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The Mystery of the Third Planet: An Intro to Soviet Animation With a Children’s Adventure Turned Cult Classic
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Science Fiction Film Club
The Mystery of the Third Planet: An Intro to Soviet Animation With a Children’s Adventure Turned Cult Classic
From stop-motion bugs to hijinks in space…
By Kali Wallace
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Published on April 9, 2025
Credit: Soyuzmultfilm
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Credit: Soyuzmultfilm
The Mystery of the Third Planet (1981) (Russian: Тайна третьей планеты). Directed by Roman Kachanov. Written by Kir Bulychev, based on his novella Alisa’s Travel. Starring Olga Gromova, Vsevolod Larionov, Yuri Volyntsev, and Vasily Livanov.
In 1965, right in the middle of the Space Race between the Soviet Union and the United States, Russian science fiction writer Kir Bulychev published A Girl Nothing Will Happen To, the first in what would become a long-running series of children’s sci fi novels. The main character is a girl named Alisa Seleznyova, who travels around the galaxy getting into all kinds of shenanigans and adventures.
I don’t think any of the books have ever been translated into English, but they seem like exactly the sort of books I would have loved as a kid, with a plucky protagonist having wacky space adventures in a future where money is obsolete and people work for the benefit of humankind rather than the accumulation of wealth. If that kind of future sounds familiar, well, Gene Roddenberry would launch Star Trek in 1966. Both series are borne of an ideological yearning for a better tomorrow, which was very common around the world in the ’60s, and especially in science fiction.
Bulychev kept writing the Alisa Seleznyova series until his death in 2003, publishing a new novel every year or two. The series was very popular and spawned a number of adaptations. Among them was the live-action television miniseries Guest From the Future, which aired in 1985 and was a huge pop culture hit of the sort that influenced style, fashion, music, and games, and continues to be popular even now. Just last year there was a remake of that same story as the feature film One Hundred Years Ahead (2024).
Guest from the Future was the most successful and influential adaptation to come out of the Alisa Seleznyova series, but it was not the first. The first was the animated film The Mystery of the Third Planet (1981), directed by Roman Kachanov.
The Mystery of the Third Planet is based on Bulychev’s 1974 novel Alisa’s Journey, which was the third of his published Alisa books. The film is a bright, vibrant work of traditional animation, but Kachanov was actually more well-known for his stop-motion animation, which included films featuring the cute little creature that has sometimes been called the “Soviet Mickey Mouse.”
We’ll get to that in a moment. First, we’re going to do a whirlwind introduction to the history of Soviet animation, because Kachanov’s career and the studio for which he worked are woven into the story of the industry as a whole, and it all provides an interesting peek into an innovative and prolific tradition of filmmaking.
It’s a vast story, with a lot of facets, but we have to start somewhere. So we’re going to start at the first Moscow International Film Festival, which took place in 1935.
Sergei Eistenstein, already a legend in Soviet cinema, was chairman of the jury. The showcased films included Krestayne (Peasants)(1935), directed by Fridrikh Ermler, which is about the workers on a collective farm suffering due to the cruelty of capitalism, and Chapaev (1934), directed by Georgi and Sergei Vasilyev, a biography about a hero of the Russian Civil War. Festivalgoers would also have had a chance to watch Cecil B. DeMille’s Cleopatra (1934), which must have presented quite a contrast to all the austere socialist realism of the Soviet films.
But the true standout of the festival was something else entirely. It wasn’t a sweeping historical epic that would earn Eistenstein’s praise, and it wasn’t barefaced propaganda that would catch the eye of Joseph Stalin himself, and it wasn’t a serious feature for grown-ups that led to the immediate reorganization of a significant chunk of the government-controlled Soviet film industry.
It was Three Little Pigs (1933), an eight-minute, full-color animated short produced by Walt Disney as part of the Silly Symphony series.
You’ve probably seen it before, or at least you’ll recognize the images. You can find it to watch on Disney+ and perhaps in any number of other places online which I will not link because I don’t want to bring Uncle Walt’s notoriously litigious descendants down on innocent cartoon uploaders.
To fully understand the impact Three Little Pigs had on the Soviet film industry, we have to understand a bit about what was happening in the USSR at the time. Part of the formation of the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic, then the USSR, included the nationalizing of the film industry, which meant filmmaking was placed under governmental control, although the specific bureaus and departments responsible for that control changed over the years. The relatively young but already popular medium of film was a big part of Stalin’s plan for a cultural revolution, and thus he wanted to maintain control of what films were made, who made them, and what they portrayed.
But there wasn’t much focus on animation until Soviet filmmakers and officials got a look at what American animators were making. It’s not that there wasn’t any animation happening. There was, because there had been a tradition of animation in Russia from before the Soviet Union existed. There is a history of animation everywhere there is a history of film, because artists have always found creative ways to bring their ideas to life.
Some of the earliest Russian animated films were among the world’s earliest stop-motion animations—and the weirdest. One early stop-motion animator was Ladislas Starevich. (He was born Władysław Starewicz but he changed his name to something easier for the French to pronounce when he left Russia. He’s referred to by both names in film history writings.) Starevich began his career in animation in 1910, when he was working as the director of the Museum of Natural History in Kaunas, Lithuania. Starevich made short films for the museum, and he wanted to create a film of two stag beetles fighting. Stag beetles, alas, are not inclined to cooperate with filmmakers and did not work well under the conditions necessary for filming (apparently they die under intense film lighting), so Starevich made the obvious choice to make puppets out of dead beetles—wires for legs, strings making them move, the works—and film them instead of the live ones.
Starevich left the museum and went on to make several other stop-motion films using dead insects as puppets, which is a) the sort of career path that guidance counselors never tell you is possible, and b) really incredibly quite cool, if you think about it. A couple of his most well-known films are The Cameraman’s Revenge (1912), in which beetles play out a domestic drama about infidelity, and The Grasshopper and the Ant (1913), which is based on Aesop’s fable of the same name. Starevich moved to France after the October Revolution in 1917, where he kept making puppet animation—and, yes, he kept using dead bugs—until his death in 1965.
For all of the now-Soviet filmmakers who survived World War I and the Revolution, the world, their art, and their careers looked very different in the 1920s. This was as true for animators as it was for other filmmakers. A lot of early Soviet animation was agitprop (i.e., agitation propaganda). That’s where we get films like China in Flames (1925) and the sci fi political parody Interplanetary Revolution (1924), which is about what happens when wealthy capitalists from Earth colonize Mars and therefore not at all relevant to today’s audiences. Ahem.
But even given the severe political restrictions of the time, artists were doing what artists always do, which is find ways to be creative with both their art and their storytelling even when an oppressive government is breathing down their neck. That led to films like The Samoyed Boy (1928), made by siblings Nikolai Khodataev and Olga Khodatayeva, and sisters Valentina and Zinaida Brumberg, which is a rather culturally problematic story (to put it mildly), though the black-and-white animation is beautiful.
Even if the films they could make were limited, there was a lot of skill and artistry in Soviet animation before Walt Disney sent his screeners along to the film festival in 1935. And what happened afterward was that the Soviet government consolidated several smaller animation studios into a single large production studio called Soyuzmultfilm. This reorganization swept a lot of existing and successful Soviet animators under the Soyuzmultfilm umbrella, but it also involved quickly and rigorously training a bunch of new animators.
Roman Kachanov was among those who started working with Soyuzmultfilm from the start. Kachanov, who was Jewish, had spent WWII as first a tail gunner in fighter planes, then a parachute instructor; his hometown of Smolensk was captured by the Germans and his father and sister were killed in the Holocaust. After the war was over, he decided to spend the rest of his life making animated films.
Although there were animators working on different kinds of animation, the primary focus was on the assembly-line-style production process that Disney used to create a lot hand-drawn cel animation very quickly, with the stated goal of adopting Disney’s production methods to create Disney-quality animation for Soviet audiences, often for telling folktales, fairy tales, or adaptations of literature.
And it worked. It worked incredibly well. The Soviet film industry was catastrophically affected by World War II; for example, entire film studios were destroyed and numerous artists killed during the Siege of Leningrad. But in the aftermath, it took only a couple of years for impressive animated films to appear again. One of Soyuzmultfilm’s immediate post-war films was the stunningly beautiful The Little Humpbacked Horse (1947), directed by Ivan Ivanov-Vano. I really do recommend taking a look at that film, because it’s such an amazing work of animation. It was internationally recognized as such at the time; Walt Disney apparently showed it to his own animators and artists as a teaching tool.
Time went on, as time tends to do. Joseph Stalin died in 1953, after nearly thirty years in power. We shan’t get deep into the politics of the time, but it is important to mention what happened after his death, when Nikita Khrushchev came into power. Krushchev enacted policies of “de-Stalinization,” a wide-ranging series of political reforms, which led to the Krushchev Thaw, a period in the ’50s and ’60s when censorship was significantly relaxed.
So what happened then? Soviet animation got weird. It got amazingly, gloriously weird. It also got darker, more mature, and more experimental.
There was still a lot of traditional, Disney-style animation happening, and there were still a lot of films that told stories from fairy tales and folklore. And they were still incredible! Lev Atamanov’s The Snow Queen (1957) was an international sensation; it was released in theaters in several countries and became especially beloved in Japan, where it would inspire a young Hayao Miyazaki to stick with his nascent animation career.
But alongside the fairy tales and folklore there were also now films like Fyodor Khitruk The Story of a Crime (1962), which opens with a man killing two women with a cooking pan, or Anatoly Karanovich and Sergei Yutkevich’s trippy avant-garde puppet animation The Bath (1962), which is an unsubtle screed against Soviet bureaucracy, or Fyodor Khitruk’s Film, Film, Film (1968), a parody of the Soviet movie industry.
It’s hard to explain in words the explosion of experimental styles explored in Soviet animation during this time, so I suggest that anybody who’s interested take a look at summary video with a compilation of clips, such as “History of Soviet Animation” or “A Beginner’s Guide to Soviet Animated Cinema.” There is so much cool animated art to look at, in so many unique and interesting styles.
The Krushchev Thaw wouldn’t last, but there was so much momentum in Soviet animation by the time it ended that the creativity of the artform didn’t really slow down, even as censorship ramped up again and common story topics once again favored folklore, fairy tales, and children’s stories. That’s when we get films like Yuri Norstein’s beloved Hedgehog in the Fog (1975), a beautiful, moody, dreamlike film about a curious little hedgehog taking a walk through the woods at dusk.
That’s also where we get Kachanov’s stop-motion Cheburashka films, which are almost certainly still the most well-known and recognizable Soviet children’s films. Cheburashka is a cute bear-like creature first introduced in children’s book Gena the Crocodile and His Friends (1965) by Eduard Uspensky, and first portrayed in Kachanov’s stop-motion animated film Gena the Crocodile (1969). Even if you know nothing about Soviet animation, there’s a good chance you’ve seen Cheburashka before: small stature, fuzzy felted texture, enormous ears, biologically baffling animal features. It seems a bit unfair to these fictional animal friends that Cheburashka is the one who gained international fame from stories that were supposed to be about his friend Gena, but such are the whims of popularity, that people will prefer a fuzzy little moppet over a crocodile.
Even though science fiction was quite popular in the Soviet Union, it wasn’t particularly common in animation. I think that’s part of the reason The Mystery of the Third Planet is still viewed as a cult classic today—that and the fact that the movie is in fact extremely charming.
It’s a wild, fast-paced children’s adventure that tells the story of what happens when Alisa and her zoologist father, who collect exotic animals from across the galaxy to bring back to the Moscow Zoo, run afoul of some shady characters—one of whom is a stereotypical money-hungry pig-like alien, because some anti-capitalist symbolism stayed strong in Soviet animation even through the ’80s. Alisa and her father travel from planet to planet on the ship of the curmudgeonly Captain Green, marveling at the animals and mysteries they find along the way. There is more plot jammed into this film’s forty minutes than some television shows manage in entire seasons, but that just adds to the breezy feeling of skipping along on this adventure.
One thing I really enjoy about The Mystery of the Third Planet is how vibrant the animation is. Art director Natalya Orlova and the crew of animators portrayed this science fictional world with wacky and colorful childlike wonder. I especially love the titular third planet of the Medusa system, with its large predatory birds and curious mirror flowers. The backgrounds are particularly wonderful and whimsical. It’s easy to see why the film is remembered and still loved today, rather than fading away like so much ’80s children’s animation. It’s just so fun, and I don’t think we can ever overestimate the importance of fun when inviting ourselves along on outer space hijinks.
One of the best things about animation as an artform is that there is absolutely no requirement or expectation that it look or feel realistic. Sure, sometimes realism is more on trend than styles that are more stylized or surreal, but in animation there is always space for the weird, even within the context of works that are intended for very mainstream audiences. Animation breaks down the expectation of realism that can lead to people shying away from the bizarre in live-action cinema. That has been true since the beginning, and I like to think it will be true for as long as people keep animating the stories they want to tell.
I feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface of all the interesting animation that was made in the Soviet Union, but The Mystery of the Third Planet was a fun place to start. What do you think of the film and its art style? Did anybody read the book series when they were growing up? Is anybody else very sad for the bird who is now the last of its species because the space pirates killed all the others?
Next week: I know I say a lot of movies are among my favorites, but it’s never a lie. I have a lot of favorites. The Iron Giant is one of them, because it’s the best. Watch it on Amazon, Apple, Fandango, or Microsoft.[end-mark]
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