Generation P: Edward Crabtree's blog.

`Freud’s Method`: A Russian small screen sleuth.

This standard cop thriller hardly breaks any new ground, but does at least ooze a Muscovite ambience.

A `universal palliative equal to tea, aspirins and the wireless`, said George Orwell of the British and their detective stories. In Russia the situation seems little different.

From Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment (1866) through to the Soviet era where Vil Lipatov introduced us to Captain Prokhorov, a Perry Mason for the Brezhnev period, and the T.V classic The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson (1979 – 1986), whose Vasily Ivanov was honoured with an M.B.E for his portrayal of Holmes, and which surprised Holmes fans worldwide with its devotion to the legend, Russians have clasped mysteries to their breasts.Then we even have a rock band named Agata Kristie! In the Russian language the name for a detective novel is simply `detektiv` – no need for any other elaboration.

The mean streets of Moscow.

Whilst the Russian/Ukrainian success story The Sniffer, with its high production values, may yet do for the Slavic input to the crime genre that Wallander did for Scandinavian noir, Freud’s Method (Metod Freyda) – not to be confused with Sreda’s more recent The Method (a riff on Dexter) -is a more modest and domestic affair. The creation of Star Media (better known for their sunny `melodramas`) and running since 2012, Freud’s Method occurs against the backdrop of an identifiable Moscow and its premise is altogether less absurd than the better known product.

Mikhail Vaynberg was behind the clapboard for the first Season with Vladimir Dyachenko and Aleksei Krasovsky tapping out the scripts. From 2014 a second series – Freud’s Method 2 –was born and a fresh newcomer – Ivan Stakhnakov took over directing duties and a whole team of writers worked on the stories. Both had 12 episodes of 50 minutes in length.

Enigmatic lead.

The anti-hero sleuth at the core of it all is one Roman Freydin (Ivan Okhlobstyn). A former professional poker player and globe-trotter turned psychologist, Freydin now finds himself employed as a `special consultant` to the Prosecutor’s Office. The eponymous `method` represents his ability to use mind games the better to draw out suspects into self-confession.

In many ways a Holmesian figure – aloof, seeming to lack feeling, arrogant and sometimes supercilious, there are nevertheless hints that he is lonely man. Moreover, Okhlobstyn, himself 52, plays the detective as a youthful dandy in yellow sweaters and socks, and one not above having liaisons with his suspects. Nevertheless,his speech is often provocative: upon encountering the corpses of a murdered young married couple he comments: `They’ll not be squabbling in slippers`. Otherwise he tends towards Wildean aphorisms: `Happy lovers always tell lies,unhappy lovers always tell the truth`, For instance, or `A woman’s secret is like a baby. It needs to stay inside for some time`. We also learn that Freydin has picked up some quasi-special powers during his sojourns abroad. From shamans he has mastered the art of mimicking his own death and it appears that he was the mystery saviour who saved his own boss from a helicopter accident in the Himalayas.

The merry band.

The cops Freydin works with function as a kind of surrogate family to him as they seek to crack unusual homicide cases on the icy boulevards of Moscow. We encounter an elegant and no-nonsense investigator played by the prolific actress Natalia Antonova (for whom Freydin nurses a forever unrequited longing). Then we have the dour jobbing plainclothes policeman (Aleksei Grishkin) whose unobtrusiveness contrasts with the persona of Freydin. It is inevitable that we also need two perky young male and female officers too who function as eye-candies and who drive a soap opera – type `will they/won’t they?` romantic suspense sub-plot. In the first season these consist of Pavel Priluchniy and Elena Nikoleava and in the second Roman Polyanski and the striking Olga Dibsteva. Presiding over them all is Artur Vaha playing the sort of stout, uniformed paterfamilias so beloved of Russian dramas.

Some episodes do tackle some specific issues, and not such comfortable ones to a Russian television audience. One story in Season one (Series 4) concerns the murder of an immigrant by a vengeful father who believes that he has raped her daughter…and yet we discover that the truth is rather more tangled than that. With its closing message that Illegal Immigrants Have Rights Too, this is one gold nugget of an episode. (I have linked this below).

Still escapism.

For all this murky social realism, however, there is a comedic element to it all. This is true in particular of Season 2 where the pace speeds up. (There is, for example a running gag where Freydin is forever being pestered by unsolicited phone calls from pizza deliverers). In fact the lives of our crime busters might be seen to be quite enviable: all breezy philosophising in the staff room, then gadding about the city with time for flirting and dating, all the while managing to look chic. Many an episode closes over a contemplative glass of cognac. So, like many a western crime drama, Freud’s Method fosters an impression that it offers a slice of modern life but wraps it all up in comforting stylishness.

Beguiled.

Seldom a watcher of equivalent detective shows in the West, I came to Freud’s Method at first in seek of a Russian language learning aid. To the show itself I needed to be won over, but won over I was. The involvement of the talented Mr Okhlobstyn sets up a stumbling block. Alas, this former Orthodox priest has gained notoriety on account of his quasi-fascistic standpoints on nationalism and minority sexualities. This troubles me, but the character he plays does not reflect the real life actor, far from it in fact. The franchise seems to have its heart in the right forward-looking place and does so, furthermore, whilst exuding the somehow cosy spirit of Moscow.

Episode from Season 1 (English subtitles).

The Orwell quotation comes from `The Detective Story, 1943 ` Seeing things As They Are’, Pengiun Modern Classics, 2016

In the pipeline….

A review of Freud's Method the Russian detective drama.
A review of a staged version of `A Clockwork Orange` in Moscow.
`Louna` the famed Russian alt-metal band live.
The horror films of Svyatoslav Podgaevsky.
….and much else!

Generation P: the one-stop space for all things interesting from the Russia of NOW.

Roaring Boy: the personal and political in Arslan Khasavov’s `Sense`.

Did a Central Asian immigrant write a Catcher in the Rye for the Moscow millenial generation?

I hate cheesy boys and pert, pretty girls who smell of expensive perfumes and drive around in large cars with tainted windows. With wads of money in their designer label bags to satisfy every whim, they have all they need: money, girls, shooters, nice gear…In their world everything matters except your heart.

I once had the acquaintance of a precocious fifteen year old student (now studying Literature at Moscow State University) who had some literary aspirations. He would tell me of the Golden and Silver Ages of Russian writing but never about anything current, until one day I said to him: `You need to get into something a bit more up to the minute, something with people like you in`.

I urged him to read Sense by Arslan Khasavov, a representative tirade from which is given above (pages 44 to 43).

Sense is the first novel (and a calling card) by Arslan Khasavov who is now just reaching thirty. When he authored this mini-masterpiece he was just twenty and, in it, he set down the Moscow of `here-and-now`, at least as it was in 2008. Whilst Khasavov is a Kumyk by birth –an ethnic group found for the most part in Dagestan-he resides in, and has undertaken his studies in the capital of Russia.

Dream come true.

Sense was shortlisted from one of the 50,000 works sent in to the Debut Prize (which gives annual awards to new Russian writers). Arch Tait PEN literature awarded translator (best known for making Anna Politkovskaya’s journalism available in English), took note of the novel and translated it into English. As he is also the UK editor of the Glas new Writing series, this lead to Sense being published by Glas in 2012. Thus it took its place alongside the other 170 authors who have been published by Glas since 1991.

True to life.

Sense is not so much a story as a slice-of-life as seen through the eyes of Artur Kara, a club-footed twenty-year old student who is the first in his family to study at a university. A self-described `day-dreaming slob` he belongs to the post-Soviet Muscovite tribe. Disdainful of the banal lives of his factory working father and mother, he derives inspiration from literature, information from the internet and TV, and his student life allows him the time to mull over it all.

He feels himself to be ranged against those born in the 60’s and 70’s who have presided over the `death of idealism` (p-151). To vault himself above the kind of people he thinks are `unaware that a stupid life has no value` (p-20) he goes in search of greatness. To this end he turns up to meetings, and gets to know the supporters and, in particular the writers, of the youth movements of his time. So we get a journalistic roll call of many of the (real life) hopeful reformers, would-be revolutionaries and militant Islamists who were around in 2008. Kara, however, finds that none of these outfits answer to his need for romance. Then, prompted by some feverish visions that come to him, he creates his own movement which forms the title of the novel – Sense.

Even when cruel reality intervenes in the form of the death of his father, he is only put off his stride for a short while before teetering on the brink of madness….

Intimate.

To read the novel – and I did so in one sitting – is a bit like being collared by a voluble twenty-year old who insists on pouring his heart out to you. This effect gets achieved through intense and sometimes florid prose which is, nevertheless, conversational. Some passages are didactic, but Khasavov has enough distance from his anti-hero to be able to present him in a satirical way (rather as Thomas Mann does with Felix Krull in Confessions of Felix Krull, Confidence Man).

So we are treated to an edgy, but not too hard edged confessional: and it is refreshing to find that it does not concern the Second World War, rural life, or Soviet dissidents and the tone is upbeat. The events all occur in the radius of the Tverskaya area.

In the Moscow of 2008 the economy was still doing quite well and there were more political opposition activities than there are now. Even so, Artur cannot see how he can improve his position within society. His place is at the opposite end of the spectrum as that depicted in Minaev’s bestseller Soulless (2006). Well he knows this too:

I was handsome, strong and talented, and nobody wanted to know. Nobody cared. Was it my fault I wasn’t born into a wealthy family but instead was the son of an ordinary mechanic? Did I stand condemned for that? (P-127).

Critical reader.

My millennial friend came back having read the novel. He shrugged his shoulders.

`I got the bit about him rowing with his parents and all, but it’s not original, is it? And, anyway, it’s written by an immigrant`.

That was his verdict. Perhaps, I wondered to myself that, being still in his teens he was a little too young to really relate to it. What about you though?

If you are in your twenties then I can guarantee that this will contain some words that will speak to you, even if not for you. For those of you who are older it will remind you of what it felt like to be that age.

Sense (translated by Arch Tait) is published by Glas Publishers, Moscow, 2012.

My interview with Khasavov for Moskvaer.

Featured image from Fenbook.ml (Cover picture courtesy Sever Publishing House).

New article on UFOs over Moscow.

Alleged UFO shot over the Zhubelino district of Moscow, 2016
[Picture: proofalien.com]

The good people at Unexplained-Mysteries.com have published an article of mine on the (not often covered) topic of contemporary UFO sightings in and around Moscow:

Moscow’s mysterious lights.

The phenomenon of UFOs does exist, and it must be treated seriously

Mikhail Gorbachev.

What do you think? Let me know in Comments below.

Kamchatka beer bar, Moscow.

The locale of many a lost weekend.

Should you get that craving for sweet relief from the harpy-screech of the Metro ringing in your skull, from the pompous 4-by 4 drivers honking at pedestrians and the lonely crowded thoroughfares – from Moscow in short –then there is a cubby-hole you can head for. This appears in an unlikely setting.

Fancy meeting you here.

Along the upmarket shopping street of Kuznetsky Most you will meet the red neon sign of Kamchatka Pivbar. Named in tribute to Russia’s wild and volcanic peninsula, and part of a chain that also takes in St Petersburg, Kamchatka bar resembles (with apologies to John Osborne) a real, if decayed tooth in a mouthful of gold filings. The café-bar is nestled between Vogue café on the one side and an Asian restaurant known as Mr Lee on the other: both salubrious joints of which I can tell you nothing. Not only that, but the place is bang opposite an entrance to the lordly State Department Store, GUM. Thus may a cat look at a king and seedy hipsters be the neighbours of the tweed-and pearl set.

Cosy dive.

Opening from a pedestrianised street, Kamchatka boasts two floors, one of them a basement. As we enter we encounter an orange brown interior lit by industrial globe shaped lamps. The seats have desks with inverted Heinz ketchup dispensers on them and these are surrounded by a motley assortment of bric-a-brac and retro cool. Above the exposed brickwork big old-looking signs hang from the ceilings promoting outdated looking wares. On the walls, and on the beer mats you can appreciate the saucy kitsch commercial art of Valeriy Baroikin. His idyllic vignettes illustrate `Beer For Cultural Relaxation` on behalf of Zhiguli brewers.

Zhiguli promotional by Valeriy Baroikin.
[Illustrators.ru]

Totter down to the basement hall and you pass a bicycle fixed to the stair railings. Down there parties of people lounge about on small armchairs and halved oil drums with cushions in. You will be needing the spacious male and female toilets there too.

`Better a light beer, than a Bright Future`.

The main attractions are the Zhiguli beers, the cheapest of which – their Barnoye – will relieve you of just 150 Roubles. Served to you by hyperactive student waitresses, this soapy ale delivers the right kind of chillaxing buzz without making you go cross-eyed and singing Rule Britannia. The beer though is gassy – gassier than a gas explosion in a gas factory in Gazigazgorod. So you might have to resign yourself to being a Viz Comic character for the next day.

With a dash of Slavic irony the establishment also offer two FREE bottles of champagne to any customers between 3 and 5 in the morning. This seems rather generous of them until you think it over.

Foodwise there are a number of unmedicinal stomach fillers on offer. Hardy boys at a furnace near the entrance can hammer out a shaurma with chicken, and a number of burgers (which I am told are edible). Soviet style soohariki (dark dried bread) is sold in paper cones at the bar.

The soundtrack constitutes an appropriate mix of technoed-up pop songs by Bratya Grim and Grigory Leps plus the worst of Retro FM. This creates the right kind of nightclub-like expectancy without forcing you to shout at the top of your lungs.

A Bunch of Sweeties.

The clientelle come and go announced by blasts of cold air at the front door. Their average age is 25 and there are two kinds: those en route to something more active and those at the end of a sentimental drinks journey, who are crawling on their lips. In spite of this, I have yet to be enlisted in a fracas here, although I have heard tell of such.

The not-so-elfin doormen are concerned for the most part that you do not bring in anything vegetable, mineral or liquid that would compete with Kamchatka’s sumptuous repasts. They are quite serious about this: I have lost vast banquets of food from the fact that, on the way out, I am too refreshed to reclaim my confiscated items or because the security staff have switched over, or some combination thereof.

Cheer and cheapful.

Kamchatka beer bar hosts an affordable drinking experience in a convivial and unpretentious environment. Even with the rise of micro-breweries, less and less venues in the capital can offer the same.

To get there, come out of Kuznetsky Metro station and…just follow the in-crowd. Or leap into a taxi and ask for `Kamchatka`(although if your drive proves to be a long one you might just be in for a spot of volcano watching).

Kamchatka beer bar on Instagram.

Which Russia would YOU choose?

Chernovik (Rough Draft) : a colourful blockbuster based on the modish premise of alternate histories.

`Which world would you choose? ` was the tag-line which appeared on the promotional posters in the metro about a month before this film’s release on 27^th May this year. Best known for his dark fantasies Night Watch and Day Watch, (2004 and 2006 respectively) the fifty year old former doctor Sergey Lukyanenko has now seen his untranslated novel – Chernovik – from 13 years back also adapted for the screen.

This parallel worlds yarn has a 12+ certificate this time, but otherwise seems to be aiming at the same young adult audience.

Kirill, an ordinary young Muscovite (Nikita Volkov) who works for a computer games company, receives the shock of his life when he discovers one day that his whole identity has been erased from his known reality. A fellow gaming geek (Yevgeny Tkachuk) seems to be the only one to recognise him. Then, however a mysterious woman called Renata Ivanova welcomes him into a new role. He is now to be the curator of a way station straddling alternate variations of Moscow. His customers enter the water tower in which he resides and, should they show the right documents and pay, can exit out of another door straight in to a whole new version of reality. We glimpse a sun-soaked Moscow complete with palm trees along the river, a Moscow with steam punk airships crossing the skies, a variant of unreformed Stalinism, a sleek futuristic Chinese run Moscow, and so on.

Within all this kaleidoscopic adventure we are given a conventional romantic sub-plot as Kirrill pursues the same woman in different guises throughout switching between worlds. However, his friendship with the loyal and goofy coloured-shade- wearing fellow gamer packs much more impact.

The director Sergey Mokritsky made his name with the much more earthy Dyen Uchitelya (Teacher’s Day) (2012) but here he delivers the kind of glittery grandeur you would expect from a Lukyanenko product. It all gets very J.K. Rowling-meets-Bulgakov: in particular when there is a climatic showdown between the ruling `functionals`.

Apart from the giant killer matrioshka dolls – which are straight out of the sillier end of Doctor Who – the other most memorable thing in this flashy movie is that it graces the stately Lithuanian actress Severija Janusauskaite (last seen in a support role in satisfying psychological thriller Selfie) with a rather more fitting part as a superhuman supervisor.

Trailer here

The Scary Fairy Tales of Ludmilla Petrushevskaya.

The Grand Old Lady of Russian letters has some weird tales to tell.

Nina had always been a disorganised person who let things go; thus her leave from the newspaper to go `freelance` and the apparent total unravelling of her life…. She ate, she drank…and they didn’t need any money, since every day the young fisherman would bring the fruits of the sea home to them.

`Who is he? ` I asked, and Nina, without any hesitation answered that he was the son of Poseidon, god of the sea, that he could breathe underwater, that he brought home literally everything from there….

For all the reputation for `chauvinism` that still sticks to Russian society, the fact remains that one of its most revered authors is a woman, an elderly woman at that. Moreover, Ludmilla Petrushevskaya is neither a veteran critic of Soviet repression like a Solhenitzyn, nor someone exulting in the shiny new capitalism like a Sergey Minaev. As such, this writer, playwright and novelist can offer the Western reader a fresh take on how a great many Russians really think and feel.

Amongst the nation’s best-known contemporary writers, Petrushevskaya cuts a figure of a sort of literary godmother. From her thirties this Muscovite has been producing stories and plays and following a long period of being disregarded came to prominence in the 1980s when her dramas – compared by some to Harold Pinter’s -were seen as fit to be performed. Then as she reached fifty her first book of short stories saw print in Russia.

Now these tales have been translated into English by two Americans, Ann Summers – a Slavic literature academic – and the Moscow born Keith Gessen, founder of `n+1` magazine. Penguin Modern classics have collected them under the title There Once Was A Woman Who Tried To Kill Her Neighbour’s Baby which hit the shelves in 2009.

This collection is made up of 19 short tales grouped into four categories: Songs of the Eastern Slavs, Allegories, Requiems and Fairy Tales. They defy easy categorisation but the tag `magical realism` is a hard one to avoid. Readers who have encountered Vladimir Sorokin might also be reminded of him, but her work relies less on shock tactics.

To a British reader they offer not such a great challenge as similar developments occurred in British fiction in the same general period. I am thinking of The Cement Garden period Ian Mc Ewan (or `Ian Macabre` as he was then sometimes dubbed) as well as the Gothic fantasias of Angela Carter.

Petrushevskaya tells us of women, married couples and families who undergo strange life and death situations. Some of these invoke the supernatural, others can be accounted for in terms of psychology but in all cases individual experience is paramount. Whilst Petrushevskaya avoids local and historical references it is clear that it is the seedy apartments of the Russia of the Eighties to the present day that she is showing us.

Two of her stories – `Hygiene` and the infamous `The New Robinson Crusoes: A Chronicle of the End of the Twentieth Century` function as sketches of dystopian catastrophe. In the former, for example, a man who has recovered from a mystery plague knocks on the door of a family apartment to warn them of the coming social collapse. This does indeed occur but the family survives through robbery, although end up having to quarantine their own daughter.

Others such as `The God Poseidon` (quoted from above) and `The Black Coat` can be enjoyed as supernatural chillers. It would not be difficult to imagine them being anthologised in the more thoughtful type of Horror collection sandwiched between Robert Aickman and Ramsey Campbell. (Indeed Petrushevskaya won a World Fantasy award for this book in 2009).

`There is Someone in the House` however, suggests a study in morbid psychology whereas `Marllena`s Secret` is a bold fantasia and `My Love` an extended exercise in tragic pathos.

Her prose is spare but with enough observant detail to bring some reality to her fables. The fast paced narrative is told by an earthy and unsentimental voice, which is matter-of-fact, and without overt humour. The resulting effect – pithy and sensational- resonates in the West as much as it does in Russia. She has been on the New York Times bestseller list.

Petrushevskaya casts a flamboyant figure, dressing like a grand dame and singing cabaret. From not being able to get published in her own country at all she has become its national treasure, an icon of survival.

There Once Lived a Woman Who Tried to Kill Her Neighbour’s Baby: Scary Fairy Tales by Ludmilla Petrushevskaya, translated by Keith Gessen and Anna Summers is published by the Penguin Group (London: 2009)

(The above quotation is from p-85, `The God Poseidon`).

`P.T.V.P` live at the Red Club, Moscow

Vintage garage rockers promote gleeful disorder among younger fans.

Photography by Iain Rodgers.

I have been among many gig goers in Kazan and Moscow to catch a bit of darkwave (Otto Dix), some grindcore ([Amatory]), some blues (Blues Gravity) and a bit of pop-rock (Gorod 312) but had not really been witness to any rUsSiAn PuNk. Until now that is.

In fact Russian punk rock has a longer history than you might expect. Many trace this genre’s origins back to Leningrad (now St Petersburg) in 1979. And what if I told you that there was a punk band called Adolf Hitler from Siberia – in 1986!

Posledni Tank V Parizhe (Last Tank in Paris) – often abbreviated to P.T.V.P – were formed ten years later in 1996 and in fact they hail from the supposed birthplace of Russian punk. They are said have kept hold of some (whisper it) political dissent. As so many newer acts seem to fail in this regard, this would be worth seeing.

Their appearance in the capital on 16^th September this year was not well publicised and even grabbing an advance ticket proved to be an obstacle course. The babaushka at the kiosk who would be the usual supplier swore blind that there was no such band on at the Red Club, and it was to that club that I had to go to in the end to get satisfaction.

Situated on Bolotnaya Nab on the bank of the River Moskva, this long established nightclub-cum restaurant serves as a place for big acts, with the emphasis on rock. This event was billed as Demokraticheskoi Konsert Po Zayavkam which I first took as a bold plea for a more representative government before realising that it had more the sense of `Due to popular demand. `

I estimate that the mixed sex and age audience that came in from the early autumn nippiness reached 800 or so. Few looked like hardcore punks: I espied a `Punk’s Not Dead` t-shirt and a `Motorhead `one and one guy with a mohican, but the rest of us had come as we were.

As we sipped our 400 rouble a throw Budweisers, a backstage projection behind the stage shone the initials P.T.V.P and we grew restless. They arrived at about 9.00 pm, an hour after the ticket time. This four piece string and drum outfit consist of Denis Krichov hitting the skins and adding to the vocals, Igor Nedviga on bass and also some vocals and Anton `Bender` Dokuchaev, the axeman. These came on first as the gathering chanted `P! T! V! P! `

Then, from the back of the stage, emerged Aleksei Nikonov, the poet and kingpin of the ensemble. No pretty boy, chunky and in a dark suit and shades he resembled a member of the Blues Brothers except for his slicked back hair and man-bun.

Nikonov greeted Moscow and they kick-started their two hour set. Their dirty sound was predictable for the most part: honed down energetic rock and roll (think The Damned era punk) and some more upbeat power pop but also some more thoughtful alternative rock interludes which brought to mind Magazine. This was a big sound for a four piece (I think I detected the use of a backing track only once). Some of their guitar work reached a divine level. Nikonov’s vocal delivery, on the other hand, aped the standard telegrammatic nagging of early British punk rock.

The musicians presented a nondescript appearance but Nikonov compensated for this by his `Red Indian` style circular stomping, his waving of a baton and by appearing to swig from a wine bottle (I say `appearing` because I believe that onstage drinking is banned in Russia. At least I have never seen it done for real).

The audience were the ones providing the main spectacle though: women gyrated like charmed snakes and I saw a guy held up by two walking sticks head banging with his dreadlocks flying everywhere. There was much in the way of slam dancing and its attendant stage diving. One girl, after doing her first exploratory stage dive, ran back to the embrace of her mother.

I think I caught the word `revolutsia` once but any sense of taking on state control was lost in the indiscernible lyrics. While the motley crew who came to see the band were no conformists, they had not come for that. The word had clearly got out that P.T.V.P could create a backdrop for a bit of organised mayhem. So what!? Naff off!

Decent article on Russian Punk here.

Some of their music here

Nikki Gogol: Superstar.

Witchcraft is afoot in the village again and Gogol must pull himself together enough to help…in the latest in this genre-busting movie series!

The distraught friends are carrying a coffin to the burial ground of Dikanka. This contains the body of Nikolai Gogol, demon-slayer. After the earth has been piled onto this, Gogol’s eyes open and, screaming, he begins the frantic scramble to escape premature burial. A departing friend hears the noise and turns in time to see a hand emerging from the grave. Gogol is back…!

Gogol: The Terrible Revenge (Gogol: Strazhnaya Mest) forms the closing act of a trilogy that introduces a fictional variant of that famed Ukrainian Man of Letters: Nikolai Gogol ( a standard bust of whom is shown above, in a random park in Vladimir). In this he is a psychic who assists a detective struggling to banish an ancient curse which had been cast on the village of Dikanka. The premise seems preposterous and I called my review (for Moskvaer) of the first in the series Sorry, Gogol. (Read it here).

The second part Gogol: Viy I even declined to see, not wanting my memory of the great Soviet horror film Viy (1967) to become besmirched.

Here we are again though! Wikipedia terms this franchise `fantasy-action-horror-mystery-thriller`. So as not to be short of breath, I would rather just say `Dark Fantasy. ` If you can imagine that Tim Burton had overdosed on Slavic folklore you would get the idea.

The I hour 50 minute long 16+ certificate film spooked cinema goers since 30^th August this year and was produced by a collaboration between Sreda Production company and the entertainment channel TV3. The latter, which is already known for its hocus-pocus content, intends to broadcast the show later as a TV serial. Indeed (according to IMDb) this constitutes the first TV show to be screened first at the cinema!

Pantomime.

The action takes place in a fairytale 1829 universe where a large cartoonish moon hangs over the village. The colours of the photography seem autumnal and muted, the actors faces pallid. The acting seems quite `stagey` but the swashbuckling glamour of the early Nineteenth Century is put across well. The cast seem to be enjoying themselves but are serious enough about it so as not to let the whole thing descend into camp parody. They are an attractive lot too: in particular the 22 year old Taisa Volkova, a sort of Russian Billy Piper, has the sort of features which you feel you could gaze at forevermore.

Witch-hunt.

There is no need for a Spoiler Alert here. The plot is serpentine and the proceedings held together by quite lengthy dialogue (making it heavy-going on this Russian learner).

Suffice to say that Gogol (Alexander Petrov) continues to be overwhelmed and discombobulated throughout as friends and lovers turn out to be in league with demons. His ebullient associate, Inspector Yakov (Oleg Menshikov) then arrives on horseback from St Petersburg with handcuffs ready to arrest these blackguards. Meanwhile, we encounter much in the way of talons extending from human fingers, infernos and swirling flocks of birds and all that sort of thing.

Hip History.

On a more educational level, we get a bit of a biography lesson as scenes from Gogol’s early work Evening on A Farm in Dikanka are interlaced with episodes of Gogol’s own life. The conceit is that these fantastical occurrences really happened to him and that he later wrote them up as fiction. It is all rather innovative, but to look for a precedent imagine Shakespeare in Love meets Van Helsing

They deliver the whole farrago with gusto – there is even a bespoke song as the credits roll by the lead singer of the group Leningrad. Even though I felt that I had viewed nothing more than a diverting side-show, nevertheless I will never quite see Nikolai Vasiliech Gogol in the same way again.

English subtitled trailer here.

Where are they now? : t.A.T.u divided by 2.

The two members of Russia’s most popular band have both played in Moscow recently -and I caught them both.

Fame.

A girl synth pop-rock duo formed in Moscow in the late Nineties, the Russian outfit t.A.T.u produced a string of international hits through a nine year period in the Noughties.

As much as Eurovision followers may recall who Dima Bilan is, or rock historians may have read something about Machina Vremya or Akvarium, or metal-heads could well have head banged to an anthem that Aria played, the Russian group with a worldwide profile is t.A.T.u. They were the `National treasures` who featured in the opening ceremony of the Russian Winter Olympics in Sochi in 2014.

T.A.T.u consist of the Muscovites Yulia Olegovna Volkova, now aged thirty three (and married with a child) and Katina Elena Sergeevna, who is one year older. Ivan Shaplov, who had a background in television, managed them.

Beginning with Ya slosha s’ooma (I’ve Lost My Mind) in 2000, they released a series of dance floor standards, pop ballads, cover versions and even mash ups with the like of Rammstein, the German heavy rock band. They strutted their stuff in the Eurovision song contest of 2003, and came third place.

Synth-pop with attitude.

t.A.T.u could be seen as a product of the ferment of Nineties Russia, which brought forth techno bands like Virus, but also song based dance acts like Mirage. They combined something of both of these styles but injected it with a dose of teenage defiance. In so doing, they made the Spice Girls of a few years earlier look tame in comparison. Moreover, their mock-lesbian pose, with corresponding graphic videos made them notorious.

In fact, the romantic thread which runs through their lyrics had been inspired by the Swedish film called Show Me Love (1998) by Lukas Moodyson. This is about a schoolgirl tryst in the small town of Omolo. Their trademark white shirt and short check skirt look, meanwhile, owed something to the erotic end of Japanese Manga comics.

Their sound, a distinctive mix of Euro-pop and techno, was helped along by the Durham born British pop visionary Trevor Horn, who produced many of their compositions.

t.A.T.u forever created controversy, and sometimes without meaning to. They appeared on stage brandishing Kalashnikovs, they were accused of sneering at the disabled with their song Lyudi Invalidi, mimed sexual acts live, supported gay rights, and wore t-shirts that featured ant-Iraq war slogans.

Their fans came from the same age group as the girls. Their appeal lay in the music and the image more than anything else. t.A.T.u seemed like ordinary Russian young women: a bit talented, attractive without being too glamorous, half Westernised and with ambitions for something more. Furthermore, by singing in both English and Russian they kept hold of their national identities. Their debut album 200 Po Vstrechnoi /200KM in the Wrong Lane (2001) was the first ever to win the platinum award in two languages. t.A.T.u encouraged kids in China and Turkey and elsewhere to try and learn some Russian.

The Venue: Mumiy Troll bar in Moscow.

Mumy Troll, an uneasy mix of cabaret bar and restaurant, can be found just below street level on Tverskaya Street in an area of plush hotels. The place has a dress code and the lead singer of the band after which it is named intends to set up an international chain of such places.

Julia Volkova live, March 2016.

Voices called out `Julia! Julia!’ as though she was a friend that they had passed in the street and she beamed as someone handed her a huge bouquet of pink roses. I had come expecting to see an ice queen; instead what I got was a good-time girl….

This, I had also thought, was not going to be my scene but I found myself happy to lay down the thousand rouble entrance fee at the door to see Julia Volkova play live. It would not do to miss a chance to witness the return of an iconic half of Russia’s best known pop sensation.

Since the t.A.Tu days Julia has fallen out with Lena, reconciled with her and then fallen out again, married and divorced and given birth twice, and received surgery for throat cancer. Furthermore, if you type her name into a search engine the word `homophobia` will pop up. She found herself in the middle of a row about gay men after letting slip, on a Ukrainian chat show, that she would not like her son to be a homosexual..

Donned in smart casual gear, there were more women than men and many could not have clear memories of the early noughties. They gathered round the oval bar in the centre of the club to order pricey German beers or even cocktails. Some of them were Friday night regulars who would pass the evening chomping on their pommes frites and chicken kievs gazing at it all as if it were on television.

The faithful, however, congregated around the platform and waited while a loop of soft rock from Mumiy Troll played on in the background. The lights then flickered as stage smoke appeared.

There was no other build up. Looking over at the stage door we stole a glimpse of Julia, hemmed in by bouncers with sweatshirts bearing the legend `No Stress`.

The drummer lumbered on stage first, and looked like one of the bouncers, and he was followed by a silken haired maestro of a violinist, a t-shirted guitarist and a man with strap-on keyboards.

Then at last Julia made her entrance: she was a black kitten in fishnets, with wild spiked hair and lobster coloured skin. She was accompanied by two backing singers in black and white uniforms like air stewardesses.

This odd ensemble set about a rendition of `Friend or Foe` and, as though they had been waiting for this very number, the gathering sang along as they held their smart-phones aloft hoping to capture Julia as she boxed the air to the peppy beat.

This set the trend. Julia’s more contemporary pieces, such as the Berlin cabaret like `Woman All the Way down` did not get an airing and instead we were treated to a bit of a t.A.Tu retrospective with such classics as `Nas Nye Dogonyat`, `Loves Me Not` and `Ya Soshla s Ooma`

There also ensued some sort of monologue spoken over an instrumental backing, the usual teary ballad and a token rap interlude. The chunky rap artist –whose contrast with the diminutive frame of Julia could not have been greater –only drew a polite but cool reception.

The hour and a half long set was filmed and what defined it was Julia’s ebullient demeanour. At one point she even addressed onlookers peering in from the windows overlooking Tverskaya Street.

Then the sound. Rocked up by pounding drums and reinforced by extra singers it became pure pop-rock-dance fun, and was quite apart from the plastic industrial clatter of some of t.A.T.u’s recordings.

I have been to more worthy gigs and to ones cooler and more up-to-the-minute. This one, with its feeling of being a friend’s reunion, is one of the few where I haven’t been waiting for it to end so that I could replenish my drink.

Lena Katina live, March 2018.

Some of the nondescript thirty-somethings who came stamping into this from the early March frost that night may have been regular clientele come to sample the lobster. Even so, the crowd struggled to reach three digit figures. They then had to sip their spectacular cocktails for about an hour before the five-piece band, including two backing singers, appeared on the stage. Then, at last, the spangled and henna haired form of Lena Katina sauntered on, to polite applause.

Her two and a half hour show was episodic. The first section consisted of a string of short and sweet pop ditties, with a female violinist making a guest appearance for one of the slower numbers. Most of these songs went in one of my ears and out of the other although `Never Forget` is a good solid ballad, worthy of t.A.T.u. For me, however, the stand out piece had to be `Silent Hills`, a stirring rumination on marital breakdown with some intelligent lyrics.

The band then fled the stage to allow two Townies to come on with a mixer desk for a drum `n` bass interlude. (At least there was no rapper!)

Then the predictable last section was one which doubled the number of spectators standing near the stage: it was t.A.T.u revival time, and this seemed what many of them had come to see. The band rattled through the classics which they were authorised to do – and these included `Pol chas` `Ya soshia S’uma` and the barnstorming `All About Us` all of which sounded pretty much like the t.A.T.u originals. The band then left without an encore but not before they had rolled down a screen and Lena sang a ballad about her t.A.Tu days accompanied by shots of Yulia and herself in New York in the Nineties.

If t.A.T.u could be considered to be a `rock-pop` act then Lena Katina, with her sound grasp of melody and `sincere` persona, represents the pop part of the equation. The more `rock and roll` one, however, is Julia Volkova whose act was a bit more transgressive in its sexyness and I rather preferred her for that.

The main image (of Julia Volkova) belongs to Mumiy Troll bar, Moscow.

The review of Julia Vokova first appeared in Moskvaer (see related links page).