Navalny, Putin, & Russia's Human Rights Crisis

How the 2022 documentary Navalny can deepen our understanding of Russia’s politics today. Written by Lauren D. Woods.

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When I saw the recent news about Russian opposition leader Alexei Navalny’s heavily policed funeral in Moscow, I couldn’t help but think of a particular scene in the 2022 documentary Navalny, when Navalny returns to Russia after a long recovery in Germany, following his attempted murder by Russian President Vladimir Putin’s operatives. As Navalny’s plane prepares to descend, a crowd is already swelling at the airport, at risk to their own safety, waiting for Navalny’s return. This, of course, was well before Navalny’s death on February 16 of this year, while serving a nineteen-year prison sentence in an Artic prison.

The crowds that thronged to see Navalny at the airport when the documentary was filmed were a moving sight, and equally so were the crowds that turned out for Navalny’s March 1 funeral, defying the Kremlin’s warnings against unauthorized memorials. The footage was emotional, and even more so because I had recently seen the documentary. This is, of course, what art can do for foreign policy, bringing empathy and understanding to the broader world, and equally, what foreign policy can do for art, connecting it with urgent issues.

I’ll admit I’m probably the perfect audience for this documentary. Having spent most of my career in foreign policy, I’m a junkie for human rights documentaries, and most of all anything to do with collective action and individual bravery. Or, it might have something to do with seeing corruption and injustice played out in the news day after day, and longing for the stories of heroes to take it on and stand up against this shit.

All of that is to say the 2022 Oscar-nominated documentary is incredible, and if you haven’t seen it already, I highly recommend it. In the first scene, Canadian film director, Daniel Roher, asks Navalny, if he is arrested, or even killed, what message he would leave behind to the Russian people. Navalny is seated at a bar or restaurant, which is empty behind him. The camera is zoomed close to him, his blue eyes, a blue cardigan over a buttoned-down shirt, looking like a Russian Mr. Rogers. Navalny says, no way, that it feels like you’re making a movie in case of my death. He adds, “They are offended because they tried to kill me and I survived.”

The documentary follows Navany after the first attempt on his life, when, in 2020, Navalny was poisoned with a military-grade nerve agent. Roher captures moments of levity and poignancy throughout.

Navalny is frequently funny. When he travels to Siberia to produce a film on corruption, he jokes about not being followed. He says, “Are you kidding me?” He quips that it’s a lack of respect. But then when he is poisoned, and the plane makes an emergency landing, the seriousness of his situation and his incredible story are all captured on film, as is the Russian government’s unmistakable involvement in the assassination attempt.

Throughout the news clips shown in the documentary, the Russian government refuses to say Navalny’s name. Putin refers to him as “that person,” “that character.” The feel is at once dystopian, and yet the lived reality in Russia . . .