Modern Russian cinema and the enduring pull of Bulgakov’s classic
In contemporary screen storytelling, the dialogue with classic Russian literature remains vibrant and sometimes fraught. Filmmakers constantly attempt to translate Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita to the screen, a venture that can be both valiant and inspiring, yet often weighed down by the filmmaker’s own ego. The richness of the original work invites bold vision, but a brilliant adaptation requires restraint to let the source breathe. The possibility of shelving a film adaptation of We by Yevgeny Zamyatin exists, yet Bulgakov’s masterwork is unlikely to leave the distribution slate, even if predictions about its fate are never guaranteed.
Considerable effort has gone into this project. What follows is not a shout of mere opinion but a careful tally of labor: a major cinematic undertaking that stretched beyond six years in theaters, with a budget reaching a formidable scale. The path included script rewrites, a shift in leadership, the disruptions of a global pandemic, and ongoing challenges of the recent years. Initially, director Nikolai Lebedev, known for Legend No. 17 and The Crew, led the project, but he later moved abroad, handing the helm to Mikhail Lokshin and his screenwriter. The team also features Roman Kantor, the creative force behind Silver Skates, a collaboration that signaled a new wave of Russian streaming partnerships.
What emerges on screen is not merely a faithful retelling but a crafted spiritual reimagining. Lokshin builds a late 19th century St. Petersburg with careful attention to texture, creating a city that feels both nostalgic and alive with renewal. The on-screen Moscow renovation work underscores a meticulous sense of place. A retro-futurist 1930s is glimpsed, where a tram glides through a layered city, and Margarita’s mood resonates with cinematic echoes of gothic fantasy and detective fiction. The sequence of a symbolic night flight places Margarita in a liminal space, circling the Palace of the Soviets as a towering symbol of state power. Yuri Kolokolnikov gives life to Koroviev-Bassoon with a presence that evokes otherworldly certainty and mischief alike.
Against this backdrop, a bold, luminous totalitarian universe emerges. The story centers on the fated lovers, the Master and Margarita, while the project initially marketed itself as a Woland-centric film before returning to its roots. Evgeniy Tsyganov and Yulia Snigir take on the primary roles, a casting choice that intensifies the emotional charge and highlights a passionate, conflicted love set against a tumultuous era.
In casting, the project makes striking choices. German actor August Diehl embodies Woland with a tone that travels beyond borders, while Claes Bang portrays Pontius Pilate. Yeshua is brought to life by Dutch actor Aaron Vodovoz. Alexei Rozin, familiar to television audiences, appears as Azazello, with Polina August entering the ensemble from the acting world, and Yura Borisov voices Behemoth, anchoring the film’s surreal atmosphere. Taken together, the performances mark a standout achievement among Bulgakov’s screen adaptations, balancing scale with intimate character dynamics in ways early television versions could not match because of budget limits. Lokshin’s direction aligns the film’s ambition with Bulgakov’s original spirit, sharpening the experience without losing its heartbeat.
Yet the film does not mirror every line of the source. This deviation does not signal weakness but showcases cinematic courage. Lokshin and Kantor crafted their own interpretation while staying faithful to Bulgakov’s essence. The film presents The Master and Margarita as a story within a story, where the frame becomes a stage for Pontius Pilate’s fate and Margarita’s longing. The tension between what is real and what is imagined blurs into a self-contained, eerie voice that hovers over the characters. Margarita emerges as a figure of ambition and desire, guiding the audience through a dramatic promenade that invites fresh imagination. The result is a bold rethinking that preserves the novel’s core ideas while offering a new cinematic lens.
Public statements about the plot emphasize the fusion of reality and fiction, yet the film’s strongest value lies in its fearless assertion that art serves as sanctuary during sorrowful times. The message is clear: even in darkness, manuscripts endure, and art can inhabit a freedom that transcends the moment. The project stands as a testament to Bulgakov’s enduring vision and to cinema’s capacity to reinterpret enduring literature for contemporary audiences. These are not mere triumphs of adaptation but declarations about the resilience of storytelling itself.
In the end, it is refreshing to see a bold reimagining of a beloved classic in modern cinema. The Master and Margarita on film signals more than a successful collaboration; it marks a renewed willingness to reinterpret a timeless work through the language of today’s screen, while faithfully honoring the work’s enduring themes and provocative moral questions.