The short documentary We Used to Sing (30 minutes) is available at the top of the page.
The short documentary We Used to Sing, directed by Lidia Morozov in 2021, takes place almost entirely within the confines of a single apartment. This setting is introduced before we meet its residents. The film opens with a static shot of a window which, like the film itself, might mistakenly be perceived as simple. In fact, it is a multi-layered composition: a window within a window, creating a telescope of frames. In the foreground lies a dim, silent room; in the background, beyond the bars, sunlight flickers through leaves that rustle in the breeze.
The visual distance between the interior and exterior conveyed in the opening shot emerges as a defining element of We Used to Sing, serving as a metaphor for one of the filmโs central conflicts: the separation between the apartmentโs residents and the outside world that surrounds them, divided by bars and shutters that simultaneously protect and confine.
The apartment is home to Morozovโs grandmother and mother, Anna, with Morozov herself also seen staying there. The three of them and Morozovโs older sister, Mila, emigrated from Moscow to Israel when Morozov was a young child. In Moscow, they led lives she can barely remember. Now, Morozovโs grandmother and mother share the apartment, which, as we later learn, the grandmother hasnโt left in months. She confides to Morozov that she has never adjusted to life in Israel. Moscow, she recalls, was more beautiful; all family members attended university, and she and Anna ran a physical therapy clinic together. For her daughterโs wedding, she even brought jars of black caviar. In Moscow, they had everything they needed; here, nothing remains of the life they once knew. The hot weather in Israel doesnโt suit her, nor does the culture or mentality. โShe learned to accept life here,โ she says about her daughter Anna, โI cannot.โ
Similar to the layered composition of the opening shot, Morozov skillfully creates a film that itself reflects the multiple layers in the lives of her mother and grandmother, as well as their complex relationships with one another, with the place they inhabit, and with Morozov herself. The portraits she creates are ambiguous and elusive, shifting between intimacy and suffocation. They are pieced together from moments of laughter, spiteful remarks, and loaded silences, including her own, as she switches on a single light to listen to a nighttime argument between her mother and grandmother or opens a window to gaze out at the distant surroundings. Meanwhile, Morozov weaves together the story of the women in her family across three layers of time: she presents their daily routines within the apartment with barred windows, delves into their hazy past through conversations about their reasons for immigrating to Israel and the grandmotherโs refusal to leave the house, and raises questions about their fears for the future.
In portraying the present, Morozov weaves a daily pattern of rituals that seem endless: sweeping, chopping vegetables, cooking, dyeing hair and eyebrows, folding laundry, applying cosmetic treatments, and searching for a jewelry box. These tasks, traditionally linked to femininity, merge into a distinct female-centric reality, isolated from Israeli culture outside the apartment walls. This reality is difficult to label as utopian, as the absence of men raises questions about whether it is a matter of choice or circumstance. Nevertheless, it creates a closed community of women where personal groomingโviewed by Morozovโs mother as an essential duty of femininityโbecomes a cultural ritual performed exclusively by and for themselves.
In its representation of a feminine domestic daily routine, We Used to Sing engages in dialogue with other films that depict similar worlds. Among these is the iconic documentary “Grey Gardens” (1975) by the Maysles brothers, which explores the lives of a mother and daughter with aristocratic roots, living together in a decaying mansion where they spend their days engaged in bitter arguments and reminiscing about their lost grandeur. Like the women of “Grey Gardens”, Morozovโs mother and grandmother are unattached, sharing a profound mutual dependence that is punctuated by disputes (though far gentler than those in “Grey Gardens”). The grandmother reveals that she never married in Israel because she was preoccupied with supporting her daughter, Morozovโs mother. The mother, in turn, explains that she avoids dating because her time is consumed by caring for the grandmother. Both women voice a profound fear of the day when the grandmother will pass away, leaving the mother entirely on her own.
Morozovโs on-screen presence and personal focus on her family resonate with the work of another filmmaker, Chantal Akerman. Akerman frequently revisited her relationship with her mother in her films. In her film, “No Home Movie” (2015), much of the narrative unfolds within her motherโs apartment, with a strong emphasis on observing the outside world through the apartment windows. Another example is “Down There” (“Lร -bas,” 2006), filmed almost entirely from within an apartment Akerman rented in Israel. In this film, Akerman narrates her motherโs fear of letting her play with children in the street, recounting how she would instead watch them from the window. Akerman has previously spoken about her complex relationship with her mother, where an abundance of loving words concealed the pain and violence stemming from her motherโs past as a prisoner in Auschwitz.
If, as Akerman described in an interview with the online American magazine AV Club, the home in her work becomes a prison symbolizing the camps, then for Morozovโs grandmother, the home serves as a hideout. In a brief and poignant confession, she tells her granddaughter that she doesnโt want to leave the house because she doesnโt want to see anyone. When Morozov asks why, she pauses before quietly replying, โBecause I failed here.โ
They say history is written by the victors. Morozov, however, like the filmmakers she references, presents an alternative to the dominant historical narrative. Her familyโs story is one of immigration, but it is devoid of pioneers, generals, statesmen, or Zionist thinkers. There is no heroic soldier, no hymn of praise to love for the land. At one point, Morozovโs mother critiques her conversation with the grandmother about a dream, saying, โLydia, thatโs not how you make a documentary! Documentaries are about history!โ In another harsh criticism, she advises Morozov to focus on filming the beautiful table with fruit rather than capturing her in pajamas. โIn Russia, when they made films, they arranged everything to look grand, with large vases and fruits. Thatโs how you make a film! Not like you, going from room to room filming. You have no imagination! A film should look like a film, not like real life!โ Yet Morozov is creating a different kind of film, one that tells a different kind of history and explores a unique female experience. She presents real life as her grandmother and mother are willing to reveal it, through their daily routines and heartfelt confessions. Appropriately, Morozov ends the film with gratitude to the women of her family โwho arenโt afraid to speak their truth.โ
This ambivalent and complex truth reaches its climax in the filmโs stunning closing sequence. Suddenly, the film breaks free from the confines of the apartment as Morozov, her sister, and her mother manage to take the grandmother outside for a visit to Tel Avivโs southern promenade. The visit begins with prolonged effortsโenhanced by the cinematography and editing that skillfully highlight its humorโto lift the grandmotherโs walker onto the promenade. This moment also marks the only appearance of a man in the entire film, represented by an unidentified passerby who helps them with the walker. Finally, they stand motionless, facing the sea with their backs to the camera. It is a moment of resolution and release, as the sound of the waves and the vast expanse of the blue sea open before them. Amid the serenity of the sea, the grandmother begins to sing.
Earlier, the grandmother mentioned that she no longer sings and that even her doctor forbids her from singing, but in Russia, she used to sing all kinds of songs, including “Katyusha.” โDid you sing when you came to Israel?โ Morozov asks in a conversation that gives the film its title. Her mother interrupts them and answers, โOn the contrary. We cried.โ And here, suddenly, outside the sheltered apartment and against one of Israelโs most iconic landscapes, the grandmother begins to sing. And the song she sings is “Katyusha”. This Soviet-era hit song, composed by the Jewish composer Matvey Blanter, has been adapted into Hebrew at least three times, sometimes remaining faithful to the original and sometimes transposing the song’s World War II military context into the Israeli military reality. In one surprising adaptation, “Kazachok on the Way to Mount Hermon” by the Israeli duo “Galei Hayam,” the familiar melody is accompanied by lyrics expressing a longing for Soviet culture within the Israeli sphere. Yet the grandmother sings in its original language and lyrics, about Katyusha, the young woman whose beloved went to defend his homeland while she faithfully awaits his return. The songโs descriptions of the Russian spring echo as the foreground is crossed by shirtless runners, girls on bicycles, and boys waving at the camera. Meanwhile, the four women of the family are seen in the background, their backs to it all, their faces turned toward the horizon beyond the sea.
The film We Used to Sing was created as part of undergraduate studies in the Film Department at Minshar for Art, 2021.
