Daniel Dznuni: The Interrupted Flight, Part 2

The Flight

From the very beginning of his career, Armenia’s first and only cinema mogul, Daniel Dznuni envisioned what an ideal cinema monopoly should be. It should comprise a production base (film studio), a distribution department, theaters throughout Armenia and, finally, a construction company to build cinemas, pavilions, housing for employees, and other structures and complexes for Armenkino’s (Armenfilm) needs. As a result of three years of work, a power of attorney, which he had secured in 1926 according to which he had the right to manage all the affairs of Armenfilm, the Armenian SSR’s sole film production unit, was reinstated. Dznuni was gradually building a state within a state, an independent enclave of culture and a free spirit. 

However, in the mid-1920s, the primary challenge revolved around assembling film crews. Dznuni sought out talented individuals from across the USSR, uniting those who had come to Armenia during the migration waves of the 1910s and 1920s, including Armenians, Russians, Germans, Ukrainians, Jews and many others. Knowing that a successful movie is based on a good story, Dznuni invited the best writers of the time to work on screenplays. They included such august names as Axel Bakunts, Yeghishe Charents, Yeghia Chubar, Derenik Demirchyan, Nairi Zaryan, as well as now-forgotten figures like Zabil Grigoryan.

Amo Bek-Nazarov, who was working in Tbilisi at that time, recalled in his memoirs how Dznuni invited him to work in Armenia: “Once, while working on ‘Missing Treasures’, the head of the State Photo Bureau of Armenia Daniel Martinovich Dznuni came to Manglis, where we were shooting on location. He came specifically with the aim to invite me to work in Yerevan to establish film production there. Coming from Dznuni’s lips – a man of enthusiasm who knows how to captivate others – the prospect of creating a film industry in Armenia appeared promising. The opening of a new studio, a trip abroad to buy modern equipment – all this looked like a tangible reality.” Bek-Nazarov agreed, and together with Dznuni, they created the first Armenian feature film “Namus”. An adaptation of Alexander Shirvanzade’s famous novella about parochial Armenian customs, the film was set in the 19th century and had no relation to modern or revolutionary subject matter, but that’s what Dznuni and Bek-Nazarov chose. 

There was no one to oppose them –  Dznuni was, after all, the only managing director of the film industry in Armenian cinema. Having burst onto the screens of the USSR in 1926, “Namus” broke box office records, managing to curb the murmurs of criticism from the party-nomenclature, who complained about the “ethnographic” and “non-ideological” nature of the film – accusations that would escalate tragically in the 1930s.   

Another component of the Dznuni cinema enterprise was the official representation of Armenfilm in Persia. It launched in 1926 and immediately began to compete with the main Soviet rental office Sovkino. The conflict between the permanent representative of Armenfilm, Yero Kharazyan, an adventurer with an excellent entrepreneurial streak, and the Soviet party functionary Comrade Nazarov occupies half of the Dznuni archive volume and is worthy of a picaresque novel in its own right. Kharazyan attracted local investments, added funds to Armenfilm, and built several cinemas. He also rented halls and brought Armenian, Soviet and foreign films to cities and large working-class settlements. Among these, Pahlavi, Tehran and Rasht were the three cities that Yero focused on. 

On June 24, 1926, he wrote another report in the spirit of the best chapters of “The Master and Margarita”: 

“… That it is possible to work in Persia, there is no doubt. It should be noted that the cinema business in Persia before our arrival was random, although the owners of theaters spent a huge amount of money. For example, the first cinema in Tehran at the Grand Hotel doesn’t agree with us in any way and doesn’t want to pay more than 15-20% for showing our films, despite promising 30%. By doing this, he wants to bring down the price of our films and thus, in general, our work. The Armenian Club and others give 30-35%. In order to bring the owner of the Grand Hotel to reason and finish his ugly antics, I convinced the landlord opposite the Grand Hotel with a large hall to open a cinema. He agreed to equip the premises at his own expense, and I, in turn, undertook to supply him with films at 35% of foreign currency income. Upon learning this, the owner of the Grand Hotel sent a broker to me and offered 200 tumans ($6000 today) of compensation, but alas, it was too late. This is the proof that the business is profitable and it is possible to work”.

Kharazyan created film programs based on the commercial principle – rental should bring income. He fulfills the mission assigned to him – to promote Armenian cinema and earn money. But Sovkino and Nazarov accuse Kharazyan of ignoring Soviet ideological framing. For example, the 1925 documentary Soviet Armenia was shown as “Views of Armenia”. Yero replied resentfully: “That’s right, it was advertised as ‘Views of Armenia’, but was screened as ‘Soviet Armenia’. It should be noted that this is not Europe; in any case, it is a colonized country, and what is permissible in Paris or London is by no means allowed in Persia. While watching the film Soviet Armenia in Pahlavi (I personally showed it to the authorities), where a five-pointed star is shown from the lake, I shielded the movie projector with my hand. The authorities found it acceptable, and then it was screened as it really is.” Namus was also wildly successful, but Nazarov reports, “in the incoming information and letters about the life of Armenians abroad, in particular in Persia, there is an indication that with the exception of the film ‘Soviet Armenia’, which is a great success, all the other movies are ‘trash that needs to be burned.’” 

Kharazyan claimed that he would soon go on tour with “Namus” and other Armenian films to Baghdad, Calcutta, Bombay, Port Said, Alexandria, Jerusalem, Damascus and Aleppo. But in a “friendly” letter to Dzuni, Nazarov accuses him of having too much confidence in this “thief and scoundrel”. 

This conflict provoked the first major crisis in Daniel Dznuni’s career and an audit of the activities of Armenfilm. From detailed reports, we know that in 1926 to 1927, 96 people were permanently employed at Armenfilm. By 1929, that number had increased to 132. A total of 302,674 rubles (more than $2 million today) were spent to pay for their work and by 1929, Armenfilm boasted one film factory, a distribution office, a representative office and three theaters (Yerevan, Gyumri, and Vanadzor). A cinema theater construction program was gradually implemented, with the help of outstanding architects. Gevorg Kochar, an old friend from the Nersesyan Seminary, began designing a cinema town on Dznuni’s instructions: studios, pavilions, office premises, and residential buildings – just like in Hollywood. The project, like many of Dznuni’s dreams, remained only on draft boards and in Kochar’s notebooks. The architect’s rise was interrupted at the same time Daniel Dznuni was ousted from his position – in 1937. 

Among other things, Dznuni’s detractors accused him of excessive and inexplicable patronage of Bek-Nazarov. Rumors turned into formal accusations that at the “Mayovka” (May Day) celebration, which was usually held in the countryside, Dznuni, Bek-Nazarov and “others” “after dark, under the bushes had intercourse with women taking part in Mayovka.” Dznuni didn’t attempt to defend himself; instead he fought desperately. And he kept working.

The Denunciation 

On October 11, 1936, a memorandum was submitted to the People’s Commissariat of Finance of Armenia. 

On 11 pages of typewritten text, the author – director of the production department of Armenfilm Manuk Babloyan – armed with facts, figures and quotes, reported on the “sabotaging” work of the cinema’s directorate. Although Babloyan didn’t address this to the NKVD (People’s Commissariat of Internal Affairs), this was, in fact, a denunciation of his boss, Daniel Dznuni. The millstones of the system began their terrible grinding, a process that could not be stopped. 

An audit found financial irregularities and the state security services took up the case. No matter how much Dznuni and his other colleagues under investigation explained that cinema has its own unique management system, the bloody system tarred everyone with the same brush. Whether Babloyan just wanted to get out from under his boss’s control or was eager to take his chair is unclear, but the matter took a grave turn when the phrases “right-Trotskyist organization” and “nationalist terrorist group” were circulated. 

The names of the already repressed Bakunts, Totovents, Charents, and most importantly, the first secretary of the Communist Party of Armenia, Aghasi Khanjyan, shot dead in Beria’s office, were mentioned. Dznuni’s close friendship with him proved to be fatal. In the autumn of 1937, he was arrested and immediately stripped of his rights – his party ticket, orders and medals were taken away, and his furniture was confiscated. 

Conscientiously compiled documents flowed from the NKVD to the Prosecutor’s Office, from the Prosecutor’s Office to the City Party Committee, and back again. These documents contained volumes of interrogations, reflecting hours, months, and years of a human life wasted and stripped from the creative process. Between the lines, there was pain, shattered hopes, broken teeth and fractured ribs. 

On May 31, 1939, the Military Tribunal of the Transcaucasian Military District sentenced Daniel Dznuni tо 15 years in prison. Without a doubt, the golden age of Armenian cinema came to an end at this point, although the story of Daniel Dznuni continued.

The End of the Movie Mogul 

“Higher forces” intervened in the fate of Dznuni, most likely in the form of a good friend from the Nersesyan Seminary, the influential Anastas Mikoyan. In any case, the decision of the Judicial Board for Criminal Cases of the Supreme Court of the USSR of May 2, 1942, altered the sentence, reducing it to eight years in prison. But that wasn’t all. In July 1943, Dznuni was released early and subsequently fully acquitted. He returned to Yerevan, re-established himself as an archivist and historian, but never worked in cinema again, although he lived for a long time at the address of the film studio he created – 2 Teryan Street. What was it like to see his beloved child every day and not be able to affect its development directly? The new generation of cinematographers came, showed projects and consulted with him in secret, thus reaffirming Dznuni’s esteemed authority as the first Armenian producer. But this is a script for a different story. 

This article is based on the documents of the National Archive of Armenia, Yegishe Charents Museum of Literature and Art and Alexander Tamanyan National Museum-Institute of Architecture

Part 1 of this article was published in our magazine issue dedicated to the 100th anniversary of Armenian cinema. 

Part 1

Magazine Issue N29