Your
meeting with a book that became one of the most important books in life remains
forever in your memory. And the writer who created that book becomes close to
you, like family. Of course, this is not immediately understood, but only after
the years go by. You return again and again in your memory to that day and hour
when that cherished meeting took place. This happened with me when, as a
student of the Urals University, I left the reading room all shaken after
reading the novel, The Idiot. It seemed to me that my hair was standing on end,
that my soul was as if struck, and it shook from the blow.
And
so, from that same university winter, from age nineteen and for the rest of my
life, the characters of Prince Myshkin, Nastasia Philippovna, Parfen Rogozhin,
and others in that immortal novel entered into the very center of my heart. And
later, throughout the course of my life did this novel and Dostoevsky’s fate
call back to me, often determining turns in that course—at times even sharp
turns.
This
is what I want to tell you about today. Especially since we are in the “Year of
Dostoevsky”.
Dostoevsky
as a herald of Christ
After
the second year of university, we students of the journalism school were sent
for internships to the regional newspaper. I ended up in the town of
Bogdanovich in Sverdlovsk province, at the newspaper called, “Flag of Victory”.
I was supposed to write about the harvest, and how things stood with dairy
yields. And after my ridiculous forays into the fields and dairy farms, my
searches for people who were supposed to tell about the business (I could have
gotten all this information over the telephone but I was “studying life”),
barely alive because I either hitchhiked or used my own two feet, I flopped
down on the dormitory bed to have at least a tiny rest. Then I rose early to
write my reportage on the zealous work in the fields and farms.
And
so, in the morning as I walked past the movie theater to the office, I saw an
announcement for the film, “The Idiot”. I was stunned. All that day I only
thought about getting to the theater as soon as possible to watch that film.
I
watched it. And that same evening I set about writing my first review. I really
regret that I didn’t save it. The editor stripped down my “creative torments”
to mere notes. His conclusion was that it was “too long”. The newspaper was of
a small format—culture and sports, weather, and all the rest that allowed it to
pay for itself left but a small spot on the fourth column. Into that spot did
they squeeze my ecstatic notes on the film. I’m sure that it must have looked
crazy in that newspaper.
It was
1958; after all, the “thaw” had begun, and our dreams were swirling around
something as yet unrecognized but definitely significant, and human—something
pertaining not to the number of hectares of harvested wheat and rye, but to the
life of the human soul.
I
recall those notes because when I returned to Sverdlovsk (now Ekaterinburg), I
had something to talk with my brother about. At the time, Anatoly was studying
in the acting studio at the drama theater. Of course he had read The Idiot, and
we watched the film together, then discussed it vigorously. In the theater, the
excellent theatrical production of The Insulted and Humiliated was on, with
Boris Feodorovich Iyin, a “people’s artist of the USSR”, brilliantly playing
the role of Prince Valkovsky. And the young hero, the writer Vanya, was played
by our favorite actor Constantine Petrovich Maximov, Anatoly’s teacher. He knew
about my brother’s passion (besides Dostoevsky, we were voraciously reading the
poetry of the “Silver Age” and had even organized an “Evening of forgotten
poets”).
That
is why he confirmed in the role of Andrei Rublev the totally unknown provincial
actor, Anatoly Solonytsin, against the opinion of the entire artistic council.
But
why does Prince Myshkin touch us so deeply, even stun us with his character,
his fate? Why does Feodor Dostoevsky’s hero so stir us, despite the
eccentricity of his actions? One critic has aptly compared Dostoevsky’s prose
with “congealed lava”. Yes, he writes in such a way that his words as if erupt
from the crater of a volcano, flow rapidly down the slope, wiping out
everything on their path, and then congeal before our eyes, in our souls. The
“golden pens” of the Russian literati, such as Turgenev and Bunin, even accused
Feodor Mikhailovich of chaotic and sloppy writing.
Yes,
Dostoevsky’s prose really was “unpolished”, as the author himself has said. But
that is what makes it so remarkable and unique—its force and impetus. His
characters are taken into “borderline” situations, when the “major” issues of
life, as the author put it, are in the balance—into man’s existence in general.
Can a
person in such moments of life talk without “choking on his own words”, in
separate phrases? Moreover his heroes get entangled, and the entanglement comes
from the fact that Dostoevsky is not afraid to show man’s “duplicity”, digging
down at times to the most hidden depths of the soul. That is why his heroes say
one thing but mean something entirely different, twist their way out of it and
lie, while Prince Myshkin’s openness and childlike ingenuousness exposes them.
Just
as do the exceedingly bold and “reckless” acts of Nastasya Filippovna.
Recall
how she throws the bundle of 100,000 rubles Rogozhin brought into burning
fireplace. One researcher of Dostoevsky’s works figured out that 100,000 rubles
in Dostoevsky’s time would equal over a million USD today.
In the
1960s, out of romanticism I left for Kaliningrad to get a job on the whaling
ship, the “Yuri Dolgoruki”. Because I was considered “unreliable” and therefore
not someone who could be let out of the country, they didn’t take me out to
sea. But I wrote my first stories about sailors “ashore”, and published my
first book, with which I was accepted into the Soviet Writers’ Union. This took
place at a meeting of young authors of the Northwest in Leningrad. There I saw
the famous stage presentation of “The Idiot” with Innokenty Smoktunovsky in the
main role.
I am
not the only one who was stunned by the show. All who saw how Smoktunovsky
played his role understood that a miracle was happening before their eyes. His
Myshkin was naïve like a child, open, defenseless—and at the same time
protected by the truth of Christ the Savior. It could even be that the actor
did not understand that he was embodying on the stage a blessed one, whom
everyone around him took for an idiot. Nor did the theater understand this.
Years later, just before his death, on a lengthy television program the actor
related that he roused the entire theater against himself because he continued
to shape the role differently from how everyone—from the chief director
down—was telling him to do it. He did it according to his heart’s urgings. The
show’s premier was scheduled for December 31. It was four hours long. G.
Tovstonogov was prepared for a failure, and that is why the premier was
scheduled for New Year’s Eve.
For
the first time in many years, the theater was half empty. But on January 1,
news spread throughout Leningrad that in the Great Drama Theater a miracle had
taken place. Then it became simply impossible to get a ticket. Because on that
stage, for the first time in nearly century of godless rule, people saw
authenticity of feeling, not human but divine truth, which shown in the actor’s
eyes, in his inimitable intonation as he pronounced words about faith, love,
and God. And the souls of all present in the theater opened up, empathized,
wept, and laughed together with him.
Here
is what Prince Myshkin says when Parfen Rogozhin asks him whether or not he
believes in God:
“An
hour ago, as I was returning to the hotel, I ran into peasant woman with her
infant. The woman was still young, and the babe would have been about six weeks
old. The child smiled at her, as she observed, for the first time since she was
born. I looked, and the woman very, very piously, suddenly crossed herself.
“What’s that, young lass?” I said (for I asked her about everything then).
Well, she said it’s maternal joy for seeing her infant smile at her for the
first time; for God has the same joy when He sees from heaven how a sinner
starts praying to him with his whole heart for the first time. That is what the
woman said to me in almost those exact words; and such a profound, such a
subtle and truly religious thought, a thought in which the whole essence of
Christianity is expressed in a moment; that is, the whole understanding of God
as our own father… It’s a most important thought about Christ! A simple peasant
woman!.. Listen, Parfen, you asked me just now and here is my answer: The
essence of religious feeling doesn’t fit into any sort of discussion, any
actions or crimes, any kind of atheism. Something is amiss there, and it will
be that way for eternity. There is something on which atheism will forever slip
up and miss the point. But the main thing is that you’ll most probably and
clearly notice this “something” in the Russian heart—and that is my
conclusion!”
When
the show was over, for two or three minutes there was a sepulchral silence.
Then the auditorium exploded in applause, shouts, and in such a pervading
stormy ecstasy that’s hard to describe. This went on for twenty to thirty
minutes. I was told that there were times when it lasted even longer. As the
years passed, critics both in Russia and abroad (the presentation played also
in London) understood that an event had taken place that was so huge, on a scale
so significant that it’s hard to express in words. Feodor Mikhailovich
Dostoevsky stood before the people—alive, authentic, the man who is rightfully
called a Russian genius.
The
role of Prince Myshkin, I think, was the one for which actor Innokenty
Mikhailovich Smoktunovsky was born. He played about a hundred roles in the
movies. He acted in many good, even excellent theater productions. But none of
them reached the heights of Prince Myshkin. The actor did not act, but lived on
the stage the life, I repeat, of a man of God. He was also like that in real
life—strange, and unfathomable for many. And in his best roles in both theater
and film are heard those familiar intonations of Prince Myshkin—pauses,
expressions of the eyes, gestures—of a man who is not of this world.
The
[communist] party leadership also felt this, and that is why the performance
was never videotaped. Only small snippets were saved for programs. Thank God,
it was at least preserved on vinyl record disks, and a three-volume album was
made available.
I
still have my old “music center”, and favorite records. From time to time I
listen to the recording of that amazing show, which during atheistic times told
of a man who sacrificed his own life for the sake of his love of God and
people.
What
did Feodor Dostoevsky write about in his immortal novel?
To
guess at the mystery
“Man is a mystery. It must be unraveled, and
even if you’ve spent you whole life unraveling it, you can’t say that you’ve
wasted time. I am occupied with this mystery, for I want to be a man.”
That
is how the young Feodor determined the purposed of his life even before he’d
written his first short story, Poor Folk, which Belinsky read and then
exclaimed ecstatically, “A new Gogol has appeared!”
Feodor
Mikhailovich felt with his heart his purpose in life. It is important to
determine this purpose, or it would be better to say, calling, which is the
meaning of your life. It is important not to betray it, but to walk what is
often a thorny path, but a path that calls to you to follow the call of your
soul. I don’t in any way want to compare the scope of the great writer’s gifts
with those directors and actors who had the fortitude to play and produce the
author’s works in theater and film. But the yearning to express in their
creative work the hidden mystery that is embedded in his great novels, remains
the cherished dream of many. This would include such film producers as Andrei
Arsenievich Tarkovsky. After his films, “Ivan’s Childhood” and “Andrei Rublev”,
which brought him international fame, he wrote an expansive proposal for the
screening of “The Idiot”. An anniversary date was approaching—in 1981 it was
proposed to have a grand celebration of the one hundred years since
Dostoevsky’s death, and 160 years since his birth. Tarkovsky had the idea of
filming a television series. In his diaries he wrote, “Solonitsyn would be
ideal for the role of Dostoevsky.” In his proposal he determined that the
author of the novel, i.e., Dostoevsky, should play the role of the narrator.
This actor, Anatoly, was entrusted with the role of Lebedev—that very liar who
swears his love for the “excellent prince” but at the same time writes an
“exposé” about him. Myshkin was to be played by Alexander Kaidanovsky, and
Nastasia Filipovna by Margarita Terekhova. My brother and I were transported
when talked about the work ahead. Anatoly was even ready to have plastic
surgery in order to look more like his favorite author.
“How
are you going to play other roles if you undergo such surgery?” Tarkovsky asked
him.
“Why
would I need any other roles, if I’ve played Dostoevsky?” my brother answered.
The
surgery never happened, because Tarkovsky’s proposal was rejected. But Anatoly
would yet experience the happiness of embodying the great writer’s image on screen—albeit
in a film of a completely different scale.
The
film was called, “26 Days in the Life of Dostoevky”.
I’ll
tell you in a little more detail why in that memorable time an amazing
“coincidence”, as it would seem at first glance, took place.
Anatoly
was forty-five years old—just like his hero when in 1866 he dictated the novel
The Gambler (to a stenographer). Like his hero, after a family catastrophe
Anatoly had proposed to a girl who was half his age. Like his hero, Anatoly’s
love was requited—and she transformed the entire rest of his life.
And
hadn’t Anatoly also worked under similar circumstances?
“Well,
the novel will have to be rushed by post-horses”, Feodor Mikhailovich said to
Anna Grigorievna [his stenographer and future wife].
And
the film was also shot as if by “post-horse”. Anatoly was under pressure to
make a down payment on a cooperative apartment, and he was in debt up to his
ears.
When I
arrived in Moscow and met with my brother, I read the scenario and told him
about all this.
He
smiled, “Do you think they know about this? They hired me as a serious and
reliable professional, and that’s all.”
But in
fact they didn’t just “hire” him so simply. N. T. Sizov, director of Mosfilm at
the time, summoned Anatoly and asked him to help the group of “26 Days in the
Life of Dostoevsky”. “People’s Artist of the USSR” Oleg Borisov, who was
playing the leading role, had just left the group. Half of the film had already
been shot, but the creative formats of the director and the actor, different
from the very beginning, had now irreversibly diverged. My brother could not
bring himself to refuse the requests of the general director, who had shown
both attention and care towards the actor, and of the producer, who had
produced Anatoly’s favorite films from childhood on. Anatoly knew that the
picture would be filmed under tough deadlines—a plan is a plan, and cinema is
also a production line. But as an actor, Anatoly always needed time to “rev
up”, time to take on his role. Anatoly was also dissatisfied with much of the
screenplay. But after all, we’re talking about Dostoevsky!
“I
don’t have enough time… You see, I’m living in a hotel across the street from
Mosfilm. We’re punching two shifts in a row… It’s an endless race… You know,
the only thing that seems not so bad to me so far … One scene… Where he’s with
students, where Anna has taken him. He talks about hard labor in prison, and
argues with the youths… And then he has an epileptic fit… Only don’t tell
anyone this, understand? (He always began with these words whenever he wanted
to tell me something important.) Do you understand, they started applauding.
The entire group… That’s not acceptable in filmmaking, it’s sort of against the
rules of decency. But they applauded, and Zarkhi didn’t criticize anyone for
it. Then another double, and again applause. It’s stupid of course. The guys
explained that they couldn’t help it. Well, there you are, I’m boasting… But
even without the applause I feel that the scene was successful.”
But
that very episode was cut from the film—it supposedly “didn’t reflect the
writer’s character.”
Our
bureaucrats “of art”, as if they had a mine detector in their hands, always
find the very best scenes or pages in books, which they simply must “delete as
extraneous”. And this applies not only to the past—even today these “mine
detectors” are still in their hands for some reason.
Nevertheless,
the film was successful not only in our own country but also on the international
level. It represented our film industry at the thirty-first International Film
Festival in Western Berlin. Here is what the papers wrote:
“Outstanding
in the film was the role by Anatoly Solonitsyn. In conjunction with the sincere
ingenuousness of Evgenia Simonova, it all together gives us a glimpse into the
creative mystery of those literary works of genius, and into the character of a
great man who inspired the whole world’s admiration… (Die Welt).
There
is no point in comparing the performances of actors in films and plays in which
they played the same roles. Different times determine differently both the
position of the producers and, correspondingly, the role of the actors. But
there are “breakthroughs”, when the performer of the leading role refuses to
conform himself to the will of circumstances, producers, or even collective
opinion, and does not waiver from the path leading to understanding a man’s
mystery.
So it
was with Innokenty Smoktunovsky, who wouldn’t heed the “vulgar” advice of
famous actors and a no less famous director, as he expressed it in the
foregoing story I’ve told you concerning the play, “The Idiot”. He walked a
torturous path to the hidden mystery of the man whom Dostoevsky named, Prince
Myshkin.
So
also was it with Anatoly Solonitsyn, who against all circumstances, both
mundane and creative, was able by force of his God-given talent to break
through to the secret of that author, who lived and created to the glory of
God.
Alexei
Solonitsyn
Pravoslavie.ru
6/2/2021
