The notion of an “information war” in the wake of the actual Russian-Georgian hostilities has gotten a lot of attention in its time. One would be forgiven for thinking that some amazingly complicated PR strategies are being deployed on both sides. In actuality, the “war” mostly consists of both Russia and Georgia trying to impress a who-hit-whom-first narrative on a completely indifferent American public, and doing it in the clumsiest manner possible.

A month or so ago, for instance, we were approached by a well-funded gentleman with Kremlin ties who was looking for advice on how best to “place” a pro-Russian documentary on the war. Since actual distribution was out of the question (not because Americans are in the tank for Saakashvili but because, you know, boooo-riiing), the placement he had in mind involved renting out a theater outright. We shrugged and bade him good luck.

Skip forward to this week’s curious premiere at the Anthology Film Archives, the downtown hub of avant-garde cinema that’s usually good for a Stan Brakhage retrospective or seven: OSSETIA: Chronicles of Genocide and Freedom.

Whoa Nelly. Genocide, huh. If that overreach wasn’t enough, the Kremlin hand is immediately obvious in the two quotes picked for the poster. “The fire, the bombing… started the night of August 7,” says one interviewee (the date is only significant if you remember that the Russians went into Georgia on August 8, 2008). “Without Russia, they wouldn’t let stone over the stone,” clarifies the other (in a clumsy translation of an idiom that means “they would level the place”).

The director’s name, Raul Fajardo, might lead one to believe that the film provides a, shall we say, international perspective on the war. No such luck. A quick search reveals that Fajardo is, in fact, a graduate of the Voronezh University with a history of making flacky documentaries on state dime. His previous masterpiece was a film detailing “how various regions of Russia celebrate Victory Day,” sponsored by the “administration of Tatarstan.” A regular Ken Burns.

It’s no surprise, considering all this, that the Anthology Film Archives’ own site bears no mention of the film. (Instead, it lists a documentary about international small-arms dealing). We wonder if they were even aware of the premiere's function. After all, the Anthology’s founder, Lithuanian-born labor-camp survivor Jonas Mekas, can probably recognize a whiff of Goebbelsian bullshit from several miles away.