Tarkovsky biography Wikipedia

Andrei Arsenievich Tarkovsky April 4 - December 29 - Soviet film director and screenwriter. The son of Arseny Alexandrovich Tarkovsky. Quotes [edit] Actors are stupid. I have never met a smart actor in life. Never! There were kind, evil, narcissistic, modest, but smart - never, never. I saw one smart actor - in Bergman's Strawberry Polyana, and then he turned out to be a director. And for the artist, there would never, in my opinion, ideal working conditions.

Moreover, if there were any ideal conditions for work, then the work would not take place, because the artist cannot exist in airless space. Must experience some pressure. I don't know which one. But the artist exists only because the world is not arranged, the world is not safe. And that is why art exists. Obviously, if the world were beautiful and harmonious, no art would have been necessary.

A person would not seek harmony in his side classes. He would have lived harmoniously and that would be enough. If we think that cinema is an art, then this question begins to seem absurd, because we would say: art is good only when it is sold. We strive to imagine - and the viewer - the reality of the 21st century is living, developing, solving its difficulties and problems at new levels of knowledge and morality, the basis of which is now laid.

We strive to present people of the future alive and free, in the unity of their joys and worries, poetry and prose of life. We are in no way satisfied with the primitive, unconvincing image of the “people of the future”, which can be observed in some works of literature and cinema. At the same time, we consider our work to be polemic in relation to many books and films released in the bourgeois world, in which the future is considered in an apocalyptic or technocratic spirit, which affirms disbelief in the strength and capabilities of man.

The diaries [4] [edit] today I had a strange dream: as if I were looking at the sky, and it is bright, light, dull, and highly, highly slowly boils like materialized light, like fibers of sunny fabric, similar to silk and living stitches on the Japanese mount from embroidery. And it seems to me that these fibers, these luminous and living threads move, float and become similar to birds, soaring unattainably high ...

so high that if the birds will lose feathers, then these feathers will not fall, do not drop to the ground, but fly up, take off to disappear from our world forever. And it flows, the quiet, magical music falls from there, either music, similar to bells, or bums of birds, similar to music. Strange, wonderful sleep. I sometimes dream of wonderful dreams. I don’t remember if I wrote in this notebook about a spiritual conversation with Pasternak, or rather, with his soul.

Lent to re -read. He said in response to my question: “How many films will I do? Me: “So little? One of these four I did. Can you call it good? I love him, in any case. For some reason, I recalled how I lost the manuscript without a draft of the Rublev script. He left in a taxi on the corner of Gorky Street opposite National. A taxi has left. I got drunk with grief. An hour later he left National and went to the WTO.

Two hours later, going down on the same corner where I lost the manuscript, the taxi was in violation of the rules, and the driver from the window handed me my manuscript. It was a miracle. I feel that Lara is nearby, one of the friends. I feel that it is powerless, non -being and is only capable of being a witness to his death, his corpse. And most importantly, that I have been experiencing a long -forgotten, which has not arisen in this dream - that this is not a dream, but a reality.

This feeling is so strong that a wave of sadness, pity for himself rises in the soul, and there is a strange attitude to his life, as if an aesthetic feeling. When you sympathize with yourself as if your grief is someone else's that you yourself look at him and evaluate that you are outside your higher life. As if my past life is the life of a child, devoid of experience, defenseless.

Time ceases to exist, fear. The feeling of immortality. I saw a place on top, from somewhere from the ceiling, where they install a pedestal for the coffin. People fussing about my death. And then I was risen, but no one was surprised. Everyone went to the bathhouse, but they didn’t let me go there - there was no ticket. I lied that I was a banner, but I did not have a certificate.

But it was just a dream, and I knew that it was a dream. This dream about death is a second time. And each time a sense of exceptional freedom and the unnecessary protection. What would that mean? Already now I can understand the reason. This feeling is associated with the possibility of legally touching the transcendental. Moreover, we are not talking about the so -called “experimental” cinema, but about the normal traditional, developed evolutionary.

In Solyaris, this problem was not resolved. There, it was difficult to organize the plot and raise several questions.I want an explosive alloy-emotional, implicated on the simple and full-fledged feelings of the story about myself-with the tendency to raise several philosophical and ethical issues related to the meaning of life. In the mountains of Georgia, where herds of sheep are grazed, there is a special profession - Mtsnobari - that is, its function includes attributing the repulsed vessels to the uterus among a huge herd.

Medznobari unmistakably carries directly to the “mother” of the vessel in the Otar in hundreds of goals and finds her sharp “scum”. The only thing that can help him is the voices of the mother and the vessel that echoes. But, given that the whole herd is bleating, it becomes clear that this does not simplify. Indirectly, in any case. In one place, the driver crossed the intersection in Kropotkinskaya in red light.

We talked. He said that he does not distinguish between green and red. And then it dawned on me. He was very surprised. I recognized him after 40 years. I was then, on the farm, in Tuchkov, 4 years, and he was 14 years old - in the car, I never once looked at him. Why do people often dream of what they never experienced? What are they flying? In childhood, this is a very repeated dream.

He told him the plot of NB. A man, a writer who has reached the highest spiritual spheres, ready for death, an intellectual, an honest, kind person. Lonely, despising success and vanity, one day looked in the mirror and noticed traces of a terrible disease on his face: leprosy. He spends a year in anticipation of the moment when the disease manifests itself clearly.

A year later, he is told by authorities, doctors, that he is healthy. He returns home, where everything is covered with dust. A pack of decayed paper, in which a pencil fails when he wants to write something. But it is already empty. It is empty like a cocoon from which the butterfly has already fluttered. And he understands that the greatest sin is pride. For he imagined at one time that he had reached spiritual peaks, while now he was no more than a insignificance: awareness of death, through the disease, devastated him.

He opens the Bible and reads: “The Lord God formed all the animals of the fields and all the birds of heaven from the land, and led them to a man to see how he would call them ...” “At first there was a word,” says this unfortunate. The other day I met through Naumova with Safonov Vl. Yves, the author of the book of an unrelated “thread of Ariadne”, which he would promise me.

He is a diagnostician and also a healer from the photographs. From the photographs, he determined that Larisa has: 1. The right side of the head was struck by the space around the right eye. The urological zone as it put it, the Bermuda Triangle. The right thigh I did not know about it.