Everyone knows that the guerrilla is dying. Belarus. 1942. Late autumn. A young soldier of the economic platoon Stepka Tolkach with three comrades goes to blow up a wooden bridge, on which not only trains, carts do not travel every day.
Epoch ago, between Soviet yesterday and Russian today, we still knew how to make a good movie about the Great War. Rather, the movie was filmed all sorts of unsuccessful films enough - but still came across among them and big, real pictures.
This is perhaps the main difference from our time.
It's like an open fracture: bone sticks out, blood whips, tears flow, all in flaps ... It’s been half a century now, and he doesn’t want to heal. It hurts, sister, alcohol.
In the new century, such a problem is not worth it - the seams are applied, the plaster has solidified reliably, everything has grown together as it should. But is there anything left alive under this very cast, that is the question. Although, what questions can there be when the morning parade, and in the evening fireworks.
Here is no longer up to adaptations of the inconvenient prose of Vasil Bykov, whose war “is not at all a fireworks display.” And people there are all kinds, not plaster or cast-iron, but ordinary such people: with joys and sorrows, convictions and prejudices, with their faith and with their truth - from the first in the bomb squad, to the last in the village police.
Forests are cut, chips fly. In the Belarusian forests such chips can not be counted, and each has its own history. Frontline Bulls could hear them, and the director Frost to film. It is a pity that no one will take it off now.
But, perhaps, this is for the best - for some things it is better not to take unwashed hands from shawarma.