John Saxon, a name synonymous with rugged charisma and a prolific acting career, found himself in a truly unique situation while filming “Jonathan of the Bears.” This wasn’t your typical Hollywood set; it was a Russian army base in 1991, a time of immense upheaval and uncertainty in the nation. As Saxon himself recounted, this experience was far from ordinary, offering a glimpse into a Russia grappling with change and a film production operating under extraordinary circumstances.
The location itself was a stark reminder of the era’s turmoil. Imagine tanks, the very same tanks that had rolled out to defend Yeltsin during the tumultuous events of 1991, stationed at the army base that served as the backdrop for “Jonathan of the Bears.” Russia was in a state of flux, and this instability permeated every aspect of life, including filmmaking. Saxon described a scene where anyone with hard currency held considerable sway. Amidst this backdrop, a resourceful Russian entrepreneur had constructed a Western village set within the army base for the movie. However, this wasn’t just a flimsy facade. These were solid structures built with timber, complete with plumbing and electricity, showcasing a surprising level of investment despite the surrounding chaos.
Yet, the lines between film set and reality often blurred in bizarre ways. Saxon recalled instances of crew members encountering intoxicated individuals sleeping in the very rooms of the constructed Western village. Security was practically non-existent; anyone could wander onto the base, a stark contrast to the tightly controlled sets typical in Hollywood. The sounds of machine gun fire were commonplace, a constant reminder of the military presence as soldiers engaged in drills nearby.
This proximity to military activity wasn’t just background noise; it became an integral part of the experience. One day, a crew member, with connections to the base’s captain, extended an unusual invitation: to join the soldiers for some live-fire exercises. Saxon and others ventured to a range about a thousand yards away, where they met the captain and his young, seemingly underfed soldiers. In a surreal moment, the captain, recognizing Saxon, handed him an AK-47. The experience escalated as the captain then presented an anti-tank missile. Saxon, concerned about his eyesight and the proximity of the film set, cautiously declined to fire the missile himself, but his friend took the opportunity. Interestingly, Saxon, even without his glasses, outperformed the soldiers in marksmanship, a poignant observation on their apparent lack of resources and perhaps morale. In a gesture of goodwill, Saxon offered the captain ten dollars, reflecting on the era’s economic realities where even small amounts of money held significant value. He quipped that a larger sum might have even secured him an AK-47, highlighting the almost transactional nature of the environment. This anecdote vividly paints a picture of a Russia where anything seemed obtainable for the right price, a sentiment further underscored by the story of the mobster “Tarzan” attempting to purchase a submarine for a drug cartel with a simple phone call and the nonchalant Russian response: “What kind would you like?”
“Jonathan of the Bears” wasn’t Saxon’s only foray into Russian filmmaking during this period. Prior to that, in 1992, he participated in another ambitious, albeit ill-fated, production. An Italian company embarked on creating two TV series: remakes of “And Quiet Flows the Don” and “Genghis Khan.” Saxon was cast in “Genghis Khan,” a project that, despite significant investment, never saw the light of day. The funding for these productions originated from dubious sources in Italy, and as filming progressed, so did the shadows of organized crime. In October 1992, a major crackdown on the mafia occurred, abruptly cutting off the financial lifeline to the film projects. Millions had already been spent, possibly exceeding forty million dollars across both productions, yet the money vanished before completion.
Filming for “Genghis Khan” took place in Kyrgyzstan, bordering Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan, further emphasizing the remote and somewhat lawless atmosphere. The individuals overseeing the production, purportedly producers, displayed a startling lack of filmmaking expertise. Saxon described a woman in charge, seemingly appointed through connections rather than competence, who adopted a theatrical “dragon lady” persona, complete with a cigarette holder and entourage, yet utterly clueless about movie production. When Saxon attempted to engage with a senior Italian figure, he was met with annoyance and suspicion. The Italian producer boasted about “big stars” like Al Pacino and Robert De Niro, yet struggled to name any other actors involved, revealing a profound ignorance of the film industry. Adding to the air of mystery, a man would periodically arrive with a suitcase full of cash, leaving the true purpose of the money, and indeed the entire production, shrouded in ambiguity. Saxon even recounted seeing a crate labeled “Film. Do not open!”, fueling speculation about the clandestine activities possibly underlying the entire endeavor.
Rupert Everett, who was involved in one of these productions, later voiced his suspicions in a British newspaper interview, suggesting the funding was based on counterfeit money. His experience, like Saxon’s, was marked by bitterness and disillusionment. Sergey Bondarchuk, a renowned Russian director who helmed Everett’s film, reportedly poured his heart and soul into the project only to see it collapse, a tragedy his widow attributed to the unscrupulous Italian producers.
John Saxon’s anecdotes from these Russian film sets offer a captivating and unusual perspective on filmmaking, particularly in the context of a rapidly changing post-Soviet landscape. They are tales of resilience, absurdity, and a stark reminder of the unpredictable nature of life and art when colliding with real-world chaos.
