Russian attitude to art (Peter Ustinov)
January 5th 2009 05:16
A passage from Ustinov in Russia (1987):
In the words of my great-uncle, Alexander Benois... the Russian attitude towards the arts is one of piety. Certainly if a reputable poet begins declaiming his work in public, traffic is diverted, the poet is not interrupted, the crowd is not dispersed. The reverence towards talent is such that the artist occupies a much more important role in Soviet society than in any country in that the part of the world [sic] which calls itself free...
There is an inherent irony in this. It suggests a form of spirituality, even a belief not that distant from religion. To read, re-read, learn by heart, and cherish the works of Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Chekhov, Pushkin; to open the sensibilities to the abstract persuasion of Tchaikovsky, Mussorgsky, Borodin, Pokofiev; to stand in rapt attention before the masters of the visual arts; all these activities are, in a very real sense, a form of belief...
In our section of the world, classics are read less frequently or thoroughly, and the theatre and opera are supposed to pay for themselves as far as possible. The arts are considered superficial decorations on the structure of life, not a vital part of the structure itself.
One of my interviews in the television programme is with Tolstoy. He is played by the excellent actor Lev Durov, who was made up and wigged in Moscow...
... 40 kilometres from [Vasnaya Polyana, Tolstoy's house], we were stopped by a road-block. Many patrolmen, including some off duty in civilian clothes, were all eager to see Tolstoy. They were bitterly disappointed to discover that the limousine held nothing but a television crew...
Can you imagine an American patrolman recognising Mark Twain in a chauffeur-driven vehicle, or an English bobby feeling himself in the presence of Dickens?...
I remember my drama school in London as a preparation for an idealised theatre, a theatre which does not exist, a kind of altruisitc temple of the arts. Emerging into the theatre as it is, and adapting to its realities, entailed a degree of disillusion...
Such a transition is not called for in the Soviet Union. In a sense, most of the actors are eternal students of drama, going straight from school to fixed companies which are constituted along the same lines as the schools, never indulging in long runs, nor subject to strictly commercial considerations. They play two or three times a week, and they are never unduly taxed by dreary routine...
The Mossoviet Theatre in Moscow has had a play of mine, Halfway Up The Tree, in its repertory for over 10 years. Its leading actor, Rostislav Plyat, gathered the actors together in the green room when I first went to see it.
The cast sat there with their pads and pencils at the ready.
"How can we make the play more English?" inquired Plyat.
"It is already almost painfully English," I replied, "a most penetrating and uncomfortable picture of the delights of a certain English village life. You do it marvellously."
There as no recognition of this accolade.
"Mr Ustinov," said Mr Plyat sternly, "we are not here to flatter each other. Our approval of you is expressed in our performance of your play. Your approval of us is expressed in your kind words. Now that that is out of the way, let me ask you again -- how can we make the play more English?"
I appealed to logic.
"What is the point of making it even more English?" I asked. "Few of your public will ever go there, fewer still have been there."
"It is our business to impose a sense of Englishness on them," he flashed. "Whether they have been there or not, whether they ever go there or not, it is our duty as artists to make them realise up to what a point your play is English!" He changed his tune to one of soberness, tempered with steel.
"I will now ask you for a third time. How can we make the play more English?"
Clearly I would have to find a way. I hesitated. At length I said, "Well, perhaps..."
All the pens and pencils came up into the ready positions. I was clearly cracking.
"Perhaps," I went on, "the cross on the vicar's bible is a little on the large side, in the light of the fact that the religion is Anglican and not Catholic."
They all wrote furiously.
"Why did you not say so at once?" asked the great actor.
***
In the words of my great-uncle, Alexander Benois... the Russian attitude towards the arts is one of piety. Certainly if a reputable poet begins declaiming his work in public, traffic is diverted, the poet is not interrupted, the crowd is not dispersed. The reverence towards talent is such that the artist occupies a much more important role in Soviet society than in any country in that the part of the world [sic] which calls itself free...
There is an inherent irony in this. It suggests a form of spirituality, even a belief not that distant from religion. To read, re-read, learn by heart, and cherish the works of Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Chekhov, Pushkin; to open the sensibilities to the abstract persuasion of Tchaikovsky, Mussorgsky, Borodin, Pokofiev; to stand in rapt attention before the masters of the visual arts; all these activities are, in a very real sense, a form of belief...
In our section of the world, classics are read less frequently or thoroughly, and the theatre and opera are supposed to pay for themselves as far as possible. The arts are considered superficial decorations on the structure of life, not a vital part of the structure itself.
One of my interviews in the television programme is with Tolstoy. He is played by the excellent actor Lev Durov, who was made up and wigged in Moscow...
... 40 kilometres from [Vasnaya Polyana, Tolstoy's house], we were stopped by a road-block. Many patrolmen, including some off duty in civilian clothes, were all eager to see Tolstoy. They were bitterly disappointed to discover that the limousine held nothing but a television crew...
Can you imagine an American patrolman recognising Mark Twain in a chauffeur-driven vehicle, or an English bobby feeling himself in the presence of Dickens?...
I remember my drama school in London as a preparation for an idealised theatre, a theatre which does not exist, a kind of altruisitc temple of the arts. Emerging into the theatre as it is, and adapting to its realities, entailed a degree of disillusion...
Such a transition is not called for in the Soviet Union. In a sense, most of the actors are eternal students of drama, going straight from school to fixed companies which are constituted along the same lines as the schools, never indulging in long runs, nor subject to strictly commercial considerations. They play two or three times a week, and they are never unduly taxed by dreary routine...
The Mossoviet Theatre in Moscow has had a play of mine, Halfway Up The Tree, in its repertory for over 10 years. Its leading actor, Rostislav Plyat, gathered the actors together in the green room when I first went to see it.
The cast sat there with their pads and pencils at the ready.
"How can we make the play more English?" inquired Plyat.
"It is already almost painfully English," I replied, "a most penetrating and uncomfortable picture of the delights of a certain English village life. You do it marvellously."
There as no recognition of this accolade.
"Mr Ustinov," said Mr Plyat sternly, "we are not here to flatter each other. Our approval of you is expressed in our performance of your play. Your approval of us is expressed in your kind words. Now that that is out of the way, let me ask you again -- how can we make the play more English?"
I appealed to logic.
"What is the point of making it even more English?" I asked. "Few of your public will ever go there, fewer still have been there."
"It is our business to impose a sense of Englishness on them," he flashed. "Whether they have been there or not, whether they ever go there or not, it is our duty as artists to make them realise up to what a point your play is English!" He changed his tune to one of soberness, tempered with steel.
"I will now ask you for a third time. How can we make the play more English?"
Clearly I would have to find a way. I hesitated. At length I said, "Well, perhaps..."
All the pens and pencils came up into the ready positions. I was clearly cracking.
"Perhaps," I went on, "the cross on the vicar's bible is a little on the large side, in the light of the fact that the religion is Anglican and not Catholic."
They all wrote furiously.
"Why did you not say so at once?" asked the great actor.
***
Peter Ustinov (1921-2004)
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