On August 30, 1940, a decree was issued to hold a decade of Tatar literature and art in Moscow in August 1941. For such a responsible show, a national ballet was needed. (By the way, the Tatar National Opera House opened only on June 17, 1939). Specialists were brought in to work - Pyotr Gusev was appointed chief choreographer for the decade, and he invited Leonid Yakobson to stage the first Tatar ballet.
Fortunately, the theater’s portfolio already contained a ready-made libretto and score for a ballet called “Shurale”; they were brought to the theater in early 1940 by the writer Akhmet Fayzi and the young composer Farid Yarullin. And if the music of the future ballet as a whole suited the choreographer, the libretto seemed to him too blurred and oversaturated literary characters— an inexperienced librettist brought together the heroes of eight works by the classic of Tatar literature Gabdulla Tukay. In February 1941, Jacobson graduated new option libretto and composer began to finalize the author's clavier, which he completed in June.
On July 3, 1941, a dress rehearsal of the new ballet took place in Kazan. The ballet troupe of the Tatar Opera and Ballet Theater was reinforced by dancers of the “Island of Dance” troupe and soloists of the Leningrad Opera and Ballet Theater named after S. M. Kirov. The part of Syuimbike was performed by Naima Baltacheeva, Ali-Batyra by Abdurakhman Kumysnikov, Shurale by Gabdul-Bari Akhtyamov. The performance was designed by artist E. M. Mandelberg, conductor I. V. Aukhadeyev. There was no longer any talk about the premiere or a trip to Moscow - Velikaya Patriotic War crossed out all plans. The Tatar Opera and Ballet Theater returned to Shurala in 1945. F.V. Vitachek, who taught orchestration and reading scores at the Gnessin Institute, instrumentalized the score, and choreographer Guy Tagirov composed a new libretto.
And in 1958, Farid Yarullin was posthumously awarded the State Prize of Tatarstan named after G. Tukay for the ballet “Shurale”.
Wikipedia.
Plot
A clearing in a forest thicket with the lair of the goblin Shurale. The hunter Ali-Batyr came here after getting lost in the forest. A flock of birds descends into the clearing. They shed their wings and turn into beautiful girls. Shurale steals the wings of the most beautiful one - Syuimbike. Having played enough, the girls turn into birds again, and Syuimbike searches in vain for her wings. Her friends fly away, and Shurale tries to grab her. Syuimbike calls for help, and Ali-Batyr defeats the devil in a fierce struggle. He hides, and Syuimbike begs Batyr to find her wings. Having lifted the girl in his arms, the hunter takes her out of the forest.
Guests gather in the garden in front of Ali-Batyr’s house. Suimbike sincerely fell in love with her savior and marries him. But the longing for the expanse of heaven and for her bird friends does not leave her. After the wedding ritual games, the guests go into the house and sit down at the tables. In the gathering dusk, Shurale sneaks into the garden and places in a visible place the wings of Syuimbike, which were brought to him by his assistants - the black crows. Leaving the house, the girl happily sees the wings, puts them on and rises into the air. The crows take off and chase her to Shurale’s lair. Batyr gives chase.
In the forest lair, Shurale mocks Syuimbike and demands to submit to him. But Batyr is already here. With a burning torch, he sets fire to the forest and enters into a duel with the goblin. In a fierce battle, Batyr’s strength leaves him, and with his last effort he throws Shurale into the fire. He dies, but the fire that breaks out also threatens the lovers. Batyr extends his wings to Syuimbika, offering salvation, but she, conquered by the power of his love, throws her wings into the fire. And yet they manage to escape.
Again the village where Ali-Batyr lives. A cheerful holiday is held in honor of the brave hunter and his beautiful bride.
Music.
Shurale is one of the most striking ballets of the Soviet era. His music, based on the rhythmic intonations of Tatar folklore, both song and dance, was brilliantly developed by the composer using all means of professional musical technique.
L. Mikheeva
Libretto by Akhmet Fayzi and Leonid Yakobson based on the poem of the same name by Gabdulla Tukay, based on Tatar folklore.
History of creation
Fortunately, the theater’s portfolio already contained a ready-made libretto and score for a ballet called “Shurale”; they were brought to the theater in early 1940 by the writer Akhmet Fayzi and the young composer Farid Yarullin. And if the music of the future ballet generally suited the choreographer, the libretto seemed to him too vague and oversaturated with literary characters - the inexperienced librettist brought together the heroes of eight works by the classic of Tatar literature Gabdulla Tukay. In February 1941, Jacobson completed a new version of the libretto and the composer began to finalize the author's clavier, which he completed in June.
Characters
- Suimbike - Anna Gatsulina
- Ali-Batyr - Gabdul-Bari Akhtyamov
- Shurale - V. Romanyuk
- Taz - Guy Tagirov
- Suimbike - Natalia Dudinskaya, (then Alla Shelest, Inna Zubkovskaya, Olga Moiseeva)
- Ali-Batyr - Askold Makarov, (then Konstantin Sergeev, Boris Bregvadze)
- Shurale - Igor Belsky, (then Robert Gerbek, Konstantin Rassadin, Yuri Grigorovich)
- Main matchmaker - A. N. Blatova
- Suimbike - Marina Kondratyeva, (then Lyudmila Bogomolova)
- Batyr - Vladimir Vasiliev
- Shurale - Vladimir Levashev
- Fire Witch - Faina Efremova, (then Elmira Kosterina)
- Shaitan - Esfandyar Kashani, (then Nikolai Simachev)
- Shuralenok (performed by students of the Moscow Art University) - Vasily Vorokhobko, (then A. Aristov)
The performance was performed 8 times, the last performance was on October 1 of this year.
Performances in other theaters
- Bashkir Opera and Ballet Theater, choreographer F. M. Sattarov
10th of November- Lviv Opera and Ballet Theater, choreographer M. S. Zaslavsky, production designer Y. F. Nirod, stage conductor S. M. Arbit
- Troupe “Choreographic Miniatures” - scenes from the ballet “Shurale” in Act 1, choreography by Leonid Yakobson
Bibliography
- Zolotnitsky D.“Ali-Batyr” // Smena: newspaper. - L., 1950. - No. 23 June.
- V. Bogdanov-Berezovsky“Ali-Batyr” // Evening Leningrad: newspaper. - L., 1950. - No. 26 June.
- Krasovskaya V.“Ali-Batyr” // Soviet art: newspaper. - L., 1950. - No. 11 November.
- Dobrovolskaya G. Truce with the classics // . - L.: Art, 1968. - P. 33-55. - 176 p. - 5000 copies.
- Roslavleva N. In new ballets // . - M.: Art, 1968. - P. 66-67. - 164 s. - 75,000 copies.
- Gamaley Yu. Year 1950 // . - L.: PapiRus, 1999. - P. 140-141. - 424 s. - 5000 copies.
- - ISBN 5-87472-137-1. L. I. Abyzova.
- Dancer of the Kirov Theater // . - St. Petersburg. : Academy of Russian Ballet named after. A. Ya. Vaganova, 2000. - P. 69-75. - 400 s. - 1200 copies. My work on “Shurale” // Letters to Noverr. Memoirs and essays. - N-Y.: Hermitage Publishers, 2001. - P. 33-97. - 507 p. - ISBN 1-55779-133-3.
- Gabashi A.// Tatar world: magazine. - Kazan, 2005. - No. 3.
- Yunusova G.// Republic of Tatarstan: newspaper. - Kazan, 2005. - No. 13 May.
- // RIA Novosti: RIA. - M., 2009. - No. 24 June.
- Stupnikov I.// St. Petersburg Gazette: newspaper. - St. Petersburg. , 2009. - No. July 7.
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Notes
Links
- on the website of the Tatar Opera and Ballet Theater
- Online Mariinsky Theater
- photo report from the performance of the Tatar Opera and Ballet Theater
Excerpt characterizing Shurale (ballet)
One of the people in the darkness of the night, from behind the high body of a carriage standing at the entrance, noticed another small glow of a fire. One glow had been visible for a long time, and everyone knew that it was Malye Mytishchi that was burning, lit by Mamonov’s Cossacks.“But this, brothers, is a different fire,” said the orderly.
Everyone turned their attention to the glow.
“But, they said, Mamonov’s Cossacks set Mamonov’s Cossacks on fire.”
- They! No, this is not Mytishchi, this is further away.
- Look, it’s definitely in Moscow.
Two of the people got off the porch, went behind the carriage and sat down on the step.
- This is left! Of course, Mytishchi is over there, and this is in a completely different direction.
Several people joined the first.
“Look, it’s burning,” said one, “this, gentlemen, is a fire in Moscow: either in Sushchevskaya or in Rogozhskaya.”
No one responded to this remark. And for quite a long time all these people silently looked at the distant flames of a new fire flaring up.
The old man, the count's valet (as he was called), Danilo Terentich, approached the crowd and shouted to Mishka.
- What haven’t you seen, slut... The Count will ask, but no one is there; go get your dress.
“Yes, I was just running for water,” said Mishka.
– What do you think, Danilo Terentich, it’s like there’s a glow in Moscow? - said one of the footmen.
Danilo Terentich did not answer anything, and for a long time everyone was silent again. The glow spread and swayed further and further.
“God have mercy!.. wind and dryness...” the voice said again.
- Look how it went. Oh my God! You can already see the jackdaws. Lord, have mercy on us sinners!
- They'll probably put it out.
-Who should put it out? – the voice of Danila Terentich, who had been silent until now, was heard. His voice was calm and slow. “Moscow is, brothers,” he said, “she is mother squirrel...” His voice broke off, and he suddenly sobbed like an old man. And it was as if everyone was waiting for just this in order to understand the meaning that this visible glow had for them. Sighs, words of prayer and the sobbing of the old count's valet were heard.
The valet, returning, reported to the count that Moscow was burning. The Count put on his robe and went out to have a look. Sonya, who had not yet undressed, and Madame Schoss came out with him. Natasha and the Countess remained alone in the room. (Petya was no longer with his family; he went forward with his regiment, marching to Trinity.)
The Countess began to cry when she heard the news of the fire in Moscow. Natasha, pale, with fixed eyes, sitting under the icons on the bench (in the very place where she sat when she arrived), did not pay any attention to her father’s words. She listened to the incessant moaning of the adjutant, heard three houses away.
- Oh, what horror! - said Sonya, cold and frightened, returned from the yard. - I think all of Moscow will burn, a terrible glow! Natasha, look now, you can see from the window from here,” she said to her sister, apparently wanting to entertain her with something. But Natasha looked at her, as if not understanding what they were asking her, and again stared at the corner of the stove. Natasha had been in this state of tetanus since this morning, ever since Sonya, to the surprise and annoyance of the Countess, for some unknown reason, found it necessary to announce to Natasha about Prince Andrei’s wound and his presence with them on the train. The Countess became angry with Sonya, as she was rarely angry. Sonya cried and asked for forgiveness and now, as if trying to make amends for her guilt, she never stopped caring for her sister.
“Look, Natasha, how terribly it burns,” said Sonya.
– What’s burning? – Natasha asked. - Oh, yes, Moscow.
And as if in order not to offend Sonya by refusing and to get rid of her, she moved her head to the window, looked so that, obviously, she could not see anything, and again sat down in her previous position.
-Have you not seen it?
“No, really, I saw it,” she said in a voice pleading for calm.
Both the Countess and Sonya understood that Moscow, the fire of Moscow, whatever it was, of course, could not matter to Natasha.
The Count again went behind the partition and lay down. The Countess approached Natasha, touched her head with her inverted hand, as she did when her daughter was sick, then touched her forehead with her lips, as if to find out if there was a fever, and kissed her.
-You're cold. You're shaking all over. You should go to bed,” she said.
- Go to bed? Yes, okay, I'll go to bed. “I’ll go to bed now,” Natasha said.
Since Natasha was told this morning that Prince Andrei was seriously wounded and was going with them, only in the first minute she asked a lot about where? How? Is he dangerously injured? and is she allowed to see him? But after she was told that she could not see him, that he was seriously wounded, but that his life was not in danger, she, obviously, did not believe what she was told, but was convinced that no matter how much she said, she would be answer the same thing, stopped asking and talking. All the way, with big eyes, which the countess knew so well and whose expression the countess was so afraid of, Natasha sat motionless in the corner of the carriage and now sat in the same way on the bench on which she sat down. She was thinking about something, something she was deciding or had already decided in her mind now - the countess knew this, but what it was, she did not know, and this frightened and tormented her.
- Natasha, undress, my dear, lie down on my bed. (Only the countess alone had a bed made on the bed; m me Schoss and both young ladies had to sleep on the floor on the hay.)
“No, mom, I’ll lie here on the floor,” Natasha said angrily, went to the window and opened it. The adjutant groans from open window was heard more clearly. She stuck her head out into the damp air of the night, and the countess saw how her thin shoulders were shaking with sobs and beating against the frame. Natasha knew that it was not Prince Andrei who was moaning. She knew that Prince Andrei was lying in the same connection where they were, in another hut across the hallway; but this terrible, incessant groan made her sob. The Countess exchanged glances with Sonya.
“Lie down, my dear, lie down, my friend,” said the countess, lightly touching Natasha’s shoulder with her hand. - Well, go to bed.
“Oh, yes... I’ll go to bed now,” said Natasha, hastily undressing and tearing off the strings of her skirts. Having taken off her dress and put on a jacket, she tucked her legs in, sat down on the bed prepared on the floor and, throwing her short thin braid over her shoulder, began to braid it. Thin, long, familiar fingers quickly, deftly took apart, braided, and tied the braid. Natasha's head turned with a habitual gesture, first in one direction, then in the other, but her eyes, feverishly open, looked straight and motionless. When the night suit was finished, Natasha quietly sank down onto the sheet laid on the hay on the edge of the door.
“Natasha, lie down in the middle,” said Sonya.
“No, I’m here,” Natasha said. “Go to bed,” she added with annoyance. And she buried her face in the pillow.
The Countess, m me Schoss and Sonya hastily undressed and lay down. One lamp remained in the room. But in the yard it was getting brighter from the fire of Malye Mytishchi, two miles away, and the drunken cries of the people were buzzing in the tavern, which Mamon’s Cossacks had smashed, on the crossroads, on the street, and the incessant groan of the adjutant was heard.
Natasha listened for a long time to the internal and external sounds coming to her, and did not move. She heard first the prayer and sighs of her mother, the cracking of her bed under her, the familiar whistling snoring of m me Schoss, the quiet breathing of Sonya. Then the Countess called out to Natasha. Natasha did not answer her.
“He seems to be sleeping, mom,” Sonya answered quietly. The Countess, after being silent for a while, called out again, but no one answered her.
Soon after this, Natasha heard her mother's even breathing. Natasha did not move, despite the fact that her small bare foot, having escaped from under the blanket, was chilly on the bare floor.
As if celebrating victory over everyone, a cricket screamed in the crack. The rooster crowed far away, and loved ones responded. The screams died down in the tavern, only the same adjutant’s stand could be heard. Natasha stood up.
- Sonya? are you sleeping? Mother? – she whispered. No one answered. Natasha slowly and carefully stood up, crossed herself and stepped carefully with her narrow and flexible bare foot onto the dirty, cold floor. The floorboard creaked. She, quickly moving her feet, ran a few steps like a kitten and grabbed the cold door bracket.
It seemed to her that something heavy, striking evenly, was knocking on all the walls of the hut: it was her heart, frozen with fear, with horror and love, beating, bursting.
She opened the door, crossed the threshold and stepped onto the damp, cold ground entryway The gripping cold refreshed her. She felt the sleeping man with her bare foot, stepped over him and opened the door to the hut where Prince Andrei lay. It was dark in this hut. In the back corner of the bed, on which something was lying, there was a tallow candle on a bench that had burned out like a large mushroom.
Natasha, in the morning, when they told her about the wound and the presence of Prince Andrei, decided that she should see him. She did not know what it was for, but she knew that the meeting would be painful, and she was even more convinced that it was necessary.
All day she lived only in the hope that at night she would see him. But now, when this moment came, the horror of what she would see came over her. How was he mutilated? What was left of him? Was he like that incessant groan of the adjutant? Yes, he was like that. He was in her imagination the personification of this terrible groan. When she saw an obscure mass in the corner and mistook his raised knees under the blanket for his shoulders, she imagined some kind of terrible body and stopped in horror. But an irresistible force pulled her forward. She carefully took one step, then another, and found herself in the middle of a small, cluttered hut. In the hut, under the icons, another person was lying on the benches (it was Timokhin), and two more people were lying on the floor (these were the doctor and the valet).
The valet stood up and whispered something. Timokhin, suffering from pain in his wounded leg, did not sleep and looked with all his eyes at the strange appearance of a girl in a poor shirt, jacket and eternal cap. The sleepy and frightened words of the valet; “What do you need, why?” - they only forced Natasha to quickly approach what was lying in the corner. No matter how scary or unlike a human this body was, she had to see it. She passed the valet: the burnt mushroom of the candle fell off, and she clearly saw Prince Andrei lying with his arms outstretched on the blanket, just as she had always seen him.
He was the same as always; but the inflamed color of his face, his sparkling eyes, fixed enthusiastically on her, and especially the tender child’s neck protruding from the folded collar of his shirt, gave him a special, innocent, childish appearance, which, however, she had never seen in Prince Andrei. She approached him and with a quick, flexible, youthful movement she knelt down.
He smiled and extended his hand to her.
For Prince Andrei, seven days have passed since he woke up at the dressing station of the Borodino field. All this time he was in almost constant unconsciousness. The fever and inflammation of the intestines, which were damaged, in the opinion of the doctor traveling with the wounded man, should have carried him away. But on the seventh day he happily ate a slice of bread with tea, and the doctor noticed that the general fever had decreased. Prince Andrei regained consciousness in the morning. The first night after leaving Moscow it was quite warm, and Prince Andrei was left to spend the night in a carriage; but in Mytishchi the wounded man himself demanded to be carried out and to be given tea. The pain caused to him by being carried into the hut made Prince Andrei moan loudly and lose consciousness again. When they laid him on a camp bed, he lay for a long time with his eyes closed without moving. Then he opened them and quietly whispered: “What should I have for tea?” This memory for the small details of life amazed the doctor. He felt the pulse and, to his surprise and displeasure, noticed that the pulse was better. To his displeasure, the doctor noticed this because, from his experience, he was convinced that Prince Andrei could not live and that if he did not die now, he would only die with great suffering some time later. With Prince Andrei they were carrying the major of his regiment, Timokhin, who had joined them in Moscow with a red nose and was wounded in the leg in the same Battle of Borodino. With them rode a doctor, the prince's valet, his coachman and two orderlies.
Prince Andrey was given tea. He drank greedily, looking ahead at the door with feverish eyes, as if trying to understand and remember something.
- I don’t want anymore. Is Timokhin here? - he asked. Timokhin crawled towards him along the bench.
- I'm here, your Excellency.
- How's the wound?
- Mine then? Nothing. Is that you? “Prince Andrei began to think again, as if remembering something.
-Can I get a book? - he said.
- Which book?
- Gospel! I have no.
The doctor promised to get it and began asking the prince about how he felt. Prince Andrei reluctantly, but wisely answered all the doctor’s questions and then said that he needed to put a cushion on him, otherwise it would be awkward and very painful. The doctor and the valet lifted the greatcoat with which he was covered and, wincing at the heavy smell of rotten meat spreading from the wound, began to examine it scary place. The doctor was very dissatisfied with something, changed something differently, turned the wounded man over so that he groaned again and, from the pain while turning, again lost consciousness and began to rave. He kept talking about getting this book for him as soon as possible and putting it there.
- And what does it cost you! - he said. “I don’t have it, please take it out and put it in for a minute,” he said in a pitiful voice.
The doctor went out into the hallway to wash his hands.
“Ah, shameless, really,” the doctor said to the valet, who was pouring water on his hands. “I just didn’t watch it for a minute.” After all, you put it directly on the wound. It’s such a pain that I’m surprised how he endures it.
“It seems like we planted it, Lord Jesus Christ,” said the valet.
For the first time, Prince Andrei understood where he was and what had happened to him, and remembered that he had been wounded and how at that moment when the carriage stopped in Mytishchi, he asked to go to the hut. Confused again from pain, he came to his senses another time in the hut, when he was drinking tea, and then again, repeating in his memory everything that had happened to him, he most vividly imagined that moment at the dressing station when, at the sight of the suffering of a person he did not love, , these new thoughts came to him, promising him happiness. And these thoughts, although unclear and indefinite, now again took possession of his soul. He remembered that he now had new happiness and that this happiness had something in common with the Gospel. That's why he asked for the Gospel. But the bad situation that his wound had given him, the new upheaval, again confused his thoughts, and for the third time he woke up to life in the complete silence of the night. Everyone was sleeping around him. A cricket screamed through the entryway, someone was shouting and singing on the street, cockroaches rustled on the table and icons, in the autumn a thick fly beat on his headboard and near the tallow candle, which had burned like a large mushroom and stood next to him.
Gabdulla Tukay
There is an aul near Kazan called Kyrlay.
Even the chickens in that Kyrlay can sing... Wonderful land!
Even though I didn’t come from there, I kept my love for him,
He worked on the land - he sowed, reaped and harrowed.
Is he reputed to be a big village? No, on the contrary, it’s small
And the river, the pride of the people, is just a small spring.
This forest side is forever alive in my memory.
The grass spreads out like a velvety blanket.
The people there never knew either cold or heat:
In its turn the wind will blow, and in its turn the rain will come.
From raspberries and strawberries everything in the forest is motley,
You can pick a bucket full of berries in a single moment!
I often lay on the grass and looked at the heavens.
The endless forests seemed like a formidable army to me.
Pines, lindens and oaks stood like warriors,
Under the pine tree there is sorrel and mint, under the birch tree there are mushrooms.
How many blue, yellow, red flowers are intertwined there,
And from them the fragrance flowed into the sweet air.
Moths flew away, arrived and landed,
It was as if the petals were arguing with them and making peace.
Bird chirping and ringing babble were heard in the silence,
And they filled my soul with piercing joy.
I depicted the summer forest, but my verse has not yet sung
Our autumn, our winter, and young beauties,
And the joy of our celebrations, and the spring Saban-Tui...
O my verse, don’t disturb my soul with memories!
But wait, I was daydreaming... there's paper on the table...
I was going to tell you about the tricks of the Shural!
I’ll start now, reader, don’t blame me:
I lose all reason, as soon as I remember Kyrlay!
Of course, in this amazing forest
You will meet a wolf and a bear, and a treacherous fox.
There are many fairy tales and beliefs circulating in our native land
And about gins, and about peris, and about terrible shurals.
Is this true? The ancient forest is endless, like the sky,
And no less than in heaven, perhaps in the forest of miracles.
I will begin my short story about one of them,
And - such is my custom - I will sing poetry.
One night, when the moon glides shining through the clouds,
A horseman went from the village to the forest to get firewood.
He arrived quickly on the cart, immediately took up the ax,
Here and there, trees are being cut down, and all around is a dense forest.
As often happens in summer, the night was fresh and humid;
Because the birds were sleeping, the silence grew.
The woodcutter is busy with work, you know, he knocks, knocks,
The enchanted horseman forgot for a moment!
Chu! Some terrible scream is heard in the distance,
And the ax stopped in the swinging hand.
And our nimble woodcutter froze in amazement.
He looks and doesn’t believe his eyes. Who is this person?
The genie, the robber or the ghost of this crooked freak?
How ugly he is, it involuntarily takes over fear!
The nose is curved like a fishhook,
Arms and legs are like branches, they will intimidate even a daredevil!
The eyes flash angrily, burning in the black hollows.
Even during the day, let alone at night, this look will frighten you!
He looks like a man, very thin and naked,
The narrow forehead is decorated with a horn the size of our finger.
The fingers on his hands are half arshin long,
Ten fingers, ugly, sharp, long and straight!
And, looking into the eyes of the freak that lit up like two fires,
The woodcutter asked bravely: “What do you want from me?”
“Young horseman, don’t be afraid, robbery doesn’t attract me,
But although I am not a robber, I am not a righteous saint.
Why, when I saw you, did I let out a cheerful cry? -
Because I’m used to killing people with tickles!
Each finger is adapted to tickle more viciously,
I kill a man by making him laugh!
Come on, move your fingers, my brother,
Play tickle with me and make me laugh!”
“Okay, I’ll play,” the woodcutter answered him.
Only on one condition... do you agree or not?”
“Speak up, little man, please be bolder,
I will accept all the conditions, but let’s play quickly!”
“If so, listen to me, whatever you decide, I don’t care.
Do you see a thick, big and heavy log?
Forest spirit. Forest sheep. Let's work together.
Together you and I will carry the log onto the cart.
You will notice a large gap at the other end of the log,
Hold the log there tightly, all your strength is needed!”
The shurale glanced sideways at the indicated place,
And, not disagreeing with the horseman, the shurale agreed.
He put his long, straight fingers into the mouth of the log.
Sages! Do you see the simple trick of a woodcutter?
The wedge, previously plugged, is knocked out with an axe,
By knocking out, he carries out a clever plan in secret.
Shurale does not move, does not move his hand,
He stands there, not understanding the clever invention of people.
So a thick wedge flew out with a whistle and disappeared into the darkness...
The fingers of the shurale got pinched and remained in the gap!
Shurale saw the deception, Shurale screams and yells,
He calls his brothers for help, he calls the forest people.
With a repentant prayer he says to the horseman:
“Have mercy, have mercy on me, let me go, horseman!
I will never offend you, horseman, or my son,
I will never touch your entire family, O man!
I won’t offend anyone, do you want me to take an oath?
I will tell everyone: “I am a horseman’s friend, let him walk in the forest!”
It hurts my fingers! Give me freedom, let me live on earth,
What do you want, horseman, for profit from the torment of the shurale?”
The poor fellow cries, rushes about, whines, howls, he’s not himself,
The woodcutter doesn’t hear him and is getting ready to go home.
“Won’t the cry of a sufferer soften this soul?
Who are you, who are you, heartless? What's your name, horseman?
Tomorrow, if I live to see our brother,
To the question: “Who is your offender?” - whose name will I say?
“So be it, I’ll say, brother, don’t forget this name:
I’m nicknamed “The Inspired One”... And now it’s time for me to hit the road.”
Shurale screams and howls, wants to show strength,
He wants to break out of captivity and punish the woodcutter.
"I will die! Forest spirits, help me quickly,
The villain pinched me, he destroyed me!”
And the next morning the Shurales came running from all sides.
“What's wrong with you? Are you crazy? What are you upset about, fool?
Calm down, shut up, we can't stand the screaming.
Pinched in the past year, why are you crying this year?”
The fairy tale “Shurale” by the Tatar writer Gabdulla Tukay (1886–1913) is written on folklore material rich in poetic images. Folk art generously nourished the poet’s inspiration throughout his short creative career.
There are many miracles in Tukay's tales and funny stories. Water witches inhabit lakes, and in the dense forest the forest undead are at ease and free, preparing intrigues for an unwary person. But all his shurales, genies and other forest spirits do not have the character of a mysterious force that darkens people’s lives; rather, they are naive and trusting forest creatures, in a clash with which a person always emerges victorious.
In the afterword to the first edition of Shurale, Tukay wrote:
“...we must hope that among us there will be talented artists and they will draw a curved nose, long fingers, a head with terrible horns, they will show how the shurale’s fingers were pinched, they will paint pictures of forests where goblins were found...”
Seventy years have passed since the death of the wonderful Tatar poet, since then many artists have strived to fulfill his dream.
→ Tatar fairy tale "Shurale"
There was a brave woodcutter in one village.One winter he went to the forest and began chopping wood. Suddenly appeared in front of him.
- What's your name, little man? - asks Shurale*.
“My name is Byltyr**,” the woodcutter answers.
“Come on, Byltyr, let’s play,” says Shurale.
“I don’t have time to play right now,” the woodcutter answers. - I won't play with you!
Shurale got angry and shouted:
- Ah well! Well, then I won’t let you out of the forest alive!
The woodcutter sees it - it’s bad.
“Okay,” he says. - I’ll play with you, just help me split the deck first.
The woodcutter hit the deck with an ax once, hit it twice and said:
“Put your fingers into the gap so it doesn’t get pinched until I hit you a third time.”
Shurala stuck his fingers into the crack, and the woodcutter pulled out an ax. Then the deck closed tightly and pinched Shurale’s fingers. That's all the woodcutter needed. He collected his firewood and quickly left for the village. And let Shurala shout to the whole forest:
- Byltyr pinched my fingers!.. Byltyr pinched my fingers!..
Other shurale came running to the cry and asked:
- What's happened? Who pinched it?
- Byltyr pinched! - Shurale answers.
“If that’s the case, we can’t help you,” other shurale say. - If this happened today, we would help you. Since this happened last year, where can you find it now? You're stupid! You should have shouted not now, but last year!
And stupid Shurale could not really explain anything to them.
They say that Shurale put the deck on his back and still carries it on himself, and he shouts loudly:
- Byltyr pinched my fingers!..
Continuation. Part 3. ()
Let us finally return to “Shurala”... this creature is not burdened with an intellect capable of tempting, there is nothing in it from Mephistopheles, Demon or Faun... According to the responses, the Mariinsky Theater production is incredibly colorful and... children like it... fairy world beautiful, like the world that awaits them in our country, I believe...
Please note that in the announcement Yarullin was mentioned only once, and thank God. The decision to return Soviet masterpieces to the theater’s repertoire is made by Valery Gergiev
, I believe, this decision is made not only because these are masterpieces... Obraztsova creates simply an exemplary image of Syuyumbike. Light, gentle, touching, and in her interview Evgenia does not hesitate to draw a parallel with “Swan Lake”...
“Barbaric and childish...” is some key to understanding. Barbaric today means exotic, bright, unusual, original... nesting doll, “clownery” at the highest technical level, with a budget that could be enough for perhaps a year of Yekaterinburg opera...
Shurale - Premiere (Mariinsky Ballet).
Uploaded by user jp2uao, date: 06/30/2009 RTR-Vesti 06/29/2009.
An ironic, but not uninteresting note by Olga Fedorchenko “This is “Shurale” ...” The Tatar goblin was shown at the Mariinsky Theater.
"Forest evil spirits speak in vulgar grotesquery, liberated bodies snake, wriggle, sway and writhe, visibly embodying all the baser sides of human nature. Fantastic birds “chirp” with a classical dance, light, flighty, bold and unusually transformed in a Jacobsonian way. The people, as they should be, speak sedately in the language of a characteristic dance...
The parts of the three main characters are probably on a par with Sleeping Beauty and Swan Lake in terms of complexity. All the wealth classical dance, solo and duet, which dancing humanity had developed by 1950, interesting acting tasks - what else does a demanding soloist need to dream of dancing “Shurale”?!
(...) At the end of the performance, in the best imperial traditions, ceremonial speeches and the distribution of government awards began. The politically correct summary of the premiere was summed up by the chairman of the parliament of Tatarstan: “Glory to God!”, and immediately corrected himself: “And to Allah!” The artistic result was summed up by the Minister of Culture of Tatarstan. For some reason, she brought Van Clyburn onto the Mariinsky stage, and while he bowed shyly, the sovereign lady said thoughtfully into the microphone: “This is Shurale...”
In 1980, a film adaptation of the ballet was made. Few people remember her. Poems by Tatar poets are read in Russian. I have a hard time finding the director’s name - Oleg Ryabokon. It’s interesting that this film is not even mentioned in his filmography; maybe he himself was ashamed of his brainchild? I “flipped through” the film, it was poorly shot, it’s not clear how and why such a medium shot and angle were chosen, the artists constantly jump out of the screen, the poor cameraman, unable to keep up with the artists and poorly understanding what is happening on stage, is forced to turn the camera behind them , it was also mounted clumsily, everything was done extremely sloppily, the music was recorded somehow evenly, coldly, indifferently... In a word, the 80s were different times, not for such a production, the impression that everyone was trying to do everything correctly, except for the authors of the film , but they treated the work with absolute indifference, it is difficult to detect sparks of inspiration. It's boring to watch and listen...
Forest Tale (Shurale) -1980. Posted on Yandex.
We're trying another approach by removing the visuals. The music had a purpose, it presupposed a choreographic implementation, the music was written under the direction of a choreographer, but no matter who staged ballets to Tchaikovsky’s music, no matter how art critics sighed over the genius of the directors, this music can do without choreography, but ballet without music? “The Battle of Byltyr and Shurale” (below) without choreography, does it draw our attention to the contradiction inherent within our own soul, is it possible to grasp how the struggle of light and darkness, good and evil takes place in it?.. Is it difficult? A lot of pathos, isn't it? From the first notes everything is clear, the sun is shining brightly, you won’t find a sign of shadow in which you could hide from its scorching rays, everything is triumphant. Of course, you can hear how it’s unclear what kind of cavalry is galloping, either Budenov’s, or Tatar-Mongol, but triumph is a foregone conclusion, the music is so Soviet that it becomes boring... The perception is subjective, I’m not going to criticize anyone. But the pathos seems provincial to me, which I also say with a reservation, not being a specialist, only a provincial listener. I decided to take this kind of music performance as well. This is a completely different element. In ballet, the orchestra and the troupe must be a single whole; here the music is left to itself, the orchestra and our ears...
F.Yarullin. "Battle of Byltyr and Shurale." Uploaded by user AlsuHasanova, date: 01/11/2011
Symphony Orchestra of the Kazan Music College.
Let's return to ballet.
OBRAZTSOVA - D. MATVIENKO - SHURALE ADAGIO
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#2 Scene from Shurale Act 1 Evgenia Obraztsova Mariinsky Ballet Now Bolshoi Ballerina. Uploaded by user russianballetvideo, date: 02/25/2012.
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This dance seems eclectic to me (there aren’t enough castanets in my hands), somewhat looped and monotonous, the background crowd is annoying, that they are somehow stupidly turning their heads, clicking, twitching their arms? question about national color I'm just filming. Obraztsova is very charming, cheerful, clean, an easy bird...
Scene from Shurale Act 2 Evgenia Obraztsova Mariinsky Ballet Now Bolshoi Ballerina.
Let's return to the plot of the fairy tale. Some young man goes to the forest for the night looking for firewood. The thought involuntarily arises: maybe steal? He deceives the fool Shurale, introducing himself as “Industrial”... That is. someone, not even yesterday... Such a sane guy, he took what he needed, and also pinched the goblin’s fingers... the fingers are not the legs, but there are also fingers on the toes... Tukai mentions girls in passing, nothing more...
In a word, Tatar ingenuity and common sense triumphed...
But there are some things we cannot understand without looking from a different point of view. Another “national” triumph in ballet is Khachaturian’s ballet “Spartacus,” although the theme is not Armenian (this is a separate conversation, how much the tragic history of the Armenian people is reflected in this). Khachaturian began creating it in December 1941 with librettist N.D. Volkov and choreographer I. A. Moiseev . "This should be a monumental heroic performance that will show the Soviet audience the most better man all ancient history, what, according to Marx, is Spartacus"" ( L. Mikheeva. Aram Khachaturyan. Ballet "Spartacus" Spartacus.04/19/2011.) The score was written in 1954. The premiere staged by Yakobson took place at the Kirovsky Theater in 1956. In Moscow, staged by Moiseev - in 1958. In 1968, the ballet was staged by Grigorovich...
Why did I decide to talk about this? The point is that Igor Moiseev was a very unusual and talented student - Faizi Gaskarov
, who left the master’s ensemble in 1939 in order to create his own folk dance theater in Ufa - the Bashkir Folk Dance Ensemble... (I will definitely talk about my meetings with the work of this group, only in 1994... someday later)
On the other hand, in 1941 a film was released about the Bashkir national hero Salavat Yulaev, directed by Protazanov. Can you guess who wrote the music for this film? Certainly, Aram Khachaturyan! And he wrote wonderful music.
Salavat Yulaev (1941). Posted on 06/01/2012 by lupuslexwar.
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Faizi Gaskarov, of course, wanted to make a film about his theater. And he “films” it, it is clear that at the Sverdlovsk film studio. Director Oleg Nikolaevsky. Composer Lev Stepanov. I don’t know, I apologize, neither such a director nor such a composer; more talented creators have sharpened their pens on national themes. The film, unfortunately, turned out to be weak, but now it is a unique document... And the very attempt to combine ballet and folk dance is interesting... And, of course, we will talk about a bird girl!
Crane song. Uploaded by getmovies, date: 06/25/2011.
In a word, here we are back to the boy sitting on a rock above Ufa... The one who sits today will choose his own path... And I suspect that the same will to freedom is maturing in him...
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Around the topic:
- Contrary to time, meaning, nature, soul. (about ballet)
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- Working on notes. Sociology of music. Drafts.(Adorno)
- The myth of Pan and Syringa. From the archive.
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