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Notes From the Moscow Film World
Prologue
Backward, backward, my thoughts fly, taking me with them. Ghosts take
shape before me, solidify and coalesce. Roads that were lost open
again. The mists part...
I see, I hear... What? What is it? Ah, I know it now. See...
Razultnikov Calls a Meeting
Razultnikov called me and set up the meeting.
"Ten o'clock at the ASS. Film office."
He hung up. I stood, held the phone, wondered what we were meeting
on.
"The satirical sketches, the documentary-what?" I said out loud. The
cat, Chichikov, got up and washed her behind.
I gathered up all the notes, files and the devil knows what else, I
can't remember, and moved towards the door. Chichikov stayed behind,
watching me with big eyes, as I carried the armful of paper out the
door.
Too Hot to Stay Inside
"It's a new project," my friend Ivan Fyodorovich Razultnikov said,
answering my earlier question to Chichikov-my cat, not the buyer of
dead souls.
"Well..." I started, not knowing how to respond. "A new project," I
finally concluded. I attempted to add a certain knowing inflection to
my remark with an arch of the eyebrows.
Razultnikov nodded and went on smoothly, as if nothing had happened.
He opened his mouth, about to say more, when he dramatically waved
his hand toward the door.
"Let's take a walk. It's entirely too hot-devilishly so-in here."
We Walk
We left the ASS. Film offices and joined the crowd on the Nevsky
Prospect. Razultnikov strode with purpose, and I kept up.
I mentioned Gogol. He snorted through his nose.
"We don't need literature like that anymore, Mikhail. It's a new
age-we need new art to go with it. Proletarian art-that means film.
Can the masses read a novel?"
I suggested that the masses had read War and Peace.
"No, no, no... They can only read a novel if it is produced with
capital equipment. Don't you see?"
"No, I don't." I began to be impatient with my friend. Razultnikov
had the devil of a way of coming to the point! But I suppose everyone
has a friend like that.
"A film can be viewed by any number of people at a time. Film is the
aesthetic arm-no, the hammer!-of the revolution!" Razultnikov was now
shouting. I looked around to see how many were staring. A few. One
supercilious young man tossed his cap in the air, and caught it
again.
"Very well, Ivan–I leave all political judgments to you. But what
exactly is your idea?"
"A film of Russian literature-War and Peace, Eugene Onegin, Dead
Souls, Anna Karenin-all at the same time." Razultnikov stopped,
grabbed me by both the shoulders. It was an extremely hot day.
"All at the same time-" I suddenly saw in my head a grand, greatly
lit ballroom. Within, Nozdryov was lying to Anna, Raskolnikov
skulking and thinking in the corner, along with Akaky Akakyovich-too
ashamed to come out in to the light. Oblonsky and Euvgeny, of course,
captivate the ball. Great friends, I might add. Simply scintillating
conversation! Pierre Bezukhov (my great-grand-father, in case you
wondered) asks Tatiana to dance while Natasha watches jealously from
where she sits with Count Vronsky-
I laughed.
"What?" said Razultnikov quickly. He was still holding my shoulders,
and began to shake me vigorously.
"I'm sorry, Ivanovich-I really am. It's just that, quite frankly,
your idea brings some very funny pictures to mind."
"Oh." Razultnikov paused, and seemed mollified. "Very well. Part of
this is the idea of humor-we have to show the absurdities of the old
literary guard-of course, that's true. However, there is much serious
work to be done as well."
My friend went on to describe the rest of his scheme. It was quite
mad, I assure you! However, it was also devilishly clever. He wanted
to mix characters and situations from every great Russian work of
literature, in a madcap fair of allusion-at the end, he told me, the
whole works was to voluntarily retire to a box; then put away in a
warehouse. This film, he told me, would ensure that no more of the
Russian classics would ever have to be read. I can tell you that this
especially gave me a turn.
We Discuss Chichikov, Among Other Things
We met later that week at my apartment-the apartment I shared with
the poet Yevoshkovich and his wife, and her brother, the professor of
biology who spent nearly all his time at the institute, and always
smelled slightly of embalmer.
Chichikov leapt on the table and meowed, coveting the small portion
of sausage I had brought out for our meeting. I remonstrated with her
sharply.
"Chichikov-" I began.
It took only the mention of my cat's name to bring out my friend's
worst side.
"What an appalling bourgeois conceit," he said scornfully, "To name
your cat after a literary character. Sickening."
My explanations that I had inherited the cat from a formerly female
tenant... or, to make clear my muddled prose, a woman who was once a
member of our housing cooperative, before she married a turbine
maintenance engineer from Minsk, and, because of the new housing
regulations, had to give up both her room, and her pet... anyway,
that's not the point-the main thing is, I didn't name the cat!
To Razultnikov, my story went no further than the tip of my nose, and
he emitted a short snort before moving to the subject at hand.
Chichikov herself, having no need of a name that she could see,
followed our conversation not a bit, once I had given her a bit of
sausage.
"Anyway, Mikhail, I've had some ideas for the ending today while I
was waiting in line at ASS. Arts central. As you know, it has to be
symbolic of everything we're intending to accomplish with the
film."
"Of course. Tell me."
"I see the next-to-last scene of the film, in which all of the
characters are gathered in some fashion, suddenly freeze. We cut to a
young child playing with wooden dolls, painted to look like the
literary characters. The child's parents enter-they take the
figurines away and put them in a box, which is taken away to the
attic. The end."
I nodded slowly as Razultnikov described the scene.
"Perhaps," I said, "Perhaps, it would be better if it were more-"
"Yes?! More..."
"Could I think about it a little more?"
We Discuss Further
Despite his dislike in principal for all other nations, Razultnikov
had some grudging respect for America, and Americans-he was
especially knowledgeable about American films. He loved the detective
and adventure serials, especially. He would talk for hours about the
doings of Mr. Friendly or the Gaslight Gang. After we talked about
this, I remembered my purpose in our conversation.
"We need a title," I said.
My friend's hand did a frustrated little dance in front of his face.
"The devil... I don't know what the title should be... 'All Russian
literature into the wastebin' that's the title as far as I'm
concerned."
"It's a little long-"
"Well, then... you're the writer."
I thought. Then I had it.
"Since this film is to be all literature, perhaps the title should be
just that: Literature. Short and to the point."
"Yes, that's fine. Now, we need a sequence of scenes. It's a very
simple thing-just two or three pages describing the major incidents
of the film. Could you have it by next week-"
"Well, I have several sketches due for Future. But if it's just two
pages-"
"Great. I want this to be done for by October."
I agreed with his plan, and left, remembering to put my cap on. I was
hungry, and decided to stop at the ASS. Arts commissary, the reason a
membership in ASS. Arts was so desirable.
I Introduce Myself to Sergei Eisenstein
Saw Sergei Eisenstein at the ASS. Arts commissary, drinking tea.
"Well enough," he answered, regarding his health. "And yours?" he
added politely. He was a very polite man, despite what you might have
heard! People will spread rumors, especially nowadays.
Introduced myself as Mikhail Bezukhov.
"A descendant of Pierre?" he asked, jokingly.
My great-grandfather, I replied.
Asked how a fictional character could father children and
grand-children, even admitting his universally known marriage to
Natasha Rostov.
I shrugged, told him what my family had told me.
"Well, that's simply absurd. I ask you, claiming to be Pierre
Bezukhov's great-grandson!" He turned to the poet Mayakovsky and
laughed. The great poet had a mouthful of sturgeon and could only
smile, not knowing what Eisenstein was talking about.
I was insulted, and pointed to the phone, challenging him to call my
mother, and ask her. Eisenstein picked up the phone. But the line, as
so often happens, was dead.
When asked about his new film, a documentary of the revolt in 1905
for the Proletkult Theater, he waved away my question like a fly that
had been let in through an accidentally open window. I put my cap on
to leave.
"I like your cap," said the director as I left. Maybe he felt a
little sorry. I didn't answer. What was I going to say?
The Ending
We were at ASS. Film again, Razultnikov and I, since we had founded
the division of ASS. Arts simply by filling out the proper forms and
talking to the correct people. However, all we got was the name and
an office-nothing else, except a phone and whatever we found in the
office when we moved in. Not much, if you were wondering! Just an old
calendar from the year 1908 and pencils gnawed half to death.
We each had a desk, and my desk even had a lamp.
"I've been thinking about the ending. I think I have something that
works, Fyodorovich," I said, in our office. "We need something more
like a play-something like that... everyone talking to the
camera."
"You mean, directly to the audience? Of course-every character has
some final words for the audience-summing whatever they are for the
people."
"And then," I said quickly, "They all walk into the box-voluntarily,
you see, since, having had their word, they accept the tide of
history!"
"Of course... of course!" We were on a roll now. Razultnikov stood
and shook his fist triumphantly-at the same time, looking at me to
complete the film.
"After they walk into the box, workers come and hoist the crate into
a truck-"
"I know just the one!"
"-and the truck drives through the streets, to a great
warehouse-"
"The warehouse, symbolizing history, as well as capitalism-Mikhail,
this is your finest moment-eternity is yours."
I blushed from such effusive compliments. Very rarely did Razultnikov
give forth praise so liberally !
My friend was looking out the window. Moscow cooked under the early
summer sun. He turned back to me.
"The ending is set. Your great socialist conception has crushed my
original thought, which I now realize was a product of a lapse into
bourgeois cliché. Now, all that remains is to scramble the
Russian classics, and we will have our script!"
He took my hand and raised it with his, as if we had already won an
award. I smiled, bemused...
The Need For Money Still Exists
In the Socialist State, We Discover
The first problem was money.
So Razultnikov informed me, fuming. "ASS. Arts won't give us the
money. Nothing-not a ruble-how do you like that?"
I grimaced and shrugged sympathetically. When he was most agitated,
Razultnikov talked like this: bark-pause-bark-pause-bark bark
bark.
Razultnikov went on. "They tell me 'The devil alone knows where stock
is around for making a film-temporary shortages, you know.' Temporary
shortages! Their definition of temporary is a very different one from
what is found in the dictionary, I can tell you."
"We are in the still in the transitional state of socialism,
Fyodorovich," I pointed out, quite reasonably.
"Do you know,' said my friend, "Do you know, Mikhail Semyonovich,
that there is not one square centimeter of celluloid stock in all of
the Soviet republic? Unless, of course, you count our print of
Intolerance."
Like every other member of Kuleshov's workshop, Razultnikov had cut
his teeth by endlessly cutting and resplicing the film Intolerance
that had somehow ended up in our country-smuggled in by reactionary
interventionists, I had heard, who had intended to cause unrest, but
had instead unwittingly created the Soviet film industry.
"We have to order some from Europe-to do that we need money-hard
currency! Have any ideas?"
Razultnikov finally fell silent, and looked at me expectantly. I
looked around, wondering how on earth I was supposed to manufacture
hard cash from thin air.
"What do you propose I do, Ivan Fyodorovich?"
After much thought, we agreed to divide our labors. I would write the
film while my friend searched for money throughout Moscow.
A Party
That night, there was a party at the writer of satirical sketches
Zoschenko's place. We drank much vodka, and ate cucumber slices on
crisp soda crackers, which Barlialev had acquired by bartering a poem
he had written about Cossacks building tractor factories.
I remember only this exchange:
Barlialev being witty: "Since the Revolution, we Russians no longer
believe in God, but rest assured, we still fear the devil!"
All present laughed at this wry statement.
Razultnikov stood and waved his bottle in the air. "Since the
Revolution, the epigram must be pushed aside by the slogan!" Then he
fell over.
We all laughed at this as well, as I remember, though not as
much.
I Volunteer To Help
In the next few months we each pursued our course of action. I tossed
Tolstoy, Gogol, Pushkin and Turgenev into the pot and stirred, while
Razultnikov went all over Moscow to find film stock, or money, or
both.
"So, Mikhail..." he told me one day when he returned. I set aside a
scene in which Pierre Bezukhov and Bazarov debated the future of
Russia. "So-let me tell you the latest fiasco in the Moscow film
world. I told you I had obtained an infinitesimal grant from the
railway union. Well, I went to them today vodka?"
The last word was said so quickly after the others, that I
momentarily wondered how it fit, when I saw the bottle being waved at
me. I said, very naturally, "Yes, thank you, Ivan."
He nodded and poured two small portions. He drank his and then
continued to speak as if the vodka had never existed:
"-and how did they choose to give us the money? Railway tickets, if
you please! Here-if by any chance you would like to travel to
Leningrad once or twice, or ten times!" He threw something down on
the table.
It was a book of ten round-trip tickets to Leningrad, second
class.
"Well, Ivan, this is certainly worth something. We can sell
them."
"Of course, of course." My friend sat, looked very bored. "Still, the
idea, that's what I'm talking about. A film, a film such that has
never been produced by the motherland. Anyway, I'm not a ticket
salesman!"
I felt I should help my friend, since his job at the time seemed far
more difficult than mine. All I needed to work was pen and ink, and a
few spare hours. My friend, though, his work depended on a thousand
factors-the weather, shortages, money, all the vagaries of life in
Moscow. It was difficult enough in the city to find a place to live
that a dog wouldn't reject out of hand, and a decent amount of food.
To make a film, though-to make a film out of nothing, that is a task
I wouldn't wish on the Devil himself!
Perhaps that's the reason Razultnikov's tirades didn't bother me that
much.
"I'll go down to ASS. Lit today and see if I can sell any of them.
Quite a few of the satirists are flush right now-"
Razultnikov's eyes flashed jealously.
"-and perhaps they have relations in Leningrad."
My friend nodded and seemed slightly happier. He reached for a phone
(despite the utter and abject poverty of our organization, by some
gross bureaucratic error we had a phone we could use as much as we
wanted.)
I took my thin wool coat and stepped out of the office.
ASS. Lit Vanishes
I arrived half an hour later, refreshed by the long walk, at the ASS.
Lit offices in the Communard Building. Unlike ASS. Film, ASS. Lit was
well-established, thanks to the plentiful sketches and short stories
it supplied to the newspapers in Moscow.
Imagine my surprise, my stunned amazement, when I came to the fifth
floor and discovered nothing, a gaping emptiness where just the day
before had been a thriving collective of literary intelligence.
I asked a worker who was standing by the stairs what had
happened.
"Mumble, mumble, mumble... candles," was what he responded. At least
that's what it sounded like. The devil alone could have understood
more.
"What?"
Again the incomprehensible sequence of syllables. Again the
mysterious candles.
"Candles?" I asked. The man began to inch away. "Candles?" I
repeated, much louder. He moved away faster. I looked around wildly
at the legendary fifth floor of the Communard building, which had
once been crowded with writers, editors and critics of every stripe,
color and affiliation. Now it was empty.
Back at the stairwell, I stared down to the ground floor, where I saw
many workers straining to unload heavy industrial machine parts into
the office building. My confusion increased, and turned to an uncanny
kind of terror. I felt the devil was near, I must admit, as silly as
it sounds! Certainly the disappearance of an entire literary
organization overnight was an almost supernatural occurrence.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement back in the hallway I had
just been in. I ran back there, spying Philip Philipovich
Kovillotosky. He saw me as well, and instantly ducked into an office.
I hurried after him. Philip Philipovich was a poet (though not a very
good one, in my opinion) and a founding member of ASS. Lit.
I found him in a denuded office, where not even dust had been left by
the hands that cleared it. Philip's physiognomy was wracked with
tears-he was hiding, or trying to hide, behind the open door. When he
saw me, his face lit up with recognition, and he hastily dried his
tears with a corner of his grey shirt.
"Oh, Michael Semyonovich, it's you-I'm sorry, I had no idea..." he
squeaked.
"What's happened here?"
"No one can explain it."
From downstairs we both heard a vast thud, crash and a splintery kind
of breaking. Philip winced.
"We got the news yesterday evening. The entire building was
redesignated for industrial exports. Mikhail," and his voice nearly
broke open into tears, "It's now a factory."
"That's utterly absurd," I said. "They can't make this into a
factory-it's an office building."
"We told them that, but there was nothing to be done. Orders are
orders. The directive was quite clear. Communard building now
redesignated as production center 11a for candles and other wax
products."
I now understood the mysterious reference to candles by the worker in
ruined overalls.
"We had to pack up and leave."
"Where, though?"
But Philip had passed into such dark paralysis of despair that my
question went unnoticed. I desperately tried to think of something to
alleviate his distress. I remembered my mission.
"Perhaps this would be a good time for a vacation. Do you have
relations in Leningrad?"
All he did was stop crying and stare wildly, clutching himself as if
I were as mad as he was.
Razultnikov Is Mysterious
I returned unsuccessful.
"So where are they now?"
"Nobody would tell me."
'That's absurd. The entire organization can't just vanish, as if the
Devil himself had whisked it away to hell."
I nodded. My words exactly. My friend shook his head. Then he
stood.
"I'm afraid I'll have to take extraordinary measures."
"What?"
"Effective means must be taken, even if they are not, strictly
speaking, above-board."
Suddenly my friend had turned elliptical.
"What are you talking about?
"I'll need to see some people. Could I have those tickets back?"
"Of course." I handed them to Ivan, glad to be free of that
responsibility.
"I'll be back soon." He left.
I stared at his back as it moved through the door and vanished into
the Moscow streets. I shrugged and turned my attention back to
Tolstoy.
I Meet A New Friend Of ASS. Film
What my friend had been hinting at became clearer a few days later. A
very disreputable but well-fed gentleman showed up at our office. He
looked at me sideways.
I dropped my pen. It rolled across the desk. The unshaven man watched
it, and then me, with the same cold expression.
I cleared my throat. "Can I help you?"
"Where's Razultnikov?"
"He's out."
"I'll wait." This last response overlapped my statement. Silence
again. I knew instinctively the man was a gangster. He betrayed not
one iota of information beyond his clothing and belly.
I picked up my pen and began to write again. Natasha Rostov, my
grandmother, was struck mute by this unkempt criminal. She refused to
speak in his presence. As did Nozdryov. Even Nozdryov! They could say
nothing. I sat. The man stood.
After an interminable silence, he grunted.
"Give him this." He produced a note from his pocket and handed it to
me with an expression that I managed to interpret as meaning: Don't
read this.
"I will. By the way, what-" As I said this, the man left and I
stopped speaking, feeling ridiculous.
We Debate
My friend returned hours later, cheerful and almost waltzing.
"My friend, Mikhail Semyonovich, we begin shooting tomorrow!"
"What?" I forgot to be angry, so surprised was I at his
announcement.
"I have money now, and film stock. Genuine German made-Gunter
Grummanwerkann.
"Yes, yes," I agreed with my friend, absurdly, so caught up was I in
his excitement, Then I remembered the note...
"You got a message."
...and remembered why I has been so irritated-the puzzling visitor
returned to my mind. I described him to Razultnikov, who smiled and
clasped me on the shoulder.
"Oh, yes, well... In the circles I've had to deal with, one meets
many interesting and curious characters."
"He was clearly a criminal," I said flatly.
"Well." Razultnikov paused. "Yes, that is true... to be
excruciatingly accurate, some of my new associates are of the
underworld variety. In order to have our great socialist enterprise
allowed to be borne into this world, I've had to, speaking quite
frankly and just between us, deal on the black market.
My worst fears were realized. I scowled and leaned forward. Ivan
Fyodorovich, the devil take you! You've no more sense than a
nose!
"You're not serious?! Consorting with counter-revolutionary
profiteers? You'll get us sent to Solovki."
This hit home, I could see clearly. My friend drew himself up to his
full imposing height.
"To gain strides in the Revolution, we must occasionally deal with
those opposed to the greater cause-in the short term, mind you.
Remember, the capitalists will sell us the rope we hang them by."
"Yes, but... a man in your position, in our position. It's a great
risk."
"But the benefits. In one afternoon, I've financed one entire month
of production. After six weeks in which I only raised but one
thousand rubles."
"How, though?"
"Bartering. You have no idea how valuable those train tickets were. I
managed to exchange them for over one thousand feet of film and
several tens of thousands of rubles. To make a long story short. I
won't bore you with all of the transactions I had to undergo."
What my friend was telling me was clearly impossible. but I said
nothing. I decided to see how everything worked out before judging
Ivan too harshly.
I Write
Late at night, the only light provided by the old lamp by the bed, I
wrote in my small space in the apartment. My only companions were
moths who circled the small light, and Chichikov. My cat delighted in
jumping on my desk, to sit on the piles of manuscript I created. I
would always move her and tell her it was far better, for her
purpose, to sleep on my books I occasionally referred to-Dead Souls,
War & Peace and a few others.
Perhaps she insisted on sleeping on the manuscripts, because they
were warmer in her eyes, having just been filled with my writing. Of
course my books were old-fashioned, but still... you just can't give
them up like that, like nothing happened.
After being picked up and moved three times, Chichikov usually
settled down and I began to seriously write. I wrote endlessly into
the night, revising, rewriting, trying every possible combination of
character and setting to accomplish our ends.
My responsibility was heavy. If, as Razultnikov insisted, this film
was truly all that would remain of Russian literature, then it was my
obligation to bring as much of it as possible. I felt absurdly
incapable in the face of this task. How was I to distill Tolstoy,
Gogol, Pushkin, Turgenev, Dostaevsky into one and a half hours? Ah,
well, I could only try. I had a feeling anyway that our film would
never accomplish what we, or my friend, intended.
I wrote a scene in which the inspector from Crime & Punishment
shuffled his way through the saloons of Petersburg. Raskolnikov and
Bezukhov (how similar to Razultnikov and I, I realized) were friends
and formed a kind of intellectual's circle-not too much
intellectualizing, I reminded myself, as it would bore the audience
and irritate my friend. I balanced their debate with romantic
intrigue, Leningrad/Petersburg with Moscow, mixed Gogol and
Dostaevsky-it became great fun. Imagine what would happen in Major
Kovalsky's nose had appeared at one of Anna's saloons? What delicious
chaos! What absurdity would result!
This and many other things was what concerned me as I wrote far into
the night, Chichikov under the lamp, watching me with dark eyes as I
smiled to myself and produced page after page.
My Sketches Receive Praise
A few brief sketches of life in the Moscow film world were accepted
by Future, and I gained a small amount of rubles as a result. I
received some praise as well, from some of my fellow writers. Written
in the style of Bulgakov was my modest reply, recalling "Notes Off
the Cuff" from the magazine Nedra.
Still, it was nice to get some attention. I met Bodovich in the
street and he said:
"Enjoyed your little sketch in Future. An excellent portraiture of
Razultnikov. To a 't'"
I humbly accepted his praise and again expressed my debt to
Bulgakov.
"The playwright?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Hmm... I don't recall..." He seemed less enthusiastic. "Anyway, very
nice, very nice..."
He curtly doffed his hat and walked away. As he did so, I realized I
had forgotten to ask about ASS. Lit, and where it had gone. I had
heard nothing still, and met no one else who could tell me.
We Begin Shooting
Razultnikov rounded up some actors and actresses from the theaters,
luring them with the money he had obtained from his mysterious
friends.
Ah, memory! That day I accompanied my friend on the shoot was both
the most tedious and most nerve-wracking day I have every endured.
Much of it I spent standing awkwardly, serving no readily
identifiable purpose as all around me either issued orders or
scurried to fulfill them. I had no idea so much went into
filming.
And that is all that remains of that day, what I have just written
down. No specifics, nothing substantial. I remember watching what my
friend had shot much later, and nothing I saw bore the slightest
resemblance to what I remembered seeing. Perhaps it was nerves, or a
burst of melancholia.
Someone New Arrives
One, day a short friendly old man showed up and announced he had been
transferred to us from ASS. Arts, Poetry division.
Well, all his papers were in order, so who were we to argue? However,
the man, whose name was Aloysius Patrickovich, didn't know anything
about film. In fact, he didn't know anything about poetry either,
which was why he had been transferred.
Instead, he would regale us for hours with stories of Moscow's public
transportation, of drunken trolley drivers running off the track and
the like.
When we asked him how he had ended up in ASS. Art at all, he merely
smiled, shrugged and said...
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: Unfortunately the rest of this extremely
intriguing manuscript has been lost. This collection of pages, along
with some other miscellaneous writings, were recently discovered in
the files that the forerunner of the KGB kept on the Moscow literary
scene in the mid-1920s. Ironically, their surveillance of Soviet
writers has preserved much work that would have otherwise been lost
in the turmoil of the 1930s.
The sketches shed a little light on what has been until now an
obscure subject: the film world in the Moscow of the time. Other than
Sergei Eisenstein, very little is known of the personages and culture
of this exotic and fascinating milieu. It is not even known whether
Bezukhov and Razultnikov's film was even made. No record of it exists
in any private or state archive, but given the chaotic nature of
Soviet society in the times after the time of the NEP, this is not
too surprising.
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