I learned English—and Western culture—watching American movies in smoky minibuses.

An Object Lesson. By Elmar Hashimov

A RAF 2203 van, or "Rafik"
Anton Ivanov / Shutterstock


In the U.S.S.R. of the 1980s, as Brezhnev’s stagnation mutated into Gorbachev’s perestroika, the Soviet people started peering out from behind the Iron Curtain at the tantalizing opulence of Western popular culture. It wasn’t unusual for a few government-approved (and heavily sanitized) Hollywood movies to show up in local theaters in Mother Russia and her 14 children-states. An occasional 1960s or ’70s classic—such as Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather—would even make its way to one of the two central, state-run television stations broadcasting to all 15 republics.

This trend began in the 1960s, under Khrushchev’s “thaw,” the era during which the good people of the U.S.S.R. were allowed to fall in love with Girls Only in Jazz, a black-and-white masterpiece known to most English speakers as Some Like It Hot (Soviet censors found the original title too, well, hot). Even in the ’80s, when I got to see it myself, the American jazz girls of the ’20s, portrayed through the lens of 1950s Hollywood, seemed utterly wild.

But this is not how my peers and I were introduced to our first “real” American movies. Instead of movie theaters or drive-ins, Soviet youth got their Hollywood fix through bootleg video salons hosted in grungy minibuses.

My parents’ generation was born after World War II, which we on the Eastern Front all knew as the Great Patriotic War. That generation was known for a peculiar and creative resourcefulness. They came up with things like “bone LPs,” bootleg records crafted using makeshift recording lathes that cut tracks into used X-ray slides. Under remaindered pictures of rib cages, bone LPs played the Beatles and other banned Western music. As a middle schooler, I remember my mother talking about these and other contraband inventions. I didn’t think much of it at the time. This was just one of many unauthorized things people did back then—like passing around illegal samizdat copies of Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago on thick piles of newsprint or surreptitiously listening to Voice of America news on AM radio in communal kitchens.

I grew up in Baku, the capital of what was then the Soviet Socialist Republic of Azerbaijan. Just a few years before the U.S.S.R. disbanded, the kids in my neighborhood became fascinated with American movies—or, at least, the idea of American movies. I was 8 or 9 years old, one of the youngest in the mix. We would collect chewing-gum cards and stickers with pictures of action-movie stars and listen to Michael Jackson. I’m fairly certain all these things were bootlegged.

Young or old, everyone felt the increasing cultural vacuum, a painful dissonance of Soviet-produced media and its crumbling ideology. While we still had timeless films and shows based on Russian literature, or rare genius masterpieces such as Tarkovsky’s Stalker, most Soviet cinema and television no longer made much sense, because it amounted to propaganda. Those of us born in the late 1970s and early ’80s had become particularly suspicious of most Soviet-produced entertainment and obsessed with Hollywood, although we had little firsthand experience with it.

That’s where the video van came in.

Just the sound of the word видео (“video”), a cognate recently borrowed from the English language, was distinctly American. We never referred to other things we saw on-screen as “video”; it was just “film,” or “cartoon,” or “program.” Video was something new and exciting. It had a smack of the forbidden fruit to it.

The way we consumed that video confirmed its taboo status. A typical Bakuvian video salon consisted of a minivan or minibus—usually a Latvian RAF model, or “Rafik,” as we affectionately called it—with fabric-clad windows, equipped with a color television and VCR (the latter was uncommon and considered a luxury).

Rafiks were normally used for public transit, an intermediate alternative to buses and taxicabs. A Rafik always felt bigger on the inside. The running joke went, How many people can you fit into a Rafik? One more. Rafiks made getting around town cheap and easy, and Rafik drivers maximized their efficiency through this always-room-for-one-more-passenger business model. The vans were stuffy, dark, dirty, and usually saturated with cigarette smoke. I suspect that some of these van drivers did both jobs—smoke-soaked taxi by day, smoke-soaked movie theater by night.

Like an American ice-cream truck, a video-salon Rafik would show up in the neighborhood at seemingly random times. The drivers/projectionists were often trying to avoid the police, and the petty bribe that would be required to get them to look the other way. For that reason, the mobile theater would park somewhere in an alley and entertain the neighborhood kids with dozens of guerilla-dubbed, bootlegged Hollywood movies and cartoons.

As a bright-eyed, 10-year-old Young Pioneer, I attended many such screenings: Tom and JerryThe Pink PantherRambo: First BloodBloodsport, and a few other movies with “blood” or “revenge” in the title. The emotional response was complex, almost overwhelming. The raw memories of these experiences consist of dazzling bright colors; hyper-masculine, muscular men; bosomy blond women; on-screen makeouts and bare skin; and a lot of creative swearing—the translation job was stellar in that regard. It all felt intoxicating, naughty, and very alien. Even then, I knew we were learning something culturally significant—a different way of life, a different way of thinking, a different way of relating to the world.

In one of my earliest memories surrounding these video vans, two older cousins and I watched the 1986 film Stewardess School, a title IMDB describes as a “teen pseudo-sex comedy.” I think it was a Police Academy rip-off, substituting hot young “stewdents” for newly recruited cadets. The movie was terrible, and we knew it, but my cousins and I loved every minute of it. We particularly relished the bad B-movie acting and the over-the-top vulgar humor.

I don’t think our parents knew what we were up to. They would have had mixed feelings about the matter, despite cutting their teeth on bone LPs. I’m also not sure where we got the money to pay for the movies. But my cousins and I were getting a small taste of cheeky American culture, and to us it was worth any price.

The movies were dubbed by a lone male voice actor speaking over the original soundtrack. This process was incredibly low-tech: You could hear the original English-language audio and the voice-over on top of it, at about the same volume. And the audio quality was usually dreadful, with fuzzy white noise filling silences between lines.

The voice actor acted out all the parts in a single take—male and female, including small children. Because this voice-over work was also illegal, we speculated that whoever the narrator was attempted to disguise his identity by wearing a nose clip. This made Stallone, Schwarzenegger, Van Damme, and their girlfriends all sound a bit like Smithers from The Simpsons. I learned much later, as an adult, that several actors actually did this work, but the voice I hear in my head belongs to Leonid Volodarsky, who dubbed more than 5,000 films. Andrei Gavrilov, the second most recognized video voice, did 2,000. Volodarsky and Gavrilov had day jobs as journalists, art critics, and translators. But millions of people across the U.S.S.R. knew their nasal voices for their illegal-film dubbing. They remain unsung heroes.

Hearing the dubbed audio over the original dialogue probably had an impact on language acquisition and cognitive development. Immersed in two languages simultaneously, the original English and the dubbed Russian, our brains strained to make out both and constantly digested a synchronous translation of a new language. I suspect this helped in our English classes. Long after the vans, I perfected English by watching Seinfeld in the original English on VHS tapes—an advanced course.

In the video vans, the characters and the voice-over narrator talked over one another, intersecting and interrupting one another, creating a polyvocal narrative, interweaving languages but telling the same unified story. Add an audience that’s laughing and commentating during the movie in Azeri, the local language, and you get a third. I can only imagine the number that this layered linguistic experience did on our brains.

All this evokes a unique nostalgia in me and my formerly Soviet peers. It is less of a campy, Stranger Things–type nostalgia, and more of a black, comedic one, a memory of coping with post-perestroika trauma. Thirty years later, I can hardly comprehend the impact these video-salon trips had on us. I am certain that they played a direct role in how many of us got so good at English and ended up immigrating to the United States. Eventually I got a doctorate in English, and today I live near Hollywood, teaching writing to American college students. Those shady, smoky Soviet video vans are, at least in part, responsible.

This post appears courtesy of Object Lessons.Elmar Hashimov is a professor of English at Biola University.

The “Squid Game” English subtitle translation doesn’t do justice to the story’s societal commentary

One Korean-speaking fan of the Netflix series points out how we’re missing important character information


Kim Joo-ryung as Han Mi-nyeo in "Squid Game" (Netflix/YOUNGKYU PARK)Kim Joo-ryung as Han Mi-nyeo in “Squid Game” (Netflix/YOUNGKYU PARK)

Netflix’s “Squid Game” has taken the world by storm, and defied all expectations of the foreign language series that began streaming last month. Set in South Korea, the show follows a mass of desperate, impoverished contestants playing lethally dangerous adaptations of children’s games for a chance at about $40 million U.S. dollars. “Squid Game” has drawn both critical acclaim and a massive global audience. And now, some are pointing out how it could have been even better — namely through more accurate English subtitles.

One “Squid Game” fan who’s fluent in Korean shared a now viral TikTok in which she highlights how the English translations of the subtitles have resulted in meaning being lost in some of the dialogue, as well as the erasure of mainstream Korean popular culture. “The dialogue was so well written and zero of it was preserved [in the subtitles],” Youngmi Mayer said in a Twitter post. According to Mayer, this was especially true for the character 212, or Han Mi-nyeo (Kim Joo-ryeong), whose lines were particularly changed or decontextualized in the English translation. Mi-nyeo is one of the more controversial characters of “Squid Game,” as a brash, seemingly fearless woman who is constantly mouthing off to the guards who hold the power of life or death over the contestants, and often spars with 101, Jang Deok-su (Heo Sung-tae), who torments and abuses her.

In one specific clip, the given English translation for a line from Mi-nyeo awkwardly reads, “I’m not a genius, but I still got it work out. Huh.” But per Mayer’s translation in her TikTok, the actual line is closer to “I am very smart. I just never got a chance to study.” This, according to Mayer, is a popular saying in Korean media, roughly meaning that Mi-nyeo is probably “street smart,” but not formally educated like some of the other contestants participating in “Squid Game.” This clip is just one of many examples of Korean popular culture and deeper meanings being lost in the English translation. But it’s an especially significant mistranslation given what it reveals about the unequal backgrounds of the game’s contestants, with some having formal or even decorated educational backgrounds, and others not. Considering how the guards and creators of the fictional Squid Game have repeatedly impressed upon the contestants that they prioritize fairness and equality, the significant differences in background, skill and ability among the contestants poke a hole in this narrative.

Now that Youngmi’s TikTok has drawn more than one million views, and her Twitter posts on the matter have also drawn thousands of retweets, some “Squid Game” fans are highlighting that there is another English subtitle option available to viewers, and Youngmi’s TikTok focuses on the English closed captioning subtitles rather than the English language subtitle option. Closed captioning subtitles are auto-generated and often less accurate.

Youngmi has since acknowledged this, and called the English language subtitles — which differ from the closed captioning subtitles — “substantially better.” But this translation is also ultimately lacking the full magic and breadth of the Korean dialogue. “The misses in the metaphors – and what the writers were trying to actually say – are still pretty present,” Youngmi has said.

As foreign language media become more popular and accessible – especially following the 2019 Oscar triumph of the Korean-language movie “Parasite” and Netflix’s overall international strategy – there have also been criticisms of translations and subtitles failing to capture the full meaning of the onscreen dialogues. In Youngmi’s TikTok and tweets, she’s stressed that this isn’t the fault of translators, but lacking working conditions and investments made in accurate and quality translations.

“The reason this happens is because translation work is not respected and also the sheer volume of content,” Youngmi wrote. “Translators are underpaid and overworked and it’s not their fault. It’s the fault of producers who don’t appreciate the art.”

Netflix has yet to comment on the controversy around subtitle translations in “Squid Game,” as fans desperately await news about a highly anticipated, potential second season.

By montrealexblog

Baratineur est une trouvaille pour un espion

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