Zift

in association with

bulgarian National Film Center

bulgarian National Television

present

a Javor Gardev film

based on the novel "Zift"

by Vladislav Todorov

director of photography

Emil Christov b.a.c.

Production designer

Nikola Toromanov

Costume designer

Daniela Oleg Lyahova

Once there was a guy like you

who worked here.

A septic-truck driver, Kalcho.

He got sacked from the Waste

Management Department for misconduct.

The guy was married,

but his wife was a horny b*tch.

He was green-eyed jealous.

One day she goes out to eat

white jam with friends.

Kalcho follows her secretly.

She doesn't go to see her friends,

but a pastry-cook, racy as

dark chocolate, you can bet...

She does the dirty with him -

he lives on the ground floor

of an apartment building.

Kalcho drives up the septic truck,

throws the hosepipe

through the window,

and pumps out

the entire load of the tanker.

Three tons of feces.

Kalcho drives off - shitless.

The police get on his stinking trail

and arrest him.

The investigation report shows

two and half tons of fecal matter

and half a ton more pulverized

over the walls and furniture.

A trial begins. They call in

the pastry-cook as a witness.

The prosecutor asks him:

""And so you're going home to get

some rest after work,

you open, and... sh*t!

Didn't you feel sickened,

didn't you throw up?. "

The prosecutor, you see, is trying

to establish the moral damages,

not only the material ones.

""No, I didn't.""

""How come?. ""

""Just like that, comrade prosecutor.

If it were a turd or two,

I would've thrown up.

but two and a half tons of sh*t

can't even make you queasy."'

The point is simple:

the bigger the sh*t,

the lesser the damage.

The moral damage,

that is, not the material one.

ZlF (from Arabic)1. Black natural resin. asphalt.

Used as filler for road surfaces

and as chewing gum. (urban slang) 2. Sh*t.

Six o'clock. Good morning.

Voltaire's

"Candide"

""Dictionary of Foreign Words"

Man - that sounds dignified.

Zachary Baharov

Tanya llieva

Vladimir Penev

Mihail Mutafov

Djoko Rossich

Snezhina Petrova

Anastassia Liutova

Hristo Petkov

lvan Barnev

Officer on Duty

boyka Velkova

Svetlana Yancheva

Yosif Shamly

Simeon Lyutakov

Antoniy Argirov

Yordan Slaveikov

Stoyan Radev

Tzvetan Aleksiev

Tsvetan Dimitrov

Dimo Aleksiev

Yordan Mutafov

Velislav Pavlov

Veselin Mezekliev

Vasil Ryahov

Antonia Ara Vladimirova

Mariana Makova

Ilia Raev

Gergana Arnaudova

Aleksander Kadiev

blagovest Blagoev

Pavlin Petrunov

Petrunka Dimitrova

Danail lvanov Obretenov

Hristo Peev

Krum Netzov

Orhan Tair

Ivo Krastev

Yavor Vesselinov

DJ Ayvan

Antonio Dimitrievsky

Stefan Stefanov

Rositsa Dicheva

Marin Nakov

Yordan Bikov

Ivaylo Dragiev

Alexander Dimitrov

Stefan Goranov

Aleksander lliev

No Work, No Food

Dimiter Dimitrov

Mircho Mirchev

Vladislav Todorov

Simeon Panov

On Your Feet, Toiling Hands.

Lily Abadjieva

Vasil Abadjiev

Milen Aleksiev

Sava Dragunchev

Nikola Toromanov

Yavor Dachkov

Rushi Vidinliev

Kalin Nikolov

Nikolina Yancheva

Lyubomir Kovachev

Yulian Petrov

borislav Mladenov

Vasil Yordanov

Daniel Velchev

Sound Mind in a Sound Body

Sixteen o'clock.

I'm leaving Sofia Penitentiary

with a plan in my head.

The plan, as the Soviet saying goes,

is a fantasy with a release date.

The release date has come.

The plan is simple:

hop a freight train to Varna,

then make off for the tropics

in a ship's belly.

I was jailed before

the Communists coup of '44.

They let me go long after it. I'm not

sure what exactly happened in '44,

except that The Bible was replaced

with ""The Dictionary of Foreign Words"'.

It was only with the Thaw of '56

that the prison took on a human face

and we began to fraternize freely.

before I split, I need to visit

my son Leonid's grave.

I never saw him.

He was born

and died while I was in jail.

I got the news

in a letter from his mother.

before they locked me up,

I lived in the seedy

Yuchbunar quarter.

I barely remember my parents.

I was very young when my father

enlisted in the Foreign Legion

and vanished somewhere in Africa.

I never found out

if he did it for money

or because he was fed up with us.

Around that time my mother died.

Of sleeping sickness.

I wasted my youth in the can

for a murder I didn't commit.

Moth, let's go.

They dubbed me Moth

when I was a kid.

I used to hide in closets

and suitcases to frighten people.

Once you get a nickname,

it sticks to you like a bur.

Sometime after '44,

I began to exercise vigorously

my body and mind:

I read through

the entire prison library

to get to the bottom of things

and brace myself for the moment

when I'd have to embrace

freedom objectively.

I'm the push-ups Tsar of the prison.

When I was young,

I'd go watch Dan Kolov

wrestle at Yunak Stadium.

Those who haven't seen Dan Kolov

fight know nothing about life.

The zift released its flavor

inside my cavities.

And that was how

l, citizen Lev Kaludov Zheliazkov,

walked out to my freedom.

I got paroled

for introducing communist

enlightenment into prison life.

I launched a propaganda campaign

on my own initiative

and thoughtful idea.

In the corner of the canteen

I stockpiled all sorts of

ideologically charged inventory,

including plowshares,

shafts, and flywheels.

The idea suddenly dawned on me,

and brought me

brand new civilian clothes, a pair of

patent-leather shoes, and freedom.

They said I was reformed,

and let me go before my term was up.

Unfortunately, on my way out,

I bumped into that sh*t-face

of a warden, Mole Cricket.

I couldn't let him pass without

ejaculating in his face a fat curse.

I unbuttoned my mouth

and relieved myself.

""The end starts at the beginning."

""The end starts at the beginning."

That thought I picked up

and memorized

so I can say it when

I step out of the can.

I wanted to give the moment its due.

You can't let such moments

pass like that -

one leg after the other

and you're out.

Crossing the threshold is

a special occasion,

Iike walking under the rainbow

and turning into a different person.

The car reeks, a funky mixture

of motor oil, gunk, and stale sweat.

The private behind the wheel

has a popped pimple on his nape.

Who?

- Private Smyadovsky.

Who?

- Private Smyadovsky.

Private!.

- Aye.

Step on it.

Where are we going?.

Where are we going?.

Who are you?

The public bath.

Seventeen o'clock.

Ladies

What do you want?.

I want you naked.

- How naked?

butt-naked.

During my first year in prison

I befriended this guy - Valentine.

He was soft and gentle on the inside,

femininely hideous on the out.

We always took our meals together.

Rumor had it we were a pair of fags.

One day, during meal-time,

the Mutant, an a**hole and

a slimy freak of nature,

came up with his personal slave,

a rachitic creature,

and they stood behind our backs.

The rickets took out a sheet of paper

and started reciting at the top

of his illiterate voice

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