Between March 22 and April 3, 2005, the Visionalist Entertainment Production crew headed up by Executive Producer Keith Famie followed the Detroit Red Wings Alumni team as they traveled to the former Soviet Union to play seven games against some of the greatest Russian players ever to strap on skates.

Arranged by future Hall of Famer, three-time Stanley Cup winner and two-time Olympic gold medalist Igor Larionov, the purpose of the trip was twofold. First, to offer some real, hard-line competition to the Alumni, who generally play exhibition games for charity, and also, as an opportunity for Larionov to show off his native Russia in the era since glasnost and perestroika revolutionized it.

Here's an overview of the trip by associate producer Chris Kassel:

What's worse than being trapped inside Siberia with a busload of gigantic, beer-swilling, prank-pulling
alpha males?

They might not be Red Wings.

Okay, retired Red Wings—Red Wings Alumni team members to be precise—but we won’t split graying hairs over a contract situation; most of these guys look like they could step back on Joe Louis ice in a heartbeat and hold their own against today's crop of bigger, stronger, faster pros. Guys like Dennis Hextall, Marc Howe, Bill Evo, Eddie Mio, Jim Bedard and Joey Kocur still have game, but they’ve also got something better. They’ve got the older time religion, something nearly indefinably, but not quite: They have is true hockey vision. They developed it when their sport was less Hollywood, California and more Kindersley, Saskatchewan.

Their epic journey to Russia was, to some extent, a heartfelt and well-deserved thank you from teammate Igor Larionov; it was a way for Larionov to show off the country he loves, but equally, a way to get these retired bones back out on some serious ice against some serious competition, some of the best that's ever played the game.

And not just any competition, but Russia!

If you are old enough to remember 1972, that was the year that a handful of promoters organized an eight game series to be played between the Russian national team and the NHL All-stars in what was destined to become the greatest hockey match-up ever conceived. The countries had never really played before, other than during the Olympics, and had been glaring at each other over the Pacific for decades, each convinced of their own superiority. The Canadians especially: from the outset, they treated the series like an obligatory Junior A league yawner, like it would be a stroll through Gorky Park, like they'd deliver the requisite trouncing as quickly as you could flip the top on a greenie. So contemptuous were they of the competition that promoter Alan Eagelson was quoted as saying, 'Anything less than an unblemished sweep would bring shame down on national pride.' And yet, so closely matched did the two teams wind up that the series was knotted at 3-3-1 until fourteen minutes forty seconds into the final period of the final game when Paul Henderson rebounded a blocked shot from Phil Esposito and scored the most dramatic goal in the history of everything. It was a spectacularly nail-bitable win, but hardly decisive, and even in victory the Canadians were despondent as the cold truth settled in. Ice invincible, the undisputed, universal superpower of the rink they were not.

The games we recorded in Russia over two weeks in 2005 would be, in some symbolic fashion, a replay of those legendary 1972 games.

And once again, the NHL prevailed. Still, the trip offered dynamics more compelling that simple sports and resulted in film footage unparalleled in scope and depth. Although hockey-focused, the adventure encompassed countless cultural side trips, including visits to cathedrals, museums and especially, a tour of Khatyn, the acutely poignant war memorial to the nearly ten thousand Soviet towns and villages that were eradicated during World War II. About the memorial, Joey Kocur pointed out with eloquence perhaps unexpected in an uber-jock: "Forget the hockey... this is why you come to Russia."

The journey began in Moscow; a whistle stop immediately followed by a slow train to Belarus, a republic away. The train, the milieu, even the thumping beat of the rail seems like something from Dr. Zhivago; out the window was eleven hours of open, unmanageable-looking wilderness punctuated by little ramshackle wooden towns, isolated one-room cottages, concrete housing blocks and birch forest. Game One was played inside the Palace of Sports, and was highlighted by the dramatic appearance of president Aleksander Lukashenko as a player for the Minsk alumni. On the very night of the game, as the Belarusian boss was drilling shots, the Western press was decrying him the as ‘the last dictator in Europe’.

Maybe Lukashenko’s presence unnerved our gang; maybe it was noblesse oblige or the anticipation of beating someone whose opponents have been known to disappear permanently. Whatever mental gesticulations the Alumni wrestled with, in Game One of the series, played at the Palace of Sports in Minsk, they lost.

Likewise in 1972: déjà vu all over again.

Afterwards, a reception was held inside a spectacular ski lodge called Loboysk, and the meal was magnificent. Thick, sour slabs of dark bread to soak up shchi, cabbage soup, followed by an aristocratic pike galantine with olives; then bujanina, a crusted meat pie, creamed hake, and a crusty lentil cake topped with steamed halibut and pickled beet. This is cuisine that is at once rustic and elegant, provincial and polished, and like all things Russian, a combination of the nostalgic and the nouvelle. And from a chef’s point of view, if you want a definitive recipe, good luck: as always in the vast and opinionated country, for every two people, there's three points of view.

Meanwhile, vodka toast battered us as relentlessly as breakers on the seashore, one after the other. We drank to old wars and new peace, we drank to life, liberty and the pursuit of happy hour; we complimented the opposition for kicking our butts, and they complimented us on taking it like men.

One vital component of this and all toasts was our translator. Dimitri. A dour, bald, perfectly groomed man in his forties, Dimitri is a retired KGB officer who he jumped ship shortly after the fall of Communism. He'd been a head of surveillance and he still reminisces about life in 'the life', when existence was flash, the money easy and the respect unbounded. Now Dimitri does radio work for BBC Europe and moonlights as a translator for tourists, which pays better.

Next morning, we took a ancient, crotchety Aeroflot prop plane over the Urals—the kind of plane still equipped with ashtrays and those razor blade disposal slots that make you wonder not only who's shaving on airplanes but who's shaving so much they're wearing out razor blades. Our destination was Siberia, the 'sleeping land' of Tartar folklore which makes up seventy-three percent of Russian territory. The small-but-representative swath that we filmed was awash in picturesque desolation: a mosaic of frozen marshes, sinister-looking forests and leaden lakes. The cities offered a bit of urban contrast: creepy Soviet-era high-rises, sensational old school Orthodox cathedrals and modern Siberian industry.

Game Two was played in Tyumen, and by the time it got under way, the team had undergone some kind of magical transformation. They played with more nerve for one thing, and for another, they suddenly began behaving like a cohesive unit. They shrugged it off; like Bedard said, game one was practice.

It was a mystery, but then again, hockey is filled with them, filled with conundrums, like how can a one-eighth inch skate blade propel a two hundred pound goon nearly as fast as a horse can run? Like, why is a score and the net both called a goal? Like, if the game has only three rules, how can four of them be incomprehensible?

A total of three games were played in Siberia, and through them, the Visionalist crew got a real feel for life in this isolated corner of the globe. We wormed through rural villages, remnants of Stalin's forced collectivization, places which seem to have enjoyed few of the advantages of perestroika. We interviewed ordinary people on the street, and everybody seemed stifled by the economy. $400 a month is considered a pretty good wage to your average Siberian, and most of the young people we spoke to were in the $200-per-month range. Said one cynical babushka with unconscious wit: "Under communism, the shop shelves were empty. Under capitalism, they're full. Unfortunately, nobody has the money to buy anything."

At one point, we passed a small, decrepit peasant shack, and the inhabitants were gracious enough to allow us to film inside. It was rude and primitive and desperately well cared for; there was no running water but there was electricity. And priorities. What was playing on the old RCA nine-inch TV with Cyrillic labeling? Hockey.

The only way to top the cultural juggernaut of Siberia was a visit to cosmopolitan Moscow and the incomparable Kremlin, where the splendor was all-encompassing. Most visitors are cowed by the Kremlin exteriors and can only wonder at the mysteries that lie inside. Not so the pals of Igor Larionov, who were treated to a rare tour; a glimpse of the rock crystal chandeliers, malachite hearths, impossibly ornate gilt and porcelain fixtures among which the czars once lived.

Backed by the Moscow River, the Kremlin is fronted by a half million square feet of brick paving stones known as Red Square. Ghosts of former May Day parades, where the Soviets trumpeted all their stuff that blew other stuff up hardly lingered, and nowhere did the transformation of socialism to capitalism resonate louder than here. Where the Soviets once rolled out their T-64 rocket tanks and SS-4 ballistic missiles, now there's an upscale shopping mall filled with Levis and Christian Dior. Fifty years of Cold War, and the world is safe for consumerism. Exit fascists, enter fashion.

The trip was both a cultural juggernaut and a candid peek at the Alumni; viewed with a particularly powerful microscope via the individual interviews conducted by Famie. Each of the multi-faceted personalities of the Alumni players was revealed; their careers, their passions and, yes, their faults. In portraying the group, and then the journey and the country itself with perfect honesty, no stone was left unturned.

There were more games, more feasts, countless interpersonal milestones along the snowy highways and side roads. Through it all, the remarkable resiliency and the heartwarming hospitality of the Russian people shone like a lodestar.

As a result, the trek and the documentary become that rarest of glimpses into the subculture of superstars, with all the raw interactions, the unplugged immoderation, the personality clashes—everything viewed before the technicolor backdrop of great enigmatic Mother Russia.

Ice Warriors documentary will be ready by the fall of 2005

Any questions you might have can be directed to 248-624-9636
Visionalist Entertainment Productions