The peak of Soviet cartoon making coincided in time with the global, led since the 1930s by the brilliant Walt Disney. He stood at the cradle of a style that prospers in the world to this day, with dynamic figures, portrayed in glowing colors and in all psychological realism, acting out a dynamic plot -an enchanting and exquisite style Soviet filmmakers borrowed and developed. The Disney pattern was followed by the sensational "Snow Queen", "The Little Scarlet Flower", "Mowgli", "The Wonderful Adventures of Nils", "The Little Humpback Horse", "The Prince, the Swan and the Tsar Saltan" and, last but not least, the delightful "Winnie-the-Pooh". All those masterpieces are in the Films by Jove Russian collection, of a total 547.
A closer look at Soviet cartoons in their initial period reveals a figure as brilliant as Disney, though obscure.
A Japanese animation film festival announced a list of the world's 150 best cartoons, made with questionnaires circulated among leading cartoonists and critics of many countries. Yury Norshtein's "Hedgehog in the Fog" was named Cartoon of the Century. The same author's "Tale of Tales" came second - so Norshtein outdid the great Disney and Japanese Hayao Miyazaki, the new cartoon king.
As for Norshtein, his choice of the best cartoon of all times and countries was "Night on Bald Mountain", a film by Alexander Alexeyev made in 1932, when Soviet animation was at its inception.
Motion picture engineer by profession, Alexeyev is now remembered only by a few experts, though he was the only filmmaker to offer an alternative to generally accepted cartoon techniques with his "needlepoint". The technique is too sophisticated to explain it in simple terms, but it produces an image on the screen that looks incredibly alive.
Norshtein revived Alexeyev's invention in a quest whose first result, "Hedgehog in the Fog", made a global sensation. It is a lyrical tale of a tiny creature wandering at dawn through mist-wrapped woods to discover the beauty of simple things - the perfection of a green apple with dew on it, the redness of a leaf floating in a brook, the melancholy wisdom of a horse's eyes. Norshtein's outstanding gift makes every inch of the screen a masterpiece of artistry.
Alas, Russian cartoonists of the 1930s chose the Disney path, and forgot Alexeyev to lose their chance of unique identity and follow the road that was well trodden by the whole world. On that road, they won renown and the love of millions of fans. The Soyuzmultfilm studio was the only competition for the Disney empire, and led the world after the death of the American genius. Soviet puppet cartoons were unsurpassed - suffice it to name the Cheburashka series or "A Plasticine Crow".
I do not mean to repeat the commonplace banalities that the Soviet Union's collapse was a death sentence for Soviet cartoons. It is only partly true. The worst came as a legal paradox. The studio owned cartoon copyright in the Soviet years. To put it simply, the makers delegated their rights to the state in exchange for comparatively large pensions and all the benefits of the Cinematographers' Union - luxury holidays, professional clubs, and quality healthcare. The advent of Russian capitalism buried it all. Filmmakers could, logically, demand their copyright and avoid poverty. They never did. The CEO of Soyuzmultfilm promptly ceded a national treasure, with all filmmakers' potential incomes, to the United States for ten years. The next CEO prolonged the contract for another 35 years.
The contract was eventually argued, and the case is in court.
Russian film star Oleg Vidov and his wife Joan Borsten, founding presidents of Films by Jove, are taking good care of their cartoon collection. They spent huge amounts of money to dub it into English, digitalize and promote the films. They certainly had every reason to demand a large compensation from Mr. Usmanov. The bidder turned it down and ended negotiations. As rumor has it, the Vidovs insist on ten million dollars, while Usmanov's offer is three. What is making the sensation even more controversial is Usmanov's promise, advertised far and wide, to donate the entire collection to a children's television channel Russia is establishing on President Putin's initiative.
I recently visited the world-renowned cartoonist Fyodor Khitruk, author of the inimitable "Winnie-the-Pooh", in his Moscow apartment, too small to hold all his books and posters, mementoes of past renown. My heart sank as I saw the poverty of the tiny place.
When I turned the conversation to cartoon copyright ceded to an overseas company, Khitruk did not say a word, only sighed. I understood him: to bring back to filmmakers their legal rights and incomes is not their personal problem but a national one. Soviet art has every chance to bring Russia as much profit as oil and gas.
The opinions expressed in this article are the author's and do not necessarily represent those of RIA Novosti.
