From the very first frame from the height of a pigeon flight opens - is it really paradise? The Siberian town in the original play by the Siberian Vladimir Gurkin, the Karelian village at the filming location, our Soviet past, our old, secret. A forestry farm, swept courtyards and well-groomed vegetable gardens, such native houses, immersed in the greenery of forests, flooded with some especially pure sunlight. All that they were painfully ashamed of - these clumsy aunts in sandals on socks, in leggings with heels, amateur art shows, moonshine, a village quadrille. Everything that was so shyly loved.
A simple plot - the story of how the unlucky Vasya Kuzyakin cheated on his beloved wife Nadia with an unhappy aging fool, dressed up in the clothes of an elegant lady - could not have worked by itself if not for the charm of all those who played without exception, the charm is the finest and most accurate. The film is a quadrille - action and the characters move, as if fitting into the figures of the French dance that has become so Russian: "The second figure. Sad," - with a half-sincere sigh, announces to us none other than the director himself. The film is hooliganism - these Easter eggs from the TV, from the hot musical accompaniment of the southern languid frames, these telegrams from the sky, yes, these delightful exits of the spouses of Uncle Mitya and baba Sasha, erepenisty Lenka or kind Olenka, not to mention the mini-performances of grandcocket Raisa Zakharovna, everything could "not roll", slip through at least a spark of falsehood, but no, everything is in one breath, and everything causes not even admiration, not respect, not delight - such love before the interception of breath, above the pigeon flight. Knowing by heart, before each remark you expect to torment.
... Is everything simple? That's just a tragicomedy about our wayward life, about wayward men and touching women? Isn't it about Russia, painfully embarrassed by its protruding poverty and not noticing its quiet and sublime beauty, so bitterly afraid of its path and wanting these elegies, chic accessories and pseudo-clever interesting things? Isn't our cursed and revered image the "fool" from the story of Basil, whom God deprived of intelligence (in the understanding of the wise cunningly), but endowed generously with kindness and strength? Isn't the film about the sanctity of cranks who lived and still live so widely and cleanly, without greed, about those for whom a pair of crested pigeons is more expensive than new boots? They are watching with a knife around the corner, they are buried at the destroyed churches, but doves, white doves, are circling over the light, and they are innumerable.
A simple plot - the story of how the unlucky Vasya Kuzyakin cheated on his beloved wife Nadia with an unhappy aging fool, dressed up in the clothes of an elegant lady - could not have worked by itself if not for the charm of all those who played without exception, the charm is the finest and most accurate. The film is a quadrille - action and the characters move, as if fitting into the figures of the French dance that has become so Russian: "The second figure. Sad," - with a half-sincere sigh, announces to us none other than the director himself. The film is hooliganism - these Easter eggs from the TV, from the hot musical accompaniment of the southern languid frames, these telegrams from the sky, yes, these delightful exits of the spouses of Uncle Mitya and baba Sasha, erepenisty Lenka or kind Olenka, not to mention the mini-performances of grandcocket Raisa Zakharovna, everything could "not roll", slip through at least a spark of falsehood, but no, everything is in one breath, and everything causes not even admiration, not respect, not delight - such love before the interception of breath, above the pigeon flight. Knowing by heart, before each remark you expect to torment.
... Is everything simple? That's just a tragicomedy about our wayward life, about wayward men and touching women? Isn't it about Russia, painfully embarrassed by its protruding poverty and not noticing its quiet and sublime beauty, so bitterly afraid of its path and wanting these elegies, chic accessories and pseudo-clever interesting things? Isn't our cursed and revered image the "fool" from the story of Basil, whom God deprived of intelligence (in the understanding of the wise cunningly), but endowed generously with kindness and strength? Isn't the film about the sanctity of cranks who lived and still live so widely and cleanly, without greed, about those for whom a pair of crested pigeons is more expensive than new boots? They are watching with a knife around the corner, they are buried at the destroyed churches, but doves, white doves, are circling over the light, and they are innumerable.