Modern village, village people. They are modern, informed, advanced, with accounts and subscriptions, with iPhones and videos, they listen to popular tracks, watch hit films, talk about stock prices, have their own opinions about geopolitics. But somewhere inside the villagers remain the same Shukshin weirdos, Sholokhov shchukars. They are sure to sing carols on Christmastide, consecrate ranetki on Savior, and pour water on each other on Ivan Kupala. And it happens that a troika of harnessed horses will appear in a village alley, rush and fly away into the indifferent steppe, or a drunken accordion player will fall off the porch, take a breath and continue a drawn-out song about the field, about freedom, the peasant lot. They live. Something like this. Contains obscene language.