The documentary Connected continues to screen at various venues worldwide. Last week, it was presented in Yerevan, Armenia, and at the Docaviv documentary film festival in Tel Aviv. The film chronicles the life and legacy of Dmitry Zimin — a legendary entrepreneur, founder of VympelCom, and philanthropist who established the Dynasty Foundation. How did the idea for this film take shape? What inspired its creation? In an interview with T-invariant, the film’s director, Vera Krichevskaya, shared details about the project and her encounters with a man whose life became a symbol of technological revolution and educational mission in Russia.
T-INVARIANT PROFILE
Vera Krichevskaya
Born in Leningrad (now St. Petersburg). Graduated from the Leningrad Institute of Theater, Music, and Cinematography with a degree in theater studies and television script editing. Also studied at the Higher Courses for Film Directors, specializing in narrative filmmaking. Worked at leading Russian television channels, including ORT, NTV, and Channel Five. In 2008, as creative producer and chief director, she contributed to the launch of the Dozhd (Rain) television channel. She is the author of films such as Citizen Poet: Run of the Year (2012), The Man Who Was Too Free (2016, about Boris Nemtsov), The Case (2018, about Anatoly Sobchak), and F@ck This Job (2021, about the Dozhd channel). Recipient of numerous prestigious television awards, including the TEFI award.
We Are Connected
T-invariant: How did you come to feel compelled to make this film? What sparked the idea?
Vera Krichevskaya: My interest in Dmitry Zimin began in 2008, when Natalia Sindeeva and I were planning the launch of what would become the Dozhd channel. We were brainstorming ways to build an audience and shape our identity. We came up with the idea of creating a series of promotional videos featuring people who had changed the world and shaped our lives. The goal was to resonate with viewers: if these figures had impacted their lives, we could build a community around that. We compiled a list of 20 individuals, and among them was Dmitry Borisovich Zimin. This was before his major philanthropic endeavors and the establishment of the Dynasty Foundation. At the time, he was primarily known as the founder of VympelCom (the first major mobile operators in Russia — Ed.).
I first met him at the Serebryany Dozhd (Silver Rain) radio station, where he was giving an interview. I approached him and said, “Dmitry Borisovich, we’d like to film you for an interview.” He snapped at me fiercely: “Why are you wasting my time and yours?” Years later, when I reminded him of this, he insisted, “That couldn’t have happened!” Over time, he learned about Dozhd and became a frequent guest. Each visit was a breath of fresh air. His stories were a delight — vivid tales you could listen to endlessly.
In 2015, while working with Mikhail Fishman on the documentary The Man Who Was Too Free about Boris Nemtsov, Zimin’s foundation became the project’s largest donor. That was the start of our professional relationship. I became friends with Boris, Dmitry’s son. About twice a year, Dmitry Borisovich would invite friends and like-minded individuals to lunches at the Pushkin restaurant — complete with a nip of vodka, warm and insightful conversations. These were always memorable events.
In January 2021, Zimin was forced to leave Russia to visit his son Boris, who had left the country earlier due to potential political persecution linked to the family’s support for Alexei Navalny. That summer, I met Dmitry Borisovich abroad in an unaccustomed setting. He was Moscow through and through, bound to the Arbat district’s alleyways, and had never left Russia for long. I found him struggling, uprooted from his familiar surroundings. We spent several days talking, and he immersed himself in memories — of World War II, evacuation, lost ration cards, and returning to the Arbat. His stories reminded me of Liliana Lungina’s memoir Word for Word. I immediately knew this had to be filmed. I left deeply moved, realizing what extraordinary material this was.
A few months later, Boris called me and said, “Father is inviting you — bring your operators, everyone you need, and come.” So we went to shoot. After the first session, I knew we didn’t have enough material and planned to continue. I started reviewing the footage, but soon learned that Zimin had passed away through euthanasia in Switzerland, according to his own plan. Only then did I understand what the film was truly about.
T-i: So, when you were filming, you hadn’t yet learned of his decision?
VK: No, none of us knew — not me, not Boris, not Augie Fabela, his friend and business partner, who is a key figure alongside Zimin in the film. For a time, no one knew anything. Zimin had a plan. Only later did he inform those closest to him, including Augie, that he would go to Switzerland and end his life. This shaped the essence of the film: his final monologues are imbued with personal, social, and even biblical values, I’d say. It’s like he outsmarted us all… But I won’t reveal the details, as I want audiences to experience the film themselves.
T-i: The English version of the film is titled Connected, which clearly evokes the telecommunications theme Zimin dedicated his life to, while the Russian version is called Blizkie (The Close Ones). How did you choose the title?
VK: Zimin and Augie Fabela built a telecommunications business, connecting people through communication. When they founded VympelCom, they were captivated by the idea of enabling people to talk to one another. In English, connected refers not only to technical connectivity but also to closeness and kinship. When someone asks, “Are you related?” you might respond, “Yes, we’re connected.” It’s about both communication and intimacy. The Russian title Blizkie captures this idea: the film is about people united by shared values, despite all their differences.
Zimin and Fabela couldn’t have been more different. Zimin was a Soviet radio engineer whose father was executed in the Gulag, Jewish through his mother but hiding his ethnicity in Soviet times, living through Stalin’s era, and a staunch atheist. Augie is a first-generation American, son of a Mexican father and Colombian mother, a Catholic, and a Republican. They were 30 years apart in age. Nothing should have united them, yet they forged a bond beyond business. They met at the twilight of the Soviet Union in 1992, during a brief period of friendship between Russia and the U.S., and built a successful telecommunications company. They sold VympelCom 24 years ago but remained the closest of friends. Augie stood by Zimin in Switzerland with his family — only Boris, his wife, and Augie were present.
They were united by fundamental human values that transcend all contradictions — political, religious, or cultural. If they had lived in the same country, they might have belonged to opposing political parties, but their bond was deeper. This film is for those who share these values, who feel connected by their outlook on the world, on good and evil, on what is right and wrong.
“Nothing Can Be Changed”
T-i: For you personally, is Zimin primarily a technological pioneer or a philanthropist? Which aspect of his life defines him for you?
VK: For me, he’s above all a technological pioneer, and you might be surprised, but that’s because of VympelCom. The scale of it is so immense that we can’t fully grasp it now. In 1991, Russia had just 17 landline telephones per 100 people. I lived in an apartment with a phone, but many of my friends didn’t have one. In St. Petersburg, in communal apartments [shared multi-family residences common in Soviet cities. – Ed.], one phone was shared among five to seven families. You had to carry two-kopeck coins to use street payphones or wait for a neighbor to finish their call. The rise of mobile communication was nothing short of a miracle, comparable to the rise of the internet, perhaps even more transformative. At 63, Zimin — a doctor of technical sciences working in a “postbox” [a term for classified Soviet research facilities – Ed.] with top-level security clearance, focused on Moscow’s anti-missile defense — made an extraordinary leap. A engineer, not a manager, from the generation later called “red directors” [late Soviet-era industrial leaders. — Ed.], he created the first Russian company to list on the New York Stock Exchange in just a year, in a fledgling nation gripped by chaos, with neither laws nor a Constitution [from 1991–93, Russia formally operated under the heavily amended Soviet Constitution of 1978 – Ed.].
Imagine: five years ago, we had COVID — it feels like yesterday. For Zimin, five years prior was the Soviet Union. Yet, suddenly, a Russian company, in partnership with Americans, allowed foreign investors to become shareholders. This was the first IPO of a Russian company abroad, enabling Zimin and Augie to become wealthy. For Zimin, this was the pinnacle of his career. His philanthropy stemmed from this success and the opportunities it created. He invested nearly all his wealth in the Dynasty Foundation, a rarity even among wealthy philanthropists who establish foundations. Few knew he poured virtually all his family’s money into charity. It wasn’t about business — it was about mission.
T-i: The film’s narrative is told through Augie Fabela. Why was he chosen as the storyteller?
VK: Zimin invited him. I knew of Augie, but we met in person only during the shoot, on a ship. Fabela flew in from Chicago, where he serves as a high-ranking sheriff’s official in Cook County, one of Illinois’s most crime-heavy regions, with around 11,000 law enforcement officers. His role is unique: he works a couple of days a week, handling specific duties, but he’s served in various units. After Zimin’s passing, I reviewed the footage and realized Augie should be the narrator. I contacted him via Zoom and said, “Augie, I’ve gone through the material, and we’re making the film. I think you should be the storyteller — you’re the primary source, a co-participant in this story.” He replied, “I don’t know how.” But I insisted, and he agreed. We worked together, and it felt natural. Later, from conversations with Boris Zimin and his wife, Yulia, I learned that Dmitry Zimin wanted Augie to tell this story.
T-i: The film hints that Zimin hurried to end his life before the war began. In your view, what influenced his decision more: a premonition of events or a desire to preserve his free will?
VK: It’s a complex question, and we can only speculate. Zimin was in a rush — he chose December 22, 2021, and wouldn’t be persuaded otherwise. Life outside Russia was hard for him. Every conversation circled back to Moscow — the Arbat, old cafés, alleyways. He’d say, “Remember that café on the corner, across from the shop?” He lived in that old Moscow space, in its heart, and it weighed on him heavily with sadness.
The political climate weighed heavily on him. I tried discussing elections with him, like the Moscow municipal elections in September 2021, offering to review the results, but he refused: “I don’t want to engage with that — it’s pointless; elections can’t change anything.” His family supported Alexei Navalny, which is why Boris had left Russia long ago, fearing persecution. Zimin would say, “It makes you want to cry,” and I didn’t press further — it was clear enough.
His stance on Ukraine was unequivocal, as heard in the film. Interestingly, he aligned with Augie, who traveled to Ukraine after the full-scale invasion began. But back to Zimin. He was starting to experience memory lapses, possibly due to early dementia. In the film, it’s barely noticeable, but sometimes he’d say, “Let me recall,” or pause, especially when tired. He could recount the past in detail but forgot recent questions. He wanted to leave on his own terms, while still in control of his mind. He said, “What am I without my memories? They’re all I have.” Without Moscow, without Russia, without his mission to support scientists, and now with the risk of losing his memory, he decided not to let this snowball overwhelm him. It was a victory over nature, time, and circumstances. He consciously flew to Switzerland, saying his goodbyes. Perhaps a premonition of the war played a role too: he hinted that this was the end, but we didn’t recognize it. Only when reviewing the material did I realize: he told us a hundred times it was the end, and we didn’t hear or accept it.
T-i: What was left out of the film? What material couldn’t you include?
VK: Naturally, a lot didn’t make it in, due to the demands of narrative structure. For instance, Zimin’s memories of the war, evacuation, and returning to his Arbat home with a damaged roof and snow on the floor were too extensive to weave into the film. I spent six months sifting through his photo archive — over 100,000 images spanning a century of Russian history. These were old, very old photos. I only began editing a year and a half after Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, when I found the grounding for the story.
But what I regret most is not being able to showcase what the Zimin Foundation is doing today. After Zimin’s passing, the foundation has been supporting scientific startups in Israel and Arizona. For example, in November 2023, I visited a lab at Tel Aviv University where they’re bioprinting 3D hearts for rats using cells. It’s phenomenal: in 6–10 years, they aim to move to human organs. Another lab implants these hearts into rats, which live with two hearts before the natural one is removed, leaving the artificial one. There’s also a startup revolutionizing IVF for women unable to conceive. These projects enhance quality of life and could have been realized in Russia if not for the circumstances. Zimin said, “I earned my money here; I want to spend it here. How am I a foreign agent?” His mission was taken away, but the foundation lives on and will endure forever thanks to its endowment. Augie and Boris say the foundation is built to be eternal: its operations invest profits into grants and research.
The Dynasty Foundation, though shuttered 10 years ago, continues its mission through the Prosvetitel Award, which unites people in Russia, Europe, and Israel. It’s a separate story how, in 2014, Zimin received an award from Russia’s Ministry of Education and Science for enlightenment, a commendation from Putin, only for his foundation to be labeled a foreign agent in 2015.
“This Is a Story About the End of Russia”
T-i: Why is the Russian government so afraid of educators and their work?
VK: It’s a universal hallmark of autocracies. I believe it was Sakharov who, in 1968, wrote to Soviet leaders about the necessity of enlightenment in his essay, noting that an uninformed populace is easier to manipulate [See: Sakharov A. Thoughts on Progress, Peaceful Coexistence and Intellectual Freedom. — Ed.]. Any dictatorship knows that an uneducated, politically disengaged population ensures its longevity. Enlightenment is the antithesis of propaganda — an unacceptable and unhelpful thing. That’s why the regime systematically suppresses intellectual freedom.
In 2014, when Russia made its choice [referring to the annexation of Crimea and escalating authoritarianism. — Ed.], it became clear that Zimin’s work would become impossible. The Dynasty Foundation was among the first to be branded a foreign agent. Now, foreign agents are even barred from giving public lectures or engaging in educational activities. It’s a long history of silencing those who spread knowledge. Autocracies cultivate “obedient drones” with a uniform understanding of history, good, and evil, to maintain control. This isn’t a Kremlin invention — it’s common to all dictatorships.
T-i: Audiences after screenings were deeply moved. Many were in tears — men and women alike. Why does the film resonate so strongly?
VK: The film resonates because it’s not just Zimin’s story — it’s the end of the Russia we knew. Viewers see themselves and their own losses in it. Many didn’t know the full scope of Zimin’s life. Some were unaware he founded the first Russian company listed on the New York Stock Exchange, others didn’t know he invested nearly all his wealth in the Dynasty Foundation, or that he chose euthanasia. Everyone knew only fragments of his life. The film pieces these together, revealing the magnitude of Zimin’s personality and the tragedy of his departure. People cry because it’s a story about the end of an era, about the Russia that’s gone, and about ourselves. The final scenes are heavy, but I won’t describe them — I hope viewers will see them for themselves.
T-i: Where and how can people watch the film? Are there plans to show it in Russia?
VK: The film has already screened in Tbilisi, London, Cyprus, Berlin, Hamburg, Düsseldorf, Vienna, Yerevan, and Tel Aviv. In June, it will be shown in London and Amsterdam. The film is bilingual with subtitles: Augie speaks English with Russian subtitles, and Zimin speaks Russian with English subtitles, making it accessible to international audiences. Follow updates on the film’s website.
As for Russia, there’s no solution yet. I’m working with distributors to retain rights to the Russian-language version. I want to convince them to treat Russian not as a territory but as a means of communication. I hope by fall we’ll have a fully Russian version, perhaps with voice-over by someone like Anatoly Bely. It might appear on Dozhd or other platforms.
T-i: What role did producer Alexander Rodnyansky play in the film’s journey?
VK: Alexander was immensely helpful. He saw in the film not only the story of Zimin’s final days but the end of an entire era — the Russia we lived in. This helped refine the film’s final accents. I felt it, but he helped articulate it. It’s a story about the end of an era, and Rodnyansky helped highlight that. He’s also assisting with the film’s festival journey, shaping its future path.
T-i: Is Zimin, in this story, a victor or a vanquished?
VK: Zimin is an absolute victor. He lived a phenomenal life and left on his own terms, triumphing over time, nature, and circumstances. One can only envy him. The loser is Russia, which pushes out people like him. It’s a recurring pattern: for over a century, Russia has been losing its best minds, and the film reminds us of this tragedy.