快乐的人们

在寒冷的西伯利亚针叶林里生活着一些勤劳，智慧，敦厚的人们，以打猎，捕鱼，采果为生，在少有的高科技中生活，他们以木板做的滑板作为交通工具，独木舟作为捕鱼时的船只；打猎却有取舍，伐木只求所需，根据万物生长判断大自然的变换，安排着各种生活，没有制约却有着自律，充分享有自由，过得有滋有味。人们享受这样的劳作，因为没有人催促，没有人指挥，他可以自己决定什么时候开始、什么时候休息，他拥有充分自由。仿佛梭罗生活的瓦尔登湖，自给自足，与周围和谐共处，回归自然状态，在大自然春夏秋冬的更替中，人类需要劳作，猎人说一条狗关了6个月会永远丧失能力……少了现代生活中的便利，也没有欲望和金钱带来的焦虑，戾气和茫然。更适合针对现下的疫情，人与自然的相处之道重新被重视！“在全然褪去社会属性，却依然有自己遵循的个人准则和行为标准，从心所欲而不逾矩”，这就是happ

在寒冷的西伯利亚针叶林里生活着一些勤劳，智慧，敦厚的人们，以打猎，捕鱼，采果为生，在少有的高科技中生活，他们以木板做的滑板作为交通工具，独木舟作为捕鱼时的船只；打猎却有取舍，伐木只求所需，根据万物生长判断大自然的变换，安排着各种生活，没有制约却有着自律，充分享有自由，过得有滋有味。人们享受这样的劳作，因为没有人催促，没有人指挥，他可以自己决定什么时候开始、什么时候休息，他拥有充分自由。仿佛梭罗生活的瓦尔登湖，自给自足，与周围和谐共处，回归自然状态，在大自然春夏秋冬的更替中，人类需要劳作，猎人说一条狗关了6个月会永远丧失能力……少了现代生活中的便利，也没有欲望和金钱带来的焦虑，戾气和茫然。更适合针对现下的疫情，人与自然的相处之道重新被重视！“在全然褪去社会属性，却依然有自己遵循的个人准则和行为标准，从心所欲而不逾矩”，这就是happy people的快乐源泉！

电影里，好多我喜欢的元素。例如就目前来说，因为在准备新房装修，所以看了很多家具，主题都是实木居多。然后电影里，哇塞，好多的原木，还有会木工的猎人，做了好棒的木屋和独木舟。然后，还有我一直想养的，因为没能力养而没能成真的狗，好多好漂亮的狗。猎人说，在狗三个月的时候，他就可以看出来这是不是一只好狗了，而且绝无差错，而我呢，能拥有一只狗就不错了。还有好多鱼，我很喜欢钓鱼，而他们那儿好多鱼，不但多，而且个头也很大。还有南方人非常羡慕的雪！一直想体验一下滑雪，奈何在南方，人造雪场，一个小时好几百，又钱包伤不起。还有很漂亮的景色，空旷自然，让人返璞归真。

评论说西伯利亚的生活条件好艰苦，并他们不快乐。从片里人们传递的表情来看，他们确实很辛苦，而且未来的地区发展并并不乐观。人越来越少，经济也越来越差了。但是从个人来说，猎人们的快乐，并没有离开他们。

在我们的认知框架下，这种纯净的、往复的生活是快乐，但对真正处于那种生活中的人来说，没有什么快乐不快乐，只是平静的生活，一天又一天。但话说回来，平静大概就是最能留得住的快乐了。 印象最深的是，猎人说他们不是完成一件事情，只是成为了这件事情的一部分。这让我想起顺流而下的小船，顺应自然生活的作为动物的人。对他们来说，日子本身没有好坏，只是顺应日子做该做的事情，下雨涨水可以运东西，下雪了就用上滑雪板，结冰了就可以度过河流。 然后又想起本世纪兴起的正念疗法，在发展前额叶这么多年之后，在追求认知复杂度这么多年之后，我们又开始想要抓住最简单的知觉，仿佛一个成人，想要再次追求孩子那样的感受；一个享受了灯红酒绿的人，想要回到一片白雪皑皑的荒原。

Happy People: A Year in the Taiga: Documentary or Poetry?

http://postdefiance.com/happy-people-a-year-in-the-taiga-documentary-or-poetry/

Nobody tells me what to do…I am my own man.

Such is the claim of one of the virile characters in Happy People: A Year in the Taiga, a documentary co-directed by Dmitry Vasyukov and the prolific German filmmaker Werner Herzog.

These words seem familiar to an American audience, almost stereotypical of the mentality by which we are regularly defined. But the words are spoken by a Russian sable trapper living in the middle of Siberia with nary an outlet to civilization as we know it. “Amurrican?” Far from it.

The film follows a year in the lives of sable trappers in a remote Bakhtian village: a year that, like every other, is a quest to survive the harsh conditions. Herzog and Vasyukov present the narrative as a slice-of-life drama, an everyday epic for which the camera crew is merely along for the ride.

Herzog and company are enthralled with the lives of the men they’re following. In fact, the directorial duo seems more than glad to cooperate with the decidedly masculine culture they document. Women make brief and obligatory appearances; the rest of the time, we spectators follow the Russian men through the wilderness and let Herzog’s narration wash over us.

When that smooth German accent does its best, it easily persuades us of the extraordinary nature of the men we’re watching. Yet Herzog’s narration can be just a little problematic. At one point he rises to sublime heights of description/sinks into the worst kind of glorified othering:

“Now, out on their own, the trappers become what they essentially are: happy people. Accompanied only by their dogs, they live off the land. They are completely self-reliant. They are truly free. No rules, no taxes, no government, no laws, no bureaucracy, no phones, no radio, equipped only with their individual values and standard of conduct.”

As this voiceover overlaps with symphonic music, we see footage of a man steering a canoe upriver by means of an outboard motor. Herzog goes on to tell us that this man’s name is Mikhail Tarkovsky, relation of the acclaimed Russian film director Andrei Tarkovsky. In a truly odd juxtaposition, the film insists on the technological self-sufficiency of the Taiga people, while aligning them with modern advancements like the internal combustion engine and one of the most technologically advanced forms of art: cinema.

And Herzog’s narration isn’t the only aspect that rings less as documentary and more as poetry. The invisibility of the camera’s presence that makes this otherwise lovely journey is also problematic. A documentary common practice, to be sure, but Herzog is among the most adept and savvy of documentarians; he knows what he’s doing when he makes the choice to keep the presence of a non-native film crew completely out of the camera’s field of vision. The technique potentially ignores the camera’s very real and very foreign presence on that home turf, keeping at arm’s length a world that it conflictingly wants to bring within our reach.

By distancing the audience from the Siberian snow and its inhabitants, Herzog is free to perform a documentary of poetry, a free-form ode to an idealized people that he profoundly admires and wants us to admire, too. And what’s wrong with poetry? Nothing, of course…but beware of poetry masquerading as simple history.

To be fair, Herzog acknowledges the presence of chainsaws and snowmobiles in this land of self-reliance. And the camera records myriad other technologies that have somehow made their way into this inaccessible wilderness. And herein lies the real hazard of Herzog’s hidden camera: there is no such thing as a “pure” culture since every culture is the progeny and interpretation of others. By holding aloft the Taiga people as “other,” therefore perhaps better, idealization becomes falsification.

Herzog wants us to see this world as unblemished by all that is modern, a time warp into an edenic realm. In so doing, he makes choices about what we see and what we don’t. But enough contradictions slip through the cracks to reveal his construal of this society.

Even a glorified interpretation is an interpretation, not equal to the original.

But to be even more fair, the subjects that Happy People documents deserve our attention. As we complain about spotty 4G service and navel-gaze about “the nature of art” and other such privileged questions, there remain folks in this world whose isolation brings out something we are unlikely to see in ourselves.

When the Siberian trapper says he is his own man, he says it without the pretense that we almost reflexively hear in such a statement. He knows his dependence on the land, the ecosystem of which he is a part. When he recounts his dog’s death at the hands of a bear, we are not likely to roll our eyes at his tears, perceiving his reliance on and love for an animal whose loyalty allowed him to keep on living.

The moral of this story is not: “Eat your dinner; there are starving children in Africa.” On the other hand, it’s not far from it.

第二篇： by | Steven Boone

http://www.rogerebert.com/reviews/happy-people-a-year-in-the-taiga-2013

Film director Werner Herzog's voice is so distinct and soothing that those of us who swear by it as a tonic for the soul sometimes assume the man is a household name. I made that mistake recently while chatting with a friend who praised Christoph Waltz's performance in "Django Unchained." "Yeah," I said, "The only person who could play a multilingual, multi-genius German impresario better than Waltz would have been Herzog."

"Wha? What's a hearse hog?"

I played her Herzog's reading of the children's book Go the Fuck to Sleep and his narration for Ramin Bahrani's short film "Plastic Bag." She was hooked. The mellifluous German accent, that rising-falling modulation, worked its magic.

And that was just Werner lending his singular sound to other people's projects.

Herzog's voiceover narration has been as powerful a utility for his own potentially ponderous documentaries as Clint Eastwood's profile has been for the latter's tough-guy dramas. The films could probably stand on their own merits without That Voice, but why should they?

Like "Grizzly Man," Herzog's latest documentary, "Happy People: A Year in the Taiga" is mostly built around another filmmaker's priceless footage. Russian videographer Dmitry Yasyukov shot four documentaries about Russian fur trappers in the Siberian Taiga, a remote wilderness larger than the whole of the United States. Herzog happened upon the films at an L.A. friend's house and became as obsessed with their beauty as he once was with Timothy Treadwell's footage of grizzly bears.

His authorial signature comes through in the way he edits the material and gives it meaningful context through narration. It's a touching gesture, one filmmaker finding the glory in another's images and amplifying it through his own generous and idiosyncratic vision. What Herzog gleans from Yaskyuov's exhaustive material is a simple observation: The men of the Taiga are heroes of rugged individualism.

“They live off the land and are self reliant, truly free,” Herzog intones, as a Klaus Badelt score works to send a chill of admiration up our spines. “No rules, no taxes, no government, no laws, no bureaucracy, no phones, no radio, equipped only with their individual values and standard of conduct.”

In nearly every Herzog documentary there is a speech like this one, wherein the director reveals in plain language his passion for his subject. This particular song of praise says that people who live simply, honestly and responsibly are generally happy people. It also sings of tradition more eloquently than Teyve in "Fiddler on the Roof." Work and tradition abide. One hunter boasts that his skill is an inheritance of a thousand years of practice and refinement.

There is another way to interpret Yasyukov's material, as a bleak, miserablist view of the hunters' circumstances that emphasizes the fact that they hardly ever have a moment's rest. Work is a constant, and nature always threatens to freeze, drown, starve or (in the form of aggressive bears) eat them. This is the perspective a young Herzog might have chosen. “Overwhelming and collective murder” is how he described nature during the making of his bleakest, angriest epic, "Fitzcarraldo." (His grandiose rants were just as fun to listen to when they were depressing.)

Instead, this time we get celebratory scenes of a hunter and his son serenely enduring mosquitoes that swarm over every centimeter of exposed flesh during a dank Taiga summer. Yasyukov's footage exhaustively documents the hunters' work processes, so Herzog uses it to take us through each step of making mosquito repellent from scratch. (To my surprise, it's similar to preparing old-fashioned blackface.)

Though they use manufactured equipment like snowmobiles and wear some presumably factory-made clothing, much of the technology these trappers and their families employ is built from scratch. In a fascinating segment that suggests Herzog and Yasyukov would produce great instructional DVDs ("How to Survive the Apocalypse"), a hunter shows us how to make wooden skis that will outlast the most expensive synthetic designer ones.

Fascination with processes and with the men who master them to become expert woodsmen leaves Herzog no time to address their wives and children, whom we glimpse only at hunting sendoffs and when the men return to their homes loaded down with quarry. Whatever routines occupy the wives is of little interest to either Yasyukov or Herzog. What we do catch of them says that they, too, are very happy people. “I'm alone again,” one wife says, as her man heads out on another long expedition. In a typical arthouse fiction film, she would be the face of uncertainty and despair in that moment. In "Happy People," she just states the fact with a bittersweet smile. Herzog cuts away (or Yasyukov's cameraman stops recording) quickly.

The dogs, on the other hand, receive rapturous attention. One thing I learned from "Happy People" is that a dog in the Taiga is like a horse in the American Frontier: not merely a “best friend” but a lifeline. A brooding hunter becomes emotional when recalling a dog who gave up her life defending him from a bear attack. We see the dogs set to work with military discipline. Herzog adds some stirring, heartening Badelt music to a scene of a dog keeping pace with his master's snowmobile for nearly a hundred miles.

So the focus is tight, but the love comes through in many ways. Herzog mentions that one of the fishermen who shot some of the footage is a relative of the great Russian filmmaker Andrei Tarkovsky. The instant that name came up, I was struck with memories of all the odes to Russia's natural beauty in Tarkovsky's nostalgic films. It made me consider that Herzog might have taken on this project as a gesture of German-Russian relations—an interdependent association now, but historically one of horrific wars. Imagine a Japanese filmmaker celebrating Chinese traditions. (Actually, there are films like Kenji Mizoguchi's Japanese take on Chinese history, "Princess Yang Kwei-fei," and they tend to be weirdly interesting.)

The fact that Herzog shot none of the footage comes across most strongly when we briefly visit a couple of indigenous Taiga people. They build a boat with staggering precision, row it out onto the icy waters, and then they are gone from the film. I can't imagine Herzog having access to folks whose traditions go even further back than the Russians leaving it at that.

All of this apparent Walden-like freedom struck close to home for me—or would, if I had a home. I stepped off the grid in New York City four years ago, trying to find a simpler way to live that would free me of corporate wage-slavery. Four years later, I've found that such freedom is virtually impossible in American cities. To live as free and clear as the men of the Taiga do, I would have to go to a farm, a commune—or the Taiga. On a landscape of concrete, there is no hunting or homesteading, just purchasing and renting. Parks and community gardens preserve some testy relationship with the natural world, but, let's face it, the world I and most folks reading this essay occupy keeps us dependent upon corporate delivery systems for our survival essentials. Are we happy this way?

Herzog, whose films have captured ecstatic faces in prisons, asylums, rainforests and arctic base camps, would probably answer, “That is up to you, my friend. You must work with whatever you have been given,” in a voice that could make a man caught in a bear trap smile.

这里的快乐 来自于猎人们应季的生活 从生活中获取的哲学 继续投入到生活当中 例如猎人与狗的相处 狗喂饱猎人 猎人也喂饱狗 为了让狗远离陷阱 把狗关进陷阱而不是棒打

看到克季河本地搬运河床浮木的工人关于酗酒说道：你看 我们喝的醉醺醺的 做些零工（另一人搭话说都怪俄罗斯人发明的伏特加）不 这是我们自己的错 有些人过得很好 如果你愿意 你可以过日子做工作 如果不想 那除了喝酒还能做什么？至于该怪谁 我不知道 这很难回答。失去传统手艺无以为继，老人与年轻人都不多的当代，虽然Taiga地处边远，也许同样受到了现代工业的冲击，以至于无所适从

想到顾桃的《雨果的假期》《敖鲁古雅 敖鲁古雅》《狂达罕》酗酒的诗人失去了心中的信仰，失去了祖辈赖以生存的生活方式，回不去的家园，无法融入的山下，只能靠酒精麻痹自己得到须臾的轻松快乐吧。

相比之下 Taiga的猎人们依然保有自己的生活方式 夏天准备 冬天捕猎 算是充实快乐的吧

我真的想看看他们的快乐是什么样子，快乐的人们长什么样。看到开篇的冰天雪地时，心想自己是不是开错了频道，不过耐心看下去，在烦躁的防疫岁月中，对人生竟也产生了一些别样的想法，至少让浮躁无用的心沉静下来。若不快乐，我们该如何处之？

叶尼塞河、猎人、林中小屋、捕鱼、酗酒……这么多名词足以勾起我的兴趣，同样那也是阅读《鱼王》后印象最深的意象，是关于俄罗斯的广袤土地上的另一番认识。尤其是对雪、对廖无人烟的孤独这些只有感觉的东西，文字之间只能想想，这部片子添加了影像辅助，是否能够帮助我实现文字到实体的转换？

不得不说是有一定帮助的，首先是清晰认识到狩猎区里猎人和狗的真实关系，理想的关系，理想的狗应该什么样子？老猎人给出了许多解答，而这些看似深刻的回复无一不是常年累月打交道后的最深刻的领悟。不能让它们进屋、不能让它们坐雪橇，追麋鹿的狗不要指望它会有兴趣追松鼠，不能吃太多而把肚皮垂到雪地，不能因为狗狗对陷阱的诱饵感兴趣而惩罚它，从狗狗的角度去考虑，先把它们驯养成对偷食诱饵的后果感到恐惧。至于猎人与猎犬之间的朋友关系则在危难时刻体现出来，它们之间有各自的弱点要去引导回避，但是也有各自互相支持的东西，这儿的猎犬不是宠物，不能一味地感恩，也不能放纵它随着野性长大……

然后我认识了一条河，在遥远的中国的方寸之地上，我与这条河相遇了，似乎像认识了一个朋友。叶尼塞河是北方冻土地带的母亲河，书中写到它时尤其提到有很多支流，也汇集了许多冰山融水，夏季的她如何奔腾，又如何在冬天沉睡，作者的笔墨或抒情或白描，却都怀着他最深沉的关于河流的记忆。虽然作者已经用文字很好地传递出这条河流的壮美，可是当我看到春回大地的瞬间，涌动的河水带着厚厚的冰块向前奔流时，却依然被震撼，似乎大地在裂变，海在咆哮，自然之力如此不可控，与她相依的人们除了敬爱和服从也做不了什么。他们从叶尼塞河捕鱼，也要尽力克服河水带来的不便以及各种潜在的风险，这在书里写到过很多次，如村民捕鱼时可能毫无所获，可能自己被捕鱼的排叉伤到而没有回旋的余地，只能等待死亡……一方面是景色的壮观让我震惊，另外一方面是它的粗狂所寓意的残忍，她是复杂的，是被赋予了自然的神秘力量的。

也许我还学会了一点捕猎的技巧。猎人的捕猎季节有它的时间表需要遵循，提早到自己的区域准备过冬的食材和住所，做好捕猎的陷阱，这些就足够耗费很长的时间，而且也带着许多不确定的风险，对气候对猎物收成都是怀着极大的担忧的。即便如此，该做的准备一样不能少，先是在狩猎区生存然后才是收成。看到猎人每天要做那么多与捕猎相关的工作，充分见识了生活是如何给人们磨炼的啊！要避免被蚊虫吞噬，也要防止小动物偷走口粮，还有防止熊来攻击，但是食材却那么简单：面包、鱼、野鸡？所以他们看起来才那么苍老又坚韧的吧？而书中有个篇章写到那个年轻猎人，无意间拯救了一个差点死于伤寒的姑娘，有限的口粮与疾病几乎是把自己的命也搭进去，但是他还是选择去救，成功救治后甚至产生了一种相依为命的情愫。虽然遗憾是必然的，不过这种结局依然让人心生唏嘘，正常世界的他们几乎没有交集，那种极端条件下的相伴是不得已的选择，浪漫地想象可能会觉得美好，可是对于处在那种境地下的他们真的是残酷。这一切在导演的镜头下，看到了小屋在厚厚的冰雪覆盖下几乎下一刻就会倒下，同样简陋的生存环境也让人失去了一切浪漫想法。

漫长的冬天，深渊般的孤独，不是所有人都能够忍受的。而自然给人的挑战何止这些，寒冷给了那片土地上人们喝酒的权利，也给了那些无法承担磨难的男人们最好的借口。他们如此自知被酒毁了也无法从现实中找到抗争的勇气，但是生活要继续，劳动是必然，他们是可怜的，也不过是普通的人。也许镜头没有对准这些酗酒成性的人在家庭中什么样子，应该是不理想的吧？

所以这么多陈述和场景，哪一个场景又显示了他们的快乐，是她们专属的快乐呢？也许就是从遥远的狩猎领地回到村庄里过新年时家人的拥抱，老妇人亮晶晶的眼眸里满是关切和欣喜，还有孩童的雀跃。至于猎人自己，他对生活如此满足，艰苦和孤独面前也没有抱怨。他对自己作为猎人的职业是有信仰的，关于生命关于收成，坚守人与自然互相成就，无论此地最后是否送走了每一个年轻人，或者要被迫迎接外来人员的打扰，但是他们的生存法则始终是人的基本生存理念，万古不变！