THIS interview formed the basis of our
documentary portrait, Parajanov, A Requiem (1994). The
American spelling of "Parajanov" is used, instead of the British-French
"Paradjanov," to differentiate this documentary from a dozen others made
on the Armenia-Georgian director. The interview took place on 1 July 1988
in his hotel room on the morning before the world premiere of Ashik
Kerib at the Filmfest M¨¹nchen. Parajanov was always aware of the tasks
facing the cameraman; accordingly, he would shorten or lengthen his
answers to keep the interview flowing. His last speech on the stage of the
Carl-Orff-Hall is added because be was actually speaking to the camera on
this occasion.
Since Parajanov makes frequent references to his films, I have
included a brief bio/filmography at the end of this interview. On
occasion, I have inserted extra production dates, first names, and term
explanations in the text to prevent needless reference delay. However, the
reader should be aware that Parajanov often speaks in visual terms; thus,
certain words -- artistismus," "pathology," "cardiogram," "biblical,"
"plastic" -- have special meaning to him alone. Also, his references to
the "Soviet Avant-Garde," "Socialist Realism," and "Socialist Neorealism"
contradict definitions in both Soviet and Western film lexicons; in my
opinion, his viewpoints are more accurate and reliable indices of the
times.
Lastly, this interview was originally planned as the first half
of a 90-minute documentary. The second half was to chronicle the shooting
of Confession at his home in Tbilisi, a project he delayed until
June of 1989, and then was not able to complete. We view this interview as
complementary material to our 57-minute documentary on Parajanov, to which
the subtitle A Requiem was added for the screenings at the Los
Angeles and Venice film festivals.
Ron and Dorothea Holloway, Berlin, 8 December
1995
Holloway: Sergei, how did you become a film director?
Parajanov: I believe you have to be born a director. It's like a
child's adventure: you take the initiative among other children and become
a director, creating a mystery. You mould things into shape and create.
You torment people with your "artistismus" - scaring mother and
grandmother in the middle of the night. You dress yourself up like
Charlie's Aunt, or as (Hans Christian) Andersen's heroes. Using feathers
from a trunk, you transform yourself into a rooster or a firebird. This
has always preoccupied me, and that is what directing is.
A director can't be trained, not even in a film school like VGIK
(Soviet All-Union State School for Film Art and Cinematography). You can't
learn it. You have to be born with it. You have to possess it in your
mother's womb. Your mother must be an actress, so you can inherit it. Both
my mother and father were artistically gifted.
What was your diploma film at VGIK about?
It was a short children's film: Moldavian Fairy Tale(1951).
After (Alexander) Dovzhenko saw it, he said: "Let's see it again." For the
first time in the history of VGIK, the examination board decided to watch
a diploma film twice. (Rostoslav) Yurenev, now a successful film and art
critic, said: "Parajanov has copied Dovzhenko. It is monumental and epic.
Parajanov has seen Zvenigora(1928)."
Dovzhenko said: "You loudmouth! Sit down and listen to me. He hasn't
seen Zvenigora." Then he said: "Where are you, young man?" I
stood up, and he asked: "To tell the truth, have you seen
Zvenigora?" I said: "No." "See, that's just nonsense!" Yurenev
wasn't very well known at that time. He was a slim, slightly built young
man, who ran from director to director.
Probably, my diploma film was pretty close to what I was prepared to
bring to expression as a film director.
But your diploma film is lost...
No. It's at home.
Then why it isn't shown here in the retrospective?
I simply forgot It. Only Andriesh, the longer version was shown here --
not to children, unfortunately, but to an adult audience.
What was it like in the courses conducted by Alexander Dovzhenko
and Igor Savchenko?
Dovzhenko and Savchenko were enemies. They were always fighting, didn't
get along. Both were talented, prominent, exceptional. One worked in the
style of the Polish painter (Jan) Matejko, experimenting with Renaissance
styles. The other depicted an apple, an old man death, a stork that comes
and flies away -- his art drew upon his epic childhood. And the clash of
this aesthete with that archaic god-of-the-prophets provoked conflicts in
Dovzhenko's studio.
Savchenko died young: he was only 43 years old. And lying in his coffin
he looked like an old man. We have now survived him by 20 years. His
students are older than their teacher was: (Vladimir) Naumow is 60 and I
am 64. We've outlived him by 20 years. The loss of Savchenko grieved
Dovzhenko to the depth of his soul. He took charge of our examinations and
signed our diplomas. He was very generous. He was particularly
enthusiastic about (Alexander) Alov and Naumov and the late (Felix)
Mironer.
It appears that VGIK was packed with talent at that
time.
There were several interesting people among us -- including, of course,
Dovzhenko. I grieve for the dead, my fellow students. Four are no longer
with us. We recently gathered together, set four empty plates on the
table, like four candles, and thought of our friends who have left us:
Alov, who spent his life filming with Naumov; Mironer, who made with
(Marlen) Khutsiev Spring on Zarechnaya Street (1956); Grisha
(Grigori) Aronov; and Seva (Vsevolod) Voronin. Four friends have left us,
and who knows who will be next.
We were chosen by Savchenko, a gifted man. He loved and idolized us.
And he inspired us. He waited for the day when we would perform a miracle.
He was very happy when Khutsiev and Mironer signed a contract with GLKVK
(Soviet All-State Film Distribution agency) for their first screenplay,
Spring on Zarechnaya Street (1956). He drove with them in his
"Mercedes" down Gorky Prospekt with the top down. They bought new socks,
Khutsiev said. Savchenko made them take off their ragged socks, right
there in the car. They threw them out of the car and put on new ones. Not
only were they students, but filmmakers with money too.
Alov and Naumov co-directed Restless Youth (1958) and
Pavel Korchagin (1957), also The Wind(1958). They
pioneered the Avant-Garde.
What is film direction for you? Real life? A dream? A
mystery?
Directing is fundamentally the truth as it's transformed into images:
sorrow, hope, love, beauty. Sometimes I tell others the stories in my
screenplays, and I ask: "Did I make it up, or is it the truth?" Everyone
says: "It's made up." No, it's simply the truth as I perceive it.
Your first films were made in a realistic vein. What made
you change your style?
I could work pretty much to my own satisfaction in those days. The
times were realistic: the generation, the background, the canvas on which
I worked.
I worked and suffered, under three despots. The despots were in the
Kremlin. And today perestroika is seeking to become the cardiogram of the
times. Perhaps, one day, a book will appear dealing with all those years,
something like a cardiogram. As Stalin was on his way up, he lowered the
price of socks. And people were content; socks were two kopeks cheaper.
Every six months he would drop the price of socks and undershirts. But the
price of bread didn't change. A cardiogram...
The Soviet films of that era -- and not just mine -- are like a
cardiogram of terror. They are cardiograms of fear. The fear of losing
your film, the fear of starving. You feared for your work
Are you a filmmaker? Or a graphic artist?
I'm a graphic artist and a director who seeks to shape images.
Savchenko, our mentor, encouraged us to sketch our thoughts -- and give
them plastic form. We all had to draw our thoughts at the film school. For
the entrance examination we were brought to a room and told: "Draw
whatever you like..."
Are you pleased with the reception your graphic work
received here at the Filmfest M¨¹nchen?
I'm very happy they are showing some of my work here in a workshop
exhibition: my style of wall-exhibition, some wall-plates. I brought along
about 20 works -- not very many, but enough to form an opinion. Among
these is one with a bouquet of flowers, a collage dedicated to the mothers
of Munich who lost their sons in the war. It's a bouquet of flowers placed
upon a mirror -- a rather uncommon motif. For mothers who, like Soviet
mothers, suffered terribly in the last war.
I'm taking some pictures, some really remarkable pictures, back home
with me. I was invited to the Greek Orthodox (Ukrainian Uniate) church
here in Munich. I attended the service and talked to the priest -- and on
the wall of the clubroom they had a small exhibition of drawings by
children. They had drawn the royal couple Prince Vladimir and Princess
Olga. All the drawings dealt with this theme: wonderful, primitive
drawings. They break the rules of Socialist Realism. Even Prince Vladimir
is shown the way he was: lame and short-legged. They are delightful
drawings. They are my best souvenirs from Germany, these children's
drawings.
What do you mean by "artistismus?"
I can't help it: I idolize Lenin. As a director, I have to admire his
artistismus: his artistic impulses, his abilities as a speaker. His brain
was magnificent, gigantic like that of a prophet. The world wasn't large
enough for him. His artistismus once compelled him to climb onto an
armoured car, as if it were a stage. He stood there like a monolith; he
was a born actor. I appreciate artistismus, artistic talent. Politicians,
friends, anyone can have talent.
I don't like sleepy people. Brezhnev tried to act on my behalf, he
tried to set me free, but he was asleep. We need gifted speakers. We like
artistismus. We like politicians who speak without using notes. We like it
when their wives stand by their sides. But certain circles dislike it if a
woman stands at a politician's side. An intelligent and gifted woman. Our
leaders were not used to that, they used to hide their wives away. These
women were monsters, pathological monsters. I know what I am talking
about.
Look how lovely and attractive the foreign minister's (Eduard
Shevardnadze) wife is, although she's only present and never says a word.
She comes from the Caucasus. This woman knows how to wear a hat. As a
director I pay close attention to things like that. A hat is a sign of
quality, of artistismus, an indication of artistic leanings. Above all,
it's a sign of etiquette.
What does
Socialist Realism mean to you?
Socialist Realism can't really be defined. It's not an encyclopedic
concept. It exists only in our books. How can Socialist Realism be used as
a label for films such as (Sergei and Georgi Vasiliev's) Chapayev
(1934), for (Grigori Kozintsev and Leonid Trauberg's) The Youth of
Maxim(1935) or The Vyborg Side (1939), for (Mark) Donskoy's
Rainbow (1944) or She Defended Her Country (1945)? What
about our stirring documentaries? Was that Socialist Realism? That was our
film renaissance to shake the world!
But the Personality Cult put a halt to it. We had to extol to the
heavens the imperium, the regime of the evil despots. Talented directors
sold their souls making such films: (Mikhail Chiaureli's) The Vow
(1946) and The Fall of Berlin (1949), were submissive works by
court artists. The time has come to condemn them outright.
Why did Mikhail Chiaureli, who was recognized as an exceptional
Georgian filmmaker, become Stalin's screen bard?
Some artists could sell themselves, as Chiaureli and (Vladimir) Petrov
did. Others were in official positions. They were the "brain-power" people
who filled offices, like (Mikhail) Bleiman and (Grigori) Zheldovich did.
Although talented, they nonetheless ran our cinematography into the ground
-- and our leading film personalities along with it.
So the great (Sergei) Eisenstein died with only an iota of his
potential fulfilled. The great (Mikhail) Romm died, intimidated and
shattered. Even Donskoy, the founder of the school of Soviet neorealism,
who made Rainbow and The Unvanquished, could not develop
his potential. That's a terrible tragedy.
Socialist Realism as a term is well known, but Soviet
Neorealism?
There are no books or journals or conferences dealing with those times.
Everyone is silent. And it may all be forgotten by the next generation. Or
an enthusiast will write about it, drawing upon this period in the
archives. Should I ever open my own archive, you will find there three
prison sentences stripping me of my freedom. And a court condemnation of
me as a surrealist who sees the social structure as a chimera. As if I
were a chimera perched on top of Notre Dame, with a huge snout and massive
hooves, who looks out over the city of Paris. I was such a chimera, who
looked out and envied the coming of a new day.
How many films did you make in the Ukraine?
I had made eight films in the Ukraine. My ninth film was Shadows of
Our Forgotten Ancestors(1964). That's when I found my theme, my field
of interest: the problems faced by the people. I focused on ethnography,
on God, on love and tragedy. That's what literature and film are to me.
After I made this film, tragedy struck.
What happened at the office of the Soviet film ministry when
they saw Shadows of Our Forgotten Ancestors?
When officials saw the film, they understood it broke the principles of
Socialist Realism and the social rubbish that ruled our cinematography at
that time. But they could do nothing because it was too late: two days
later, (Mikhail) Kotsyubinsky had his jubilee. It was his centenary. So
they said: "Let him go ahead and show his film." The film was released.
They could ban it later on. And then they would somehow be finished with
the whole affair.
But when the intelligentsia saw it, they were moved. The film caused a
chain reaction of unrest. The ministry asked me to make a Russian version.
The film was not only shot in the Ukrainian language, but it was also in
the Hutsul dialect. They asked me to dub the film in Russian. But I turned
then down categorically.
Then you left the Ukraine to make Sayat Nova in
Armenia...
I like that film very much. I am proud of It. In the first place, I am
proud that it didn't win a Golden Lion or a Silver Peacock.
That's one thing. The other is that I had to make the film under the
most difficult conditions. I had no technical pre-requisites, no Kodak
material, no processing of the film stock in Moscow. I had absolutely
nothing. I had neither enough lighting, nor a wind-machine, nor any
possibility for special effects. Nevertheless, the quality of the film is
indisputable.
The results were the appearance of a primitive realistic milieu, like
in a typical village or the average steppe. Little turkeys made to look
like little turkeys... a fairy tale moulded from a real situation...
different ways to give the impression of "hyper-realism." If I needed a
tiger, then I would make a tiger out of a toy -- and it would have more
effect than a real tiger would have. A rag tiger to frighten the hero
would be more interesting.
Would you agree that Sayat Nova (1966) is a
"film of the Caucasus?"
I think Sayat Nova is like a Persian jewelry case. On the
outside its beauty fills the eyes; you see the fine miniatures. Then you
open it, and inside you see still more Persian accessories.
It's like this: My hero's mother made 15 Kurdish skirts for us. She's a
Kurd who works, who clears the streets, who works as a housekeeper. These
frilled skirts are first drawn over the head and then draped over the
arms. The effect is like a Pasolini film. I don't want to hide that, I
want to underscore it.
Your Sayat Nova does appear to have been
influenced by Pasolini.
Many like to imitate whatever is fashionable. But as soon as they begin
to imitate something, it turns out that they are poor and miserable
creatures reduced to beggary.
However, one does follow in another's footsteps. If someone said: "Your
films resemble those of Pasolini," then I'd feel larger than life. I could
breathe easier. For Pasolini is like a god to me, a god of the aesthetic,
master of style, one who created the pathology of an epoch. He surpassed
himself in costumes; he surpassed himself in gestures. Look at his
Oedipus Rex (1967). I believe it's an absolutely ingenious work.
His actors, his feeling for femininity, for masculinity..
Pasolini is not just a god. He is closer to God. He's also closer to
the pathology of our existence on earth, to our generation. I have just
seen his 1001 Nights (1974). For me, this is a powerful
interpretation of the bible. It's struck from the same composition,
moulded from the same plastic form, as found in the bible.
Do you admire Fellini's films?
The magic in Fellini's films surprises. His incredible gift for fantasy
is astonishing. But it only goes in one direction -- towards
mystification. He possesses a headstrong passion to make his characters
larger than life. Look at his E la nave va (And the Ship Sails
On, 1984), a great film about the tragedy of time... about an opera
singer (Edmea Tetua)... about war (World War One). Everything happens on
the deck of a ship: this dispersing of the ashes of a famous singer from
La Scala -- ingenious! How can people say he's burnt himself out? On the
contrary, it's one of Fellini's best films. Look at his Casanova
(1976)!
Is the national, ethnographic character of your films after
Shadows of Our Forgotten Ancestors what got you in trouble with
the authorities?
Nature delivers us, and she takes us back to her bosom. You have to
worship nature: her truth, her ideal, her motherhood, her homeland. Nature
crates both patriotism and fanaticism, in order to defend the principles
of its government, to love a country with tenderness.
I was an Armenian in the Ukraine, dealing with Ukrainian issues. I was
awarded 23 gold medals for Shadows of Our Forgotten Ancestors --
the first in Mar del Plata, the last in C¨¢diz. I was known and recognized
in the Ukraine. The Ukrainians loved me. My wife was Ukrainian, my son was
Ukrainian. But this was not liked in certain circles. I was arrested and
imprisoned for five years. A harsh sentence.
What happened in prison? How did you manage to
survive?
The isolation in the prison camps of the Soviet Union was hard to bear.
But the real tragedy was that I could have gone to pieces and lost my
profession. I could have become a criminal in this milieu. There were
prisoners with long criminal records, backsliders, dangerous people. I
fell into this milieu, and then my art saved me. I began to draw. After
four years and eleven days, I was released. Thanks to Louis Aragon and
Elsa Triolet, to my good friend Herbert Marshall, to John Updike, I gained
my freedom. I was pardoned eleven months and 18 days before serving the
full sentence.
Besides that, the prisoners liked me, I took up the mission of hearing
their confessions. Each criminal's confession, the tragedies and crimes
whispered in my ear, was like a great screenplay or a great novella. They
are presents given to me. I received a hundred novellas and six
screenplays -- four of which will be filmed in the near future. The rest
remains my secret. They may be published someday, they may appear upon the
screen, or they may be buried with me forever.
The time in prison was hard. But instead of falling apart, I left the
prison richer as the author of four screenplays. One of these is going
into production. The director (Yuri) Ilyenko will film Swan Lake --
The Zone (1990), my screenplay about the backsliders' milieu. It's
about the criminal milieu and its pathology, the isolation that makes
people pathological. They lock you up for ten days, and you become
pathological, mentally and sexually, just to survive. Because isolation is
gruesome. If you put 2,000 people in isolation in a prison camp, in a
"zone," tragic things happen. Tragic situations and pathologies.
So what did you do?
I began to draw. I turned to graphic art. I created and brought back
with me some interesting material, drawings which I created in this
isolation. And my friends believe that in the midst of all that filth I
achieved an amazing purity in my work, and in my spirituality.
When I fell into the worst possible prison conditions, I understood I
had a choice: either I would go under, or I would become an artist. So I
began to draw. I brought with me out of prison 800 works. Much of my
prison work was recently exhibited in Yerevan. The exhibition ran for
three months. On May 15, when the exhibition closed, there was a queue a
kilometre long.
Your last film, Ashik Kerib, is a children's
film -- like your first, Andriesh.
Yes, Andriesh stands very close to Ashik Kerib. But
they're different. It's a question of know-how, of experience, of the
times. Back then, there was the innocence and the flame of youth. I had to
make Andriesh in a hurry.
How did Ashik Kerib come about?
When I was seven years old, I was sick with angina and my mother read
to me Ashik Kerib, a fairy tale by (Mikhail) Lermontov. It's not
very well known; they don't treat it at school any more. A Turkish woman
in the Caucasus told this fairy tale to Lermontov, who was as great a poet
as (Alexander) Pushkin. Lermontov moved me deeply when I was a child. I
remember I cried. I cried because Magul Migeri was waiting for her
beloved. She had to marry another man and wanted to kill herself. She
exposed herself to sword and poison not to betray her love. But then Ashik
returned. It ends like an American movie: it has a Happy End.
I began looking for my Ashik Kerib, this Muslim minstrel who wanders
around the world to earn enough money to buy Magul Migeri's freedom. I
found just such a young man, a Kurd, my neighbour. At 22, he was a
ruffian: he beat up a policeman. He thrashed a caretaker because of a
leaky roof. He stole cars and got into brawls, then I met him, I asked:
"Can you quit being a ruffian for a year?" He said; I can quit forever, it
all depends on what you offer." Kurds are not Muslims. He's a Christian,
but he plays a Muslim on the screen.
The music is remarkable in Ashik
Kerib...
It's Muslim music. It's not music from the Trans-Caucasus. It's the
Muslim muram, an ancient rhapsody song. A Muslim minstrel tramps
around the world, singing rhapsodies. The Muslim comes to the Christian
world, to Georgia, in the episode called "The Ruined Cloister." Here's the
idea of a "God Is One" -- there's only one God. That's the meaning of the
Georgian leitmotif: the Georgian choir, the Georgian children who rescue
him from his own kind when he's being beaten by Muslims to prove that "in
the land of the enemy you're the enemy." Perhaps you're our brother who's
trespassing the land of the enemy, but that makes you our enemy.
Essentially that's what the music conveys.
I hired a talented Azeri composer. His name is (Lavanchir) Kuliyev. He
understood what I wanted. The wok was very challenging. I presented him
with a number of difficulties but he mastered them all. We even used
European music: an "Ave Maria," Schubert, Gluck, motifs from the
"Passion." The music flowed beautifully, giving it a modern touch. We
wanted European audiences to link the "Ave Maria" with the Muslim world.
But I thought I also heard church music in the film
score...
Yes, organ music, Christian church music. It's in the episode "God Is
One" -- in Georgia, where multi-chord a cappella church music is heard.
The rest is Muslim muram. Whether the public will understand the
film is something else again. Children from an orphanage sing in the film.
Children come to a school from the provinces, from the mountains, from the
steppes, just to learn how to sing the muram. Singing children
can add emotional depth to a film.
Only a few films stride the border between two worlds, and only a few
directors. Yilmaz G¨¹ney was one of them. It is astonishing how he, someone
from the East, could make films for Europe. This culture straddles the
border between the Orient and the Western World.
Do your last three films -- Sayat Nova, The Legend of Suram
Fortress, and Ashik Kerib -- form a trilogy, thematically or
stylistically?
You tie together films into a trilogy in order to win a Lenin Prize --
and enjoy public acclaim! This happened to (Tengiz) Abuladze and his three
films: his outstanding Prayer (1969), The Wishing Tree
(1977), and Repentance (1986) -- but they are not really
connected at all. They have nothing in common. They were linked together
as an excuse to award him the Lenin Prize. They tied them together because
of their similar styles, because of their graphic strength of expression.
I don't need that kind of superficial tribute. My films have only one
thing in common: a similarity in style. My life is testimony enough. I
didn't want to found a school or teach anyone anything. Whoever tries to
imitate me is lost.
We have an army of talentless young directors, young parvenu types, who
come to the cinema and wait to become directors. Rather, they should
consider how they can become a director for a lifetime.
You've been planning your new film,
Confession, for a long time.
I owe Armenia a cinematographic confession, a sort of personal bible.
It's about my mother, my father, my childhood, my isolation in prison, my
vision of dreams. And the tragedy of a cemetery being torn up to allow for
a cultural park in honour of (Sergei) Kirov. The cemetery must give way to
honour the Communist Kirov. The Soviet patriot arrives, and the ghosts are
cast out. They don't know where to go, so they seek shelter with me, their
living heir. But I can't take them in. I'm obliged to report to the local
police that they are spending the night with me. I, who have no
electricity, who is not an insurance agent. They know no evil. Their
generation, back then, was kinder. They only want to stay with me. And I
must die before their eyes to prove I love them.
It's my duty to my people. I am an Armenian from Georgia. I've made
films in the Ukraine. I've suffered behind bars in Georgia and the
Ukraine. Sometimes I wake up at night, and I imagine I am being attacked
by lice. You may enter prison clean, but they swarm all over you. Within
two hours you are covered with lice.
What are you planning to make next? A film on
Faust?
Yes, but before I make a film on Faust, I would like to go to America
to make a film on Longfellow's The Song of Hiawatha.
It's a great work. It is still widely known in Russia to our
generation. But it's hard to find a translation of the book;
unfortunately, no one takes the trouble to reprint it, I want to shoot it
in America, against the landscape found in Longfellow. I need nature,
Indians, feathers, horses, brown-skinned maidens, handsome heroes. In
America it can be filmed quickly and for very little money. A clever
producer would know where the possibilities lie, how to make good
contacts, Nature takes care of the rest. Nature has already created a
lovely set, and Hiawatha costumes already exist. I have only to determine
the number of feathers for the chief's costume. My film would be a kind of
biblical tale, The Song of Hiawatha is a variation on the
biblical theme. Ashik Kerib is also a Muslim biblical variation
with regard to the hero's attitude towards nature, humour, women, evil,
and beauty.
And Faust?
Faust is the issue for Germany, for the governments in East
and West Germany, in the GDR and the FRG. I believe the Germans are a
great people. Despite the wall separating them, they share the same
history, and a common future. I hope the film will be well thought out. It
shouldn't be viewed as a commercial project. The film should be made for
its artistic value.
Faust is important for the coming generation. The current
generation can't be re-educated. TV rules their lives; they like to chew
gum; they wear certain clothes. But the next generation will do without
all this. We artists, directors, politicians, must ensure the upbringing
of the coming generation. And the Germans of tomorrow are still in the
womb. They, the "little Germans," need Faust if they are to grow up to
become "great Germans."
Why did you choose the Filmfest M¨¹nchen for the premiere of
Ashik Kerib?
I would rather show Ashik Kerib to the public in Munich than
anywhere else.
I have something important to say about my film. I like this film very
much. Every artist must know when he will die. I would like to die after
this film because I am very proud of it. This film is dedicated to the
memory of my friend Andrei Tarkovsky. God Is One... I would like to
request a minute's silence in memory of the director Andrei Tarkovsky.
Sergei Parajanov Bio/Filmography
Born Sarkis Yossifovich Paradjanian of Armenian parents on 9 January
1924 in Tbilisi, Georgia, Sergei Parajanov transferred from the Tbilisi
Institute for Railway Engineering (1942) to study song and violin at the
Tbilisi Conservatory of Music (1943-45) before gaining admission to VGIK,
the Soviet All-Union State School for Film Art and Cinematography (aka
Moscow Film School) in 1946. He graduated as a film director in 1951 under
the tutelage of Ukrainian directors Igor Savchenko and Alexander Dovzhenko
and found employment at the Kiev Film Studios (later renamed the Alexander
Dovzhenko Studios).
Parajanov began his career by making the same film twice and with the
same co-director, Yakov Brazelian. Shortly after completing their diploma
film, Moldavian Fairy Tale (1951), shot in the Ukraine, he
assisted his mentor Igor Savchenko on Taras Shevchenko (1951) and
then remade with Brazelian their graduation short as a feature-length
children's film titled Andriesh (1955). Moldavian Fairy
Tale appears to be lost, although Parajanov claimed to have kept a
copy at his home in Tbilisi. Three documentary films followed:
Ballad(1957), about a choral group and made for the anniversary
of the 1917 Revolution; Golden Hands (1958), about folk art and
co-directed with two other documentary filmmakers; and Natalya
Ushviy (1959), a portrait of a prominent Ukrainian stage and screen
actress. All three documentaries can be found in the Kiev archive. His
next three feature films at the Dovzhenko Studios -- The First
Lad (1959), Ukrainian Rhapsody(1961), and The Flower on
the Stone (1962) -- generally followed the prescribed principles of
Socialist Realism, yet each did contain scenes that went against its
grain.
Parajanov's ninth film in Kiev, Shadows of Our Forgotten
Ancestors (1964), caused an uproar by smashing to bits the principles
of Socialist Realism in Soviet cinema. Although awarded at several
international film festivals, it was given only limited release in the
Soviet Union. In trouble with the authorities for also protesting the
arrest of Ukrainian poets and intellectuals, Parajanov accepted an offer
from Yerevan to make a documentary on Akop Ovnatanian (1965), an
Armenian portrait painter who had lived and worked in Tbilisi. Portraits
by Ovnatanian were later incorporated into scenes in Kiev
Frescoes (1966), a production interrupted at the Dovzhenko Studios
after a fen weeks of shooting. Only fragments of Akop Ovnatanian
and Kiev Frescoes remain today. The same fate befell Sayat
Nova, shot under primitive conditions in Armenia. When the director's
cut was confiscated, Sergei Yutkevich cut 20 minutes out of the original
in an effort to save the film and re-edited the remainder into The
Colour of the Pomegranate (1969) for limited Moscow release. "My
masterpiece no longer exists" (Paradjanov) -- although an attempt has
recently been made in Armenia to reconstruct the original version.
All further attempts to make a film proved in vain. After years of
intrigue and suspicion, Parajanov was arrested in Kiev on 17 December 1973
and, after a court hearing, sentenced on 25 April 1974 to five years
imprisonment at the Dnepropetrovsk camp for hardened criminals. The
charges were given as "business with art objects," "leaning towards
homosexuality," "incitement to suicide," and "black-marketing." In 1978,
as the result of world-wide protests and petitions made by friends and
artists, he was released and allowed to return to his family home in
Tbilisi, but not permitted to find work in a film studio. On 11 February
1982, he was arrested again by the KGB, "for bribing a public official" to
help a nephew gain entrance to the university, and detained in the
Voroshilovgrad prison until November 1982.
After 15 years on a blacklist, Parajanov received the support of Eduard
Shevarnadze, First Secretary of the Georgian Communist Party, to make the
feature The Legend of Suram Fortress(1985), co-directed by actor
Dodo Abakhidze, and the documentary Arabesques on the Theme
Pirosmani (1986) at the Gruziafilm Studio in Tbilisi. His last film,
Ashik Kerib (1988), a Georgian-Armenian-Azerbaijan co-production,
has received limited release in these countries. On 4 June 1989, he began
shooting the first scenes from his autobiographical film,
Confession, at his family home in Tbilisi. Three days later, he
was taken to a hospital with respiratory problems. An operation for lung
cancer in Moscow followed, then radiation treatments in Paris. Sergei
Parajanov died on 20 July 1990 at the age of 66 in Yerevan, where he is
buried.
From www.arts.uwaterloo.ca
<
Ashik Kerib
<
The
Color of Pomegranates
< The
Legend of Suram Fortress