All of them are in one place, and all of them are in one place. Here comes the time of opportunity - the exciting 1980s and dashing alluring ' great opportunities' 1990s. The giants of Soviet cinema, once famous for their world-class paintings - comedies, dramas, melodramas - no doubt and quickly ' changed their shoes ', surrendering to the trends of freedom and, as if competing, hit the break to rivet everything in a row. Someone struck in comedies, full of various kinds of templates, and accompanied by an undisguised mat (Ryab Konchalovsky’s Chicken), someone in an outright farce with all the ensuing ones (Shyrli-Myrli Menshov), someone just in a stormy mixture of pseudo-ridiculous vulgarity, drawn into the guise of a la ' detective genre' (Operation Gaidai Cooperation).
But simple toilet humor with cheerful ' Intergirls' and others not limited. Before us is a real rusty-eyed symbiosis of Soviet thinking, imposed like a cliché on Western life, with sex, detailed rape scenes shown from beginning to end, flying in all directions with dollars, bandits, cool incorruptible investigators, and of course - fights, well, almost like in Westerns.
It's not even a detective or a drama, it's probably a thrash. You can't call it otherwise. Yesterday’s 'convinced communist patriots of their homeland, honest with their ideals' and decided to saw us ' cool blockbuster' just like in the Americas. Only now it came out of this, as Chernomyrdin once said '...as always'.
The good old, beloved by the audience not only in the USSR, but, I am not ashamed of this expression, all over the world, the actors appeared in a new guise. Kind grandfathers, girls, grandparents and uncles, known to us from old paintings, showed, or rather - twisted themselves real scum, gangsters, drug lords and cops. One late Dzhigarkhanyan generally causes vomiting - what is Humpback Karp from the 1970s... a boy with a slingshot compared to him.
Cranberry cool detective, who is ' cooler than all the cops on the planet' Kulagin is certainly attached to this, where else without it.
In fact, the picture is exactly thrash, (post)Soviet thrash, where people who do not understand anything about life in the West have never (or very little and not for long) been there - mixed in a heap of a stormy cocktail - let everything fit there: and necessary, and unnecessary, and unnecessary and frankly stupid, even timekeeping for this fanned fantastic. We tried ' put lettuce in the vessel ' from the heart, adding all possible ' sauces ' and threw the immature post-Soviet mind under the nose.
We rob, fight, build smart eyebrows, shake ' crunchy cash', ride on the grass, raping girls - all black entities around a frankly banal plot, which could be presented more gracefully, dynamically, richly, thoughtfully and less protracted. And the point is not even that, if I may say, the picture contains all of the above, but that it even abounds in them - it is filled with them to capacity. It's all over the place. After Soviet glory, Soviet shame came quickly, in an instant. Poor, crooked and stupid.