Growing Up on Russian Gangster Movies

‘Your father wasn’t a criminal, but he really wanted to be one.’

Sasha White is more than just a movie character: he’s a figure of modern Russian lore, the embodiment of authority, power, and masculinity. He’s someone every boy adored and wanted to be.

If you watch enough American TV, it’s easy to assume that most families follow the same old routine. They go to soccer games together, travel, go on hikes, picnics, play catch, or celebrate kids’ birthdays in the green backyard by the pool, parents sipping cold Coronas and spreading gossip about neighbours, hotdogs steaming on a BBQ.

One of the guys is always fat, always named Bob, and always wears a Hawaiian shirt with a ketchup stain on the chest. The conversation always goes like this:

“Dude, last night’s game was awesome!”

“I know, right? Honey, would you get us more chips? And there’s more beer in the cooler!”

In my family, we never did any of those things. There were no picnics, no BBQs, no park hikes — at least not while we lived in Moscow, where it snows nine months out of twelve, and the winters are dark and depressing.

My father’s idea of quality time with his family was watching TV. And not just any TV, but films about Russian criminals in the 1990s.

These were movies filled with violence, crime, theft, bribery, and background music that stays with you forever, making the hairs on your arms stand straight every time you hear it on the radio.

People give me wide-eyed looks when I say that. But these are some of the most cherished memories I have of my family.

When it happened, it happened the same way. After the dinner dishes were put in the sink, we would cuddle on the couch in front of the TV — Kate and I on one side, empty-handed, my parents on the other side, glasses of red wine in hand, boxes of Milka chocolate on the coffee table. My father had a thing for Milka.

“Back in the USSR, the only chocolate available was this disgusting ninety-percent crap that makes your tongue swell,” he said. “This,” he continued, munching a piece, shaking another one with his thumb and index finger as if to prove a point, “is something else entirely.”

The choice of what to watch was never ours. Dad simply put something on, and the three of us — Mom, Kate, and I — had to accept whatever it was.