Pavel Chilin is musician. He used to be part of a band that never played loud enough for his tastes. Today, he has swapped the racket of the city for the silence, tranquility and space of the country-side. Roaring guitars have been replaced by the melancholy sound of the organ pipes that Chilin makes. As he saws, bores and planes with infinite patience he sculpts and searches for the perfect tone. An organ builder, Chilin says, is a rarity in Russia. And the only reason why organs were made in the Communist past is that the government then proclaimed that the organ was not a church instrument. With the organ-maker’s observations, director Pavel Medvedev creates a carefully constructed, poetic document. Images of Chilin’s mesmerising activities, his daughter practising piano, the daily, hushed life of the rural village, the solemn inauguration of an organ, mosquitoes above a lake, a barking dog, a mooing cow. Off and on, Medvedev’s camera glides along or silently registers a certain reality. And of course, a big role is reserved for the beautiful, but saddening, drone of the blood, sweat and tears-filled organ.