Oblomov (2017) - full transcript

That is true.

What is...

What is wrong with me?

What a disgrace this is.

I must get to work.

The moment I indulge myself, I...

Zakhar!

Zakhar...

Oh, that damn letter.

Zakhar.

Zakhar!

Find me the letter I received

from the estate yesterday.

What did you do with it?

Which letter?

I haven't seen any letter.

The postman gave it to you.

It was all dirty.

What did I do with it?

What do I know?

You never know anything.

Look by the chair.

Perhaps it slipped under the sofa?

And the back, still not fixed.

Is it too hard to call the carpenter?

You broke it.

A back doesn't last forever.

It was bound to break.

Hello, Ilya Ilyich.

Ivan Alexeyevich.

What are you doing here?

Ilya Ilyich,

I have come to pick you up.

To go where?

To Ovchinin's and Ekaterinhov.

Why would we go to Ekaterinhov?

Don't you know

that today is May 1st?

Have a seat.

Let us think about it.

Well? Have you found it?

Why there it is,

under you.

The end is poking out.

You wanted the letter

and you were lying on it!

How clean you keep everything...

The dust, the dirt...

Good Lord, you won't lift a finger!

"I" don't lift a finger?

I wipe the dust

and sweep every day.

Nearly.

What is this, then?

And this? And that?

All right... I will clear that.

What about the dust on the walls,

the cobwebs...

How am I supposed to clean?

You never go anywhere.

How come that other people's houses

are clean?

Shouldn't you be at the office?

They gave us the day off.

Is it quieter now?

Certainly not.

We've been awfully busy

since Holy Week.

From 8 to noon,

then from noon to 5,

and I keep working at home.

You work from 8 to noon,

from noon to 5,

and again in the evening?

Sweet Jesus...

Oh, my brave Alexeyev.

My dear Ilya Ilyich.

And to think we served together.

Remember when you sent

that urgent letter to Arkhangelsk

instead of Astrakhan?

What a blunder that was.

And the false medical certificate

that you sent

so you wouldn't have to comply.

"I hereby certify and attest

"that secretary Ilya Ilyich Oblomov

suffers

"from cardiac hypertrophy

with dilation of ventricle,

"as well as chronic liver pain.

"Therefore,

in order to avoid such crises,

"I deem it essential

that Mr. Oblomov be prevented

"from going to the office..."

What's the matter?

Excuse me?

You are still lying down.

Because I should get up?

Well... I believe

you were planning on going out.

Going out?

Where?

I do not plan to go anywhere.

We said we were going

to Ovchinin's and Ekaterinhov.

What is it?

You don't like it here?

Is it cold? Does it smell

for you to be eager to leave?

No. I am always comfortable here.

Then spend the day with me.

Stay for lunch, and tonight...

As you wish.

If that is what you want,

I will do it.

Life is so hard.

It just won't leave me alone.

Why does it take me

so long to rise?

I was sitting here, thinking.

How can I get out of this misery?

What is the matter?

Matters.

I don't know what to do.

- What matters?

- I'm being kicked out of my house.

Can you imagine?

I have to move out.

The work, the worries...

The thought of it scares me.

Moving out is always a hassle.

All that is lost and broken...

Such a nuisance!

The ceiling doesn't look solid,

the plaster comes off

but it still holds.

I see.

"Clear off", they say.

"And fast".

What would you do?

Well, Ilya Ilyich...

You could move in

with my cousin, in Vyborg.

Vyborg?

Now that's something new!

There are wolves there.

They come from the islands.

Why would you care?

It's boring.

It's an empty desert.

My cousin owns a house

with a garden.

No different than a country house.

She is a very refined woman,

a widow,

with two children.

You could settle in with her.

You would be in absolute peace.

- No one would disturb you.

- My, my.

- It's clean... Spotless.

- Why should I care?

I won't go.

You and your senseless ideas!

The Vyborg quarter!

I'm sorry, but it isn't wise.

Moving is nothing.

Read what

my steward wrote to me.

What did he do with the letter?

Zakhar.

Zakhar!

Oh! Here you are.

What do you know.

He is offering me

about 2,000 less.

How am I going to live?

I will starve.

It is a substantial loss.

Two thousand is no small amount.

What would you do?

Ilya Ilyich, you must reflect on it.

If only Stolz could return sooner.

My word, Ilya Ilyich,

why don't you dismiss

your Oblomovka steward?

Who would I take instead?

Do I know the peasants?

Another one may be worse.

I haven't been there in 12 years.

What if you go?

I could come with you.

Me? Make the trip to the estate?

You are making

some drastic suggestions.

Why don't you write

to the governor?

He may investigate your steward.

I wish Andrei was here.

He would fix everything for me.

You should write.

I'll sharpen your pen.

Sharpen, sharpen...

You do whatever you want.

I will manage. Godspeed.

Thank you.

God forbid if I disturbed you.

I will tell Ovchinin

that they shouldn't expect us.

Farewell, Ilya Ilyich.

Ilya Ilyich is not the executor

of someone else's mind.

He is the creator

and producer of his own ideas.

Zakhar!

Zakhar.

How do my feet hold me?

What's the matter now?

There is no ink in the inkwell.

How am I going to write?

I will dilute it.

So, Ilya Ilyich...

So, what?

What are you telling the landlord?

About what?

Well, about the move.

I'm not writing to the landlord,

I'm writing to the governor.

Because I was thinking:

other people

are no worse than us,

and yet they move.

If they move, we can too...

Pardon?

What did you just say?

"Other people...

"are no worse"...

Such is your thought.

Very well.

Now I know that for you,

I am just as anybody else.

But, Ilya Ilyich,

am I comparing you to anyone?

Scram!

I don't want to see you again!

"Other people".

That's a good one.

There you go.

I wanted to devote the morning

to productive work,

but now my spirits

will forever be at their lowest.

All this because of whom?

Because of my own

loyal servant...

Zakhar.

Zakhar...

Yes, sir?

Come here.

Pour me some kvass.

How do you feel?

Not well, are you?

Do you understand

your misdeed?

But, Ilya Ilyich,

I didn't say anything except...

No, no, no...

Wait. Wait.

You have caused pain

to your master.

Have you caused me pain or not?

I have caused you pain,

Ilya Ilyich.

Have you considered

what other people are?

Shall I tell you?

Other people

are men who dress themselves.

They shine their shoes

themselves.

They don't know what a servant is.

If they have an errand to run,

they go alone.

They have no one to send.

That is what "other people" are.

So, tell me,

am I like other people?

Do you think I am like them?

No, sir. You are

a completely different person.

Do I get agitated?

Do I work?

What is the matter?

Am I a sorry sight?

Do I look too thin?

Don't I eat enough?

Who am I telling this to?

You.

Haven't you served me

since I was a child?

You know

I have been brought up tenderly.

I never wanted for nothing.

I have never been cold

or hungry.

So tell me,

how could you have the audacity

to compare me to other people?

I am asking you!

How could you humiliate

your master so deeply?

Your master, whom you carried

when he was a child,

whom you have served

and who fills you with blessings!

No, Ilya Ilyich.

It's out of stupidity.

Yes, out of stupidity.

And to say that I torment myself

day and night,

and sometimes my head burns

and my heart clenches.

I cannot sleep at night,

and I writhe and I reflect!

For whom?

For the sake of whom?

For the peasants' sake!

Your sake!

Perhaps when you see me

under the covers,

you figure I am just lying there,

sleeping like a log!

Well, no.

I mull over a thought in my head,

a great thought -

that my peasants

are no longer in need,

that they do not envy

other villages,

that they do not complain about me

on the Day of the Last Judgment

before the Lord, our God...

You, ingrate!

And to think that in my plan,

I had already assigned you

a private house,

a vegetable garden,

a measure of wheat,

in addition to your wages.

At my house,

you are the steward,

the butler,

the authorized representative.

The peasants salute you

with reverence.

Zakhar Trofimovich.

Is this how you thank me?

Oh, my beloved Ilya Ilyich, sir...

what is it that you say?

Oh, Queen of Heaven,

what a misfortune!

All this trouble coming upon us

like a storm in the blue sky!

To redeem yourself,

try to sort things out

with the landlord

so we don't have to move out.

And pour me some more kvass.

My mouth is dry.

Hear how hoarse your master is.

You should have noticed.

See what you have done to me.

Three o'clock?

Only two more hours until we eat.

What can we do in two hours?

Nothing.

Too bad.

I will hand in the letter

at the next collection,

and I will draft my plan

tomorrow, but...

that's enough working

for the common good.

I'm going back to bed.

I am exhausted.

I will try to have some sleep

until lunch time.

Turn off the lights

and wake me up

at half after four.

Life is so hard.

It just won't leave me alone.

Two misfortunes at once.

How does one survive to that?

To think

I have not yet washed myself.

How can that be possible?

I wanted

to set down my plan on paper

and I did nothing.

I didn't write to the landlord,

I didn't even finish

the letter to the governor.

Other people

would have done it all.

Other people?

Other people enjoy life.

Other people...

have interests.

They want to see everything,

know everything.

But I...

I...

I am not like the other people.

Why do I have to be

the way I am?

Mom is coming!

Mom is coming!

Over there,

there is no ocean,

no high mountains,

no rocks or abysses

or deep forests.

Nothing grandiose, nothing wild,

nothing dark.

Over there, on the contrary,

the sky seems

to cuddle up to the Earth,

as if to embrace it tighter,

with love.

Over there, the sun shines,

bright and warm,

for six months.

Then it pulls away,

albeit little by little,

as if reluctantly.

The cycle of seasons

thus unfolds

at an imperturbable

and fair pace.

What an unfortunate sight this is.

Get up!

Get up, Ilya Ilyich!

Look around you!

Leave me alone!

I will wake up when I feel like it!

Get up!

Get up!

How dare you disturb your master

when he wishes to rest!

Stolz!

Andrei Ivanych!

I am so happy to see you.

So, how are you?

How is your health?

I am unwell, my dear Andrei.

How could I be healthy?

- You're ill?

- Sties are killing me.

I had one on my right eye,

and look,

now another one is flaring up.

That's it?

You sleep too much.

And the heartburn...

You should've heard the doctor.

"Go abroad", he said.

"Otherwise, it could end badly".

- What will you do?

- I am staying.

- Why?

- What do you mean?

In his terms,

I should go live in the mountains,

or move to Egypt,

or even America.

Fifteen days to Egypt,

three weeks to America.

You too, Andrei?

My only friend is going crazy.

Who in their right mind

goes to Egypt or America?

The English, but it was God

who made them that way.

They have nowhere to live,

but who would do such an effort

in this country?

A hotspur, a desperate man.

That's it.

You will never change.

So, tell me,

how are things going at Oblomovka?

- What's the matter?

- I am completely ruined.

How is that?

Let me show you

the letter from my steward.

Where did he put it now?

Zakhar!

What a scoundrel he is.

Isn't it a misfortune?

So you don't know?

They want to build

a pier in Verkhliovo and a road,

And there will be a town fair.

Good Lord, that is all needed.

But Oblomovka

was so peaceful, so isolated,

and now there will be

a road, a fair!

The peasants will turn to the city,

they will be corrupted.

They will need tea,

coffee, velvet trousers,

there will be merchants...

This is a disaster.

Certainly, nothing good

can come out of that.

Why don't you build

a school in the village?

Education is detrimental

to peasants.

Educate them,

they will refuse to work.

Quite the opposite -

they will learn to work better.

You, silly.

Seriously, this year

you must go to the village.

I know, but my plan

is not completely finished yet.

You don't need a plan.

You just have to go.

You'll see what to do on the spot.

That plan

has been taking you so long.

How come it isn't ready yet?

Dear friend, if only my estate

was my sole concern.

- My other misfortune...

- Yes?

- I am being evicted.

- Sorry?

"Clear off, and fast".

You are a spoiled child.

Moving is no tragedy.

Do you ever go out?

Where do you go?

Whom do you see?

Where do I go?

I don't go out much.

I prefer to stay home.

Besides, there's the plan

and this whole moving thing.

I don't see any books around.

You don't...

...see any books?

Ah. There you go.

- Here's one.

- What is it?

- A Voyage To Africa.

- Yes.

The page where you stopped

has gotten moldy.

I don't see any newspapers.

You do read newspapers.

No. The typeface is too small.

It damages the eyes.

Besides,

whenever there are news,

that is all we hear about.

Honestly, Ilya!

What is going on with you?

You are as limp as a rag.

You close in on yourself

and nothing else matters.

You are right, Andrei.

I am a rag. A true rag.

Can being aware of it

be an excuse?

I am not looking for an excuse.

No, Ilya.

I will not leave you like this.

In a week,

you won't recognize yourself.

Now get dressed.

Zakhar, bring Ilya's clothes.

I will shake you up.

I cannot.

Alexeyev is coming to dinner.

- Zakhar, come and dress your master.

- At once, dear sir.

When Alexeyev arrives,

tell him...

we won't be dining at home.

Ilya Ilyich will not be dining

at home for the summer.

He will have a lot to do

in autumn,

and will thus be unavailable.

I will tell him.

And...

what about my dinner?

Here.

Eat with whoever you want.

I will see to it, sir.

Where are your shoes?

Hurry up, will you.

But...

Where are we going?

And...

Why?

What if I don't go?

All this is senseless.

We will eat on the way,

make some visits...

But why the hurry?

Let me think about it.

I haven't even shaved.

There is no need

to scratch your head.

I will take you to the barbershop.

What are these visits

that we're going to make?

Faster!

Faster, please!

The officers don't know

which way to go.

Am I invisible?

Don't they notice me?

I wonder

if I am the reason

for all this turmoil.

Unless I have to play a role.

What is this show?

I hope it isn't a tragedy.

My feet are on fire...

Not taking off my shoes

for days on end. My feet are on fire!

I do not fancy

your life in Petersburg.

- What life do you fancy?

- Not that one.

What is it

that displeases you so much?

Everything.

The constant race

at breakneck speed,

the everlasting game

of pathetic little passions.

The greed and the scrutinizing

from head to toe.

We look at people,

they seem so profound,

they look so serious,

and all we hear is,

"He earns this much.

And he's got a rent.

"By what right?", they cry.

"He lost everything to gambling".

"And he collected 300,000".

And the boredom...

Oh, the boredom! The boredom!

Where is man in all this?

Where is his entity?

Where has it gone?

Why does he concern himself

with trifles?

The world and society

need distraction.

To each his own interests.

"The world and society".

You purposely send me out

into the world and society

to rid me of the desire

to be in it.

Life is beautiful, nonetheless.

What do you want from it?

The matters of the heart

and the mind, but not that!

Wake up! Around which axis

does all this rotate?

There is none.

Nothing cuts us to the quick.

The people in society are dead,

they are numb.

They are worse than me.

What guides them in life?

They sure don't sleep.

They flutter around like flies.

Buzzing and buzzing...

Don't they sit dead all day?

Am I more guilty than them

when I lie down

without worrying

about aces and jacks?

You have said that oft.

Got anything new?

Are those men alive?

Are they awake?

They gather to eat

as they go to work -

no joy, no warmth.

Why do they even

gather together?

Not a single genuine laugh,

not a glimmer of sympathy.

What kind of life is that?

I don't want it.

What could I possibly seek in it?

You philosophize like an Ancient.

Which is good.

You're thinking, not sleeping.

Well!

What else?

The rest.

What "rest"? That is it.

To hell with them.

I shall leave them alone.

But they don't lead a normal life.

It's not life,

it's a distortion of life,

of the ideal of life

that nature has set for us.

What would this ideal,

this norm of life be?

- No, it isn't...

- Tell me.

What life would you conceive?

- I have already conceived it.

- You have?

Tell me, please. How is it?

How?

Here is how.

First, I would go back

to the estate.

What is stopping you from going?

My plan is not finished.

And I wouldn't go back alone,

but with my wife.

Much good may it do for you.

Why not do it?

In four years,

no one will want you.

In that case, it will be my destiny.

Right. After your wedding,

what would you do?

I would settle in a new house

fitted out for peace and quiet.

I would have good neighbors.

You, for example,

except you wouldn't stay long.

Because you would?

- You wouldn't go anywhere?

- No.

How would you spend your days?

I'd wake up in the morning.

The sun is shining.

The sky is blue.

Very blue.

Not a single little cloud.

One of the facades of the house

faces east,

with a balcony over the garden,

and a view of the village

on the other side.

As I wait for my wife to wake up,

I put on my dressing gown

and go down to the garden

to smell the morning scents.

There, I meet the gardener.

Together, we water the flowers,

we prune the hedges and the trees.

I arrange a small bouquet

for my wife,

and I swim in the river.

And when I come home,

the window is open to the balcony.

My wife is there in a blouse

with her little night cap.

It might fall off

as soon as she moves.

"The tea is ready",

she says to me.

That kiss...

Oh, that tea...

Oh, that soft chair...

I sit at the table,

and I savor the cookies,

the cream, the fresh butter.

And then?

Then I put on - I don't know -

a large jacket,

I grab my wife by the waist,

and together we sink into...

a dark, endless alley.

We both walk quietly,

without saying a word,

as if in a dream.

We count the minutes of happiness

like a heartbeat.

We listen to the heart that beats

and halts.

We seek the echo

of an emotion in nature,

and without even realizing it,

we come out on a river, a field.

The river barely shimmers,

the wind caresses the stalks.

You are a poet, Ilya.

Yes.

A poet in life.

Because life is poetry in itself.

Except that man

spends his time disfiguring it.

Then, we reach the orangery.

The kitchen, however, is hectic.

Knives chopping parsley

for the meatballs,

spoons stirring the ice cream.

And then, the guests arrive,

like you and your wife.

- You are marrying me too?

- Yes, I am.

Another couple of friends,

always the same faces,

and we pick up the conversation

exactly where we left off

the day before.

We start bantering

or we merge into

an eloquent silence,

a meditative one,

that of the fullness

of satisfied desires.

A meditation of pleasure.

After dinner...

mocha,

cigar on the patio.

That is how

our grandparents used to live.

No. What do you think

their life was like?

Do you picture my wife

making jam?

No. Listen.

The notes, the elegant furniture,

the books,

the grand piano, the music...

The mere thought of that aria

overwhelms me every time.

How that woman pours out

all her heart in her tears.

What sadness in her chords.

No one knows anything

about her.

She oppresses her secret

and confides it to the Moon.

You like that aria?

Good for you.

Olga Ilyinskaya

sings it wonderfully.

I will introduce you.

She has a lovely voice.

And how she sings!

She herself is a charming child.

Though I have

a weakness for her.

So I am biased.

But don't get distracted.

Don't get distracted.

Please, go on.

That would be it.

The guests return to their rooms,

and the next day

everyone resumes their life.

One goes fishing,

another goes hunting...

And the other one just sits there,

doing nothing.

No occupation?

For the rest of his life?

Until his hair grows white.

Until he dies.

That's what life is about.

- No. That is not life.

- What do you mean?

- What is it, then?

- It is...

It is Oblomovism.

Oblomovism?

Oblomovism...

What is the ideal life, then?

What is not Oblomovism?

The purpose of your rushes,

your passions, your wars,

your politics, your trade,

isn't it a quest

towards the ideal of paradise lost?

Your utopia is oblomovist!

Everybody longs

for rest and tranquility.

Not everybody.

There was a time you didn't.

I quote,

"Life is nothing but work.

"Anonymous, obscure,

yet incessant work". Yes.

"Dying with a sense

of accomplishment".

Oh, yes.

I remember, Andrei.

Yes...

We wanted to travel

all over Europe,

and walk around Switzerland.

And burn our soles

on the slopes of Mount Vesuvius,

and walk down to Herculaneum.

We were quite insane.

- How very silly.

- Silly?

Silly?

Didn't you tell me, teary-eyed,

"Let us make a vow

not to die before we've seen this"?

You would lock yourself up

with the math teacher to understand

why you had to learn

all those circles and squares.

But you gave up midway through

and refused to understand.

You started studying English,

but then you quit.

"I am yours, Andrei.

"I'll follow you everywhere".

You said that.

Well, you see, Ilya,

I have been abroad twice.

I know Europe

as my own estate.

I have seen Russia

from end to end. I work.

You'll stop working someday.

Never. Why would I?

Once you have doubled

your capital?

Not even if I quadruple it.

When will you live?

Why torture yourself forever?

For the sake of work itself.

Work is image,

the core element

and purpose of life.

Of my life, at least.

You expelled all the work

from your life...

And what has it come to?

I will attempt to lift you up,

perhaps for the last time.

It is now or never!

Do not scold me, Andrei.

Help me instead.

Truly.

I know everything,

I understand everything,

but I have no strength.

I have no willpower.

What you say is true -

"It is now or never".

One more year,

and it will be too late.

Is this really you, Ilya?

But I remember you

a sleek, lively young fellow.

You used to walk every day

from Oblomovka to Kudrino.

There, in the garden,

you wouldn't forget the two sisters.

You would read them

Rousseau, Schiller, Goethe,

and Byron.

You put on great airs to them.

You refined their taste.

You remember that too, Andrei?

Of course...

How I used to dream over them,

whisper to them my hopes,

nurture plans and ideas of all sorts,

and feelings, too,

though I kept them from you

so you wouldn't laugh.

That's where it all expired.

Never has it been repeated.

Why did it all fade away?

Where did the sparkle go?

What is the reason?

Never have I gone through any

great mental tempest or upheaval.

You see, Andrei,

at no point in my life

have I been touched with a fire

which could either save me

or destroy me.

From the first moment

that I realized myself,

I knew that I was on the wane.

I was fading...

as I sat at my desk,

I was fading

as I read books about truths

I didn't know what to do with.

I would even fade with friends,

as I witnessed the debates,

the chatter,

the mean, ice-cold gossip...

Emptiness.

In town,

I would only recognize spring

when oysters and lobsters arrived.

I was fading as I wasted my life

and brains.

Even my pride -

what did I waste it on?

On ordering clothes

from a good tailor?

On having my hand shaken

by Prince so-and-so?

Yet pride is the very salt of life.

Where is mine gone?

Either I haven't understood anything

about life, or it's worth nothing.

The fact is,

I never saw anything,

knew anything,

and no one

ever showed me anything

that could be better.

For the past 12 years,

there had lain within me a light.

A light that was seeking an outlet,

but had been doomed

to illumine only its own prison.

And now it is gone out.

That's it...

my dear Andrei.

Why didn't you

tear yourself away from that?

Why didn't you escape?

Why did you die in silence?

Escape where?

Where?

If only at your peasants',

by the Volga.

It is busier.

There is motivation,

objectives, work.

I would have gone to Siberia...

There you go

with your drastic remedies.

But am I alone in this?

Look.

The list is endless.

Our name is legion.

No.

I won't leave you like this.

I'll get you out of here.

First, abroad

and then to the countryside.

You will slim down,

and we will find you what to do.

Yes. Let us go anywhere.

Get a passport

and pack your bags.

In two weeks,

we will be in Paris.

This is too hasty!

Let me think about it.

I have Zakhar, and there are

so many arrangements to be made...

Oblomovism.

Oblomovism.

Remember -

"To be or not to be".

- Well...

- It is now or never.

Is it true that you are bored?

Yes, it is true.

But...

not too much.

I have some work to do.

Andrei tells me that you are

engaged in drawing up a plan?

Yes. I intend to return

to my home in the country,

and I am making

a few preparations for doing so.

And you are going abroad?

We agreed

he would meet me

as soon as his passport was ready.

I entrust him to you.

Are you glad to travel abroad?

Yes, very glad.

Let's say I often stay

at my cottage in the country,

and that's why

Andrei thinks that...

I expect you write a great deal.

You read.

- Have you read...

- Not at all.

Not at all, what?

I thought

you were going to ask me

if I read novels,

but I never read novels.

No. I was thinking about

travel books.

You don't read novels?

What do you read, then?

Precisely,

I am fond of books of travel.

In Africa?

Are you musical?

I have told Olga Sergeyevna

that you adore music.

And I asked her to sing.

Why do you slander me?

I am by no means

an adorer of music.

Why, the man is offended.

I introduce him in his best light

and he disappoints me.

That is not my intention.

I am just not a connoisseur.

But what kind of music

do you favor?

Your question is difficult to answer.

I like everything.

It's the truth.

I can listen with pleasure

to a cracked barrel-organ

playing a random song

which tunes stick in my memory.

I can also walk out of an opera

and be touched

by a Meyerbeer piece

or a fisherman song.

It depends on my mood.

There are moments

when I could close my ears to Mozart.

Then you truly love music.

What will you sing to us,

Olga Sergeyevna?

What if Mr. Oblomov is feeling

inclined to close his ears?

I suppose I ought

to utter some compliment,

but I cannot do so.

And even if I could, I would not.

Why?

What if you sing badly?

Things would be awkward.

- Do you want me to sing?

- No, he wants it.

Well, then I will sing for you.

Prepare that compliment.

Pardon me.

Did you hear him?

In all honesty, Ilya,

how long has it been

since such a thing

happened to you?

Olga Sergeyevna,

I don't know how to explain it,

but you sang like never before.

I must leave.

Ilya Ilyich, I ask you

to join me without delay,

as soon as your passport is ready.

Goodbye, my friend.

See you soon.

Olga, please watch him.

Keep him from staying home,

from sleeping,

and even from lying on his sofa.

And while you are at it,

keep him from wearing odd socks.

Make him read and write.

Your wish will be his command.

He won't sleep. He will love

what he has ceased to love.

When you see him again,

you won't recognize him.

Oh, Andrei...

I want you to feel at ease.

Free.

Light.

Tell me, what do I have to do

to keep you from being bored?

Sing.

That's the compliment

I was waiting for.

You know, earlier, when I sang,

if you hadn't uttered that gasp,

I wouldn't have slept at night.

- I might have even cried.

- Why?

I don't know.

Because you have pride,

that is why.

Yes, I suppose so.

That must be why.

But we all have pride galore.

Andrei Ivanovich says

it may be the only

driving force of our willpower.

But you do not seem to have any.

That's why you're always...

I'm always what?

No, I was just saying.

If I love Andrei Ivanovich,

it's not because he makes me laugh.

I sometimes cry when he talks.

And it's not

because he loves me...

But he loves me

more than the rest.

Do you see where pride goes?

- Do you love Andrei?

- Of course.

If he loves me more,

the rest goes without saying.

He loves other girls...

but not the way he loves me.

He will never make them laugh.

He will never bare his soul.

And for that,

I love him even more.

Pride.

If after my singing,

you hadn't said a word,

or made a gesture,

I think I would have fallen ill.

It's the truth.

That's pride.

Because you noticed

something on my face?

Tears.

Even if you hid them.

Bad habit.

Men are ashamed of their emotions.

Even Andrei is ashamed

of his emotions.

I told him, he admitted it.

And you?

What wouldn't one wish

when looking at you?

Yet another compliment,

and not a minor one.

A platitude.

What is wrong?

My God, you are crying.

How deeply you must feel music.

It is not music that I am feeling.

It is love.

What have I done?

I have barely met her.

I ruined everything.

No man would have said

such a thing

to a woman

he was seeing for the first time.

No one would have fallen in love

so quickly. Only I am...

...suited for passion and tears.

But do they suit me?

I swear to God.

Passion is best

in poems or on stage,

where actors,

with their capes and swords,

stride around

before dining together,

murderers and victims reunited.

If only passions

could end like that, but no.

They leave behind

a trail of smoke and stench,

but never happiness.

Nothing but shame

enough to tear your hair out.

One must set limits to passion.

It needs to be suffocated

and drowned in marriage.

Isn't it everybody's goal

to find in our partner

a constant image

of calm and peace?

The eternal

and steady course of sentiment.

Such is the norm of love.

The moment we stray from it,

we suffer.

And I wonder -

isn't my ideal

the same as everyone else's?

Ilya Ilyich?

Olga Sergeyevna.

- Hello.

- Hello.

Am I disturbing you?

No, not at all.

Have you had a letter

from Andrei Ivanovich?

- Yes.

- What has he written?

He calls me to Paris.

- What are you going to do?

- I will go.

- When?

- Right away.

No. Tomorrow.

I mean, as soon as I pack my bags.

Why the hurry?

Speak.

Why do you wish to leave?

Something is bothering me,

hurting me, burning me,

you know.

Why do I see sadness

in your eyes?

Why should I be happy,

Olga Sergeyevna,

and how?

Move about?

For that,

one must have a purpose.

But what purpose could I have?

I have no purpose.

The purpose is to live.

When there is no reason to live,

one lives from day to day,

and is glad that the night comes

so as to sink into sleep.

The tedious questions arise -

why did I live this day?

Why do I have to

go through tomorrow?

Why do we live life?

Is there a life

that can be useless?

Yes. Mine, for instance.

Don't laugh. It's true.

What would I aim my thoughts,

my intentions at?

The flower of life has withered.

All I have is thorns.

Smell this nice scent.

Do you like roses?

No, they are too scented.

I don't really like flowers.

In the meadows, fine,

but in a room,

all the hassle, the dirt...

Because you prefer a clean room,

you can't stand dirt?

That would be my servant -

he is...

Will you go straight to Paris?

Yes. Stolz has been waiting

for much too long.

But why so soon?

Nothing is driving you out.

There is something.

- What would that be?

- Shame.

- Shame?

- Yes, Olga Sergeyevna.

You are undoubtedly surprised.

You must resent me.

I had completely forgotten.

Believe me,

I could not stop myself.

Forget about it! Forget it!

Especially since it wasn't true!

It wasn't true?

It was a moment of folly...

of music.

Music only?

So you are not upset?

Everything is behind?

What are you talking about?

I have forgotten. Goodbye.

Promise me that you have

forgotten everything.

I forgot everything.

Give me your hand

as a sign of truce.

You are upset.

Don't leave me

with such a burden on my heart.

If it's true you would have cried

hadn't you heard me gasp

when you started singing,

and if you...

- I shall not sing again.

- I beg you.

Have mercy.

I will fall ill.

My knees are shaking,

I can barely stand.

What is wrong?

I feel like crying

when I look at you.

See? I have no pride.

I am not ashamed of my heart.

Then why would you cry?

I hear your voice again.

I feel once again that I...

Yes?

The same music,

the same emotion, the same feeling...

Please forgive me,

for I can't help it.

Mr. Oblomov...

I do not resent you,

and I forgive you.

Only in the future...

My Lord, what have I done?

All I did...

All I did was to further offend her.

I wanted to apologize!

And she...

Oh, my God.

Could it be possible?

What a thought.

Olga.

Olga!

- Greetings, Ilya Ilyich.

- Olga...

Is that you, Ivan Alexeyevich?

Good Lord!

How beautiful she is!

And her face,

so white and elegant...

I will take her to the Roman ruins,

to the streets

of London and Paris,

and to our earthly paradise

in Oblomovka.

- Who are you talking about?

- Olga Sergeyevna!

Incidentally, I went...

to the bakery earlier

and I ran into the lady.

- Which lady?

- Which lady?

Miss Ilyinskaya,

Olga Sergeyevna.

And?

And she asked me

to say hello to you.

She wanted to know

what you were doing,

and if you were doing well.

What did you tell her?

I told her

that you were doing well.

"What could possibly

happen to him?",

I said.

As if we needed

your stupid remarks.

"What could happen to him?"

And then?

Then she asked

where you had lunch today.

- And?

- I replied, "At home".

I told her that you had dined

at home as well,

and that you ate two chickens.

Idiot!

Why am I an idiot?

Isn't that the truth?

I can even show you the bones.

What an idiot!

- And what did she say?

- She smiled.

And then she said,

"All of two chickens?"

Oh, Lord, what an idiot.

My goodness...

What else did she ask?

She asked what you have been doing

over the past few days.

Oh, no... And you replied...?

"Nothing", I said.

"He stayed in bed".

Get out!

I don't want to see you again!

As of today, I promise -

less food, more strolling

and no wine.

All this to say that the lady

will be waiting for you...

Why didn't you tell me?

You didn't give me a chance, sir.

You threw me out.

Are you trying to kill me,

Zakhar?

Where is she waiting for me?

Where shall I meet her?

I have been looking for you.

I was afraid

you wouldn't find me.

What have you done today?

Today? Well...

Did you argue

with Zakhar again?

Have you read the books

I recommended you?

Yes. I read History

of Discoveries and Inventions.

- In Russian?

- No, in English.

You read in English?

Poorly, but I do.

Read me some, then.

Well... Here we go.

By chance.

Indeed we did.

What is this?

You can see it is a branch.

A branch?

- A branch of lilac.

- I can see that.

But what does it mean?

I do not know.

Perhaps it is the flower of life.

It was you who broke it

the other day. You threw it there.

Why did you pick it up?

No reason.

I was pleased

that you threw it away out of spite.

So you enjoy seeing me upset?

Why?

- I shall not tell you.

- Please, do.

- For nothing in the world.

- I beg you.

Cannot you see

what is taking place in me?

I have trouble speaking.

Give me your hand.

Here.

Something is weighing me down,

like a great rock,

a heavy object

sinking me in deep sorrow.

What do you think it is?

- Shall I tell you?

- Yes.

You are in love.

Yes.

Olga, I love you.

You are looking

at a crazy man struck by passion.

Now, please,

I beg you, say it to me.

- Say it...

- I love you.

I love you. I love you.

I love you.

My love...

Life...

Life, life, life...

Life is here,

in your eyes and in your smile,

in that branch of lilac,

in Casta Diva.

Everything is here.

How are you feeling right now?

The same as you.

You are indifferent,

calm.

Indifferent? No.

Calm.

Why?

Because I had foreseen this moment

a long time ago.

Is that so?

Since the day I sang for you.

I had called you in my mind.

Since that moment?

So it is possible?

All this is mine?

Mine!

Mine!

Mine!

Oh, my Lord,

this is the good way to live!

Is this a mistake?

Yes.

Yes, it is a mistake.

A mistake, yes.

What did I...

Ivan Alexeyevich?

Ivan Alexeyevich!

This is a mistake.

That's what it is.

Ivan Alexeyevich.

A conspiracy.

How do I know she loves me?

She told you herself.

Her heart was ready to accept love.

It was awaiting it.

I happened to fall in her way,

and so did love.

If another comes along,

she will see her mistake.

Another? Who, my dear?

As soon as she sees him,

she will turn from me.

I am stealing

what belongs to another.

What am I doing?

- I am a thief!

- What are you saying?

I am a thief!

No one could love a man like me!

Stolz, now, is different.

He is clever, strong,

and he knows

how to rule others.

He talks to whomever he wants,

and he prevails.

He has a way with people

and I can't even deal with Zakhar,

or with myself.

Zakhar!

At least talk to her.

Zakhar, if Olga Sergeyevna

appears tomorrow,

say that I am in town.

Ilya, she needs an explanation!

It is best if I write a letter.

Zakhar, paper and pen.

I will settle in Petersburg,

in the suburb of Vyborg,

at your cousin's.

- Agaffia Matveyevna?

- Yes.

I will study, I will read,

and then I will go back

to Oblomovka alone, without her.

My Lord,

you have opened my eyes.

You have showed me my duty.

I must write to her,

or she will think I am crazy

for making this decision.

Write, Ivan Alexeyevich.

You will certainly be surprised,

Olga Sergeyevna,

to receive this letter

instead of seeing me in person,

but read it through

and you will understand

there is no other way.

We fell in love

so suddenly, so swiftly,

that it was as if we had fallen ill.

I couldn't come to my senses.

Only tonight was I finally able

to look at the abyss

into which I am rushing

and decided to stop.

I said that I loved you,

and you replied

with the same words.

But cannot you hear

the dissonance in our voices?

Look at me.

Think about my existence.

How can you love me?

Do you really love me?

You keep saying that you love me,

but my response is,

"You do not".

No.

No, you do not love me.

You do not lie either -

it is simply

the unconscious need to love,

which, in the absence

of true nourishment,

by lack of fire,

burns with a false, heatless flame.

"You made a mistake.

"He who stands before you

"is not the one you expected,

the one you dreamed of.

"That man shall come one day.

"Your mind will be clear.

"The spite will oppress you

for your mistake,

"and your spite will hurt me.

"I thus calmly write:

we shall no longer be together".

My Lord, what have I done?

Olga.

Olga, are you crying?

Leave me.

I well know

I have no reason to cry.

My Lord, what have I done?

I must dry those tears away.

Speak.

I shall do anything.

You made them flow.

It is not in your power

to stop them.

It is not. Let me go!

That miserable letter.

Here. Take it away,

or it will make me cry more.

In any case, it proves

of my care for your happiness.

Your care?

No, Ilya Ilyich.

You must have envied

my little happiness,

and hastened to disturb it.

Did you not read my letter?

I renounce you

because I see happiness

in your future.

I am not cold-blooded.

I am drowning in sorrow.

You wished to see me cry.

You take pleasure

in seeing me cry!

Now, look.

Look and rejoice.

Nevertheless, Olga,

if it were true,

if I was right

and our love was wrong,

if you later blush

thinking about me...

- So what?

- "So what"?

You are afraid of succumbing,

of hurting if I cease to love you.

You say I will be hurt, but

I will be fine loving someone else.

I will be happy.

Do you wish me happiness?

Would you sacrifice your life

for him?

What an idea...

Never would I have imagined...

The wild happiness, the mornings

and evenings together,

the strolls...

And my words of love -

none of that is worth anymore?

I could die right now.

Olga, I love you.

- No.

- Yes...

You don't love me

the way you should love me.

You will weary of this love,

as you did of books,

work and the world.

In time, even with no rival,

you will fall asleep beside me

as on your sofa.

Not even my voice

will wake you.

You will care more

about your gown

- not even another woman

but your own gown -

than you do about me.

That is impossible.

Why is it impossible?

You say I will love another man.

Well, I say it is you

who will cease to love me.

And what will happen then?

I, too, cannot sleep at night,

but I do not agonize

over questions about the future,

because I hope for the best.

Happiness to me

is stronger than fear.

But you see

only doom and gloom.

Happiness means nothing

to you.

That is not love.

It is ingratitude.

It is...

It is selfishness.

I poisoned myself.

I poisoned you

instead of simply being happy.

Drink some kvass.

It isn't poison.

And go back to your sofa.

You will make no mistakes.

You will not fall into the abyss.

That is cruel,

now that I have openly

condemned myself.

You speak

of condemnation and abysses,

you offer all your life,

you become tender to yourself,

solicitous.

There is nothing left

for us to say.

Farewell, Ilya Ilyich.

Be calm.

Isn't calmness your happiness?

Olga, no.

For the love of God...

This lilac...

had taken root in my heart.

And it hurts.

It hurts to rip it out.

My pride is being punished.

I overestimated my strength.

Such was my mistake.

I thought I would

bring you back to life.

I thought

I could make you live for me,

but I did not foresee this mistake.

I was hoping...

I can barely stand up.

My legs fail me.

What I saw

could have awakened a stone.

But I will no longer move.

Not anymore.

It is not worth it.

You are dead.

Aren't you dead, Ilya ?

Take me as I am, Olga.

Love the good in me.

You are gentle...

You are honest, Ilya.

You are as delicate as a dove.

You bury your head under your wing

and demand nothing more.

Forever you will coo

under your roof.

But that is not enough for me.

I have a need for something else.

What exactly? Who knows.

If only you could tell me.

If only you could tell me

what I need

and give it to me, so that we...

But tenderness

can be found anywhere.

Forgive me.

I don't know what I'm saying.

Don't be ashamed

to speak the truth.

I deserve you to tell me.

Why?

Why did everything crumble?

Who cursed you, Ilya?

What did you possibly do?

You are a tender,

intelligent, noble man,

but you are destroyed.

What is it that destroyed you?

That evil has no name.

It does.

Oblomovism.

Snow...

Snow.

Snow.

It has covered it all.

Snow.

"This coffee is good.

Who made it?"

"Ivan Alexeyevich's cousin".

"Let us see you".

"Would you like some pie?"

"Here is as quiet as Oblomovka".

"Lovely arms".

"You should remarry".

"But I have children".

"What is this stain?"

"This is what Oblomovkans

would cook in every celebration".

"Happy birthday, Ilya".

"Here reigns the peace

I dreamed of".

"Andrei Ivanovich!"

Andrei?

So, how are you?

Are you doing well?

How is your health?

I am doing better now,

thank you.

Are you ill?

I had a stroke, Andrei.

Good lord!

No sequels, I hope?

I only have difficulty

using my left leg.

Ilya, what happened to you?

You are at your lowest.

This is not funny. We hadn't

seen each other in four years.

I had the hardest time finding you.

But I am on time for dinner.

- I am hungry as a wolf!

- Take a seat.

- Am I interrupting?

- You? Not at all.

Wait... Ivan Alexeyevich?

So, Ilya...

You chose never.

- Never?

- Has time made you forget?

"Now or never", remember?

But I am not the man

that I used to be, Andrei.

Now my affairs are in order,

praise the Lord.

Why didn't you ever come

to meet me?

I did not go abroad because...

Because of Olga?

How do you...

You know about it?

Where is she now?

I heard she traveled abroad

with her aunt.

Shortly after realizing

that she had made a mistake.

So you do know.

I know everything.

I even know about the lilac.

- How is Olga?

- How she is?

She is sad.

She sheds tears

and curses you.

What are you saying?

We must rush to her side...

Calm down. Calm down.

She is joyful. She is happy.

And she says hello.

I advised her not to write to you.

It would have caused you grief.

How glad I am!

Dear Andrei, let me kiss you.

A toast to her health.

Zakhar!

Where is she presently?

She lives in her estate.

With her aunt?

And her husband.

She is married?

What scares you so much?

Memories?

No, not at all.

I am not scared...

I am simply... surprised.

I don't know why.

Has she been married long?

Is she happy?

I feel as though you had removed

a great burden from my chest.

You said she had forgiven me

but deep down,

something was gnawing at me.

My dear Andrei,

how grateful I am to you.

You have a heart of gold.

Your heart was worthy of her.

But tell me,

who is the fortunate man?

Who?

Where did your insight go, Ilya?

You?

Here comes the fear again.

What is your...

Do not jest, Andrei.

Tell me the truth.

I am not jesting.

I have been married to Olga

for over a year.

My dear Andrei...

My sweet Olga.

The Lord has blessed you!

How pleased I am!

My God!

- Tell her...

- Oblomov will be Oblomov.

No, no.

Tell her...

remind her

that I met her

to set her on the right road.

I bless this union

and I bless her in this new road.

Had she set on another one...

The guilt has faded away.

I have nothing to blush for.

Everything is clear now.

Dear Lord, I thank You!

Zakhar, champagne!

Praise the Lord for living this old

to hear the good news.

All the best, Andrei Ivanovich,

my dear sir.

May you live a long life

and have plenty of babies!

I will tell Olga everything.

She has indeed reason

for never forgetting you.

No, no...

You were worthy of her.

Your heart...

is as deep as the sea.

What about you?

What are you doing here?

Well, it is quiet here, Andrei.

It is calm.

No one to disturb me.

Care for some

blackcurrant vodka?

Taste it. It is delicious.

Disturb you from what?

My occupations.

It is Agaffia Matveyevna

who makes it.

You see, she is a good woman.

What would I do without her?

Wait. Wait.

It is as if you were in Oblomovka,

only in a poorer light.

Come with me to the country, Ilya.

Are you sure you don't want

some vodka? It is reputed.

You will not get this

from Olga Sergeyevna.

She can sing Casta Diva,

but never will she make this.

And the chicken

and mushroom pie...

Pies like this

were always made in Oblomovka,

and now I have them here.

Agaffia Matveyevna

cooks everything herself.

Let us leave together.

Olga requests that you join us

at her estate, in the countryside.

Your love has cooled,

you won't be jealous.

Come.

Andrei, my health

is not what it used to be.

The styes are back,

my legs swell at night...

Luckily, Agaffia...

Ilya, you must change

your lifestyle

or you will have another stroke.

Dreaming the future is over

but choosing a few activities,

planning your village,

sharing with the farmers

to understand their needs,

planting,

all this you must

and you can do it.

I will not give up on you.

It is not only my own will

that drives me,

it is also Olga's will,

and she refuses

that you let yourself die,

that you bury yourself alive.

I promised her

I would get you out of this tomb.

- No, Andrei.

- Come with me now!

It is her wish.

She will not forgo it.

I may tire, but she will not.

She is so ardent,

so driven.

She can sometimes outpace me.

The past will rekindle.

You will remember,

you will stir...

Do not stir anything!

It causes me pain, not joy.

- What I have here...

- What do you have here?

Love?

You will not live with us,

but close to us. It is final.

Mercy, let us go!

You need to change your life.

Hear me? You must.

Be quiet,

because otherwise, she...

"She"? Who?

My landlady.

She might think I am leaving.

- Then let her think so!

- No.

That is not possible.

Listen, Andrei,

do no try to convince me.

I am staying right here!

You are lost.

This house, this woman...

All this life.

Get up. Let us leave.

Why? To go where?

Far from this pit,

far from this swamp,

for the world of light and air,

for a normal, healthy life.

No.

What have you become?

What have you done?

Wake up. Is this is the life

you were preparing for?

The life of a mole in a burrow?

Remember, Ilya.

Do not remind me of the past,

it is behind.

What do you want to make of me?

I have forever parted from the world

you want to drag me into.

And you cannot glue

two broken pieces together.

I may be rooted to this pit

by what harms me,

but try to pull me out

and I shall die.

Do you know

who is waiting for you outside?

Do you? Let me call her in.

Olga.

Olga! No!

Do not bring her here!

Go away!

Go away.

Go away.

Leave, I beg you.

I cannot leave this place

without you!

I promised her.

Do you understand, Ilya?

When are you coming?

Olga will ask me.

Andrei,

leave me and forget me.

I beg you, leave me.

What?

For ever?

For ever.

But...

Ilya, are you really rejecting me?

For her?

For that woman?

What is she to you?

My wife.

And the child that you saw

is my son.

His name is Andrei.

After yourself.

You are lost.

What am I to say to Olga?

Never forget my little Andrei.

No.

I will never forget Andrei.

I will lead him

where you could not go.

It is with him

that we will realize

our youthful dreams.

I tried to wake him up

but he refuses.

When did I fall asleep?

A chicken pie would be nice.

Tell us the news,

Ivan Alexeyevich.

All has been said, Ilya.

There is nothing more to tell.

Nothing more? How so?

You go into society, don't you?

You read book as well,

I believe.

Yes.

I do read at times.

Or other people read and talk,

and I listen.

Yesterday, Alexei Spiridonych's

college son read out loud.

What did he read?

A paper on the British, I believe.

They have delivered rifles.

Alexei Spiridonych said

there would be war.

Who did they deliver them to?

Spain.

Or India. I cannot remember.

The ambassador

was quite displeased.

Which ambassador?

I don't know.

Against whom will the war be?

The pasha of Turkey, I think.

What else is new

in the political world?

It is being said

that the Earth is growing colder.

It will soon freeze altogether.

Away!

Is that politics?

Dmitri Alexeych

started by reading politics,

then he read the rest.

He did not say

that politics was over.

He had already

moved on to literature.

What did he read on literature?

That the best writers

are Karamzin, Batyushkov,

Dmitriev and Zhukovsky.

And Pushkin.

Subtitles: ECLAIR