A Spy Poisoned and A Mission Fufilled Through Film

“If anything should happen to me, I beg you to show this tape to the whole world,” states Alexander Litvinenko on screen. His face looks healthy and alive, standing in stark contrast to the pallid complexion he wears as he lies on his deathbed in a London hospital. Andrei Nekrasov has fulfilled the wish of his now-deceased friend in making the new documentary Poisoned by Polonium. Through the lens of Litvinenko’s very public death, Nekrasov examines the recent, sordid history of Russia and the corruption of a near-totalitarian government.

Alexander Litvinenko, a former Russian spy, died in November 2006 after ingesting a fatal dose of the radioactive chemical polonium, slipped into his tea during a meeting. The Russian government, under Vladimir Putin, vehemently denied accusations of guilt for Litvinenko’s death. In the film, which is both a tribute to Litvinenko and a polemic against the Putin administration, Nekrasov makes a nearly impenetrable argument against the regime, which it portrays through both contemporary and historical film segments.

After serving in the KGB—referred to as the FSB in the film—from 1986 to 1998, Litvinenko became an outspoken critic of the Russian government. He published two books criticizing the government’s tactics and the Putin’s coup d’etat of the FSB, thus earning the ire of both the FSB and the higher authority.

In 1999, while America fretted about an upcoming election and the sex life of an outgoing president, the country remained all but oblivious to a violent struggle going on in Moscow. Nekrasov repeatedly focuses on the Chechen rebellion as a large-scale example of the governmental corruption exemplified by Litvinenko’s murder. Viewers, beware—the gory footage of a group of Moscow bombings could very well make you cringe at the horrific sights of mourners gathering around the prostrated bodies of dead children. Litvinenko, then already blacklisted by the FSB, publicly accused the Kremlin of executing the large-scale bombing of a Moscow apartment building, a crime they pinned on Chechen terrorists.

Shot in an unsteady, dizzying cinematographic style, Poisoned by Polonium represents a deeply personal saga for Nekrasov, who, in fact, became a target in the process of making the film. He spent five months in London after Litvinenko’s untimely demise, investigating the incident and wrapping up loose ends. When he returned to Russia in April 2007, he found his apartment in ruins—broken glass scattered everywhere, his possessions carelessly strewn about. It was the Kremlin’s not-so-subtle hint that they did not want him interfering.

The chilling tape that became the impetus for the film showcases Litvinenko’s premonition of his own death. He knew of the danger with which he toyed as he spoke out against a dangerous regime. The specter of Vladimir Putin hangs over the whole film, a menace threatening to collapse the democratic façade shown by the government to the rest of the world. Nekrasov successfully reveals this façade in all its artificiality. Both horrifying and heart-wrenching, Poisoned by Polonium mixes clips from Russian television with profoundly personal footage shot by Nekrasov’s own shaky hand. He shows Litvinenko lying in the hospital, mere days away from death, as he sat keeping watch; an incredibly moving monologue by Litvinenko’s mourning widow, Marina; and television clips of that threatening man, Vladimir Putin. Putin taunts the Litvinenkos on television just a few days after the murder, saying, “Mr. Litvinenko is unfortunately not Lazarus.”

The whole saga could have been derived from a former age, but it happened just a few years ago. Poisoned by Polonium takes a turn from typical documentary style, with its mélange of history and narration forming an intimate tribute to a dead man as well as a warning for the future of a powerful country.