The sunset of Russia, or Three chickens and a fifty-year-old virgin Three Ks: Christina, Karina, Katya. Three girls, presumably selected by a bearded documentary filmmaker from a homogeneous virgo material scattered across the cities and villages of the Incredible. Already adults, still stupid, but, of course, not so much as not to understand the value of the trump card hidden in the underwear. A shaky hand-held camera “highly artistically” captures herds of goats roaming the streets of Karaganda, and herds of cars crowding stupidly on the Moscow Ring Road. High art smells of Soviet cheapness, Russian laxity and primordial Russian longing, hopeless, causeless - morality is about to come. Terry Pratchett promised us the coming of the century of the Bat, Dmitry Bykov in his three “publicistic” paragraphs of the voiceover text depicts the beginning of the era of the Virginity Trade, enlightening the ignorant: now, they say, shredded a man, the price of the saint fell below the plateau, Russia is a giant market, and Moscow is a central supermarket. Ignorant frightenedly heed and clutch at the valerian: they are the 90s slept in lethargy, thought that they live in a fairy tale, and here pink glasses and spit asphalt ... However, the joker with him, with the Bull. He received for his hack at the current rate, with a premium for hypothetical genius. They were told to sharpen and chew - sharpen and chew.
Vitaly Mansky will appear in the frame once, in the very “heartbreaking scene in the car”, when Katya, crucified by his random questions, will crush the “Aqua Mineral”, and the creator is lost to look into the distance, lumping (what a Russian, what a conceptual gesture!) in the hand of a beard. But for connoisseurs of good documentary, not inclined to be delighted with script-driven revelations and baseless conclusions, the only promising object of observation here is the director himself. There are girls, one of whom is now preparing to surpass Madonna, the second is building his love in House 2, and the third is crying, choking, but does not leave the intention to fall. In The Closed Screening, Mansky will say that this is a film about trading not the virginity between the legs, but the one in the head. That's just mental virginity (if you do not identify it with youthful brainlessness, of course) none of his heroines initially has nothing to sell. Even as representative units, on the example of which one could talk about the defloration of a generation or a country, they are garbage. Do not judge seriously about such matters by two petty media individuals: the thrash goddess of the Runet and the fresh meat of the teledurability. The third, the teacher's daughter, whose Turgenev awe elevated the film above the level of SpeedInfo - the material is rich. Not a freak, not a fool, typical representative of the Sale generation. But the creator needs a sad story for the set, and he catches tears in the lens, sits an innocent one among the symbolic empty bottles, mixes a sad face with shots of Moscow weddings. Not seeing, not wanting to see how the next act of buying and selling is made: for 500 bucks Katyusha for the film and up to his underpants will undress, and what he seems ashamed to talk about will take to the big screens, and he will give his spiritual sufferings to the general use.
And yet, this is really a film about mental virginity - crooked, keratinized, long unnecessary to anyone and for nothing. About the mental virginity of Vitaly Mansky and - judging by the same "Closed Show", diplomas and prizes - a significant part of our aging intelligentsia: teachers, publicists, filmmakers. “Not trampled or kissed,” they live in an illusory country, where the entire province sits on the needle of “House 2”, herds goats, goes to the shooters and dreams of driving to the golden-headed City of deception. They naively believe that you can dig a few girls in the network, pick up the timeline with video clippings from the garbage dump behind the Lobnoye Place and present it as a breakthrough, research, film, finally. Earning money with his helpless strawberry, they sincerely believe that they continue the theme of the eternal Sonya (Fyodor Mikhailovich measures the steps of paradise and longingly thinks about vodka). Don't they? Or, like Kristina and Karina, do not hurry to part with innocence, because she elevates them in her own eyes, makes them special? A high-quality documentary on the topic is not easy to remove: you need competent statistical work, you need to sacrifice yellowness, and with it – wide screens, awards, hype. It is much easier to combine cheerful music, stupid naked chicks and shock-conversations of cattle, and to mask include dignity and talk not about the professional risks of prostitution, not about how this choice can affect future life and prospects in it, but about the soul in the most abstract sense of the word. Not paying attention to incomprehensible views and the blatant senselessness of what is happening. Not worrying about protecting someone, protecting them. As an old man splashing his hands and cackling about his... Mental chastity was mummified along with the brain, purity of thoughts fermented into limitation. And I would remove from you, painful, wreaths, but how can I help? Oh, magic dildo would me, half kingdom and pink Daewoo Matiz for dildo.