Boris Khlebnikov’s feature premiered at the Moscow Film Festival, originally inspired by Georgy Vladimov’s novel which appeared in Novy Mir in 1969. The book sparked immediate debate as critics from both sides challenged its portrayal of the Russian people and their resilience. Vladimov himself refused to please either camp, noting that the work drew fire from both ends for different reasons.
The novel emerged after Vladimov’s own voyage as a sailor, and its style leaned into documentary fiction. The hero reflects a recognizable blend of toughness and vulnerability, while other characters embody the postwar generation formed by austerity, loyalty, and a stubborn sense of duty despite hardship. The narrative hints at personal sacrifice, where memory of heroism battles with present-day need to endure.
Khlebnikov and Meshchaninova preserve the core setting of a fishing voyage with a crew facing storm, peril, and a mission to rescue sailors in distress. In the film, the ship is named Bullfinch, a detail that stands out against a few other changes from the source material. The vessel and its crew become a compact world where routine danger and camaraderie coexist, and the rescue operation acts as a central pivot in the unfolding drama. The film’s storytelling leans into visual storytelling over exposition, letting images carry weight rather than commentary.
The action shifts into the current moment, where characters have evolved. The absent narrator places emphasis on the visual texture—the ship’s creaks, the weathered surfaces, the rough yet intimate space of the crew’s cabin and deck. The ship Snegir moves forward despite decay; its interior speaks of a male-dominated microcosm where metal, grit, and limited comfort define daily life. The crew members, from the trainee sailors to the foreman nicknamed Father Gennady, are sketched with earthy humor and tough resilience. The ship’s cook nicknamed Vitya feeds the crew with bread and soup, while the foreman’s brows brood over each decision. The jester Yurets adds a sharp edge to the humor, a bit of mischief that hides deeper loyalties. Yet beneath the rough surface, a warmth appears—an odd beauty born from shared work and belonging to a demanding trade. They chase money but pursue it through hard labor and a stubborn refusal to surrender to the harshness around them. The harsh living conditions, imposed by a system that offers little protection, become a test of character, a measure of how far each man will push himself and others to survive and sustain the crew.
The central friction arises from Nikita, a Muscovite who joins the team and quickly becomes a point of tension. His easygoing charm and hedonistic impulses clash with the crew’s harder, more collective ethos. The script delicately traces how Nikita’s attempt to balance friendship with personal pleasure unsettles a group bound by shared risk and routine discipline. The crew’s sense of self is not fixed; each man plays a role crafted by circumstance, and the question of who one actually is becomes a subtle undercurrent rather than a loud proclamation. In this world, identity is a performance tied to survival, and genuine selfhood is elusive.
The film draws a stark image of a ship well past its prime: old equipment, brittle hooks, and cranes that threaten injury. Yet safety rules are largely ignored in favor of the work’s rhythm and the promise of a hard-won payoff. Risk becomes a stylistic choice, a mark of seafaring courage rather than a flaw. The sailors respect power and bravery and do not fear death, moving through a universe that feels both crude and honest. This environment shapes their behavior, blurring lines between right and wrong and highlighting the tension between necessity and conscience. The sea imposes an elegance of danger as a daily reality rather than a distant threat.
From the first moments, when young trainees appear in port with their modern backpacks, the narrative hints at a forthcoming catastrophe. Yet the tension grows gradually through every scene, never letting the viewer settle into a simple prediction. A moment later, Nikita’s drinking and conversations with Father Gennady reveal personal layers that complicate the looming crisis. Fate, however, is a stubborn foe, ready to deliver a decisive turn when least expected. Tragedy arrives like a pulled thread—daily, inevitable, and unsettling—as if the men’s youth has become a burden they cannot outgrow. Their simple garage life and risky ventures spring from a mix of inertia and poor choices, rather than thoughtful strategy.
Khlebnikov’s film speaks through image and dialogue rather than overt commentary. Cinematography by Alisher Khamidkhojaev captures the ship’s daily life as both a concrete setting and a metaphor for broader human tensions. A world built on violence toward others, and toward oneself, nears an explosive turning point. Yet the sailors persist in their determined routines, grappling with grief and the constant need to save the vessel and themselves. Experience seems to offer little guidance; the cycle of hardship continues, even as moments of genuine care surface amid the roughness.
In a gently ironic touch, Yurets attempts to share his autograph video with rescued Norwegian sailors, only to be met with polite silence and a chorus of laughter from the crew. The scene stays with viewers, inviting them to judge the humor in hindsight as the final moments unfold. The film reflects on a world where mischief and bravado sit side by side with vulnerability, where men cling to one another and to the work that defines them.
Although conceived in 2018, production began in mid-2021 and Bullfinch reached theaters in mid-2023. The passage of years added gravity to the project, yet the story remained timely. The sense of road-weary labor, the encounter with migrant characters, and the portrait of a society under strain all echo broader currents in Russian life. Quiet, restrained language gives way to a larger resonance, and what could have been a simple sea tale becomes a meditation on masculinity, memory, and communal duty. The film’s thematic echoes, from labor solidarity to the cult of risk, make it one of Khlebnikov’s most symbolic works—an artful blend of realism and allegory that lingers after the final shot.
As the rusty Bullfinch finally returns to shore, authorities and civilians appear. An inspector speaks with the crew, seeking a straightforward account of events, yet the characters are not easily read or categorized. The encounter underlines the tension between procedural clarity and experiential truth, suggesting that some stories resist simple judgments. The film closes with a quiet insistence on human complexity, inviting viewers to weigh what they have witnessed against the harsh realities of life at sea.
The film invites audiences to form their own judgments, offering a nuanced portrait that does not pretend to settle every question of authorship or motive. It remains a reflective, human exploration of work, loyalty, and the uncertain horizon that awaits those who sail into the storm.