#журавли

[silent-leo-rain]

[ruyanworkshop]

"Журавль прилетел и теплынь принес" – гласит народная примета. Журавли - символ счастья, любви и здоровья. Прилетая в самом начале весны, журавли являлись как бы и её вестниками, что не могло не отмечаться нашими пращурами. Весна, пришедшая на смену мёртвому сезону – зиме, повсеместно отмечалась и праздновалась у всех народов. Прилёт журавлей в период весеннего равноденствия, мог ассоциироваться с зарождением нового Солнца, с Ярилой. Поэтому, наряду с животными, символизирующими божественное светило у разных народов, в частности, львом, конём, волком, был и журавль. Возможно, со временем именно он трансформировался в некоторых сказках в жар-птицу. Недаром, слово «жеравый», несущее в себе понятия: раскалённый, жаркий, горящий, созвучно с названием этих птиц. Как пущенное со снежной горки горящее (жеравое) колесо, являлось и символом Солнца, и, одновременно, призывом к Весне, что бы та вступила на протопленную во льду дорожку, так и журавль символизировал небесный жар и одновременно призывал, своими кличами и танцами богиню жизни. Серьги "Журавли" #журавль #журавли #весна #приметы #счастье #любовь #ярило #руян #мастерскаяруян #RuyaN #RuyaNworkshop (at Русь) https://www.instagram.com/p/Cp10zgbt_FM/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[alexxx-malev]

Russia. Saratov. Memorial complex «Cranes» in the Victory Park Саратов. Мемориальный комплекс «Журавли» в парке Победы

[sacredwhores]

Mikhail Kalatozov - The Cranes Are Flying (1957)

[olgavelskaya-blog]

Памятная акция «Журавли» «Крокус Сити Холла»

[momokatzetzgo]

Guys I’m never gonna be ok again I watched “The Cranes are Flying” by Mikhail Kalatozov. GUYS DONT EVER WATCH SOVIET WORLD WAR II FILMS 💀💀 THEY WILL DESTROY YOU

[technolib]

История создания песни "Журавли"

В обычном селе Северной Осетии Дзуарикау установлен обелиск. Мать и семь улетающих журавлей – пронзительный знак памяти потерь одной семьи… Великая отечественная война вошла в каждый дом, в каждую семью Советского Союза. Практически не было уголка необъятной родины, из которых не уходили бы мужчины на фронт – сыновья, отцы, братья, мужья... В августе 1965 года, спустя 20 лет после завершения…

[whileiamdying]

The Cranes Are Flying: A Free Camera

By Chris Fujiwara ESSAYS — MAR 27, 2020

Among the film’s innovations, not the least have to do with the characterization of Veronica. In Samoilova (daughter of Evgeny Samoilov, who starred in Alexander Dovzhenko’s 1939 Shchors), Kalatozov found an extraordinary screen personality. She is striking not just for her beauty but for her unselfconscious, almost awkward expressiveness, so poignant in the close shots of her in the first minutes of the film—note the calmness of the tiny gesture with which she beckons Boris toward her. Veronica is in motion throughout much of the movie, and Samoilova’s face makes her flight luminous. If the film keeps the audience interested in Veronica, this is not just because Samoilova is so vivid and so good but also because Batalov’s Boris responds to her with an alert appreciation that never lapses into condescension. We understand his need for closeness to her. The time the two share on-screen is limited, but their moments together are so intensely acted and observed that they seem to go on much longer. Kalatozov heightens this effect by placing the lovers’ early-morning idyll in the empty streets of Moscow as a self-contained prologue before the main titles, as if the couple’s relationship existed in a state of timelessness. The director films Boris and Veronica from alternating high and low camera angles, so that the city and the sky, communicating directly, seem to promise unlimited freedom.

The rest of the narrative is largely built on the lovers’ separation by the war, which leaves each of them longing to be reunited with the other. The tone of the film darkens, and Veronica becomes a figure trapped by fate. The scene of her rape by Boris’s cousin, Mark (Alexander Shvorin), is formalized and elliptical: in a cavernous apartment lit by the flashes of an ongoing aerial bombardment, diaphanous curtains billowing around them, the two suddenly resemble figures in a graphic novel, exchanging intense stares and face slaps until Veronica appears to faint, allowing Mark to carry her across a floor strewn with shards of glass from the shattered window. The scene is immediately followed by that of Boris’s death at the front from a sniper’s bullet. The hyperbolic lyricism with which the film laments this tragedy answers the scene of Veronica’s ordeal: as Boris slowly collapses, the camera gazes up with him at a swirling skyscape of wintry birch trees, which dissolves into an elaborate hallucination of his and Veronica’s wedding. In the windswept gauze of Veronica’s veil, the ensuing montage echoes the billowing curtains of the rape scene, and the bare birch branches that loom over the dying Boris are turned into clouds of translucent leaves.

In the absence of clear explanation, Veronica’s decision to marry Mark appears to be a self-punishment. The film gives a twist to the familiar theme of the hardships endured by women at home during wartime by portraying Veronica’s domestic suffering as a willed self-victimization (perhaps in identification with the men who are fighting). In its last section, The Cranes Are Flying becomes a narrative of therapy, as Veronica leaves her state of victimhood by discarding the ignoble Mark. The film ultimately grants Veronica two worthier symbolic replacements for the lost Boris: the adopted child Borka (a diminutive of Boris) and the soldier Volodya (Konstantin Nikitin), who bonds with Veronica over a shared sense of guilt about Boris’s fate. Amid the grandeur of Moscow’s celebration for its returning heroes, the final sequence restores Veronica to her original place as an embodiment of hope, as she distributes among the crowd the flowers she had intended for Boris. Juxtaposing loss and recovery, The Cranes Are Flying ends by reintegrating its heroine into the mass of humanity.

The visual exuberance of The Cranes Are Flying reconfirms the earliest impulses of Kalatozov (born, in Georgia, as Mikheil Kalatozishvili). His previous career included two striking silent films, the quasi documentary Salt for Svanetia (1930) and the fictional allegory Nail in the Boot (1932), which were strongly marked by avant-garde aesthetics (and duly castigated by Soviet censors). He spent a year and a half in Los Angeles during World War II on a diplomatic assignment, an experience that enabled him to see Hollywood films that were unavailable in the Soviet Union. Although the book he wrote on the experience, Litso gollivuda (The face of Hollywood, 1949), is predictably highly anti-American, it is likely that Kalatozov was marked by some of these cinematic discoveries. (He apparently thought highly enough of William Dieterle’s work to steal three prints of his films, according to an allegation made privately by Dieterle’s wife.) The Cranes Are Flying is, partly, a melodrama, and the complexity, fluidity, and audacity with which Kalatozov approaches that form recall the peak moments of certain films by Frank Borzage, King Vidor, or Vincente Minnelli.

In finding visual correlatives to his characters’ spiritual states, Kalatozov had a priceless collaborator in cinematographer Sergei Urusevsky, with whom he had first worked on The First Echelon (1956), the account of a group of young workers opening up virgin lands to agriculture. Though not much more than a quaint curiosity, The First Echelon announces the stylistic trademarks of The Cranes Are Flying: relentless camera movement, jarring diagonals, a tendency to place the camera low or high. The earlier film also contains occasional bursts of handheld cinematography, at which Urusevsky had become adept during his two years of service as a military cameraman (he was one of the cinematographers on Dovzhenko’s 1943 war documentary Ukraine in Flames). He coined the phrase “off-duty camera” to describe the freedom made possible by taking the camera off its tripod. A whole philosophy of cinema is contained in these words by the cinematographer: “The camera can express what the actor is unable to portray: his inner sensations. The cameraman must act with the actors.”

Kalatozov and Urusevsky followed up The Cranes Are Flying with Letter Never Sent (1959), the chronicle of an ill-fated geological mission to the Siberian taiga, and the astonishing extravaganza I Am Cuba (1964). The two men’s joint body of work can be considered one of the great multifilm director-cinematographer collaborations. In Ugol zreniya(Dialog s Urusevskim) (Angle of vision: Dialogue with Urusevsky, 1980), a beautiful book by Maia Merkel’, the cameraman discusses his work with Kalatozov: “With us there existed a tacit right of veto. We didn’t agree on it, it wasn’t written down anywhere, but he knew: if I don’t like something, he won’t insist; if he doesn’t like something, me neither. Of course, we tried to persuade each other, we argued.” In working with a director, he said, a cinematographer “mustn’t push him, and at the same time mustn’t fulfill only what he wants.” He agreed with Merkel’ that he was never more himself than in the films he made with Kalatozov: “No one held anyone back, prompted, dictated. The graphic side of the picture depended on me, and Kalatozov attached great importance to that.”

With The Cranes Are Flying, the off-duty camera comes to the fore. Its unmooring is announced in the first post-credits scene, when Boris, having said goodbye to Veronica in the ground-floor hallway of her building, runs up several flights of stairs after her, the camera whipping ahead of him around the open well of the staircase. Mieczysław Weinberg’s score underlines this bravura camera movement with a tremulous passage in which the violins seem to be dashing upstairs as well. (Throughout the film, the music, too, seems to act along with the camera.) The mimetism of image and sound marks the stairway scene as a privileged moment, the better to imprint it on our memory so that we will recall it when it is repeated—but with Boris now wearing his army uniform, as if he had just run all the way from the front—in the climactic wedding-day hallucination.

One of the highlights of the film is the sequence in which Veronica, having arrived too late for the rushed farewell gathering at Boris’s apartment, joins the crowd of people seeing new recruits off to the front. The sequence begins with Veronica in close-up, looking tensely out the window of a moving bus. When she descends from the bus on the opposite side, Urusevsky’s camera gets off with her, and it continues to follow her, without a cut, as she winds her way through the massive crowd. Miraculously, as she dashes between moving tanks to cross an avenue, the camera, having managed to board a crane, ascends into the sky and looks down at her. Veronica’s urgency is communicated to the camera, which translates it in terms of the breadth, depth, and elasticity required to encompass an epochal event. Another visually impressive moment starts when Veronica, having overheard Fyodor denounce faithless women for the benefit of a wounded and dispirited soldier, takes his words as a personal accusation and runs impulsively into the street. The camera rushes alongside Veronica, who is seemingly bent on the improbable feat of overtaking a moving train and throwing herself in front of it. As she dashes up the stairway of a pedestrian bridge that crosses the train tracks, the camera’s movement becomes frenzied, creating a jagged flurry of lines that render her emotional state in graphic terms. Urusevsky’s undercranked camera accentuates the violence of the scene’s movements.

Kalatozov and Urusevsky also excel at a kind of camera movement that gradually unfolds an altered world. After the sequence of the departure for the front, the film fades in on a close-up of Veronica making a phone call. She leaves the phone booth to rejoin her mother, and the tracking camera reveals that, during the days or weeks since the previous scene, the streets of Moscow have filled with ungainly, X-shaped anti-tank obstructions. Soon afterward, the effect of an air raid on Veronica’s neighborhood is disclosed to us at the same time as Veronica sees it, in a hurtling movement that unites, again, the actor and the camera, and that comes to a stunning stop when she opens the door to her apartment to gaze on a chasmic cityscape of smoldering rubble. The virtuosity of the camera work in Cranes is so overwhelming that it threatens to overshadow the subtlety of the film’s sound design and editing. The early scenes with Veronica and Boris establish vibrant and discrete sound environments, in which the resonance of voices and footsteps is specific and emotional. Later in the film, when Veronica brings the foundling Borka to her communal apartment, to the consternation of the other residents, Kalatozov’s comic and atmospheric use of overlapping dialogue is as sophisticated as that of Howard Hawks. When Veronica finally reads Boris’s long-delayed goodbye letter, his voice-over seems to transmit the message directly into her head (her eyes look up, averted from the paper), while irrelevant swing music from a record played at the party going on around her provides counterpoint. The sound-and-image cut from this richly textured scene to the glistening, dreamlike whiteness of Fyodor’s hospital is an example of the many strong, expressive contrasts the editing creates throughout the film. It didn’t take long for the film’s artistry to be widely recognized. Released in October 1957, The Cranes Are Flying received a mostly positive reception from Soviet critics and was embraced by audiences. The following year, Cranes competed at Cannes, winning the Palme d’Or; it would be the only Soviet entrant ever to do so. During the late forties and the fifties, a number of Soviet films had competed in Western festivals and received limited distribution in France, the United States, and elsewhere, but the Cannes triumph ensured Cranes a cultural impact arguably greater than that of any Soviet film since before the war. Its importance tested by time, The Cranes Are Flying endures as a classic of Soviet cinema. Alongside Mikhail Romm’s Nine Days of One Year (1962), Andrei Tarkovsky’s Ivan’s Childhood (1962), and Marlen Khutsiev’s I Am Twenty (1965), it haunts the memory as one of the most brilliant works from a brief and still-challenging period of cinematic experimentation and discovery—a period it inaugurated.

This essay has been expanded by the author from one written for the Criterion Collection in 2002.

Chris Fujiwara is the author or editor of several books on film, including Jacques Tourneur: The Cinema of Nightfall, The World and Its Double: The Life and Work of Otto Preminger, and Jerry Lewis.

[17-sk-21]

надо мною небо рекою

Над головою небо - вода

Там, за рекою, там заночую

В небе журавли, в небе провода

Спи, солдат

От темна и до темна

Стало все равно

А война... Ну, что война?

Так заведено

[ayachannsstuff]

autumn 2023

комсомольск — журавли

[wesna09]

На снегу танцуют журавли!

Зрелище захватывает дух.

Танец торжествующей любви,

Лёгок и изящен, словно пух!

Ангелы спустились к нам с небес,

Закружились в танце неземном,

Замер в умилении темный лес -

Наяву танцуют или сон? .инет.

[alexxx-malev]

Russia. Saratov. Memorial complex «Cranes» in the Victory Park Саратов. Мемориальный комплекс «Журавли» в парке Победы

[sacredwhores]

Mikhail Kalatozov - The Cranes Are Flying (1957)

[momokatzetzgo]

Pechorin from A Hero of Our Time is truly just. One of the guys of all time

[inkncordes]

Поспевает калина пунцовыми гроздьями на ветвях, чей-то призрачный шаг в недокошенном поле примял траву. Я стою на крыльце, согревая синицу в своих руках, а над домом, прощаясь, кружат журавли и летят на юг.

Подступает зима нежным бархатом инея по утру, и земля, остывая, стремится закутаться в мягкий плед, так заботливо сшитый по листику — яркому лоскуту. Я сама оставляю в некошенном поле примятый след, будто ставлю на жизни печать, нерушимую, из свинца, и чернилами подпись своих небольших незаметных дел.

Я останусь не только примятыми травами у крыльца в том печальном мещёрском краю, что взрастил меня и согрел, как и я грею нежное счастье в руках у крыльца зимы. Я останусь биением сердца, стихами, звучаньем струн, я останусь дыханием, шепчущим вечером о любви, и мечтательным взглядом в рассветную вязкую полутьму.

Сколь далёки бы ни были тропы, ведущие в никуда, и какой ни казалась бы яркой бескрайняя синь небес, я всегда возвращусь, точно зная, что это моя судьба — несмотря ни на что всегда оставаться здесь.

15.09.2022

[ruscatontheroof]

"Cranes flew by" V. Shkarubo (1991)

"Журавли пролетели" В.Шкарубо (1991)