Yegor leads a polished life, balancing a high-profile TV gig with his wife Maya as they raise their daughter Marusya. He earns well, looks the part, and everything seems in place. Then one night, he steps into a moment of crisis: a drunk man brutalizes a young girl. Yegor intervenes to shield the victim; the assault is halted, the attacker is jailed, and the girl survives. Yet the fallout is strange. At work, Yegor is celebrated for his courage, but the real criminal remains free to walk away, and the world continues to reveal its cruel paradox by taking another life in the end.
News of the tragedy shatters Yegor. He searches for fresh purpose, turning his attention toward strangers in need. He begins volunteering at a pediatric oncology center and joins the LizaAlert search team. His altruism, however well-intentioned, strains the bonds with family and colleagues. Slowly he finds himself drifting, questioning how to help everyone without erasing himself from their lives in the process.
Pyotr Todorovsky’s latest film sits squarely in a tradition of moral inquiry cinema that found its voice in the late 1970s and has re-emerged in recent years on domestic screens. It is in conversation with notable works such as Andrei Zvyagintsev’s Dislike, Yury Bykov’s The Fool, and Oksana Karas’ Doctor Liza when it arrived.
These portraits share a common ability to strike a direct emotional chord. They can tempt with sentimentality or lean toward manipulation, yet their impact is undeniable. Viewers often find themselves wanting to hold loved ones a little tighter, to survey their surroundings, and to ask what part they should play in a broader act of kindness. The caveat remains clear: take action, but avoid overreaching and overstepping.
In Todorovsky’s portrayal, the inner drive of the hero matters as much as the deed itself. The question lingers: is Yegor seeking usefulness to serve others, or is he chasing a purpose that would steadies his own life’s meaning? The characters wrestle with assumptions about themselves. Yegor seeks hope, yet his conviction wavers when his wife challenges him with the blunt truth that hope might be found not in the sick or the grieving, but in a void neither they nor others can fill.
Efremov and Starshenbaum, a duo that has become almost inseparable on screen through recent collaborations, deliver a potent, emotionally resonant performance. The film deliberately sidesteps melodrama, resisting the trap of sentiment while exploring the harmful myths surrounding masculine identity and the prejudice that surrounds women. In this conversation, the story treats both protagonists and the director’s truth with equal weight, allowing them both to be right and wrong in equal measure. No judge, not time, not life itself, can determine their fate.
Healthy man is not a grand parable of good triumphing over evil or a flawless display of sensitivity to indifference. It is a living, evolving portrait that continues to unfold, offering new twists as it goes. The director does not pretend to hold the ultimate answer. Is it justifiable for a husband to push his family to the background in the name of aiding strangers in distress? Probably not. Is he acting selflessly by trying to ease others’ pain? There is truth in that, too.
In the end, Yegor seems to squeeze vitality from hardship, even if it means shedding old selves. He stops fleeing his emotions and ceases to mirror an empty image in the mirror, though the new self may feel more abrasive and unsettled. It is possible that he has found a solid footing, or perhaps he has lost it entirely. What remains crucial is the inner conflict—the civil war fought in the heart—that accelerates his rhythm and prevents him from turning to stone.