momentarily darkens and jumps, producing the disruption in continuity that has come to signify the passage of time in the emerging language of the cinema. After the break the two women are still in the frame, but now the Countess is moving past Sasha in the opposite direction, on her way out of the house. She offers Sasha a relaxed, gratified expression, almost a smile, her first in Astapovo. Sasha is still frowning. The Countess carefully descends the steps, which have no railing, and crosses the borders of the illuminated screen bearing a dignified grief.
At the time of the filming, the re-fired stage lights had drawn an audience to the front steps of the stationmaster’s house, but Gribshin had brought his men out in force and the gendarmes agreed to assist him in clearing the area circumscribed by the eye of the cinematograph. Advancing from her railway carriage, the Countess parted the crowd. Gribshin bowed again and explained what it was that she would have to do. She understood at once. Meyer stood by, providing Gribshin with his authority. Although he had first been intrigued by Gribshin’s scheme, he was now entertaining second thoughts about it; his third thoughts comprised a resolution to get the scene on film and to worry about the second thoughts afterward. The door to the stationmaster’s house remained shut. As Gribshin presented his directions to the Countess, he was distracted by some fracas in the crowd.
“You don’t fucking own this fucking train station,” someone was asserting, quite drunk. Laughter spilled around him.
One of the gendarmes in Meyer’s pay summarily removed the dissident and Gribshin again reviewed her part with the Countess. “We have one chance to make this right,” he said. Meyer counted to three and began turning the crank.
Raising her skirt off the wet platform, the Countess walked up to the stationmaster’s house and ascended the steps. She lightly rapped on the door. After a few moments it gave way to Sasha, who must have been watching, without comprehension, from one of the windows. She was a woman in her twenties, but in the uncompromising glare of the Jupiter lamps she had acquired a middle-aged ponderousness like her mother’s.
“Mother, please don’t—”
“Aleksandra,” the Countess said, using her daughter’s given name, “please be a good girl and allow your mother to see your father. It’s a matter of common decency.”
Sasha replied blandly, “Dr. Makovitsky says no.”
But the Countess had already pushed across the threshold into the darkened house. From where Gribshin stood he was able to see figures within the house rushing at her, gesturing forcefully. None of this could be distinguished by the camera; nor, of course, could their cries of protestation be recorded.
“Now,” Gribshin said. Meyer held fast the crank. Gribshin didn’t want this editing to be done in Paris, where his intentions could be missed or challenged.
The Countess spun on her heels, remarkably dexterous for a woman of her years and mass. In the gloom of the house, the figures never reached her. Their arms flailed like undersea plants.
“Now,” Gribshin cried again, just as she stepped back across the threshold.
The cinematograph thudded back to life. Gribshin had come to know the three cameras Meyer had brought to Astapovo so well that he recognized the characteristic sound of each one’s mechanism. The gears of the camera Meyer used now whirred at a pitch slightly higher and more distinctly feminine than that produced by the others. You could hear a soft gravely undertone to it. Gribshin loved this: the parallel time unwound by the film’s unspooling. When an event was being filmed, Gribshin saw it happen as if it were already filmed, without color or depth and at a speed a few percents more hurried than normal life processes, but enhanced by narrative. The distortion gave the image content.
Sasha didn’t understand what had just happened, but merely
At the time of the filming, the re-fired stage lights had drawn an audience to the front steps of the stationmaster’s house, but Gribshin had brought his men out in force and the gendarmes agreed to assist him in clearing the area circumscribed by the eye of the cinematograph. Advancing from her railway carriage, the Countess parted the crowd. Gribshin bowed again and explained what it was that she would have to do. She understood at once. Meyer stood by, providing Gribshin with his authority. Although he had first been intrigued by Gribshin’s scheme, he was now entertaining second thoughts about it; his third thoughts comprised a resolution to get the scene on film and to worry about the second thoughts afterward. The door to the stationmaster’s house remained shut. As Gribshin presented his directions to the Countess, he was distracted by some fracas in the crowd.
“You don’t fucking own this fucking train station,” someone was asserting, quite drunk. Laughter spilled around him.
One of the gendarmes in Meyer’s pay summarily removed the dissident and Gribshin again reviewed her part with the Countess. “We have one chance to make this right,” he said. Meyer counted to three and began turning the crank.
Raising her skirt off the wet platform, the Countess walked up to the stationmaster’s house and ascended the steps. She lightly rapped on the door. After a few moments it gave way to Sasha, who must have been watching, without comprehension, from one of the windows. She was a woman in her twenties, but in the uncompromising glare of the Jupiter lamps she had acquired a middle-aged ponderousness like her mother’s.
“Mother, please don’t—”
“Aleksandra,” the Countess said, using her daughter’s given name, “please be a good girl and allow your mother to see your father. It’s a matter of common decency.”
Sasha replied blandly, “Dr. Makovitsky says no.”
But the Countess had already pushed across the threshold into the darkened house. From where Gribshin stood he was able to see figures within the house rushing at her, gesturing forcefully. None of this could be distinguished by the camera; nor, of course, could their cries of protestation be recorded.
“Now,” Gribshin said. Meyer held fast the crank. Gribshin didn’t want this editing to be done in Paris, where his intentions could be missed or challenged.
The Countess spun on her heels, remarkably dexterous for a woman of her years and mass. In the gloom of the house, the figures never reached her. Their arms flailed like undersea plants.
“Now,” Gribshin cried again, just as she stepped back across the threshold.
The cinematograph thudded back to life. Gribshin had come to know the three cameras Meyer had brought to Astapovo so well that he recognized the characteristic sound of each one’s mechanism. The gears of the camera Meyer used now whirred at a pitch slightly higher and more distinctly feminine than that produced by the others. You could hear a soft gravely undertone to it. Gribshin loved this: the parallel time unwound by the film’s unspooling. When an event was being filmed, Gribshin saw it happen as if it were already filmed, without color or depth and at a speed a few percents more hurried than normal life processes, but enhanced by narrative. The distortion gave the image content.
Sasha didn’t understand what had just happened, but merely
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