Modern Russian cinema engages with the great Russian classics in a persistent dialogue. Filmmakers frequently attempt to translate these works to the screen, a trend that can be legitimate and even admirable, yet too often it leans toward a self reverence that weighs down the project. The classics offer vast space that can conceal missteps if the creator does not clutter the frame with ego. Like a container with endless capacity, the classic invites ambition, and a rare director will balk at such a challenge. While the possibility exists to shelve a film adaptation of Yevgeny Zamyatin’s We, it is unlikely to remove Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita from distribution, though predictions are not guaranteed.
Considerable effort has gone into the project. This is not a diplomatic statement meant to offend writers but a factual observation: a great deal of work has been poured into it. The release in theaters stretched across more than six years, a long run for a Bulgakov adaptation, with a budget reaching an impressive scale of 1.2 billion rubles. The production endured script rewrites, a change of directors, the coronavirus pandemic, and the latest hurdles of the recent two years. Initially, Nikolai Lebedev, known for Legend No. 17 and The Crew, led the project, but he later moved to Nuremberg, and The Master and Margarita passed to director Mikhail Lokshin with his screenwriter. The team also included Roman Kantor, the creators of the holiday hit Silver Skates, which marked a breakthrough in Russian streaming collaborations.
The effort paid off in the film’s realized world. Lokshin crafts a late 19th century St. Petersburg with care, building a city that seems to reflect both nostalgia and renewal, while the Moscow renovation work on screen demonstrates a meticulous sense of place. The production places a retro utopian vision of the 1930s where a tram glides through a cityscape and Annushka’s mood blends with cinematic echoes of Guillermo del Toro’s stylistic influences, creating a mood reminiscent of iconic detective fiction and fantasy mashups. Margarita moves through a symbolic night flight, circling the Palace of the Soviets, a monumental structure that embodies state power on a grand scale. The character of Koroviev-Bassoon is brought to life by Yuri Kolokolnikov, with a recent screen presence that echoes his otherworldly persona.
The backdrop for this bold phantasmagoria is the emergence of a new, dazzling totalitarian universe: a never-ending construction site that Moscow recognizes as both familiar and altered. At the story’s core are the fated lovers, the Master and Margarita. The project was originally marketed as a Woland-focused film, then returned to its roots, and finally cast Evgeniy Tsyganov and Yulia Snigir in the primary roles. The casting reinforces the film’s emotional charge, highlighting a complex, passionate image of love in a tumultuous era.
In casting, the production delivers striking choices. German actor August Diehl portrays Woland, delivering a performance that skews international. Claes Bang plays Pontius Pilate, while Yeshua is brought to life by Dutch actor Aaron Vodovoz. Additionally, Alexei Rozin, known from television, appears as Azazello, with Polina August from Actresses contributing to the ensemble, and Yura Borisov voices Behemoth in a performance that anchors the film’s surreal tone. Overall, the adaptation stands as a standout achievement among Bulgakov’s screen treatments to date. It presents a rare opportunity to match the novel’s scale with cinema’s visual potential, something that earlier television adaptations could not fully achieve due to budgetary constraints. Lokshin’s approach aligns the film’s scope with Bulgakov’s original text, which sharpens the experience.
Yet the film does not mirror every line of the source. This is not a flaw but a sign of cinematic courage: Lokshin and Kantor chose to craft their own interpretation while remaining faithful to Bulgakov’s spirit. The world of the film renders 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 central tension unfolds as real and imagined blur; a self-contained, demonic narrative voice hovers over the characters, while Margarita emerges as a figure of ambition and desire. The film presents a vivid, unforgettable cast, a dramatic promenade through a text that invites reimagining. 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, though the film’s most salient value lies in its fearless assertion that sorrowful times demand art as sanctuary. The message resonates clearly: even in darkness, manuscripts endure and art can inhabit a kind of freedom that transcends the moment. The project stands as a testament to the enduring power of Bulgakov’s vision and to cinema’s capacity to reframe enduring literature for contemporary audiences. These are not mere triumphs of adaptation but declarations about the resilience of storytelling itself.
In the end, one can be glad that such stark times have passed. The Master and Margarita on film signals not only a successful collaboration but a renewed willingness to reinterpret a beloved classic through the language of modern cinema, while honoring the work’s enduring themes and provocative moral questions.