СОЛНЕЧНЫЙ УДАР

Режиссер: Никита Михалков

Вот если бы мир перестал существовать в 1994 году. Не в 1995, когда Михалков получал «Оскар», а сразу после того, как он снял Утомленных солнцем. Не навсегда – на время. На двадцать лет. И не было бы неплохого, но бездушного и пафосного Сибирского цирюльника. Не было бы замечательного, но испорченного концовкой 12. И уж тем более не было бы этого безвкусного художественного суицида 2010 и 2011 годов. И Михалков не был бы ни воскрешенным советским генералом, ни благородным русским офицером, ни Александром III, ни Бесогоном… А затем, двадцать лет спустя, вышел бы фильм Солнечный удар. И никто бы слова плохого не сказал.

Это все к тому, что художника не должно быть слишком много. Художник может быть нескромным, претенциозным, высокомерным. Художник может быть каким угодно. Но его не должно быть слишком много. Михалков вышел за пределы экрана до такой степени, что это начало казаться неприличным. Что, тем не менее, не должно отвлекать от одной непонятной и ужасно нелепой мысли: Солнечный удар –  это очень хороший фильм.

Хотя конечно. Когда фильм закончился, и женщина слева в очередной раз всхлипнула в носовой платок, в голове была безумная, но вполне осуществимая идея. Я напишу две совершенно противоположные рецензии. Первая будет восторженной: в конце концов, человек, который снял Рабу любви, не может выстрелить себе в ногу бездарностью типа Предстояния или Цитадели. А вторая рецензия, опубликованная рядом, на той же самой странице, будет разгромной: может, очень даже может. И я буду искренним в обоих случаях, и в обоих случаях я буду прав.

Никита Михалков – это талантливый российский (я готов даже сказать «русский») режиссер. Но с годами уходит чувство меры, и говорит он в своих фильмах слишком много (нельзя, нельзя давать цитату перед титрами!) Каждая сцена и каждый символ его фильмов после 1983 года – это как кольцо, брошенное в конце алленовского Матч-пойнта. Черт его знает, в какую сторону оно упадет на этот раз. Но при всех моих претензиях к Солнечному удару (о чем ниже), Михалкова спасает эмоциональность и настоящая страсть к выбранной теме. Кольцо не перелетает и не падает в воду. Слегка покрутившись на грани, оно все-таки спасительно соскальзывает вниз.  

Солнечный удар построен на двух произведениях Бунина. Такой, по крайней мере, была первоначальная идея. Рассказ «Солнечный удар» и удивительный бунинский дневник Окаянные дни, где Ленин – это животное, а Маяковский – Идиот Полифемович. Но если без «Солнечного удара» здесь никак не могло обойтись, то Окаянных дней в этом фильме попросту нет. Единственное – это тот страшный, мучительный переход от царской России к советской власти. Михалков много играет со светом, но все же самое сильное, что есть в этом фильме, – это лицо главного героя. Вся эта распухшая серость. И один вопрос, который задается тут же, в лоб: «Что… что все это было?..»

Кто-то хочет в Москву, а кто-то – в кровавую римскую провинцию, к Понтию Пилату. Всегда приходится выбирать. Но даже несмотря на довольно-таки навязчивые переключения между двумя историями, царской и советской, все кажется вполне органичным. Русские офицеры распарывают погоны, подписывают советские бумаги и отчаянно и безвольно готовятся к будущему, которого, конечно, не будет. В частности, тот самый герой, чье бесцветное и непримечательное лицо вдруг начинает наполняться историей из прошлого. В 1907 году он плыл на пароходе и ощутил любовную страсть, которая солнечным ударом прошла по всему телу, но затем наутро исчезла и оставила только шаль под подушкой и перечеркнутую записку на столе.

Солнечный удар – это символ не столько гениальный, сколько неотразимый. У символов позднего Михалкова есть одна проблема: они очевидны. Закругленные и кастрированные, они почти лишены естественности, и ты будешь до бесконечности слышать голос мальчика, который будет бежать вдоль обрыва и кричать «Господин офицер, вы забыли часы!».. Летающая шаль, которую мы все уже видели тысячу раз. И детская коляска. И поршни, которые так настойчиво напоминают, например, о Крейцеровой сонате Швейцера. Но все-таки символы эти, от карманных часов до старых фотографий, бьют наотмашь.

Михалков вообще это умеет – бить наотмашь, до крови, до сентиментальности раздирая кожу и нерв. Взять, например, разгадку тех двух таинственных слов. Наверное, сцена будет понятна даже тому, кто не пережил того солнечного удара, о котором вспоминает главный герой.

Что касается заимствований, то здесь интересно. Красть у себя в тысячу раз опасней, чем красть у других. Красть у себя – это все равно, что признаваться в своих ошибках или верить в собственное превосходство. Но первое Михалкову не грозит, а говорить о втором уже как-то поздно и бессмысленно. Сцена секса (вполне, нужно сказать, неплохая) не может не напомнить об Утомленных солнцем, а из Неоконченной пьесы (определенно лучшего фильма Михалкова) здесь и ленивая атмосфера, и две сумбурные, надоедливые девицы («жабы зеленые»), и эта любимая его фраза: «А потом», говорит девушка в момент романтического напряжения, «а потом – суп с котом». И здесь можно долго думать: это целостное видение автора или это все же пародия на самого себя (думаю, что и то, и другое).

Из обычного еще шутки, которые то необязательно пошлые и надуманные, то вдруг неприлично смешные. А еще тщательная продуманность сюжета, безапелляционные монологи персонажей, пронзительная музыка Артемьева, безупречная игра актеров (совсем, кажется, неочевидных), несколько совершенно необязательных сцен (обед с фокусником – это слишком уж большая роскошь для трехчасового фильма) и, конечно, лицо самого Михалкова. На старой фотокарточке, приближенное до самого крупного плана. 

И все-таки хорошее перевешивает. В Михалкове есть, что любить: стиль, содержание, и то самое навязчивое величие, тот масштаб, которого в российском кино больше ни у кого попросту нет. Я готов даже закрыть глаза на весь тот бред, который он теперь говорит. В конце концов, Эзра Паунд поддержал Муссолини. Иногда – иногда – художнику можно что-нибудь простить. Пусть только на время... Никогда бы не подумал, что скажу это, но Солнечный удар – это мучительно хороший фильм. 

SONG OF THE WEEK #167: Lou Reed - "Stupid Man"

Don't you love people who prefer "City Lights" to "Perfect Day"?..

Faggy vocals, intoxicating vibes, saxophones: The Bells should have been called The Balls. Also, it is Lou Reed's best album. The funny thing is that his 'true' fans don't get it and are basically too cool for this nonsense. But really - Berlin aside, this is the Lou Reed I love most of all. "Stupid Man" is such a demented classic.

BUKOWSKI: novels

Bukowski was a jerk…

Nick Cave, “We Call Upon The Author”

Reading Charles Bukowski is like eating, drinking, smoking, having sex, watching TV, sleeping, brushing teeth, cutting fingernails. Charles Bukowski is what you read when you don’t want to read. I didn’t. This was just the noise of the underground and two long months of traveling to and from work. Six of his novels, reviewed here in order of their publication. 

His poetry was good. His short stories were hit and miss.

Post Office (1971)

8/10

This was my first Bukowski novel, so if there is any sentimental feeling in my heart reserved for this writer, it goes to Post Office. Initially, his writing seems refreshing and even mildly intriguing. Henry Chinaski, Bukowski’s alter-ego, is working at the post office. That’s all you need to know. Customers, women, booze. No epithets, no metaphors, just his no-nonsense style – note that I use the term ‘style’ very loosely. You almost won’t get bored: it all ends on page 208.

Factotum (1975)

7/10

This was my last Bukowski novel, so it felt especially expendable. Of course they are more or less the same, his books, but this time I just didn’t care. Still enjoyable in its mindless, catatonic way, and contains what might be the ultimate line of his: “A man with a hangover should never lay flat on his back looking up at the roof of a warehouse”.

Women (1978)

7/10

Drinking and fucking.

Ham On Rye (1982)

9/10

Of course: if you are going to read just one book by Charles Bukowski (wise move), it should be Ham On Rye. This is not so much essential in the grand scheme of things as the perfect distillation of the man’s concise, hard-boiled poetry (“summer was insolent and bitching”). From childhood onwards. Ham On Rye is grossly well-written. If you accept his terms, that is.

Hollywood (1989)

8/10

At his funniest. As ever, the scenes float by and you forget. If anything, Hollywood is Bukowski’s book on writing. Hollywood, too, hypocrisy and money, but essentially we get a close look at the way he wrote and approached writing. Drinking, horse-betting, yes, but this is Chinaski the writer. Or non-writer, whichever way you prefer. The book is about Bukowski being commissioned to write a screenplay for a movie (Barfly) and what it takes to do it in Hollywood. Again, autobiographical. Again, very brief: just 248 pages.

Pulp (1994)

6/10

His last work, published months before his death. If you thought Bukowski was a good writer (he wasn’t), you will have to admit Pulp is a very poorly written book. If you thought Bukowski was a bad writer (again, he wasn’t), you will just be bored. This reads like a not particularly inspired Hammett/Chandler pastiche for people with short attention span. Fucked-up private detective working for Lady Death, looking for Red Sparrow. That sort of stuff. A few funny moments (buying beer in a bar) and a few unlikely philosophical paragraphs (I guess he meant it), but overall this is for the fans dying to get more. Be warned, however: there’s no Henry Chinaski here. 

Chinaski died when Bukowski realised his own mortality. The whole world, remember, revolves around two things: sex and death. Bukowski/Chinaski swapped the latter for drinking. Or writing. Or whatever it was.

Album review: LEONARD COHEN - Popular Problems

Highlights: Slow, Samson In New Orleans, A Street, Did I Ever Love You, You Got Me Singing

9/10

I don’t know if Leonard Cohen is getting better with years, but he sure as hell is not getting any worse. Which, considering the taste and the class matched by few, is more than enough. I can only wish he could do this over and over again, once every two or three years.

If this album differs in any way from Old Ideas, his previous LP, you won’t notice it. It’s your favourite night-time read: nocturnal, poetic, nostalgic, powerful. Leonard Cohen is where you can say ‘deep’ without sounding silly or pretentious. It’s 40 minutes of therapy by way of understatement, introspection, effective arrangements and female backup vocals.

I guess the only moment of relative surprise happens during “Nevermind” that features some unexpected Eastern-flavoured vocalising. Still, it gets soaked up in Cohen’s smothering vibe. Truly this album melts everything in its wise, wistful warmth. It could even melt a modern heart.

“I always liked it slow, I never liked it fast”… “Slow” sets the mood in style. As ever, there is a softly spoken verse that grows into a softly spoken chorus. And for all its subtleties and understatement – it’s always wonderful to realise how catchy his songs are. The chorus of “A Street”, for instance, is one of the sweetest things I’ve heard all year. “My Oh My”, too, is goddamn upbeat. Few things in the world are more unlikely and less irresistible than a Leonard Cohen vocal hook. The absolute favourite, though, is “Did I Ever Love You” (you can certainly picture Tom Waits giving this one a good go), as good and bitterly romantic a ballad as he has ever written. 

Popular Problems is a minor masterpiece. Leonard Cohen is like moulded cheese where cheese stays the same and mould just gets better and better. If you find any of it boring, you should just admit that you’ve fucked it up as a human being.

SONG OF THE WEEK #166: Martha Wainwright - "Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole"

Lovely.

Favourite albums: ROBESPIERRE'S VELVET BASEMENT (1985) by Jacobites

It’s only children sleeping, just my heart beating

Christ where do I begin?

Nikki Sudden and Dave Kusworth, two gorgeous-looking tramps. With those scarves and with that hair. They called themselves Jacobites. They recorded an album called Robespierre’s Velvet Basement. They sang about French noblemen and English nights and Russian zoos. What I mean to say is – people of non-romantic disposition would be kindly advised to bugger off.

This album was recorded in 1985, a year when bad was bad and good was really good. Sudden (formerly of Swell Maps) and Kusworth were beyond good. Hell, they were beyond really good. For three years, from 1983 till 1985, they were Britain’s greatest songwriters. It was one masterpiece after another. In 1985 alone they released two classic albums, Lost In A Sea Of Scarves and Robespierre’s Velvet Basement. Decide for yourself which title you like best, but in terms of sheer songwriting quality Robespierre’s Velvet Basement is so heartbreakingly good I have to look to Australia to see who could provide any sort of decent competition in that most straightforward and mysterious of decades.

Boys looking for rivers and cheap champagne in the afternoon and mirrors smashed in the night. It’s that sort of album, raw and romantic. Kusworth and Sudden share songwriting duties but if you don’t pay attention to vocals (Sudden’s charming ‘r’ can’t be missed, though), you won’t even tell the difference. Peas and carrots. Milk and honey.

I guess I could mention Peter Perrett, but there’s just too much personality here to rely on reference points. The sound is lush and ragged, filled with acoustic rhythms and clever jangly lines. There's nothing unique in that sound, nothing at all, and you have to wonder how they managed to infuse this music with so much freshness and charm. Surely the answer has to lie in charismatic songwriting, articulate melodies and impressionistic poetry that is both vague and hard-hitting (do you know a better song about romantic yearning than “All The Dark Rags”?)

Out of these 14 songs, I don’t count one I could live without. There’s the anthemic opener “Big Store” which was an 8-minute long guitar epic on the band’s eponymous debut from 1984. There’s the driving acoustic rock’n’roll of “Fortune Of Fame” that is all intensity and wild harmonica. There’s the jangly, heavenly “Silken Sheets” that may have this album’s prettiest verse melody. There’s the whole of that ballad-oriented second side which is all tears and broken hearts. The haunting “All The Dark Rags” is a personal favourite, with that magical C-G-Am-F chord progression played against the hair-raising slide guitar/harmonica background. There’s one relatively upbeat tune in “One More String Of Pearls” (something almost reggae-ish about it), and then we fade out wistfully, on the gorgeous lights-out ballad “Only Children Sleeping”.

There are several versions of Robespierre’s Velvet Basement floating around. Pick any. However, my advice would be to go for the latest 2-CD version – because Jacobites could do no wrong at that point and songs like “Every Girl” and “Pin Your Heart On Me” and “When The Rain Comes” are some of the greatest things ever. 

Oh and something else. Ironically perhaps, but it’s only now that I’m coming round to the fact that this whole feature, this whole ‘favourite albums’ nonsense, it was all invented to write about Robespierre’s Velvet Basement by Jacobites. There.

Album review: MIREL WAGNER - When The Cellar Children See The Light Of Day

Highlights: 1 2 3 4, Oak Tree, The Devil’s Tongue, Taller Than Tall Trees

8/10

“1 2 3 4, what’s underneath the floor”, it is almost too simple. These ten songs sound like nursery rhymes delivered by way of acoustic guitars, haunting vocals, dark vibes and dust. When The Cellar Children See The Light Of Day is a perfect title.

Mirel Wagner is a unique case of an Ethiopian artist living in Norway and singing in English. I’m not sure how that translates into music, but you could argue that this album is as cozy as Scandinavia and as otherworldly and mysterious as an African tribe.

Basically – striking, unadorned folk music, full of child-like wonder and grim undertones. I can see why Mojo gave it five stars. Every song features disarmingly simple vocal melodies and Mirel strumming the acoustic guitar. There’s also a bit of piano (closing “Goodbye”), but mostly she does not stray from the winning formula. Her style is irresistible, and she never overstays her welcome. “Taller Than Tall Trees” is actually five minutes long, but you won’t even notice it. Elsewhere: “Oak Tree” is a song of the year, and “The Dirt” could have been done by early Timber Timbre. Which is of course meant as a compliment. 

“I got a big big heart and lots of love”. You should hear the chilling, spine-tingling intonations her voice does. When The Cellar Children… is a lot like her debut from 2011, and that’s the way to go for Mirel Wagner. Her talent is both raw and well-honed. I don’t think she should change. I don’t think she will.

SONG OF THE WEEK #165: The Clash - "Lose This Skin"

Sandinista! is one of the most fascinating stories in rock music. 36 tracks of maddening self-indulgence. Including a song played backwards. Including kids singing "Career Opportunities". Including "Lose This Skin" that was actually written and sung by Joe Strummer's friend, Tymon Dogg. Great, great song.

Album review: THE NEW PORNOGRAPHERS - Brill Bruisers

Highlights: Champions Of Red Wine, War On The East Coast, Marching Orders, Wide Eyes

8/10

Compared to what passes for intelligent pop music these days, Brill Bruisers is a masterpiece. Compared to Thom Yorke’s latest, it is the greatest album of all time. And yet if we set it against the band’s previous records, Brill Bruisers has the unfortunate distinction of being the weakest. (That’s me saying how much I love Challengers and Together.)

It’s all in the title track. A classic pop single, with a booming melody and trademark backup vocals. But there is something routine-like about the song and it becomes especially evident when the middle eight arrives and you get 30 seconds of New Pornographers magic. Things get quiet; Neko Case is doing those clever “oh-oohs” in the background and A.C. Newman is doing his charming melodic thing. This is what we came here for.

I do feel like a mean-spirited son of a bitch finding faults with these 13 pop gems, but sometimes there’s that extra dimension missing: “Hi-Rise” or parts of “Backstairs”. Even though I do appreciate it when they compensate melodic shortcomings with great inventive wit (Bejar’s “Spidyr”). Mostly, though, it’s a sweet blast of intricate power-pop. Neko-sung “Marching Orders” is so intensely infectious it’s frightening.

Sonically, there’s very little that sets Brill Bruisers apart from the band’s previous albums. They do rely on synths a bit more this time but it’s only this beautiful augmentation interlacing the songs. The synths are particularly prominent in what I believe to be this album’s masterpiece. The gorgeous, anthemic “Champions Of Red Wine” is just an amazing, expertly arranged barrage of hooks. Neko Case’s vocals are both wistful and seductive. When The New Pornographers are good, they are irresistible. 

Really, there’s no way a band featuring A.C. Newman, Neko Case and Dan Bejar can release a less-than-great album. And that’s my only complaint: Brill Bruisers is just that, another great New Pornographers album. Wish I could say that about a few other bands.

Album review: THOM YORKE - Tomorrow's Modern Boxes

Highlights: Interference

5/10

We’ve made an album and this is what we are going to do. Listen up, it’s exciting.   

Now that the overdubs are done and everyone’s cautiously optimistic about the final result, we will print a million copies of the album (10 songs in the genre of softcore techno-funk; I will not bore you with the details). Well, not quite a million, but we haven’t rejected anyone’s help with copying, printing, multiplying. 

It all started with Kevin. I mean, it was my idea – but Kevin is the one providing the backbeat. Kevin is the name of our drummer, and his dad is in aviation. First time I mentioned my idea to Kevin, he told me to drop it. We had just struck a deal with a respectable indie label, so why do something as screwed-up as that. Besides, his dad would say no anyway. It’s only when we listened back to the demos of the new album that Kevin changed his mind. Maybe it was not such a bad idea. For once, even Stuart (bassist) and Richie (synths) seemed intrigued. Yes, we were going to do it.

And so we did. We went to Kevin’s dad and told him about our plan. As expected, he said no. However, we sold Kevin’s expensive hi-hats and paid for his dad’s dental surgery. Grudgingly, his dad agreed. I don’t think it was just the money. I think in the end he saw the scope of our idea. That even if the world went wrong the very next morning and vanished for good, the idea would still stand. And in the face of a disaster – I’m sure many people wouldn’t mind swapping places.

Through Richie’s girlfriend we got in touch with a few newspapers. One local TV channel said they were interested. We wrote about it on Twitter, on Facebook, on YouTube, we told our fans to spread the word. We would broadcast it online so that the whole world could see it. In the middle of our live set at a local festival I screamed into the audience: “Let’s fucking do it!” They screamed back.

And what a glorious day it was when the planes flew in the sky and dropped our album on roofs, fields, roads and heads of disbelieving passers-by. It was magnificent. In fact, if there was one downside to all that – it was the brevity of it. 30 minutes seemed barely enough.

P.S. Thom Yorke’s new album was released through BitTorrent. It is just like his previous one, but maybe a little different.

SONG OF THE WEEK #164: Arcade Fire - "The Guns Of Brixton"

"You can even SHOOT us!" While a hilarious mismatch on paper, Arcade Fire doing The Clash could never go wrong. All talent and amazing skill. Sense of humour, too. Don't ever lump them in with bland indie dross.  

Album review: MORRISSEY - World Peace Is None Of Your Business

Highlights: Neal Cassidy Drops Dead, Staircase At The University, Mountjoy, Oboe Concerto, Art Hounds

9/10

Let’s get it straight: World Peace Is None Of Your Business is a ridiculous title. It’s so ridiculous it verges on embarrassing. However, when Morrissey does it, it’s all right.

This is an album you will have to come round to. It isn’t as immediate as the first side of Years Of Refusal (which was not as bad as they tell you) and some of these songs might not amount to much after a couple of listens. Initially, it seems vaguely pompous, melodically meandering, unreasonably diverse and occasionally shallow (I still can’t come to terms with the lyrics of “Earth Is The Loneliest Planet”).

But do hang on.

A cursory listen won’t do. To appreciate this album, you would have to invest in it. Money, time, attention – something the sneering hordes of Morrissey atheists/agnostics simply won’t do. Eventually, the depth of the songwriting as well as Morrissey’s unmistakable (and, yes, rather annoying) charisma will start bulging through grey, dull cobblestone. Because these songs are good. All eighteen (18) of them. Maybe not Vauxhall & I kind of good, but very few things are.

And I do mean eighteen. Twelve album songs plus six bonus tracks that are at least as good as the actual thing. In fact, I view them as a legitimate third side. The mad-appealing “Art Hounds”, for instance, is an all-out Morrissey classic. But there’s at least something about each and every one of seventeen songs proceeding it that keeps me tuned in. World Peace… is a vast and expansive work, with the powerful guitar punches of “Neal Cassidy Drops Dead” working side by side with an acoustic sleeping beauty like “Smiler With A Knife”. Plus, the fast and funny “Staircase At The University” (“if you don’t get three A’s…” – Morrissey, remember, has never been above catchy), the clever accordion-driven “The Bullfighter Dies”, the mysterious “Kick The Bride Down The Aisle”. The lengthy “I’m Not A Man” feels like a statement and a centrepiece; its dramatic subtleties are overwhelming. I’m also impressed with the charm of “Oboe Concerto” that exposes the full extent of Morrissey’s romantic wit. 

Has to be said: I really do not give a fuck about Morrissey’s politics. Whoever he wants to kill in a microwave oven. Let him sing about anything he wants though. It will always make for an exciting listen. World Peace… is a terribly self-indulgent album and I’m afraid I can live with that. I have really talked myself into a nine here.