Vladimir pozner
Russian-American journalist and presenter
In 1962, Benny Goodman’s orchestra toured the Soviet Union for the first time. By that time, you had already been living in the USSR for 10 years. When such iconic American jazz arrived, what did you feel at those concerts? Nostalgia? Joy? Bittersweet sadness? Could you describe your emotions?
In 1962, it was indeed 10 years since I had first arrived in the Soviet Union. By that time, I terribly missed the United States. It wasn’t just longing—it was a deep yearning. The first time I felt it wasn’t in 1962 but back in 1957, during the World Festival of Youth and Students in Moscow. There was an American delegation—not even a delegation, really, more like a group. They couldn’t even agree among themselves whether or not to carry the American flag. But they were a large group, and I found myself among them. That’s when I realized: these are my people. They are from my home. It didn’t matter if I agreed with them or not—they felt familiar, comprehensible, and deeply connected to me.
When I learned that Benny Goodman was coming to the USSR, I experienced a mix of emotions. I had been passionate about jazz since childhood. In New York, we had a housekeeper, Julia Barents, an African American woman whom I adored. She used to take me to her home on weekends when I was 9, 10, 11 years old, and my parents didn’t mind. Julia had seven sons, all jazz musicians. Thanks to her, I got to see people like Charlie Parker live before they became widely known.
I loved jazz passionately and had an extensive collection, which I still have. But to me, jazz was black music. I was skeptical about white jazz musicians. Benny Goodman was white, and I always found his music too smooth, too polished, and lacking in raw energy. If I had been in New York, I probably wouldn’t have gone to a Benny Goodman concert. But in the USSR, where I had been essentially trapped for 10 years, unable to travel, his arrival was different. Of course, I did everything I could to attend his concert in Moscow.
At the concert, I cried. It reminded me of everything—home, my past. My reaction was completely different from that of other Soviet attendees. For them, Benny Goodman was a legend, the "King of Swing," and they enjoyed the concert immensely. But they didn’t experience the same deep emotional turmoil I felt. They had grown up in the Soviet Union; their perspective was entirely different.
It’s hard to describe my feelings—joy, sorrow, longing. I knew I would never be allowed to leave. I would never return to my beloved New York. For me, Benny Goodman’s arrival wasn’t about jazz. It was about something much deeper. To this day, I’m indifferent to Goodman’s music as jazz—there’s no swing in it. But for me, his visit felt like a homecoming. My emotions were complex.
Did you try to go backstage and speak with Benny Goodman or his musicians?
In 1962, I wasn’t well-known. I worked for Novosti Press Agency, specifically for a journal directed at the United States called Soviet Life, which was published as part of a cultural exchange for the American magazine America. I was the managing editor. But that didn’t mean anything. I wasn’t recognizable, and there was no way for me to get backstage. Who would let me in?
And even if I had tried, what would I have said? I thought about it and realized I had nothing to say. So, no, I didn’t attempt it.
At the same time, the Cuban Missile Crisis was unfolding. As someone with a deep connection to both cultures, how did you feel about this conflict between two nations on the brink of nuclear war?
Since I worked in foreign policy propaganda, the Cuban Missile Crisis directly affected me—not as an ordinary person following the news, but as part of my professional responsibilities. At that time, I was very pro-Soviet. When Khrushchev came to power and initiated the 20th Congress, denouncing Stalin’s cult of personality and rehabilitating many innocent people, I believed in the possibility of normalizing relations between the USSR and the US.
I also understood that the placement of Soviet missiles in Cuba was a response to American missiles in Turkey, right on the Soviet border. Politically, I sided with the USSR. But as the crisis escalated, it became clear that a military conflict was possible. That’s when it became difficult for me.
Did you feel a personal conflict, torn between your heart and your reason?
Yes, in a way. For instance, when the US and Soviet basketball teams played, I always rooted for the US. My heart was there, even though my mind sided with the USSR.
As for Kennedy, I understood him well. He was an Irish Catholic, a man who, once he made a decision, would see it through. When he said he would sink Soviet ships if they didn’t turn back, it wasn’t an empty threat. He would have done it, and that would have meant war. Thank God Khrushchev had the sense—or perhaps his advisors did—to back down.
In the end, both sides handled it wisely. The Americans quietly removed their missiles from Turkey without making a public spectacle of it.
Were you scared during the Cuban Missile Crisis?
I’m trying to recall my feelings at the time when it seemed like war could break out any moment. Strangely, I didn’t feel fear. I felt frustration—anger at the recklessness of it all. But mostly, I felt sadness for my two-year-old daughter, who might never see the world. Fear? No, I can’t explain why, but I didn’t feel it.
Was it because of youth?
You could say that, yes—maybe it was youth. But you know, even now, I don’t feel fear. Maybe it’s old age. But honestly, that’s not what I’m afraid of. I have other fears, but not this one. What I did feel was frustration. I kept thinking, “What a foolishness! Don’t you see where this is leading? Where are our leaders who are supposed to be wise?” That feeling of indignation, yes, I definitely had that.
And then, we must keep in mind that despite the "Thaw" and some degree of liberalization, mass media in the Soviet Union was still completely controlled by the Communist Party. Fully. Not like today. Today, people say, "There’s no true freedom of the press." I don’t know about true freedom, but today there’s opposition press, opposition television in Russia. Back then, there wasn’t even a hint of such a thing. People received very filtered information. This sense of danger wasn’t widely communicated. Of course, those who listened to foreign broadcasts—Voice of America, BBC in Russian, and so on—they probably felt differently. There were many of them. By my estimate, about 40 million people regularly listened to those broadcasts from abroad. But out of a population of 250 million, that’s 40. The other 210 million didn’t listen.
Maybe, in a way, that was a good thing—they weren’t frightened. For instance, in America, children were taught to hide under desks in case of nuclear war (though hiding under desks wouldn’t help much). In the Soviet Union, there was no such thing at all. So, in this sense, fear didn’t exist.
Your friends must have seen you as a bit of an American. How did they talk to you about the crisis? What kind of conversations did you have in private settings? How did those around you perceive the situation?
It’s an odd story. You see, when I came to the Soviet Union, I had this dream of being Russian. That’s how my father raised me—I was proud to be Russian, even though I didn’t speak Russian as a child. Not a word. I only started learning the language when I was 16 or 17. After we moved, I wanted to assimilate completely. I didn’t want anyone to say, “Hmm, you’re not one of us. Hmm, you’re an American, or something else.” I worked hard for years to blend in. You hear how I speak Russian—no one would say I’m an American or anything like that. But deep inside, a person knows who they are.
I always understood that I wasn’t Russian, no matter how hard I tried. It’s neither good nor bad—it just is. Of course, those who knew me well treated me kindly, many with great affection. But they still saw me as an American—or perhaps a Frenchman or something—not one of theirs. Not Soviet, not Russian.
So naturally, they talked to me about relations with the United States, including the Cuban Missile Crisis, assuming that because I was American, I must have all the answers. But how could I know? Just as they didn’t know what Khrushchev or the Politburo were thinking, I didn’t know what was happening in the White House. Still, they saw me as an authority figure.
When it came to general questions about America, I could share a lot. But regarding the crisis, I wasn’t informed. My American experience didn’t give me any special insight into the situation.
Did you go to the Benny Goodman concert with friends, family, or someone else? What was it like?
By the time Benny Goodman and his orchestra arrived, I was already married. I got tickets to his concert thanks to my mother-in-law, Zara Levina. She was a well-known Soviet composer, a member of the Union of Composers, and had connections. Many tickets were distributed through the Union to musicians and others. So, I went with my wife—just the two of us—and the tickets came from my mother-in-law.
How did your wife feel about jazz? Did she enjoy the concert, or was she more skeptical?
My wife, Valentina Nikolaevna Chemberdji, grew up in a very musical environment. Her mother and father were composers. She knew Prokofiev and Shostakovich and lived in a circle of musicians. She’s still a very musical person to this day. Although she’s no longer my wife, we remain close friends.
She loved jazz, but where could one hear real American jazz in the Soviet Union? Sure, there were great musicians in the USSR, but jazz is fundamentally American. It’s like saying "Russian jazz"—I laugh at the idea. It’s like calling pelmeni "American dumplings." You can make them in America, maybe even very well, but they don’t become American.
The jazz that was known in the Soviet Union included musicians like Alexander Tsfasman, who was an outstanding pianist and a wonderful musician. In the 1960s, jazz started to come out of the shadows a bit. Small cafes in Moscow, like “Blue Bird,” featured excellent musicians like Chizh, Gremine, and Lukyanov. Jazz was accessible, but records were hard to come by. People listened to Voice of America and Willis Conover’s Jazz Hour. My wife loved jazz, but she didn’t share my bias against white jazz musicians. She enjoyed Benny Goodman and was thrilled by the concert.
How did the audience react to the concert? Were they enthusiastic or cautious?
Benny Goodman’s concert was a strange, unexpected event for the Soviet Union. For some, attending was prestigious. Party officials and Soviet bigwigs, who understood nothing about jazz, sat there with stiff or confused expressions.
Others, true jazz enthusiasts who had dreamed of such a moment, were ecstatic. But many didn’t understand the culture of jazz. For instance, when a soloist plays an impressive part in jazz, it’s customary to applaud mid-performance. Soviet audiences, used to symphonic concerts, found this shocking and even rude. Some shushed others, saying, “How can you clap during the music? It’s uncultured!”
Jazz concerts are fundamentally different from classical ones, but this event was arranged like a serious classical performance. The audience was very diverse, and the reactions were equally varied.
One of Muhammad’s lessons is this: “You must understand your enemy.” If I were to ask you, what did Americans fail to understand about the Soviet Union, and what did the Soviet Union fail to understand about America? What was essential in that conflict in terms of their mutual misunderstanding?
I think it’s critical to understand that the United States—what is it really? It’s people. The government of the United States is also people. And these people often had strange ideas about who the Russians were. It didn’t matter what the country was called—it could be the Russian Empire, the Soviet Union, or simply Russia. The idea of "Russians" was consistent: they were mysterious. Or, to be more precise, there was a specific set of stereotypes about Russians—they were unpredictable, exceptionally cold, and calculating. That’s why, according to this stereotype, they were good at chess. There were countless other strange and sometimes laughable notions. Any Russian or Soviet action was interpreted through these stereotypes.
Similarly, the views in Russia about the United States were often just as wild, though perhaps to a lesser degree. This may be because Russia is a European country and, like other European nations, has more historical experience and doesn’t see itself as “exceptional” in the same way Americans often view themselves—as a nation chosen by God for a special purpose.
This misunderstanding persists even today, but it started long ago. If you read American newspapers from the mid-19th century, like those from the 1830s or 1840s, as I have, you’ll find outrageous things written about Russia—truly unbelievable. And these ideas linger. In my opinion, this is a dangerous phenomenon because misunderstanding prevents people from interpreting the motives behind actions accurately.
For instance, in Russia, people lived under serfdom until the second half of the 19th century. These were not imported slaves, as in the United States, but their own people, and serfdom lasted for centuries. If you don’t consider how this shaped the psychology of the Russian people—how it fostered traits like irresponsibility, where the master was responsible for the serf’s actions—you can’t understand why certain behaviors persist. This mindset doesn’t disappear overnight. It takes time to overcome. But these critical aspects of Russian history are often overlooked.
Similarly, in Russia, there is little understanding of the United States as a country still divided between North and South. The Civil War of 1861–1865 continues to echo in American society. Understanding this historical context is crucial for interpreting how Americans react to certain situations.
If we look at modern Russia, I often tell Americans, “Do you realize that Russia is governed by Soviet people?” People over 40 or 50 who were born in the USSR, attended Soviet schools, joined the Young Pioneers, and later the Komsomol, and were even Party members—they are products of that system. The Soviet system is gone, but their mindset remains, and they’re trying to manage a new system with old ways of thinking. It’s not very effective.
On the other hand, today’s youth—those who are 15, 16, or 17 years old—are entirely different. They will eventually take power, barring a global catastrophe. Then, of course, Russia will change. But it won’t happen quickly; the older generation has to leave the stage. This lack of understanding on both sides plays a significant role during crises.
In 1962, What Did You Think About Freedom and Lack of Freedom?
At that time, I didn’t think much about concepts like freedom or lack of freedom. I grew up in America, and the word “freedom” was thrown around casually—like chewing gum, something easy to say but not deeply considered.
But an interesting thing happened. My aunt gave me a book by a Spanish writer who had fled Spain after the civil war, fought against the Nazis in France, survived a concentration camp, and wrote a book called The Long Journey.
In the book, there’s a passage where the protagonist, a resistance leader in France, is caught by the Germans and thrown into solitary confinement in a Gestapo prison. A German guard asks him, “Why are you here?” The man replies, “I am here because I am a free man.” The guard laughs and says, “That’s absurd. I’m the free one. I can finish my shift, return to the barracks, and live my life. You’re in prison.” But the protagonist responds, “You don’t understand. When you invaded my country, you represented a force that suppressed freedom. I could have stayed home, read the newspaper, drunk wine, and avoided risking my life. But as a free man, I had no choice but to resist. I am here because I am a free man.”
That passage made me think deeply. Freedom isn’t about doing whatever you want—it’s about responsibility. For instance, a U.S. Supreme Court justice in the 1930s famously said that freedom of speech doesn’t include the right to shout “fire” in a crowded theater. That’s an obvious limitation on freedom because such an action could cause chaos and harm.
In Russia, freedom is often understood as volya—a kind of anarchic willfulness: “I’ll do what I want and say what I want.” But that’s not freedom; it’s a slave mentality. True freedom involves responsibility. This story didn’t completely reshape my understanding of freedom, but it solidified my belief that freedom is fundamentally about responsibility—not just “I want” or “I don’t want,” but “I must.”
Is Russian Jazz Limited Because It’s Played by People Who Aren’t Free?
I’m not sure we can say that Russian jazz is fundamentally different because it’s played by people who aren’t free. Jazz, in my view, is an expression of freedom—improvisation, the ability to express your inner state. Only jazz offers this kind of freedom in music, where you’re not bound by strict notes, rhythms, or a conductor’s instructions.
Can someone who isn’t free—or doesn’t fully grasp freedom—play jazz? I think they can. After all, jazz was born out of the experience of slaves. It emerged from African Americans, many of whom were the children or grandchildren of slaves. And they played it beautifully. So, I think it’s an oversimplification to explain jazz performance solely through the lens of freedom or lack thereof.
It’s more about what’s in your blood. Nobody can sing like African Americans because it’s part of their heritage and inner being. Similarly, Georgian polyphonic singing is unparalleled because it’s deeply ingrained in their culture. Other nations can mimic it, but it’s never quite the same. The same goes for jazz—it’s in the blood.
Vladimir Vladimirovich, Does Today’s Russia–U.S. Standoff Resemble the Cuban Missile Crisis?
What’s happening today—and not just today, but for several years now—between Russia and the United States is fundamentally different from the Cuban Missile Crisis. These are entirely different situations with different causes. This isn’t an ideological confrontation. I would even say that Russia today doesn’t have an ideology at all.
This standoff has its own explanation, but it’s quite complex. I wouldn’t want to delve too deeply into it now; after all, this isn’t a political debate. But if I were to summarize, I would say this: it’s a confrontation between two powers with their own geopolitical interests. One of these powers essentially tells the other to “sit down and shut up.” It says, “You lost the Cold War, didn’t you? You’re no longer a great power. You’re secondary, irrelevant—stay quiet and don’t interfere.”
This perspective, this kind of policy, in my opinion, paved the way for the emergence of someone like Putin. When there was a window of opportunity—a chance to help Russia take a truly democratic path—it was missed. This could have been an investment, similar to the Marshall Plan after World War II, where money was poured into rebuilding Europe to prevent the resurgence of fascism and to halt the spread of communism in countries like France and Italy, which had strong communist parties at the time.
Had there been a deliberate effort to invest in Russia similarly, to ensure it moved towards democracy and eliminated any possibility of a return to Soviet-style governance, Russia today would be a completely different country. I am absolutely convinced of this.
Unfortunately, the sentiment seemed to be, “You scared us for almost forty years, and now it’s over. You lost, and we’ll make sure you regret it.” Initially, Russia had the desire to be accepted. The sentiment was, “Take us in! We’re with you; we’ve shed the Soviet past!” But instead, they were rebuffed and gradually started reflecting on this rejection. Feelings of inferiority began to grow: “They don’t respect us. They don’t care about us. They think they’re the only ones who matter, the only ones in charge.”
Against this backdrop, a government like today’s in Russia emerged. This has nothing in common with the Cuban Missile Crisis. Of course, there is a form of confrontation, and it’s dangerous—dangerous because, as I’ve said before, a lack of understanding is always risky. Misinterpreting the other side’s actions can lead to catastrophic decisions. And when nuclear weapons are involved, with both sides essentially having their fingers on the button, the stakes are incredibly high.
But this isn’t the Cuban Missile Crisis. The causes are entirely different. It’s essential to diagnose the problem correctly. While on the surface it may seem like the same disease—confrontation is confrontation—the underlying causes are distinct. Understanding this distinction is critical if we hope to find a resolution.
What Do Russian and American Leaders Fundamentally Misunderstand About Each Other?
Russian leaders, as I’ve mentioned before, are essentially Soviet people. Their ideological beliefs about the United States are rooted in that era. For example, they believe that the President of the United States has the same kind of powers as the President of Russia. They’re convinced that all this talk about checks and balances—whether it’s Congress, the Supreme Court, or other limitations on presidential power—is just nonsense. They think it’s all a lie.
The belief is that if an American president wanted to shut down The New York Times or order them not to publish something, he could do it. They’re certain of this because they don’t know any other reality. They know for a fact that this kind of control is possible in Russia, so they assume the same must apply in the U.S. From their perspective, if American leaders say, “We can’t do this because of constitutional or institutional constraints,” the response is, “Don’t give us that nonsense. You just don’t want to do it. That’s all.”
This highlights a profound misunderstanding of what America is fundamentally built upon. Now, I should say, I’m aware that things in America aren’t always perfect. I’ve experienced it myself. Early in my career in the U.S., my program was shut down for political reasons. The president of CNBC at the time—his name escapes me—deemed it “too left-leaning.” They demanded that we conform to certain editorial restrictions, and when we refused, the program was canceled. So, I’m not here to sing an anthem about how absolute freedom reigns in America.
But the foundation of American democracy is different. It’s built on the principle of freedom, however flawed the execution may sometimes be. This core idea is something Russian leaders don’t grasp. They don’t believe it’s real. And because of that, when discussions arise about considering certain limitations or procedural constraints, the reaction is, “Come on, stop pretending. You just don’t want to do it.” That’s the mindset, and it underscores the deep divide in understanding between the two nations.
What Do Americans Fundamentally Misunderstand About Russia?
If we reverse the question—what don’t Americans understand about Russia—the answer is almost everything. They simply don’t understand where Russia comes from. They don’t understand the concept of societal transformation. They fail to grasp that today’s Russia is governed by people from a different era, a different system. What’s happening in Russia now, as I’ve said before, is a revolution. Thankfully, not a bloody one, but a revolution nonetheless. This isn’t just a generational shift; it’s a fundamental transformation. Americans don’t see that or know how to engage with it.
Instead, they rely on stereotypes about Russians. What’s a Russian? Someone who drinks vodka—that’s a given. So, essentially, an alcoholic. They talk about some mysterious "Slavic soul," but no one knows what it really means, only that Russians are “different.” That’s the underlying belief: Russians might be likable people, but they’re not entirely “like us.” Contrast that with how they view the English, French, Germans, or Swedes—those are “our people,” familiar and relatable. But Russians? They’re something else. This misunderstanding is pervasive, rooted in psychology more than facts. It’s not about specific misunderstandings; it’s a general mindset.
And, of course, there’s the hysteria happening in the U.S. right now. The endless speculation about who met with Russians, who didn’t, who visited the Russian ambassador, who didn’t. And Putin? In American discourse, Stalin now seems like a kindly kindergarten teacher compared to Putin. It’s absurd. This paranoia makes no sense.
I remember McCarthyism in the U.S. I was a boy then. One day, all our family friends stopped calling us. FBI agents had visited them and said, “Be careful; Pozner is a dangerous man.” That was it. In “free America,” no one would talk to us anymore. When we left the U.S., only one person came to see us off, despite the fact that my father was a wealthy man and we had many friends and guests in our home. Everyone else was too afraid. That’s fear.
But here’s the irony: Americans are more scared than Russians. Russians have lived through such profound fear over the decades that they’ve developed a kind of immunity to it. In America, they haven’t experienced that level of fear, so they’re more easily frightened.
This misunderstanding and fear—it’s vast, endless. And there’s really no quick way to resolve it.
What were your first impressions of the Soviet Union? What was easy to adapt to, what seemed strange, and what surprised you? Were there any smells, habits, or details that stood out?
I really wanted to come to the Soviet Union. It was a dream of mine. So when we arrived in Moscow in December 1952, it was freezing cold—colder than I could have imagined. Now we know why: climate change is real.
What struck me first? Moscow was white—covered in snow. There were so few cars then, so when the snow fell, it stayed pristine, both on the streets and sidewalks. As you walked, it crunched under your feet. I remember seeing these enormous snowflakes slowly spiraling down in the glow of the streetlights, creating a kind of magical atmosphere. That was my first impression—almost otherworldly. And then there were the people walking around, eating ice cream on the street, despite it being 20 degrees below zero. That really amazed me.
Over time, of course, other things stood out. The communal apartments were a shock. I couldn’t comprehend the concept: multiple families sharing a single toilet and kitchen. How could that even work? But that was the norm. Then, the standard of living—it never occurred to me that a country that had won the war could be living so poorly. That was truly shocking to me.
Another thing was how people were afraid of us. Back in America, we had an open house. Soviet people working at the UN in New York would come over—they’d drink, snack, and enjoy themselves. At the time, we didn’t know how little they earned, how cramped and difficult their lives were in New York. But here, in Moscow, when I tried to call those same people, they avoided meeting with me. Eventually, I realized they were scared. Back in the U.S., it was different; here, it was a risk. That left a lasting impression.
Then there was the time I wasn’t accepted into university, despite doing well on the entrance exams. I scored 24 out of 25 points, but they rejected me. Later, a woman pulled me aside and explained. She said, “Of course you passed, but you have a bad last name,” something I had never thought about before. “And your biography isn’t good.” That was a stark lesson.
There were so many impressions, both big and small. But overall, those first impressions were more negative than positive, even though I was incredibly eager to come. I looked at everything through very, very rose-colored glasses—too much so, perhaps.
Do you visit New York often?
I visit New York, let’s say, twice a year.
Has the city changed over the years?
I left my beloved city of New York—a city I know like the back of my hand—in late 1948. By that, I mean Manhattan. I used to be a paperboy, so I knew its streets intimately. I knew the city very well; I still do. I love it. I know its details, its history, where everything is. But I didn’t return until—believe it or not—1986. Thirty-eight years. I wasn’t allowed to go back.
When I stepped off the plane at Kennedy Airport, got into the car—a stretch limousine, as I was a guest—and saw that famous skyline, I won’t deny it: I started crying. I’d dreamed so many times of returning. Even then, I wondered, “Is this another dream? Am I going to wake up and realize I never came back?”
They took me to my hotel, but I quickly dropped off my bags and ran out into the streets. I just started walking. And it felt like nothing had changed. It was as if I had been there just yesterday. It was a surreal feeling. I wanted to shout to everyone, “Look! I’m here! I’m back!”
The city hadn’t changed much. Sure, there were new buildings, of course. But overall—no, not much had changed. Not even after 38 years. Maybe it had shifted ethnically a bit. But fundamentally, New York was still New York. Broadway remained as creative as ever. Central Park, my favorite spot, was still there. Yes, there were ups and downs. There were times when crime rates were high, and then times when the city managed to bring them under control. But the essence? No, I don’t think it’s changed.
The world has changed dramatically, of course. But for me, when I step into New York, I feel like I’m home. And my home, as it was then, remains my home now.
With internet access and the availability of American movies and TV series in Russia, do you think Russians now have a better understanding of Americans? Could Russia use soft power, like cinema, to influence American perceptions in return?
The fact that, thanks to many factors—primarily the internet—anyone living in Russia can watch a vast number of American TV series at home, as well as numerous Hollywood films in theaters, does help. For instance, when we’re speaking right now, Fast & Furious 8 has just been released and set box office records in Russia during its opening weekend. So, yes, people can watch whatever they want.
Does this help Russians better understand America? Of course. Even on a subconscious level, it gives some insight into what America is about. But the reverse? If Americans had access to Russian TV series or films, would it help them understand Russia better? Perhaps, but let’s be honest: Americans, for the most part, aren’t interested in watching anything that isn’t American.
Do Americans watch a lot of French or Italian films? Hardly. Even British cinema doesn’t dominate their screens despite the shared language. Americans predominantly consume their own cultural products—that’s a given.
Another issue is language. Many Russians know English to some extent and can enjoy American shows in the original language, dubbed, or with subtitles. But how many Americans speak or understand Russian? Very few. Subtitling and promoting Russian films in the U.S. would be a massive challenge, not least because the demand is simply not there.
Take a classic Russian series like The Meeting Place Cannot Be Changed. It’s a fantastic show, a classic by any measure. But in America? It wouldn’t resonate. It’s incomprehensible and “not their story.” Russians can look past cultural differences because they’re curious. Americans, in general, aren’t as curious about foreign cultures, especially not Russian culture.
This reflects a broader difference between Russians and Americans. Russians are eager to learn and understand; they find foreign perspectives interesting, especially when well-executed. Americans, by contrast, are more insular in their interests. I often tell my American friends, "You’re centripupists"—you think the world revolves around your own belly button. Sure, there are exceptions, but in general, they’re not interested.
Ask an average American to name Russian cities. Most can name two—Moscow and Saint Petersburg. Maybe a few will mention Vladivostok, and that’s it. The depth of their ignorance and lack of interest is staggering.
So, when people suggest using soft power, like Russian cinema or cultural exports, I find it naïve. We’ve tried this before. The Bolshoi Ballet toured the U.S.—that’s soft power. The Moiseyev Dance Company toured—that’s soft power. And what was the result? Americans said, “Beautiful ballet! But the Soviet Union is still the Evil Empire.”
Soft power doesn’t work if there’s no baseline interest or willingness to engage with the culture. In the past, some Soviet artists defected during tours, which added a dramatic narrative. Today, no one needs to defect; they simply move abroad if they want to. That’s no longer part of the story.
Ultimately, the lack of American interest in anything foreign—including Russian culture—renders soft power ineffective. While Russians eagerly consume American culture, the reverse just doesn’t happen. It’s not about the quality of the art—it’s about the audience’s willingness to care.
