The Film “Garib in the Land of Jinn”: Special Effects, Azerbaijani Style

Hollywood, with its multibillion-dollar budgets, can afford any digital marvel imaginable. By contrast, to create a fantasy fairy tale in the Soviet Union one needed not money, but genuine magic—bordering on madness. Or, at the very least, a team of wildly devoted enthusiasts at the Azerbaijanfilm studio.

This fairy tale conveys the idea of the strength of human character and affirms that wealth can never replace the warmth of family or the love of those closest to us.

Today, few people may immediately recall this 1977 film. Yet believe me: this story truly deserves your attention. It is not merely a motion picture; it is a manual on survival in film production, where a botanical garden replaces the green screen, and instead of a flame-throwing dragon generated by CGI, we encounter a mechanical monster with a gas cylinder hidden inside.

Here are the principal micro-episodes from its production history:

1. The lead actor was found in fifteen minutes. He was, quite literally, seized off the street and placed into costume.
2. The dragon nearly burned the actors alive—twice.
3. One actor had to slap his own uncle, and this proved to be the most difficult take.
4. A background actor’s wig caught fire from a torch and was extinguished with a cloak, as if in an action film.

A Trial by Fire—and by Djinn

In the mid-1970s, filming of “Garib in the Land of Jinn” was in full swing. The most challenging character was the fire-breathing dragon: a four-meter-tall monstrosity on mechanical legs. Each leg concealed a strong athlete who had to move in perfect synchrony. Inside the dragon’s neck were a gas cylinder and a candle, used to create the illusion of “fiery breath.”

During rehearsals, the unthinkable occurred: the heat from the flame surged inward, scorching the faces of the unfortunate performers inside the structure. Later, in another scene, a prop spear thrown at the dragon pierced the casing and struck the shoulder of the man within. This was not computer graphics; it was the highest echelon of Soviet-era cinematic “safety.”

Casting: From a Mere Formality to “You Are Our Djinn”

The casting of the main character, seventeen-year-old Bakhtiyar Khanizade, unfolded like a detective story. His uncle, the actor Hamlet Khanizade, had recommended him for the role. The young man arrived at the studio only to be told, “The actor has already been cast.” Two days later, a black Volga car stopped outside his home; he was pushed inside and driven to the studio without explanation. It turned out that the previous candidate had failed, time had run out, and director Ali-Sattar Atakishiyev had been given an ultimatum: “Either you find Garib, or the project is shut down.” Bakhtiyar was dressed, made up, and filming began immediately. Thus, without approval from the artistic council, a star was born.

The most dramatic twist, however, occurred during auditions for the role of Akshad, the king of the djinns. The favorite was the well-known Georgian actor Givi Tokhadze, who performed all scenes in full costume and makeup. Another candidate, Mukhtar Maniyev, arrived in ordinary clothes. He and the actress Amalia Panahova, auditioning for the role of the djinn Zerri, were allotted “fifteen minutes merely as a formality.” Their performance caused such a sensation that the artistic council approved both of them. The celebrated director Hasan Seyidbeyli reportedly remarked, “Mukhtar Maniyev looks more like an Azerbaijani djinn than Tokhadze.” And thus, in a single take, the decision was made.

Family Confrontations and a Flying Satan

There was also an episode in which art collided directly with family ties. In one scene, Bakhtiyar Khanizade had to slap the treacherous character Raki, played by his own uncle, Hamlet Khanizade. Imagine a young man, raised to respect his elder relative, being required to strike him publicly. Take after take failed. Finally, the uncle himself implored him: “Hit me—it’s cinema!” The slap, at last, was convincing.

Another memorable episode involved an escape from the land of the djinns on the back of Satan. The role was played by the distinguished actor Gunduz Abbasov, who protested: “How can this be? I have always played positive characters!” The director replied, “That is precisely where an actor’s courage lies.” Filming took place in the Botanical Garden. Abbasov, an older man and far from a heroic physique, struggled to support Khanizade on his shoulders. At one point he lost his balance and fell with the young actor into the tree branches. The director erupted: “What have you done?!” Abbasov replied philosophically: “Ali-Sattar, there was a time when you placed me on someone else’s shoulders, and now you place someone on mine.”

Why Do We Earnestly Recommend This Azerbaijani Film?

Perhaps you are not a devotee of old cinema. Perhaps you believe that special effects from the last century are no longer capable of astonishing modern audiences. Yet “Garib in the Land of Jinn” is more than a film. It is a monument to human courage, ingenuity, and that very “practical magic” through which a director, possessing almost nothing but an idea and a community of like-minded collaborators, creates an entire world.

This is a work in which every frayed nerve, every drop of sweat, and every small miracle born on a real soundstage—filled with smoke, fire, and genuine emotion—is visible. It deserves to be seen simply to understand that true magic is not born of budgetary excess, but in the hearts of those who believe in the fairy tale.