We'll Live Till Monday (Доживём до понедельника) English subtitles

Uploaded by enimsajiism on 29.10.2012

Maxim Gorkii Central Film Studio (Children and Young Adult Films)
Scriptwriter G. Polonsky
Directed by S. Rostotsky
Camera V. Shumsky
Art department B. Dulenkov
Music K. Molchanov
Sound department A. Izbutsky
Song lyrics by Nikolai Zabolotsky
Good morning, Ilya Semyonovich. - Hello.
The broom, quick!
Why is it cawking? Cursing.
Such feathers, such a lovely beak!
It must be charming when you speak!
How do you call this bird in English?
A crow.
Crow, crow, crow!
Cherevichkina, give us your sandiwch! Get lost!
Don't be a cheapskate.
It's alive.
You shouldn't do that.
Where are you going? Take the broom away.
Rita, take the broom away.
Take your places.
Kostya, wait, sit.
Sit down everybody. Quiet. Quiet, everyone.
- Something's brewing... - You think?
They'll have kittens is all.
Where did it come from? - Oh, you should have noticed.
You're a bureau member. They will hold you responsible.
So what? - So nothing.
Just when this thing goes to the powers that be
You can tell them that I brought the crow. For a different reason.
You? - Yep.
It's awfully nice of you, really. I've been staving it off
but the day of reckoning was coming. I've been neglecting English.
My crow is a clever bird. It took care of it.
You should be going. Your bodyguard will worry. Because of you?!
Quiet, children, please.
You're not helping.
Natalya Sergeyevna. - Wait, Shestopalov.
Come here, come, come. I'll give you some bread.
Some wheat bread, and rye bread. Come, come, come.
Come here, come.
I was teaching a lesson, and here it is.
I did not enquire who'd brought it.
Maybe it came on her own? - Sure it did.
To get warm.
It's cold.
Is it true that he was your teacher?
Ilya Semyonovich
What was that for?
Okay, I was to blame, but you could help.
If you need their love, well, they're crazy about you.
And you don't need love anymore?
Love's a bitch.
Don't let them ride you. Keep your distance, or you'll be sorry.
I can't help you. Never caught a single crow.
Gotcha! Well done. Congratulations.
The only crow trainer in the world, the show's sold out.
We perform today, leave tomorrow, hurry everyone.
Take your places.
Take your place.
If you wish.
Mom told me it's bad to kill birdies.
No trial, no record.
It's high, Natalya Sergeyevna, and it's all wrapped up.
Why did you do that? The boys have captured it.
Stop talking.
Silence, please.
The memorial service may now start.
The deceased has given her life to the people's education.
Batischev, shut up!
Maybe it's okay.
I'll go have a look, okay?
I can even take it back. Dead or alive.
Don't take it back here. Give it to Ilya Semyonovich.
He should know the sacrifices made for his benefit.
Cherkasova, go out. Out!
Guys, our teacher's been replaced.
We had a great outgoing girl...
Batischev, go out.
And don't call me a girl.
Okay, a woman. Sor-ry.
You'll debate it behind the door. Be quick.
You'll end up alone.
I'm not keeping anyone.
Oh, go on, go on. I enjoy listening to you.
I don't like the darkness.
What was that you were playing?
The Lonely Wanderer. Grieg.
Yes... few people understand good music.
I'm always saying, we shouldn't hide inside our subjects.
One should have a broader view, right?
Personal life could benefit too.
If you start thinking about it.
If you start thinking, sure.
By the way... Why aren't you heading home?
You don't want to? - It's raining.
Yes, sure.
"All my city's in rain...
...it is raining and raining...
...and whatever I say you don't listen to me... la-la-la...
Don't get upset.
You shouldn't.
You shouldn't be playing the lonely pedestrian, either.
A Lone Traveler.
Nothing will happen to her. The board, and you - you'll all forgive her.
Give me a cigarette.
She's just a girl.
She's only just started.
You and I, we can't allow ourselves anything. Or forgive.
What's eating you?
Why have you changed so much?
"We are not masters of ourselves
and in our days of youthful folly
we haste to give premature vows
the omniscient Fate shall ridicule."
So simply said, so calmly.
And for all times.
Small wonder. A classic!
Sounds like Nekrasov. No?
Not Tyutchev?
Cold. It's not from school curriculum.
I give up.
Ah well, you know... No one can remember all second-rate authors. Baratynski!
He's been transferred.
To the first-rate list. Haven't you heard?
You've become mean.
Indifferent and lonely.
You've retreated into yourself nurturing your pessimism.
You're an historian. It's not good, you know. Politically.
I'm now teaching history before 1917, Svetlana Mikhailovna.
So it's okay, politically.
Apparently, your mom's waiting.
Apparently. Good-bye.
Thanks. 5.80 for the sweets, please.
22 kopecks for bread, please.
Ilya Semyonovich
Rudnitsky. Borya.
That's right. How do you do? How do you do, Boris?
Living and working at the same place?
Yes. Borya, what's with the vehicle?
Our department treats its valued staff better than yours.
I find it tragic that a man like you bides his time in a secondary school.
You might be used with a higher EF. - With what?
EC, efficiency factor. - Oh.
How are things with you?
I'm fine, Ilya Semyonovich. No complaints.
By the way, I hear a common acquaintance has set camp at your school.
How's her... performance?
Too early to say. She's got some problems. Everyone has.
Yeah, she loves problems.
She creates them on purpose.
Not just for herself. It's her choice. For other people, too.
Damn it, I'll tell you.
Imagine a bride who at the threshold of the registry office
mumbles "I'm sorry" dumps the flowers and runs.
It's noble. And honest.
It's not just that I've been humiliated, my one-year assignment in England fell through.
You know how they 'love' to send single men.
But it's all for the best, of course.
You know the song?
"There's a place for everything in life,
There's place for good and evil,
If a bride leaves you for another guy,
It's a big question who's lucky."
Maybe I'm wrong?
You're right, Borya, you're right. Could you stop pleae? - It's not Arbat yet.
I'll walk. I need to go to a drugstore.
It's raining. Shall I wait for you? - No.
But you're right. My efficiency could have been much higher.
Anyone called? - Oh yes.
Who? - Moviegoers.
Who? - Those who want to visit "Progress" theater.
They were asking what's on and when. I was saying that the rain was on, all the time.
What if they start asking for a bath-house? Or the College of Cardinals?
Poor you. At 70 your mother's not mute yet.
The old hag want to know the news.
She's interested in her son's thoughts and his work.
One could talk to the old witch for half an hour, it would last her a week.
It's not theater, mom, just everyday stuff.
I don't know what to tell, honest.
Did I tell you Gorelova came to work with us?
Who's that?
Natasha Gorelova... the class of six years ago.
Do you remember? Natasha Gorelova. Of course I remember.
She had a thing with that one, what's his name... Your favorite. - Come on.
With Borya Rudnitski.
You remember that? - Yes. Thanks, mom.
What are you looking for? - Never mind... What is she teaching, then?
English. - English... at your school.
My loafers disrupted her lesson today. - Is she still in love with you?
What are you saying, mom? - Me? You used to tell me that she didn't let you teach.
Looking at you with those eyes of hers...
I don't remember. - Well, I knew it myself. Do you know how she wept in our kitchen, in my lap
after the prom night, lamenting that you're so old.
You got carried away, mom. Good night. - Good night.
What's on tonight?
Progress movie theater.
Really? How odd.
Natalya Sergeyevna, Melnikov here.
Sorry, stupid joke.
I saw you leave... in tears.
You shouldn't really. If every silly crow...
Ah, you'll sort it out yourself.
Okay, fine, fine.
I'm sorry.
Tell me, what kind of person - good morning...
invites a boy for taped music and dry wine? - Indeed.
And why is it called 'a birthday party'?
My Valery comes home, and there's just this girl. - Well, they watch too many foreign movies.
Taped music, dry wine... you shouldn't believe it. Your Valera's lying. She's the third one there, okay?
Can you imagine, I wake up at one in the morning, and not on my pillow. - Are you kidding me?
It's rather interesting, you know. - On copy-books, Igor Stepanovich.
I see, I see.
I've been marking them and fell asleep.
It's hanging outside the window.
As usual. At seven... yes.
Allochka, come on, you can't do that. - Sure, sure.
Good morning. - Good morning. - Hello.
So what's happened, huh?
Don't shrug.
Is it okay if I call you by your first name? - Yes.
It's your home now.
You came out, now you came back. It's not polite to be aloof.
I'm sorry.
I'm not aloof.
That's good.
What are you looking for? - The big wooden protractor.
Behind the cabinet.
Come on, I want to know what you think.
It's, you know, hair salon literature. - Really? While you're waiting in the line...
Every line belongs to a complacent, self-loving, indifferent author.
Hello there. - Hello. - Hello.
He can write this today and that tomorrow. I don't believe him. - Strange. I liked it.
Oh, Natasha dear, yours are big, and mine are teeny-weeny.
They bring mirrors and just primp and preen.
I'm telling them, 'Don't put no mirrors in your desks,' but them do it anyways.
I say again, 'Don't put no mirrors,' but them do it.
For God's sake, it's horrible.
Yes, it's you I'm talking to. Are you a teacher or...
You talking to me?
You don't use double negatives, my dear Taisia Nikolayevna, where did you hear it? We're not in the marketplace!
If you don't care about the kids, then at least spare our ears!
Ears? What ears?
Taisia Nikolayevna...
Calm down, you shouldn't... Wait a second.
Please don't touch anything. Yesterday my lab practice was barely saved.
See, Ilya Semyonovich? You see a mote in othe people's eyes.
The class you are tutoring did not appear for the classes.
Not a single coat in the cloakroom. Congratulations!
Please don't worry, I can do it myself.
Whose lesson should they be at?
Cave, Sanya!
Ilya Semyonovich...
Where are you going?
Hello. Good morning, Ilya Semyonovich.
A strike, huh? A strike.
What are your claims? - You know what we're rooting for?
Our personal rights should be respected.
We should call the little English teacher to order. She's rude.
Yes, tell him, Batya... - Tell him, Kostya.
That's the thing. Natalya Sergeyevna treated us very gently at first. - And you disrupted her lesson to thank her.
Let me say my thought to the end.
Express your thought, you mean. I'll gladly listen in the classroom.
It's warmer in the classroom
But we'll survive.
We'll come... for the next lesson.
Demidova, you're the YCL leader. Why is Batischev in charge?
Because my willpower is weaker.
YCL leader is working-class aristocracy.
Okay, we get your joke. Enough already.
We're not joking. It's serious. - Serious, you say?
A long time ago, the society in Russia was shocked by the execution of revolutionaries Zhelyabov, Perovskaya, Kibalchich.
Or pleas for help leaked from the prisoners of Oryol penal colony.
They were being tortured.
In such cases, the kids your age did not appear for their classes.
They called it - struggle for human rights.
Just like Syromyatnikov.
Getting even with a woman who's had a breakdown
it's just not fair.
Let's not prolong the bad things, like the ancients used to say.
There you are! Look
I'm sorry, children.
I was out of line.
Come on, Natalya Sergeyevna, it's our fault. - It's our...
Well, you are not blameless. Actually, you are awful pigs. - Correct, Natalya Sergeyevna...
We're pigs. I am alone to blame. It's my crow.
I brought it for a different reason, but it got away.
Hm, I thought it was Syromyatnikov.
No way, Natalya Sergeyevna, I'm strictly a cattle person.
Okay, children...
Close your books.
What is the English for 'yekhat verkhom'?
Syromyatnikov? - To ride - rode - ridden.
Ah, there you are.
I'm sorry, Natalya Sergeyevna. I thought we should sort this out.
What's up?
Who are you boycotting?
Sit down, sit.
You knew that the vice-principal is on sick leave, that your teacher is young, and you used it?
No secrets, please. No one is going to threaten you with administrative action.
I just want to know what got into your heads?
Whose idea it was?
We've sorted it out already.
Natalya Sergeyevna knows.
We're cool now.
Aha. I see.
You have your own secrets and relations?
Right. I won't be interfering, then.
Ignorant is the man, whose prophetic eye penetrates not the depth of three millennia. - J.-W. Goethe
Come on, Yura, read a poem.
In... ignorant is the man... Okay, good, some more.
whose prop... propitic eye...
Ilya Semyonovich, these are kids from 1A. Their teacher got suddenly sick and left.
No one told them what to do, so I'm showing them around your museum.
Who's your teacher again? - Taisia Nikolayevna.
1. The character of Katerina in Ostrovsky's "The Thunderstorm"
2. Bazarov and Rakhmetov
3. My Idea of Happiness
Is an epigraph necessary for "Happiness"? - It's desirable.
Happiness is
Cherkasova, enough.
Are you going to be turning all the time?
Concentrate! You know why you can't write?
Because your head is foggy. Who thinks clearly, writes clearly.
Quiet, go on.
What happened, Ilya Semyonovich? - Nothing.
Your face is... - What about it?
It's not like you.
For secrecy's sake.
A distance? Shall we keep it?
You tell me. I'm no longer your teacher, Natalya Sergeyevna.
I can see that.
Where are our kids?
They are writing an essay. And for that, I had to give up my lesson. - You didn't want to?
I wanted to give up two.
Come with me.
Hello. - Hello.
"My Idea of Happiness."
She didn't offer us such topics.
We usually wrote about typical representatives in literature.
Such serious faces.
Syromyatnikov's cheating.
Stealing happiness.
You'll see things like that every single day.
You'll get sick of it.
I don't understand how they can write about it. I couldn't.
It's impossible to explain. Happiness...
It's like trying to pin down a ray of light.
No rays. They'll write everything very properly.
Want to come in?
I've got a lesson. - I'm free.
Happiness, I think, is to be understood
Do you realize what you've written?
Nadya, my little darling, do you get it at all?
I'm all for being sincere, that's why I suggested this topic in the first place, but...
Such dreams at your age? Why don't you use your brains?
I thought that you... - What?
I'm stupid, Svetlana Mikhailovna. I'm really stupid.
It's not good, but better than being depraved. - What did you write, Nadya?
Yeah, what did you write? - Right, now we'll be reading it out loud.
Why not? Maybe we're all writing something wrong like Nadya.
Don't worry. You wouldn't invent anything like that.
Continue. - Give me back my essay.
Here, take it.
Take it and tear it up. I don't mind.
And try to write about Katerina. Maybe you'll make it.
Write on.
No. I'll read it.
If you can know, we can. - Of course. - Sure.
Shut up! - Why not?
Don't you understand? The class is full of boys! - Ha. So what?
Give back your essay! - I won't.
All right. Read on.
You'll be ashamed of yourself. Go on, read it.
If we speak about happiness, it must be sincere. Not just rational.
Many of us are ashamed to write about love, even though every girl is dreaming about it.
Even the ugliest, who doesn't even hope any longer.
I think one should always hope.
I want to meet a man... who would love children.
Because without children, a woman cannot be really happy.
If there will be no war, I'd like to have two boys and two girls.
Yes! Two boys and two girls!
Then until the end of their lives, no one will feel lonely.
The grown-ups will take care of little ones, and there will be happiness in the house.
I did not write anything about work, but don't mothers do a lot of work?
What's the big deal?
What's the problem, really? What's wrong with that?
I can't believe it! - You shouldn't worry so much.
She's going to bear children by her own husband, not someone else's.
Enough of that!
This class will be the end of me.
No shame, no modesty!
Give me your essays!
Happines is to be understood!
Me again. Hi.
Come in.
Sit down.
You shouldn't be coming, comrade Levikova, really. - I'm not just coming... I'm taking leave from work.
You called him out again yesterday, didn't you?
I did.
You're busy? Sorry.
Two minutes, okay?
So you asked him questions in class.
Yes, I did.
And he told us that Herzen went abroad to prepare the Great October revolution.
Together with Karl Marx.
What should I do, weep or laugh?
I'll send you abroad at home, you'll see! - Why are you fighting?
It's not what you should do.
That's not right.
Go away, go.
You know, Ilya Semyonovich, we can't afford an "F."
They will throw him out of Pioneer House, love, from the dance class.
Where will he go? Back to the streets? - I didn't give him an F. He's got a D.
Thank you! - For God's sake don't thank me!
You can't be thanking me.
You're reminding me again that I'm lying for you.
No, it's not for me. It's not for me.
In any case, not for Vova's chance to dance in that troupe.
It's not his legs he should be exercising, it's his memory and speech.
Memory. Memory, yes. Thanks for advice.
Ever cared to wonder why his memory's poor? And speech?
Maybe his father's a third-generation alcoholic.
Maybe my boy couldn't hold up his head until 18 months. No one believed he'd survive.
They still call him 'retard' in the street.
I apologize. I shouldn't be saying that.
The Russian teacher is saying 'memory'... and the physics teacher too...
I had sat at this desk.
Will you excuse me, Natalya Sergeyevna?
Come tomorrow, then. - Let's call if off, maybe? - No, come tomorrow.
Nikolai Borisovich... wait, don't go yet.
I need a leave. - What?
I can't work anymore. - Off with you!
The year's just started.
What's up with you?
Health problems? Liver? - It's the geography teacher who's got liver.
Ah, right. So what's up with you?
Well... general condition.
Are you playing games?
Maybe you think of finishing your thesis? - Come on. Ancient history.
A shame. A shame! I've been long wanting to tell you, now's the right time for your theme.
Great recommendation of scholarly work. And a strong stimulus to finish it.
"The right time."
Did you try vitamin B12? Injections into the vestibule?
My wife loved it.
May I write a request?
It's not a real conversation, Ilya Semyonovich.
To get a leave at the beginning of the year, one needs a reason so serious, that God forbid...
What if my reason's exactly that serious? Who can make that decision?
Medical science, of course.
Do you hear me? - No. You don't hear me.
Have you thought how am I going to replace you?
You can replace me yourself. We graduated from the same department.
How can you allow me to teach? Mangle young souls?
My views are malleable. I change them easily. I swear by fresh newspapers.
That's what you said. - I did.
"I did." Oh, brother, the things you've been saying...
An historian! I'm an administrator, Ilya. I get new equipment, and I'm happy.
I manage to find air-conditioners, and I'm proud.
We are not thinking of each other often enough.
Here's a simple thing: Svetlana Mikhailovna has been teaching here for 20 years tomorrow.
Fine, let's collect three rubles apiece and buy her... a crocodile.
Even your jokes are principled.
You know, Ilya... one can respect you
but it's hard to love you. - Okay, don't love me. Give me my leave.
I won't.
You want to have rest? To nurse your honesty?
Let others build?
And when we build it, you might refrain from shaking our hands,
you'll say "You've got your hands dirty building."
Depending on what kind of dirt. I might not want to shake it. - Exactly. That sums you up nicely.
You know, Ilya... Principles, you can't dine on them, or improve your health, or get warm.
Pinciples are not kebab, or vitamin B12, or hot-water bottle.
Some eccentrics sacrifice their lunch for them.
Sometimes even more than that. At Vyazma in 1941 we knew it very well, you and I.
History is a discipline which makes citizens out of people.
Right? - Okay, right.
Here's a textbook published this year. This year! - Come on, Ilya. Life goes on.
Have you ever thought about the huge importance of paper?
We should acknowledge its endless patience.
You can write on it: "The hills of Georgia are calm in tender night"
or a squeal about your neighbor.
One can rewrite the thesis to take out just one name, one fact
to shift the accents. If there's paper, why not do it?
It can withstand everything.
But our souls and the kids' souls are not made of paper, Kolya.
Want to see what they did to me today?
Interesting. - Interesting, indeed.
Striptease of the soul.
I don't think so. - You shouldn't.
We have different experience and different moral values.
But the goal is the same.
You're a happy person, Natasha.
Yeah, happy as a clam.
You know... - I know, my girl, I know.
You both shouldn't delay it with the baby. The teachers always do that.
That princess is right, after all.
Though it's beyond her reach.
Oh yes.
Otherwise you'll only deal with other people's happiness.
I've got it here, 24 kinds of it for all tastes.
Two Katerinas, one Bazarov.
All the rest is about happiness.
You go now.
If you can't let me go, just fire me and the hell with it!
What are you going to do, I wonder? Plant gooseberry? Write memoirs?
I'll be a guide at a museum.
You think the exposition there doesn't change?
It does. - So what's the difference?
There, I'll deal with random people. They come, they listen, they go away.
And here... - I'm not satisfied with your explanations.
Are you satisfied with a teacher who's no longer a teacher?
What do you mean, no longer a teacher?
Someone who's sowing... things that are wise, kind and eternal
and only sees thistles and hemlock grow. - Enough of this symbolism.
That's nonsense, dear Ilya. Who's teacher if not you. And who are you if you're not a teacher?
Let me have my leave.
Honestly... after all, can't I have my personal reasons?
Write your request. Take your leave, go to the museum, to the circus, wherever you want.
Thank you.
You came to see me? - Not you, no.
Let's talk, okay?
Syromyatnikov, either leave or sit like a normal person.
Hey, old hag, it's time for you to go Hey, old hag, the science tells you so.
Old hag, for Christ's sake, there's never been a Christ!
As if I need this!
You were saying, that things are boring, no social work, nothing.
Go on, make suggestions.
Write it down.
Activity one: baptizing babies at Nadya's.
What was that for?
Is she crazy? I was just kidding.
Not good, Kostya. She's had her share today.
Who asked her to poke us in the face with her sincerity? Everyone might have ideas. Why put them in an essay?
Happiness for a grade. Crazy.
And you, what did you write, then? - I didn't touch that theme at all.
I was quietly writing about Bazarov.
Hey, old hag, it's time for you to go
Batischev's right. After this essay, some look like fools, and some look like scoundrels.
Why are you cursing? It's not why we gathered here, Shestopalov.
Sit down, Sveta. You're a good person, but just sit down.
I got it now. Those who wrote sincerely like Nadya, they are fools, and others will taunt them.
Who lied and used the G2 principle, those are scoundrels. - What's G2?
The first G is to guess, the second is to glose.
When other people's thoughts and quotes neatly prepared at home, and an "A" is virtually guaranteed.
Do we have people like that, Ella? - I don't know. I guess we do.
So what do you suggest? - Leave.
Everything's clear. Everyone's happy.
Why are you all worked up? Drop it, Gena.
Are you familiar with the plug-dime theory?
Use it to look at things. It helps. - I'll try.
You know what, let's go to my place? I'm almost done with the tape recorder, you could help.
I don't want to.
I know what you want. You want me to scram, and you want Rita to say with you. Am I right?
It can be arranged. We're not stingy, right, Rita?
Gena, say yes, or he'll change his mind.
You'll walk and talk, and maybe go to the movies. Say something.
I don't have any money. - No sweat, I've got three rubles.
No, I have to pay him for rental. How much per hour, Kostya?
Yeah, you can end up without an eye for such jokes. - Nutcase!
You should see a doctor, Shestopalov, you know.
Like every shorty, you've got a sensitive ego.
You want to get slapped, too? No problem.
Go on. Go.
I was on my way home, I was thinking of you... My scattered thoughts were wandering about...
The Book of Wandering, I thought it would not lie. I hoped that in some distant chapter
your shores in its weightless mist will come out of the fog.
But the chart is off, and I see it clearly now.
The Earth is spinning madly, but we are as distant as ever.
Some more?
You write better now. With more artistism.
Okay, we should go.
Otherwise someone will come and yell at us. - There's no one here.
There's always someone at school. Even at night.
Imagine that there's no one. Just us.
Don't count on me getting all lyrical because of your poetry.
I don't. I'm not that gullible.
That's not why they are written.
Come on.
You've been warned.
Nothing will ever happen between us.
You see...
You're a little boy, Gena.
I was like that in 7th grade.
You want the truth? - Well?
Rationally, I know that's as a person, you're nothing special.
Not a ray of light in the dark.
That's interesting. - I know that
and yet I try to disregard it.
What? - I'm sorry, you won't understand that.
I've only understood it the day before yesterday myself.
So what did you understand... the day before yesterday?
That everyone needs to be in love. With someone or something.
Life is boring otherwise.
For me, the easiest thing is to fall in love with you. For the lack of better.
So you don't care what I think of you? - Nope.
It doesn't change a thing.
What's important is the impulse inside you.
So you are free to think that it's not you that I'm in love with.
It might as well be Cherevichkina.
Writing poetry was easier, huh? Dedicate your poems to Cherevichkina, then.
Good luck.
Modeling different creative processes defined by gifts, predispositions
and, finally, the talent, is a daunting but manageable task.
I'm holding some sheet music. This music was written by an electronic composer.
Don't be surprised. Of course, humans were setting tasks for this electronic composer.
You be the judges of the composition's merits.
There will be viewers who would say: "A machine cannot feel,
and emotions are the essence of music."
But first of all...
First of all, we should define precisely what is a human emotion, soul, humanity itself.
Will he define, I wonder?
And second of all, the music you'll hear is of course not Mozart.
Well, that's something.
Everything's cold.
Mom... give me some vodka.
And a glass.
Oh yes, some message arrived for you today, I signed in for it.
"News of Music" program is over.
In several minutes, we will resume the broadcast of the hockey match from the Sports Palace.
Dear comrade Melnikov, I am pressed for time and therefore forced to address you in writing.
My daughter has been systematically getting poor grades for your subject, which is surprising and worrying.
After all, history is not mathematics, one should not be too smart to master it.
I have personally ... they have personally, you see? checked her knowledge of paragraphs 61 through 65, and I consider B (good) to be an appropriate mark.
I strongly recommend you re-check my daughter's command of the aforementioned paragraphs. Potekhin.
A big shot.
All that on an official memo. He didn't even pay for paper.
Why are you so worried? You said yourself, if someone's dumb, it's forever.
Voltaire said it, not me. Mom, he's not so dumb.
He's inspired... by the memories.
Hey, look what I found.
Vanya Kovalyov. Remember, they wrote about him? A prominent physicist. - I remember.
Thanks, mom. I'm full.
To the mother of the man we cherish from Natasha Gorelova. June 28, 1960.
Is it drizzling again?
Mom, have you ever noticed that impersonal sentences sound kind of hopeless?
It's drizzling... it's windy... it's getting dark.
You know why?
No one to complain about.
No one to fight with.
If someone calls, I'm not here.
In this birch grove, far from all suffering and grief
where pink, non-blinking morning light scintillates
where the leaves stream down from high branches in a transparent avalanche
sing me a desert song, my oriole, a song of my life.
In real life, we're soldiers, and at the fringes of mind
the atoms are shuddering, demolishing houses in a white squall.
Like mad windmills, the wars are waving their wings.
Where are you, my hermit oriole? Why are you silent, my friend?
Beyond the great rivers, sun will rise, and in the morning dusk
I will fall, killed, with scorched eyelids hugging the earth
The machine-gun will croak like a mad raven, shudder and stop.
And then, your voice shall sing in my ruptured heart.
He's not in.
Oh... hello... hello?
You said you weren't home.
Igor Stepanovich! I didn't see you. - I'm in soft slippers.
Hello. - Good morning, good morning.
I'm coming to criticize you, Natasha. - What's the matter?
It's not right, you know. You're a young promising specialist.
And you don't want to share our life.
You didn't even give me your phone number. - What for?
Just in case.
No big deal, the registry will tell us.
By the way, sources inform us that you're waiting for comrade Melnikov every day.
Don't deny it. Only sincere acknowledgement might mitigate the outlook for you, excuse me.
And the outlook is below average, dear Natasha.
His glasses are covered with the dust of centuries.
He's never been interested in a woman since Joan of Arc.
Hello. - Hello, Svetlana Mikhailovna.
I've got your number, by the way.
We'll continue our conversation, I guess.
You don't have a first lesson, do you? - Good morning. - Really?
I must have mixed up days.
Allochka, just from home and calling already? - As always.
Hello. - Formally, everyone's here, but the thoughts are either back home or God knows where.
So how's that? Huh?
Good morning. - Good morning.
No, I can't.
Taisia Nikolaevna... I'm sorry for what happened yesterday.
It's okay.
No, no, no.
Hey, Ilya Semyonovich...
That's for you.
For me?
Working in school for 20 years is something.
Nothing to sneeze at, right? - Wow, that's right!
Comrades, I think we must celebrate the anniversary responsibly and solemnly...
Good morning. - Good morning.
Did my dad send you anything?
A letter? - He did, and could you please tell him...
Don't Ilya Semyonovich. Never mind, please. He's writing letters like that to everyone.
Like who? - Everyone. Even the minister of culture.
Why they shoot actors in such positions in the movies. Please forgive him.
Run. Tell the kids the lesson's in the classroom.
Let me sit at your lesson! - What for?
Don't ask questions. Just let me in. I came an hour before my own lesson.
Bullshit. - I heard it myself. I sat under the principal's door and heard everything.
Come in, Natalya Sergeyevna.
Sit down.
Borisov's not here?
He's kind of sick.
Last time we talked about the 17th October Manifesto... quiet, please...
About the beginning of the first Russian revolution. We'll revise that and go on.
What? - You ready? - More or less.
I have to go out there? - And fast.
We're listening.
Okay. The tsar's policy was cowardly and perdifious. - What?
Perdifious. - Perfidious. That means, 'violating faith.'
Or treacherous. - Yes.
Okay, go on. - Fearful of his tsarist position
the tsar, of course, issued a manifesto. He was promising the people a paradise on earth...
Could you be more specific?
Different freedoms... of speech... of assembly...
Really, what's the point? He didn't do what he promised, why should we be retelling his lies?
Later, the tsar displayed his nasty nature again and ruled as before.
So... you know... there... what's it called...
No one could tell him a thing.
And in general... after Peter the Great Russia wasn't too lucky with the tsars. My personal opinion.
You give him an "F", and he grows up to be Yuri Nikulin [a famous clown].
Which would make me an oppressor of the country's art. - So don't. Why an "F"?
For "more or less."
Here lies the happiness of class 9A.
Instead of acting with resolve, Shmidt was sending telegrams to Nicholas II
demanding democratic freedoms. In the meanwhile, the authorities overcame the initial surprise and pulled in troops.
The cruiser "Ochakov" was shelled and caught fire.
Shmidt was executed. He reaped the fruit of his political naiveity and short-sightedness.
His show of heroism had little effect.
Poor Shmidt, if he could only foresee this posthumous reprimand.
I'm not inventing anything, am I?
I hear all the time: "Jaures didn't consider this," "Herzen couldn't that," "Tolstoy failed to understand"...
As if history was made by a gang of underachievers.
Anyone wants to object? Add something?
He's only got 15 lines in the textbook.
At your age, people read other books, too.
Other books? No problem. In "The Golden Calf," for example, Ostap Bender and his cronies pretended to be sons of Lieutenant Shmidt.
Want to hear it? - Some other time.
Can anyone add something?
Fifteen lines.
Most people only leave a dash between the two dates.
What kind of man he was, Lieutenant Piotr Petrovich Shmidt?
Russian intelligentsia's scion, a gifted man, a brave officer, a seasoned sailor, an artistic soul.
He sang, played cello, drew... he was a brilliant public speaker.
But his most precious gift was the ability to feel other people's suffering more acutely than his own.
This gift produces rebels and poets.
Just imagine, once he met a woman on the train. They spoke for 40 minutes,
and he fell deeply in love. Forever.
With her, or with the image of her he had invented...
But it was a beautiful story. 40 minutes, and then there were letters, hundreds of them. They're published.
Read them, and you won't dare judge this man's mistakes and illusions with such arrogance.
But he was mistaken, right? - Sit down for now.
Piotr Shmidt was against bloodshed, like Dostoyevsky's Ivan Karamazov.
He rejected universal harmony, if a single tortured child was sacrificed for its sake.
He couldn't, wouldn't believe, that the language of machine-guns and mortar shells is the only one to use with the tsar.
Bloodless harmony.
Was it naive? Yes. A mistake? Yes.
But I invite Batischev and everyone else to think again
and understand the high price of such mistakes.
Listen, Kostya.
The rebellion is under way, and it's to you, living 60 years ago
the rebellious sailors from the cruiser come and say: "The navy and the revolution need you."
You know that the rebellion is doomed. Your only cruiser doesn't have any armor, or shells, its speed is barely 8 knots.
What would you do? Leave the sailors alone under the guns of admiral Chukhnin or go and lead the rebellion?
And stand under fire and surely die. - Without a chance of success? What's the point?
You and your points! - That's right, Rita.
Quiet, quiet.
So, the question is: What is the point of Shmidt's actions and his death?
It's obvious, right? - If not for men like him, there'd be no revolution!
He explained it himself in his final speech, when he was court-marshalled.
He explained in such a manner that even his guards put away their rifles
and were, in turn, tried afterwards.
Fifteen lines.
May I, Ilya Semyonovich?
Pardon my intrusion.
Sit down.
Something outrageous has happened.
Last night someone came into the teachers' room, took the essays written by your class and burned them.
Yes, burned them!
And at the crime scene - I'm not trying to joke here - he left this... this explanation
It's both impudent and abstruse.
I don't need to explain how cruel, how inhumane the perpetrator was to Svetlana Mikhailovna
I won't discuss the political implications of his actions, there's just one thing I'd like to know.
Who did it?
I hope, I won't be forced into humiliating you and myself by comparing handwriting and the like.
You won't.
You, Shestopalov? - That's me.
Come with me. - With my things? - Yes, take your stuff.
Natalya Sergeyevna, why are you here?
Ilya Semyonovich allowed me. - Right.
Get the picture?
Sit down.
What was I saying?
You were saying that 15 lines is a lot.
He went to the principal, right, Natalya Sergeyevna? - Where else?
Guys, Shestopalov's finished. - Why did he burn them without telling anyone?
Just to be original. To show off.
Hello. - Hello.
...you read this message. Read what it says.
He's judging everyone by his standards. - He wrote an explanation, we should read it.
He's just a nerd. - What? You're crazy yourself. - I'm completely normal.
I am absolutely against it. We know little about them, and we completely neglect our direct duty.
Which is? - Education, Svetlana Mikhailovna.
So what now, Shestopalov?
I think it's too early to fight. Think about it. It's rather strange.
You've been studying with Shestopalov for 9 years, and yet you don't know much about him.
We do. He's honest.
Well, if he's honest...
Sit down.
You know what I heard? That our principal had carried Ilya Semyonovich from behind enemy lines, when he was wounded.
Is it true?
It is true.
Is it true that Ilya Semyonovich is leaving?
Leaving? What makes you say that?
They say.
That's bullshit, Natalya Sergeyevna. - Never mind, it's just gossip!
So I won't come to school tomorrow.
Give me a cigarette. - A glass of water, maybe?
Damn no, give me a cig.
Go to the classroom.
Don't even think of coming tomorrow without your parents!
It'll be okay, don't get upset.
I'm sorry, Ilya Semyonovich. - Go to the classrom, I told you.
Well, thank you, Ilya Semyonovich! - The wrong end.
An excellent present. So, a teacher's standing is nothing? Everything's allowed?
Svetlana Mikhailovna! - You want me to quit?
That's not what you should be saying. You teach letters. A pupil wrote you a piece of poetry. How is it a bad thing?
You shouldn't!
I'm not completely crazy, you know.
One gives them all one's got, and they... - What do we have to give, that's the question.
The fools were fooled, he writes - who are they? - Well, in this case, I'm afraid, that's us.
If he's wrong, we have time to prove that we ar better than we seem.
Prove? To whom, for crying out loud? - To them. Every day, at every lesson.
If we can't, we should take up another trade, where poor work is less critical.
Are you rehearsing your speech for the board?
Excuse me, Svetlana Mikhailovna. They're waiting for me. - Why do you hate me so?
It's not you... how can I explain so that you would understand? - One should have a soul to do that.
Natalya Sergeyevna, I'll go have a look, okay?
Sit, sit.
Thank you, Natalya Sergeyevna.
The board's on Monday. - They didn't expel you? - Nope.
Was it him? - Yep.
This has been an amazingly fruitful lesson.
And now time has come to say goodbye.
Next time we'll discuss the December armed rebellion in Moscow
and I sincerely hope you won't burn up the school before that.
Natasha... I salvaged this. Want to hear? - Yes. - Sit down.
This is not a long tale, not an invention. I saw it, and others saw it, too:
They tried to turn a majestic crane into a silly tame sparrow.
To deprive him of the blue unknown, to bind him to the ground
they ringed him, and restrained him, and put a grade in the register.
And they took the white bird of my happiness in the cabinet, and tied up his wings
and made him breathe lukewarm dust and forget all risky business...
But the bird had grown strong in the skies! And now the fools are fooled
The broken cage is just a handful of ashes
and the crane's back in the clouds!
Do you know what he wrote in his essay? - No one's going to know now.
I happen to know. He wrote "Happiness is to be understood."
That's it? - That's it.
I deserved it.
Get up, you'll catch cold.
Translated and subtitled by Advena advena.translations@gmail.com