Harmful tips

I did not have to see Elena Schwartz at the age of the actress Yana Savitskaya: I was not born yet and could not meet her - even on the street, by chance. However, I am sure that Schwartz and Savitskaya have very few external similarities. I suspect that the Savitskaya plays it, Schwartz has never been, even when she was angry and hooligan. Yes, the poetess was famous for the difficult character, wanted to resemble the arrogant, eager for Kinfia, which devoted his poetry poetry, but, on the other hand, because this propsium says: in addition to the bohemian hair of the hair, Schwartz wore a luxurious tunic from a book culture and exquisite manners. The artist Savitskaya has a completely different hairstyle in the play, and even tangled; faded, uninhabited clothing; lost, some kind of homeless plastic; It seems smaller and defenseless Schwartz, and the manner of it is replaced by the undisguised nervous fever of an almost clinical property. The only thing that is portrait is the soaring, bizarre fingers of the right hand: it was with this gesture that Schwartz read her poems, as if groping out mysterious ties between words in the air. Who came to us - so alien and strange, but with familiar verses and fingers?

The director Boris Pavlovich needs to say at least two things. Firstly, outwardly it is like two drops of water-Bertolt Brecht. Secondly, for a long time he headed the theater “on Spasskaya” in Kirov and selflessly held on this post, resembling monastic obedience, to the last, turning the provincial institution of culture into an experimental platform, which was well-deserved popular. It was there in the late 2000s that the performance was born on poetry and autobiographical notes of Schwartz. The director and actress did not know anything about the deadly illness of her heroine, when they were going to meet her and show what it turned out, it turned out - late. The fate of the performance was both well and bad: it was noticed and nominated for a “golden mask”, however, by coincidence, it was not possible to appear in the competition, it was toured in Moscow a year later, already within the framework of the “plus mask”. Now Pavlovich works in the BDT, is engaged in educational projects there, the talented actress Jan Savitskaya was also called to the famous troupe, and not to restore the performance at the new place of work would be wasteful. The decision to issue the second edition of the “visible side of life” in the repertoire of the BDT, of course, was made by the Andrey Moguchiy art, and, I think, the main reason was the important circumstance that Elena Schwartz was the daughter of Dina Morisovna Schwartz, the legendary Tovstonogovsky supplemented. However, in the new (and for Schwartz, of course, well -known), the performance sounded unexpectedly, acquiring an unplanned messenger.

Savitskaya, or rather, a strange creature that she plays brilliantly and risky, occurs at the rack of the theater buffet, where a brunive roser of coffee and cognac was walking a minute ago. It is loaded with leaflets, pieces of paper, a book of poems, tries to postpone all this on the rack, begins a conversation with the audience with some kind of no acting note. So deadly tired guides say: “Hello, my group”, simulating enthusiasm with an acute rhythm of speech. The creature either shy, or contemptuously looks away, glancing at the heads of heads, then he jokingly jokes: “There are a lot of us, we will be hot, and if we open the windows, we will be cold.” Then, when there is no trace of Bonton, she will rush twice to the window, furiously and in vain pulling the transom, either she wants to breathe, or her head on the pavement. A dozen poems, including the “beast-flower”, a poetic self-portrait of Schwartz, will stagnate in the same colorless broken voice, and it will break. He will shut up, erupting an awkward pause, with an expression of a schizophrenic stupor on his face. And, taking, like a rabbit from a hat, a real Samurai sword, like a mind Turman from “kill Bill”, will go to battle with an invisible enemy. Then he will attack the composer Leonid Streetnikov, who turned out to be among the public: “I don’t want to read, let's read.” “I can't, I didn’t take glasses.” Savitskaya retses to the inimitable indignant intonation: "No, you heard that, he did not take points." And this is only the beginning of the scandal: it will rub the glasses at the audience, and then argue with the barrier, trying to pay for a two thousandth account of a handful of ringing trifles. It will rush between the tables, painfully pushing, without “sorry” and “thank you”, and it pushes with your feet on the windowsill, believing that it was on the bus: “Stop, I drove.” He will say, as if to crazy - in public and nowhere.

Boris Pavlovich managed to avoid the merciful features of memorial productions - pathos sighing and false sincere. He made them weak and unnecessary means, immediately placing the actress on the other side of the tantrum. Schwartz memoir texts, fundamentally fragmented, are cut off with very shallow shavings and devoid of all narrative logic. These are only flashes - about time, about cultural baggage, about household homelessness, about the oddity of love, turning into alienation, about the doomed loneliness of the poet, forced to tear the throat on French tour in front of deaf old women with knitting, until the only grateful listener comes - his own death.

It’s good that this performance has moved to the BDT today. To any aging theater house with great traditions is a sign of the art of all -devouring normativeness. The essence of traditions is gradually blurring, and Moidodyr’s tablets come in their place: something about replaceable shoes, hats-and other “elbows from the table!”. The “visible side of life” is very useful to the public: art is an uncleaned and terrible thing, it borders on madness, it whips the cognac with glasses and holds dirt under the nails. And this is enough to keep an awkward intrigue - not the classic of modern poetry Elena Schwartz turns out to be the heroine of Yana Savitskaya, but her disheveled muse, a foolish demon of creativity. A little visible side of that tense inner life, from which the real art grows, is the only one, without knowing, not knowing. If you like, there is also a tolerable art program in this performance, the need for which Andrei Mighty loves to talk about so much. This, of course, is not about the increase in the BDT consumption of cognac, but about the calm and impolite indifference to the Hanjas who will be touched, or to the townsfolk with knitting, whose comfortable chairs will sway or fall, powerless in front of the extension of armed samurai.