Laughing with 
Antiquity in Soviet 
Animation
Hanna Paulouskaya*
When people complain that life is hard, everything is 
still okay. When they begin to cry, things are challenging 
but manageable. However, when they start laughing, it 
means everything has gone truly wrong.
   (A Soviet joke from the late 1980s).
Although Soviet culture is not typically associated with laughter, laughter 
was, in fact, omnipresent in everyday life and communal experience.  It 
served multiple social functions: officially approved satire reinforced 
dominant values and mocked behavior deemed harmful, thereby 
signaling the limits of permissible criticism.1 At the same time, it could 
subvert that very image, offering an oblique form of dissent. Through 
humor, people expressed emotions that could not be voiced openly. 
They criticized the system indirectly, sometimes at significant personal 
risk. Joking also created solidarity, linking individuals through what 
Annie Gérin has described as a “community of laughters.”2
1 Vorobyeva, “Soviet policy,” 156.
2 Gérin, Devastation and Laughter, 137.
* Faculty of “Artes Liberales,” University of Warsaw; Nowy Świat 69, 00­046 
Warsaw; hannapa@al.uw.edu.pl. – The research results presented in this article 
have been achieved within the project Our Mythical Childhood… The Reception 
of Classical Antiquity in Children’s and Young Adults’ Culture in Response to 
Regional and Global Challenges, led by Prof. Katarzyna Marciniak at the Faculty 
of “Artes Liberales,” University of Warsaw, with funding from the European 
Research Council (ERC) under the European Union’s Horizon 2020 Research 
and Innovation Programme – ERC Consolidator Grant (Grant Agreement no. 
681202). The University of Warsaw provided additional support through the 
Excellence Initiative – Research University (IDUB), POB IV, For Parents: New 
Ideas, 2nd edition. – I would like to express my deep gratitude to the  re viewers 
for their insightful comments and suggestions, which have significantly 
strengthened this article.
doI: https://doi.org/10.4312/clotho.7.2.205-231
HANNA PAULOUSKAYA206
This article examines how communities of laughter were constru­
cted in Soviet animated films through references to classical antiquity, 
and how ancient mythology functioned as a shared cultural code in 
comic and satirical narratives. 
As to create such a community, a high level of implicit understanding 
was essential – an understanding that did not need to be spoken aloud. 
As Umberto Eco observed in reference to joke­telling: “What remains 
compulsory, to produce a comic effect, is the prohibition of spelling out 
the norm. It must be presupposed both by the utterer and by the audience. 
If the speaker spells it out, he is a fool or a jerk; if the audience does not 
know it, there is no comic effect.”3 This highlights a central methodological 
concern for anyone studying another culture: can we ever be sure that we 
are sufficiently informed and attuned to grasp the Aesopian (and often 
polyphonic) languages of laughter, allusions, and hidden meanings at play?
The very act of forming such communities inevitably implies exclusion: 
those who do not share the necessary cultural references are left outside, 
unable to participate in the comic effect. Nevertheless, even within these 
in­groups, individuals may become targets of laughter if they transgress 
norms or misread codes. Satire, in particular, operates within this tension: 
its objects are often part of the shared code, yet at the same time distanced 
and ridiculed by it.4 This dynamic aligns with the classical “superiority 
theory” of laughter, articulated by Plato (Phileb. 48–50), Aristotle (Nic. 
Eth. 4.8, 1128a–b; Rhet. 2.2.12), and Quintilian (Inst. 6.3.7–8), which posits 
that humans derive pleasure from mocking others.
An important question from the perspective of Classical Reception 
Studies concerns the references used to construct jokes. Is classical heritage 
a system of signs shared widely enough to function as a comic code? Did 
it serve that purpose for Soviet citizens in the 1930s or 1960s and 1970s? Or 
did it merely provide a decorative backdrop for humorous situations, no 
more significant than any other setting? Did the Soviet context transform 
classical heritage into specifically “Soviet classics,” endowing ancient ideas 
with new and distinct meanings? Furthermore, could these reinterpretations 
resonate beyond the Soviet context – becoming intelligible and mean­
ingful to audiences in other cultures? If so, would their reach make them 
universal, or rather omni­local in Emily Greenwood’s sense:5 circulating 
across cultures while remaining anchored in particular local histories and 
reading communities?
3 Eco, “The Frames of Comic ‘Freedom,’” 5–6.
4 Anatoly Lunacharsky (1875–1933), the first Soviet People’s Commissar of Educa­
tion, developed an entire theory of satire as a weapon and a tool; Gérin, Devas-
tation and Laughter, 27–40.
5 Greenwood, “Afterword: Omni­Local Classical Receptions,” 359–61.
LAUGHING WITH ANTIQUITY IN SOVIET ANIMATION 207
This article addresses these questions through the lens of Soviet ani­
mated films, presenting a set of case studies and providing material for 
the questions above. Although animation was only one among many 
instruments of official satire – alongside printed journals and audiovisual 
productions, including full­length films and short satirical magazines6 – 
it nonetheless played an important role in shaping public opinion. As a 
form of popular culture, it offers valuable insight into the cultural climate 
of the time and the mechanisms through which new modes of thinking 
were formed in the USSR.
 Studying the Soviet case is particularly important given its profound 
influence during the Cold War, which continues to shape the cultural 
landscape of the former Soviet republics. At the same time, the role of 
ancient tradition in the USSR differed markedly from that in Western 
Europe (where classical education had a very different grounding in the 
school system), so conclusions drawn from Western contexts cannot be 
simply transferred to the Soviet context.7
As the successor of the Russian Empire, the Soviet Union inherited 
its engagement with classical antiquity. In the 19th century, the classics 
– especially Latin and Ancient Greek – were taught extensively through 
the gymnasium system, yet this education remained accessible only to a 
narrow, elite segment of society.8 Educational reforms aimed at combating 
illiteracy, introduced in the late 19th and early 20th centuries and further 
expanded after the revolution, ultimately led to the removal of classical 
education from the core curriculum in October 1918.9 
As a consequence, Soviet culture was shaped by both individuals 
with a pre­revolutionary classical education and those educated within 
the new Soviet system – a situation that persisted, to some extent, 
into the 1960s and 1970s, as people born before the revolution and 
trained under the old system remained professionally active, provided 
they had survived the political upheavals of the era. At the same time, 
6 For an insightful analysis of Soviet satire, using the cinemagazine Fitil as a case 
study, see Vorobyeva, “Soviet policy.”
7 For bibliographic references on classical reception in Soviet culture and the 
hi story of classics in the USSR, see Barker, SPQR in the USSR; Stead and Paulou­
skaya, “Classics, Crisis and the Soviet Experiment.”
8  In the Russian Empire, the gymnasium was introduced in 1802; by 1880 there were 
only 123 gymnasia in the European part of Russia, with 45,256 pupils, 52% of whom 
were nobles; Aleshintsev, Istoriia, 335–36. See also Read, Culture and Power, 8–9.
9 It was defined in the Polozhenie o edinoi trudovoi shkole RSFSR [Provision on the 
Unified Labor School of the RSFSR], issued as part of a decree of the All­Russian 
Central Executive Committee (Vserossiiskii Tsentralnyi Ispolnitelnyi Komitet 
Sovetov) on 16 October 1918.
HANNA PAULOUSKAYA208
Soviet cultural production was primarily directed at an audience that, 
for the most part, lacked a classical education.
Another important issue concerns the varying attitudes toward 
classical antiquity across the different Soviet republics and ethnic cul­
tures. Many of these cultures, existing in a colonial relationship with 
Russia, either had long­standing historical connections with antiquity 
(usually much longer than the imperial center itself)10 or, conversely, 
little to no direct engagement with it. The attitudes toward classical 
antiquity in Georgia, Ukraine, or Lithuania, on the one hand, and 
in Yakutia or Kazakhstan, on the other, had very little in common, 
as these regions belonged to entirely different medieval and modern 
cultural histories, far removed from Eurocentric historical models.11 
They would indeed have had almost nothing in common were it not 
for colonization, Russification, and the unified educational system 
established first under the Russian Empire and later under the Soviet 
Union.12 Still, diversity persisted, and animation became one of the 
many tools for unification and the imposition of Soviet culture. This 
makes the study of antiquity’s place in Soviet animation all the more 
significant.
For this article, four films have been selected for analysis. They were 
produced in different Soviet republics – Georgia, Latvia, Russia, and 
Ukraine – between the 1930s and the 1970s. The focus primarily lies 
on films that engage with ancient mythology, reworking it to serve the 
narrative’s central ideas. The selection is intended to illustrate a range 
of genres and approaches to classical heritage rather than to provide 
a comprehensive overview of all Soviet animated films that reference 
antiquity humorously. The works chosen have received relatively little 
attention within the field of Classical Reception Studies.13 All of them 
10 The aspect of cultural superiority of some Russian colonies over the imperial 
center was highlighted in Thompson’s Imperial Knowledge, 28–29. 
11 For a general overview of the culture and history of these nations, see Akiner, 
The Formation of Kazakh Identity; Dave, Kazakhstan: Ethnicity and Power; 
Gogolev, Proiskhozhdenie naroda sakha i ego traditsionnaia kul’tura; Okladni­
kov, Yakutia before its Incorporation into the Russian State.
12 For more nuanced discussions of these processes, see Kappeler, The Russian 
Empire: A Multi-ethnic History; Pavlenko, “Linguistic Russification in the 
Russian Empire”; Fitzpatrick, Education and Social Mobility in the Soviet Union, 
1921–1934.
13 For analyses of other animated films, see, e.g., But, “Prometheus in Russia: 
From Revolution to Dissidence”; Paulouskaya, “Soviet Argonauts: Sailing to the 
Coasts of Colchis in Soviet Film”; eadem, “Steht Herakles für den Westen? Oder: 
die grie chisch­römische Antike im sowjetischen Animationsfilm”; Sulprizio, 
“Playing with Greek Mythology in Russian Animation.”
LAUGHING WITH ANTIQUITY IN SOVIET ANIMATION 209
operate on the borderline between parody and satire, using mythological 
material to expose or critique particular social problems.
MYTH RECAST: PARODY AND REFLECTION
Although Soviet cinema from its earliest years relied heavily on satire 
and parody, official discourse tended to distance film production 
from entertainment, framing ideological education as its primary 
purpose. This applied equally to Soviet animation, which during its 
formative decade (1926–1936) underwent a series of often contradictory 
transformations, marked by alternating periods of encouragement and 
prohibition.14 At various times, genres such as fairy tale and fantasy, as 
well as techniques like anthropomorphism, were banned – to a certain 
extent, along with humor itself. The latter was officially “rehabilitated” 
in 1933, mainly in response to the growing popularity of Disney films 
in the USSR.15 That same year, Pavel Bliakhin (1887–1961), chairman 
of the Central Association of Cinema and Photographic Workers, 
felt compelled to justify the use of humor in animation, declaring: 
“Animation must above all be funny. Let this not disappoint you, 
for laughter carries social functions.”16 For the artists, however, this 
statement appears to have been a long­awaited permission – one they 
eagerly used to explore the creative and expressive potential of humor 
and entertainment.
THE ARGONAUTS, DIR. LADO MUJIRI, 1936
It was precisely during this period that the first Soviet animated film 
engaging with classical antiquity appeared – a work the director himself 
described as a “cheerful, heroic comedy.”17 The Argonauts, directed by Lado 
Mujiri (1907–1953), a pioneer of Georgian animation, and produced at the 
Georgian Film Studio in 1936,18 originally ran for about twenty minutes, 
but the versions currently available are approximately ten minutes long. 
The film draws loosely on the ancient myth, offering a distinctly Soviet 
14 Borodin, Gosudarstvo i animatsiia, 14–17.
15 Borodin, Gosudarstvo i animatsiia, 103–108; Pontieri, Soviet Animation, 38–42.
16 “Мультиликация должна быть прежде всего смешной. Пусть это не 
разочаровывает. Ведь смех несет социальные функции,” quoted in Borodin, 
Gosudarstvo i animatsiia, 96.
17 Mujiri, “‘Argonavty’: Rezhissër­postanovshchik V. Mujiri,” 3.
18 For more on this film, see Paulouskaya, “Soviet Argonauts: Sailing to the Coasts 
of Colchis in Soviet Film”; and Paulouskaya “Animated Greek Myths in the 
Soviet Union.”
HANNA PAULOUSKAYA210
reinterpretation. The film’s primary aim was to promote collectivization, 
the drainage of the Colchian swamps as a means of combating malaria, 
and the development of citrus farming19 – issues that were highly topical 
at the time and extensively covered in the contemporary mass media.
Mujiri reimagines the quest for the Golden Fleece as a campaign 
against the local inhabitants of the swamps – frogs and mosquitoes. 
According to the film’s narrative, the ancient Argonauts, who once 
undertook the mythical voyage, returned home in disgrace. In contrast, 
the new Soviet Argonauts, represented by Jason, set out to fulfil their 
mission.20 Falling in love with Medea, Jason is tasked with defeating 
the enemies and obtaining the fleece, a goal he ultimately achieves.
By devoting much of its screen time to battle scenes with frogs and 
mosquitoes, the film evokes the ancient parody Batrachomyomachia 
– or, in this case, it might more aptly be termed Batrachokonopoma-
chia. The medium of animation, particularly in the depiction of battle 
scenes, allows for dynamic bodily transformations: animals morph 
into weapons, generating a pronounced comic effect (figs. 1–2). Their 
movements are exaggerated and stylized humorously, further amplifying 
this impression.
While frogs and mosquitoes operate at the literal level of the narra­
tive, they also serve as metaphors for the enemies of the Soviet cause 
– those opposing collectivization, the drainage of the valley, or, more 
broadly, Bolshevik power. As the director himself noted, they represent 
“the pre­revolutionary society of old Georgia.”21 Depriving the enemy 
of human form diminishes it, portraying it in a subordinate, defeated 
position. This strategy recalls colonial representational practices, in which 
indigenous populations are stripped of human qualities to legitimize 
domination.22 Such imagery operates as a mechanism of exclusion and 
group formation, restricting access to the privileged collective.
Implicitly, the narrative suggests that by renouncing the vices and 
aligning themselves with the “correct” side of history – that of Bolshe­
vik authority – the native inhabitants may regain their human form. 
This redeemed portion of society is personified by Medea, depicted as 
beautiful and as the object of Jason’s love (fig. 3).
Produced in Georgia, the film draws on the national cultural memory 
of the ancient myth, freely reworking it until little of the original story 
remains. This playful adaptation highlights both the myth’s popularity 
19 Cf. the description of the topic choice in the director’s son’s memoirs: Mujiri, 
“Mogonebebi Šemok’medsa da Mamaze,” 80.
20 Mujiri, “‘Argonavty’: Rezhissër­postanovshchik V. Mujiri,” 3.
21 Ibid., 3.
22 Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, 42.
LAUGHING WITH ANTIQUITY IN SOVIET ANIMATION 211
and its familiarity among contemporary audiences. Although the film 
promotes Bolshevik values, it simultaneously affirms Georgian na­
tional culture, presenting Georgia as the heir to ancient traditions and 
as the rightful guardian of the Golden Fleece – whatever the “fleece” 
may signify in the film’s interpretation. Created as a black­and­white 
hand ­drawn animation with artwork by the renowned Georgian painter 
Lado Gudiashvili (1896–1980), the film also promoted Georgian art and 
visual culture, bridging traditional and modern aesthetics.
The film was produced in the Georgian language and features 
numerous songs and musical motifs rooted in local folklore. In the 
Russian­language version, the soundtrack was not translated; instead, 
intertitles summarize the main phases of the story, and instrumental 
sequences replace the songs. The Georgian dialogues also include subtle 
jokes about Russian authority. For example, Jason, who metaphorically 
represents Soviet Russia, is called by Medea at one point “an enemy” 
and “a young, inexperienced man” (1:03–08). These lines were, unsur­
prisingly, omitted from the Russian version of the film. Thus, the myth 
provided a means of subtly resisting Bolshevik power while outwardly 
conforming to it.
This film was intended for both adult and child audiences, pro duced 
during the formative period of Soviet children’s animation, which 
would soon become the primary – and eventually exclusive – target 
audience for animated production in the subsequent decades. From the 
mid­1960s, however, Soviet animation began to produce films for adult 
viewers once again.23 With this shift, satirical animation re­emerged 
with considerable force, including works that engaged with Greek and 
Roman mythology. It was precisely during this period that animated 
films based on classical myths began appearing on Soviet screens in large 
numbers. The following paragraphs will examine two interpretations 
of myths from this era: one aimed primarily at an adult audience, and 
another designed for children or a crossover audience.
PYGMALION, DIR. BY ARNOLDS BUROVS, 1967
Pygmalion (1967), a 10­minute short directed by the Latvian animator 
Arnolds Burovs (1915–2006) , a puppeteer and pioneer of Latvian ani­
mation, at the Riga Film Studio, offers a highly intriguing reinterpretation 
of the classical myth.24 In this version, the protagonist, fascinated by the 
famous Venus de Milo, decides to create his own idealized image of the 
23 Pontieri, Soviet Animation, 1–2; Borodin, Gosudarstvo i animatsiia, 370.
24 More on other adaptations of the myth, see James, Ovid’s Myth of Pygmalion.
HANNA PAULOUSKAYA212
goddess and inevitably falls in love with it. However, instead of marble, 
he uses improvised materials: clock parts, doll fragments, springs, and 
metal rods. The Galatea he creates differs radically from the pristine white 
marble ideal, yet he admires her nonetheless. Echoing Ovid’s account, 
Pygmalion dresses and adorns the statue (fig. 4):
ornat quoque vestibus artus,
dat digitis gemmas, dat longa monilia collo:
aure leves bacae, redimicula pectore pendent (Ovid, Met. 10. 263–65).
he drapes her in rich clothing and in gems:
rings on her fingers, a rich necklace round
her neck, pearl pendants on her graceful ears;
and golden ornaments adorn her breast.25
As in the original myth, the sculptor marries his creation. In this 
adaptation, however, Galatea comes to life independently, without the 
intervention of the goddess Venus (4:33). In Soviet animation, refe­
rences to divine figures were possible only in a satirical manner due to 
the state’s atheistic ideology, which likely contributed to the long delay 
in adapting classical myths for the screen. This limitation is cleverly 
circumvented here: a clock mechanism embedded in the creature’s chest 
animates her, giving her a robotic or quasi­living quality. The scene 
conveys the festive atmosphere of the wedding: champagne flows, the 
organ sounds, and the bride leaves her veil on a chair, signaling the 
completion of the ritual (5:52–5:55). It seems that although the film 
departs from the original text, the Latvian director nevertheless drew 
on it during production and deliberately wove references to the Latin 
source into the film, anticipating an audience that would recognize 
and appreciate this intertextual dialogue.
The next part of the film appears to diverge radically from the myth. 
The filmmaker introduces an absurd, inverted night world, which 
might be a dream (6:00–6:20). This device was widely used in 1920s 
Soviet cinema and animation to signal miraculous or extraordinary 
events.26 The protagonist, clad in a nightshirt and holding a candle, 
wanders through the house. He encounters his beloved transformed 
into a monstrous figure with a hydra tail and Medusa­like head (fig. 
5; 6:23–6:26), attempting to devour a man who looks exactly like him 
– a distant double. From afar, Pygmalion witnesses further grotesque 
25 Translation by Brookes More.
26 Borodin, Gosudarstvo i animatsiia, 33.
Fig. 1–2. Frogs marching as an army and frogs 
depicted as tanks in The Argonauts, dir. Lado Mujiri, 
1936 (03:07; 03:35).
Fig. 3. Medea and Jason walking with their donkey 
Koki in The Argonauts, dir. Lado Mujiri, 1936 (1:21).
Fig. 4. Pygmalion dressing 
Galatea in Pygmalion, dir. Arnolds 
Burovs, 1967 (4:13).
HANNA PAULOUSKAYA214
transformations. The creature traps his alter ego inside a cage­like chest 
(fig. 6; 7:19–7:27) and later manipulates him like a marionette, removing 
his head from his body (7:34–7:40). Ultimately, the protagonist observes 
multiple versions of himself moving slowly on all fours, resembling 
dogs, while his creature, now with beautiful hands and lips, lies peace­
fully at rest (7:54–8:16). Emerging from this nightmarish world, the 
sculptor falls asleep at the feet of the Venus statue, now seated in the 
contemplative pose reminiscent of Rodin’s Thinker (fig. 7; 8:59–9:15).
None of this appears in Ovid’s retelling, where, in the finale, Pygma­
lion and the statue are mentioned only in the context of sexual relations 
and offspring. However, the opening of the story may provide a source 
for such an interpretation, as the poet explicitly criticizes women:
Quas quia Pygmalion aevum per crimen agentes
viderat, offensus vitiis, quae plurima menti
femineae natura dedit […] (Ovid, Met. 10. 243–45).
Pygmalion saw these women waste their lives
in wretched shame, and critical of faults
which nature had so deeply planted through
their female hearts […].27
It is precisely these faults (vitiis) of women that drive Pygmalion to 
celibacy and his disdain for ordinary women, ultimately leading him 
to fall in love with the statue. Ironically, Burovs transfers these same 
qualities to the creation itself – the figure that, in Ovid’s version, re­
mains subdued and subordinate. By portraying Pygmalion’s wife as a 
monstrous, tyrannical figure who traps and humiliates him, Burovs 
appears at first to align himself with Ovid’s misogynistic narrative. 
However, the director does the opposite: he endows the artificial being 
with power and agency, freeing her from Pygmalion’s domination 
and thereby offering an open critique of Ovid’s story.
 The film’s finale, in which Pygmalion falls asleep at the feet of the 
female Thinker, further shifts the focus from the woman’s body to her 
intellect and inner life – dimensions that are absent from the Roman 
poem. However, this thinking woman remains a naked beauty remi­
niscent of the Venus de Milo, differing only in her changed posture.
According to the official interpretation presented in the film description, 
however, the work was intended to critique contemporary sculpture 
27 Translation by Brookes More.
LAUGHING WITH ANTIQUITY IN SOVIET ANIMATION 215
rather than classical art.28 This reading might be plausible, given the 
contrasts depicted in the film: the Venus de Milo at the beginning, the 
“Venus of Rodin” in the finale, and Pygmalion’s creation made from 
improvised materials. From this perspective, classical art remains safe 
and harmonious, eliciting neither nightmares nor madness, unlike the 
protagonist’s experimental work.
However, Burovs’ film itself, employing hybrid techniques that 
blend stop­motion animation with live­action, aligns more closely 
with contemporary arthouse experimental cinema than with tra­
ditional Soviet animation. Its visual language evokes the surrealist 
experiments of Jan Švankmajer (b. 1934) and the poetic absurdism of 
the Eastern European avant­garde.29 Paradoxically, the film therefore 
becomes a work of art that embodies precisely the modernist qua­
lities it was ostensibly intended to critique. The absence of dialogue, 
combined with slow, solemn classical music, reinforces a meditative 
atmosphere, allowing the audience to engage with the film’s meaning 
in a reflective, personal way.
In this way, Pygmalion operates on multiple, interconnected 
levels. While ostensibly a critique of contemporary sculpture, the 
film simultaneously – perhaps more convincingly – celebrates and 
engages with the artistic tradition. It satirizes the vanity and pre­
occupation with women’s beauty, while also critiquing the male gaze, 
which reduces women to mere objects of desire. This nuanced critique 
culminates in the finale, where the Thinker­like Venus reorients the 
audience’s attention toward the figure’s interior, intellectual, and 
contemplative dimensions. 
For viewers familiar with Ovid’s original myth, Burovs’ film 
reveals additional layers of playful allusion and invites multiple 
readings. It can be approached as a (proto­)feminist critique of the 
Pygmalion story and of contemporary gender norms, as well as a 
reflection on artistic creation and the artist’s control over his work. 
Unlike the other examples discussed in this chapter, its comic effect 
relies to a significant degree on the audience’s ability to recognize the 
classical source and to compare it with its animated reworking. The 
fact that the film was produced in Latvia suggests that this profound 
engagement with the classical text may be linked to local traditions 
of schooling and literary culture shared by both its creators and its 
intended viewers.
28 Venzher and Reisner, “Pigmalion”; Kryzhanovsky, Arnold Burovs, [32].
29 See Johnson, Jan Švankmajer, passim.
HANNA PAULOUSKAYA216
ICARUS AND THE SAGES, DIR. FYODOR KHITRUK, 1976
The next film I will discuss is another short, 8 minutes long, aimed 
at a crossover audience, created by one of the most renowned Soviet 
animation directors, Fyodor Khitruk (1917–2012). Titled Ikar i mudretsy 
[Icarus and the Sages], it was produced by the leading Soviet animation 
studio, Soyuzmultfilm, in Moscow in 1976. The film’s sketchy, almost 
entirely black­and­white animation, punctuated by a few color scenes, 
presents a version of the myth that is highly removed from the classical 
narrative, focusing primarily on the familiar motif of flight and fall and 
offering a reinterpretation of this central event. The story is presented 
as narrated by a single storyteller, who also voices the characters’ lines.
The film opens with a depiction of a mountain where a group of 
elderly men in ancient Greek dresses rest – some playing chess, others 
drinking tea, reading, or simply sleeping (fig. 10; 0:44–0:57). They 
appear almost like immovable monuments, weighed down by their 
own stillness. The narrator describes them as “ordinary people who 
have found their place in life and devote themselves to philosophical 
reflection” (0:44–1:00). 
Meanwhile, a younger man attaches wings to his body and attempts 
to fly from a nearby hill. Far from the familiar iconography of Icarus 
as a youthful, athletic hero with grand, crafted wings, this small, 
round­faced man with a short beard looks nothing like the mythic 
archetype (fig. 9–10). His appearance and movements (0:58–1:04) 
instead evoke another of Khitruk’s creations: his enormously popular 
Winnie-the-Pooh (Soyuzmultfilm, 1969–1972). In contrast with the 
“ordinary people,” the protagonist is labelled a chudak – an “eccentric” 
or “odd fellow.” 
In his repeated attempts to fly, Icarus fails each time. His first 
unsuccessful effort is commented on by one of the sages with a Latin 
proverb: quod licet Iovi, non licet bovi (“what is permitted to Jupiter 
is not permitted to the ox”; 1:30), which the narrator then repeats in 
Russian translation. The Latin phrase appears visually as a sentence 
inside a comic­style speech bubble that soon turns into a stone monu­
ment and crashes down from the sky. Undeterred, the protagonist 
continues his efforts, prompting the sages to invent ever­new maxims 
in response to his audacity.
The film’s dynamics are driven by this cycle: Icarus repeatedly 
tries to fly, and each attempt is met with a new saying that descends 
from above as a heavy, monumental stone bearing an inscription. 
Finally, just as it seems the young man might at last rise into the 
blue sky, he falls beneath the largest of these stones, a black­marble 
LAUGHING WITH ANTIQUITY IN SOVIET ANIMATION 217
obelisk  inscribed with bene qui stat non moveatur (“he who stands 
well should not be moved”; 3:43–5:00). The sages hypocritically mourn 
his fall (fig. 11; 5:16), while the monument itself, now depicting Icarus 
in a proper, canonical manner, serves as a memorial to his daring.
In the director’s original conception, the film was meant to end 
at this point, serving as a critique of a society petrified in its rigid, 
traditional knowledge. However, the final version includes an epi­
logue, which introduces a note of hope for the future – an addition 
that Khitruk later regretted, as he felt it weakened the film’s overall 
impact and diluted its critical message.30 
Life returns to normal, and schoolchildren are brought before the 
sages by their teachers to recite maxims aloud in a boring, repetitive 
manner. Among them, however, a new chudak stands out – this time 
with facial expressions reminiscent of Piglet from Khitruk’s Winnie-
-the-Pooh series. Departing from his group, the boy notices feathers 
on the ground and fashions them into a pair of wings (6:42–7:35). The 
film concludes with an exuberant musical sequence as the boy runs up 
a high hill and is shown against the blue sky, just as he begins to take 
off. The finale suggests that even if one Icarus falls, others will always 
rise – challenging outdated ideas and striving toward the seemingly 
unattainable.
Icarus and the Sages functions as a satirical critique of the so­called 
wisdom of the older generation. The familiar conflict in the myth 
between father and son is reimagined as a tension between the rigid, 
conventional thinking and the courage to dream and act. Unlike in 
the original myth, where young Icarus evokes anxiety and reproach 
from his father, here he emerges as the central, sympathetic prota­
gonist: his desires are portrayed as sincere and meaningful, and his 
childlike courage becomes a symbol of future triumph, effectively 
reversing the original moral of the myth.
The ancient sages, whom the film critiques, are depicted almost as 
stone­like figures – trapped in otium and detached from reality. By 
omitting Daedalus altogether, Khitruk subverts viewers’ expectations 
and shifts the locus of authority from the individual father to society’s 
collective guardians of tradition. Visually and thematically, the sages 
recall bureaucratic archetypes and the stifling social conformity 
portrayed in Khitruk’s earlier Chelovek v ramke (Man in the Frame, 
1966). In this way, the film critiques not only generational tensions but 
also the Brezhnev­era “stagnation” of the 1970s – marked by an ageing, 
30 Khitruk, Professiia animator, 180–81.
Figs. 5–7. Transformations of Galatea in Pygmalion, dir. 
Arnolds Burovs, 1967 (6:22; 7:28; 9:16).
Figs. 8–9. Icarus depicted as a small, comical chudak 
in Icarus and the Sages, dir. Fyodor Khitruk, 1976 
(0:43; 0:59).
Figs. 10–11. The sages as immovable, stony figures 
in the opening scene (fig. 10; 0:55) and mourning 
Icarus after his fall (fig. 11) in Icarus and the Sages, 
dir. Fyodor Khitruk, 1976.
LAUGHING WITH ANTIQUITY IN SOVIET ANIMATION 219
self­protective bureaucracy, resistance to reform, and a pervasive sense 
of social inertia.31
At the same time, the film mocks the Latin­based model of ca­
nonical education embodied by the sages, presenting it as pompous, 
lifeless rhetoric and mere memorization techniques rather than 
living knowledge. By the 1960s, Latin had long disappeared from 
general Soviet schooling and been “de­pedestalized” as a bourgeois 
discipline, surviving mainly in specialized university courses and 
retaining only a faint aura of pre­revolutionary – or even medieval 
– culture. Although Stalin’s 1940s reforms briefly revived Latin teach­
ing in a small number of prestigious schools,32 most Soviet students 
– especially in the humanities – encountered only a minimal set of 
memorized phrases. For this generation, “Latin” effectively meant a 
handful of maxims. Khitruk draws on this context: the sages speak 
solely in such formulaic sayings, which literally fall from the sky as 
heavy stone monuments. 
More broadly, the episode can be read as a critique of the Soviet 
school system itself – one oriented toward the rote repetition of autho­
rized formulas rather than encouraging students to ask questions and 
to dare to seek unknown, even forbidden, truths. 
The film also playfully ridicules Ovid’s story itself, emphasizing 
its long afterlife as a Latin text taught and memorized for centuries. 
This is underscored by the fact that detailed knowledge of the Icarus 
myth is unnecessary for the understanding of the film – especially 
since Daedalus, the ingenious father and maker of the wings, is ab­
sent from Khitruk’s version. Rather than engaging with Ovid’s Latin 
narrative, Khitruk draws on the most familiar, stereotypical kernel of 
the myth: a reckless young man who flies too high and falls, stripped 
of both his literary context and his paternal guide.
The narrative remains clear and accessible even to young children, 
despite the inclusion of phrases in a foreign and archaic language. By 
staging a stark contrast between the youthful Icarus and the ageing, 
authoritarian circle of sages, the film highlights the value of daring 
to be different and the courage of non­conformity – sentiments that 
resonated strongly with the more radical moods of younger audien­
ces. At the same time, the film speaks directly to adults through its 
critique of ossified “guardians of tradition.” By juxtaposing Icarus’ 
naïve yet persistent attempts to defy imposed limits with the sages’ 
rigid, self­authorizing maxims, Khitruk invites viewers to reflect not 
31 Pontieri, Fëdor Khitruk, 108.
32 For bibliographic references on this initiative, see Paulouskaya, “Learning Myths 
in the Soviet School,” 174–75.
HANNA PAULOUSKAYA220
only on personal choices and forms of self­expression, but also on who 
defines the rules of acceptable behavior – and how such authority can 
quietly harden into a mechanism of everyday oppression.
SATIRE AS A WEAPON: SOCIAL CORRECTION AND 
IDEOLOGICAL ALLEGORY
Moving beyond the elaborate reinterpretations of the ancient myth, 
classical antiquity was also employed in Soviet animation in a more 
straightforward, stereotypical manner. Satirical films exemplify 
this approach, often drawing on classical references to comment on 
contemporary social or ideological issues. Given the prolific nature 
of satire in Soviet animation, which began its substantial presence 
in the mid­1950s and was especially popular in the 1960s and 1970s,33 
the following will focus on a single film as an illustrative case of how 
classical motifs can function primarily as a reference point rather than 
as the subject of in­depth engagement.
SLAPDASH, DIR. VOLODYMYR HONCHAROV, 1977
Tiap-Lyap [Slapdash], directed by Volodymyr Honcharov (1940–2022), 
a prolific Ukrainian animator, and produced at the KyivNaukFilm 
studio, is a short 10­minute satirical film that addresses social vices, 
particularly attitudes towards work. Although not the most dominant 
theme, this subject remained a persistent feature of Soviet humorous 
productions from the 1960s through the 1980s, as Maria Vorobyeva 
convincingly demonstrates.34 Contributing to this discourse, Slapdash 
presents a straightforward narrative built around a single recurring 
flaw – irresponsibility and carelessness in labor – and structures its 
story as a time­travel adventure.
The protagonist, a builder assigned by an engineer to build a new 
structure – in this case, a small beer kiosk, a notable detail given that 
alcohol abuse was an even more frequent target of satire35 – com­
pletes the task hastily and incompetently, producing a structure that 
is crooked and on the verge of collapse (1:09). When the engineer 
confronts him, the builder flees and embarks on a comic journey 
through various historical epochs, moving from the contemporary 
period to the distant past.
33 Borodin, Gosudarstvo i animatsiia, 375–80; Pontieri, Soviet Animation, 65–69.
34 Vorobyeva, “Soviet policy,” 159–64.
35 Ibid., 159–66.
LAUGHING WITH ANTIQUITY IN SOVIET ANIMATION 221
He reappears in successive eras – helping to construct the Leaning 
Tower in Renaissance Italy, building a temple in antiquity, and setting 
a trap for mammoths in prehistoric times. However, in every age, his 
careless attitude persists: he looks for ways to do less work and sleep 
longer. Each time, he narrowly escapes execution for his dangerous 
workmanship, only to be carried further back in time. Nearly roasted 
alive by a prehistoric tribe, he is finally eaten by a dinosaur, which 
itself turns into a skeleton and crumbles to dust, leaving behind only 
a scrap of paper marked brak (“defective”) amid a pile of bones. Awa­
kening from this nightmare, he returns to the present, where he finds 
himself surrounded by fellow builders who collectively condemn his 
shoddy work. The film closes with a clear moral: the value of diligence 
and professional integrity.
The film is drawn in a sketch­like style, using a limited color pal­
ette that enhances its resemblance to a rough drawing. Most scenes 
lack a detailed background, presenting only the protagonist and his 
construction against a white backdrop. The light, brisk musical score 
adds tension and dynamism to the narrative. The film contains no 
spoken dialogue, relying instead on vocalizations and mimicked “lan­
guages” that alternately resemble Russian, Italian, or Greek. The only 
distinctly articulated and repeated word is brak, which underscores 
the central theme of poor­quality work.
This time­travel technique, used to illustrate the persistence of 
certain human vices across centuries and their rootedness in hu­
man nature, was a popular device in Soviet satirical animation. For 
instance, Vakhtang Bakhtadze, who already worked with Mujiri on 
The Argonauts and was the author of the classical mythology–inspired 
animated satire Narcissus (1964), employed a similar approach in his 
later work O moda, moda! [Oh, Fashion, Fashion!] from 1968. This 
film satirizes vanity and the excessive pursuit of beauty, showing that 
people’s obsession with appearance and changing trends has remained 
constant throughout history. Greek and Roman antiquity also appears 
briefly in the film, though the director devotes much greater attention 
to other historical periods.
Examining Slapdash, it appears that the historical periods chosen 
for representation were selected for their recognizability, enabling 
the filmmakers to highlight distinct architectural styles and human 
appearances. Notably, Renaissance Italy is represented through an 
iconic structure – the Leaning Tower of Pisa. However, this strategy is 
not applied in the depiction of ancient Greece. Antiquity is presented 
more generically, as a land of temples, statues, and Olympic games, 
without reference to any specific or identifiable monument.
HANNA PAULOUSKAYA222
Speaking in a quasi­Greek language, a bearded architect presents a 
plan for a temple adorned with male and female caryatids, as signing the 
protagonist his task (fig. 12–13). In a solemn, elevated tone, he declaims 
a string of words that mimic ancient Greek. Although nonsensical, 
the speech is constructed from recognizable Greek­derived roots and 
morphemes; its rhythmic contour loosely recalls the dignified cadence 
of ancient verse, evoking the spirit rather than the exact metrics of 
classical hexameter (4:19–4:32). Together with the architect’s oratorical 
delivery, this pseudo­language effectively conjures the atmosphere of 
an imagined ancient Greece.
Male and female sculptural figures are delivered to the protagonist, 
who must install them as supports for the temple. However, he pays 
little attention to how the pieces should be assembled, carelessly mixing 
male and female caryatids. His focus drifts from the construction itself 
to the sensuality of the statues’ naked bodies (4:37–5:02). Actually, this 
presence of naked torsos, although very common for ancient culture, 
was exceptional for Soviet prudish culture. It was also a sign that the 
film was intended for an adult audience, as including such elements in 
a work primarily aimed at children would have been rather unlikely.
In this episode, the worker appears unusually cheerful and even 
exuberant: unlike in his other tasks, he takes evident pleasure in his 
work and shows no desire to rush. He dances with a female torso, 
gazing at it with admiration (fig. 14; 4:43–4:47), and then compares 
himself to the muscular body of a male caryatid, flexing his own 
arms in imitation and obvious delight. Nevertheless, his playful, self ­
­indulgent attitude leads to error – the structure turns out uneven, 
and the misaligned caryatids fail to support the roof in a horizontal 
position (fig. 15; 5:05).
After finishing, we see that the female figure lacks her arms, 
resembling the familiar image of ancient statues preserved in mu­
seums – fragmentary and incomplete – and making a clear visual 
reference to the most famous among them, the Venus de Milo. It 
seems that the worker has constructed “ancient beauty” according 
to the aesthetic norms of his own time, accustomed as he is to the 
image of a handless Venus.
Further visual stereotypes of ancient Greece are also present: sol­
diers wearing characteristic helmets and shields escort the worker to 
his place of judgment (5:11–5:17). The architect delivers an accusatory 
speech, repeatedly using the invented word brakodelos – meaning 
“defect­maker” – before a mass of male figures who respond with 
enthusiastic shouts (5:25–5:31). The condemned builder is placed on 
what resembles an altar. At the same time, an executioner or priest 
Figs. 12–13. The ancient Greek architect assigning a task to the 
protagonist in Slapdash, dir. Volodymyr Honcharov, 1977 (4:17; 4:27).
Figs. 14–15. Construction of the ancient temple and its completed 
form in Slapdash, dir. Volodymyr Honcharov, 1977 (4:50; 5:06).
HANNA PAULOUSKAYA224
invokes a deity with the exclamation “Σοφóκλε!” [Sophocles!] – most 
likely seeking divine permission to decide whether the culprit should 
live or die (5:37). The priest’s gestures, reminiscent of Roman emperors 
during gladiatorial games, suggest this decision, as he raises or lowers 
his finger. The scene is accompanied by a harp­playing woman and 
a soldier sharpening his dagger. At the very moment the weapon is 
about to strike, the worker manages to escape, sprinting away together 
with a group of athletes running through a stadium, then along a road 
lined with statues and temples. Finally, he crashes into the figure of a 
Discobolus, which a sculptor is just completing – thus bringing the 
ancient Greek episode of the film to an end (5:57–5:59).
To sum up, the Greek references in this film are constructed almost 
entirely from familiar cultural stereotypes. Most center on beauty 
and artistic achievement – particularly architecture and sculpture 
– accompanied by motifs of nakedness and the idealized human 
body, which also evoke the culture of athletics. Additionally, themes 
such as democracy and the military evoke those periods when Greek 
city­states held significant influence in the Mediterranean world. The 
altar and the executioner allude to the Greek religion and ritual, while 
the invocation of Sophocles brings theater into the picture. Taken 
together, these elements form quite a long list of features typically 
associated with ancient Greece in popular imagination. Although none 
of the images are tied to specific historical figures or events, except 
for the iconic Venus de Milo, the film assembles a multifaceted – if 
thoroughly stereotypical in its Eurocentric and homogenizing form 
– image of antiquity.
In the context of the film’s central theme – work and its results, 
particularly in architecture – antiquity and the Renaissance repre­
sent cultures that achieved unique and enduring accomplishments. 
Reinforced by the motif of sculpture, this emphasis evokes classical 
or canonical art: creations first produced by the ancients and later 
rediscovered during the Renaissance.
Against this backdrop, the Soviet group of co­workers who condemn 
the protagonist may evoke, however loosely, the idea of a Greek civic 
assembly: their gathering echoes the earlier depiction of an ancient 
Greek meeting, though not precisely. Rather than functioning as a 
democratic forum, the scene resembles a “circle of shame,” with the 
crowd surrounding the main character and voicing their collective 
disdain. At the same time, the Soviet architect appears more as a 
bureaucrat than a creative figure, and neither he nor the other workers 
function as positive exemplars. They, too, become objects of satire, 
suggesting that their collective behavior represents persecution rather 
LAUGHING WITH ANTIQUITY IN SOVIET ANIMATION 225
than justice – an impression reinforced by its echoes of executions 
across different historical periods. From this perspective, the film recalls 
the Soviet hit Afonia (directed by Georgy Daneliya, 1975), in which 
the main character, publicly shamed by colleagues for mis behavior, 
alcoholism, and neglect of duties – all highly topical themes at the 
time, as Vorobyeva demonstrated – elicits strong audience sympathy. 
In both cases, the figures of the collective or “righteous” individuals 
appear far less vivid or appealing than the protagonist.
We may conclude that, as a humorous piece, Slapdash was de­
signed to ridicule the negligent worker, shaming similar individuals 
and discouraging careless behavior. Laughter functions as a tool of 
social correction, symbolically excluding the flawed worker from 
the community of diligent professionals and reinforcing a standard 
of conscientious labor. At the same time, the film subtly criticizes 
Soviet oversight, exposing empty bureaucratic procedures and a lack 
of genuine motivation or appreciation for work. Symbolically, the 
 building the worker was assigned to construct – and failed to complete 
correctly, a small beer stand – reflects the deeper, systemic problems 
faced by Soviet workers of the time:  grand ideological promises cla­
shing with trivial, poorly planned projects; shoddy workmanship; and 
everyday labor redirected toward minor, consumptive tasks rather 
than  meaningful social needs. In miniature, the unfinished kiosk 
humorously embodies a system in which responsibility is loudly 
proclaimed, but the tools, resources, and conditions to realize it are 
consistently lacking.
CONCLUSIONS
The animated films discussed here were created across various 
Soviet republics and engage with classical mythology as a shared 
cultural foundation. Despite their regional diversity, it is challen­
ging to identify significant differences in how they treat antiquity. 
This similarity can be explained by a common intellectual tradition 
rooted in European­style education, which continued to shape the 
creative imagination of Soviet artists long after the formal structures 
of classical learning had disappeared.
None of these films aims for a faithful retelling of ancient myths. 
Unlike other Soviet animations inspired by classical mythology – 
for instance, the cycle directed by Aleksandra Snezhko Blotskaia, 
whose primary goal is to narrate the myth – the works discussed 
here use myth as a flexible narrative framework for commenting on 
contemporary life. Each work employs satire to address specific social 
HANNA PAULOUSKAYA226
flaws or cultural phenomena, yet often contains additional, more 
ambiguous layers of meaning that could be read as veiled commen­
tary on the Soviet system itself. This polyphonic quality turns each 
film into a kind of palimpsest – open to multiple interpretations 
depending on the viewer’s experience, knowledge, and sensibility.
For most of these works, no prior knowledge of classical mytho­
logy is required to follow the plot or grasp the central message. 
An exception may be Pygmalion by Arnolds Burovs, where deeper 
engagement with Ovid’s text enriches the interpretive possibilities. 
The majority of Soviet satirical films were aimed at adult audiences, 
reflecting the genre’s intellectual nature, while even the ostensibly 
children’s films or films for crossover audiences depart from sim­
ple didacticism, inviting reflection on creativity, conformity, and 
personal freedom.
Visually, the hand­drawn films share a distinctive stylistic sim­
plicity, with minimal detail and precise lines that focus attention 
on key ideas and emotions rather than elaborate depiction. This 
economy of form strengthens their allegorical and conceptual 
 char acter, allowing the visual language to serve as a direct expression 
of the film’s central idea.
Taken together, these animated reinterpretations of antiquity 
reveal how the classical past functioned not as a static cultural 
inheritance, but as a living and adaptable medium for exploring 
Soviet modernity – its contradictions, ideals, and subtle forms of 
resistance. Through humor, irony, and invention, the animators 
transformed myth into a mirror of their own time, rendering the 
ancient world a space for reflection, critique, and creative freedom.
LAUGHING WITH ANTIQUITY IN SOVIET ANIMATION 227
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Filmography
Argonavtebi / Kolkhida [The Argonauts / Colchis]. Director: Lado 
Mujiri. USSR 1936. Georgian State Film Industry. Available online: 
Georgian version available online at https://archive.gov.ge/en/
lado­gudiashvili­125­1; Russian version available online at https://
www.culture.ru/live/movies/19066/argonavty­kolkhida.
Ikar i mudretsy [Icarus and the Sages]. Director: Fyodor Khitruk. 
USSR 1976. Soyuzmultfilm. Available online on YouTube.
Pygmalion. Director: Arnolds Burovs. USSR 1967. Riga Film Studio. 
Available online at en.kinorium.com.
Tiap-Lyap [Slapdash]. Director Volodymyr Honcharov. USSR 1977. Kyiv­
NaukFilm studio. Available online at https://youtu.be/fawd4DEPazo.
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ABSTRACT
Satirical and parodic animation – one of the prominent genres in 
Soviet film production – frequently drew on classical antiquity. Greek 
and Roman mythology provided not only narrative frameworks but 
also culturally familiar symbols through which animators could ad­
dress social vices, ideological contradictions, and collective anxieties. 
This paper examines four case studies produced in Georgia, Latvia, 
Russia, and Ukraine: one from 1936 and three from the late 1960s 
and 1970s. These films either adapt specific ancient myths or engage 
more broadly with the idea of ancient civilization, demonstrating the 
diverse strategies through which classical heritage was appropriated 
across different Soviet republics. Although antiquity itself is never the 
object of satire, the comic effect relies on a shared cultural repertoire, 
including the audience’s general familiarity with mythological themes. 
By juxtaposing the 1936 production with films from the 1960s and 1970s, 
the study traces the shifting functions of classical material in Soviet 
animation and highlights the medium’s capacity to negotiate contem­
porary concerns through humorous reworkings of the ancient past.
keywoRdS: classical reception studies, Soviet animation, satirical 
films, Greek and Roman mythology, parody
LAUGHING WITH ANTIQUITY IN SOVIET ANIMATION 231
Smejanje z antiko v sovjetski animaciji
IZVLEČEK
Satira in parodija v animiranem filmu – ki je bil eden pomembnejših 
žanrov v sovjetski filmski produkciji – sta pogosto črpali iz klasične 
antike. Grška in rimska mitologija sta zagotavljali ne le pripovedne 
okvire, temveč tudi kulturno prepoznavne simbole, s katerimi so 
animatorji lahko obravnavali družbene slabosti, ideološka protislovja 
in kolektivne strahove. Članek obravnava štiri primere, posnete v 
Gruziji, Latviji, Rusiji in Ukrajini: enega iz leta 1936 in tri iz poznih 
1960­ih in 1970­ih. Ti filmi bodisi prilagajajo določene antične mite 
bodisi se posvečajo širši ideji antične civilizacije, pri čemer prikazujejo 
raznolike strategije odnosa do klasičnega izročila v različnih sovjet­
skih republikah. Čeprav antika sama po sebi nikoli ni predmet satire, 
temelji komični učinek na skupnem kulturnem repertoarju ter na 
splošni prepoznavnosti mitoloških tem s strani občinstva. S primerjavo 
produkcije iz leta 1936 s filmi iz 60. in 70. let 20. stoletja razprava sledi 
spreminjajočim se funkcijam klasičnega izročila v sovjetski animaciji 
in poudarja zmožnost medija za obravnavo sodobnih vprašanj prek 
humornih predelav antične preteklosti.
ključne beSede: klasična recepcija, sovjetska animacija, satirični 
filmi, grška in rimska mitologija, parodija