The convulsions of planned farming. What are we dealing with? What is it? What kind of food are we supposed to eat? Genre, like that yeast dough that tries to escape from déjà. It's a joke or a smile. It's comedy or farce. You don't get it right away. Perhaps irony over the frailty of leadership, painted in village tones?
The family breaks up at the wicket. The wife instructs her husband on a working day. He wears a presidential cap like a cartridge of a thieving prydoha from the entrance, speedboats from quick-moving village mud to caution with trousers tucked in them, and a horse with a saddle pillow for careful guarding of the loins. This is the external portrait of a glossy character performed by Yuri Nazarov. He's the head of the village. Keeper of the grain-grower's cell. Their father is a native and scavenger.
How was the classic? Anton Pavlovich?
“Everything should be beautiful in a person: the face, the clothes, the soul, and the thoughts.”
So the clothes are perfectly fine. The face, too, according to the image. Or, more simply, from the Russians, simple without intellectual flaw. It fits the role. What about the soul? Thoughts? And we'll deal with them.
A meeting at the head of the district. In the corridor of the pre-bannik, collective farm workers of the surrounding district. Waiting for the meeting to begin. They languish. They complain about business. They're waiting. The boss is busy, the boss is working. And now... - the meeting is postponed "after lunch." They languish again. Wait in the waiting room again. And now... – the meeting is postponed to the next morning. Chief of business. The boss is worried. Russian fun with respect to the personalities of subordinates - go home, and from the beginning the training will be repeated again.
Here the thoughts and soul of the main character are fertile ground. Show up. Voice yourself. How do you feel about people? Their time? And waiting for the office bird, he voices "how to work." Word for word and be kind to the carpet for a show flogging to the party asset. They'll know if it's so hot. There they will chill and be brought down to a stable or cattleman. Fuck him, fuck him. Let the soul answer for thought.
But, paradox. The losing chess position changed in an instant. Honor is accepted. Approved. Accepted correct. And the chief's chair is vacated for the truth-fighter. You're welcome. Command. Get things done. Work differently.
And the plot is gaining momentum. Getting busy and busy. Casualties and light gentry. Only here is a strange thing, it would seem a village before our eyes, but no farms with cows, no plowed fields with machine operators. There are no farmers or farmers. It's just him. Master. And the people of the earth died out. Like they died out. They're gone. All of it. There is no activity "at all." It is as if they are not in the village at all. There's no such thing. Like no milk in mugs, no tomatoes from beds. No squealing pigs, no smokes... There's a horse. This is where the head goes.
Talks about business. And that you have to work, not talk. That's what they appreciate. But out of business - a carousel, a music teacher, a stunted barbecue on spitters ... Okay. Almost.
Yes, the "Chairman" with M. Ulyanov here is not a penny. Egor Trubnikov, resting.
So what kind of film did the author offer us? What's his genre? Going back to that question? An ironic joke? The sound of Androp's anvil? Pre-Gorbachev breeze? Convulsions of planned management.
The movie is good as nostalgia. Immersion in an era that is gone. Looking at a country that has ceased to exist. The Great Commune.
7 out of 10