We’re in the Latvian capital in 1979. A young man enters the public toilets, takes a good look around him, and speaks to a man using the urinals. He moves closer to him and asks… if he can buy his jeans! This introductory scene contains all the key ingredients of Soviet Jeans, the first Latvian series ever to walk the purple carpet at Series Mania which was presented in the festival’s International Panorama section (where Kārlis Arnolds Avots was honoured as Best Actor for his performance in this series, which also walked away with the Audience Award – read our news). Created by Stanislavs Tokalovs, Teodora Markova and Waldemar Kalinovskila, and directed by Stanislavs Tokalovs and Juris Kursietis, Soviet Jeans gently mocks the absurd behaviour observed under the Communist regime and the urgency of a young and evolving generation who nonchalantly respond positively to calls for insubordination.

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There’s a little of Good Bye Lenin! [+lee también:
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entrevista: Wolfgang Becker
ficha de la película] in Soviet Jeans, which tells the story of a young Latvian man dreaming of freedom, rock and denim trousers in Riga, twelve years before his country’s independence. Renars (Kārlis Arnolds Avots) works as a costume designer in Riga’s public theatre, but he also gets by on wheeler-dealing in prohibited western products. There’d be no real risk to it, if it weren’t for Maris (Igors Selegovkis), a young and ambitious KGB agent who threatens to report Renars’ little side business unless he turns informant. Ultimately, Renars avoids him as best he can, and even strikes up a romance with Tina (Aamu Milnoff), a Finnish director who’s invited to the theatre for a three-month residency.

But where do jeans fit in, in all of this? The series is bold enough to take all the time it needs to set up the backdrop to the story (the surrealist duality of a restrictive society and the thirst for forbidden romance), waiting until the second episode to reveal the crux of the plot: Maris detains Renars in a psychiatric hospital where inconvenient citizens are sent, where jeans are manufactured illegally, and where fellow detainees help the latter pull through.

On paper, it’s a bit long-winded: a historical romance turning into a jailbreak story half-way through, whose characters all increase two-fold in the process. But Soviet Jeans doesn’t seem to care about the writing codes governing series, which require first episodes to act as overall introductions to works, and to ultimately convey their heart and soul. Similarly, the mise en scene is more evocative of cinema than TV or streaming platforms, the handheld camera doesn’t shy away from movement or scope, and the copious décor runs counter to the economies of scale usually needed to stagger a story over several episodes.

So what is it exactly that glues these many components together? Charm, in spades! Firstly, in terms of the acting, where the chemistry characterising the first episode totally convinces us of this romance between two people kept apart by bars. But also in the bittersweet humour that comes out of Soviet occupation, where you do without smuggled coffee, pay cops to let you drink alcohol in peace, use a gym as a secret hideout, and where the Walkman is the physical embodiment of the future. And that’s without forgetting automatic food mixers, which are so forbidden it’s positively thrilling! The series’ attractive, matt colours and retro outfits could almost tempt us into nostalgia, if it weren’t for the all-encompassing danger that comes with a life lived under constant supervision, a danger which continually hovers over the story and governs the ups and downs of this series which isn’t afraid of compromising dilemmas.

In this sense, Soviet Jeans proved a revelation and a surprise hit at Series Mania. Following the screening of its first two episodes, the series primarily stands out for its free form and unabashed familiarity.

Soviet Jeans is produced by Tasse Film and broadcast by GO3.