We spoke with B.Amarsanaa, a member of the International Federation of Film Critics (FIPRESCI), about the current state of the Mongolian film industry and the culture of film criticism. Though he holds both bachelor’s and master’s degrees in literature and linguistics, he has made cinema an integral part of his life. His film reviews and articles are regularly published in leading international media outlets, and he has recently been selected to serve as a judge at the 83rd Golden Globe Awards early next year.

As someone who studied literature, cultural studies, and linguistics, what drew you to the film industry?

I never imagined I would become a film critic. In fact, very few people set out with that intention—most simply find themselves deeply absorbed in the field before they realize it. I graduated from Nanjing University in China with a degree in English language and literature. I never formally studied filmmaking. In China, there isn’t a specific major dedicated solely to film studies; it’s often combined with theatre, or focused on film production such as directing or cinematography. But I wasn’t interested in directing or screenwriting.

Later, I pursued my master’s degree in Chinese language and cultural studies, graduating in 2023. During that time, I chose elective courses related to film. When the COVID-19 pandemic hit and we were confined to our homes, I spent that period watching a tremendous number of films. That’s when I began to take a serious interest in Asian cinema and film criticism, eventually joining a journalism course focused on these subjects.

At the end of the course, I wrote my first film review. My instructor told me, “This is excellent, you should publish it.” Those words gave me immense encouragement and inspired me to develop film criticism as part of my professional path.

I also collaborated with other international students to publish an English-language magazine called China Notes, which focused on contemporary China. I was in charge of the Chinese cinema section, and I wrote every review and article I could without any payment. After about a year, our team members graduated and began working in different fields, and I started my doctoral studies. From that point onward, I began independently contacting editors of international publications and publishing my reviews in English.

What is the significance and advantage of being a member of the International Federation of Film Critics?

This year marks the 100th anniversary of the founding of the International Federation of Film Critics (FIPRESCI), which was established in 1925 by film critics from Belgium and Paris. To put it in perspective, the Cannes Film Festival, which is considered one of the oldest in the world, has been running for just over 80 years, meaning FIPRESCI has existed even longer.

Membership requires certain qualifications: one must write reviews in English, have substantial experience, and have been published in international media outlets. Today, film critics from over 80 countries are affiliated with FIPRESCI, though the majority are Europeans.

That’s why I’m deeply honored to represent Mongolia within this organization, and I try to carry that responsibility with great care. I also hope that more Mongolian film lovers will join the federation in the future.

You’ve been appointed as a judge for the 83rd Golden Globe Awards. Could you tell us more about that experience?

Yes, I began working on this in the summer. My inbox has been practically overflowing with emails related to the Golden Globes. People often misunderstand what the Golden Globes are—many think it’s a film festival, but in fact, it’s an awards ceremony, similar to the Oscars. The judges are not filmmakers themselves, but journalists and critics who actively work in the entertainment industry.

Those who wish to serve as judges must apply voluntarily and go through a selection process. Interestingly, judges are selected from countries outside the United States, which is a distinctive feature of the Golden Globes. Applicants must also be able to write their reviews in English or Spanish.

The Oscars, on the other hand, are judged by professionals in filmmaking—directors, cinematographers, and so on. The Golden Globes are unique in that critics themselves select the winners.

‘Echoes from Numrug Rock’ is the most romantic Mongolian film I know 

Since returning to Mongolia, have you had the chance to watch any recent Mongolian films? Which ones stood out to you?

Unfortunately, I haven’t had the opportunity to watch all the films released this autumn. While serving as a jury member for the Kharkhorum International Film Festival, I watched Silent City Driver by director J.Sengedorj.

He is an experienced filmmaker, and I was impressed by how different and fresh this work felt compared to his previous films. The Silent City Driver is a very well-directed film. I also recently learned that his new film, The Muralist, was selected for the main competition of the Tallinn Black Nights Film Festival.

From the Ulaanbaatar International Film Festival, I had hoped to see the “Shuvuulakhui” film, but I didn’t have time. Personally, I’ve always been very fond of documentaries. I’ve noticed that while many foreign filmmakers come to Mongolia to shoot documentaries, local filmmakers seem to pay less attention to our own history, culture, and traditions.

For me, the greatest Mongolian film of all time is “Echoes from Numrug Rock” directed by R.Dorjpalam. It is, in my opinion, the most romantic Mongolian film ever made. Although it was produced in 1966, it shows no trace of socialist ideology, which is remarkable for its time. The plot is simple: a music teacher, disheartened by his unfruitful creative career, is sent to assist herders during the lambing season.

He reluctantly goes, bringing only his musical instrument and wearing pointed black shoes. Lost in a snowstorm, he encounters a woman struggling to save her flock and helps her. They take shelter together under the Numrug Rock—a scene both tender and poetic.

Interestingly, the film seems to have two endings, suggesting that the censors may have altered the original conclusion. Another remarkable element is its music—this was the first Mongolian film where the score was synchronized with the on-screen events. There’s a memorable scene where the teacher stands atop the cliff, moving his arms like a symphony conductor, and the music aligns perfectly. Before this, Mongolian films typically used pre-composed songs inserted at the end.

Among modern films, I would mention Tatar Ajillagaa. It’s a perfectly balanced, classic-style film. At the Far East Film Festival in Udine, Italy, only two Mongolian films were showcased—Tatar Ajillagaa and The Salesgirl. Even today, when I speak with foreign festival organizers, they still ask me: “Has Mongolia produced another film like Tatar Ajillagaa?”

Many people argue that recent Mongolian films promote immoral behavior, such as extramarital relationships and the use of vulgar language. What is your opinion on that?

Film is, on one hand, an art form, and on the other, a business. The birth of cinema itself is marked by the first time a ticket was sold. If we neglect the artistic side, cinema becomes nothing more than a commercial product. When profit becomes the only goal, filmmakers naturally start catering to what the audience wants rather than what they need.

Even if the subject matter is morally questionable or controversial, many are tempted to create such content because it attracts attention. This isn’t unique to film—we see the same trend on Instagram reels, short videos, and other online platforms.

Some argue that every sector must be financially self-sufficient, and that the state should not intervene or fund the arts. But that is an illogical stance. If this principle had been applied throughout history, classical art would never have flourished. In earlier centuries, kings and patrons supported great artists not for profit, but to create enduring masterpieces.

Arts funding programs and cultural grants exist not only in Mongolia but throughout the world. Every country has its own film council or association to support the industry. However, such support must reach the right people—those who create meaningful, artistic films. There’s no need to fund purely commercial movies; they already generate sufficient income.

Instead, funding should be directed toward art-house and independent films that represent Mongolia on the international stage and contribute to our cinematic identity.

Taking money from filmmakers to write praise is meaningless 

Some filmmakers say, “There are no professional film critics in Mongolia; only an ignorant crowd that spits on others’ work.” In your opinion, what should be the ideal relationship between a critic and a filmmaker?

Everyone, of course, has their own opinion. In fact, film criticism in Mongolia dates back a long time—it’s not something that just appeared recently. There’s even a collection titled “Mongolian Film Reviews”, which includes reviews as early as the 1936 film “Mongol Khuu” (The Mongolian Boy). Naturally, at that time, reviews were heavily influenced by ideology. But today, we live in a much freer society that allows creative expression. Unfortunately, there are far fewer critics now.

A film critic must possess knowledge of film history and theory. When you straightforwardly say that a film didn’t quite work, there are always people who immediately respond with, “What have you done yourself?”—as if I must have made a film to be entitled to critique one. But the truth is, I don’t need to have made a film to understand or evaluate one. I always remind people: both the filmmaker and the critic are doing their jobs. Criticism should never be taken personally. Paying for a ticket gives every viewer the right to express an opinion.

Also, a film critic doesn’t owe anyone anything. Just because a film is released doesn’t mean I must see it—or write about it afterward. Nor am I required to be “balanced” in my review. If I like it, I say so; if I don’t, I say that too. Yet many people find it hard to understand this dynamic.

There are also people who simply don’t grasp how critics are supposed to work. To be frank, I’ve even received phone calls from filmmakers asking, “Our film premieres soon—how much would you charge to write about it?” But when I publish a review, I only receive compensation from the media outlet that prints it—not from the filmmakers. Even though I am a critic, taking money from the production team and writing something flattering would be meaningless. That’s a serious conflict of interest. That’s not film criticism—that’s just marketing or PR. Unfortunately, in Mongolia, the line between the two has become rather blurred.

You developed the young audience program for the 17th Ulaanbaatar International Film Festival. Through the selected films, what message did you want to convey to young viewers?

I’ve previously worked with teams curating festival programs, collaborating with many people. But this time, I independently curated and translated the entire program myself. Although I selected only four films, each was chosen with a specific idea in mind.

The Ulaanbaatar International Film Festival is Mongolia’s oldest and most prestigious film event. Its international competition section annually features around ten films—usually recent award-winning works from major festivals such as Venice, Cannes, and Berlin—bringing them promptly to Mongolian audiences.

The young audience program, as its name suggests, is intended for young viewers. That meant carefully examining each film’s plot, story, and emotional depth. This year, I selected films from Japan, Hungary, Lithuania, and Finland. At first glance, they might seem far removed from Mongolian life, but as the stories unfold, audiences can easily find striking similarities. The characters’ emotions, inner worlds, struggles, and joys are universally relatable—no matter where one is from.

The main purpose of this program is to foster film literacy among young viewers, while also inspiring and encouraging emerging Mongolian filmmakers. Interestingly, three out of the four films were debut features by their directors. For instance, the director of “Toxic”—a young woman, even younger than me—won the top prize at the Locarno Film Festival, where I happened to serve as a jury member.

So, I wanted young Mongolian filmmakers to see for themselves what kind of films earn recognition at major international festivals and why. I also included the film “Lesson Learned”, which humorously and positively portrays the struggle to reform an outdated education system. It mirrors Mongolia’s situation quite closely—showing how schools often focus on everything except learning itself: the uniforms, the hairstyles, how to walk up or down stairs, even nail length—while the quality of education remains neglected in the background.