Imagine a classroom where children are taught to march in unison, sing songs of sunshine, and then abruptly learn to identify landmines—all while their teachers are forced to comply with a government-mandated curriculum designed to mold young minds into loyal supporters of a war. This is the chilling reality exposed in the Oscar-nominated documentary Mr Nobody Against Putin, a film that has sparked both admiration and outrage. But here’s where it gets controversial: while the film has been celebrated internationally, it has been virtually erased from Russian state media, leaving many to wonder just how far a government will go to control its narrative—and its people.
In the small industrial town of Karabash in the Urals, students at School No. 1 have had to resort to bootleg copies of the documentary, watching it secretly on their phones or laptops. The film, co-directed by school teacher Pavel Talankin, offers a rare glimpse into Russia’s propaganda machine as it targets primary schoolchildren. Talankin spent two and a half years documenting the rollout of a patriotic education program aimed at turning students into enthusiasts of Putin and supporters of the war in Ukraine. His footage reveals a disturbing transformation: children initially bored and confused by the lessons gradually internalizing the state’s messaging. From singing innocent choruses about sunshine to reciting government scripts about ‘denazification’ and ‘demilitarisation,’ the shift is both subtle and alarming.
And this is the part most people miss: the documentary doesn’t just expose the propaganda; it highlights the human cost. Talankin’s camera captures the strain on teachers, who are forced to comply with the curriculum or risk losing their jobs. In one poignant scene, the head teacher admits she would be fired if she stopped teaching the mandated material. ‘It’s impossible to get inside Russian schools with a camera,’ Talankin notes, ‘so to hear her say that makes this the film’s most important scene.’
The impact of this indoctrination extends beyond the classroom. Children participate in grenade-throwing competitions instead of regular sports, and at home, they watch TV shows where soldiers discuss killing Ukrainians ‘out of love for our own children.’ Talankin, now 34, reflects on the effectiveness of the propaganda: ‘The state spends a lot of money on it; they wouldn’t bother if it didn’t work.’
But the film’s reach hasn’t been without consequences. Talankin has faced threats from some parents in Karabash, who warned, ‘We will break your knees next time we see you.’ Others have expressed gratitude for exposing the truth. When local officials learned the film was circulating, FSB agents visited the school, instructing staff to deny its existence and avoid any discussion. Here’s the bold question: Is this a desperate attempt to suppress the truth, or a necessary measure to maintain order? We’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.
Talankin’s personal sacrifice cannot be overstated. He fled Russia, leaving behind his family and the only life he’s ever known, to avoid arrest under repressive anti-treason laws. His involvement in the documentary risked life imprisonment, but he believes it was worth it. ‘It’s better to talk about problems than be silent about them,’ he says. His co-director, David Borenstein, praised Talankin’s bravery in his BAFTA acceptance speech, calling him ‘not Mr Nobody,’ but a symbol of resistance against totalitarianism.
As the film heads to the Oscars, Talankin hopes it will awaken more Russians to the reality of their education system. ‘Putin’s government is creating a generation loyal to his politics,’ he warns. ‘In 10 or 15 years, a new wave of pro-Putin loyalists will emerge.’ But here’s the real question: Can a documentary truly challenge a state’s grip on its citizens’ minds? And if so, at what cost? Let us know what you think—this conversation is far from over.
