Taste is subjective. Who am I to think that the opening titles for “Dear Masha” are cheap or crude or disgusting? Who am I, a lowly, or perhaps low-level American soap writer, working in Moscow because I can’t get arrested in Los Angeles to say that the opening for our little jointly produced, Russian-American telenovela isn’t progressive and ground-breaking as opposed to misogynistic and blatantly pornographic? Perhaps this is exactly what the Russian television audience has been craving, waiting through Siberian winters that we cannot even imagine from our lofty rent-controlled New York apartments that are 3 hours away by plane from the tropics. Who am I, really, to say that the silhouette of a mini-skirted Russian woman, legs spread as much as she can spread ‘em, dancing to atonal, incomprehensible Russian “pop” that sounds like it was recorded under the Volga on a reel-to-reel in 1973 with the super-imposition of the Eiffel Tower between her legs is not the hottest thing east of Minsk, like, ever? Really, couldn’t this be 21st century Tolstoy, for all I know?
Honestly, it really isn’t my place to judge what the Russian audience will think when a beautiful woman in a yellow dress who could be the Soviet reincarnation of Grace Kelly enters her husband’s office and finds him with another woman. And by “finds”, I mean she sees him having sex with her on his desk, his pants around his ankles in broad daylight. Above their startled heads, her two pointy-ass Munchkin-land 6 inch heels are stuck in the wall from where she kicked them, one would assume, as he mounted her. The aggrieved wife stands 20 paces from the desk, whispers her lines, turns and walks out. I’d tell you what she said, but I can’t since this scene never came back from the translator who lives in Germany because the weekend before, he broke his neck, sky-diving.
Ees not posseeble, you say? Yes, ees posseeble, even when the Russian writing team tells you eet’s not. Which they do, every day, several times a day and conclude the sentence by adding: “Ees not logical” every single time you tell them what the American headwriters in Los Angeles want the scenes to be. But what do you know, you stupid American?
Did I mention how they lie? Not just conventional lying, the way Congress lies or the heads of broadcast television. Pathological, easy-as-it-is-to-breathe lying – about everything. “What did you have for lunch today, Galina?” Galina says: “I deed not eat lunch. I have no time to eat.” But, you say, I was in the same restaurant with you on Tereskaya. I saw you there. Eating. Galina replies: “No. I deed not eat.” Kind of goes like that.
But I love the Russians. They are confounding and Quixotic and rude. And gorgeous. The women are, at least. The men are not. They all smoke and drink so much that they die before they’re 50 but they look like they’re octogenarians. The women though, who also drink and smoke, somehow manage to stay beautiful. Perhaps it’s because they marry and divorce very young. Getting a divorce in Russia is as easy as asking for one so all of these young girls marry, divorce, marry again, maybe have a baby, divorce and then marry once more, usually before they’re 30. That would keep you young and on your toes. But truly, the women in Russia are jaw-droppingly beautiful. They are breathtakingly spectacular. And they are wary as hell. They look you right in the eye when you speak and then they look at their feet, careful not to expose anything real, terrified of what may happen to them if they do.
The younger people don’t remember Communism but the idea that it was once the law of the land still permeates every interaction and decision and the work ethic. Ah, yes. The work ethic. I have never seen people in an office look as busy as these people do only to learn that they are doing absolutely nothing. And they get paid next to nothing to do it, so perhaps it’s understandable. They glance over their computer screens at the Amerikanskis and wonder when we’re leaving. We were brought to Moscow to show them how to produce 5 hours of television a week. Needless to say, they’re not interested in how to do that if it requires actually getting work done and “shooting” on schedule. They call taping, shooting. All the time. It’s a little disconcerting considering that people get shot in Moscow quite frequently and virtually no one outside of the city learns of it. Ever. While I was there, an American journalist working for the Russian language edition of FORTUNE magazine was doing an expose on the corruption of the economy by the wealthy oligarchs. He was gunned down on his way out of his office one night and left for dead. That was 6 years ago and his murder has never been solved. He was the 13th journalist killed in 3 years in Moscow.
So yes, it was scary there. It was unfamiliar. My Russian producer, Alexander Akopov would vehemently insist in writer meetings that there “Ees no cultural deeference!” between Russians and Americans, but I knew better. If nothing else, the translation of the work we did proved as much. Here’s how it worked. Pay attention because it’s confusing. In Los Angeles, two writers would come up with a story document for a week’s worth of episodes, in English. This would be sent to the Russian scriptwriting team in Moscow … after it had been translated from English to Russian by the translators, in Germany. Then the Russians would write the scripts based on this document, in Russian. Obviously. Then those Russian scripts were sent back to Germany, again, to be translated to English so that I could read them and edit them and then, finally … back to Germany again for translation to Russian at which point maybe, if the stars were aligned and the Midnight Sun had not set, they would have shooting scripts. To shoot. Six weeks behind shooting schedule, Jenet. That’s what they called me. “Jenet”. I quite liked it.
But those translations into English are the very things that sustained me for the 3 months I was there. Here’s one. The characters are Nina, a former supermodel and Tanya, her younger sister who aspires to be one herself. Then Masha, the current supermodel, enters, at the end.
Nina: I feel like I am living in a nuthouse, not in my own home! Tanya, tell them!
Tanya: Tell them what?
Nina: That they are crazy!
Tanya: (IMPERTURBABLE) You are crazy.
Nina: Sprinklers don’t pour water over normal people!
Tanya: Normal people don’t take taxis to a bakery!
Masha: (ENTERS, LOOKS AROUND, SATISFIED) You’re all as good looking as ever. (CLAPS HER HANDS) Now take off what you’re wearing except for your underwear!
Alexander: (THEIR FATHER, JOINS) Long live the uncomfortable sandals!
No comments:
Post a Comment