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Xanns BD sketch"

As always, the door didn’t open at once - a few minutes passed until I could view with the usual calm pleasure the pale greenish-gray walls (they were painted afresh some six months ago and the new shade was, indeed, even more attractive than the old one).
The fire was lit in the hearth, but the lamps along the walls, their oil refilled last night, hardly gave any light. But for me, the guardroom was still empty. This rarely happens: some or other of the royal guards are present at all times, or at least find a free minute or two to drop by. Today the girls would all be here. Perhaps even those who scarcely come by anymore, kept away by business, gone to distant lands and even to foreign kingdoms… It so happened that our royal guards are mostly women, from excitable young maidens with flowery names to seasoned warriors who wield sword and pen, and even painter’s brush, with equal skill… Yet, there are among us a few men – an officer known as Zloy, who, together with wife Irin, founded our union. But for their labours, our guardroom would not have been built. There is also our resident physician Dr. Boulkins, who misses none of our gatherings, but keeps quietly to his corner, and only at big holidays, a gulp or two for courage thrown hurriedly down his throat, he may burst into impossibly gallant toasts… I placed the bouquet of white roses I had brought upon the table, unfastened my quiver and the black longbow and hung them on a hook by the door. The walls were adorned with all sorts of arms, from elegant buccaneer swords to hyper-modern machine guns, and next to these were pictures. Most of them, as may be expected, lovingly depicted His Majesty (after a 2-3 day absence it is always fascinating to inspect new additions), but recently there appeared several landscapes, mainly from the next room painted blue and gray. It has a separate entrance, but the connecting door in the back of the hall always remains unlocked. I don’t know yet where tonight’s feast will be held. It matters little, though. Beside the portraits one could make out many an inscription dotted down while off-duty. Poems, excerpts from legends glorifying the deeds of the King and his friends, some amusing slogans: “Indian Runner to the Office”, “VIGGOrous Exercise is Good for You”… After a brief reflection, I picked the inkpot and a brush and added, “To a Glorious Future Vi-g-Go”. Surely, some more will be written tonight.
I knelt by the hearth, picked the poker and stirred the flaming birch logs. In a giant cauldron water was simmering. A bar just beside it sparkled with silvery lights, proudly displaying its meticulously cleaned bizarre vessels for mate, a bitter invigorating beverage. A good half of the guards followed the King’s example and developped a strong liking to it… Oh yes, I must put the roses into water. On the lower shelf of the bar I discovered a heavy silver vase. It needed no thorough washing, a quick rinse, and it is ready. Little wonder, fresh flowers are never scarce here. To pour spring water from a bucket, trim the edges of the cool hard stems with a dagger, arrange the flowers to the best effect, place the vase where it attracts the eye, under the loveliest of royal likenesses – perhaps, that one over there, in which His Majesty’s hand is risen in a joking salute, a mischievous smile playing on his lips – and then to sit at the table and wait for the door to open again to admit my companions, one by one. And to watch as the expression on the portrait and the gentle scent of the white roses seem to blow away their worries, everyday battles and skirmishes, fatigue, family and business squabbling; to observe how a dreamy smile and a soft shine in their eyes transform their faces; feel the warmth of the fire, of our mutual congratulations, and even more so – the warmth of royal smile – chase away the dank autumnal chill behind the guardroom door. Today is our King’s Birthday…

Xann,

(Anna Ioffe)

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"River Deep..."

Barely born, Love was tiny and awfully timid. She was slumbering sweetly on the soft feather-bed of the soul, only rarely showing her curious little nose and forcing Her to glance at Him with admiration. He was an enigma, and the miniscule just-born Love was simply afraid to touch this enigma, so grown-up. Besides, with so many pretty pictures and toys scattered all around, Love, light-minded as a child, could always find something to apply her curiosity to. True, in tales that little Love told herself before going to sleep, He, the Adult Enigma, appeared ever so often, but just for a split second or two, silently, as if half hid behind a shadow, the shadow of the Pretty Pictures. And little Love neither noticed this shadow, nor gave it a single thought; after all – can love think, especially when newly born?
But time went by, and – bit by bit - Love grew up. She still marveled at Pretty Pictures, but somehow they occupied her less and less. Then Love would become resentful and angry at those pictures, and sometimes would try to tear them up. But all in vain. And then little Love decided to learn to read. At first, she enjoyed this, but later she came across something strange. That something so fully captured her attention that she forgot all about the Pretty Pictures, which she suddenly found not so very pretty. Now, in the bedside tales that little Love continued to tell herself, there appeared more and more often nocturnal seaside and morning forest, sun-flooded desert sands and boundless shining-white snowy plains, noisy city cut up by streets into precise hopscotch squares, and an old abandoned garden wrapped up in beautiful untidy lianas… And in the first light of the morning, Love hurriedly read again and again that Something that turned out to be the poems of the Adult Enigma.
And one day she discerned in these lines her baby sister, exactly the same tiny and timid love, shyly picking her curious miniature nose with a slender finger, and wrapped up to her ears in the soft feather-bed of the soul, from which she sometimes stole a searching and hopeful glance. And then our little Love suddenly realized that Adult Enigma is not that much of an adult… And little Love started growing up rapidly. She absorbed everything that her half-sisters Passion and Tenderness taught her, she became a powerful stream capable of breaking any dam, a majestic mountain, unbending to time or wind…
And also, Love had learned a little witchcraft. She knew the secret of sometimes becoming again small and timid, wrap herself up in the soft feather-bed of the soul, and there, play with her twin from the Adult Enigma’s poems. They would spend nights telling each other tales, so much alike, and yet so different…

Elsker,

(Anna Ioffe)

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"Семь веков"

Those seven hundred years we have to face -
a whirl of twinkling stars, of flashing days.
Now singing strings, now heavy clang of chains.
Now sun in happy leaves, now woods in flames.
We're parted by the snow-sheet of dreams,
by cruel springs and falls with foaming streams,
and centuries I dwell alone and wait
for you to be my blood, my curse, my fate,
weed flowers breaking shields of ice and stone,
and all the roads you've passed alone.
The end of worlds and times, a haze, a riddle,
we've learnt to handle it - your blade, my needle.
A thread will ever bind us, not a rope.
And on the edge of doom, of fading hope
we'll share it twice - all journeys you engage,
my sigh that like a bird escaping from its cage
darts through the pillars of deserted halls
to hit the glass where endless winter falls,
and your uneasy dream though broken with a moan
when charming shades are swept away at dawn
in waste and lifeless lands where clouds and herds
stray on the slopes and winds steal smells of herbs
that dwell on rocks behind the misty veils,
a cruel squall that falls to tear the sails.
A holy flame is gleaming on your blade.
It comes to bless my stitch and breaks the shade.
A standard glows beneath my needle-edge.
We'll not deny this fate. We'll keep the pledge.
And from the mortal to the heaven realm
upon the floes, above the roaring stream,
that fearsome stream, the end of all the ends,
we now walk together holding hands,
my darling. And a smoke of fire climbs
to make a narrow bridge, a joint of times.

Those seven hundred years we have to face...
Like no and yes. Apart, in time and space,
by seven hundred springs, by seven hundred falls,
by seven hundred leagues, by seven hundred halls.
Not to give up. And not to go ahead.
Your sleepless nights become a fairy thread
that's twisted in my grief, my pain, my thrill.
And though the sand of times is flowing still.
Your age-old wait before we came to meet,
and all the paths beneath the others' feet,
are but an arrow flight, a twang of string,
but one stride from the winter to the spring.

Ksann,

(Lada)

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“Hidalgo”

But for two lonely viewers, the theater was empty when my niece and I went to see Hidalgo. Pity, for it is a really good film. Perhaps people preferred to wait for the weekend and spend workday afternoons elsewhere? Even so, I was surprised.
Viggo Mortensen is pretty much the talk of the day, and, besides, the last part of the Lord of the Rings trilogy was a major success. Yet, Hidalgo had been hardly advertised in my town: theater owners probably relied on the actor’s fame to do the trick and cut back on commercials.
Franchisers gained nothing, but the public, in my opinion, lost much.
This movie has all that is missing from our hectic modern lives: romance, adventure, true friendship, a strong and valiant protagonist, a hard-to-get victory and, most importantly, kindness. This is indeed a kind film that sweeps your daily cares away and leaves you with a light and blissful feeling. These days, you won’t find many films capable of charging the viewer with optimism and a sense of good. Unfortunately, commercial cinema tends to emphasize other emotions, with some exceptions, however, such as the LOTR. Of course, a tale is a tale, be it of an epic scale, and the success of the LOTR was largely due to the fantastic special effects and the titanic work done by the artistic and the costume departments. (Don’t misunderstand me: I don’t want in any way to minimize the actors’ and the director’s worth. I am myself a great fan of the Tolkien movie trilogy. The film simply mesmerized me, and the magical feeling remained long after the screening).
Yet, in Hidalgo, the responsibility for success lays most heavily on the shoulders of the leading actor, Viggo Mortensen. Charm and sincerity, his real personality traits he projected on the part, can’t but deeply touch the soul of not only fans of the actor, but any person capable of empathy and compassion. Despite a certain monotony of the desert setting, the action evolves with great dynamism and the script is generously seasoned with humor. The film is an odd mixture of traditional elements of a western with melodramatic lines, Indiana Jones-like adventures and a little mysticism. It has its share of pursuit, shootings, internal struggle of the protagonist, women in love, a desert storm, intrigues of cunning adversaries, and spirits of deceased ancestors who even magically bring a spent horse to life. No time to get bored.
Frank Hopkins is more than a classical cowboy figure. He is a man caught up in a tragedy and forced to deal with questions of conscience, morals, remaining true to his origins and his people. As such, there is something in him that can relate to any viewer, whatever his or her nationality or religion. Those who interpret Hidalgo as a clash between two cultures, two worlds – Christian and Muslim - are simply wrong. On the contrary, the film preaches tolerance, the necessity of learning about the other, of mutual penetration of different cultures, of peaceful cohabitation of various nationalities. The protagonist offers his opponents examples of ready friendliness, mutual help and the uniformity of the main human values in all the important religious traditions. His efforts are not in vain. Besides, the tragedy of the Indians depicted in the beginning of the film serves a powerful illustration of the tragic consequences of one culture being forced upon another.
I actually quite support Viggo’s willingness to openly proclaim his political views and use the possibilities his art provides, be it acting, painting or poetry, to express his opinions regarding current events. I am convinced that Viggo wouldn’t take part in a film if its underlying idea would be against his convictions.
Going back to the film, the axis Frank Hopkins – Sheik seemed to me slightly implausible. The cowboy-struck sheik as performed by Omar Sharif looks just a bit too naïve for an Oriental ruler and an experienced diplomat. The secret visit his daughter pays to the cowboy, albeit to escape an unwanted marriage and to secure Frank’s support for the cause, is a shade too daring even for an adventure story. Oriental women were bred in exceptional severity. After such an escapade, a young girl would be disgraced, and punishment by death would not be unthinkable. I think a daughter to a ruler as high-placed as that would choose a less risky way to communicate with Frank.
Well, and the resurrected horse is fairy tale material, of course. Suppose, for the sake of the argument, that spirits of the elders could put it back on its feet. But to gallop on as if nothing had happened, when we see blood trickling from its nostrils… And not to fall dead at the finishing line after such a dash! O.K., these are mere details. Aren’t we dealing with the adventure genre here?
All in all, I enjoyed Hidalgo immensely. It is yet another proof that Viggo Mortensen is a wonderful actor deserving the love and devotion of his fans. I hope the future holds in for him interesting and really complicated parts that would demand in full the depth of his artistic nature, the 100% of his talent, and not just exploit his good looks and irresistible charm.

Nadezhda Reznik,
Sevastopol,
24.04.2004

(Anna Ioffe)

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“Won’t You Be My Pony-Boy or, Viggo Mortensen’s New Toys”

An comprehensive list of movies and animation films featuring horses and horse riders would b a book in itself. “Hidalgo” is yet another addition.
Hidalgo is a horse, a half-breed mustang. Unlike the former films, this one ha a real story behind: it is based on the autobiography of Frank Hopkins, a famous cowboy and an all-American hero.
I shall save to myself any comments regarding Hopkins, for you either praise the deceased, or… Let us rather talk about actors, directors, horses, and such others.
A few facts for those who haven’t seen the film: it tells the story of Frank Hopkins, a young metis courier, son of America and a paleface brother to Indians. The young rider hears of the famous Middle Eastern competition known as “The Ocean of Fire”. Unable to bear the notion that he had not yet swept all the horse racing prizes in the world, Frank takes off into the desert to show those good-for-nothing Arabs who’s the boss in UPS. Frank competes with the best riders, and his horse Hidalgo – with the best Arabian steeds.
Naturally, he, meaning they (Frank and horse, not the Arabs) win, for what was the film shot for in the first place?
Along the racetrack, Viggo saves Eastern “beauties”, kills a couple of shahids,
displays the miraculous stamina of a simple American soldier, and proves that Americans are kind and considerate, with a huge, pure heart and a sensitive soul.
Viggo appears as the so familiar Strider; but if in the Lord of the Rings he somehow managed to conceal his ruinous lust for liquor, here he is revealed to us in all magnificence. All right, all right, Viggo was paid for this, and he had to live out the part. But to do Mortensen justice, he had also to learn the language of the Lacota tribe.
Horses are the one area where no flaws can be found, whether we examine the pure Arabian breeds, or the “American” mustangs. Five horses had been chosen to play Hidalgo, and Viggo even bought one of them, TJ. He is apparently on the way to accumulate a whole herd in a short while: he had already got him another toy, Brego, he rode in the LOTR …
Of other actors, it can only be said that they were not that bad at all. The Sheikh of Sheikhs was especially appealing. So were other brown-eyed Arabs, 8 in all. Pity that Jazira was not played by someone – let’s say, of a more Eastern type, so as not to offend anyone.
The director, Joe Johnston, is a familiar name from Jumanji, where he must have acquired his passion for wild animals.
The script was written by John Fusco, whose other projects include Babe – another animal lover. Remember Babe? A sweet but terribly ill piglet who deemed he was a dog.
All in all, the film would not be that bad, it would first collect its two dozen millions from the box-office and then get covered by dust in Hollywood archives, but for one major event – the war in Iraq, ladies and gentlemen! The links are too clear to deny.
A simple American cowboy sets out for the East – Iraq, Syrya, Jordanian lands… Wipes out all the bad Arabs to earn the gratitude of the population. Beats in contest the best riders of the East. Add to it an English (!) lady that would gladly defeat all the Arabs, but is finally left empty-handed.
Isn’t it a shame that the main character’s nobility may have such a simple explanation…

Kitsune, 17.06.2004

(Anna Ioffe)

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TROY: the Ruin of Troy

“Keep good relations with the Grecians”
G. Bush, Jr.

And I thought, but really, that I’d like Troy, why else would I draw my poor self as far as the Imax theater. But, well, it was all one big f…uss. Sensitive females were nigh on fainting around when confronted with such a horde of beauties – Pitt, Bloom, Bean, and the new one wasn’t half as bad (meaning Bane, that is, Bana. Sure, he’s as new as I’m a boy scout, but has never entered my field of vision before – his part in Finding Nemo could hardly help one judge his exterior, I mean, talent).
Great looks, little sense… Actually, when I heard, a while ago, that Pitt had been cast as Achilles, I confess I wondered what was so Greek in him – unless it was his wife’s (Jennifer Anniston’s) lineage. But, on the other hand, makeup can do miracles. So Brad got a makeover for the part (a great warrior ain’t your “fight club” buddy) and put on a look of a gym freak hamster – such lovely cheeks! – while wild fancy had been treacherously drawing an all too different image.
Watching Pitt standing by the fence and yelling “Hectarrr, Hectarrr”, at least in the Russian version, you almost can’t help saying, “Sorry, dearie, none such great territories, you’ll have to do with common little backyard like the rest of us”. In the same scene, I wanted him so much to show off and blow a horn, just the way our happy owners of four-wheel chariots honk at 6 in the morning.
The guy who screwed up just about everything he could (that’s Paris. He got it all wrong: pinched the girl, missed the fight, did away with his would-be-relative) as performed by Bloom is also strange, to say the least. I wonder how much dough Orlando slipped to Elijah Wood for his “mask of universal sorrow”? And he is just a shade too watery for a Trojan prince, be it the youngest one, born in a lean year…
Altogether, the cast keeps you wondering. I may not be a good judge of female beauty, but Helen could be just a teeny bit beautifuler. But let it go, that’s not the main point. Of the main point there is not much to be said: don’t bite the hand that’s inspired your script… Homer was laid to rest long ago and for good. That Greeks took Troy in a few measly weeks was a pleasant surprise, and I hail Odyssey for his excellence in translating from the kingly tongue to Achilles’ idiolect (and I had naively assumed that Odyssey had a say in the gang).
It is worth noting the discrepancy between the number of cadavers in the film and in the original – wasn’t Agamemnon supposed to retire for bedtime yogurt after the victory, while the cuckold Menelaius settled his scores with the deceitful Helen (meaning they lived happily ever after?..)
There we go, but the most disappointing shift in the “timetable” was the transformation of Achilles and Patrocles into brothers, though a much gentler bond united them… What scenes we didn’t get! L
And again, our sun does rise in the East;) Troy was partially shot in Mexico, and the cry “behold the sunrise” is followed by the sun in the position “the sun sets across the sky, Teletubbies say good-buy”, West, that is.
The general impression was that the film was made to cheer up American troops in Iraq – so what if weapons of mass destruction were never found, what matters is the individual courage, and let the kings figure out their problems for themselves. Bruce Willis would be just the thing, and after all, how did they manage to take Troy without direct participation of American peacekeeping forces?
I agree that if you forget Homer for a while, you may relax and enjoy the film. Only you can’t forget himL. Wouldn’t it have been better to use another story as a vehicle of one’s ideas? You go on like this and all the world literature will turn upside down… In the end, it doesn’t matter who was whose lover, but when they exterminate those who should have been alive and well… Clearly, they wanted to show that in a war, there are no winners or losers. This thought is omnipresent in the film, but combined with the pathos typical for the American movie industry, it degenerates into the following line: war’s bad, brother, and the bad guys who started it will “kick the bucket”, but the valor of the American soldiers, oops, great warriors, will be sung for ages.
Daria, 01.06.2004

(Anna Ioffe)

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S O N N E T(СОНЕТ)

Oh, God! Forgive me for my taking
Your name in vain, in everyday routine.
I vow to be meek and unaffected
But break my promises again.
I’m praying you for meekness and humility,
As grace I am not worthy of, at all,
Because I’m all – from roots and to my crown –
Full of this damned and sinful vanity.
Accept, oh, God, my gratitude to you
For letting me try many of temptations,
Thanks that you haven’t filled my days with sorrow
And have not sent me punishments, too strict,
For letting me cognize the verse’s harmony
And that I’ve not experienced the envy.

(Ludmila Reznik)