A Hot Stone
Горячий камень
Goryachiy kamen (ru)
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Горячий камень
Goryachiy kamen (ru)
Year | 1965 |
Director(s) | Sarkisyan Perch |
Studio(s) | Soyuzmultfilm |
Language(s) | Russian |
Genre(s) | Domestic life Literature (Rus./East Slavic) Politics |
Animation Type(s) | Drawn (cel) |
Length | 00:16:37 |
Wordiness | 6.8 |
Animator.ru profile | Ru, En |
Description:
A boy, unsatisfied with his life, who thinks he can solve it using a magical stone, is told stories by the old guard of a collective farm, of how miserable life for peasants was before the Revolution. Based on a tale by Arkady Gaidar.
The directorial debut of Perch Sarkisyan. Mr. Sarkisyan, art-director at Soyuzmultfilm since 1953, born in 1922, died young, in 1970. As a director he was only able to helm two animations. This one in 1965 and The Blacksmith-Sorcerer in 1967, both in a very typically European-quality comic art style reminiscent of Paul Cuvelier and Hans Kresse.
The original story was written in 1941 (though published only in 1972) and can be read here. In it, the grandfather's story is more personal and less "political" than in the film.
DISCUSSION
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This one has an excellent first half, but I think that when the grandfather's story starts, the film becomes overtly propagandistic in a way that feels alienating in 2024. This could have been avoided if the director had simply stuck to Gaidar's original story, in which the grandfather's story has the same gist as here, but is more personal, which makes it more timeless. The focus is less on large-scale politics and the fight against "capitalists", but on the personal experience of a man who fought for what he believed in, suffered for it, but triumphed together with his comrades. And that makes it relatable even if the political cause is not.
Here's the relevant segment from the original story, translated:
— You, of course, thought that I was old, lame, ugly and unhappy, — the old man said to Ivashka. — But in fact, I am the happiest man in the world.
A blow from a log broke my leg — but that was when we — still ineptly — knocked down fences and built barricades, raised an uprising against the tsar, whom you have only seen in a painting.
They knocked out my teeth — but that was when, thrown into prison, we sang revolutionary songs together. A saber cut my face in battle — but that was when the first people's regiments were already beating and smashing the White enemy army.
On the straw, in a low, cold barracks, I tossed and turned in delirium, sick with typhus. And the words that our country was surrounded and the enemy force was defeating us sounded more menacing than death. But, waking up with the first ray of the sun shining again, I learned that the enemy had been defeated again and that we were again advancing.
And, happy, we stretched out our bony hands to each other from bunk to bunk and timidly dreamed then that, even if we never lived to see it, that after us our country would become as it is now - mighty and great. Is this, foolish Ivashka, not happiness?! What do I need another life for, another youth, if mine was difficult, but clear and honest?
Here the old man fell silent, took out his pipe and lit it.