It always seemed to me that at City Cemetery No. 1, which is in the royal city Alexandrapolis, the word has more power than busy streets.
At VGIK, my Master - Valentin Konstantinovich Chernykh - gave task: to write two stories - what touched me most of all in childhood.
I wrote about the funeral of my Babo from Kirov Street and about the funeral of my Star. Two stories, three pages each.
When I was wrighting, I did not notice that my professor - Mashukov Vladimir Ivanovich - was standing behind my back. I turned around and he said:
— Do you think you are writing a script? You are wrighting your destiny!
And my Master asked:
— How old were you?
I replied:
— At the memorial service of my Babo - sixteen, and at the funeral of my Star - thirteen!
He sayed:
— You became a writer, screenwriter, screenwriter at the funeral of your Star! Return to Armenia and get ready for your diploma. I am waiting for a graduation script for a full meter!
And his wife, a teacher of script writing Lyudmila Aleksandrovna Kozhinova, said:
— You own the script, volume and form.
I was surprised and asked:
— What is that
Everyone laughed at me.