Orange-orange. Vova and Venya talk about physics; starting with the concept of X, this conversation is like bird singing to me; but they are beautiful, and I am now among them - that means physics, I am gaining patience. No one seems to have written about the depths of the torturous awkwardness into which our dreamy maidens are willing to dive for the sake of proximity to ecstatic and prestigiously intelligent men, better than Ali Kudryasheva in Non-Political. However, Alya wrote from the standpoint of not lower, but another intellectuality, and therefore her confession turned out to be heartfelt and touching (and with Vova and Venice they “listen to the same music – this passport is more important than many”, there are no chasms or iron curtains between them, only “faces, movements, legs”). At the other, truly painful mesalliance pole, we still loom lonely and static caricature 'I told her about amphibrachia, she sent me to. . .', the drama of intellectual impotence before the pressure of habalka, the poignancy of the escape of the spectacle from the silks, placed by naive self-interest. If Nechaev’s “Teacher” had received more audience attention at one time, others would undoubtedly have taken up the topic. But it didn't happen.
Why is an insoluble mystery to me. The famous director, the last (and no discounts star) role of Tselikovskaya, the most accurate, richest dramatic script by Georgy Polonsky, the author of "Let's Live Until Monday" and "The Key without the right to transfer", weighty (judging by the frank shots, the size of at least the third) dignity of the "dissolute ingenue" Svetlana Seleznyova, Marcella from "Don't Leave!" - close plot (but not psychologically) to the "Repetor" of the year of TV "Little Vera" only shocked and later, she was forgotten in accordance with her masterpiece. But there is nothing Belarusian there: the scene - Jurmala - was filmed near Leningrad, and the limit of the geographical aspirations of the hereditary resort service is the same, Chekhov's Moscow.
In general, the arrangement of Polonsky's characters in this scenario is amazing - the twist at the end is so subtle that without explaining the last (after a twenty-year break of the completed) two chapters at the end of the story that formed its basis is able to leave the most sophisticated readers in a clichéd delusion, although the actors are everything, everything is decisively playing right. A militant girl who works as a rescuer on the waters of the sanatorium, for the workers of the stage, the beach, a graduate of the philosophical faculty of Moscow State University fascinated by her, the grandson of the legendary actress and a very modest, very trembling young man who is not fully cured of his injuries, his book lessons with her, desperate attempts to pull the detachment to her cultural level, her disgusting practicality, stupid, in triflection, lies, impurity, absurdity, undisguised neglect of the “right to work” for the sake of “right to work” – only to be a limp and a means of movement, and reluctance to the capital. Run, boy, run! - rushes from all sides in his ears, and he pays attention - runs, runs smartly, the girl before that romantically using (whether he spent vacation days on classes with her?).
But why is it that even the grandmother-actress, grated, cynical, devoid of any sentiments (this was the time - photos of the Stalin era are attached) does not feel good for a woman? Is it not because, having played the whole of Chekhov’s repertoire in accordance with her age, she knows all too well what a clean-up is and why Ranevskaya puts so much contempt into this epithet addressed to Pete Trofimov? In the intestines, the grandmother senses that the cleaner will look for the necessary degree of purity all her life and will never find, since there is no life without soil and dirt, that investments with zero risk and dividends will bring zero, or even shrink in inflation, that excess prudence and concern for self-preservation in heart affairs cannot but paralyze the will and the very fervor for which these affairs begin. “An intellectual of Russian style, a man stuffed with poems” has already come out of him, men will never come out, “and his world will be like a parcel that accidentally did not go anywhere.”