Sergey Kuznetsov. Cultural guide. Issue 73

Cultural guide. Issue 73
Sergey Kuznetsov

Publication date: March 28, 2000

Interactive

The singer Zemfira

always annoyed me
has been annoying me lately
was always indifferent
I've become indifferent lately
I always liked it
I've started to like it lately
That's great

Well, if anyone wants to add something...

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Movie

Beauty more American

Of the eight possible Oscars, Sam Mendes' film received five. As if anticipating triumph, the Moscow public rushed to “Horizon” and “Strela”, so that over the weekend your reviewer, who decided to review the film, was unable to buy tickets. On Monday, tickets were found, but the hall was still packed to capacity.

After watching the press screening, it was interesting to sit at a regular movie show. No matter what film critics think of themselves, they don't create the box office. American viewers flocked to “American Beauty.” The Russian audience not only filled the halls, but also reacted absolutely adequately.

The appropriate reaction to this film, in my deep conviction, is bitter laughter. It seemed to me that we laughed a lot more than on "Austin Powers 2" - and rightfully so. The story about the idiot spy makes you laugh, which you're a little ashamed of. The story of a loser who falls in love with American beauty evokes laughter, which can be the first step towards your own liberation.

My American respondents wrote that the film is so American that it is not clear how it can be perceived in Russia. Apparently, I also didn’t understand something, because it’s not at all clear what is particularly American in this film. It’s not that America set the standard of life for the whole world, or that this life is simply too familiar from American cinema, but you enter this story as if you were at home. Suburb, house, car, work. Husband, wife, child. Midlife crisis, quarrels, betrayals, changes. Except that marijuana is terribly expensive.

In hindsight, it is clear that Mendes did a simple thing: he took Todd Solondz's "Happiness" and slightly reduced the degree of misanthropy. More precisely, he added a little sympathy and gave the hero hope. By the end of the film - to his death - he had completed all his earthly affairs. He fell in love with his daughter’s classmate, left work, bought himself a car, which he had dreamed of all his life, worked, as in his youth, in a diner, pumped up his muscles, realized that he did not want to fuck his daughter’s classmate, found out that his daughter was happy. Died.

This, in fact, is the happiness that the heroes of Solondets never achieved. The final phrase promises it to all of us - in that last second before death, which turns into eternity.

"American Beauty": "Horizon", "Arrow", "American Film House" - all week; "Roland" - from March 31; "Cinema Center" - from April 1.

Literature

Yesterday at Tuvan throat singing (see below) I met a colleague, Olya K. He asks me: “Have you been to Vaila in O.G.I.?” I answer her that, they say, I wasn’t, firstly, because I went to see “American Beauty” (see above), and secondly, because I’ve heard Vaill many times and can easily read instead of listen to . Olya K., embarrassed, said that she, in fact, went to O.G.I. not so much on Weil as going to a bookstore and buying a novel about the nun Pelagia. Which, unfortunately for her, has already ended.

And this despite the fact that he wasn’t there last Thursday! It looks like Akunin has truly become a superstar. The books are so sold out that they cannot be purchased. Newspapers publish reviews before novels are published. Dunya Smirnova reviews the next opus in Afisha, falls more and more into ecstasy: “Boris Akunin is a Russian man, as the writer Maxim Sokolov hopes to see him in two hundred years. And he is already here, with us” (I note in parentheses, that Akunin is no more with us than Mary Shelley or some other virtual. After all, G. Chkhartishvili is with us, which is not quite the same thing). I don’t want to find out about circulation - what if the whole boom is only in the capitals?

Let's hope not only. Because B. Akunin is a wonderful entertaining read. Like Marinina, only better written. You just shouldn’t look for ideas and depth from him. Depth is for Chkhartishvili, but for Akunin it’s pure entertainment. A detective is a detective. (Although who the murderer is in “Coronation” is guessed after about fifty pages at most).

But fellow critics, the more they strive to make Akunin a new prophet. Lev Danilkin, with his characteristic insight, expressed this idea by comparing the Fandorin cycle with The Red Wheel. Like, not “Knots”, but “Knots for Memory”. One can only hope that Chkhartishvili does not read the Vedomosti newspaper, and if he does, he does not listen to advice. Because if, God forbid, I feel that B. Akunin wants to become Solzhenitsyn for the middle class, then I will have to stop reading him. But I don’t want to: because - see above - it’s interesting and he writes well.

But since everyone rushed to judge detective B.A. according to the Hamburg account of world and Russian literature, then I will have to throw my pebble into this little heap. However, not about “Coronation,” but about the first novel from the female and provincial cycle about the nun Pelagia, called “Pelagia and the White Bulldog.”

We could find fault with “Pelagia” on the detective part - but we won’t, because the discovered inconsistency does not interfere with reading; one could say that B. Akunin’s attitude to Orthodox rules is somewhat free and is described, in my opinion, by the words “If the Church prohibits something, but it is very necessary for the development of the plot, then Bishop Mitrofaniy will allow it.” But these are minor things.

Another thing is interesting. A detective story - and I insist that B. Akunina should be judged only as a detective story - presupposes two things: a certain epistemology (that is, a mechanism for cognition of Truth) and a certain metaphysics of Evil. Akunin’s epistemology is traditional, coming from Sherlock Holmes: consciousness can comprehend everything. But with the metaphysics of Evil in this case it turns out a little more complicated - precisely because Evil (as well as Good) are precisely under the jurisdiction of the Church, into whose territory B.A. stepped into its new cycle.

I have already once said that on the issue of Evil and Good, Catholics have a little easier time than Orthodox Christians: the Catholic tradition still gravitates towards Manichaeism with its absolute Evil, so conveniently embodied in a vampire, maniacal killer and other abominations. The Orthodox tradition - at least in the form in which it is received from the great Russian literature (I do not presume to speak for the fathers of the Eastern Church) - proceeds from the fact that Evil is spilled in the world and the Devil can plunge anyone into temptation. Therefore, there are no evil people - there are people who are lost, led into temptation. While Akunin was stylizing the pulp literature of the past and the beginning of this century, he could not bother with these thoughts - Fandorin’s villains are real villains, and not lost souls. But as soon as he got bogged down even deeper in Dostoev’s province and the Orthodox tradition, the discrepancy between Akunin’s Evil and the traditional Orthodox Evil became obvious. In "Pelagia and the White Bulldog" there is an obviously devilish character who looks surprisingly unnatural in Dostoevsky's world. It doesn’t matter in this case whether he is a murderer or not, but he is the obvious root of evil, the tempter.

So Aquin ended up with a strange hybrid: a Catholic detective with an Orthodox nun.

But, I repeat, it’s still interesting to read.

B. Akunin. "Pelagia and the White Bulldog." AST-Zakharov.

Music

The “Music” section is increasingly turning into what the hell. A sort of listing with brief comments. This time it’s all the more disappointing that I unforgivably missed the most important musical event of the week: the Monday concert of the Tuvan group “Huun-Khuur-Tu” remained unannounced. Nothing comparable to it is expected. We won’t write about another reggae party, another concert of “Hummingbird”, “Lyapis Trubetskoy”, “N.O.M.” and so on. Let's write about two unique events.

The first is a concert invented by Alexander F. Sklyar and Irina Bogushevskaya in honor of the 111th anniversary of Alexander Vertinsky. They say that the project arose spontaneously, during Bogushevskaya’s speech at the Central House of Artists. The evening is called “Brazilian cruiser - 111 years”. Sklar will sing 6 songs. Bogushevskaya - 9. One - the same "Brazilian Cruiser" - they promise to sing together.

Vertinsky is perhaps the oldest Russian chansonnier, the founder of the tradition, a thin thread connecting the Silver Age with the sixties. Reflecting on it, you understand that almost before our eyes a tectonic shift took place, comparable to the invention of writing. European literature began with Homer, not because there was nothing before him, but because it was his songs that were the first to be written down. Homer's status in Greece is a product of the art of writing. In the same way, Vertinsky’s special status is a product of recording. Who remembers those who sang with a guitar in the 19th century? There are no records left of them. All references to bards, troubadours, buffoons and Russian poets of the second rank, who loved to sing their poems with a guitar, remain a rhetorical figure. We didn't hear them. And Russian chanson began with Vertinsky. Therefore, one hundred and eleven years since his birth is an important date.

The second one-piece concert is Zemfira’s first and long-awaited big concert in Moscow. Less than a year ago she burst into our lives and we were stunned. Now she has made a new disc and is going to sing old and new songs for more than two hours at the Olimpiysky. This, Beavis, is cool. But for some reason I don’t want to go anymore. Instead of my own old and joyful article “Girl OM” I would like to refer you to the article of my good friend, the intonation of which is set by its title - “Changing in the crotch” . It’s not that we shared his pathos so much, but something happened over the year.

Maybe there were too many interviews? Maybe Zemfira as a star has ceased to excite as much as she did as a debutante? Maybe I’m just tired of hearing from every car and every kiosk “Well, why?” Or maybe we are such snobs that any figure accepted by show business annoys us incredibly? (Imagine, in fact, an interview with Psoy Korolenko in “7 Days”... brrr, what disgusting!)

We do not know. We won't go to the concert. Friends will tell you later. Let's listen to the new disc. Then we'll talk.

March 30, Thursday. Alexander F. Sklyar. Irina Bogushevskaya. "Brazilian cruiser - 111 years old." Central House of Artists. 18:30.

April 1, Saturday. Zemfira. Presentation of the album "Forgive me, my love." "Olympic", 19:00.

Art

A very short announcement, because other than that I don’t know anything:

Oleg Mavromatti begins a series of radical and sometimes bloody actions. each will be shot on 35mm and represent one episode from a full-length film, which they will later compose. Those who wish are given an unprecedented opportunity, in addition to watching the future film, to directly attend the filming events. Participation as extras is possible: send applications to we@here.ru::

first action - at 15:00 on April 1, 2000, presumably in the courtyard of the Darwin Museum

updated info at http://drugie.here.ru/supernova/

Interactive

Your favorite killer is the hero of the film:

"Leon" (Luc Besson; Jean Reno): 41

"Killer" (John Woo; Chow Yun-fat): 5

"Ghost Dog" (Jim Jarmusch; Forest Whitaker): 5

"Fallen Angels" (Wong Kar-wai; Leon Lai): 4

"Brother" (Alexey Balabanov; Sergey Bodrov Jr.): 4

"Samurai" (J-P Melville; Alain Delon): 1

Usually, such a scatter indicates cheating - as if someone kept pressing the button. But it seemed that “Leon” was in the lead at the intermediate checks. Well, congratulations to Renault and Besson: we also love this killer with round glasses. We love both the full and short versions.

I have to confess in hindsight: for some reason I forgot to include Mark Dacascos in The Crying Killer. And, most importantly, none of the readers corrected it. But in vain.

Readers suggested other heroes. Thus, woolly Ivan suggests the hero of Bruce Willis in “The Lone Hero,” and Sergei ( skurjanov@polikom.ru ) suggests Zbigniew Cybulski from “Ashes and Diamonds.” The most unusual option is from Viktor Sonkin ( Legens@bigfoot.com )

My favorite killer is Martin Blank from the film "Grosse Pointe Blank" (which is not translated, and I don’t know if this film was released in Russia). By a funny coincidence, I just watched it on video yesterday (I saw it in the cinema a couple of years ago). This is a film with a stupid and completely unprincipled plot, in which a professional (very professional) killer is played by John Cusack of all people. The whole thrill there is not in the shooting, although it is on the level, but in Blank’s monologues and his conversations with different people, mainly with former classmates, to whom ten years later he must tell what he is doing. The film is stupid and lacks genre purity; but the killer’s reflexivity and the psychological accuracy of most episodes are beyond compare. In short, a magnificent film, very funny.

But old friend pinkdot expresses skepticism about Leon:

and why does everyone love him so much? Am I talking about Leon... or does everyone love Rino? if so, in my opinion, the cleaner from “Nikita” is juicier, and that guy from “Ronin” is no worse... and in my opinion, the best killer (some kind of nonsense, how can a killer be liked?) in the “best performer” category "(it’s really impossible to choose correctly since killers always lose) this is the T800/E1000 series and in the “most charming” category it’s Archangel Gabriel/Walken

PS: what about Vincent Vega? or is he just a gangster?

Past

Today we have two texts, large and small. Both are reviews.

Stanislav Gridasov

I love

The tie habitually constricts the throat, the shirt is fresh, the buttons are in a row, the journey to the office takes forty minutes, the worst is forty-five, the coffee is black and black, you can’t see the stars during the day. In this evil town, all the houses along the road are flying like Potemkin ones: no matter how hard you fight, they will not open their doors or soul to you. This morning you masturbated in the shower, and it will be the best thing that comes out of the day.

Let's say you are forty. Or even thirty-five. The work is boring, the wife is distant and, like the one-sided moon, every night she turns to the wall, “I want to sleep already.”

Run-a-at. Run. I wish I could escape to those times when rock and roll and dope-weed played in young blood, and the words were all ardent and sincere on the lips, when you, Caroline, did not sleep until the morning and when every dream was considered accessible, like ours cheerful friends of those days.

Do you remember, Caroline, when we were young and loved each other with the happy ignorance of savages who did not yet know that a large ship shining with lights would land on their island and take them away to adulthood? We gave the best of us, Caroline, our love and freedom, for a tin can of a new Mercedes, a couple of necklaces and a rag sofa. You think it's worth six thousand, but all I see is a piece of rag covered with cotton wool, or whatever else it has inside. I remember, you are no longer there: those times when we stood, holding hands, in front of life, endless as the horizon, happy and naked.

The morning is new, the evenings are all the same, empty. At home over dinner, you said twenty words to your wife and daughter, maybe twenty-five. Now, it seems that you have reached the point.

Turn away, dear, turn away, quickly, away from me - to the wall: I have something to dream about.

Angela, Angela, blond beast, enchantress, angel in rose petals, daughter's classmate, dancer with flowing hair, show girl. She comes to me at night, stepping barefoot on the cold floor, showered with scarlet petals, dissolving in the ringing silence of the night. I try to touch her, but all I get is a petal that melts like a snowflake in my hand.

Caroline wakes up and looks around sleepily: “Roses? It smells like roses. I’ve never liked roses, dear, their smell is too stuffy.” Sleep, honey. Tomorrow you have a difficult day and a date with a realtor in an apartment that he has not yet sold: he - unknowingly - will buy you a bouquet of scarlet roses.

I don't care.

I now have Angela, my little girl, my sweet forbidden dream. I again rejoice in the salty sea wind, I threw myself from your ship into the open sea, Angela is waiting for me on the island, she is still too young and too stupid, she is waiting for life to embrace her in the arms of cheap necklaces, but - I believe - I will catch her save: every dream is given to us from above along with the strength to master it.

A smile froze on Lester’s lips: he had reached that degree of happiness and freedom when a bullet was already breathing down the back of his head.

And here is the second one:

Once upon a time I thought that the famous Lithuanian director was spelled like this: Nekrosius. There seemed to be some kind of necrophilia and carrion in this. Now I can say that my premonitions did not deceive me. The performance of "Macbeth" exudes such a grave chill that one simply feels uneasy. It seems strange that the director so carefully counted all the chairs and apples on stage and accepted the text so glacially. Maybe someone will find my following judgment evil and disgusting: this almost four-hour performance can be used to make an excellent three-minute video. Truly beautiful. Really good. Not too frightening - after all, it’s not axes that can frighten us; we’ve already been frightened with one ax and for quite a long time. ( MashaM@newmail.ru )

Keep up the good work, dear readers!

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