As Uzbekistan undergoes a cultural thaw, the country’s top comedians are grabbing their chance
Uzbek comedy group Million
It’s been a long and difficult road for Uzbek sketch group Million. But following the country's cultural thaw, entertainers are grabbing their chance — but are yet to see approval from all sides.
5 October 2020
Text:
Ezoza Yakvalkhodjieva
“What if human beings could ‘install’ themselves with different character traits?” comedian Davron Kabulov wonders aloud. It is the winter of 2013, and the sell-out crowd at Tashkent’s renowned Istiqol concert hall wait impatiently as he gestures to the stage. “Well,” he says, “meet the machine that can.”
Clad in matching orange sweaters, one by one, the seven members of Kabulov’s Uzbek comedy collective, Million, appear onstage. All are desperate to try out the machine, with hilarious results. The members’ list of desired attributes includes an attitude upgrade, banishing a twitch, and speaking with a Tashkent dialect (a joke that pokes fun at the capital city’s status symbol accent).
“Satire is very important in humour. If we can show the nation’s pain, and see things change as a result, we would be happy”
Yet none of the requests resonate as strongly with the crowd as the one cast by the group’s oldest member, Mirkomil Musaev. He asks the machine for the “easiest job in the world”, which will let him “walk among the people without shame”. His request is granted, and Musaev is transformed into a police officer. The joke is the group’s not-so-subtle way of insinuating that Uzbek police officers get an easy ride. But the real punchline comes a few moments later, when the now Officer Musayev begins to pull up fellow troupe member Ahmad Temirov for nonexistent rule-breaking. As Musayev asks Temirov to pay up, the audience howls with laughter. A few even start cheering as Uzbekistan’s statewide culture of bribery is writ large on stage.
The skit isn’t just a crowd pleaser but for Million, it marks the start of their distinct path in Uzbekistan’s comedy scene. Seven years on, Million’s popularity is unprecedented in Uzbekistan. Its individual members are among Uzbekistan’s most popular social media stars. Their punchlines have become widely-recognised jokes. The recording of their most recent show in 2019 has reached 25 million views on YouTube, with appreciative comments from Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan. Their live shows, in Uzbekistan and Russia, remain sell-outs, with extra dates usually added to appease upset fans.
“Satire is very important in humour. There are many others who come on stage just to get laughs. But if we can show the nation’s pain, and see things change as a result, we would be happy,” says Kabulov.
Yet the team’s current success hides daring and uncertain beginnings. Today, Million’s magic machine sketch might seem like standard standup comedy fare. But in 2013, overt criticism of the government was not allowed in Uzbekistan. Comedians and public figures often chose to steer clear of issues that might be deemed as taboo, often fearing state retribution. In Million’s case, such fears were well-founded. Although the group’s popularity soared, members didn’t get to enjoy their success for long. The group’s performance license was suspended in 2014 — a common way for Uzbek officials to punish artists seen as overstepping the line. Million spent the next two and a half years on probation. “I still don’t know why our license was revoked in the first place,” Kabulov says.
Uzbekistan’s cultural scene only began to breathe towards the end of 2016. When Million first took to the stage, Uzbekistan was still led by Islam Karimov, who had led the country since its independence from the USSR. As well as its rampant authoritarianism, the Karimov regime was known for its crusades against the country’s best-known artists. After Karimov’s death and the arrival of the new administration in 2016, the revoking of licenses became less frequent. Many artists, Million among them, were allowed to perform again. They grabbed the opportunity.
“Of course, it’s a great thing: the fact that we can say things without being afraid,” said Kabulov. “But I don’t want societal shifts to be portrayed as the only reason our group achieved what it did. We don’t like the thought that we dance to the beat of someone else’s drum.”
The state’s changing attitude, however, did spur the group on. It also undoubtedly shaped its more abrasive tone and style. Recent changes include adding female members to the group’s main line-up — unthinkable under Karimov’s more conservative regime — as well as rebranding as “xalq dardi”: or, in Uzbek, a means to amplify the woes of the masses. They have also continued their attack on law enforcement. In 2018, they famously staged dressed up as road cops and danced to the soundtrack of Bollywood movie Don: a movie about a criminal.
But that doesn’t mean that the group hasn’t struggled with its new place in a changing Uzbek society. Women, for example, hold a curious position in Million. Stand-up comedy is entirely male-dominated in Uzbekistan, and many are among the first female comedians to perform on stage. While the inclusion of women in Million can be seen as somewhat revolutionary, their participation is far from equal. Female members are not primary script writers, and instead often relegated to secondary characters that complement male roles, wives or lovers for the group’s main characters. The modernisation of gender roles is usually portrayed in a negative light, with only a few spare sketches — the knowing aside of a wife pretending not to see her husband’s lover — hinting at the constraints placed on Central Asian women. The crowd applauds such statements, but does not laugh.
“We, as actors, are mirrors of our society, and we have a purpose. Instead of using laws or policies, we use laughter as a way to reflect society’s image back to themselves”
But for how little they contribute, the women of Million are condemned far more by the group’s critics, who deem their position on stage and part in scripts that are full of innuendos as too vulgar for Uzbek women. The actors themselves, meanwhile, see such attacks as a reflection of a country still going through change, making such comments easier to bare.
“We, as actors, are mirrors of our society, and we have a purpose [with these shows],” says Feruza Normatova, a Million female member since 2018. “Instead of using laws or policies, we use laughter as a way to reflect society’s image back to themselves. [That’s why] it’s easier for me to accept and understand criticism.”
Million’s explicit material, mainly in regard to sexual acts and drug use, has always alienated Uzbekistan’s older and more conservative viewers. But their raunchier, post-2016 skits have also seen that criticism become more pronounced, and from a wider range of people. Many complaints accuse Million of setting a poor example to the younger audiences who make up the majority of their fanbase.
Ironically, in the new Uzbekistan, it is now the government who have come to the group’s aid. “Instead of doing all of these undesirable activities, say drinking or other things, [young people] instead go to the show, listen to Million, and emulate a lot of the good [things they do]. And there is a lot of good to emulate,” said Odil Abduqahhorov in an interview, when he was the director of O’zbekonsert — Uzbekistan’s bureau for monitoring artistic content.
Million has also responded to the criticism, with Kabulov using a convenient moment in one of their 2019 shows to add: “Your father has been raising you one way for 30 years, but of course, it’s Million that’s ruining you instead.”
But this pushback from the public still begs the question as to just how far Uzbekistan’s comedy scene — and the country as a whole — is willing to go with its newfound liberties. While artists may be embracing a more liberal environment, it is clear that the nation as a whole may not agree.
Yet even such backlash could be seen as an improvement. Questioning the role of public figures in children’s moral development is in itself a sign of the changing times — and something that likely wouldn’t have existed in pre-2016 Uzbekistan.
“It’s unlikely that [the country] will go back to how it was,” says Sharoffidin Tulaganev, an Uzbek journalist who began his career during the Soviet Union. When asked if a new administration could possibly reverse the progress made in the arts industry in particular, he replied “No, no. That would look very bad for them, if they went from this era backwards. They’re even starting to care less about licenses. I doubt [the country] will go back.”
For now, however, there remains an almost Soviet-like impetus for artists and comedians to set an example or send a message to the next generation — rather than punching up and targeting power. “It’s absolutely the responsibility of the artist [to set an example],” Abduqahhorov disclosed when interviewed.
Million is not shying away from that responsibility. “The things we say, should make [our audience] reflect the next day. Like a good friend, who gives you advice, and you take from it the part that’s relevant to you,” said Kabulov.
But such words come easily amid success. Uzbekistan is a country of paradoxes, changing rapidly; standing at crossroads. Million’s work currently dovetails with the government’s own plan of economic growth and broadening civil liberties. The million-dollar question is: for how long?
