Means of creating the artistic world of Bunin's prose (on the example of the story "sunstroke"). Sunstroke bunin Sunstroke year of writing
After dinner, we left the brightly and hotly lit dining room onto the deck and stopped at the railings. She closed her eyes, put her hand to her cheek with her palm outward, laughed with a simple delightful laugh - everything was delightful in this little woman - and said: - I seem to be drunk ... Where did you come from? Three hours ago, I didn't even know you existed. I don't even know where you sat. In Samara? But all the same ... Is my head spinning or are we turning somewhere? There was darkness and lights ahead. From the darkness a strong, soft wind was blowing in the face, and the lights were rushing somewhere to the side: the steamer with Volga panache was abruptly describing a wide arc, running up to a small pier. The lieutenant took her hand, raised it to his lips. The hand, small and strong, smelled of tan. And her heart sank blissfully and terribly at the thought of how strong and dark she was under this light canvas dress after a whole month of lying under the southern sun, on the hot sea sand (she said she was going from Anapa). The lieutenant muttered:- Let's get off ... - Where? She asked in surprise. “On this pier.- Why? He said nothing. She put her hand back to her hot cheek again. - Crazy ... “Let's get off,” he repeated dully. - I beg you... “Oh, do as you like,” she said, turning away. The scattered steamer hit the dimly lit pier with a soft thud, and they nearly fell on top of each other. The end of the rope flew over our heads, then it flew backwards, and the water boiled with a noise, the gangplank thundered ... The lieutenant rushed to get his things. A minute later they passed the sleepy office, went out into the deep sand, up to the hub, and silently sat down in the dusty cab. The gentle uphill climb, among the rare crooked lanterns, along the road soft with dust, seemed endless. But then they got up, drove out and crackled along the pavement, here was some kind of square, public places, watchtower, the warmth and smells of a night summer county town ... a footman in a pink shirt and a frock coat took his things with displeasure and walked forward on his trampled feet. We entered a large, but terribly stuffy room, hotly heated by the sun during the day, with white lowered curtains on the windows and two unburned candles on the mirror, and as soon as they entered and the footman closed the door, the lieutenant rushed to her so impetuously and both of them gasped in a kiss so frenziedly that for many years they remembered this moment later: neither one nor the other had ever experienced anything like this in their entire life. At ten o'clock in the morning, sunny, hot, happy, with the ringing of churches, with a bazaar on the square in front of the hotel, with the smell of hay, tar and again all that complex and smelly smell of the Russian district town, she, this little nameless woman, and without telling her name, jokingly calling herself a beautiful stranger, she left. We slept little, but in the morning, coming out from behind the screen by the bed, having washed and dressed in five minutes, she was as fresh as at seventeen. Was she embarrassed? No, very little. She was still simple, cheerful and - already reasonable. - No, no, dear, - she said in response to his request to go on together, - no, you must stay until the next steamer. If we go together, everything will be ruined. It will be very unpleasant for me. I give you my word of honor that I am not at all what you might think of me. Nothing even similar to what happened has never happened to me, and there will never be any more. I was definitely eclipsed ... Or rather, we both got something like a sunstroke ... And the lieutenant somehow easily agreed with her. In a light and happy spirit, he drove her to the dock, just in time for the departure of the pink Airplane, kissed her on deck in front of everyone and barely had time to jump onto the gangway, which had already moved back. He returned to the hotel just as easily, carelessly. However, something has changed. The number without her seemed somehow completely different than it was with her. He was still full of her - and empty. It was weird! She also smelled of good English cologne, her unfinished cup was still on the tray, but she was no longer there ... And the lieutenant's heart suddenly sank with such tenderness that the lieutenant hurried to smoke and walked up and down the room several times. - A strange adventure! He said aloud, laughing and feeling that tears were pouring into his eyes. - "I give you my word of honor that I am not at all what you might think ..." And I already left ... The screen had been pushed aside, the bed had not yet been made. And he felt that he simply did not have the strength to look at this bed now. He closed it with a screen, shut the windows so as not to hear the bazaar talk and the squeak of wheels, pulled down the white bubbling curtains, sat down on the sofa ... Yes, this is the end of this "road adventure"! She left - and now she is already far away, sitting, probably, in a glass white saloon or on the deck and looking at the huge river glistening under the sun, at the oncoming rafts, at the yellow shallows, at the shining distance of water and sky, at all this immense Volga expanse. .. And I'm sorry, and already forever, forever ... Because where can they meet now? “I can't,” he thought, “I can't come to this city for no reason at all, where is her husband, where is her three-year-old girl, in general her whole family and her whole ordinary life!” - And this city seemed to him some kind of special, reserved city, and the thought that she would live her lonely life in it, often, perhaps, remembering him, remembering their accidental, such a fleeting meeting, and he already never see her, the thought amazed and startled him. No, it can't be! It would be too wild, unnatural, incredible! - And he felt such pain and such uselessness of his entire future life without her that he was seized by horror, despair. "What the hell! - he thought, getting up, again starting to walk around the room and trying not to look at the bed behind the screen. - What is it with me? And what is special about it and what actually happened? Indeed, it’s like some kind of sunstroke! And most importantly, how can I now, without her, spend the whole day in this backwater? " He still remembered her all, with all her slightest features, he remembered the smell of her tan and gingham dress, her strong body, the lively, simple and cheerful sound of her voice ... , but now the main thing was all the same this second, completely new feeling - that strange, incomprehensible feeling that did not exist at all while they were together, which he could not even imagine in himself, starting yesterday, as he thought, only funny acquaintance, and about which it was already impossible to tell her now! “And most importantly,” he thought, “you can never tell! And what to do, how to live this endless day, with these memories, with this insoluble torment, in this godforsaken town above the very shining Volga, along which this pink steamer carried her! " I had to save myself, occupy something, distract myself, go somewhere. He resolutely put on his cap, took a stack, quickly walked, jingling his spurs, along the empty corridor, ran down the steep stairs to the entrance ... Yes, but where to go? At the entrance stood a young cab, in a dexterous coat, and calmly smoked a cigarette. The lieutenant looked at him in bewilderment and amazement: how is it possible to sit so calmly on the box, smoke and generally be simple, careless, indifferent? “Probably, I'm the only one so terribly unhappy in this whole city,” he thought, heading towards the bazaar. The bazaar was already leaving. For some reason, he walked along the fresh manure among carts, among carts with cucumbers, among new bowls and pots, and the women sitting on the ground, vying to call him, took the pots in their hands and knocked, jingled fingers in them, showing their good quality, men deafened him, shouted to him: "Here are the first sort of cucumbers, your honor!" All this was so stupid, absurd that he fled from the market. He went to the cathedral, where they were already singing loudly, cheerfully and decisively, with the consciousness of a fulfilled duty, then he walked for a long time, circled around the small, hot and neglected garden on the cliff of the mountain, over the immense light-steel width of the river ... Shoulder straps and buttons of his jacket it was so hot that it was impossible to touch them. The peg of the cap was wet with sweat inside, his face was flushed ... Returning to the hotel, he delightedly entered the large and empty cool dining room on the ground floor, took off his cap with delight and sat down at a table near the open window, which carried heat, but that was all. - the air was still blowing, I ordered botvinya with ice ... Everything was fine, there was immeasurable happiness in everything, great joy; even in this heat and in all the smells of the bazaar, in this whole unfamiliar town and in this old district hotel, there was she, this joy, and at the same time, my heart was simply torn to pieces. He drank several glasses of vodka, nibbling on lightly salted cucumbers with dill and feeling that he, without hesitation, would die tomorrow, if it was possible by some miracle to return her, spend one more day with her, spend only then, only then, in order to express to her and prove something to her, to convince how painfully and enthusiastically he loves her ... Why prove? Why convince? He did not know why, but it was more necessary than life. - The nerves have completely cleared up! - he said, pouring the fifth glass of vodka. He pushed the botvinya away from him, asked for black coffee and began to smoke and think intensely: what should he do now, how to get rid of this sudden, unexpected love? But to get rid - he felt it too vividly - was impossible. And suddenly he quickly got up again, took the cap and stack and, asking where the post office was, hurriedly went there with the phrase of the telegram already ready in his head: "From now on, my whole life is forever, to the grave, yours, in your power." But when he reached an old thick-walled house where there was a post office and a telegraph office, he stopped in horror: he knew the city where she lived, knew that she had a husband and a three-year-old daughter, but did not know her last name or her first name! He asked her about this several times yesterday at dinner and at the hotel, and each time she laughed and said: - Why do you need to know who I am, what is my name? On the corner, near the post office, there was a photographic display case. He looked for a long time at a large portrait of some military man in thick epaulettes, with bulging eyes, with a low forehead, with amazingly magnificent sideburns and a wide chest, completely decorated with orders ... yes, amazed, he now understood it - with this terrible "sunstroke", too much love, too much happiness! He glanced at the newlyweds - a young man in a long frock coat and a white tie, cropped with a hedgehog, stretched out to the front under the arm of a girl in a wedding dress, - turned his eyes to a portrait of some pretty and perky young lady in a student cap on one side ... Then, languishing with agonizing envy of all these unknown to him, not suffering people, he began to stare intently along the street. - Where to go? What to do? The street was completely empty. The houses were all the same, white, two-story, merchant houses, with large gardens, and it seemed that there was not a soul in them; thick white dust lay on the pavement; and all this was blinding, everything was flooded with hot, fiery and joyful, but here it was like an aimless sun. In the distance, the street rose, hunched over and rested against the cloudless, grayish, with a reflection of the sky. There was something southern about it, reminiscent of Sevastopol, Kerch ... Anapa. This was especially unbearable. And the lieutenant, with his head bowed, squinting from the light, staring intently at his feet, staggering, stumbling, clinging to the spur with his spur, walked back. He returned to the hotel so overwhelmed with fatigue, as if he had made a huge trek somewhere in Turkestan, in the Sahara. He, gathering his last strength, entered his large and empty room. The room had already been tidied up, devoid of the last traces of her — only one hairpin, which she had forgotten, lay on the night table! He took off his tunic and looked at himself in the mirror: his face — an ordinary officer’s face, gray with sunburn, with whitish mustache faded from the sun and bluish whiteness of eyes that seemed even whiter from the sun — now had an excited, crazy expression, and in a thin white shirt with a starchy stand-up collar, there was something youthful and deeply unhappy. He lay on his back on the bed, put his dusty boots on the dump. The windows were open, the curtains were drawn down, and a light breeze from time to time blew them in, blew into the room with the heat of heated iron roofs and all this luminous and now completely empty, silent Volga world. He lay with his hands under the back of his head and gazed in front of him. Then he gritted his teeth, closed his eyelids, feeling the tears roll down his cheeks - and finally fell asleep, and when he opened his eyes again, the evening sun was already turning reddish yellow behind the curtains. The wind died down, the room was stuffy and dry, like in an oven ... Both yesterday and this morning were remembered as if they were ten years ago. He slowly got up, slowly washed, lifted the curtains, rang the bell and asked for the samovar and the bill, drank tea with lemon for a long time. Then he ordered a cabman to be brought in, carry out his things, and, sitting down in the cab, on its red-haired, burnt-out seat, he gave the footman a full five rubles. - And it seems, your honor, that it was I who brought you at night! - said the cabby cheerfully, taking hold of the reins. When we went down to the pier, the blue summer night was already blue over the Volga, and already many colored lights were scattered along the river, and the lights hung on the masts of the approaching steamer. - Delivered exactly! - said the cabby ingratiatingly. The lieutenant gave him five rubles, took a ticket, went to the pier ... Just like yesterday, there was a soft knock on her pier and a slight dizziness from unsteadiness underfoot, then a flying end, the sound of water boiling and running forward under the wheels a little back a steamer ... And it seemed unusually welcoming, it seemed good from the crowd of this steamer, already everywhere lit and smelling of kitchen. A minute later they ran further, upward, to the same place where she had been carried away this morning. The dark summer dawn was dying away far ahead, gloomy, sleepy and multicolored reflected in the river, still here and there glowing trembling ripples in the distance below it, under this dawn, and the lights, scattered in the darkness around, floated and floated back. The lieutenant was sitting under the awning on the deck, feeling ten years older. Alps-Maritimes, 1925.We have prepared for you a series of lessons under the general title "Navigator". They will help you better understand the works of Russian literature and navigate the materials devoted to this work and posted in the public domain on the Internet.
I propose to talk about the story of I.A. Bunin's "Sunstroke".
The story of I.A. Bunin's "Sunstroke" (you can read it in full here: text) was written at the beginning of the XX century. Many phenomena and objects of that time have already disappeared from our lives, but the events themselves could happen anywhere and anytime.
If you want to think about the problems that the author touches on in the story and that have worried humanity for centuries, take a look at.
The story of an accidental, suddenly flared up love and a coup in human perception does not leave indifferent neither the writer's contemporaries, nor us who live a hundred years later. In this section, we invite you to find out what critics and philologists think about Sunstroke. These materials will help you to answer in the lesson, when writing an essay, will be useful in preparing for exams and, of course, will give you clues to understanding the text. We also recommend program by Igor Volgin "The Glass Bead Game" (about the collection "Dark Alleys"), where the host's interlocutors discuss the cycle of stories and Bunin's concept of love. You can see how the idea of the story is conveyed by means of cinematography by going to the tab.
If you are wondering which of the writers pondered such questions, with whom Bunin willingly or unwillingly entered into a creative dialogue, go to the section. And for those of you who liked Sunstroke and would love to read something similar in style and atmosphere, we recommend checking out the tab.
Table of contents
Bakhtin, M. M. Forms of Time and Chronotope in the Novel: Essays on Historical Poetics [Text]/ M. M. Bakhtin // Bakhtin M. M. Questions of literature and aesthetics. - M.: Fiction, 1975 .-- S. 234 - 407.
Bunin I. A. Sunstroke / I. A. Bunin // Bunin I. A. Stories. - M: Fiction, 1985 .-- S. 274 - 280.
Valgina, N. S. Text Theory [Text]: tutorial/ N. S. Valgina. - M .: Logos, 2003 .-- 210 p.
Kasatkina, T. A. Time, space, image, name, color symbolism, symbolic detail in "Crime and Punishment" [Text]: commentary / T. A. Kasatkina // Dostoevsky: additions to the commentaries / ed. T. A. Kasatkina; Institute of World Literature them. A. M. Gorky. - M.: Nauka, 2005 .-- S. 236 - 269.
Likhachev, D. Inner world artwork[Text]/ D. Likhachev // Questions of literature. - 1968. - No. 8. - P. 74 - 87.
Lotman, Yu. M. Plot space of the Russian novel of the XIX century [Text]/ Yu. M. Lotman // Lotman Yu. M. At the school of the poetic word: Pushkin. Lermontov. Gogol. - M.: Education, 1988 .-- S. 325 - 348.
Rodnyanskaya, IB Artistic time and space [Text]/ IB Rodnyanskaya // Literary encyclopedia of terms and concepts / ed. A. N. Nikolyukina; INION RAS. - M.: Intelvak, 2001 .-- S. 1174-1177.
Toporov, V. N. Space and text [Text]/ V. N. Toporov // Text: semantics and structure. - M., 1983 .-- S. 227 - 284.
Cherneyko, V. Methods of representing space and time in a literary text [Text]/ V. Cherneyko // Philosophical sciences. - 1994. - No. 2. - S. 58 - 70.
The story "Sunstroke" (1925)
The story, published in Sovremennye Zapiski in 1926, became one of the most notable phenomena of Bunin's prose in the 1920s. The semantic core of the narrative, which outwardly resembles a sketch of a short love "adventure", is Bunin's deep comprehension of the essence of eros, its place in the world of emotional experiences of the individual. Reducing the exposition and drawing from the very first lines a sudden meeting of the heroes (who were never named by name), the author replaces the logic of the event series with a scattering of psychologically rich details of the surrounding natural-object life - from "the warmth and smells of the night summer county town" to the characteristic one. Volga panache "sailing up to the pier. The mutual attraction of the heroes is here outside the sphere of traditional psychological motivation and is likened to "madness", "sunstroke", embodying the transpersonal, irrational element of being. In place of progressive plot dynamics, a "moment" is being put forward, the decisive moment in the heroes' life, the image of which predetermines the discreteness of the narrative fabric. In the "moment" of love between the lieutenant and his companion, a bridge is being thrown between three time dimensions at once - the moment of the present, the memory of the past and the intuitive providence of the future:
"... Both were so frenziedly suffocated in the kiss that for many years they remembered this moment: neither one nor the other had ever experienced anything like this in their entire life."
Here the emphasis on the subjective-lyrical experience of time is important. In Bunin's prose, the condensation of chronotopic forms allows, taking into account the psychological discoveries of the modern era, to convey the synchronicity of internal experiences (in contrast to Tolstoy's "dialectics"), to highlight unidentified, unconscious layers of mental life. This "moment" of bodily rapprochement, inspired and spiritual feeling, becomes the culmination of the story, a thread stretches from it to the hero's inner self-knowledge, his insights into the essence of love.
Rethinking the realistic principles of psychologism, Bunin rejects the detailed internal monologues of the characters and actively uses indirect methods of revealing mental impulses through the dotted line of "external depiction". The very image of the "stranger" is given through abrupt metonymic details: these are, first of all, portrait strokes based on synesthesia ("the hand smelled of tan", "the smell of her tan and gingham dress"). Generally in culture Silver Age female image acquires special weight, becoming the embodiment of the secret plexus of mental life, special sensitivity to the universal forces of eros (V.S. the image, like the depiction of love as a whole, is far from the symbolist mystical "fogs" and grows out of the specifics of sensual life, alluring with its incomprehensibility.
From bodily intoxication, the hero of the story gradually comes to a "belated" realization "of that strange, incomprehensible feeling, which did not exist at all while they were together, which he could not even imagine in himself ..." The love experience reveals to the lieutenant the true "value" of everything lived and experienced and is refracted in a new vision by the hero of the external world. This is that "happy", infinitely dear, which he begins to recognize in the sounds and smells of the Volga district town, that "immeasurable happiness" that his transformed soul feels "even in this heat and in all the smells of the market."
However, the “immensity” of love delight, of that which is “more necessary than life,” is antinomically combined in Bunin’s prose with an inescapable feeling of incompatibility of this ontological completeness with “everyday” manifestations of reality. And therefore the impression of the service in the cathedral, "where they were already singing loudly, cheerfully and decisively, with the consciousness of a fulfilled duty," and gazing into ordinary images of people on a photographic showcase fill the hero's soul with pain:
"How wild, terrible is the weight of everyday life, ordinary, when the heart is struck ... by this terrible" sunstroke ", too much love, too much happiness!"
The character's epiphany is the core of Bunin's tragic concept of love of feeling, which introduces a person to eternity and catastrophically leads him beyond the bounds of the earthly perception of the world and spatio-temporal landmarks. The artistic time in the story - from the "moment" of the heroes' love affinity to the description of the lieutenant's feelings in the finale - is deep non-chronological and is subordinated to the general tendency towards the subjectivation of object-figurative forms: "Both yesterday and this morning were recalled as if they were ten years ago."
The renewal of the narrative structure manifests itself in the story not only in the reduction of the expositional part, but in the significance of the leitmotiv compositional principles (through images of the city given through the eyes of the hero), associative moves that stand above causal determinism. In his book On Chekhov, Bunin recalled one of Chekhov's most valuable pieces of advice: "In my opinion, having written a story, you should delete its beginning and end."
The final Volga landscape in Sunstroke combines realistic authenticity with the symbolic generalization of the figurative series and, associating with the "lights" of the culminating moments of the character's personal life, gives the story an ontological perspective:
"The dark summer dawn was extinguished far ahead, gloomy, sleepy and multicolored reflected in the river, still here and there shining trembling ripples in the distance under it, under this dawn, and the lights, scattered in the darkness around, floated and floated back."
The expression of landscape images of the mysterious "Volga world" in the story is intensified in the author's hidden nostalgic feeling about Russia, lost forever, preserved by the power of memory and creative imagination. In general, the image of Russia in the emigre small prose Bunin ("God's Tree", "Mowers"), as well as in the novel "The Life of Arseniev", without losing lively objectivity, is saturated with a woeful, piercing lyric feeling.
Thus, the story "Sunstroke" reveals the writer's artistic perfection in comprehending the irrational depths of the soul and the mystery of love, which manifested itself in the typical Russian and foreign prose of the 20th century. updating the forms of psychologism, the principles of plot-compositional organization. Touching many modernist experiments in this area, Bunin, with his interest in the "earthly" roots of human character, the concreteness of everyday life, inherited the summit achievements of the realistic classics.
Outside the window there is a blue sky, even though summer is coming to an end - perhaps this is the last, farewell, volley - but it is still hot and there is a lot, a lot of sun. And I remembered Bunin's splendid summer story "Sunstroke". I took it and re-read it in the morning. Bunin is one of my favorite writers. How perfectly he wields his "writer's sword"! What precise language, what a luscious still life of descriptions he always has!
And that does not leave such positive impressions at all. "Sunstroke", which took off based on the story Nikita Mikhalkov... As a film critic, I could not help but remember this film.
Let's compare both "blows". Despite the difference between the types of art, cinema and literature, we have the right to do this. Cinema, as a kind of synthesis of a dynamic picture and a narrative text (let's take the music out of the brackets, it will not be needed for analysis), cannot do without literature. It is assumed that any movie, at least, begins with a script. The script, as in our case, can be based on any narrative work.
On the other hand, (at first glance, this idea may seem absurd) and literature cannot do without "cinema"! This is despite the fact that cinema has appeared quite recently, millennia later than literature. But I put the movie in quotes - our imagination plays its role, which in the process of reading this or that book creates a movement of visual images inside our consciousness.
A good writer doesn't just write a book. He sees all the events, even the most fantastic, with his own eyes. Therefore, you believe in such a writer. The director, on the other hand, tries to translate his images, his vision into cinema with the help of actors, interiors, objects and a camera.
It is at these points of contact between cinema and literature that we can compare emotions from Bunin's story and from a film based on it. And in our case, we have two absolutely different works... And the point here is not only in the free interpretation that the director allowed himself - his picture is an independent work, he certainly has the right to do so. But…
However, look (read) how quickly and easily Bunin's lady agrees to adultery. “Oh, do as you like!” She says at the beginning of the story and goes ashore with the lieutenant, for one night, so that she will never meet again, but remember about their meeting all her life. What lightness and weightlessness Bunin has! How accurately this mood is conveyed! How perfectly described is this outburst of love, this sudden desire, this impossible accessibility and blissful frivolity!
As in every Bunin story, there is a masterful description of the provincial town where he got the main character... And how exactly the gradual transition from this atmosphere of the happened miracle to the strong gravity of the infinite longing for the past happiness is shown, oh lost paradise... After parting for the lieutenant, the world around him is gradually filled with a lead weight, it becomes meaningless.
With Mikhalkov, the severity is felt immediately. The picture clearly states the double world, before and after the 1917 Revolution. The world "before" is shown in light, soft tones, in the world "after" - cold and gloomy colors, dark gray-blue. In the world "do" - a steamer, a cloud, ladies in lace and with umbrellas, here everything happens according to the plot of Bunin's "blow". In the world "after" - drunken sailors, a killed peacock and commissars in leather jackets - from the first frames we are shown "cursed days", hard times. But we do not need a "difficult" new world, we will focus on the old one, where the lieutenant receives a "sunstroke" and falls in love with a young fellow traveler. There, Nikita Sergevich is also not easy.
To allow the lady to get along with Lieutenant Mikhalkov, it took some tricks, absurdities, dances and heavy booze. I had to show how water drips from the tap (by the way, I have a similar problem), and the pistons in the engine room work. And even the gauze scarf that flew from place to place did not help ... He did not create an atmosphere of lightness.
The lieutenant had to arrange a hysterical scene in front of the lady. It’s hard, Nikita Sergeevich, it’s very hard and unbearable for you to have a man and a woman. Awkward, clumsy, awkward. This could only happen in Soviet resorts, and not in Russia, which you, Nikita Sergeevich, have lost. Ivan Alekseevich wrote about something completely different! The lieutenant, three hours after they met, asks the lady: "Let's get off!" And in Mikhalkov's case, a Russian officer is afraid of women, then in front of a naked courtesan he faints (see "The Siberian Barber"), then he gets drunk to explain himself with the lady.
According to Mikhalkov, their subsequent love work, which Bunin did not begin to describe, was also difficult, and this is also a certain lightness of the hint - the reader himself will imagine everything. And in the film, the camera leads us to a woman's chest, abundantly strewn with beads of sweat - what were they doing there? Was the furniture moved in the hotel? Come on! Vulgar and vulgar! A vulgar and view from the window in the morning: the sun, a green hillock and a path leading to the church. Leafy and cloying. Already sick!
Many scenes that Bunin do not have are absurd and crudely stuck. They are only worthy of bewilderment. For example, a magician in a restaurant, using the example of a lemon with a stone, explains to the lieutenant Marx's theory of Capital. What is this nonsense? These extra scenes create only a bad aftertaste, as if the chatter has been drunk, which has hit the brain hard.
Nikita Sergeevich, of course, is a master of his craft. This cannot be denied when you see how his camera works, what angles it picks out, how the picture is staged. And the artists cannot say that they play badly in the film, sometimes even great! But when everything is glued together into a single picture, it turns out to be some kind of muck and porridge. As if you are spending time in a bad rambling dream.
Mikhalkov tries from time to time to create a new film language, but all of his latest films are impossible to watch, this is schizophrenia, not cinema. Failure follows failure. So it happened with his last "Sunstroke".
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