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A.M. Buchma in the role of Ivan Kolomiytzev (The Last People, M. Gorky) А. М. Бучма в роли Ивана Коломийцева («Последние» М. Горького) |
Notes by a Theatre Buff
I still recall a mish-mash of old plays,
raising a dreadful rumpus in those days,
when Papazian would hop around the stage,
showering wheezes, dentures, and saliva.
I still recall the MVD’s small the-
-atre, the mighty Yuriev posed as de
Posa, imposing though waist-deep in death,
prompting the fairies in the stalls to snivel.
One benefit of age — all kinds of kitsch
you now excuse. As they become pastiche
they get less shameless, plot lines such as these,
and what you treasure is the sentimental…
For added drama in one final scene,
some green was added to the lighting scheme,
and as the saddest dad you’ve ever seen,
Amvrosii Buchma then made his big entrance.
The lump lodged in my throat refused to melt,
quite a few handkerchiefs were getting wet.
What move, we wondered, would Buchma select?
Would he astound us with a grandiose gesture?
Let loose a howl? Head-jerk with eyes askance?
Or freeze — just when we thought he would advance —
and stun us with his chalk-white countenance?
In fact, none of the above did Buchma venture.
On us, his audience, he turned his back.
The hall fell silent, like we’d all been choked.
The one thing we could see — the tiny tic
Buchma contrived with the blade of just one shoulder.
And for a moment everyone sat still.
Damn it, by mere suggestiveness it will
hold you enthralled — minimalism
is what you’d call it, speaking as a scholar.
They’ll not forget, the people in that room,
the threadbare tailcoat in the greenish gloom,
the way he suddenly tensed up, then drooped,
the tow-like fibre of his grizzled ringlets.
But then some theatre imp whispered to me
that I must do whatever it took to see,
— this time, though, from the wings, not from my seat —
just what was happening at this tragic instant.
I bottle-bribed a bumpkin ASM,
who, whispering ‘This’ll knock yer dead, my friend’,
led me backstage. The whole troupe stood assem-
-bled, down to front of house and makeup.
We felt the audience nearly passing out
as Buchma duly did his rightabout,
and faced us. Then his tongue licked round his mouth.
He crossed his eyes. And then the fun got manic.
For all the while that, dark and tragical,
his back held everyone in hypnotic thrall
and silence simmered all around the hall,
for these his own he ran through his chef-d’oeuvre.
Rolling his eyes, with snort and sigh and leer,
he even seemed to signal with one ear,
his tongue flicked in and out; and nothing more
obscene have I beheld in all my lifetime.
Scary, it was, and also funny too,
that phiz against the audience, row on row;
behind the phiz, though, like the Maginot,
should be a line that marks off front from back part.
No line was to be seen, though, nor a seam.
The carcass didn’t have a soul, it seemed.
I stopped liking the theatre, almost ceased
to like myself, for being all so ardent.
Now, I’m not sorry I was sorry for
that old man, nor for genius being flawed.
I’m not Krylov, no moral need I draw.
It seems to me that one can think whatever
about great men of the arts, and I include
some actors. And about their fearsome trade.
About their training. And evil and good.
Morality. The sign, too, and its nature.
Papazian: the Armenian actor Vagram Papazian (1888-1968) trained in Italy, for a few years was a member of Eleonora Duse’s troupe, and then acted all over the USSR between 1922 and 1953, after which he was based in Erevan; he died in Leningrad.
Yuriev: the great actor Yurii Mikhailovich Yuriev (1872-1948) performed on stage until 1945. He first played the Marquis de Posa in Schiller’s Don Carlos (1787) at the opening performance of the BDT (Large Dramatic Theatre) in Petrograd in 1919.
MVD: Ministerstvo vnutrennikh del, the Ministry of the Interior, which sponsored and managed a huge programme of cultural activities throughout the USSR.
Buchma: Amvrozii Maksimilianovich Buchma (1891-1957), eminent stage and screen actor, who spent his career mainly in Ukraine. The role he is playing in the poem could well be that of Ivan Kolomiitsev, the tragic head of the family in Maksim Gorky’s play Poslednie (The Last People, 1907-8), originally entitled The Father.
(Translation © 2015 G.S. Smith)
Записки театрала
Я помню: в попурри из старых драм,
производя ужасный тарарам,
по сцене прыгал Папазян Ваграм,
летели брызги, хрип, вставные зубы.
Я помню: в тесном зале МВД
стоял великий Юрьев в позе де
Позы по пояс в смерти, как в воде,
и плакали в партере мужелюбы.
За выслугою лет, ей-ей, простишь
любую пошлость. Превратясь в пастиш,
сюжет, глядишь, уже не так бесстыж,
и сентимент приобретает цену. ...
Для вящей драматичности конца
в подсветку подбавлялась зеленца,
и в роли разнесчастного отца
Амвросий Бучма выходил на сцену.
Я тщился в горле проглотить комок,
и не один платок вокруг намок.
А собственно, что Бучма сделать мог —
зал потрясти метаньем оголтелым?
исторгнуть вой? задергать головой?
или, напротив, стыть, как неживой,
нас поражая маской меловой?
Нет, ничего он этого не делал.
Он обернулся к публике спиной,
и зал вдруг поперхнулся тишиной,
и было только видно, как одной
лопаткой чуть подрагивает Бучма.
И на минуту обмирал народ.
Ах, принимая душу в оборот,
нас силой суггестивности берет
минимализм, коль говорить научно.
Всем, кто там был, не позабыть
никак потертый фрак, зеленоватый мрак
и как он вдруг напрягся и обмяк,
и серые кудельки вроде пакли.
Но бес театра мне сумел шепнуть,
что надо расстараться как-нибудь
из-за кулис хотя б разок взглянуть
на сей трагический момент в спектакле.
С меня бутылку взял хохол-помреж,
провел меня, шепнув: «Ну, ты помрэшь», —
за сцену. Я застал кулис промеж
всю труппу — от кассира до гримера.
И вот мы слышим — замирает зал —
Амвросий залу спину показал,
а нам лицо. И губы облизал.
Скосил глаза. И тут пошла умора!
В то время как, трагически черна,
гипнотизировала зал спина
и в зале трепетала тишина,
он для своих коронный номер выдал:
закатывал глаза, пыхтел, вздыхал,
и даже ухом, кажется, махал,
и быстро в губы языком пихал —
я ничего похабнее не видел.
И страшно было видеть, и смешно
на фоне зала эту рожу, но
за этой рожей, вроде Мажино,
должна быть линия — меж нею и затылком.
Но не видать ни линии, ни шва.
И вряд ли в туше есть душа жива.
Я разлюбил театр и едва
ли не себя в своем усердье пылком.
Нет, мне не жаль теперь, что было жаль
мне старика, что гений — это шваль.
Я не Крылов, мне не нужна мораль.
Я думаю, что думать можно всяко
о мастерах искусств и в их числе
актерах. Их ужасном ремесле.
Их тренировке. О добре и зле.
О нравственности. О природе знака.