Russia hits out at ‘illegitimate’ Eurovision win for Ukraine
The song contest defies common sense, but it tells us rather more about ourselves than we admit
UKRAINE’s Eurovision triumph was yesterday met in Russia with conspiracy theories and demands for a boycott of next year’s contest after Jamala, a Crimean Tatar singer, won the show with her song 1944, which was widely viewed as critical of the Kremlin.
The song contest took on political overtones this year, as Ukraine’s Jamala competed against the Russian singer Sergei Lazarev in a contest that many Eurovision fans saw as a continuation of the ongoing conflict between their two countries.
When Jamala came first with 531 points versus Russia’s 491 late on Saturday night, Russia’s state-run media began to be critical of the decision.
Her triumph prompted some officials in Russia to propose a boycott of the song contest next year, which is to be held in Ukraine.
Franz Klintsevich, deputy chairman of the Russian Federation Council committee on defence and security, told the RIA Novosti news agency: “If nothing changes in Ukraine by next year, then I don’t think we need to take part [in Eurovision].”
Speaking to Mr Lazarev after he came third, Russia’s state-run television channels presented him as the “champion”. Soon after, the hashtag “Lazarev is our winner”, began trending on Russian Twitter.
The Kremlin-controlled media quickly attempted to smear the contest, with RT running a bizarre article headlined: “Eurovision Song Contest funded by TV license fee system that criminalises poor people.”
The irritated reaction was not limited to social media and media outlets, however. Russian officials dismissed Jamala’s win as unfair and illegitimate.
Politician Yelena Drapeko blamed Russia’s loss on the “information war” being waged against the country, a claim that was echoed by Russian television channels.
Alexei Pushkov, the head of the State Duma’s foreign affairs committee, wrote on Twitter that Eurovision had “turned into a field for political battles”.
In early March, Russian officials sought to persuade Eurovision’s organisers to ban Jamala’s song, arguing that it was a politicised attempt to make Russia look bad as a result of its policies in Crimea. Organisers disagreed, however, and let Jamala perform the song.
For its fans, the annual guilty pleasure that is Eurovision can be read in all sorts of ways. On the one hand, kitsch entertainment. On the other, deadly serious international rivalry. This is where camp and politics collide: 26 countries, battling it out for the title of best song with a fervour that is both ridiculous and sublime. This year it was won by Jamala of Ukraine: a pretty lady crowbarred into a cocktail dress who sang about the ethnic cleansing of the Crimean Tatars by their former Russian overlords. Ukraine’s prize will be to host the contest next year in Kiev. Will the Russians go? If so, will they ever leave?
Millions of Europeans tune in, the vast majority probably drunk, to watch a show that consistently defies common sense. Almost everyone sings in English but the British haven’t won since 1997. Competitors are drawn from the member countries of the European Broadcasting Union – not just continental Europe – so can include distinctly non-European nations like Azerbaijan. This year, the Azerbaijanis were represented by a buxom lass in gold sequins – plucked, one suspects, from the president’s typing pool. Australia has also recently been invited along simply because they are so jolly keen to come – something they might want to remember next time they turn away a boatload of refugees.
You’d struggle to detect any true musical competition. The songs are forgettable and the singing as tuneless as cats making love among the bins. No, the pleasure lies in spotting foreign archetypes. Balkan countries are generally miserable; Scandinavians are Aryan divinities. France’s entry this year – all smiles – looked like he’d chat you up on the beach, marry you, empty your bank account and run off with your best friend.
Then there are the fashions, which suggest a post-apocalyptic Hell designed by Jean Paul Gaultier. Poland’s entry – moustache, long red coat (swiftly nicknamed, predictably, Captain Hook on Twitter) looked as if he should have been making white tigers disappear in Las Vegas. Germany – turquoise taffeta dress with rainbow antennae – looked uncomfortably like a Japanese fetish cartoon. My personal favourite was Bulgaria. Utterly insane, chirruping like a little bird, she strutted around the stage dressed as a Transformer midway between evolution and a Ford Capri. Was she dramatising the theology of the Mormon church? Or pleading for rescue? These countries may now be democracies of sorts, but there is a definite whiff of some of the acts being guarded by a “manager”: all sunglasses, black tracksuit and bullwhip. Russia has recently confessed to employing doping at the Sochi Games. Did it do the same to its act at this year’s Eurovision?
This is why Britain keeps losing: we’re fundamentally un-European (in the Eurovision sense) in our approach. We pretend that we don’t care, yet every time we tut and moan as the results – a Platonic mix of juries and popular vote – are read out. It’s a lie that we don’t try. On the contrary, we try too hard. We imagine that this is a popular singing contest – so we submit a song that we think people will tap along too. This year we sent Joe and Jake, a nice enough pair of lads who look like they know how to prepare a Happy Meal. But they bombed more than the Luftwaffe. By the time Britain had been placed not quite last (a rare reason to be thankful to Germany), most viewers were on to their second bottle of white wine and muttering that Boris Johnson is more often right than wrong.
The problem is that our low-risk entries fall between two stools. One is the camp-as-knickers trashy disco tune: think Conchita Wurst, the 2014 victor, who won either because she is a lady with a beard or a man in a dress depending on the way you look at it.
The other stool is the serious political statement. The Swedish hosts opened Saturday night’s show by talking about Europe’s divisions, and how the evening would “unite us in song”. That felt calculated to prompt a British walk out. But Ukraine’s morbid entry (actual lyrics: “They come to your house/ They kill you all”) played very well to the continental audience’s desire to show solidarity with someone. Russia, incidentally, has some right to be miffed. Ukraine was occupied by the USSR, yes, but it was also occupied by the Nazis, who wreaked at least an equal amount of horror. And a lot of contemporary Ukraine still identifies with Moscow. When Ukraine hosts next year’s show it will surely be the most political in memory, if not in history. If I were Vladimir Putin, I’d be tempted to cut off the electricity.
To compete in this climate, Britain has to court controversy. Next year, Britain should submit a political cri de
coeur of its very own – written by Mike Read, interpreted by the beautiful Nigel Farage in a tutu. He can sing: “The only way is Ukip, baby!” That’ll send a message to Brussels.