Kino-pravda no. 9

Grain sizzles, trolley bells yelp, and an orphaned tram conductor counts kopeks while Moscow’s arteries—bridges, boulevards, back-alleys—pulse like varicose marble veins under Vertov’s microscope. Spliced between the clatter of factory cogs and the hush of bread queues, cadaverous newsprint morphs into living faces: a Red Army amputee rehearses tap-steps on his crutch, a librarian with sooty spectacles kisses the cheek of a locomotive, and Svilova’s scissors snip time itself into fluttering confetti. The camera gawks at street markets where busts of Lenin share crates with rotting cabbage, then flips upside-down to turn rain puddles into celestial mirrors. Radios knit arias from static, May-Day banners bloom like scarlet poppies over the Neva, and Kaufman’s hand-held kaleidoscope chases children who juggle light bulbs as if they were glass planets. Through double-exposed ballets of typewriter arms and dental drills, the reel insists that reality is not reflected but machined—every iris-in a mallet blow, every intertitle a guillotine blade severing yesterday from tomorrow. The film ends with a splice so abrupt the projector itself gasps: a woman blinks, freezes, and becomes photograph—proof that history is only the sum of whatever still refuses to stay still.