На прошлой неделе — неожиданный звонок. — Это...

Last week - an unexpected call.
- This is Gubenko. I invite you to the play.
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Theaters are afraid, I do not go to them and is unlikely to start. I went to Taganka puzzled. And the name of clarity did not add: "Concert on the occasion of the end of the world." What light? Why a concert?
Good people enlightened: Taganka long ago two. There is one liberal glamor. There is another one; the People's Artist of the RSFSR, the last Minister of Culture of the Soviet Union, Nikolai Nikolayevich Gubenko, has been digging in with his team. Taganka lives - wall to wall, supporting each other with their elbows, and represent the two opposite poles of our social consciousness.
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The first thing you notice in the lobby is the red flag. Not bashfully assembled in a knot and faded, not one of the twenty striped flags, but a natural red flag.
In general, they did not let him down here. And the "Concert" is a clear confirmation of this.
I will not retell the plot, go yourself. But if in brief, then:
Through the efforts of a certain modern troupe (actors play actors — stuck in traffic jams, nervous, poor, and drunk), the last 300-400 years of national history will be deployed in three hours before you. More precisely, what was left of them.
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Three hundred years, closely rolling to the abyss, which is about to swallow Pushkin, Kurchatov, Blok, Gagarin, Rozhdestvensky, Bergholz, Mendeleev, Minin with Pozharsky, Gapon with Nikolai, and Gorbachev with Berezovsky. All Nothing will remain.
It is the abyss of oblivion, the abyss of degradation, which opens up where fried eggs are fried on the Eternal Fire, while the Motherland motherland is dancing a twinkle.
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According to the canons of modern art, the performance is supported by video installations. Fragments of newsreels, YouTube videos, and television news replace each other on the screen.
The writer breaks the toggle switch, constantly mixes the past with the present, the great yesterday with the insignificant today.
- I loved you, love can still be ...
- Here again, the girl leaves me, from me. Because there is no money, neither the ruble nor the ruble.

The cheeky "hero of our time" again and again kicks out from the scene of the "heroes of bygone days." At some point, opposition turns into real torture. The one who composed the “Concert” knew where to strike.
Here is Mayakovsky.
But the oligarchs coven on the Aurora.
Here is Yesenin. Here is Gorky.
But Prokhorov. Here is Klebanov. Here is Matvienko. Here is writing and filming room service winding around them. Yes, this is not a cruiser dance. This is a dance on someone's back!
- You are not insulted the memory of the Revolution. You didn't care about my childhood ...
And ringing out of the darkness: "The napping, silent, northern city."
Bloody sunday.
October 93rd.
Chechnya
Conducting Yeltsin.
Farewell to Lenin.
April 12 and May 9th.
Leningrad blockade.
Stalin's funeral.
Seven Banker.
Seven Boyars.
Rising from the knees.
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Sat slightly stunned. Could not believe it. Center of Moscow. Immediately there is now a Gogol center within walking distance. Garden Ring road. Exclusive tile. 200 rubles per hour for parking and bell ringing in conjunction with the ringing of restaurant porcelain.
And in the midst of all this, not just a red flag sticks out.
There is a whole agitation armored train rides!
About Lenin - proudly,
About Stalin - with a gasp,
About the Passion-bearer - contemptuously, as it deserves, not like a bow,
About the oligarchs and the current rulers - just not a foul language.
- Where are you, where are you, "Aurora", why are you silent?
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... At one point, the flags of all the Union republics float around the scene, and behind them - on roller skates, the flag of the DPR lingers. You wanted innovation? Here you have an innovation ...
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With horror waiting for the end. It seemed that the whole glamorous, gold-studded, crunchy burgers and pre-revolutionary rolls of Moscow would fall upon a small, gray-haired man who risked doing this here. And having exhaled from himself a well-known (however, less and less known) Gogol monologue, he dropped his head in a bow ...
Now, now it's over! He must be booed, sulked, crushed by arrogant silence and awkward cough.
Well, in fact, who (except me) will applaud Gubenko here?
To whom are these stubborn Mohicans, clinging to their nonexistent flag, under each bed ready to see Allen Dulles, Madeleine Albright and the hated CIA. What the hell is Aurora ?!

I was not heard. Standing ovation. Seven hundred people. I looked around, studied the neighbors, and it was strange to me, comrades. And it was wonderful to me. And I saw the swollen eyes of the students, the numbed faces of the old men.
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"Concert" took place. "End of the World", apparently, is transferred.

(C) Konstantin Semin