Фільм. "БЕЛАРУСКІ ПСІХАПАТ" (2015) / Мікіта Лаўрэцкі.

Цікава, што пэўны час пасля прагляду фільма я думаў пра слова "беларускі" ў яго назве. Бо што робіць Дзіму, хлопца без пачуцця гумару, з бліскаўкамі на скронях і жаданнем дэманстраваць незнаёмым людзям свае "геніяльныя" турыстычныя фота з Мальты, што робіць яго не проста псіхапатам, а менавіта беларускім псіхапатам? Бо ніхто ж, напэўна, не будзе адмаўляць знарочыстую амерыканскасць Патрыка Бэйтмана з рамана Брэта Істэна Эліса. Але што робіць псіхапата Дзіму з дэбютнага фільма Мікіты Лаўрэцкага беларускім? Мне падаецца, што гэта не пустое пытанне.

Думаю, што кожны, хто хоць нешта ведае пра сучаснае беларускае кіно, чуў імя Мікіты Лаўрэцкага. Ён стварае незалежныя, нізкабюджэтныя фільмы ў жанры "мамблкора" (калі ў двух словах, то гэта калі крыху дрыжыць камера і маладыя людзі шмат размаўляюць паміж сабой), і кожны з іх можна паглядзець на яго YouTube-канале. Мікітавы фільмы дэманструюцца на міжнародных фестывалях, а калі казаць пра яго паўнаметражны дэбют ("Беларускі псіхапат"), то ў 2015 годзе ён стаў лепшым ігравым фільмам у нацыянальным конкурсе "Лістапада". Інакш кажучы, прагляд яго стужак быў толькі пытаннем часу.

Не адмаўляю, што я абраў менавіта гэты фільм з-за яго назвы. "Беларускі псіхапат" - не абы-якое словазлучэнне. Яно мае вагу, пэўны мастацка-гістарычны багаж, і я адразу ж зразумеў, што нават калі будзе дрэннае кіно жахлівай якасці, пра яго ўсё роўна будзе цікава пагаварыць.

Але ж я не мог адарвацца. "Беларускі псіхапат" наўрад ці зробіцца сапраўднай падзеяй у вашым жыцці, але кіно гэта так утульна існуе ў сваім добра акрэсленым свеце, у сваёй сыраватай чорна-белай бурбалцы, што нельга не адчуць эмацыянальнае напружанне таго, што адбываецца на экране. Бо героі ў фільме цалкам зразумелыя, і нічога тут не адбываецца без мэты. І кормяць катоў тут не проста так, і словы падбіраюць далёка не выпадкова. Пасля прагляду фільма ўважлівы глядач успомніць і тыя словы, і тых катоў. Пра ігру актораў у такім жанры казаць цяжка, але няёмкасць ад плоскіх інтанацый Дзімы (дарэчы, ролю іграе сам Лаўрэцкі) прабірае да касцей. І хочацца ці тое смяяцца, ці тое закрыць вушы.

Сюжэт фільма не пакідае шмат месца для фантазіі. Тры дзяўчыны вырашаюць паехаць на дачу, дзе хлопец Дзіма (ледзьве знаёмы адной з іх) святкуе дзень нараджэння з двумя сябрамі. Гэта класічны пачатак для трылера ці фільма жахаў, і ў гледача не павінна быць аніякіх ілюзій. Але ж яны ўсё роўна з'яўляюцца, тыя ілюзіі, бо ты добра пазнаеш і людзей, і іх размовы. Нават псіхапат Дзіма, які адзіны за сталом есць гэты моташлівы торт, упускае цябе ў сваю прастору (але ж гэта вельмі цесная прастора, і змяшчаецца ў маленькім ванным пакоі, дзе за некалькі секунд адбываецца хічкокаўская і, бадай, самая кінематаграфічная сцэна ў фільме). Так, што пэўны час ты існуеш у даволі няёмкім, але цалкам небяспечным вымярэнні "Беларускага псіхапата". 

І вось тут, як мне падаецца, хаваецца поспех фільма. Ён ў тым, як добра Лаўрэцкі гуляе з танальнасцю. Бо менавіта тут крыецца змрочная, крыху таямнічая эфектыўнасць трэцяга акту - які ты павінен быў чакаць, але з нейкай прычыны чакаць перастаў. Бо, напэўна, паглядзеў у простыя, шчырыя вочы псіхапата і паверыў. Можа, і цяпер я думаю пра гэта і баюся ўчытаць у твор неіснуючыя ў ім сэнсы, можа тут і хаваецца таямніца слова "беларускі", якое пазначана ў назве фільма?..

Book review: PROPHET SONG by Paul Lynch

By the end of this book, I was pacing up and down the room like a madman. High-strung and red in the face, I was very much on my feet wading through the dense ending hoping for an impossible ray of light. This does not happen to me too often. Come to think of it, last time that I could not remain seated while reading a book was ages ago, back when I was breezing through Kafka's Metamorphosis. 

This book is, indeed, a very intense read. So intense, in fact, that it took me a couple of weeks to finish it. A few chapters at once was all I could stomach in the face of the present tense (the entire book is written that way) as well as the relentless onslaught of the plot. 

Paul Lynch's novel won the Booker Prize in 2003, and for a good reason. The book presents a harrowing picture of Ireland becoming a totalitarian state. We are never quite explained how this came about, but the whole point is that maybe we do not need to. Such things happen, people turn into animals in no time at all ("The man has been trained for the rules of the game but the game has been changed so what now is the man", Lynch writes quite early in the book), and all of a sudden you are caught up in the commonplace cruelty and indifference. This is infuriating, disgusting stuff - all the more so because it is very familiar. People of modern-day Belarus will find a lot to relate to here.

The present tense is important as it provides this gruesome engine to the proceedings. We do not see the family of Larry and Molly Stack dealing with the oncoming storm. Instead, we see them right in the midst of it, when all you can do, really, is to adapt. You can put on a brave face, you can join the uprising, but there is only so much that you can change with four children, a father with dementia and the brutal police force (the Garda) knocking on your door on an ordinary Monday evening in the centre of Dublin. Soon the borders will be closed, the food will be rationed and your teenage son will be conscripted and forced to join the army.

The book is written at a desperate pace, but with dashes of beautiful, almost serene poetry ("Molly lifts her face from the screen and meets her mother with a look of clear water"). This poetry, however, cannot shield you from the destination that the book is taking you to. As Molly is trying to make sense of what is going on around her ("coaxing future out of nothingness" is one of Lynch's most brilliant turns of phrases here), she arrives at that very ending that had me walking around the room with the book in my hands. The ending that would seem disingenuous and even manipulative were it not also completely inevitable. Because, really, it could be anyone. Anyone at all. 

Three TV shows: Ripley, The Dry, Fallout

Ripley, mini-series (2024)

The genius of Patricia Highsmith's original idea is so inescapable that it is no surprise the first book has spawned no less than three screen adaptations. Purple Noon (1960) with Alain Delon, The Talented Mr Ripley (1999) with Matt Damon and now the mini-series Ripley with Andrew Scott. With the first two adaptations being so iconic, did we really need a new one? 

Strangely, we did. With its discomforting black-and-white aesthetics (at times, Ripley feels like Tarkovsky filming Kafka), the TV series sucks you in from the very beginning. And when the squalor of a tiny New York apartment gives way to the splendour of Italy, the magic hypnotism is complete. Ripley goes on for eight hour-long episodes, which allows the director Steven Zaillian to really delve into the details (the boat scene in particular is truly mortifying, and takes a full episode).  

Andrew Scott is brilliant, and so is Dakota Fanning as Marge Sherwood. Lacking that sinister spark, Matt Damon never really worked for me, and neither did Gwyneth Paltrow who looked plain and depthless in the 1999 adaptation. With the young Greenleaf, it is a little bit trickier as Jude Law was the perfect Dickie (for all my love for Johnny Flynn, he never stood a chance). Finally, while Eliot Sumner (Sting's child, incidentally) does an intriguing turn as Dickie's friend Freddie Miles, it is quite impossible to improve on Philip Seymour Hoffman. 

Getting back to Andrew Scott, neither Delon nor Damon went this deep into the harrowing psyche of Tom Ripley, one of literature's greatest con-men, but also someone who disgusts and fascinates in equal measure. "I offered you my friendship and asked for nothing in return". 

The Dry, Season 2 (2024)

The Dry is an Irish TV show, half-comedy and half-drama, which is set in modern-day Dublin and deals with a young woman named Shiv Sheridan and one truly dysfunctional family. Alcohol, Dublin, a little bit of art. In other words, what is not to like?

The whole thing is somewhat predictable but also great fun. In Season 1, a young artist (played by Roisin Gallagher) comes back from London to deal with her issues (mostly alcohol addiction and proclivity for bad romance). Instead, the issues become ever more evident as she returns, essentially, to the very place that caused all those problems in the first place. In her broken, largely unsupportive family, however, no one gets spared. This second season, out this year, is more of the same: awkward relationships, wine hidden in the toilet bowl, old flames and quite a bit of black humour.

One thing I have to add: I really do not like these Fleabag comparisons. Whereas Fleabag tried too hard and felt contrived, The Dry seems effortless and quite charming. A real joy to watch.

Fallout, Season 1 (2024)

Fallout is without a doubt this year's most acclaimed TV show. I felt a little apprehensive going into this as I have no concept of the computer game this is based on. All I knew, and this you could easily get from the title, is that Fallout is about the state of the world following some major nuclear disaster. 

I was rather annoyed at first. This whole aesthetic of combining brutal violence (and it is quite brutal, almost comically so) with the charming innocence of the Ink Spots and Billie Holiday grew stale in no time at all. I mean, how long can you look at chunks of human flesh flying around to the music of Bob Crosby?.. And yet the makers of Fallout stuck with it, up to that very point where you just had to accept the sheer grotesqueness of the whole thing (through gritted teeth, in my case). 

And now, having watched the full season, I will say that the most fascinating aspect of Fallout is how it manages to straddle that fine line between the silliness and the gore. For that is exactly what they do here. And, in a way, it becomes quite absorbing. I never cared for the characters, Fallout does not really pull you in emotionally, but the sheer stretch of the imagination is overwhelming. Plus, all the narrative hooks are carefully placed and you are ever looking forward to whatever comes next. 

Fallout succeeds in creating its own world, a world which is deranged and quite unique at the same time. And this, come to think of it, is the sought-after apex in all of art. So that when the second season is released (as inevitably it will be), I'm going back into this. Who knows, there may be humans in there after all. 

Album of the Month: AS IT EVER WAS, SO IT WILL BE AGAIN by The Decemberists

Pop artists saying things. In most cases, this should either be outlawed or completely ignored. People as different as Paul Weller, Dua Lipa and Efrim Menuck all repeating the same 'Free Palestine!' inanity without realising that in the current climate this is akin to supporting a death cult (namely, Hamas) whose ultimate goal is to destroy a whole nation (namely, Jews). Thank God for Johnny Greenwood. 

While Colin Meloy of The Decemberists had nothing to say on the war between Israel and Hamas (which is for the better), he went for an easy target. While answering a question of who he would like to collaborate with, he mentioned Morrissey and offered this piece of cowardly bullshit: "It would not [be great] culturally to work with him now for the damage that he’s done to his own reputation. And, maybe I shouldn’t want to, I think maybe he would be an unpleasant person to work with. So I’m of two minds about it." I mean, what the fuck. 

Still, there is a certain joy to the fact that As It Ever Was, So It Will Be Again (a very consolatory title, no doubt) is Colin Meloy's best work in at least fifteen years. The record proves, yet again, what I have always believed to be true: artist and their art are not one and the same. 

And so Colin Meloy got it right: this is one of the Decemberists' greatest albums. Not least because, being a double LP, it is extremely representative. Essentially, you get four sides that display the full skill set of Meloy the songwriter. There are upbeat chamber pop numbers (mostly side one) and charming folk ballads (mostly side two) with a little bit of country-ish and experimental stuff thrown in for good measure. There is even a side-long folk-prog epic that brings the whole thing to a brilliant, and very effective, end. There are no particular letdowns here. Colin Meloy's voice has not changed (still boyish, still engaging) and he can still write an unforgettable pop hook.

The Decemberists are the sort of band you get tired of after some time. When you first discover them, they sound like the best thing in the world (it is hard not to get lost in albums such as Picaresque and Castaways and Cutouts). Then, at some point, the formula starts to get a bit grating and you stop. To come back later on, for small chunks of indie folk / chamber pop pleasure that Colin Meloy is so very good at. Which is all to say... I really do not know whether this time the album is really as good as all that or I am just feeling sentimental. 

June Round-Up

I believe that the world is a much better place because there is Warren Ellis in it. The man is a treasure (even if it transpired that he did not, in fact, cook those eels in 20,000 Days on Earth - what a letdown!), and this latest album with his instrumental trio Dirty Three features some of the band's best work. Love Changes Everything is such a beautiful racket. It is long-winded and psychedelic but it has moments of true catharsis, whether by way of guitar, piano or violin (duh!).

Eels Time! is all right, as far as these post-2005 Eels albums go (it's been almost 20 years since Blinking Lights, which is not very encouraging). The album title is rather good, the exclamation providing a lovely hint at self-irony. Overall, some lovely melodies scattered about the place ("We Won't See Her Like Again", "Haunted Hero"). Inessential and somewhat bloodless, but quite pleasant while it's on.

The cover of the new Linda Thompson album is so unabashedly comical that I could not believe it at first. Then I saw the title: Proxy Music. The idea is that Linda Thompson (who is suffering from spasmodic dysphonia which does not allow her to sing) invited friends and family to sing and play on a bunch of her new songs. Among them: her former husband Richard, her children Kami and Teddy, Martha and Rufus Wainwright, Richard Grant (whose brand of autotuned art pop I find completely unlistenable, but who returns here to the gorgeous vocals of Queen of Denmark and The Czars), the Unthanks, Eliza Carthy and others. A stellar cast, really, but it only works because the songs are terrific. It is a diverse and tuneful set, steeped in folk music and benefiting from multiple voices taking part in the proceedings. 

I have always loved the idea of John Cale doing pop music. Sadly, the potential has not been realised to the full. Surely the man who has given us "Gideon's Bible", "Mr Wilson" and the entirety of Paris 1919 (still in my top 10 of all time) could do more than, say, his synth-pop collaboration with Brian Eno titled Wrong Way Up (an LP that managed to be both half-baked and overcooked at the same time). His new album POPtical Illusion is not all that, either. It is pop, maybe, but filtered through murky layers of artsiness, psychedelia and hip-hop. There are interesting moments, like the lush and slightly deranged beat of "Company Commander", and it is always an intriguing listen, but pop is still very much an illusion here. Still, I am happy he is on such a creative roll at the age of 82.

Regrettably, this latest album by Guided by Voices, the first this year, is one of Pollard's weakest. It is not exactly bad, he never falls lower than a certain level, but the songwriting feels sloppier and more uneven than ever. To my ears, the opening proggy mini-epic "Show Me The Castle" sounds so disjointed it basically falls apart at some point. Parts are okay (like "Dear Onion", surely a hint at the White Album), but overall Strut Of Kings sounds uninspired and... somewhat unnecessary. 

Also, Fontaines DC have managed to right the ship a little with the new single "Favourite". A beautiful, dreamy indie-pop creation that rolls along like The Cure at their poppiest. Looking forward to that new album, obviously. But, again, I have to ask: what on Earth has happened to their covers?!

Songs of the month:

"Favourite" - Fontaines DC

"Love Changes Everything II" - Dirty Three

"Burial Ground" - The Decemberists

"The Solitary Traveller" - Linda Thompson

"There Will Be No River" - John Cale

"No More Apocalypse Father" - We Are Winter's Blue And Radiant Children

Кніга. "ВОСЕНЬ У ВІЛЬНІ" (2019) / Вінцэсь Мудроў.

Калі б не раптоўнае з'яўленне смартфона ў кароткім апавяданні "Дзед і ўнук", то год выдання гэтай кнігі выклікаў бы пэўнае непаразуменне. 2019 год, амаль што наш час (нягледзячы на тое, што кавід, беларуская рэвалюцыя і вайна ва Ўкраіне зрабілі 2019 год неяк непрыстойна далёкім). Але ж усё, кожны сказ, кожнае слова ў зборніку "Восень у Вільні" гучыць крыху старамодна і распавядае пра мінулае. Часам нават старажытнае. Можна сказаць, што калі б не смартфон, у якім бясконца сядзіць той унук, то самае сучаснае слова у кнізе Вінцэся Мудрова - гэта, напэўна, "Пазняк".

На самой справе, ніякай таямніцы тут няма. Пяць гадоў таму кніга была выдана ў якасці ўзнагароды за трэцяе месца ў Прэміі Ежы Гедройца (за раман "Забойца анёлаў"). "Восень у Вільні" - гэта зборнік з дзесяці невялікіх апавяданняў, сярод якіх ёсць адна выдатная аповесць пра Заходнюю Беларусь і некалькі добрых прымераў лёгкай і утульнай шукшынскай прозы.

Заўсёды цікава пабачыць, як аўтар ставіцца да звышнатуральнага. Ёсць пісьменнікі, якія прымаюць яго і нават пускаюць на старонкі сваіх кніг. Ёсць тыя, хто цалкам яго ігнаруе. Даволі адметна, што кніга "Восень у Вільні" пачынаецца з двух апавяданняў, дзе звышнатуральнае не столькі паўстае ў поўны рост, колькі хаваецца за шырмай ды падглядае. І калі ў дзіўнай гогалеўскай містэрыі пра расейскага фабрыканта Лапахіна фінал падаецца разгубленым і безвыніковым, то напрыканцы "Сюжэта" звышнатуральнае добра фліртуе з уяўленнем чытача.

"Сюжэт", дарэчы, паказальны аповед у тым сэнсе, што ў ім мы адразу ж бачым і літаратуру і алкаголь, якія шмат разоў яшчэ будуць паўставаць на працягу кнігі. "Восень у Вільні" поўніцца забытымі паэтамі і празаікамі-няўдачнікамі, якія перажываюць крызіс і знаходзяць выйсце ў танным віне. Пісьменніцтва падаецца тут цяжкай і няўдзячнай справай - але і не без рамантыкі, пэўнай прывабнасці і нават магіі.

І тым не менш галоўнае, што ёсць у гэтай кнізе, і чаму яе трэба чытаць - гэта, канешне, цэнтральная аповесць (цяжка прыдумаць назву больш прыгожую, чым "Восень у Вільні"). У ёй, праз вочы маленькага беларускага хлопчыка, Вінцэсь Мудроў распавядае пра тое, што адбывалася ў Вільні падчас Другой сусветнай вайны. Як тут уладарылі спачатку палякі, потым бальшавікі, а потым літоўцы (не цяжка здагадацца, якую ўладу беларусы ненавідзілі больш). Хлопчык з бацькамі праходзяць праз шматлікія выпрабаванні, галоўнае з якіх нават не немцы, а прыход Чырвонай арміі. "Войска тое, аднак, не чырвонае, а шэрае", як апісвае той дзень хлопчык. (Момант, які нагадаў мне старонкі з кнігі "Ніколі болей" пра рэпрэсіі ў Заходняй Беларусі. На старонках тых распавядалася пра іншага хлопчыка, які выйшаў да салдата Чырвонай арміі і павітаўся з ім: "Добры дзень, таварыш!" На што атрымаў хуткі адказ: "Тамбоўскі воўк табе таварыш".) Тут ёсць і маленькія перамогі і вялікія трагедыі, і ўсё гэта насычана прыгожай, пахучай беларускай мовай. Толькі канцоўка, на жаль, падалася мне паспешнай і крыху абрывістай. 

Ёсць, канешне, у кнізе і сучаснасць, якая паказваецца збольшага праз палітыку. Так, ёсць чорны гумар і сумна знаёмы кожнаму з нас цырк з выбарамі ў апавяданні "Песні ранняй вясны" (малады настаўнік павінен забяспечыць абсалютную яўку ў маленькай беларускай вёсцы - што можа пайсці не так?..). Ёсць сумная канцоўка ў фінальным "Перфомансе". Ну і ёсць, канешне, дэпрэсіўныя, але не безнадзейныя 90-я ў апавяданні "Рыбалка ў бычках". Менавіта тут і з'яўляецца ў пэўны момант гэтае пытанне, на якое дагэтуль няма добрага адказу: "Ну, як там Пазняк?" Пытанне, якое, безумоўна звязвае мінулае і сучаснае. І якое наводзіць на непазбежнае параўнанне, сутнасць якога прыкладна такая: дэпрэсія захавалася, а вось з надзеяй стала значна горш. 

How music tells you that you are getting older

Back in 2013, I read an interview with Mark Kozelek in which he spoke about his live concerts being filled with middle-aged people in tennis shoes. This had a tragic ring to it. Back then I believed this to be a likely destination: middle age, tennis shoes, a concert by an ageing indie singer-songwriter. I pictured myself as part of that dire crowd, and I felt a cold pang in my heart. Because I knew there was more to it than simply accepting, as I did at some point, that Nevermind and OK Computer were, in fact, rather good albums. No, there must be a bigger price you have to pay.

How, though, can you tell that the cracks are starting to appear and you really are getting older? What does music have to say about that?

Joni Mitchell. What used to sound like meandering, tuneless pleasantness, starts to acquire a certain shape. This may, indeed, be a shape of an Impressionist painting - but for the first time in your life you are willing to move beyond "Big Yellow Taxi" and that pretty Christmas song and get lost in the freewheeling style of albums like Hejira and For The Roses. Not so much exciting - as calm, vaguely seductive, wise. Not so much Mingus, though, her LP from 1979 that made jazz sound like boring adult contemporary. Not that. You are getting older, but you still have your self-respect to hold on to.

Peter Gabriel, too. In the past, you were more into people like Roger Waters - the edgy rock philosophers, the uncomfortable ones. These days, you listen to a song like "Live And Let Live" and the universalist lyricism gets to you. One should really dismiss it as bullshit (in the times of Israel and Palestine, in the times of Ukraine) but, oddly, you hang on to the old platitudes that no longer appear as such.

You start hating Eurovision. Back in the day, you were charmed by it, albeit ironically. You bought Italian wine and Swedish beer. You cooked Spanish meatballs and baked Polish desserts. You prepared a sheet of paper where you rated each song, however awful and hopeless, out of ten. You gave a 7 to Albania, a 4 to Portugal and a 0 to Belarus. Today, the very word makes you wince. You can no longer love it ironically. Non-ironically, it was always unpalatable. 

The Hold Steady. All of a sudden, you start to understand why middle-aged rock critics love them so much. Why they give glowing reviews to Craig Finn's non-musical vocals and earnest swagger... Ten years ago, I would not have batted an eyelid listening to a song like "Sixers". These days, I am almost moved to tears by the story that is too bitter, beautifully concise and way too recognisable. Worse than that. The idea of playing "Stay Positive" first thing in the morning no longer seems cheap and off-putting.

You start to believe that Steely Dan are legitimately one of the greatest bands ever. Face it, you have always had that suspicion, but you could not run too far with it. Can't Buy A Thrill and Pretzel Logic - you fell in love with those long ago, but Aja had always seemed a step too far. Well, not anymore. You like Aja now. Oh you fucking love that album. There are times when you can even take on "Peg", never mind "Black Cow". And, on the horizon, there is still the dim and not too pleasing prospect of Gaucho. Could that be done, ever? I do not know. I still have not cracked that one.

All that said, you still cannot stand solo Sting... There are things that even an older age cannot fix. And as for Mark Kozelek, the guy has been cancelled, so I stand no chance of buying a pair of tennis shoes and seeing him live. Society took care of that. Besides, although I still like his music, I never really wanted to see a Mark Kozelek show in the first place. And also, tennis shoes make my left knee hurt.