#Gagarine

[in-love-with-movies]

Gagarine (2020)

[yeong--hwa]

Gagarine - Fanny Liatard, Jérémy Trouilh

Gagarine nous immerge dans l'enclave désolée de Gagarine, cette bastion de briques cramoisies enclavé à Ivry-sur-Seine, satellite périphérique du treizième arrondissement parisien. Le film, dès ses prémices, archive l'apogée et la déchéance de ces monolithes d'antan à travers des métrages d'archives de l'INA, déployant une mosaïque d'émotions, d'aspirations déçues et de vies en sursis.

L'opéra urbain s'ouvre sur Youri et Houssam, deux jeunes acteurs de ce drame silencieux, vestiges vivants de cet amphithéâtre de briques, s'affairant à réhabiliter les néons désuets des couloirs communaux. Leurs péripéties s'écrivent en néon vacillant et en éclats de rire étouffés, témoins silencieux d'un environnement négligé par les institutions publiques. Gagarine nous narre ainsi son enjeu central : la résurrection, ou l'agonie définitive, de ces bâtisses fatiguées, déjà presque en ruine, fantomatiques.

Ce qui pourrait être le préambule d'une tragédie se transforme en épopée spatiale urbaine. Youri, le jeune cosmogoniste abandonné, trouve en ces murs lézardés une fusée d'argile et de rêves. Son regard est levé vers le firmament, un écrin d'azur au-dessus de l'océan de béton. Il s'échappe vers les étoiles à partir de son toit-observatoire, où, au milieu des antennes satellitaires, il écoute la symphonie céleste. Le son du film devient une respiration mécanique, marquée par des effluves de décollage spatial et des grésillements de talkie-walkies, instruments de la fin imminente de ce sanctuaire. Le visage de la banlieue se métamorphose, devenant un paysage d'odyssées intimes et d'évasions cosmiques.

C'est que dans ce microcosme en ruine, les résidents deviennent les véritables ingénieurs de leur propre destinée, tissant un réseau de rêves audacieux et de poésie viscérale. Ainsi, Gagarine ne fait pas que filmer la banlieue : il l'éclaire, la transcende, la mythifie. Il lui insuffle une épique inattendue, un lyrisme qui défie les stéréotypes et redéfinit le regard porté sur ces territoires trop souvent réduits à leur aspect le plus terre-à-terre.

Le montage cinématographique, intime et expansif, nous plonge dans la profondeur des visages, nous perd dans l'infinité de l'espace filmique. Il faut bien le dire : l'audace et la poésie n'ont sans doute jamais mieux servi ce coin du monde. Dans le spectre de la banlieue filmée, Gagarine fait figure d'exception, tour à tour brique, astre, télescope, figée comme une lunette braquée vers des étoiles bien plus proches qu'elles n'en ont l'air.

[fer-jiro]

GAGARINE (2020)

[woodtoc]

Yall have to watch gagarine plzzz it s perfect

[thererisesaredstar]

A boy shares the news of Yuri Gagarin's space flight with local shepherd (1961)

[yuribracket]

ULTIMATE ULTIMATE YURI-OFF

[fuckyeahmarxismleninism]

"I don't see any god up here. But from here the Earth is beautiful, without borders or divisions."

The first words of a human in space.

Soviet Cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin, April 12, 1961.

Thanks to Clara Statello

[sovietpostcards]

"Having orbited the Earth in the spaceship, I saw how beautiful our planet is. Humans, let us preserve and increase the beauty, not destroy it!"

― Yuri Gagarin

[vintagepromotions]

Soviet poster celebrating Cosmonautics Day (1985). Cosmonautics Day celebrates the anniversary of the first manned space flight on 12 April 1961 by cosmonaut Yuri Alekseyevich Gagarin. Artwork by V. Ostrovskiy.

[elbiotipo]

The Milky Way shines behind Yuri Gagarin's bust in Barskoon valley, Kyrgyzstan. Photo by Soumyadeep Mukherjee.

(source with more pictures)

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Nik flies. Ghost pines. Price... considers.

cw: hints of a future polyamorous relationship.

“Whit's he daein'?” Soap asked, folding his arms and legs as he watched Nik in the near distance.

Price looked up from the report in his lap, roll up twitching between his lips. Nik was pacing back and forth, fists, hands and arms moving in rhythmic, practised motions in front of his chest, by his hips, occasionally twisting behind him. But there was no opponent, only the imaginary one in Nik's head in the shape of the jet he was about to fly. “Shadowboxin.”

“Aye, ah c’n see tha’, sir. How come?”

Simon shifted on Price's right. He had been watching Nik with a palpable hunger. Even with his mask, the intensity of his gaze was hard to miss. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost husky. Like he was wading out of deeper, warmer thoughts. “Trainin’ exercise to practice his spatial awareness, coordination, and muscle memory before gettin’ in the cockpit. That thing ain’t his Black Hawk. Whole different animal. Second fastest jet in service.”

“That thing? S’massive. Na wey it kin shift. He'd ‘ave more fun in an F-15.”

The Foxbat was the size of a World War II heavy bomber — nine feet longer than an Avro Lancaster, two and a half feet taller than a B-24 and with a gross weight almost twenty-seven thousand pounds heavier than a Boeing B-17. Price had seen old black and white photographs on Nik's phone of Soviet technicians servicing the damn thing; they’d looked like toy soldiers scurrying around in its shadow.

The ride in the MiG-25 was a gift from Laswell as a thank you for Nik's help on a black op. Not even Price knew much about it, but it had to have been gnarly for her to pull this many strings. The Foxbat was fully fuelled and Nik's flight plan had been filed. Nik was going to throw that tank of an aircraft around the skies like he was twenty-two again, and he'd been vibrating with excitement during the walk out.

“Big man, big plane,” Simon murmured, “and he's got’a special attachment to it, even though it's a bit shite.”

Price plucked his cigarette from his mouth and tapped the ash onto the concrete by his thigh, considering Simon closely. There had been a change in him recently, especially around Nik. He spent a lot of time watching Nik - all out staring, as Simon was prone to do - standing close to him during briefings, finding reasons to talk to him in down time. He was flirting without realising it. Price knew why. Nik had told him about the hair incident, and asked whether there was any possibility of enticing Simon into a little more.

Honestly? Price had laughed at the time. ‘Better chance of gettin’ a gobby off of Makarov’ had been his exact words. But now that he had watched Simon around Nik for a month, he wasn't so sure his initial assessment was accurate. Even now, his body was enticed towards Nik. His arms were folded but his posture was open, upper back against the wall but hips in Nik's direction, his feet spread, shifting and twitching like there was something bubbling beneath his skin.

“Oh aye? Why's he so keen on it then?” Soap asked, giving Simon the side eye. The sergeant wasn't thick; he'd seen it too.

“Foxbat scared the Americans shitless during the Cold War. They got these spy satellite photos showin’ that beast, engine intakes the size of small cars. Big wings, potential for more maneuverability ‘an the F-4 Phantom II. But a pilot called Viktor Belenko defected and showed her to be a dud. Wife divorcin’ him, disaffected with communist society. In 1976, he left his sortie and went to Japan. Landed at Hakodate, overran the runway, shut down with only thirty seconds of fuel remainin’. Handed ‘em a brand new Foxbat and a fockin’ trainin’ manual to dissect.”

Simon rattled it all off without pause, and Price had to fight his grin to keep his expression passive. Well, that bloody well confirmed it. Simon had hyperfixated on the plane that Nik treasured. There were probably several more encyclopedias worth of knowledge on the damn thing in his head, ready to use with Nik later. That was how Simon tried to connect with people; shitty jokes and learning about them through what they loved.

“‘Ow the fuck d’ye know all that?” Soap asked, smirking. He'd sussed it too.

“I read,” Simon said dryly. “Try it some time.”

“Och, baltic, sir.” Soap sniffed, head tilting the other way. “So, he feels some kinda kindred spirit with Belenko.”

Simon shrugged. “Maybe. Or he's a fockin’ plane nerd and flyin’ that thing would be like the old man wankin’ over those Nortons at Bletchley Park.”

“Yeah, wondered when it'd be my turn,” Price growled, rolling his eyes.

“At least it dunnae need a drip tray and a prayer to stay together, eh?”

“Ya tolkin’ about Price or the bikes?” Simon's head lolled to the side as he spoke, tone rife with wry amusement.

Soap cackled, and Price slapped the folder closed in his lap. “Olrigh’, can it, ya muppets.”

“Aye, sir. Ah, look, mus’ be his slot.”

They watched the Foxbat taxi down the runway under the direction of the flight crew, their exaggerated hand gestures and bouncing completely alien to the three soldiers sitting by the hanger but clearly recognisable to Nik, who made a hand gesture in return before he looked forward.

Price returned his cigarette to his mouth, leaning back to watch Nik climb the jet as the flight crew assembled. Time to take off. Nik bounced a little on his toes before he hauled himself up to the cockpit, shoving the headset and helmet on, aviators still in place because Nik was absolutely permitted his cornier foibles. This was a dream come true for him. Laswell had outdone herself.

Price grabbed the ear defenders nearby and chucked another set across to Soap; Simon was already prepared. The engines roared into life, making the air shimmer with heat and power, and the big jet accelerated down the runway, leaving the tarmac in one of the smoothest take offs Price had ever seen. Well, of course it was; it was Nik after all.

The Foxbat disappeared above the clouds quickly and Price glanced over at Simon. He didn't move until the grey smudge reappeared against the open skies further to the east. The jet rolled and banked, ascending almost vertical for a stall turn that made even Price's belly do a little flip. It shot back past the hanger, the sound of its engines lagging behind its visible position as Nik pushed it hard. Price wished he could hear Nik whooping and rambling in Russian; air traffic control were probably feeling a little uneasy.

Simon never dropped his chin. He remained stoic, his arms folded, but his mind was up in the clouds with Nik. They both were. The difference was that Price knew he would be unzipping that flight suit later and enjoying everything underneath, whereas Simon would deprive himself for fear of being hurt, no matter how much he wanted it. Price hummed, stubbing out his cigarette. Perhaps it was time to indulge Nik’s curiosity, and his own carefully managed and suppressed feelings. Simon wasn't the only one who had denied the obvious for self preservation.

Eventually, the flight had to come to an end. Nik brought the Foxbat down gently, the landing gear screeching against the tarmac briefly as Nik negotiated the short runway. He taxied back round to park her almost exactly where he had pulled away from, and Price smirked as the cockpit popped open and a jubilant Russian bounced up with a roar of triumph, big arms in the air.

Ghost stooped down to his bag and Price heard the tinkle of glass as he removed his ear defenders. Simon clutched four empty glasses in his big hands and jutted his chin at the Foxbat as he glanced down at Price. “Comin’?”

“Lead the way,” Price said, grunting as he rolled to his feet.

“Ey, where's the liquor?” Soap asked as he followed.

“Mechanics used t’ call this thing the Flyin’ Restaurant,” Price said. “The air-conditioning relies on evaporation of distilled water an’ about two hundred and forty litres of pure grain alcohol. She's still got some’uv the brew in her tank."

Soap’s nose wrinkled. “Ye hae tae be jokin’. Yer gonnae drink outta the feckin’ jet?”

“Abso-fockin’-lutely,” Simon said.

Nik greeted them with all the energy of an excited puppy, gesturing at the jet and spilling in and out of Russian and English like his brain was struggling to come down from the sky. His face lit up further when he spotted the glasses in Simon's hands, slapping the lieutenant on the shoulder with a surprised, booming laugh.

The air crew left them to it and Nik did the honours. It helped that the small bowsers used to refill the air-conditioning system had conveniently placed spigots to tap the Foxbat-shaped keg.

“Poyekhali!” Nik said before he knocked back his mouthful of Foxbat bloody moonshine. Soap choked and coughed on his, and Simon grunted in discomfort.

Price grinned, toasting his own. “Za zdorovye, comrade.” He took a deep breath before downing the lot. Oh it bloody burned.

[omgellendean]

"It's been a year since I loved you," says the Earth, looking sweetly at Gagarin's photo. Illustration by V. Goryaev. Cover of the magazine "Krokodil" April 1962, celebrating the first anniversary of Yuri Gagarin's flight.

In 1962, April 12 was established as Cosmonautics Day.

— LadyIzdihar (@LadyIzdihar) April 12, 2024

[woodtoc]

I just watched Gagarine on en parle??

[thererisesaredstar]

Yuri Gagarin on vacation in the Crimean peninsula (1961)

[humanoidhistory]

On this day in 1961, cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin became the first human in space.

[cimicherrychanga]

yuri!!! miku!!

miku!! yuri!!!