драма

Our dramatic authors in a number of their works reflected the new man in the context of modern life, of the construction of socialism. Our dramaturgy on a modern theme contained a number of socio-psychological and socio-critical elements. Its main feature was the denial of the then capitalist reality, the affirmation of the new that was coming. These works outlined the rapid development of socialist realism from the initial period after September 9 to the present day.

Each play represents a self-contained whole, an autonomous mechanism that draws energy for its movement from forces embedded within itself. This is a kind of "self-moving" mechanism. Here, the author is deprived of the usual function of a reproducer of the action, the role of an intermediary in tracking events and describing images. Direct authorial intervention is completely absent. In the play, the images immediately live their own independent life, "realize" themselves before our eyes without anyone's external help, through the momentary manifestation of their essence in words, actions and behavior. They "self-portray themselves". And the only means they have at their disposal to accomplish this is action. They act in order to reveal themselves, and by revealing themselves, they act.

In this article I will touch upon only some issues from the history of Bulgarian drama, related mainly to its striving to generalize, to reach the foundations of historical truth. Of course, a number of problems of the complex historical development of our dramaturgy will remain outside the scope of the article. I will begin with the already well-known fact that our national dramaturgy lags behind our poetry and prose. Our poetry has such representatives as Hr. Botev, P. K. Yavorov, Hr. Smirnenski, D. Debelyanov and N. Vaptsarov, in the field of prose Iv. Vazov, Al. Konstantinov, Elin Pelin, Yor. Yovkov and others have worked, and our best dramas have been created by writers for whom dramatic creativity has sometimes been, so to speak, a second or third passion.

It is obvious that the latest structural trends in cinematography cannot be defined without comparing them with similar trends in literature. Leaving aside narrowly professional passions (the greater the more dubious the novelty of an artistic phenomenon), the so-called "author's film" of recent times makes the question of whether the prior literary discovery of the image is a condition and - if so - to what extent it could retain its literary character in its cinematic reproduction once again relevant.

During his lifetime, no literature was created around him, no scandalous noise was raised, and yet he was at the forefront of the Bulgarian intellectual process. It's not that he wasn't written about (on the contrary, his publications were always met with enthusiastic reception and laudatory reviews in the press), but he didn't like to impose his silhouette. Minko Nikolov had an innate dislike for scandalous fame and noisy appearances in literature. But his insufficient "noticing" was to some extent hindered by the innate myopia of his contemporaries. Many things prevented us from seeing him in his true stature. And here we involuntarily fell into the position of Chekhov's heroine, who had dreamed all her life of seeing the extraordinary man, and he was there for her. The daily routine, the controversial nature of the controversial profession - criticism (or as some writers call it, the "strange profession") prevented us from seeing him in his true scale, from taking into account the seriousness of his intellectual drama. This drama became deeper and deeper day by day, to reach the fatal denouement of the end of December 1966. It was only the black silhouette of the suicide bomber that forced upon the living in an inimitable way the magnitude of the life drama called Minko Nikolov. And now we see in the light of "what has happened" the irreversible, the terrifying. "Nothing, that many ridiculous life circumstances prevented us from seeing behind his kind smile the already maturing skeptical, hopeless smile, which often adorned his spiritualized face. And no matter how much we stared and were insightful, we could not discover the depth of his human tragedy. And he had already been carrying it for years, silently and imperceptibly, like some kind of "sarcoma" that torments the brain, takes away the energy of his nerves, the juice of his human and social enthusiasm. She was, with a kind of malicious pace, preparing the sudden catastrophe, the "cruel collapse" of a valuable and long-built creative personality.