Ksenia Zorina. Sentimental tank

F Ilma Khotinenko I did not see Makarov. I did not read the pile before. This is a necessary preface.

The best thing in this book, of course, is the Klim Voroshilov-2 tank. For me. There is still “Father”, “scarves” and Makarov itself.

All four stories are actually scripts, this is not that it is not hidden, otherwise it cannot be: you read and see a movie. Not because in front of you is a workpiece that does not have independent value, but because both texts, verbal and visual, somehow exist in consciousness in parallel, at the same time. Actually, there is nothing to shoot - everything is removed. Types, climax, indescribable portrait features - everything is already present, not in the text, but in your head. Neither the operator, nor the director, nor the actors, by and large, are no longer needed. And so everything is visible.

Maybe that's why it was “Makarov” removed, but everything else was not removed? Because there was still something to finish in it, what to play? Because was Sergey Makovetsky needed to justify the existence of Makarov? After all, "Makarov", oddly enough, here in a sense the weakest text.

"Makarov" is incredible. Reading, you always think that it is not true that it is important, but the credibility. "Makarov", telling about today's day, looks like an absolute lie. Because I do not believe in this provincial poet - graphomaniac, of course (for some reason, contrary to the virtue to see the best in people, there is an evil desire to unconditionally consider him a graphomaniac, not seeing a single line); In his enthusiastic editor-in-chief, all days reading poetry and resigned from the publisher from indignation, that now it will have to be edited by science fiction (in Moscow, everyone has so westernized and sold to capital that they are chasing such work-is it really that there really is such a difference between us?); In him, as it turns out, even in the years, on the membership card of the Writers' Union received an apartment with an office; in his children; In his friend-militia? (Although I almost believe in a friend.) I do not believe in these changes crushed by the changes, who used to live so well, but now they began to live so badly? So, in the neighboring three texts - solid Soviet people, and for some reason I believe in them. Because I personally, personally, transfers Makarov’s personality (maybe the author wanted to!) And his insufficiently tough story, or because I live now and all this lie is striking, but I have not seen war and I don’t know how everything really looked like? So, after all, I don’t live in a provincial city - why does it seem to me that it cannot be? Or is it all about the absence of a sample?

The day of today, about which Makarov is written, is not yet - it has not been created. Maybe for the next generations it will be created - including the film "Makarov"; Don't know. But this "Makarov" has nothing to appeal to, he has nothing to nod, calling for our memory - "remember?" “Klim Voroshilov -2” refers not to war, but to films about the war, to the already created reality - and therefore the credibility of it absolutely. Therefore, every phrase is a frame, every movement is the pain. Everything is recognized by us, everything is responding. In Makarov, nothing responds. Nothing.

Or is it really such a false, flowing, wrong time, that nothing can be written about him, except for a fairy tale about the relationship of the "poet" and a pistol? (I recall Tyagunov’s film “Leg”, shot about Afghanistan based on the story of Faulkner, because it seems to be the same fairy tale, but it looked like the truth. Because it is a Faulkner or because from that time we have already managed to move away and it is already “is there”?)

I would not want all this to look like a slant. While you read "Makarov", it is also read "Makarov" - a completely normal story. Thoughts about believables begin to climb into the head when you move to the next text - because "Klim Voroshilov" is magnificent. Despite the sentimentality and the fact that the material for the author is not a war, but Soviet films about the war. It cannot be otherwise, the text arises only from the text. What is written in Klim Voroshilov already exists - even if in the next millennium this book is entered, according to the Hamburg account, to conduct a future historian of literature of a forgotten, secondary, sort of rank of the 21st century. “Klim Voroshilov” can cause both tears and admiration - of course, if you really want to, any tears can be called the action of the principle of Indian cinema, but if your body has never passed a cramp, why read or watch? "Makarov" does not cause this convulsion.

And the “tank” Klim Voroshilov would have justified the scene only: the cadet, going to the church during the retreat, meeting her eyes with the priest and realizing that they expect some terribly important words from him, says “health” and comes out. (Or another, monstrously sentimental, of course: the boy begins to sing for the deaf tanker - you and you and you. You understand that at this moment the sound disappears in the film.) In the “Father”, where everything is already closer and therefore seems less unconditional and even more sentimental, but still their own, in perestroika semi-fart “shawls”, which at first certainly look like a terrible linden (and in fact it is just a film about the working village, how many films were in Tarusian pages, someone else's script ” Flowers " - it seems that the frog looks in it as in the mirror, but how can you not look?!) - there are still these moments. The moment when a person, tearing his body into the blood, crawls along a stupid fair column behind no one needed by a rooster - pseudo -people's amusements - and suddenly looks down at Earth. And you see all this with his eyes and feel his body - what else is needed? One such frame would save a whole film.

All this, except for Makarov, looks like an oath in fidelity, Hommage to Soviet cinema - as if he had taken and described those films that did not make, did not have time, which would never be shot anymore. And indeed: no one began to shoot Klim Voroshilov. Apparently, this is already impossible to shoot.