“Kolya loves her immensely”: Tsiskaridze turned out to be a Callas fan

But then he performed more on “Culture”. And as he told, presented – you will listen. In his performances, magnificent directors, actors, ballet dancers and not so great ones looked visible, bright, prominent, and alive.

By the will of fate (and well-known circumstances), Kolya ended up on Channel One. He laughs with everyone else from the heart, and so loudly and contagiously. It seems like his boyfriend, but not his own. Your own among strangers?

Let’s not quibble. Don’t shoot Nikolai, he plays as best he can. And thanks for that. But give him a topic, his theme, then he will open up like no other.

And the topic was found: Maria Callas, the great singer would have turned 100 years old. This is who Kolya loves immensely, knows everything about her, down to the bone, down to the last line. She cherishes and revels in every fact of her biography. That’s when Kolya was at his best!

No, he didn’t pull the blanket over himself, he let everyone have their say. And that’s all – that’s putting it mildly. These are the wonderful Lyudmila Maksakova and Tatyana Vasilyeva, and musicologist Nikolai Parin, and wonderful young singers with a wonderful voice. The whole program is an explanation of love for Callas, but also sympathy and condolences for her. The little son died while still a child; his husband (second) billionaire Onassis betrayed him, seduced by Jacqueline Kennedy, already a widow by that time. Mary was both adored and cursed. Well, the crowd is what it is. And she left at just 53 years old.

Tsiskaridze knew everything about her life, and even more. He idolized her, mentally kissed her every trace, the sand on which she walked. Yes, in some ways he even compared her career with his own, but in a detached way, ironizing his beloved self. But he was great because Callas is his subject. And Plisetskaya is his theme, and Petipa, and Diaghilev. Because here he belongs, in place, his soul sings.

But what will he be like in a week? Let’s see Saturday Night.

BRODSKY IS NOT A POET

At “Friday” they started with Brodsky and ended with Brodsky. The circle is closed. And what happened in this first circle? There was Tarkovsky, Herman, Mikhalkov with Konchalovsky, Bergman, Fellini, Antonioni, Bertolucci, Lars von Trier and, of course, he, the one and only – Vasily Makarovich Shukshin…

But Brodsky is sacred. There is such a documentary film – “Brodsky is not a poet”, it was also shown. One of the authors is Nikolai Kartozia, general director of Friday. The second is Anton Zhelnov, also a master of words. The film is wonderful, taking TEFI in its time. And here is Brodsky in Venice, so reminiscent of his native St. Petersburg, also known as Leningrad. He goes with his friend Rain, who came to see him. They chatter, but their every word (his word) is worth its weight in gold, now you understand this very well. Here are the authors Elena Yakovich, now living, and Alexey Shishov, no longer alive.

It was complex and incomprehensible to many. But here with Rein it’s so wonderfully simple. A simple genius – does this happen? Extraordinarily influential in America, in New York. He helped Dovlatov get published, but when Sergei met him from Leningrad memory – “you”, he immediately said abruptly: “In my opinion, you and I did not switch to “you”.” And they started using “you”.

And when Vasily Aksenov showed him his “Burn” in the hope that Brodsky would promote it and promote it, the poet said in monosyllables: “Shit,” and forever put a wall between himself and the wonderful writer.

I saw how dwarfs, midgets tried to analyze his poems, belittling him in every possible way, calling him great mediocrity. Well, that’s why they are dwarfs, what can you take from them? After all, Pushkin was also attacked by every little thing. These dwarfs said: “Nobody needs Brodsky,” and searched the bookstores of the city of Washington: “Look, there is not a single book of his.”

Well, what to take from fools? Guys, Brodsky is Brodsky. It must be read, or better yet, listened to, because the way he read himself (monotonously, mournfully) is a song. Joseph Brodsky’s song, which you cannot strangle, cannot kill.