Immigrant Soldier: From the Baltics to Vietnam is a very personal story that is told with heartfelt conviction and sincerity. Unfortunately, it never develops beyond an oversimplified look at history through the prism of personal experience.

As the title suggests, the memoir attempts to span the historical era from Latvia’s independence through Vick Pakis’ own experiences fighting in the Vietnam War. That is a Herculean task. It includes the Soviet occupation of Latvia and the family’s flight to the West, their experiences in a Displaced Persons camp in Germany, and their arrival and adjustment to life in the United States, eventually culminating in Pakis’ own experiences in the Vietnam War.

Similar approaches were used by Agata Nesaule in A Woman in Amber and by Modris Eksteins in Walking Since Daybreak. The problem is that Pakis has neither the literary skill nor the historical backgrounding of Nesaule or Eksteins. His story seldom goes beyond simple narrative in which all the good guys wear white and all the bad guys, in this specific case, wear red. The writing often reads like ledger entries.

Small nagging errors are hard to ignore after a while. Pakis refers to his grandfather as Khrisjanis. The Latvian pronounciation of the name would most likely be Krishjanis (Krišjānis). Another character is referred to as Mr. Ozoles; in Latvian it would be Ozols. The family members are referred to by first name only, which can be confusing. The book’s jacket claims that the book "…reveals how his personal history would ultimately influence Vick Pakis’ own confrontation with Communism—as a soldier in the U.S. Army." However, the only character in the book who serves in the U.S. Army is named Karl. The only Vick in the book is Viktor, Karl’s father.

These are to be expected in a book from a small publishing company, Hellgate Press, specializing in books that claim to look "through the eyes of someone who has experienced war" and written by a novice writer who feels strongly about his subject matter. Ultimately, it’s the strength of feeling that is the downfall of Immigrant Soldier.

The story of the incredible hardships that the Pakis family had to endure works, even if one suspects that it might be a bit self-serving. It’s the recounting of history that exposes the book’s shortcomings. It’s not that Pakis’ family did not go through hell and that the Soviets were responsible. It’s not that the Vietnam War wasn’t as simple as the war protesters tried to make it out to be. It’s just that he tries to put it all into such a narrow historical perspective that even the staunchest conservatives might blink.

The Reds are to be blamed for everything. In the fight for Latvia’s independence all of the bad guys are Reds. During Latvia’s independence the Reds cause all of the problems. In German labor camps the bad guys are all Reds, or Russians. During the Vietnam War period it’s the Red media. And if they are not Reds, then they are obviously malcontents and idiots. The book is peppered with passages like “…experiences of the past created a hatred for hypocrites, liars, thieves, and most of all, the so-called experts…Viktor’s success was based on hard work, but it did create a few enemies for him. Envy and jealousy came his way from several older writers in the section…It’s not going to be tomorrow or the day after that, but eventually they will be able to say, ‘I told you so’ to all of these Commie lovers and Socialists."

Pakis’ life, the experiences of his family’s flight from the Soviet occupation of Latvia and—by extension—the lives and experience of countless other Latvians, those who left and those who stayed behind, deserve to be heard. Unfortunately, Vick Pakis was probably not the best person to tell them.

Great films don’t always need to be “great” films. They don’t have to be perfect or about important topics. Sometimes they can just simply be small, gentle films that tell their story with heartfelt sincerity, humor and warmth. Ziemassvētku jampadracis is such a film.

Jampadracis tells the story of the Cīrulīši, a tight-knit family down on their luck, and their trials and tribulations during the Christmas season.

Father Cīrulītis has just been turned down for a job as a music teacher. He can barely support the family as a piano teacher with far too few students. They can’t even afford a Christmas tree. The landlord is threatening to kick them out. The kids have just received their report cards and some of the marks are not, well, they are not the kind that you would want your parents to see. The eldest son has been summoned to the police station falsely accused of hitting a policeman with a snowball. And, to top it all off the child prodigy—whom the two youngest kids have been entrusted with entertaining—has just been injured on the eve of his concert. The pair is sure to be blamed.

What ensues is a story that is as genuine as it is warm, a wonderful tale that transcends whatever weaknesses it might have simply because it is told from the heart. The Cīrulīši might be poor and going through hard times, but the love that they have for each other can triumph over anything that comes their way.

In contrast, the family of the child prodigy, which has all the wealth and status that anyone could possibly need, seems lost and sad because they lack precisely the one thing that the Cīrulīši have been blessed with.

The winner of several awards,  among them Chicago’s and Frankfurt’s children’s film festivals, Jampadracis might be characterized as a children’s film, but it is a film for the child in all of us. It transcends the genre. The performances do not contain a single false note and Varis Brasla’s direction and the script by Alvis Lapiņš are exemplary.

It is not often that I feel I have to watch a film more than once. Not because I missed some important plot point, but because I am not sure I liked or disliked the film. In the case of Vecās pagastmājas mistērija, I am still not sure. The films of Jānis Streičs have that effect on me.

Vecās pagastmājas mistērija (The Mystery of the Old Parish House) is loosely based on real life events that took place in Krimulda, Latvia. It tells the story of an aging KGB agent (Eduards Pāvuls) who is forced to live the rest of his life in a house in whose basement he had tortured and murdered people during the summer of 1941. Yet, the film itself is really about much more than that. It is about filmmaking and contemporary life and the notions of guilt and responsibility.

The film is told in three parts. The first, "Mea Culpa," is a film within a film. It is about the screening of the KGB agent’s story. In the film within the film, the KGB agent hires two construction workers (Renārs Kaupers and Andris Bērziņš) to brick up the door to the basement to prevent the ghosts of all those he had killed from coming after him. As the two workers discover the true nature of the job they resolve to avenge all those who had died by killing the Chekist, but eventually end up saving him from killing himself. Unfortunately, no one, other than the director (Artūrs Skrastiņš), likes the finished film and it is decided that additional scenes need to be shot to improve it.

The second part, "Agnus Dei," is about the shooting of an additional horror scene in which the ghosts, accompanied by a spectre of Jesus nailed to a cross, chase the Chekist. Unbeknownst to anyone, one of the people hanging around the shoot—a filthy, drunken bum looking for a free drink—is the real-life KGB agent. During a break in the filming, while no one is watching, he nails the actor (Kaupers) playing Jesus to the cross.

The last part of the film, "Tuba Mirum," is about the relationship between the young actor Juziks (Kaupers), the film’s producer, Hugo (Ivars Kalniņš), and Magda, the woman they both love (Aurēlija Anužīte).

It all comes to a head as the sadistic producer tries to rape Magda, Juziks comes to her rescue and—with the help of the ghosts of the victims of the old parish house—they triumph over all.

The major flaw of Vecās pagastmājas mistērija is that so much of the story is dependent on the fact that the film within the film is supposed to be flawed and we spend too much time watching a bad movie being made. It’s not that this is a bad idea. Films about bad films are not a new genre. I can think of two examples, Ed Wood and Living in Oblivion, that worked. However, neither of those films tried to focus on anything other than the basic premise. Streičs tries to reach far beyond that by also making Vecās pagastmājas mistērija about the true-life events of what happened to Latvia under Soviet occupation and all of the real and imagined scars that they left on the Latvian psyche. If he had focused on either story the film would have been much stronger. By trying to combine the two he succeeds in telling neither.

This is not to say that Vecās pagastmājas mistērija is a bad film. Many parts of it work and others are downright profound. Streičs’ combination of mysticism with realistic themes and execution show a great deal of talent and depth. The three parts all complement each other. You have layers upon layers of symbolism here. The real-life events are often more absurd and surreal than their celluloid representation. Reality and fantasy blur and complement each other to the point where you can’t tell them apart. All in all, while some of the parts might not work, the sum is greater than the whole.