One by one, the biggest names in Russian film have found their way into Raisa Fomina's fourth-floor office. But if Fomina was ever star-struck -- and that is highly doubtful -- she has managed to get over it.


Nikita Mikhalkov, Elem Klimov, Ivan Dykhovichny -- to Russians, these names mean the survival of a cinematic tradition. To Fomina, one of the country's most active film promoters, they mean a 60-hour work week.


"Yesterday there was a big scandal with one of the directors. I almost had a heart attack," she says, reeling off the details of her latest crusade and sounding less like an acolyte than a babysitter. "I should put a note on my door saying 'For Poor Little Directors Who Don't Know What to Do.'"


"Here in the Cinema Center they say 'Don't do any favors.' Then I end up doing these things out of my own free will. Because of the pleasure I get from it. Because I am an idiot." She throws up her hands. "With directors, it was always their personalities. If they were not used to using other people's energy and time they would never make any films."


She rolls her eyes with flamboyant impatience, but in the end, of course, Fomina will log 60 hours this week, as she has done for the last eight years. As director of international cultural programs at the Cinema Center, Fomina spends most of her time guaranteeing that her protegees' films are seen as widely and as frequently as possible.


Since she was drawn into the business of glasnost cinema, Fomina has had a hand in almost every foreign prize, international festival and anti-bureaucratic crusade to disseminate films. When the only subtitled copy of Ivan Dykhovichny's "Moscow Parade" got stuck in customs, Fomina made daily trips to Scheremetyevo airport to bail it out. When the director Artur Aristakisyan was refused a U.S. visa on his way to the San Francisco International Film Festival, Fomina turned the case into a local cause c?l?bre. Whenever material constraints threaten to hurt her directors, Fomina goes to the barricades on a regular basis.


She does it because Russian directors -- unlike, for instance, American directors -- were trained as artists, not pragmatists, she said. Bankrolled by state-funded studios like Lenfilm and Mosfilm, Soviet filmmakers never had to worry about sponsorship or publicity. "For Russian directors, it is very difficult to compromise," she said. "In Russia, the film director was always a kind of god."


Today, however, compromises are a filmmaker's main activity. Most top directors must rely on corporate sponsorship from ruble billionaires who may or may not be art-lovers, Fomina says.


"The reasons why they give money are very mysterious," she says. "First, you have to charm them. Second, you have to charm their wife. Third, you probably have to give a role to their girlfriend."


Fomina herself has not so much studied film as filmmakers. She swept into this job on the coattails of Elem Klimov, who she met when she was working as a translator in Sweden. Klimov -- who replaced Lev Kulidzhanov as head of the Filmmakers' Union in 1986 -- became a standard-bearer for liberalization in the film industry, and during the heady days of 1987 he took Fomina along for the ride.


As press secretary, she accompanied Klimov on a trip to Hollywood, where the Russian delegation was toasted by American megadirectors like Steven Spielberg and George Lucas. Robert Redford offered to fly them to his Utah ranch on a private plane, then flew to Moscow instead when they were unable to travel. "That was 1987, when Russia was in fashion," she says, without rancor.


The grand tours of 1987 are not likely to be repeated, but Fomina's goals lie elsewhere anyway. For Fomina, international recognition is a means to an end: returning Russian cinema to something like its former status.


"Twenty years ago, cinema was something which was like a feast, like a holiday. People would come here, they would take off their coats, they would drink a cup of coffee," she remembers. "There was a piano player. People danced in the foyer."