All language subtitles for Dovlatov (2018) English

DOVLATOV

LENINGRAD. NOVEMBER 1, 1971

I was born into
not the most close-knit of families.

I wasn't the best of students at school,
dropped out of college,

spent three years as a prison camp guard.

My name is Sergei Dovlatov.

When I was eight,
I told Mom I would be a writer.

Since then, it has been my priority.

The 1960s are over,
with their thaw period,

craving for perfection, relative freedom.

Someone must have said,
"Enough fun for now."

The 1970s came... and brought the frost.

Me and my writer friends can't get
published – at least not the things

that were written
sincerely and in earnest.

We are taboo.

The bigwigs pretend we don't exist,
and if you can't get published in the USSR

and you aren't a member
of the Writers' Union, you don't exist.

I'm tired of being nobody.

I don't know how,

but something has to change soon,

one way or another.

It's really weird.

Sergei, are you going
to make up with your wife?

Do you want to die alone and miserable?

Haven't you had enough divorces?

Mom, I had a dream about Brezhnev again.

We were talking about
socialism and foreign drinks.

Your grandpa had a dream about Stalin
in 1937. He was afraid to go to sleep.

Then he got arrested.

Did you hear that... non-members
of the Writers' Union

will be banned even from newspapers?

Nonsense.

No, it's not.

Brodsky thought it wouldn't
come to the trial, but it did.

-Why is your hand swollen?
-A fight over Vvedensky's poetry.

Vvedensky and Kharms died
a horrible and stupid death.

You know, Brodsky is in trouble again.

Are you going to your pathetic newspaper
or asking for a job at the magazines?

You'd better stay home
and write your novel.

I can earn enough to feed us.
Let them go to hell.

The holiday is coming,
but I don't feel any joy.

Brazil – Guinea: 2-0, predictably.

Could you turn it down? We're not living
in a palazzo. We share this apartment.

Skeletons...

-What is a palazzo?
-A foreign mansion.

Skeletons, skeletons...

Lena, listen.
I had a dream about Brezhnev.

He was very friendly.

We were joking and riding together.
By the way, he likes piña colada.

I could tell them that Brezhnev
and I are friends

and we visit each other on weekends.

Mao promised to come, too.

No, Lena, I haven't been drinking lately.

No, not at all.

It's snowing and raining.
It's freezing inside.

-Sergei, are you ill?
-Lena.

I was trying to write all night.

Don't be so shallow.

A divorce doesn't mean
we aren't friends anymore.

I just wanted to know how you were.

Do you think I'm destroying
myself with all this fuss?

Something is lost.

Lena...

-Is it your polyps again?
-St. John's wort doesn't help.

Guelder rose is also good.

I was walking around
with the guys to warm up.

-Hey.
-Hello.

It's a big holiday. We need to celebrate.

Hi. Do you have cigarettes?

I left them at home. Can you give me one?

-No.
-OK, bye.

See that man? Ask him.

What is it? Are you all right?

What, Glasha?

They are getting ready
for the celebration. See?

But you and I don't care about it.

What?

Let's write a book together. A big one.

Let's go for a walk.

Hello.

These Zionists are out of control.
Golda Meir is a hawk. Do you agree?

These Zionists are out of control.
Golda Meir is a hawk. Do you agree?

-I'll tell them you said that.
-Tell who?

The Zionists.

-The humanists.
-What?

-The impressionists.
-What?

The abstractionists.

And the decadents, just in case.

-How are you?
-Fine.

Excuse me.

-You're fine?
-Yes.

-What is your name?
-Masha.

Masha? Hi, Masha.

How old are you?

-Eleven.
-Come again?

-Eleven.
-Eleven?

Looks grand, doesn't it?

How is your writing going?

They said at the editor's office

that your short stories won't come out
in the next two issues.

You can do more as a factory
newspaper's reporter.

Why did you quit? It was more decent.

The writing isn't going anywhere.

Do you think Montesquieu

would become Montesquieu
in our time with his Persian Letters?

I don't know. I'm going
to the Baltics as a photo reporter.

Maybe you should write books
or rhymes about animals for kids.

They are always in demand.

I'll think about it.

Sergei.

Thanks.

Sergei, hi.

Please talk to the guys. They are nervous.

They haven't been in front
of the camera before.

We need a big article about our film.

-A sincere one.
-Yes. OK.

Can we do it?

-Sure.
-Good.

Tanya, it's me.

-Sergei.
-Yuri.

This is Sergei from the factory newspaper.

In real life, I am senior economist.
Do I look like Gogol?

-They gave me a wig.
-Yes.

The mustache is real. I hope you'll
write something about the shooting.

-I will.
-Good.

-You will?
-Yes.

Do I look all right?

-Hello.
-Hi.

-Action.
-Can I start?

A year ago, we started the construction
of this amazing ship,

Writer Platon Nifontov.

Today, on the eve
of the Soviet country's birthday,

our editorial office decided to shoot
a film about this great ship.

Today, our wonderful poets will give
their blessings to the ship:

Aleksandr Pushkin, Leo Tolstoy,
Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky...

Fyodor Mikhailovich.

-Listen, I... Excuse me.
-Fyodor Mikhailovich.

I'm sorry. Can I start over?
I'll do better this time.

Fine.

-Hello.
-Hi. Pushkin.

Dostoevsky, Fyodor.

Nice to meet you. I read your books.

Fyodor Mikhailovich, I'm a reporter
with the factory newspaper

Morskoy Put, Sergei Dovlatov.

Nice to meet you.

What would you, as the writer Dostoevsky,
tell the Soviet people?

Young pioneers, students,
Komsomol members?

From the sacral viewpoint.

I don't know what sacral means,
but the Soviet people should be proud.

-Proud.
-Yes, write it down.

Now, in the early 1970s,
we have virtually defeated greed.

This is due to
the Crime and Punishment book.

-Right?
-Right.

-I read it twice.
-Twice?

The second time, after school.

It's good that you read it after school.

-Thank you. This will be it.
-Yes. Thank you.

That was good, Vania.

You shouldn't talk
about Soviet people, though.

-You died in the 17th century.
-Nineteenth.

You weren't there.

-Right.
-I'm sorry.

Aleksandr Sergeievich,
I read your books, too.

Why didn't they name the ship
after the great poet Mandelstam?

Or Blok, or Pasternak?
Have you read Platon Nifontov, the writer?

What do you think as an actor
and a factory employee?

I never read Nifontov,
and I don't like Blok.

-Why?
-Because of his promiscuity and excesses.

Remember, "Crowned with a wreath
of roses white, comes Jesus Christ"?

Why Jesus? What does it mean?

White roses are a symbol
of a Soviet wedding.

Excuse me? The white roses are...

A symbol of our Soviet wedding.

That's great. Thank you.

-Sergei, are you OK here?
-Yes, sure.

Pushkin, there's another interview.

I'll take him.

Nice to meet you. Natasha Rostova.

They invited me just in case.

-They say I'm a fictional character.
-Not at all. You're quite real.

Even better.

She is fat, and you're very pretty.

Thank you.

-Snezhana.
-Franz Kafka.

Nice to meet you.

I'm from the factory newspaper.

I write feuilletons
and work in entomology.

Are you from France?

No.

France is a capitalist country.
How would I be here?

Snezhana, don't trust him.
I know guys like him.

He's a regular petty reporter
from our factory newspaper.

He wants to take advantage of your youth.
Let's shoot this film.

Ania, we had good cognac somewhere.

-After the shooting, OK?
-After the shooting.

-Sergei, are you coming?
-Sorry, I can't.

-Maybe after...
-Thanks. I don't drink.

Thank you.

-Kafka?
-Yes, Kafka.

It's a weird name.

It is.

-Is it your mom's or dad's?
-Dad's.

-Franz, come to our place.
-Thank you, Snezhana.

It's fun.

Sure.

-Snezhana, please step aside.
-Why?

We are filming Leo Tolstoy. Please go.

-I'm Natasha Rostova.
-Please go, I said.

They won't let you be here?
Snezhana, stay. I'll talk to her.

OK. Just turn to this side.

Tolstoy. Go.

I want to talk about the great role played
by the Russian

and Soviet literatures

in forming the moral
character of a Soviet laborer.

A book isn't merely a source of knowledge.

It's a source of our enthusiasm,

of moral strength required

to build up a new society,

our future.

Lena, please don't be so unfriendly.

It's hard for me, too.

The short stories were easy,
and the novel isn't.

"I existed, I was thinking,
I disappeared like smoke."

Remember this poem?

You look bad.

Scruffy.

Funny.

Gogol and Pushkin offered me a drink today

but I refrained.

Poet Pushkin hates poet Blok
from religious considerations.

The Russian culture is all messed up.

Reality is mixed up with fiction.

And this stupid factory newspaper.

The world is going crazy.

Crazy becomes the new normal,
and normal feels like a miracle.

You're either selfish or very childish.

If you want to be alone, it's fine.

We'll get a divorce.

You are the reason for all this.

If you can't get published,
it's not an excuse to repel everyone.

We can make it.

Why did you fight with Yevtushenko?

You don't like his work – fine.
But why the drama?

I must be childish.

And I'm right about Yevtushenko.
Yevtushenko has stretchy narrow pants.

Do you like men wearing
narrow elastic pants?

With red socks and a bow on their heads.

Do you like it?

Katia!

Katia!

Lena?

Do you like it?

I don't like everything
Yevtushenko writes.

He has his moments.

-Daddy, hi.
-Hi.

Don't say hi, say "good evening."

How are you?

You need to decide.

Do you need a family or not?

Come on.

Will Mom take me for a walk tomorrow?

Yes, Mom will.

How are you doing?

Good. Alla got a new doll.

It's German. Almost as big as I am.

Dad, when will we live together?

Where did Alla get that doll?

Which store?

I don't know. Maybe the doll was sad,
and she came to her, just like you.

Do you want a doll like that?

No, Daddy. You have no money.

Mom says you are not pathetic but fragile.

Mom says you're very talented.

Why don't we go visit someone
and then go home?

Just a couple of hours,
and then you go back to Mom.

This is a new, unfinished thing.

"It's Saturday, and strangely warm.

The robins sing
as if it were a June night.

It's strange, because a day ago

hawthorn was scratching my window,

chased by wind,
but I wouldn't open my window.

Acacias were crackling,

and thunderclouds on fire
heralded the future frost.

But everything is fine,
and even the robin sings.

I've been plugging away
over the Czech poems..."

A collection of his poems
was published in America.

Brodsky is an old Jewish surname.
My uncle was Brodsky.

Anyway. Aronzon is a real poet. And this?

"...not that unusual for me. It's dark..."

How can one not like it?

One can.

-I like it.
-I don't like it. So?

Fine.

Katia, aren't you dancing?

Listen, Serge.

My editor says, "Write something
positive about electricity."

All I could think about
was electrification and defloration.

I offered to write about
a girl electrician. Smart, eh?

All these jokes are just
an illusion of life.

I humiliated myself again
at the editor's office.

We'll all get older until we become
decrepit greyhounds.

By the way, you stole my Faulkner.

Where can I get a big German doll?

How would I know?

-This is my scarf.
-Sorry.

Thanks.

Sholom. Are you sad?

I'm a joke.

My salivary glands are blocked.

My doctor told me to eat lemons. I do.

Now my mom has a sad face,
and, for some reason, my cat.

I've been to the Academy recently.

They told me again:
"Dear Sholom, your paintings are rubbish."

Sholom, it's nonsense.
Answer them with contempt.

Sholom, you're a good painter.
Better than me.

-Come on.
-Get Sholom some port.

Three writers without books. Sergei, hi.

Do you have money?
I need to go to Arkhangelsk.

They commissioned me
with this stupid article.

I had a dream about Brezhnev.
He promised to help.

Then I'm at peace.

Your razor. Thank you.

You're welcome.

Nikolay.

Did you hear Brodsky? What do you think?

So-so. You?

I liked it. It was a beautiful poem.

In ten years,

there will be no Mandelstam,

and this Brodsky
will be forgotten even sooner.

Why be peevish? This is boring.

Bunin is a mediocre writer, for example.

They all wrote gloomy books
about our country.

-Don't talk about Brodsky like this.
-What have you...

Please stop this vulgar nonsense.

What gloom?

Aren't Mandelstam, Bunin, and Blok
the jewels of Russian literature?

Don't argue with Dad,
or he'll beat you up.

Sergei.

In the East, the new things
don't contradict or destroy the old ones.

Not in the slightest.

Let's go for a walk.

It's late.

I'm tired.

I want to go home, you selfish man.

Get dressed.

-Sergei, hi.
-Hello.

-Do you recognize me?
-Of course I do.

We've met before.

You haven't read us your stories
for a while. Why?

I don't know.

Are you still writing them?

-Mom, come on.
-I am.

-Come up with something grand.
-Thank you.

A manifesto.

Manifestos aren't always belles lettres.
I'm trying to write a novel.

-I'm rereading Steinbeck.
-I believe in you.

-Mom, come on.
-You're very talented.

Why are you nagging people
with your questions?

I'm not.

Sergei. Come with me.
It was a horrible day.

I met an unimaginable woman.

She thinks Joyce is a foreign drink.

Is something wrong? You look pale.

-No, nothing.
-Do you want me to take a look?

Joseph, all you know about medicine
you learned working at the morgue.

Sholom Shvarts, a great artist.
Joseph Brodsky, an equally great poet.

Nice to meet you.

-Nikolay, another great artist.
-Joseph. Nice to meet you.

Sholom, don't tell Joseph about your
disease. He used to work at the morgue.

OK. We're out of here.

Dad, come on.

Let's go, Katia.

-Well? Where do we go next?
-Let's go drink some wine.

Wine? Here?

-Just one glass.
-Here.

Thank you.

-What's this?
-Chin-chin!

Is someone going to get me some wine?

This is nonsense. Come on.

This is ridiculous.

This is horrible.

I invited my friends to come to Leningrad
from the village I was exiled to.

They are nice people who helped me a lot.

I recited my poems to them,
and they understood.

But here it appears that
we are very different people.

Or maybe I'm different.

If I leave now,
nobody will ever let me come back.

We have only one motherland, right?

Emigrants are miserable people.

They are scared of everything.

You know...

I'm sorry. Is she heavy?

Sleep, baby. Sleep.

No.

I don't want to go.

-Go back to sleep.
-I won't go.

Language is the only thing that survives.

I think we are the last generation
able to save Russian literature.

They promised me a publication,
but I don't believe them.

-Your kid will freeze.
-Get on your way.

I'm not going to ask them.

Funny. I wanted to be a writer
and nothing else since I was eight.

When they sent me to guard prison camps,

I kept writing
among those convicts, in jail...

-You promised me...
-We even looked alike,

them and I, with our shaved heads.

Why shaved?

Sergei, don't go to these magazines.

What?

-Just never mind them.
-Dad...

Think about writing a history novel.

Maybe you'll find more sense
in great fates.

Dad.

Fine.

-Sleep.
-I need to go.

Why great fates?

Still, don't go there.

Joseph, where can I get a big doll?

Nobody expects it.

Go back to sleep, sweetheart.

NOVEMBER 2

The man who was playing
Pushkin lost his frock

when he got drunk by the end of the shoot.

-Yes, absolutely.
-Right?

Natasha Rostova, quite tipsy,
took a cab home to Kapina Street.

She invited everybody over.

Gogol wanted to go, but he had
to get his grandson to kindergarten,

and his wife is at the HR.

What a pathetic finale
for Russian literature.

-There used to be women, passion...
-It's not funny.

-I like writing about labor.
-Good for you.

-Hello.
-Hi.

Sergei, stop turning everything into
a circus. It's a factory newspaper.

Let's go to the editor.

No. A deep analytical article
about spirituality.

A few terse lines.

-What spirituality?
-Full of grandeur.

-It feels like we work at The Times.
-What Times?

The whole world knows it,
and I've never even seen an issue.

-Hi.
-Hello, comrades.

Sergei. Do you want to say something?

You ignore me.

I thought we would go to my father's dacha
and then to Bulgaria, to the Golden Sands.

It's a fantastic place.

Why don't you say something?

-Hello.
-Hello.

So, it was a joke, and you love your wife.

I thought you were in love with me.

What would I do in Bulgaria? Why?

Aren't you ashamed?

Sergei. Come here.

Please talk to him nicely.

If he tells you
to rewrite the article, do it.

-Of course.
-Good.

-Hello.
-Dovlatov.

Why are you looking at me like this?
Don't you see me?

Why are you always so sarcastic?

Stop being a decadent.

You need to rewrite the article
about the shooting.

What was so funny about them?
What's funny about Gogol, Pushkin?

They had suffered enough
at the hands of the bourgeoisie.

I read your manuscripts.

There are interesting details,
but the hero...

No clear goal,
on his way to moral failure.

You need to write real literature,
about sports, heroic deeds.

You have no hero.
You need a hero and an anti-hero.

It's the first law of dramaturgy.

People want to see the struggle...

for socialistic ideals.

-Sergei, look.
-Where is your hero?

I believe our society consists of heroes.
Every schoolboy is a future Hercules.

What if a hero has just come to watch?

He's standing aside, pondering,
living his own life, small as it is.

In our time, the very existence of thought
is heroism in itself.

Sergei, we need a hero.

If you don't rewrite the article,
we won't pay you.

What is this Brodsky poem about?

It doesn't matter.

It's impressionism, the essence of poetry.

This isn't that bad, but it's affected.

There's no educational value.
Who is it meant for?

"Is this a dreamy mirage?"
What is he hinting at?

We'd better ask Yevtushenko.
Or Antokolsky, Alekseyev.

-It's not for a magazine.
-I agree.

Why not Brodsky?

It's good for the magazine.

I hate rejecting Brodsky.

I told him he needed to take
an active social stand.

He didn't want to.

All right, this is it for today.

-Hi.
-Hello.

What censorship? We don't have censorship.
Good morning.

It's a wonderful poem.

Soviet literature journals had a rule:
lack of talent is unprofitable,

a talent is alarming,
a genius incites fear.

Mediocre literary abilities
were the most marketable.

-Hello.
-Hello.

-Hello.
-Hello.

Do you remember me? I'm Dovlatov.
I sent you my manuscript.

Have you read it?

I write fiction, too. I gave it to you
many times, but you won't publish it,

and the Writers' Union won't
admit me without publications.

You've rejected me many times.

I remember your friends
advertising American painter Pollack

at the literary readings.

There was also a letter
to the Central Committee about you

reading something with a Jewish theme.

That was silly.
I think you've made a mistake.

Why Jewish theme?
There were other nations, too.

We wrote about ordinary people.

There wasn't even any excessive eroticism.

-So, have you read my manuscript?
-Excuse me.

Why are we giving unpublished manuscripts
to schoolchildren who collect waste paper?

"The ship was sailing in the fog.

Absurd to think that the ship
goes to land, if at all it was a ship."

What is it? Is it a good poem?

Brodsky is a genius, and we aren't.
That's the way it is.

Do you realize
you can never get published?

What can I do?

Well... let's try.

We urgently need an interview
with a worker who is also a poet.

-Hello.
-Kuznetsov.

He works at the underground construction.
A simple man.

If you finish it by Friday,
we'll try to publish your story.

We also need a poem
about oilfield workers.

Excuse me. Sign this, please.

A sincere, non-affected one.

Write a talented, life-asserting poem.

Maybe we'll publish your fiction, too.

But without any double meaning.
Something bright.

-Thank you. Goodbye.
-Goodbye.

-Hi, Sergei.
-Good luck.

-Serge.
-Hi.

How did it go?

I don't know.

She wants me to write some crap.

Some nonsense.

-An incredible force.
-OK, see you.

-Hello.
-Hi.

Come on.

I brought you my novelette, remember?
Did you like it?

Don't worry. It's good. I read it.

I don't think Pushkin can do it.

We've removed one author.

-Hello.
-Hi.

-And the Strugatskys...
-Hello.

It's lightweight, right?

Sergei... This is a shame. I'm sorry.

So do something.

Look at this truth seeker!

Lightweight! Shit.

Can you believe it?

They gave up all the unpublished
manuscripts as waste paper.

It's people's lives.

I couldn't stop them in time.

Are they going to publish Brodsky?

They disassembled the type
at the last moment.

I am small-fry.

No, you are not small.

Have you seen King Kong?

You are amazing, Sergei. It's just...

Excuse me... Were there some of mine?

Sergei, you're a very good writer.
You are.

Excuse me.

You know, on the 3rd, there will be
a party at my father's friend's dacha.

You should come. If he wants to,
he'll get you admitted to the Union.

Make him like you.

Bring cognac. He likes French cognac.

Where would I get it?

-Hello.
-Hello.

The review is a disaster.

How much longer?

Don't whine. Talent and success
are perpendicular to each other.

Zhenia.

Joseph.

Hello, my friends.

Me...

Can you help the kids carry
the waste paper to the school?

They are tired, and there's a lot left.

You're so big, but you have no pity.
It's cold.

There's a lot of waste here.

Will you help?

Come on. Let's walk.

Do you have Remarque, Three Comrades?

Next to me.

-Do you have Three Comrades?
-No. Check this.

-Will you take this?
-No.

Hello.

-Do you have Steinbeck?
-I don't know. We'll see.

Hello. Do you have Steinbeck?

Are you looking for foreign books?

I have Nabokov,

a novel about an affair with
an American young pioneer.

It's indecent but interesting.
It was banned. It's called Lolita.

Do you want it?

We also had Solzhenitsyn,
but we're out of stock.

Are you new? I haven't seen you before.

So, how about Nabokov?

Call me Comrade Captain. Are you drunk?

-Excuse me?
-It's Comrade Captain to you.

-Me?
-Yes.

-I never...
-What?

-I...
-You were drinking.

-No!
-I'll file a report on you.

What?

I haven't read Nabokov, but I write down
everyone who asks about it.

I make lists and report to Frolov.

-Who?
-Frolov.

Frolov was sent to Africa
to protect the working people.

All right. Prepare the list by the morning
of November 5 and pass it to me.

-Got it?
-Yes.

-Did you get it?
-Yes.

-Give me a cigarette.
-Yes.

-Were there any Zionists?
-No.

-Humanists?
-No.

-Is Golda Meir a hawk?
-No. I mean, yes.

-Yes?
-Yes.

Good.

-What's so funny?
-But...

What? What is so funny? Sodomites? No?

-No.
-No? Go.

-Got it?
-Yes.

-Got it?
-Yes, Comrade Captain.

-Got it.
-Quick.

These are my friends.

Artists, scallywags,
drunks, which is a plus,

and sometimes talented people.

The one wearing a cap is David.
He is a huckster.

Sells imported clothes,
discs, and magazines.

He's a close friend.

-Who needs them?
-There are as good as our avant-garde.

Yes, sure.

No worse than Malevich and Kandinsky.

I can give you an album.

For triple the price? You'll go bankrupt.

-No, for free.
-David, for free?

I can lend it for three days.

No, thanks.

They should look through our albums,
not vice versa.

You betray avant-garde art,
making money off your friends.

I am avant-garde.

-Do you have brushes?
-No, I don't.

Don't take the pie from him.
The meat is overcooked.

-Where can I get French cognac?
-No. Hi.

-Do you have French cognac?
-No. I don't know.

The artists are OK. It's just our life.

No? Fine.

-Hi.
-Sergei.

-What is your shoe size?
-I don't know.

Is it 47?

What are you looking for?

-A washing machine. Viatka.
-I'm looking for Viatka, too.

The waiting list takes years.
I'm still waiting.

I haven't washed any laundry since 1969.

-This year's cognac is sweet. Why?
-It is.

-Are you from Yerevan?
-Yes.

I'm half-Armenian, half-Jewish.

Are you? What is your job?

I don't know.

Losing my mind.

Irony is good.
I'm studying to be a psychologist.

A friend of mine believes irony
to be a descending metaphor.

What is a descending metaphor?

Listen. "Her eyes are like turquoise"
is an ascending metaphor.

"Her eyes are like brakes" –
a descending one.

-My name is Arevik.
-I'm Sergei.

You must love Hemingway. Do you?

I do. He had no time to get to love me.
Got drunk and shot himself. Good for him.

One after another. Let's finish it.
There's one gulp left.

Let's jack a glider and fly away.

I'm doing some stupid things...

and dream about paintings
I wanted to paint and couldn't.

I'm a fool, right?

I could be better than Pollack.

I will be.

I want to be.

Otherwise, what's the point?

I decided to leave. Here, it's...

The songs, the talks...
You're nobody here, and neither am I.

Will it be better there?

Maybe it will.

No. You're lying to yourself.

Come on.

-On a glider.
-You're lying to yourself.

To a new life.

-What a nice day, right?
-Yes.

Shall we dance? Come on.

It's snowing again.

NOVEMBER 3

Now it's winter, and now it's fall.

Did you know that the Slavs called oil
"ropa," the Chinese – "iginol,"

and the Greeks and the Romans –
"petroleum"? Iginol sounds beautiful.

"I was looking at iginol without blinking.
Petroleum is mine, and ropa..."

It sounds a bit dirty.

Do you ever do bad things on purpose?

Baby, nobody can tell you that
but yourself.

No, I don't know.

Hi. Give me a smoke.

This metro line isn't deep.

Soon a whole new city will be next to it.

I'll pay you back on Wednesday.
I'll borrow from my mother-in-law.

Please give me two days.

This is Kuznetsov.

Kuznetsov!

A man... from the magazine.

-Hello.
-Hello.

Hey. I'm from the magazine,
about the interview.

-What's your name?
-I came to talk to you. Sergei.

Just tell me about your work,
about yourself, why you write poetry.

I have nothing to say, Sergei. Sorry.

It's ridiculous, you know.

They used to publish me:
Severny Rabochy, Vyborgskaya Pravda.

Even French socialists came to see
a man writing poetry underground.

They brought me cognac,
which I don't drink.

They were asking about poetry,
but I don't write it anymore.

My muse left me. So...

-Your muse?
-Yes.

It happens.

I have trouble with mine, too.

Sometimes she's rude to me
and humiliates me.

Why do I have to tell you something?

Why do I have to tell you something?

I need to do this interview.

I can't go back up without it.

All right.

We met in the fall.
She said her name was Liuba.

When I saw her... my heart sank.

I went to buy her a fur coat,
and then I thought...

why buy love?

It's shameful.

Then, at the bunkhouse,
I heard this sound...

Thump, thump, thump.

I came in, and it was Tolik and Liuba.

He was spanking her, and she liked it.

I thought she was different.

I broke Tolik's nose.

Why?

I saw in her something more
than there actually was.

So...

Did you try to spank her?

What?

I'm sorry, but some people like it.

I'll hit you.

I'm sorry.

I wasn't trying to hurt you. Forgive me.

I can't forget about her.

I wanted to marry her,
spend all my life with her.

I wrote a poem. The newspaper rejected it.

"Too much God." So what?

It's actually good.

Why don't they publish me?

Why do I write?

There's no reason. That's why it matters.

Listen...

Can I borrow your French cognac?

What happened?

The toys are left...

These little hands...

Come on, come on.

The front line wasn't far from here.
The Nazis dropped a bomb.

The kids were hiding here.

They were all killed at once.

In France and Italy,
they find in the tunnels

underground churches with columns.

Here, we have only ground
and bodies in it.

Twenty-seven...

What a horrible day.

-Twenty-eight.
-Nina Petrovna.

Twenty-nine. A whole school class.

No, they were too young.
Five, six years old.

A reception class.

Thirty.

Thirty-one.

Thirty-two.

They would be 30 now.

It has been 25 years since the war ended.

Twenty-five years.

Twenty-five years have passed.

Nina Petrovna, come with me. Let's go.

Thirty-four, 35.

Later, Kuznetsov and I
went to some boss's dacha.

He was supposed to help me

join the Soviet Writers' Union
and get published.

There was a variety of Party officials
there, both mature ones and beginners,

with their wives, girlfriends, and kids.

They promised someone
from the City Council would come.

Sergei, meet my friend, a writer
from Finland, a friend of our country.

-This is Dovlatov.
-Sergei.

A young journalist. I suggested
that he wrote about something good.

He doesn't want to.

He speaks Finnish, by the way.

Do you like Finland? Have you been there?

I haven't.

Have you read my book about Remarque?

An interview with him.

I was on vacation in Paris with him.

Have you been to Paris?

I haven't.

-Do they sell piña colada in your country?
-What?

Piña colada. I often have dreams about it.

Do you have kimbi fruits?

You mixed it up. It's called kiwi.

Kimbi sounds beautiful,
like a small animal from childhood.

Kiwi sounds too trivial. Hi.

Hello.

Trivial. Thank you.

It was nice to meet you.

Kiwi!

Kiwi, kiwi.

What Paris, for God's sake?

What Finland?

Why did we come here?

Hey. Just came.

Marry me.

Hello.

-See you soon.
-"The frost..."

-"The frost is singing--"
-I know you.

You were at the conference in Yalta.

Excuse me.

-What did he want?
-Listen.

"The frost is singing,
hasn't lost his voice yet.

The snowstorm's words are white still.

It looks so beautiful
when sky is talking to the earth."

-Is it good?
-Yes.

My dog is sick...

"About something secret and alive,
about the friendly universe...

where you are born inside yourself
in a sincere conversation.

Without pretty clothes and decorations,
prepared for the new journey...

you look at the burning logs
at this serene hour."

-Is it good?
-Yes.

-You really like it?
-Yes.

Thank you.

Thank you.

He's finally free.
He's the host, after all.

-So many guests.
-So many guests.

I prepared a preamble...
I should have come earlier and with a bow.

I haven't bought a bow.
I didn't have money.

Semion Aleksandrovich. Don't forget.

He's not all wooden.
He knows everybody in the city.

He wants... He wants a bit of freedom.
Try to make friends with him.

He will help you. You'll get published.

Semion Aleksandrovich. Sergei Dovlatov.

Nice to meet you. Semion.

Semion Aleksandrovich likes poetry,
contemporary literature, art in general.

I love his poetry since 1965.

Will you excuse me?

It's Sholokhov and I.
He gave me his autograph.

He's a great writer.

He spoke well of my poetry collection.

I'm not too keen on Sholokhov.

He likes it when young authors go to jail.

-What do you want?
-I want to join the Writers' Union.

I need it for publications.

I send my stories
to every literary journal,

and I've been rejected a hundred times.

I don't know why they don't publish me.
Maybe because I'm a Jew.

Why the barracks?

Why the camp?

I understand now.

You are gifted,
but obviously don't know much about life.

You write about some trifles.

To help someone, you need to believe
in them. This isn't for me.

Literature needs to be...

What can I do?

I don't know.

Just don't give up.

A writer needs to talk about huge,
supertemporal things.

Maybe we could write an epos together.
A Greek epos.

And then translate it into Latin.

It's different and--

-Take the cognac.
-No, thanks.

-Take it. It's good.
-I have a crate already.

Don't worry, Sergei. Come to my office.

Your office?

I'll examine your prostate.

Why prostate?

Is it for the Writers' Union?

A new procedure?

How about other unions?

The Composers'?

The Cinematographers'?

I'm the head of the urology department.
Didn't you know?

I just know people.

I like literature, classical studies.

Thank you.
My prostate will think about it.

The opening lines were...

Yevtushenko is a good poet.
He has a way to go, though.

It's actually good.

Let's drink to Yesenin, Blok,
Gumilyov, Pushkin, Lermontov...

No clinking.

-They all ended bad.
-So what?

-Kharms, Vvedensky...
-Vvedensky was killed.

I like poetry.

-What poetry?
-This cognac smells like a farm.

"And Schubert on the water...

and Mozart in the bird's hubbub,

and Goethe whistling
on his twisting path..."

I forgot.

"...the friendly universe,
where you are born inside yourself...

in a sincere conversation.
Without pretty clothes..."

-Anton, this is Sholom.
-Hello. Kuznetsov.

Anton is a very good poet.

Hello, Sholom.

Sholom is a wonderful painter,
but his works aren't on display.

This is Kari.

Right, Kari?

He is from Finland.

They brought him here
to show him how our people live.

He met with Remarque in Paris...

where we will never be.

Boll is better than Remarque.

Fallada, Günter Grass.

You can't get their books here.
I haven't read them.

Tell me about Paris.

Have you been to Moulin Rouge?

Moulin Rouge is vulgar.

I'll never go to Paris.

I'll die without seeing it.

Why don't you exhibit your works?

They say it's rubbish.

People used to mock the impressionists.

They are erasing us.

"The frost hasn't lost his voice yet."

Is Günter Grass a good writer?

They are erasing us.

Enough! Stop it. The neighbors are asleep.

Enough.

Go home.

You need to go to work early tomorrow.

You, stop it!
I'll show you how to play. Go home.

You believe that they are writers?
They aren't. They are riffraff.

Are you writer Dovlatov?

The General Secretary is waiting for you.

It's windy today.

Hello.

-Is she your daughter?
-I am.

Come on.

Hello.

Oh, Dovlatov.

Do you think we need
to send our troops to Pakistan?

-I don't think so. What for?
-What is Pakistan?

They won't publish my works,
Comrade Brezhnev.

Local bureaucracy.

-So you think South America?
-It would be more lucrative.

Everybody drinks piña colada there.
Hemingway used to live there...

on some island.
I'm not sure which, Leonid Ilyich.

I've read the first volume of your novel.

It wasn't that good,
but I made some corrections,

and now it's more artistic.

What do you think about Mao?

Should I invite him for a visit?

Would you like to write a book with me?

Billions would read it.

Is this your daughter?

Yes.

Your daddy and I
will write a book together.

What do you think?

Say something.

Katia, tell us what you think.

Come on.

Katia.

-Tell us what you think.
-What do you think?

Katia.

-Don't be scared.
-What do you think?

Katia.

Tell us what you think.

What do you think?

Tell me what you think.

NOVEMBER 4

This morning,
Leningrad was awakened by marches.

The holidays are coming.

People are already celebrating,
watching the foreigners suspiciously.

We didn't even have snow.

It came only in December.

Sometimes it starts in September.

TO LIVE, TO STUDY, TO FIGHT,
AS WAS THE WILL OF THE GREAT LENIN

Could you lend me 25 rubles?

Do you know
where I could buy a German doll?

A big one.

Nothing. I'm sorry.
You keep in touch, too. Sorry. Thanks.

Who are you? Hands off her!

-Zverev, Pavel. You?
-Katia, do you know him?

-I'm Katia's dad.
-Shame on you.

I'm Lena's colleague, a PhD.
I speak seven languages.

I'm also a boxing pro.

Don't make me beat you
in front of your daughter.

Get to me first.

Stop it.

-Hi.
-He's my colleague,

a decent man, and nothing more.

-He's a PhD.
-Outrageous.

Don't be ridiculous.
You should be ashamed.

What do you need him for?
Seven languages! What for?

I would have understood
if he were talented.

I befriend whom I want.
I work from dawn to dusk. Cut this drama.

There's no drama.

A divorce doesn't mean I should suffer.

-Katia, let's go.
-Daddy, give me back.

Don't suffer, then...

you selfish man.

Did you know Katia had a sinus infection?

I've typed your manuscripts.
Come get them later.

It's my business if I suffer or not.
Don't you dare call me selfish.

I forbid you, Lena.

Sergei.

-Sergei.
-Hi.

Hi, Sergei. They didn't get me reinstated
at the Arts Academy.

You know Zharkikh's and Arefiev's work?

Our young artists are great.

Better than Pollack.

Too bad they'll be devoured.

Hi. Have you seen Bob from Kiev?

-No.
-Sorry. I thought you were someone else.

-Say hi to Bob.
-Say hi to Bob.

Bosses devour everyone.
They did it in the Tsar's time...

and they still do.

Never mind them.

I had a bad fight with Lena again.

Could you lend me 25 rubles?

I want to buy a doll for Katia.

I can't, but you can earn it.
I need you to meet with a Finn.

He'll bring pantyhose, discs, and clothes.

You'll meet him
and bring them to the studio.

You'll get the money the day after.
I'd do it myself,

but the police know my face.

I'd get caught.

-Can you do it?
-Yes.

This is the address.

There will be this weird girl
wearing a beret.

She's always smiling.

Did I show you my Rothko album?

He's interesting. I didn't know about him.

I traded the album for caviar.

Hello. Hello, comrades, foreigners.

I wonder if you have piña colada.

Hello. A cap... Are you a spy?

Do you like Leningrad?

Yes.

A nice city. It's dark, though.

It's an old car. The engine is rattling.

How long have you been doing this?
Aren't you afraid?

Are you Dovlatov? I know your brother.

He used to be a huckster, too.

We were in jail together.

He saved my life there.

In another life, he would be a Rothschild.

A Captain Frolov caught him.

-He told me you were a writer.
-I don't know. I'm trying to be.

Your brother is a good guy.
You look a lot like him.

Too bad you two won't die of old age.

I can see such things.

Keep writing while you still can.

Leave something behind.

This is stupid and vulgar.
This is macabre.

Sergei. Did you notice he had lost weight?

All these monuments to party leaders
must have exhausted him.

Why didn't you bring discs?
I asked for Pink Floyd.

I also have jeans.

Do they sell big German dolls
with long hair in Finland?

It's not like here.

We have tons of dolls of any kind.

Millions.

We have everything.

Do you know contemporary Russian writers?
Solzhenitsyn, Yevtushenko?

No.

Did you hear about Mandelstam?

-Never.
-We are like Mozart and Salieri.

I, of course, am Mozart.

-Are you Mozart?
-Yes.

-And I'm Salieri?
-No, you're Mozart.

Excuse me. I know Chekhov.

-Me, too.
-There can't be two Mozarts.

One, then.

-Listen. Are these paintings yours?
-Yes.

You must be selling them.

They are mine.

Please give us the sum.

Here are the goods.

That's everything.

Is this awful or not that bad?

What is it?

Want some keşkül?

I'm Armenian. I don't like Turkish food.

What if we ask your Jewish half?

My Jewish half respects my Armenian part.

Solidarity, you know.

Sergei, you're a great person.

A great talent.

But this is bad.

Very bad.

Why do it?

It will haunt you. You'll be ashamed.

Don't lick their asses.
Why write this nonsense?

This is for... for a magazine about oil.
For money.

I can see that.
But there are other ways to make money.

Let's steal a car.

It would be more honest.

We'll make it.

We'll get out of it.

You'll publish your books.
I'll display my works.

We'll be old and pathetic.

We'll refer each other to our doctors.

I'll go get drunk.
It will be my alcoholic protestation.

I'll chain myself to the bottle.

Again? You're on a binge?

-What's so funny?
-The opposite of pride.

-Hi.
-Sergei.

Don't get drunk.

Hairy hooligans.

Welcome, Sergei Dovlatov!

Don't be shy.

-Nadia, don't be a drill sergeant.
-Come on, come on.

What can I do?

If our young people
listen to our pop music...

NOVEMBER 5

Come on, eat.

The soup is really good.

...it won't give any result.

Excuse me. May I?

Yes.

Boss...

I brought you the Nabokov lists.
People who were interested.

-Yes.
-Lolita is more dangerous than it seems.

-I think it incites--
-I told you not to drink.

-I'm not drunk.
-You're drunk again.

-No. I swear.
-You're drunk right now.

You are.

Here are those who asked about Lolita.

Come on, breathe.

You are drunk. Good job. I'm proud of you.

Can you help me get a washing machine?

Come to the office tomorrow

and ask for Captain Malevich.
He is in charge of domestic appliances.

If he's busy, ask for Kandinsky. Got it?

Got it. Thanks a lot.

Could you help me with a motorbike?

Are you out of your mind?

I...

-You're drunk.
-What?

-Get out of here.
-OK. I get it. I understand.

Thank you.

-Remember Consuelo Torres?
-It's so sad.

Sergei.

Sergei, it's the song of our youth.

You can sing it at parties.

"A bright star is shining in the sky,

and the drilling site
is in uneasy slumber.

The oil deposit is waiting for our hands,

and my country is waiting for oil.

A sudden shadow and an underground noise,

a flash of the exhausted mind.

I'm asking the world again:

'Why are we here? Why this derrick?'

Of course it's here. How could it not be?

It bears its energetic burden,

so that all those forgotten by the time

could wash their hands in the black gold."

Are you crazy?

-Are you a fool?
-Are you?

-Hello.
-Why? What for?

This is supposed to be a holiday greeting.

I can't do it... sincerely...

and seriously.

It came out funny.

Sergei, she's very upset.

Apologize.

Tell her it was because of vodka.

She'll understand. Her son is a drunk.

What does vodka have to do with it?

You need to settle it somehow.

I haven't done the interview.

-Hello.
-Hello. Come on in.

Hello.

What happened with Kuznetsov yesterday?

Were you drinking together?
Was it something you said to him?

Kuznetsov got into a fight yesterday.
He was arrested.

He broke the Smena editor's nose
over some poem about dead children.

What dead children?

A religious poem, at that.

Do you realize your poem is very bad?

Will you rewrite it?

And then, a story...
a bright and positive one.

I don't know how.

I'll keep waking up, thinking,
"What a bad dream."

But it won't be a dream.

I don't know
how to write positive stories.

Literature can't be positive or negative.

It's either there or it isn't.

Thank you, but I don't know how.

I can write good fiction.

I don't want to write bad poetry.

You're right. Thank you.

Is it a no? I don't understand.

I wouldn't say it's a no...

but it's not a yes.

Well, if you don't want it...

It's OK that you said no.

Have you seen The Scream by Munch?
Do you like it?

Maybe he visited
the National Economy Exhibition.

I don't understand this kind of art.
What is it about? Who is this Munch?

It's a single-handed protest against
the power of the capital.

Do you know our artist Ustiugov?

He's very talented. A factory worker.

Andrey wouldn't open his door.

-Open up!
-Andrey, let us in!

-Open up!
-Andrey, open the door!

Andrey!

What happened?

-Andrey!
-What happened?

Andrey!

Why, Andrey? Why did you do it?

Why? Andrey?

Call the doctor.

He's a good writer.

Why did you treat him like this?

Why are you standing here?

What are you waiting for?

What are you waiting for? Do something!

-Call the ambulance.
-Come on!

-Call the ambulance!
-He's dying!

-Call the ambulance!
-What are you waiting for?

Do something!

-Easy.
-He's dying!

Let's lift him. Easy.

Andrey!

-Andrey!
-Careful.

They wouldn't publish him.
So? He's not the only one.

Andrey...

Easy, easy.

I think we need to float out this ship

as soon as possible.

It was our collegial decision.

Our factory workers

decided to celebrate in this way
the anniversary of the October Revolution.

The management has supported us...

and we do everything to make it in time.

Our team is famous for its traditions.

This can become another good one.

Besides, we are finishing our film.

We used to be friends with him...

That's it...

We need to draft a statute...

Sergei? Sergei.

Hi.

Hi.

-Do you have matches?
-No.

How long has it been?

Seven years?

I've been working in Kazan.

It's a magical place.
People are different there.

You promised to call me back,
but you never did.

I'm sorry.

OK, never mind. It's no big deal.
How is your book going?

So-so.

I'm at a shoot here.

I'll have to go soon.
It's at another pavilion.

Banionis is doing it...

I mean, he's in it.

-The director is a foreigner.
-Whom do you play?

Whom do I play? I...

I don't have lines.
But it's a great director.

How are you?

Married? Divorced?

Remember how we...

broke into a museum
and spent all night running around?

I think about it almost every day.

Well, in fact, every day.

So, how are you?

They ordered me to write
some hideous poem, and I said no.

Did you?

I told the editor to go to hell.

Yes.

I'm trying to write a novel,
but it doesn't work.

Do they publish young authors in Kazan?

Do you know?

I don't know.

I don't think so.

You know how much courage it takes...

to be nobody and still be yourself?

-Zina, hello.
-Hello.

Write your hideous poem.

Apologize to the editor.

It won't be easy, but it will be right.

Thanks.

Thank you.

Stepan! Stiopa!

Stepan!

"You left without a word,
but my loving heart was my spy.

Don't say our fate is harsh.
No precipice will part us."

-Hello. Can I sit down?
-Good afternoon.

"Sit down and listen. There will be evil.

You'll lose your home,
your homeland and shelter."

We need to shorten it.

Let Ring 5 work.

I work until seven today.

Goodbye.

I'm fitting this poem for a Polish film.

To lip-sync it,
sometimes you need longer words

and sometimes shorter.

How long does it take?

The shift lasts six or seven hours.

Sometimes we stay late.

But it's a good job.

The sole tore off my shoe on my way home.

I tripped.

I used to think if I'd written
a novel I'd unite the whole world.

What if I wasn't meant for fighting
but for peeping into the time's keyhole?

To see myself, the world around me,
people around me, not writing novels.

Not stand on a rostrum, but just...

Sometimes I just want to disappear.

Now I'm here, now I'm not.

Sergei, tea?

It's very good.
Help yourself. There's the teapot.

Tea is good.
Everything will be fine somehow.

They called me for a talk.

Threatened me with jail.

-OK. Back to work.
-May I?

Hello.

All right...

"I can't find strength to leave.

The beckoning spirit

of the black winds..."

What's so funny?

I told the editor to screw off.

Screw off? Good job.

-Do you like the poem?
-It's good.

More or less, yes. Because I wrote it.

It's a love triangle, see?

I was supposed to sell the jeans,
but the customers disappeared on me.

Nobody buys the magazines, too.

I'm sorry, Sergei. I can't pay you today.

I can't sell anything.

They won't pick up the phone.

I need it today.

I was going to buy Katia a doll.

Wait a couple of days, OK?

Is something wrong?

No, I'm fine.

What if I give you my painting?

In 20 years you'll sell it
and make good money.

The impressionists
weren't recognized at once, either.

Yes. People didn't understand them
and mocked them.

Are you leaving?

I've ordered already,
and now it appears I don't have money.

Time to bugger off.

Hello. Happy holidays.

Economic Security Department.
Can I talk to your friend?

-Turn off the music.
-Come here, please.

Please come with us.

Follow me, citizen.

Senior Detective Major Fedorchuk,
Economic Security.

David Lvovich Vinogradov?

You are suspected in abroachment,

according to Article 154 of the Criminal
Code of USSR. Please come with us.

-Come, David Lvovich.
-Come with us, please.

-Get up, David Lvovich.
-Wait.

-Come with us.
-Follow our officer.

David Lvovich, please, let's go.
David Lvovich.

Stop.

Calm down, David Lvovich.

I'm sorry. It was so awkward.

What are you doing? You'll get hurt!

Stop! Stop!

You drunk!
Where do you think you're going? Stop!

Freeze!

Police! Where are you going?

You fool! Where are you going?

-What the hell?
-I'll call the neighborhood patrol!

How will I show up at the parade
with a broken nose?

-Stop! Come back!
-Freeze!

-You drunk!
-Where are you going? Freeze!

Freeze!

Stop!

-Come back!
-Stop!

That's it.

Sania, what's wrong with you? Sania?

Come here.

Senior Detective Major Fedorchuk,
Economic Security.

-Captain Obukhov.
-Your soldier ran over a man.

-I was just driving, and...
-What were you looking at?

-He jumped out...
-Where were your eyes?

-I didn't see him.
-He's dead.

-Take care of this, Captain.
-Yes, sir.

Where were your eyes, Private?

I didn't see him. It was his fault!

-You hit a man.
-I didn't see him!

-It wasn't my fault! It was him.
-Jail...

-What shall we do?
-I'm so sorry!

David Lvovich. Oh, my.

Is he dead?

He's not breathing.

Keep moving, miss.

Come on, Tisha.

Keep moving. There's nothing to see here.

-What happened?
-Tisha.

Young man, keep moving.

It's not that soldier's fault...

Poor guy. This soldier will go to jail.
They'll interrogate him.

O Lord,
rest eternal grant to thy servant David,

forgive him his voluntary
and involuntary trespasses

and grant him the Kingdom of Heaven.
Lord, have mercy.

Our Father, who art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name;

thy kingdom come; thy will be done
on earth as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread;
and forgive us our trespasses

as we forgive those
who trespass against us;

and lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil. Amen.

Now, now.

O Lord, rest eternal grant
to the newly departed David,

forgive him his voluntary and involuntary
trespasses and grant him

the Kingdom of Heaven.

Drink this.

You'll be fine. You'll be fine.

-We'll never forget him.
-That's it.

Lord, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

Easy, easy.

Lord, have mercy.

Now, now.

Do you hear me? Hang in there.

We're always there for you.

We won't abandon you.

Lord, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

There will be a new, beautiful life.
We are all right here with you.

Do you hear? Everything will pass.

You will have kids, a family.

We'll come to his grave together
to cry and to remember him.

And then your pain will go away.
It will pass.

Everything will be fine.
A new and beautiful life.

There will be a new, beautiful life.
We are all right here with you.

Do you hear? Everything will pass.

I thought our books weren't published
and our paintings banned

only because things we were
talking about didn't exist.

I mean, it did in real life,

but the authorities pretended
it didn't exist.

You look older.

When did they send you here?

Was it 1961 or 1962? I'm not sure.

Straight from the university.

It will be raining.

It's not working for you, is it?

This place draws you back.

I came back.

For some reason,
I always thought I'd be a writer.

I wrote stories about prison guards,
convicts, and a kid from Leningrad

who had been sent in to guard murderers.

Are you back?

Remember, I told you
a true Estonian had to live in Canada.

Now I understand they are all the same,
the soldiers and the convicts.

OK, I won't be a writer. So what?

I'm happy for you.

It's so depressing.

Give way!

Freeze! I said freeze!

Put the axe down!

I found a rock that looks like an eye.
It's a bad omen.

I often have dreams about the camp
I served at.

According to Solzhenitsyn, camp is hell.
I think that we are the hell.

NOVEMBER 6

Sergei, why didn't you come for so long?

I couldn't.

I read your article about our shooting.

As always, you were inappropriately
mocking the shooting of our film.

There's almost no sarcasm in it.

I didn't fabricate it.

Pushkin's fate is too tragic
to become a laughing matter.

Your insinuations about Gogol's
alcoholism are ill-placed.

I asked you to be elevated!

I don't understand you. I trusted you
so much, and what did you do?

It's a great movie,
and you wrote all those things about us.

You've spoiled the celebration for us.
Maybe it's not a holiday for you,

but it is for me.

Do you despise us?

Of course not. I'm sorry.

But they were terrible amateurs
pretending to be writers.

I respect classic literature.

Now I see. Sergei!

Are you sneering at us?

Why are you sneering?

-Happy holidays.
-To you, too.

-You promised us a sincere article.
-Happy holidays.

-Ania, what a nice festive hairdo.
-Don't touch me.

All right. I'm not touching anyone.
I was at the party.

-Thanks a lot.
-Happy holidays.

Sergei.

-Have you lost your wig?
-What?

Gogol is drunk again.

So what? We are celebrating, Sergei.

Why are you mocking us? What's wrong?

-Hello.
-Hello.

Our newspaper is positive.
What's wrong about it?

-Happy holidays.
-Thank you. You, too.

Come here, Snezhana.

Sergei. We'll have to fire you.

-That's right.
-Who's getting fired?

We'll have to let you go.

I know you need money but...
you can't do it.

Journalism has taken a back seat for you.

My advice is, go somewhere.

Maybe to Tallinn.

Maybe things will work for you there.

Do you want to tell me something, Sergei?

Do you have 20 rubles?
I want to buy a doll for my daughter.

Is that all?

Dovlatov.

Come on. Let's go party.

It's a nice car.

The Mexican consul gave it to me.

Three hundred horsepower.

Before I forget...

Write a novel about Sparta in Greek.

It should be powerful like...
War and Peace.

We'll get it published.

Come on, say yes.

-The Greeks fell victim...
-Hi.

-...to social Darwinism.
-Hi.

Want a cigarette?

It's the real deal. Imported.

No, thanks.

-It's outstanding.
-Thank you.

You can only buy it at Beriozka.

Semion promised to help me get
a part in the Sophocles play.

-Do you like Sophocles?
-Of course.

A novel about the Greeks?

In a Greek polis, an average citizen
would never go away further...

-Are you an author?
-I'm a reporter.

It's a shame.
I think you could be a writer.

No, really, you should try.

Write a detective, or something
about heroes. You look so manly.

-And these strong shoulders...
-Thank you.

You could do it. Give it a try.

-I don't want to.
-I'd love to read it.

Sergei, did I tell you I was fond
of classical studies?

Yes. Sophocles. That's right.

What? You think I'm pathetic, right?

You look at me like this.

-Get lost, you freak.
-What?

Go to hell, freak. Get lost.
Fuck off with your car and your money.

Are you an idiot?

And your chicks, and your dacha. Get lost!

-What are you staring at?
-Are you out of it?

-What do you want from me?
-Wait until you want something from me.

-What are you staring at?
-Are you a fool?

-Get lost!
-He's drunk.

-Sergei.
-You keep lecturing people.

Relax. What's wrong with you?
I said calm down.

-Pathetic, cunning people.
-What is this drama about? You...

Look at me.

What was that? Why are you doing this?

I... I understand you.
I know what you're going through.

I've been there.

I was in the same place you are now.

But I clenched my teeth
and got through it.

You'll clench your teeth, too. Look at me.

You'll clench your teeth
and get through it. You will.

Write about those ancient Greeks.
It was a wonderful period.

-What's wrong with you?
-Get lost.

-Sergei, please calm down.
-Go.

Go.

Go away.

They called me for a talk.
Threatened me with jail.

I borrowed some money for you from Liuda.

-Here, take it.
-Thank you.

You can pay it back later.

I often have this dream about...
That we won't live long.

It must be just a dream, right?

What were you saying?

Nothing.

You keep hearing things.

Van Gogh died in misery.

What does it matter if they publish you
in your home country?

It's all just... tribulations.

It's a pity, though.

On the other hand,
ice hockey is fascinating.

For good.

For good.

Good job!

For good.

What? Is there a hot potato in your mouth?

I don't want to go.

I won't be able to come back.

Soon, Joseph Brodsky would be forced to
leave the USSR under threat of an arrest.

His parents would never get permission
to join him abroad.

They would die in Leningrad
without ever seeing their son again.

In 1987, Brodsky would be awarded
the Nobel Prize in Literature.

He would die in the US at 55
and be buried in Venice.

Brodsky is believed to be one of
the greatest Russian poets.

What happened?

-What happened?
-Nothing.

Lena and Katia are here, waiting for you.

Katia is asleep already.

What a week!

Soon the holidays will pass,
and we'll go back to our lives.

Everything is so stupid and scary.

There's no end to it.

I don't believe I'll ever get published.

What's the point, then?

I'm not doing it for money or other
vulgarities. I just can't help it.

It's just me.

A part of me.

When you grovel,
you lose something inside you,

and one day it will just disappear.

Maybe I should become a mason.

My novel isn't working.

I won't get published.

I'm being sucked in.
I don't know how to get out of it.

I just don't.

Come on, Sergei.

I can't.

You can't become a mason.

You did the right thing.

Don't write this novel.

Don't listen to anyone.

Your books, your business.

It won't be easy, but...
you'll find strength.

You'll find strength.
We will stand by you.

There will be books.

Everything will be fine.

Hush, Glasha.

Dad, are you sick?

The dog wants to go for a walk.

What's this?

Everything will be fine.

I don't know when, but we'll be fine.

We'll get through this.

-How are you?
-What are you doing for the holidays?

You don't know? Why?

You look tired. It's hard for you.

It's OK. It's OK.

Are you guys drunk already?

I was telling him about your visit
to that dacha. He wants to go there, too.

Maybe he'll get lucky.

-Why are you laughing?
-It was funny, about the urologist.

Hi.

Hi.

-Hey. How are you doing?
-OK.

How is your novel going?

It's not working so far.

Writer's block. How are you? Your mom?

I'm working at a restoration shop.

-Hello. Arguing again?
-It's a friendly discussion.

I've always respected you.
In any situation...

I shouldn't have started this. I'm sorry.

-It's OK.
-Cheers.

We are free people, right?

Sergei Dovlatov's books would be
first published in his home country

almost 20 years later.

In emigration, he would reunite
with his daughter Katia and wife Lena.

He died in New York in 1990
at the age of 48 of a heart attack.

After his death,
Dovlatov would become a favorite writer

for millions of his compatriots,
being one of the 20th century's

most influential Russian writers.

Unfortunately,
he would never know about it.

Sergei, give me a smile.

Wait. Where is Dovlatov?

We'll scoot over.

Sergei! Get in. We'll sit on your knees.

There's enough room.

There's no room. Let's go.

We'll have canned meat with potatoes.

What are you doing? What the hell?

Look at him!

A big man with a tender soul.

Sergei. Are you OK there? Don't fall down.

I'm fine.

This week was over,
with its big troubles and small joys.

I was sitting on that car roof,
thinking that we did exist after all,

with our worn-out coats and leaky shoes,
drinking, constantly arguing,

poor and sometimes talented.

We were, and we would be,

in spite of everything,
in spite of all problems.

Also,
I was thinking that the only honest path

was the path of mistakes,
disappointments, and hopes.

The filmmakers are grateful
to the people of St. Petersburg

for their help and support.

Translated by Marina Zamiatina