations without resorting to dirty tricks, and ending like a fairy tale where nothing is lost, everything lies ahead, and hope endures.

A glimpse of the cinema of the future on a scorched retina: only low-resolution ruins remain of Minsk, where the dream is to sleep in a three pixels wide grave, and the nightmare is to touch the nuclear button from Half-Life. The most relevant Belarusian film.

I don’t believe in classics. I’ve chosen the films I actively engage with as an artist and thinker, the ones my work is in dialogue with. for me, the value of cinema lies not in smooth admiration, but in communication full of friction.

Because, in my opinion, it’s the best film about war.

A landmark film about life in Belarus.

for me, it’s the first war metaphor.

Because the film is filmed in a completely original way.

The ’80s are captured very accurately.

A stunning horror film, a rarity in our cinema.

A rather unusual story.

On par with Russian films of the era.

In my view, one of the best approaches to the material.

Of all the adaptations of this story I’ve seen, this one was the best.

if you look past the propaganda, you can see a Belarus that vanished after World War II.

There’s nothing Belarusian here except the Belgoskino title card at the start. Still, I included it because the film feels light and fun to watch now—and you can notice its irony about totalitarianism.

This film is probably the most important one for me. It’s not even about the war but about the unique trait of a Belarusian to remain a friend only to oneself, when the West and the East constantly interfere with their life.

It’s a shame that many people view this film through Karatkievich’s book. I see it as a standalone work, an auteur’s vision. Here, I think, you can sense a mysterious quality inherent in all things Belarusian—a kind of Belarusian mystique. It feels like something you can only experience, not explain.

When they were filming this movie, I wasn’t born yet. and when I arrived in Belarusian Polesie, I felt like I was in a living museum. for me, this film isn’t about the script or dramaturgy. I watch it as a documentary; it’s about what’s in between.

I was drawn to the film’s poetry.

Because it’s fun!You watch and can’t stop laughing:)

Because I had a hand in creating this film!It turned out beautiful, but as a movie, it didn’t quite work.

I remember being pleasantly surprised when I first watched this film. Not only because it was shot in one take—I just felt a sense of pride in Belarusian cinema after seeing it.

The film is made in a language I understand—the language of imagery. I also love when genres blend successfully, creating a new form. It’s a risky path for the author, but it worked here.

It’s great that you did this poll. I’d appreciate it if there’s a way to share the project Max and I created about the history of Belarusian cinema: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLn91hA55MuPyN6BbHgxgi_3YB22L3Cvc-

The best film by the founder of Belarusian cinema.

An imitation of both Dovzhenko and Rzheshevsky, but such a talented and inspired one!

The film that best captures the style of Vasil Bykaŭ’s prose.

The harmony of fairy-tale storytelling and stylized visual design.

The most flawless of the director’s war films.

Apart from everything else, it’s almost the only Belarusian film where the atmosphere of Polesie, as captured by Karatkievich, works perfectly.

There’s no denying it: the most crowd-pleasing film in Belarusian cinema.

Enough said.

The real interest lies in his television adaptations of classics (see: Fathers and Sons). And this one is the most original of them.

A film full of talent.

Unfortunately, a few films I’m interested in didn’t make it: May Night (1941), though made in Kyiv, is by [the Belarusian] Nikolai Sadkovich; The Clock Stopped at Midnight (1959) by Nikolai Figurovsky; among Rubinchik’s works, not only Organized Trip to the Theatre (1984) but also A Wreath of Sonnets (1977); and Oko za oko (2010) by Gennadi Poloka, which I think is greatly underrated. I debated for a long time about Turov—Across the Cemetery (1965) or I Come from My Childhood (1966). I chose the latter as it is more refined and complex. As for Eastern Corridor (1967), from the very first viewing, it striked me as overhyped—visually extravagant due to the randomness of its choices. Though, still, Vinogradov is certainly an interesting director.

My list isn’t exactly of the “best films,” but of the truly cult films of Belarusian cinema. These are the ones worth watching in order to understand what was happening in contemporary Belarusian independent filmmaking.

An unusual take on the occupation of Belarus. It was interesting to watch.

Atmospheric.

Fun.

Kind.

Progressive for its time.

Atmospheric.

Sincere.

Funny and tragic. Pleasant to watch thanks to good visuals.

Unusual.

Stylish.

Firstly, there are still many films I haven’t seen. Secondly, I approach films emotionally, so some decent ones are missing here because they didn’t resonate with me.

For me, this is the most powerful anti-war film I’ve ever seen.

Although the film is quite different from the book, its visual style is very interesting.

A very relevant work, even today, especially since the film was made at the Tatsiana film studio.

An excellent adaptation of the novel with outstanding cinematography.

A powerful study of the militaristic deadlock in which Belarusian society is stuck.

Yiddishland is the Belarusian Atlantis, even though the events of the film take place in Birobidzhan.

Not so much an anomaly, as some might think, but a natural culmination of the partisan theme, the kitchen debates of the ’60s artists, and a requiem for what’s forever lost.

The only avant-garde anarcho-musical in Belarusian cinema.

The main aesthete of Belarusian cinema acknowledges the limitations of art, imperfect like everything humans do, but then convincingly proves its necessity.

A brief journey through the Kafkaesque maze of bureaucratic thinking.

Zinaida Mozheiko’s films are one of the peaks of poetic cinema.

There is no Belarusian cinema.

A film that showed the “new independents” leveling up.

The tenderness and poetry of the Belarusian everyday.

A portrait of an artist that became a portrait of the country.

This was the first Belarusian film to be released in wide distribution that was also successful with audiences. It’s very feminist for its time. I first encountered it at a film lab, where we discussed whether the film could be considered feminist, and it was a revelation to me that something like this could be filmed in Belarus, a country that was under strict censorship for most of its history. However, the thaw of the late 1920s allowed such opportunities, though they were quickly shut down, and the film was shelved in 1937 for being “politically incorrect.”

Filmed guerilla-style, a truly underground Belarusian film of the 2000s, directed by a Moscow filmmaker but from a script by the Belarusian Lyokha Chykanas. A satire against both the government and the opposition, an icon of Belarusian anarchism (at least, that’s what the anarchists I know said). Cringeworthy in a good way, which is not so easy to achieve.

This is truly the film of my childhood, the plot of which I don’t remember well, but I remember what I felt while watching it. The little me loved it. White Dew was often shown on TV, and I would always run to watch it. Thinking about this film, images of the sofa, the telly in the corner of the room, and the delicious smell of fresh pies that I had just made with my grandma and put in the oven come to mind.

The most recognizable Belarusian film, which ranks high in global best-of lists. I would dare to criticize it a little, for example, for the plot that feels like a collection of unrelated stories forcibly connected to build the tension. Such events are unlikely to have happened in just two days; for me, it feels forced and creates a sense of fiction (it would be more plausible if it happened over a week or a month, for example). But despite that, the film accurately depicts the war as it is, with all the dirt, blood, and tears. This is very valuable, especially for our region, where war is romanticized from school. It’s particularly important to me that the script was written by Ales Adamovich, who truly understands the subject matter.

An ode to Belarusian psychopaths. A very hipster film that captures the era of “nepo babies” well. Yes, fashion in Belarus is unique, and our hipsters are unlike others. And of course, Lavretski’s charisma plays a key role in the film.

If I were asked to name a film that shows true Belarus, I would choose this one. Yulia has a talent for architectural shots, and this captures the atmosphere of the country perfectly. Tomorrow is the film that, 100 years from now, will show what Belarus was like and who lived there.

Although everyone loves Yuri’s other film Garbage Head for its many references to well-known directors, my favorite in Semashko’s filmography is Blood and Karaoke. Sad Belarusian humor as it is. I can easily imagine such a story actually happening somewhere in Serabranka. I found the ending to be really funny, which is a good mark.

I consider this one to be the best film about the 2020 protests in Belarus. It’s well-made, with classic, clear dramaturgy, and everything else in its place. Nothing to take away or add, as they say.

The film was made by [the Ukrainian] Sergei Loznitsa, who was simply born in Baranovichi, so the question arises whether he can really be considered a Belarusian director. And the film Portrait is about residents of Russian villages, not Belarusian ones. So why did I include it? Because I wanted to highlight this film as the one that’s valuable to me. It became an inspiration for my first film, and I used it to measure how comfortably a person can watch a film consisting of almost still images.

The only film Peleshyan made at Belarusfilm. A great example of how music and editing can create an entire logical story from abstract shots.

The films are listed in random order.

This is probably the first Belarusian neo-noir. The city, the characters, and the story are simultaneously from the ’90s Eastern Europe and some other dimension. The mix of everyday documentary-style elements – chases in Minsk, on location – and characters that feel straight out of the ’50s USA is mesmerizing.

I choose this film for its eclectic mix: agro-trash, krambambulia, Valadarka prison, paparazzi and groupies, airports and a global conspiracy. At the same time the psychedelic sequences are overrated.

A handcrafted wartime domestic partisan horror. In fact, these adjectives don’t really define the film; to me, it feels broader than any labels or attempts to pin it down.

This story and its mood are very close to me. Not only does the film capture (through its shooting style, music, locations, themes, and how the characters speak) its time and place (Minsk in the mid-2010s) well, it brilliantly takes you through this Minsk and absorbs you in it. From the first scenes on Kastryčnickaja Square and in the Tsentralny bar, where Lavretski’s character shows videos of destroyed buildings, through the walk from Lenin Street to Nyamiha and conversations about languages and other nonsense, to the early morning in the hilly yards of central Minsk by the Svisloch River, graffiti, dubstep, and a proposed fight that ends with sunrise – literally every moment of this film (even those in the apartment) is so saturated with its place and context that it’s captivating. I remember when I first saw the film in 2015, I was surprised by how badly it was shot and how “unprofessional” it seemed (I cringe at such wording now). But now I believe that it’s precisely this amateurishness and simplicity that make the film great.
I’m especially fond of Nikita’s character – a Minsker who is constantly arguing and doubting, who knows and feels the history of the place, and notices things that are not always obvious. At the same time, as an immigrant, I’m also interested in the other character who’s just returned to Minsk from America: when I return to Minsk myself, I think I’ll catch many parallels and similar feelings. The film is great, Minsk is great, dubstep lives on.

A few Belarusian students end up in a foreign, strange, and atypical city via different paths. Each of them experiences their own story of survival, maturity, struggle, and community. This film literally helped build the local Belarusian community at a certain moment in time and also reconsider the history of the city itself, which just a few years ago was in shocking decline.
Łódź is an empty canvas of a city that welcomes one to create, and each character in the film, as well as its makers, embody this in different ways. The film is about a time of difficult changes—both individual and collective—and it communicates this not with a serious and dull tone, but as if it’s something between cinema and TikTok. At least, that’s how viewers have described it several times.

A feeling of despair, claustrophobia, and confinement – not only in the endless Belarusian forest but also in history. Another wartime horror movie which is quite painful to watch.

For the incredible socio-political context and the voiceover.

A film made at the last possible moment. There are many stories of villages and towns displaced and contaminated by radiation after the 1986 tragedy. But sometimes it’s the opposite. This film depicts villages, hamlets, and areas where people have stayed on their land for decades, living and singing, despite the danger. The film turned out joyful, even though it was shot in the most chthonic places.

The most phenomenal leak of a film in our part of the world. The leak happened at the perfect moment and turned the film into a distinctive social phenomenon that resonated with the zeitgeist.

What’s most captivating in this film is watching the faces and the backdrop of Kamennaya Gorka. The film is as absurdist as it is naturalist. To me, it feels very necessary, artistically valuable, and unconventional for Belarusian cinema.

This list includes many films that I’ve 100% changed my opinion on. Many of them I strongly disliked on my first viewing. Some films didn’t cause any doubts, while others, on the contrary, were difficult to include in this list. I also tried to recall many of the Belarusian films I actively watched when I first started getting interested in cinema. I watched only a small portion of these films in theaters; most of them I saw and rewatched at home. If there were 15 or 20 spots, I would have included 15 or 20 more diverse works from different eras and based on different criteria, but in this selection, I relied primarily on my experience of watching and feeling these works.

The name of this director has been embedded in my mind since childhood as that of a master, which he truly is. Literature is Kolas and Kupala, cinema is Viktor Turov. And the film itself is a delicate, psychologically accurate, and, most importantly, genuine film about war and partisans. This is the kind of classic that no one ever forced me to love, which is why I love it.

Perhaps, it’s the same story as with Turov. I chose this film for essentially two reasons. First, the craftsmanship of director Ptashuk. He is like Ridley Scott: you may not like what he directs, but it’s impossible to deny that he’s a great director. And the second reason, probably, is that this is truly a talented adaptation of Bykaŭ without emotional excesses.

The gold of Belarusfilm, which could never be appreciated by all sorts of meaningless ideological departments.

Already a modern classic. An outstanding film that, like no other, destroys Soviet clichés and narratives.

I think this is our main political documentary.

Shatun is an incredibly talented director in general. But her Tomorrow is, for me, the quintessential example of our cinema: it’s unclear what incredible efforts bring it to life, but when it arrives, it does so with immense talent.

A fine feature film debut, which quickly became widely discussed and acclaimed.

I think if you want to introduce someone to Belarusian documentaries, start with Kutsila—everything he’s made. But I chose this particular film because it’s bold, vibrant, and truly moving. You can’t look away!

It’s not necessary to focus on just one film here, but I really love this one. Overall, Lavretski is someone who shows what true indie cinema is and why many lack the strength and will for it.

This one is very simple: in Belarusian, in Belarus, and for Belarusians.

It was challenging. I think my list turned out a bit too obvious, but it’s genuinely from the heart.

I took the liberty of narrowing the timeline of Belarusian cinema—I didn’t include films from the “new era” (after August 2020), excluded co-productions with Russia, and left out films where Belarus’ financial contribution isn’t significant.

A fiction feature film made outside the Belarusfilm system, showing that it is possible. Presented at Karlovy Vary, later released in several more countries. Although it told a story about the ’90s, it gave hope for the present.

A documentary film that premiered at Berlinale, becoming the main mirror of the 2020 protests from a fully-immersed-in-action perspective.

A film that won at the most prestigious documentary film festival, IDFA.

The film is a nominee for the European Film Academy Award and the winner of CPH:DOX.

A documentary from the Homyel prison, in which the filmmaker broke through seemingly impenetrable walls to show the world inside through a very touching and human lens. The film was released in theaters in Belarus, recognized at the Krakow Film Festival, screened at IDFA, and was Belarus’ Oscars contender.

To my shame, I’m not very well-versed in the history of Belarusian cinema. I hesitated for a long time, wondering if it was even worth expressing my opinion under such circumstances. How can you vote for the best when you haven’t seen everything? However, if you approach this voting not as a ranking but as a collective summation of achievements, a certain sum of views and perspectives that together fill this concept of “Belarusian cinema,” participation takes on a different meaning. It is in this way, as a collective painting rather than a comparison and selection of the best of the best, that I approached the task. From this position, I contribute to the portrait of our work with contemporary films that, in my view, broke through walls, moved boundaries, and brought Belarusian cinema to new positions within the international industry.

This film is included not for its extraordinary artistic quality, but simply because it is one of the first films made on the territory of present-day Belarus. Unfortunately, it is currently considered lost, and local researchers and film scholars will need to work in the archives of Lithuania, Poland, and Russia to find it, along with other pre-revolutionary films, or at least more information about them.

The first Soviet-era Belarusian film that laid the foundation for the myth of Belarusians as a “partisan nation.”

An example of captivating children’s cinema from the Stalin era.

One of the gems of poetic cinema from the “thaw” era, speaking of the war and Holocaust through visual language.

A compelling and highly atmospheric adaptation that isn’t afraid to differ from Uladzimir Karatkievich’s famous novel.

One of the best adaptations of the documentary prose by Nobel laureate Svetlana Alexievich.

A powerful TV film by Mikhail Ptashuk about reckoning with the Stalinist past, which remains endlessly relevant to this day.

A masterpiece of puppet animation, created during the challenging and inspiring period of the 1990s.

A daring example of deconstructing the myth of the “Partisanfilm” and Soviet war cinema.

A complex narrative about the principles of modern Belarusian existence.

The centenary of Belarusian cinema is an artificial and harmful celebration. It’s a fabricated ideological event, approved at the legislative level by the Lukashenko regime, aimed at tying Belarusian film culture to the colonial Soviet narrative. The message being: only with the Bolsheviks’ rise to power did Belarusians start making films, which were entirely state-controlled.
In reality, long before the October Revolution, during the times of the Russian Empire, film production already existed in what is now Belarus. Our compatriot enthusiasts, both in the country and abroad, were making films on their own initiative. For example, Richard Stremer made documentary films in Belarus, which he screened in his own cinema in Minsk. There were other creators whose stories will one day be written by national film researchers. Therefore, to claim that we are celebrating the anniversary of national cinema this year is to deny the legacy of pre-revolutionary creators and to acknowledge that Belarusian cinema is younger and more controlled than it actually is. I hope that in a truly democratic Belarus, this celebration will be reconsidered, and with the help of film scholars, we will have a different chronology of our national film culture.
Nevertheless, the celebration itself is a good opportunity to draw attention to worthy films that most Belarusians have forgotten or didn’t know existed. This is why I made my list, which has no hierarchy, only a chronological order, with the aim of encouraging everyone interested in it to explore the national culture more closely.

For its visual style (European iconographic tradition, color choices, design, cinematic techniques). The most non-Soviet fairy tale; an anti-totalitarian artistic statement, relevant at all times.

For its genre uniqueness (historical thriller with horror elements) and cinematic choices used to create the film’s mystical atmosphere and historical context; the acting; Evgeniy Glebov’s music; Rubinchik’s direction. An adaptation of one of the most popular and significant works in Belarusian culture by Uladzimir Karatkievich.

A thaw-era look at war with excellent direction by Turov, script by Shpalikov, music by Glebov and Vysotsky, and a strong ensemble cast.

For Ptashuk’s direction, the acting, the image and portrayal of Stepanida. One of the best adaptations of Vasil Bykaŭ, an existential drama about individual choice in hopeless circumstances.

One of the best fairy tale films in the musical genre, a classic children’s movie that hasn’t lost its relevance. For the excellent cast and performances; the lyrics by Entin and Okudzhava; the music by Aleksey Rybnikov; the visual style (the theatrical “reality” of the fairy tale).

One of the first Belarusian films. For the relevance of its themes in the context of the Soviet 1920s (the issue of the causes and ways to eliminate prostitution); its narrative structure (three storylines); genre convergence (melodrama, educational film, animation in the lecture episode).

For the wonderful direction, very refined visual choices (including iconographic references to Chagall and other artists); the image of George Sand.

An experimental montage film that highlights the unique style of Vinogradov and his film Eastern Corridor. One of the best examples of Belarusian video art from the 1990s.

The only feature fiction film about Belarusian everyday life under political repression after 2020. For the auteur direction by Maria Tamkovich, the acting, and the visual approach.

A feminist perspective on the anthropology of Belarusian everyday life in the 1990s. For the direction by Darya Zhuk, the film’s sound design, and visual approach.

One of the best films about World War II to ever have been made in general.

I could have selected many other “partisan” films, and/or other films by Turov, but his graduation film is often quite unusual and fresh in its filmic approach.

This “anti-partisan” film was, I think, quite revolutionary at the time it came out. It tries to contradict all the myths about Soviet heroism, and to subvert the genre with its rough video aesthetics and use of language.

The “Jewish revolutionary film” as a genre never really came to blossom in the USSR, because both antisemitism and Stalinist anti-cosmopolitanism later suppressed it. The film is obviously made for propaganda purposes, but it has an energy and a short effective script, which I really like.

This collective documentary presents a devastating portrait of the Soviet Union in collapse, from a feminist point of view. Raw, horrifying, powerful. One of the most important films to come out of the so-called “Post-Soviet” region.

This poppy Belarusian-American co-production is quite unique within the Belarusian filmic landscape. It is a cheerful coming-of-age hipster comedy that consciously plays with all possible post-Soviet clichés. The Olivier-salad-in-the-kitchen montage, set to the 1990s house music, is an ironic spectacle of rhythm and color.

We can argue about whether the Soviet solidarity with Patrice Lumumba was something that was genuinely shared by all citizens, but Lumumba’s short-lived presidency and consequent assassination did truly inspire artists. Black Sun, a Belarusfilm production, is a little naive sometimes, but it is a good film about an imaginary African country ruled by colonial powers and its idealistic opposition leader that leads a revolt and pays for it with his life. The film starts in black-and-white and ends in color, the cinematography is quite striking in general.

This wild compilation documentary is made by a Russian director, but the producer is from Belarus – which is why I count it here. I think every viewer sees this film differently. It is a wacky adventurous Jackass-like spectacle, a horror freak show, a sociological study of Russian society or a philosophical film. Or all at once. The editing is spectacular.

A lot of Lavretski’s films contain elements of self-portraits and move on the border between documentary and fiction. He tends to do this in an unapologetic and cocky way. This seems to be his way to carve out a piece of freedom for himself and his work in contemporary Belarus. I very much respect that.

A very touching portrait of the mass protests against Lukashenko’s election fraud in 2020. I still can’t understand how the cinematographers managed to capture such aesthetic images in the middle of turmoil. An inspiring film that traveled far and wide and made many people worldwide aware of the peaceful mass protests in Belarus.

The films are listed in random order.

An iconic film, whose music, like a hidden door behind a canvas, unexpectedly transports you to a carefree summer at your grandmother’s in Baranovichi when you were eight.

The highest-grossing film made at Belarusfilm in 100 years.

My favourite film among those made by my teacher.

A global must-see, made in Belarus.

My favorite film among those I worked on.

The best Belarusian television series from the titan of documentary cinema [Viktar Dashuk] and the Nobel laureate [Svetlana Alexievich].

A nice and amusing film, but the main thing is that it features my favorite city, Hrodna.

Let’s include something odd.

How could we do without this kitsch?

This is how I imagine a classic Belarusian documentary: deeply important for the world and crucial for understanding why we Belarusians are the way we are; tragic, with legendary protagonists. And also one that most people haven’t seen and won’t watch.

One hundred years—we’re just getting started!

Equally impactful on the visual, intellectual, and emotional levels.

Almost the best adaptation of the main Belarusian writer.

A film that’s part stand-up, part podcast, part dilemma – 2021.

Belarusian dilemma – 2016.

Belarusian dilemma – 2020.

The poll didn’t have the “one director – one film” rule, I imposed that limit myself—this way it looks more diverse, with both my favorite childhood film and recognized global classics, as well as the “Belarusian new wave” getting included. In fact, I could have made a list only with films by Lavretski, Shatun, and Kutsila—they chronicled the 2010s-2020s, capturing the nerve, despair, hope, and dilemmas that eternally arise and change: money or talent, fear or conscience, leave or stay. Maybe it’s because I haven’t watched that much Belarusian cinema. So I’ll read other lists and try to fill this gap in the next ten years. Honorary mentions: Plumbum, or The Dangerous Game (Vadim Abdrashitov, 1986)—one of the best films from the brilliant duo, which, as it happens, was shot in Minsk, The Ascent (Larisa Shapitska, 1977)—the very best adaptation of the main Belarusian writer.

I think there’s no need to explain why, in this case. It’s obvious. Any attempt to explain—or to stay silent—would reveal clichés alongside a deep urge to say whatever, because the film managed to convey something beyond words. and it’s not just for me or within our local historical context; the film is known and acclaimed internationally.

The film hasn’t lost its relevance and seems unlikely to for a long time. According to one of the characters, our armored train hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s waiting on a side track. Its dark silhouette will continue to stand there, in our history, until the symbolic act of condemning the former torturers happens.

for the film’s tragic fate.

Also for the sake of historical justice.

Simply because it seems to be the most watched film in the history of Belarusian cinema (over 40 million viewers).

A small masterpiece. I hope Yuri will reach a great one too.

A list of the best films would be incomplete without this unique auteur.

Probably my most subjective pick. This was our childhood Tarantino, the thing we admired while living in a utopia where secret doors to a murky world didn’t seem too enticing. Such was our world, reflected in the theater hall, with the jarring contrast of dreamlike fantasy against harsh reality stripped of makeup and props.

Thank you for the opportunity to make a selection, though it’s unfortunately based on a rather modest number of Belarusian films I’ve seen. for instance, I haven’t had the chance to watch Paluyan’s Courage or many other works by contemporary filmmakers. So I’d refrain from creating my own best-of list. Best of luck!

An exemplary silent film showcasing innovations of the Soviet avant-garde.

The liberated language of the thaw, still fresh today. Turov’s best film alongside Across the Cemetery.

A labyrinthine partisan gothic—sharp, piercing, and jittery.

The pinnacle of Belarusian children’s cinema.

An unexpected formalist experiment that invites reflection and continuation.

The most Belarusian film by the master of chic form, Valeri Rubinchik. It regularly and deservedly appears on lists of world cinema horrors and finds fans all over the globe.

The scariest war film. Hypercinema as an embodiment of hyperliterature, discovered and recorded by Belarusian authors. Probably the most famous Belarusian film.

A landmark film in Belarusian cinema, bold, energetic, and vital.

A gentle documentary masterpiece along with another film by Victor Asliuk, We Are Living on the Edge (2002).

Animation as the art of the impossible, taking on both cosmic and archaic forms at once.

The list is, unfortunately, limited. It doesn’t include films from the 1930s with avant-garde elements (Woman’s World, The Court Must Proceed), Chronotop experiments, Leonid Nechaev’s musicals (The Adventures of Buratino), works by Viktar Dashuk, the film On Black Slash-and-Burn Fields, Aliaksei Paluyan’s films (Lake of Happiness), The Alienated Motherland, as well as many documentary, animated, and experimental films worthy of a prominent place in the history of Belarusian cinema.

The first true thaw-era Belarusian Soviet film about the war, where the heroic Stalinist myth is deconstructed. In its place are the everyday realities of occupation and partisan life, as well as the problem of humanism in wartime. Excellent cinematography and complex editing with symbolic shots.

The most famous drama of the Perestroika era from Belarusfilm, the all-time top-grosser of the Belarusian box office. A powerful social statement tied to the Belarusian provinces.

The best Soviet Belarusian film addressing de-Stalinization and reflecting on the “Soviet man.” Outstanding performances. Popular during Perestroika—widespread audience feedback.

A rare Soviet Belarusian film with a “dual addressee”—a children’s fairy tale with an anti-totalitarian subtext and the first appearance on the Belarusian screen of images from pre-Russian history and (fairy-tale) references to the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. Today, it has a therapeutic effect.

One of the most faithful adaptations of the text and philosophy of Vasil Bykaŭ, in which for the first time on screen, the trauma of collectivization is linked with the life in an occupied village. Outstanding performances.

The long-awaited adaptation of Uladzimir Karatkievich’s popular novella, which drew crowds to Belarusian cinemas. As a result, it became the most controversial film by Belarusfilm, ranging in genre from horror to philosophical parable. The atmosphere of fragility, decline, and melancholy of Belarusian life is well captured.

An adaptation of Vasil Bykaŭ’s novella, where the official partisan myth is fully deconstructed. Excellent cinematography, complex characters, and an intricately constructed conflict.

The first independent Belarusian film that was both popular and socially reflective at the same time.

An independent film by a Belarusian director that, under different political conditions, could have sparked public discussion and been a topic for high school essays.

The best example of Belarusian low-budget art cinema—with a very cohesive message and an accurate depiction of Belarusian everyday life. Excellent cinematography.

A fiction film representing Belarus during its division into Western and Soviet parts. An example of directorial mastery within the context of 1920s cinema, where the plot unfolds through expressive visuals and montage. The central image of the film is a Belarusian gymnasium, and its symbol—the Pahonia coat of arms—a quiet (mute) call for Belarusian self-determination. Contemporary critics deemed the film “politically harmful.”

The first full-length fiction film of independent Belarusian cinema. It’s a clear subversion of the Soviet cliche of the “partisan republic” in the form of a grotesque depiction of the “partisan land.” Both in form and meaning (with an outstanding script by Aleksandr Kachan), the film approaches a parable about the stalled Belarusian Chronos.

A fiction film based on the eponymous novella by Vasil Bykaŭ, where for the first time in official Soviet Belarusian cinema, the basic concept of “unwavering military heroism” is broken through a conflict of conscience and guilt.

An existential documentary following a “man-provider” in the hellishly beautiful Salihorsk mine.

A curious feature based on Vyacheslav Adamchik’s eponymous novel, embodying the “code of absence” of a Belarusian: existential muteness, fear of identification. This film faced significant production challenges. According to Valeri Rybarev, upon its submission to the State Film Committee of the USSR (Moscow), the then-chairman, Filip Yarmash, stormed out of the screening, slamming the door. Since then, the historical context has changed radically several times, revealing new sides to The Alienated Homeland, a characteristic of a great artistic work.

A live action film with animated inserts. The narrative feels woven from the hero’s emotions, strangely blending the precision of historical reconstruction (reminiscent of Aleksey German) with the magic of sensory memories (similar to Fellini’s Amarcord). This experiment remains unique both for animator-director Igor Volchek and for Belarusian live action cinema as a whole.

A short (six-minute) animated film in which a miniature epic unfolds (phenomenally). The cinematic novel is “written” via song and Belarusian vycinanka art.

A prophetic documentary. A touching tale of coexisting contrasts, about how the past captures the future, and how the present is torn with dreams brutally clashing against reality.

A hybrid feature film where “strange” dramatic images and sketches of our “nonexistence,” i.e., current domestic life, are ironically intertwined.

A very rare Belarusian musical film that enjoyed long-term success with Soviet audiences.

If the final list is going to be based on the number of mentions, then 10 films from each participant is too few: it would be better to double the spots with such freedom of choice. Otherwise, there’s a big chance of ending up with a “club version” of the best Belarusian films of the last 100 years. And secondly, isn’t it time to move away from the state version of the anniversary of, actually, Belarusian film production, rather than Belarusian cinema itself? Perhaps it makes sense to start the count from the first fiction film?

An impressive blend of tragedy, lyricism, and realism.

A new breath in Belarusian cinema, a new approach to the war theme.

For the courage to speak when everyone is silent, for the poetry of cinematic language.

For the magic and lyricism.

For the love of the history of the homeland.

For depicting the fate of a woman in war.

For the attempt to invent a new cinematic language and new meanings.

For the combination of a traditional theme and a new cinematic language.

For preserving memory.

For depicting Belarusian life.