SNOW CROCODILE

Searching for some super-special shot in a film archive always presents an enigmatic quest.

Now, for a plot twist (in a documentary project), we need to recreate the illusory splendor of the 1950s in a snowy country. The screenwriter daydreams: well, wouldn’t it be nice to have some scenes of children playing snowballs, a smiling figure skater gliding by (the screenwriter recalls an old-time classic, Chekhov: “what music [skaters] render with their feet alone … no signer could accomplish this with voice…”), and near the rink — an orchestra.

We found everything: snowmen, an ice dancer, even a rabbit — a long-eared fur-ball jumped out of a snowdrift and stared into the camera, ears dangling. Delightful. But no orchestra. We spooled through thirty-some reels (bobbins with 35 mm film, about 250-280 meters each, meaning each runs about 7-10 minutes).

The screenwriter whines every morning: he wants a brass band, even a tiny one, three or four instruments would do. “Well, bunny,” we respond, “it’s frosty out there, you can see, the film shows children’s cheeks all burning, ‘a naughty youngster’s finger hath begun to freeze’ (Pushkin would say), there’s no place for an orchestra here, let alone a brass one! Someone took pity on the musicians and sent them to perform in the foyer of a nearby cinema — here, in the corner of the frame you could spot a man with a trombone vanishing into the doorway!”

Despair gripped the screenwriter… and how did we dispel it? We found footage of a crocodile made out of snow eight meters high — a still-frame from the 1961 footage is attached.