“It’s like we won the World Cup!” Barely time to announce the results of the Ukrainian public’s vote from kyiv, and the presenter Pavlo Shylko can’t help but explode with joy, in the small window in the middle of the screen of the 100 million viewers of the Eurovision 2004. “We were very worried about giving 12 points to Serbia and Montenegro, clearly our main rival.” But the Ukrainian vote goes last and the chips are already down. It is the local singer, Ruslana, who will win. “It was the general euphoria in the studio”, remembers the facilitator. That year, Ukraine carved out a place for themselves on the European map, and intend to continue in the grand final on Saturday May 14 in Turin, Italy, as the country has resisted the Russian invasion for over two months.
Back home, we love it when a plan goes off without a hitch. “Ukraine had only joined Eurovision a year earlier, on the initiative of a public relations agency commissioned by the Ministry of Culture, with the roadmap for the general public to stop associated with communism or Chernobyl”, emphasizes Paul Jordan, a fine connoisseur of the great European rout of song. Mission accomplished beyond all expectations. The 2004 winner, the singer Ruslana, may sing with faux fur on her back, but the rest of her very, very low-cut costume matches the dress code of the competition. “It’s an image that Ruslana had worked on a lotdescribes Marko Pavlyshyn, head of Ukrainian studies at Monash University in Melbourne (Australia). She wanted to show a new facet of Ukraine, multicultural, associated with globalized pop culture, with the figure of the badass girl, sexualized, powerful.”
The following year, the Ukrainian leaders did not even pretend not to interfere in the contest. The show takes place in kyiv a few weeks after the end of the “Orange Revolution”, which saw pro-European President Viktor Yushchenko win his showdown with his pro-Russian opponent. “We had chosen as a slogan ‘the awakening’* [le réveil, en bon français]explains Pavlo Shylko, mastermind and presenter of the 2005 show. The dominant color was green, a symbol of freshness.” Apparently, it is the biggest international event organized in Ukraine since independence. “What struck me was the pride of the people of kyiv. They jabbered three words of English, but they were so happy to welcome foreigners”, remembers Paul Jordan. Sign of opening: tourists can for the occasion enter the country without a visa. Almost twenty years later, the measure is still in force, in times of peace.
Between two songs, we can see a report on the “Orange Revolution”, events led by local celebrities such as the Klitschko brothers and Ruslana (elected MP the following year*) and, at the end of the competition, President Yushchenko who take the stage to present a prize to the winner. “It was a mistake. The broadcaster, the EBU, then vetoed it, including when Vladimir Putin wanted to do the same, in 2009”, emphasizes Paul Jordan. Without forgetting the choice of the song to represent the host country, Razom Nas Bahato, of the group GreenJolly, anthem of the revolution. “I’ve been in show business for more than twenty years, I knew it was a monumental blundersighs Pavlo Shylko. It would have been a hit for a national competition. But at Eurovision, people expect fun! Our politicians who had just come to power wanted to play politics…” Indeed, the rappers break their chains on stage but get locked in the depths of the table, collecting the worst ranking in the history of the country*.
This is the beginning of political spades against Russia. In 2007, the actor Andriï Danylko, made up as an old lady for his character Verka Serduchka, who bursts the screen. the Guardian erect* his title Dancing Lasha Tumbai as “the best song to never win Eurovision”. Behind the sequence of abstruse formulas in half a dozen languages points a finer criticism than it seems. “At first glance, it looks like he’s making fun of the typical Ukrainiandecrypts Marko Pavlyshyn. For the Ukrainian viewer, it’s self-mockery; for the Russian, it reinforces his superiority complex. Until that famous ‘Russia goodbye’.” During the song, Andriï-Verka indeed swings a “lasha tumbai”which literally means “whipped cream” in Mongolian. At real speed, live, the whole of Europe hears rather a “Russia goodbye” grumbled. Pavlo Shylko, co-author of the song, clings to the official version, the same for fifteen years. “It was never ‘Russia goodbye’. We just threw in bits of sentences that sounded funny”, he still defends himself today. Yeah…
On the Russian side, we play on subtlety. Sometimes we remind in a nutshell who is the boss in this corner of Europe, as with the song Mom, performed in 2009 in Moscow by… the Ukrainian singer Anastasia Prikhodko, first in her language, then in Russian. Many saw it as a song advocating allegiance to Mother Russia. Rebelote five years later, with the twins Anastasia and Maria Tolmatchevy who, under their baby clothes, sing “one day you will be mine” in their song shine, a few weeks after the annexation of Crimea by Russia. Did you say “double talk” under the guise of syrupy song? Mariya Yaremchuk represented Ukraine that year and still chokes: “As if Russia were a bearer of peace in the world!”
The room is not mistaken and booed the twins during the semi-final.
“These two kids weren’t guilty of anything, and that was precisely what Russia was looking for.”
Mariya Yaremchuk, Ukrainian singerat franceinfo
The one who ranks sixth that year – ahead of … Russia – insists: “It was a propaganda trick to use these images. I had nothing against these two girls. But I understood the whistles, addressed to their country.” Anti-hooting technology is installed from the 2015 edition, to avoid new incidents. Nevertheless. The rupture is consummated. Between the two countries, which exchanged many points by public vote, an ice age begins. “I avoided speaking to the Russian press at all costs. Journalists wanted me to say things to argue later.”
Offstage, the current still flows. “Philip Kirkorov [le “Michael Jackson russe”, grand manitou de l’Eurovision dans les pays de l’Est] asked me to take a photo with the binoculars, between two doors. ‘These two girls didn’t do anything wrong, they just want a picture with you. And I said yes.” Even in 2016, when the Ukrainian Jamala wins with the song 1944 on the deportation of the Crimean Tatars – a roundabout way of talking about the news, as she herself later admitted – behind the scenes, she and Sergei Lazarev, the Russian superstar who fails on the podium, do not do not exchange only facade smiles: “She had just received an informal award, and she didn’t hesitate to strike a pose with him”, says Paul Jordan, who attended the scene *. It is between the delegations that the sidelong glances are more numerous. “When Jamala won, a member of the Russian delegation, with tears in his eyes, said to me: ‘Have fun with the Ukrainians!'”
If, as in 2005, organizing the competition in Ukraine is a logistical nightmare, on the side of the EBU (European Broadcasting Union)the organizer, is a lesser evil. “Our worst fear was that Russia would win.recognizes bluntly Guillaume Klossa, director of communication of the association of broadcasters from 2013 to 2018. Who continues in more chosen terms: “We could not have prepared for the competition in good conditions. During my mandate, I had put the promotion of a diverse society at the heart of Eurovision. I am far from sure that we would have had a high quality of commitment on the part of the Russian authorities…”
Level cunning, on the other hand, the Russian authorities arise there. For the 2017 edition, which is held in kyiv, Russia offers to send a disabled singer, who had the misfortune to perform in annexed Crimea. A condition which is worth a ban on Ukrainian territory to several foreign personalities, from Gérard Depardieu to Steven Seagal *. “We offered them a solution, says Paul Jordan, who remembers being presented with a fait accompli at the last minute. Let the singer perform live, from Russia, but via satellite. They didn’t want to know anything. Inevitably, the Ukrainians fell into the trap.” No Russia on stage that year, so. No whistles, therefore. “I’m not sure there would have been”wants to believe Volodymyr Ostapchuk, presenter of the competition, still able five years later to recite the voting rules in one go in French, one of the official languages of Eurovision.
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No Ukrainian president on stage, either. However, it was not the desire that Petro Poroshenko lacked – president of the country from 2014 to 2019 –who nevertheless entered the debriefing meeting the day after the ceremony. “I even taught him to take a selfie with his phone”smiled Volodymyr Ostapchuk. “It was less necessary for him to appear on screen anyway. For Eurovision viewers, Ukraine is that distant cousin who came home some time ago. “ While Russia, absent from the competition in 2017, 2021 and 2022, finds itself singled out, even sidelined. It’s no coincidence that the villain’s role in Netflix’s Eurovision* TV movie is Russian. Ukraine being the bookmakers’ favorite for the 2022 edition with the tube Stefania from the group Kalush Orchestra, the problem of the interference between politics and spangled songs could arise sooner than expected. Or not, laughs Volodymyr Ostapchuk. “This time the EBU will beg Volodymyr Zelensky to open the competition!”
* Links followed by an asterisk lead to content in English.