The leading Bulgakov scholar in Russia, Anatoly Mironovich Smelyansky, once shared an intriguing anecdote from his research. While gathering material on Mikhail Bulgakov, he visited Elena Sergeevna Bulgakova, the writer’s widow and enduring confidante. In the first half of the 1960s, Smelyansky was shown a draft of The Master and Margarita and left alone with the manuscript. When he returned, the young man could only say, incredulously, “Elena Sergeyevna, this will never be published!” Smelyansky replied with a quiet certainty: “It will definitely be published.”
Indeed, the draft appeared in a Moscow magazine in 1966, published with the light touch of abbreviations. From there it circulated in numerous editions and languages, with new covers that announced a timeless, magnetic story. Readers often encounter the novel in adolescence and find themselves returning to its pages at different life stages. Elena Sergeyevna Bulgakova had foreseen this enduring pull, and her insight proved correct.
For years there were attempts to translate the novel to the screen. In 1972, a little-known Yugoslav-Italian collaboration surfaced, and that same year Polish director Andrzej Wajda explored a project titled Pilate and Others. In Russia, Vladimir Bortko’s work raised hopes for a television series. Yet the dream of a faithful adaptation remained unmet for too long.
The main hurdle was not a lack of ambition but the enormous scope of Bulgakov’s vision; earlier attempts sometimes fell short of capturing the book’s scale. To illustrate, one celebrated scene—the Hippo Cat—was difficult to render convincingly. Supposedly, Bortko described the challenge with a rueful nod to practical effects, leaning on an oversized plush creature that undermined the book’s eerie mood and the story’s spellbinding tension.
Then came a turning point. Mikhail Lokshin, best known for the film Silver Skates, directed a new adaptation of The Master and Margarita. The result was widely regarded as a genuine cinematic achievement. With Lokshin at the helm, the film moved with a kinetic energy, weaving in elements that seem to arise from nowhere and burst into action when necessary.
Many viewers will admit that this version would provoke envy among fans, and some will insist that the book remains superior. Yet cinema operates as a distinct medium with its own logic and expressive possibilities. Comparing the two can be tempting, but the value of each form stands on its own merits.
Lokshin’s approach creates alternate spaces that echo the novel and its historical frame. The action is anchored in Moscow, reimagined through the lens of the General Plan—a planning blueprint from the era that infuses the city with a surreal, almost architectural texture. A House of Soviets rises, the People’s Commissariat of Heavy Industry looms large, and a colossal Lenin presides over the skyline. Even Patriarch’s Ponds receives a modern re-interpretation, feeling more like a designed set than a faithful street scene.
The cast contributes to the film’s distinctive mood. Evgeny Tsyganov embodies the Master, tracing Bulgakov’s own evolution—from the polished dandy with hat and bow tie to the frail, night-sky gazer in a hospital bed. Tsyganov’s portrayal captures the shift from vitality to quiet endurance, aligning closely with the writer’s own arc as reflected in surviving photographs.
Woland is brought to life by German actor August Diehl, whose performance covers a broad spectrum—from exuberant mischief to restrained malice, puncturing pretensions with a sardonic edge. Margarita, portrayed by Yulia Snigir, radiates a luminous beauty that seems sculpted for the camera, with each frame ready to become a painting in motion.
Lokshin’s other cast choices land with surprising naturalism. Koroviev, played by Yuri Kolokolnikov, delights in the Joker’s role without tipping into caricature. Alexey Rozin’s Azazello feels like an otherworldly crime lord, while the Cat, a special effect, delivers a startlingly persuasive line about Primus that reverberates across Moscow in the film’s world-building.
Overall, the adaptation continues the novel’s layered legacy, echoing Bulgakov’s own meta-narrative devices—text within text, action within action, theater within theater. The Master remains a stand-in for Bulgakov himself, a writer who experimented with form while wrestling with his own life and art. The film also hints at Bulgakov’s earlier projects, as if the director and the creator share a clandestine dialogue across time.
Perhaps only one scene—the ball of Satan—feels uneven, with Woland not as striking as in other moments and the audience numbers thinner than expected. Outside that, the film is widely regarded as a landmark, celebrated for both its grand concept and its cinematic integrity. It earned its place not merely because of Bulgakov’s extraordinary novel, but because it stands as a triumph of cinema in its own right.
Why does The Master and Margarita continue to captivate audiences? Because each viewing revisits the work with fresh life experiences, uncovering new layers—mundane, humorous, biblical, universal, romantic, and beyond. Lokshin’s adaptation adds another cinematic layer to the enduring story, inviting new generations to encounter its strange, luminous world anew.
Note: The following reflections reflect a personal interpretation and should be read as one critical viewpoint among many in the conversation about Bulgakov’s masterpiece.