‘Two Prosecutors’ Review: Sergei Loznitsa Takes Us on a Darkly Absurdist Odyssey Through the Soviet Totalitarian Nightmare

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Entering Sergei Loznitsa’s gripping and ominous film “Two Prosecutors,” we find ourselves at an enormous, weathered metal gate – a place where trouble always seems to brew. It’s the Soviet Union in 1937, as the title bluntly reminds us: the peak of Stalin’s repression, or as they say, the zenith of terror. Without giving away any spoilers, this ominous gate will open a second time later on, closing for good as a symbolic end to a historical catastrophe that eerily mirrors current events, playing out today as an unsettling and tragically unfunny parody.

The massive metal door serves as the entrance to a prison, a gloomy environment that is somehow made less dreary by the crisp, cinematic quality of Oleg Mutu’s carefully framed, locked-off shots, and also by Christiaan Verbeek’s excellent classical music. Despite the stern expressions of the guards with their harsh commands in the courtyard – a well-executed part of the set design by Jurij Grigorovič and Aldis Meinerts that resembles an oversized tic-tac-toe board, where every square is marked as X – there’s a somewhat comical, pompous sound of a trumpet that adds a hint of Jacques Tati to this precisely coordinated image.

A group of weakened prisoners, who appear to be mistreated, are given tedious tasks as part of maintaining a corrupt and fearful government. One such chore, burning countless petitions addressed to “Dear Comrade Stalin,” is assigned to an elderly man imprisoned for minor reasons, placed in a small room with a stove and only one match. The dim color scheme, the man’s pale complexion, and the single ray of cold light illuminating him – it all feels like a classic painting depicting Methuselah or Moses. However, the stunning presentation of this unremarkable and disheartening scene is a perfect example of the ironic style Loznitsa employs by skillfully contrasting the beauty of form with the harshness of content.

Despite being warned to discard every piece of correspondence, the elderly man secretly keeps one: a tiny card with some hastily written words, which he hides within his shirt. This solitary note, for reasons unknown, compelled even this wretched being to perform a daring act of compassion. It could be because it bore the stains of blood. The odds of such a small act of defiance were slim, but an even more unforeseen sequence of events followed, leading to the note miraculously ending up in the hands of the local prosecutor, Kornyev (portrayed by Aleksandr Kuznetsov, delivering a captivating and eloquent performance despite his limited dialogue). With his chiseled jawline reminiscent of a boxer and a piercing, disbelieving gaze, Kornyev is a fresh recruit, young, intelligent, and principled. However, he is entirely unaware of the callousness of the system he wholeheartedly supports towards those very qualities.

As a film enthusiast, I found myself stepping into a prison, where the authorities’ reluctance and time-consuming tactics were as hard as the chairs I sat on, waiting. Despite their obstacles, I persisted in meeting Stepniak, an ex-intellectual who once graced my law school with his insights during the jubilee on “The Great Bolshevik Truth.”

Stepniak shared a heart-wrenching account of mistreatment and injustice at the hands of the local NKVD. Moved by his story, I decided to escalate the matter to Moscow. In a colossal municipal building, up an endless staircase, I encountered Vyshynsky, a bureaucrat with a blank face who swiftly and ruthlessly handled petitioners in accordance with a rigid schedule.

As a captivated reader diving into the pages of Georgy Demidov’s work, penned in 1969 and unveiled to the world in 2009, I found myself immersed in a narrative that lacks the gripping tension often associated with suspense. However, there are instances where the familiarity of certain scenes may jolt me, such as when characters lament the rise of so-called “ignorant charlatans” replacing experts. For the most part, though, the story’s trajectory is predictable, given that we, as readers in 2025, possess a wealth of historical knowledge that far surpasses Kornyev’s understanding. Every scene carries a subtle undercurrent of Loznitsa’s characteristic cynicism, lending an intriguing depth to even the seemingly insignificant moments.

This movie isn’t one that relies on sudden revelations or unnecessary plot twists. Instead, the monotonous predictability of Kornyev’s gradual humiliations and disenchantments is significant. The film’s allure comes from its intricate structure, the devastation from its close-up details – like how quickly a body disappears from the prison yard as if it had never existed, or how we notice Kornyev slightly flinching at the sound of a buzzer.

Loznitsa’s reputation as a significant and impactful documentarian is secure, however, his recent fiction films – “A Gentle Creature” (2017) and “Donbass” (2018), which were met with mixed responses due to their experiments in social surrealism and black comedy respectively – are less universally appreciated. In “Two Prosecutors,” Loznitsa seems to have respected the source material more, resulting in a more impactful film. It appears that he set himself a challenge to demonstrate how a strictly formal style can powerfully portray the oppressive, dehumanizing atmosphere of life under totalitarian rule. Watching “Two Prosecutors” feels much like reading a timeless classic novel by Camus, Kafka, or Orwell – the book may be worn with age, but the messages it carries remain strikingly relevant and vivid.

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2025-05-15 01:16