“It’s better to just see and be glad that such a person lives among us”

[ad_1]

Even against such a background, Andrey Maksimov gave himself a special, special heading – one on one. He is periodically visited by a man-history. Yes, the remaining, the last of the Mohicans, cultural dinosaurs, thank God, are not yet extinct. People from the Red Book, 80+. They remember, they know “how it was done in Odessa”, they will tell. They themselves are unique, miraculously survived, preserved. The connection of times, it would seem, interrupted forever.

Last week Vladimir Vasiliev, People’s Artist of the Soviet Union, 83 years old, visited Maksimov. Maksimov said at the end that when Vasiliev walked down the corridor to the studio (just like Stirlitz!), girls, women, those who worked at that time, poured out of their offices, they couldn’t tear their eyes away, and all with one voice: what a beautiful !

The host (both by the state and by the simple reason that he is a man, it is supposed to) found another definition: dignity. Word found! How dignified and beautiful Vladimir Vasiliev behaved both in dance (“Spartak” is a champion, and ballet is not football), and after it. What kind of love they had with the magnificent Ekaterina Maksimova, for whom he staged, gave her the beautiful Anyuta for all time. And when Catherine was gone …

Vasiliev is one continuous dignity of feelings, experiences, memory. He does not carry his dignity, does not show off. It was laid in him from the very beginning, through life, organically inherent in him. Particular simplicity, the power of attorney of a wise, hypersensitive person.

The property of the republic, this is it. Dignity is the same root as it. “You are all virtues!” – as Kostya said to Khobotov in Pokrovsky Gates. Vasiliev does not need to repeat this once again. It is better to just see and be glad that such a person lives among us.

IT HURTS EXTREMELY

What Kirill Kyaro is doing in the program “Handwriting of the Epoch” on “Culture”! By itself, a very good artist, here he surpassed himself, he seemed completely different. Last week he had Bunin, Mikhail Chekhov and Nikolai Ostrovsky.





Here Kyaro enters the Russian State Archive of Literature and Art. Sits down at the table. In front of him is a beautiful female employee. And the magic for two begins, a session of white magic, followed by exposure.

Bunin came first. By handwriting, after all, you can determine the essence, character of a person. Cyril puts on mysterious glasses, he is wearing special gloves (do not touch with your hands!), and now letters are running, lines of letters, drafts are falling down and … Bunin came to life!

The next day was Mikhail Chekhov. There will be no second Chekhov?! Hello please. The son of an older brother, and therefore the nephew of Anton Pavlovich, grew into a brilliant artist, a great theater teacher of all America, on which all of Hollywood grew, starting with Marilyn Monroe.

And Kyaro himself, right here in the studio, demonstrates Chekhov’s art of performance. Gesture, sound – here everything turns into a role, a mood. The slightest shades, facial expressions – and now you are angry, rejoice, indignant.

And, finally, the last to appear was Nikolai Ostrovsky. Forgotten, abandoned, deleted from literature. And once he was admired, his “How the Steel Was Tempered” was a cult object, at school we memorized passages. “Life is given only once, and it must be lived in such a way that it is not excruciatingly painful for the aimlessly lived years …” – we repeated these words like a mantra, like a spell, mentally putting our hand to our heart.

The blind, immobilized writer dictated to his wife his one and only book, and his Pavka Korchagin was a role model for generations of Komsomol members.

So it seemed… Where is it all? Suddenly, during perestroika, an order came to retreat from their positions. And we… Lowered our eyes to the bottom, silently nodded, putting our hand to our empty head, and betrayed, handed over our idols. Pioneer heroes, whom we read about in childhood, revered as saints, Volodya Dubinin, Marat Kazei, Valya Kotik, where are you? Their portraits hung in all schools, pioneer camps. Did they not exist at all, dissolved like smoke, disappeared from our lives? Was it all in vain?

I don’t believe it can be. It’s just that people turn into a herd when they change their shoes every time, earnestly fulfilling the new precepts of those who are up there. Let the TV think for us, and we will execute, we are always ready.

You can’t betray ideals. You can’t betray Pavka Korchagin. You can’t betray Nikolai Ostrovsky. Thank you, Handwriting of the Epoch, for reminding us of these common truths.

GO TO CHILDHOOD

This time, the cartoons of our childhood were shown not at an unbelievable early hour, for show, to report to higher authorities, but at the very prime time of the weekend. “Return of the Prodigal Parrot” and “Just you wait!” I laughed so hard!

Photo: cartoon frame

“And to always be a little bit of a child is the highest adulthood in the world,” this is Yevgeny Yevtushenko. I agree with the previous speaker.

But what humor, what directors and screenwriters. Kotyonochkin, Khitruk, Kachanov, Ptushko, Ivanov-Vano, Bardin, Norshtein… Yes, but who wrote all this “disgrace”? Khait, Kurlyandsky, Kamov … yes, Eduard Uspensky himself! And who voiced it? All the greatest, national-prenational. Wolf – Papanov, Winnie the Pooh – Leonov, parrot – Khazanov. And Mironov, and Boyarsky, and Freindlich, Livanov, Ranevskaya – all have been here. Therefore, an unusual quality came out, both to the mind and to the heart. Our childhood is to be envied. And today it is not a shame to look.

And now … I will not be that grandfather on the mound: “Now in our time …” No, whining, losing heart is not our method. But one can only compare the latest “Well, wait!”, updated, and those classic ones. The last “Prostokvashino” and then, with Tabakov and Lev Durov. Yes, and where without Clara Rumyanova!

Well, you understand everything, it is impossible to compare. Today, the complete degradation of the genre, format, all life. Are you still asking where it comes from? And don’t ask.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *