On the walls of Lenfilm's endless corridors, a bleak photo display traces the studio's illustrious production history.
By the director's office, stills from the year 1964 capture scenes from Hamlet. Nearer the main cluster of studios, we hit 1934 and that year's smash film, "Chapayev," directed by Sergei and Georgy Vasilyev.
Each step taken seems to span a decade until, finally, when the visitor crosses the threshold into Lenfilm's main sound stage, he finds himself in surroundings that might easily be a studio of the 1920s.
Archaic lighting equipment swings from rusty cables. Black and white cityscapes adorn the walls, while workers shuffle around nonchalantly. In fact, the only thing missing is the authentic 1920s glamor.
It was movie mogul Louis B. Mayer who said that, in Hollywood, "you have to scrape away all the tinsel to get down to the real tinsel underneath." In Lenfilm, the same could be said of an entirely different, less glitzy substance -- dust.
Yet despite rising costs and the flood of American imports, Lenfilm has survived despite its decline. This is quite an achievement given the declining state of the Russian film industry.
Established after the Revolution as part of the artistic apparatus of the burgeoning state, it peaked in the years before and after the Second World War.
George Cukor was sufficiently impressed to make a film at the studio, as was Elizabeth Taylor and, later, Jane Fonda.
At its height, Lenfilm produced around 70 films a year. However, after the suspension of state funding in 1991 and the deluge of foreign films that poured into the country, the number suddenly slumped to 24.
Last year, the studio's platinum jubilee, the figure stood at 25 and this year, it is expected it to dip into the teens.
The workforce that once inhabited the studio's labyrinthine administration complex has been slashed by more than half to its current lean number of 1,120.
Also, the studio has started up a number of characteristically Russian commercial ventures; vendors sell footwear in the Lenfilm foyer and it has rented out one of the old sound stages to a furniture company.
The studio's senior vice-president, Andrey Zertsalov, said, "Everything has become more pressurized but, like everyone else in Russia, we have to adapt."
Most significantly, Lenfilm has made changes to the way that the company markets itself in order to attract lucrative foreign contracts.
While in 1990 a director could make a decent film here with just $120,000 in his pocket, he or she now needs an absolute minimum of $350,000. That said, prices in this country still appear astonishingly low to foreign companies.
Mr Zertsalov said, "Film companies all over the world want to save money and even given the cost of putting up the cast and crew in luxury hotels, it's still cheaper to make a film here."
Aside from cost, there are many other factors that make Lenfilm an attractive option for producers. The first is its St Petersburg location; move the cars, add a little soft focus, choose the appropriate camera angle and it could easily be Venice or Versailles.
And there are some technological jewels in Lenfilm's tatty crown -- moviecam and arriflex cameras -- that any international director would be satisfied with.
The result has been a clutch of prestigious foreign projects. Last year saw the making of two films in the Harry Palmer series, starring Michael Caine. Also, long sections of "Orlando," Sally Potter's stunning art-house film, were shot here.
"We have done business with many different companies -- English, Canadian, Japanese and Italian. The films were made efficiently and on time. Everyone was happy," added Mr Zertsalov.
However, in the last few years, a number of threatening competitors have appeared on St Petersburg's film-making horizon.
At the moment there are about 15 of these dotted around the city, some of which have managed to secure major contracts. Globus, one of the newest arrivals, have just signed a deal to produce the next Bond film, "Golden Eye."
Although companies like Globus have considerable backing, many of the smaller organizations have few resources other than a telephone and a dash of entrepreneurial spirit. Most of these end up knocking on Lenfilm's front door when they need equipment or other assistance.
While foreign producers benefit, middlemen reap profits and Lenfilm tries to maintain some sort of equilibrium, the indigenous Russian film industry continues to flounder.
But despite these gruesome indicators a feeling of hope has, against all odds, persevered. People are beginning to understand that a renaissance won't just happen on its own.
Many directors were swept away by the currents that have torn the industry apart. But some protected themselves and are now re-emerging.
"I decided just to stop making films when the state-sponsored system collapsed," said Director Oleg Teptsov, whose last film was the impressive "Mr Decorator."
Teptsov added, "To continue at such a time of chaos and rebirth would have been like changing the engine of a car while still driving. Now I feel ready again."
Certainly, Andrey Zertsalov, sitting in his Lenfilm office that has seen better days, is putting a brave face on things. At the moment he admits the studio is overseeing only two native productions, one of which has been on the boil now for three years.
But while the Golden Age of Lenfilm seems an eternity away, he claims to see a faint glint in the distance. "Slowly the situation is beginning to turn back to Russian films," he says with a philosophical shrug, "The mood has shifted a little bit. So maybe the situation will change. Though I'm not making any great predictions. In the film business that is far too risky a thing to do."