Vasily Makarovich has repeatedly said that he got into cinema by chance, not knowing exactly what he was going to study. Is this really possible at VGIK?
Maria Lemesheva: In the mid-1950s, of course not. And not only at VGIK. Vasily Makarovich was probably lying. He applied to three universities at once: the Literary Institute, VGIK and the Historical and Archival Institute. Obviously, the choice was quite deliberate, because he already wrote stories and was very interested in history. Shukshin was rejected only at the Literary Institute. The competition at VGIK is always huge. But in those years the selection was extremely strict, as only one workshop was hired for both acting and directing, that is, 20-25 people. Let me emphasize once again that he, a boy from an Altai village, managed to beat so many rivals supposedly without much difficulty – a forgivable bravado. In fact, Shukshin knew where he was going: he attached to the application for admission documents, sent from his native Srostok, a request to inform about what special exams are offered to applicants for the directing department. And I prepared thoroughly: I passed the exams with “fours” and “fives”. And Tarkovsky, for example, got a “C” in his essay.
Typically, future directors need to have life experience. Is this really so important?
Maria Lemesheva: In my opinion, yes. If a person does not know life, does not know people from different social strata, then as a director he will be locked into the narrow framework of the circle in which he grew up and will quickly burn out. By the age of 25, Shukshin had worked as a car mechanic, a rigger and agricultural worker, a Russian teacher and school principal in his native village, and served as a conscript in the Baltic Fleet. And still the admissions committee had doubts. As, indeed, in relation to Tarkovsky. In one I was confused by “simplicity”, in the other by “abstruseness”. But Mikhail Romm, who was hiring the workshop, accepted both. And I do not regret it.
It must have been difficult for Mikhail Ilyich to bring together two diametrically opposed talents?
Maria Lemesheva: Not two: Alexander Mitta, the author of the public’s favorite “The Crew” and “The Story of How Tsar Peter Married a Blackamoor”, also studied on the same course, Julius Fayt, who filmed a lot for the famous film magazine “Jumble”, Alexander Gordon (“Robbery”, “Sergei Lazo”). Romm was not only a talented director – “Nine Days of One Year” remains a masterpiece of Russian cinema today – but also a responsible teacher. While leading the workshop, he filmed Murder on Dante Street. Romm felt his students and tried to maximize their natural talent. But they all had very stubborn characters. Shukshin and Tarkovsky were on the way like two poles of attraction; a circle of like-minded people formed around everyone. There was rivalry, but of a creative nature. They really were “wave and stone.” A simple example. Shukshin’s graduation film, “Reporting from Lebyazhye,” told of one day in a small village: the secretary of the district committee, the village doctor, the drunken worker who paid alimony – these were his heroes. He wrote the script himself and played the main role – a young employee of the district committee. Tarkovsky released a short film, “The Skating Rink and the Violin,” based on a script written together with Andrei Konchalovsky, about a little musician who is being bullied by street punks.
Shukshin, who possessed an incredible capacity for work, made only five films, not counting his diploma…
Maria Lemesheva: Vasily Makarovich was a maximalist and an absolutely uncompromising person, believing that only he himself could make a film the way he wanted. Many of those who knew him claim that, if he wanted to, he could make a film alone, simply by coming to any village and capturing its everyday life with a hidden camera. It is not for nothing that he has so many ordinary people in the frame: in “Strange People,” in “Stove-Benches,” and in “Red Kalina.” He even selected actors based on their ability to abandon the usual ways of existing on the set. In any of his films everything is extremely simple and straightforward. For this apparent simplicity, Shukshin got it on artistic councils. Moreover, from such teachers as Sergei Yutkevich and Tatyana Lioznova or the famous critic Lev Anninsky. It was very difficult to make films, both at the launch stage and during delivery, when, from them, filmed in the most socialist realism, this realism (for example, scenes of alcohol consumption) was ruthlessly eliminated. The struggle took away from us the energy necessary for creativity.
You never realized your dream of making a film about Stepan Razin. What stood in the way?
Maria Lemesheva: Shukshin finished the novel “I Came to Give You Freedom” in 1971. It was a kind of sublimation of an unrealized plan. The script of the same name was recognized by the Screen Writers Guild as the best of 1967, but Goskino did not approve the film for release, citing too high a budget. Reconstruction of the sets, huge crowds and historical costumes required a lot of money. This is the official version. The unofficial one is that Shukshin saw the film, glorifying the rebel, as revenge for his repressed father and for all those who innocently suffered from the state machine throughout Russian history, and the director’s refusal was more a matter of political than financial and production nature.
Shukshin’s cinematography is undoubtedly his own. How unique was it in the global context?
Maria Lemesheva: Auteur cinema is the destiny of the elite. Yes, there were more such directors in the West, but there were not many of them either. Considering the originality of Shukshin’s directorial style, he perfectly fits into the world cinematic context of that time. Like the masters of Italian neorealism (Roberto Rossellini, Luchino Visconti, Vittorio de Sica), he showed life without embellishment. Like the directors of the French New Wave (Claude Chabrol, Francois Truffaut, Jean-Luc Godard) defended the right to unconventional filming methods and unpredictable plot twists. The pinnacle of Shukshin’s creativity was “Kalina Krasnaya” – a film in which the naturalness of life is taken to the absolute. The villagers often did not even suspect that they were being filmed, the actors had to “just live” and not work for the camera, and for the sake of sweet hypernaturalness, the director used in the editing even the shots that were far from being the most successful from a technical point of view.
As an actor, Vasily Makarovich managed to achieve much more. What do you think is the secret of his popularity?
Maria Lemesheva: The most obvious answer is natural talent. He started filming before filming. He was invited to their films by Marlen Khutsiev (“Two Fedoras”), Lev Kulidzhanov (“When the Trees Were Big”), Viktor Tregubovich (“Dauria”), Sergei Gerasimov (“Journalist”). Of the 27 films, two – “I Ask for the Floor” by Gleb Panfilov and “They Fought for the Motherland” by Sergei Bondarchuk – were released after his death. He did not have time to finish his last film – he suffered a heart attack. But Pyotr Lopakhin, like Yegor Prokudin, remains for millions of viewers the quintessence of Russian character. Shukshin is a real male character.
We often hear that Vasily Makarovich was a proud and proud man. Or maybe it is not a matter of pride, but of the desire to always remain oneself?
Maria Lemesheva: I think that’s exactly the point. The son of an enemy of the people, who became a nationally renowned actor and director, demanded that those around him accept him as he was. He was not afraid to take the name of his repressed father, he did not hide his rural origin, walking around Moscow in canvas boots, a tunic and a quilted jacket. Once Shukshin caustically ridiculed Yevtushenko for the fact that he, a Siberian, wears a bow tie like the last guy. By the way, he wore kirzachi and a tunic until the last day. He remained himself, despite his incredible popularity: cunning, not afraid of hard work, strong words, or fights, just like his characters. It was this indomitable natural force that attracted people to him.
And also a greater sense of justice and kindness. Shortly before his death, he wrote to one of his friends that he had come to the conclusion: no one, except art, cares about a person, and only art, art, can teach a person to be kind.
