Count Turbin. One day of your life. Candle, slightly warmed, burned,
The fireplace smoked, extinguished;
My dream was to sing something,
And the dream bewitched me...
I fell asleep and saw the valleys.
In the dress of the festive spring
And village paintings
The Russian side!
Winter. The provincial city is covered in snow through the windows of houses. A troika pulled by trotters takes travelers to the inn. Chilling from the cold, throw sheepskin toeloops and vodka, for snowstorming in themselves. I'd like to spend the night. Get some money for the road. Abstained on the way. However, there are no free rooms, that is not the task. However, one of the guests offers to share the number with him. You can't say anything, good boy. From the local landlords, a small nobleman. That's it, that's it. Why not take advantage of the hospitality? At the same time, find out what's here and how? How's the town breathing? What's interesting going on? This evening will be something to do...
Oleg Yankovsky in the image of Count Turbin, his faithful squire and at the same time the batterer Sasha - Alexander Abdulov in the vanity of official affairs. Are they going to the regiment, to the place of deployment or vice versa, a short-term vacation by settling family affairs was taken off the spot? Hurry, hurry. And sleep in the bowing of the head with a short rest from the riot of days. Guests are looking at the faces of newcomers. Fame, as you know, runs ahead of heroes. Here are the hussar “feats” of a desperate pamper of fate, gossip about St. Petersburg bets on “weakly” already in tongues – well, how, of course, they heard ...
The campaign of 1812 thundered recently and it is she who finally tempered the character of this daredevil. He's brave. He's determined. Generous. Straight forward. The war sharpened in him the features of reckless courage, twisted and shaken out of the soul unnecessary sentiments. Death stained his friends, trembling them, and he survived. He survived. And the devil isn't scary anymore. In the eyes of a spark of glowing brilliance, the stray far away. Desperately well done in his prime. How old is he? Thirty? Thirty-five? Something like that. The color of the Fatherland. The beauty and pride of the uniform.
Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy tells about one day of a Russian officer. A day in the province. Bypass. But what is the trail left by this phantom? In human memory. In the hearts of the local people. Turbine is a splash of fireworks. And cheaters rushed, and “commander” in trouble did not abandon, and the woman “conquered”, surprising immeasurably, and did not drop his honor. Talk about it, talk about it...
But time is running out. And the new Turbine takes its place. Your father's son? Yeah. There is only a resemblance to the parent. And just as tight and as slender as the forefather. But scanty in the inner world, stingy with emotion, calculating extremely... Why is that? Reborn family? Grinded? Or has the war done much? There's a lot to think about, there's a lot to compare.
Vyacheslav Krishtofovich made a picture that does not lose its attractive power over the years. It is a worthy addition to the classic literary work. Delight from the acting, merged faces with our distant ancestors. Glorious page of culture enriching with inappropriate values - conscience, honor, service, duty.
Here's a three-way away.
In Kazan expensive pole,
And the bell is a gift of Valdai -
It's a sway under the arc...
The young man runs from midnight:
He was sad in silence,
And he sang with clear eyes,
About the eyes of the girl-soul ...
9 out of 10