Mikhalkov (Nikita Sergeyevich) (born 21 Oct. 1945, Moscow) — great filmmaker and statist.
Mikhalkov's Laws
Mikhalkov granted the right to collect royalties from the sale of blank CDs and DVDs
The Federal Customs Service (FCS) confirmed, in a letter to its regional offices, the authority of the Russian Organization for Related Rights (RORR) to collect royalty fees from manufacturers and importers of audio and video equipment and blank media. This outraged the Russian Authors' Society (RAS): although it had delegated these powers to RORR in 2005, a new organization affiliated with RAS and director Nikita Mikhalkov now intends to collect these levies independently. The sums involved are substantial: at even 0.5% of product value, annual collections could exceed 1–3 billion rubles, reports the newspaper Kommersant.
As the agency Novy Region recalls, Mikhalkov has been one of the most consistent opponents of legislative initiatives that would enshrine freedom of information distribution. In particular, this past spring the state-approved director, together with First Channel Director General Konstantin Ernst and other cultural organization heads, sent a letter to the President demanding that the State Duma be prevented from passing a law that would allow libraries to freely digitize and publish books on the internet, and that would annul royalty fees on all Soviet-era books and films.
The draft law, torpedoed in March 2010 through the efforts of Nikita Mikhalkov and other public figures, proposed introducing the concept of a "free irrevocable license" into the Civil Code and would have allowed anyone to distribute various works free of charge. It was initiated by more than 30 people, including Ivan Zasursky, president of the Association of Internet Publishers, and Alexander Visly, director general of the Russian State Library (RSL).
Fan Creativity
Burnt by the Sun — 2.
...Enter Kotov. He is languishing. He gleams with hunger-hollowed suffering. On the western frontier, in a GULAG representative office. Bloodthirsty secret police agents, eager for perversions, have accused the poor wretch of political theft. They find Siberia too remote; they want to be closer to Europe, so they can nearly see the Eiffel Tower from their watchtowers. Kotov doesn't fear the villains, boldly bolts across the rooftops. A proud Junkers soared up higher and dove down with great bravado, reducing the population. Explosions. Screaming. Blackout.
Enter Dyuzhev. He is shell-shocked. Plot-wise, he serves no purpose.
Enter soldiers of the penal battalion. No weapons for them — just a sapper's spade, one per company. Idiot commanders send the thinning remnants charging at sail-powered tanks with fixed bayonets, to show those damned Fritzes their fighting spirit (those cultured Germans are deeply ashamed). After that, nothing is visible — evidently the enormous budget had to be shared out — with no damage to the plot, since everyone had long been killed anyway. Explosions. Screaming. Charming.
Enter a cutter with Nadya aboard (how much does Nadya pay her father?), which, let it be noted, is quite convenient: Nadya is well past twenty, which means she'll be getting undressed. The audience holds its breath in anticipation, awaiting the temptation of an enemy-of-the-people's assets. Now German pilots begin their descent, open their bomb bays (enter buttocks, close-up), and float above the captain, provoking him, the scoundrels, though it's rather awkward. The captain, roaring from the gut, made a false move. Explosions. Screaming. To be continued.
Enter a mine. Everyone take cover. The mine wants to explode, but it floats on — what can you do: the director is awfully strict. Enter Garmash. He has no legs. Garmash is ill at ease as well. He, with piety etched on his face, blesses the mine together with Nadya, and, deciding that Nadya has had enough, sinks with evident relief. Emboldened by the baptism, the mine, by an act of sheer will, sinks a barge full of party activists. Explosions. Screaming. How beautiful.
Enter Stalin with a cake (chocolate — what a swine). He has a pockmarked face, Voroshilov and Budyonny in tow. Nikita Mikhalkov's teeth are set on edge with resentment; he seethes, upright and proud, worn out by the Cannes sun. He is a fighter of the seventh generation against Soviet power and its idiotic Lenin Komsomol prizes. He rises, a rebellious genius, against the author of his misfortunes, shrieking with delight, solid in body, young in spirit — oh, how sweet the moment of revenge! — and smears the man's face with chocolate. This is clearly a fairy tale. Explosions. Screaming. What a shame.
Enter various actors who kill one another. Enter foolish sappers who blow someone up. Enter heads and legs and other body parts, artfully scattered along the road by designers so that no one in the audience would think of munching popcorn at the sight. Everyone goes where they're sent. Nadya is sent the furthest of all. Enter Mitya as the villain, insufferably infernal. Everyone who concealed a brother in their questionnaire will be personally shot by Stalin, and whoever he doesn't shoot he'll reduce to bedwetting. Enter Kotov, showing off a metal prosthetic limb. In keeping with the title, the sun rises and sets. Enter a troupe of gypsies, who immediately exit. The valiant Wehrmacht enters with pomp, full of moral anguish. Enter a nuclear bomb on a German aeroplane. Enter breasts! On screen — chaos and commotion. Explosions. Screaming. To be continued. (c) [1]
Interesting Facts
- The dacha where "Burnt by the Sun 1" was filmed belonged to the former Mayor of Nizhny Novgorod, Dmitry Bednyakov. Most of the interior furnishings were also the property of the homeowner; for the sequel, however, the entire setting had to be recreated on sets at Mosfilm.