Nameless Star: How Kozakov Saved the Film from Censorship for 8 Years

You know, sometimes the most beautiful fairy tale is born from suffocation. From the prohibition to breathe freely. The story of the creation of "Nameless Star" is not just a chronicle of filming. It's an eight-year marathon through censorship, stupidity, despair, and broken actor fates. The tale of a provincial town, where a luxurious train rushes by like a ghost of another reality, suddenly turned out to be too accurate a mirror of an entire era. And the reflection in this mirror frightened officials in strict suits to the point of trembling.

Station "Iron Curtain"

It all began in the distant 1942. Romanian writer Mihail Sebastian wrote a poignant romantic play. It instantly captivated the theatrical world, it was immediately staged in Bucharest, and already in the fifties, the giants of the Soviet stage almost simultaneously took up this material — the Leningrad Bolshoi Drama Theater and the Moscow Art Theater. The main female role in Tovstonogov's play was given to actress Nina Olkhina. Taking the cherished notebook with the text, she went to prepare for rehearsals in the silence of the House of Writers. There, in the evenings, she read the play to her acquaintances. Among the listeners was Mikhail Kozakov. And he became obsessed with this story. He caught fire with the idea of transferring this fragile world to the screen, to shoot a subtle television play. But the path to the "Action!" command took more than twenty agonizing years.

In 1970, playwright Alexander Khmelik finally adapted the play into a full-fledged screenplay, and an inspired Kozakov took it to the Committee for Radio and Television Broadcasting. He was absolutely sure that there would be no problems. Naive? Perhaps. The screenplay was rejected harshly, peremptorily, and Kozakov was strictly forbidden to even think about filming this picture. The reason? The censors delved into the setup. Local residents of a provincial town put on their best, mothball-smelling outfits and come to the station. Why? Just to watch the passing comfortable express train, carrying the rich to the resort. To wave at an inaccessible life. The country was in full swing fighting against dissidence, and officials saw in this touching scene a direct metaphor for the "iron curtain." They discerned an unhealthy interest of Soviet citizens in everything foreign and bourgeoisly luxurious. The train on the television screen was stopped by an emergency brake for long eight years.

Ultimatums and ghosts of casting

Eight years of waiting — a period capable of killing any dream. Kozakov fought, knocked on doors, but the path to the screens remained tightly closed. Salvation came from Siberia, from the Sverdlovsk Film Studio. The chief editor there sincerely fell in love with the play. He offered the director an unexpected way out: forget about television and shoot a full-fledged, big movie. The filming location was designated as the "Lenfilm" base, Sverdlovsk took over all expenses, and most importantly — the management promised to "push" the finished film to the audience with their chest.

But time is merciless. Even at the stage of the first approval of the screenplay, Kozakov saw only Oleg Dal in the role of the eccentric astronomer Marin Miroiu. The actor then agreed. But during the eight years of struggle, everything changed beyond recognition. Dal was sinking into severe depression, drinking. His vision of the role became frighteningly dark. He wanted to play a broken romantic in the style of Kafka. Moreover, Dal insisted on a tragic ending — so that in the end the broken teacher would throw himself under the wheels of that very cursed train. Kozakov bitterly realized: they would no longer work together, their paths had diverged. The next on the list was Sergei Yursky, but it didn't even come to the first auditions. As a result, the role went to young Igor Kostolevsky, who seized this chance with burning eyes.

The casting for the role of Mona also turned into a puzzle. First, Kozakov came to Marina Neyolova. The actress read the screenplay and… refused. The story left her indifferent, and the behavior of the flighty heroine seemed simply devoid of logic. But Anastasia Vertinskaya, who was offered the role next, did not ask unnecessary questions. It was perfectly clear to her how and why the pampered metropolitan beauty suddenly became fascinated by a poor, otherworldly teacher. The puzzle began to come together. Svetlana Kryuchkova, with whom Kozakov had years of strong friendship, was approved for the role of the despotic and lonely Mademoiselle Coucou without much hesitation. And the good-natured Mr. Udri was supposed to be Zinovy Gerdt. Alas, by the beginning of the filming process, the actor became seriously ill, and this role went to Grigory Lampe.

The unbearable genius of Rerberg

The magic of cinema is born in disputes. Sometimes — in very loud ones. The camera was entrusted to the legendary Georgy Rerberg. He had a solid reputation as a genius. And an equally solid reputation as a person with an unbearable character. He managed to get into fierce conflicts with almost all directors, but at the same time, paradoxically, everyone dreamed of working with him. On the set of "Nameless Star," a major scandal was expectedly unavoidable. The apple of discord was the cynical and polished Grig.

Kozakov firmly wanted to see Leonid Filatov in this role. Rerberg looked at the actor and flatly refused to shoot. His verdict was merciless: "this is not a cinematic face." A torturous search for a compromise began. They agreed on the candidacy of Rodion Nakhapetov. The actor honestly came to the auditions, stood in the frame, and then refused the job himself. He simply felt: this is not his movie, not his energy, not his hero. The situation became critical. And then, driven to despair, Kozakov went straight to the cameraman with a tough ultimatum: "Choose, either Filatov, or me!". Rerberg, gnashing his teeth and with great reluctance, agreed to shoot Kozakov himself in this role. But he did not swallow the creative resentment — when the work was finished, he categorically demanded that his name be removed from the film's credits.

This entire subtle, poignant story was filmed in Leningrad and the picturesque Leningrad region. The cozy house of Miroiu, filled with books, was built from scratch in a dusty pavilion of "Lenfilm." The very station, past which someone else's life flew by, was found at the Shuvalovo station. And the beautiful seaside road, along which Grig drove his car in pursuit of the runaway Mona, is a highway along the Gulf of Finland familiar to many Leningraders.

Light that broke through time

Eight years of struggle, rejections, compromises, and nervous breakdowns paid off in full. The premiere of the finished film was successfully held at the Moscow House of Cinema, and in February 1979, "Nameless Star" was first included in the television broadcasting schedule. It was a real event. Later, the film was purchased for screening in Romania — in the homeland of the author of the play. And there, an unimaginable sensation happened. The Soviet melodrama instantly acquired the status of a superhit. In terms of the level of popular love, Kozakov's film adaptation easily surpassed even the famous Romanian-French version of 1965, where Marina Vlady shone. And almost all the audience laurels and delights went to Igor Kostolevsky. The young Soviet actor unconditionally conquered the hearts of Romanian viewers.

Thus, the story about a chance meeting, about a train that should not have stopped, and about a star that was hidden from viewers for many years, still broke through to the light. And this light turned out to be real.