by Alireza Hatamvand
Worth: $19.00
FilmInk rates movies out of $20 — the score indicates the amount we believe a ticket to the movie to be worth
Cast:
Aleksandr Kuznetsov, Anatoliy Belyy, Aleksandr Filippenko, Vytautas Kaniusonis
Intro:
… a film that will linger in the memory of cinephiles for many years.
What does oppression look like under totalitarian regimes? Do a few random hired agents roam the streets and butcher anyone they please? Is there no institution monitoring the crimes of those in power? Do the oppressed have no way to seek justice? Of course, such events have certainly occurred at some point in our dark history, but what usually happens is something else. For corruption and injustice to continue, they must embed themselves within the structure of the government. More covertly, more subtly, even more artfully!
Sergei Loznitsa (Donbass, Babi Yar: Context), the always controversial Ukrainian director, fascinated by politics and history and whose career constantly oscillates between documentary and fiction—with success in both—returns with a shocking new narrative film.
Two Prosecutors is adapted from a novel of the same name by Georgy Demidov, who himself spent over ten years in Soviet prisons and labour camps, and can thus be considered part of Gulag literature—a genre encompassing literary works and memoirs of survivors of Stalinist labour camps.
The protagonist of the story is a young prosecutor named Kornyev. Having recently graduated and working as a local prosecutor, he receives a note from a prisoner named Stepniak, written on an unusual surface and in blood (!), requesting to see the prosecutor. Kornyev goes to the prison, and despite the excuses and obstruction of the prison officials, manages to reach the cell, where he discovers the crimes committed by the NKVD (People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs) against political prisoners, forcing them to confess to crimes that they did not commit. After this event, the young Kornyev decides to go to the capital and ask the highest authorities in the national prosecutor’s office to intervene in this matter.
Films are made for audiences, and even someone who has never studied history will not be surprised by any of the events in this film. In fact, there is nothing to reveal for the audience (though there is for Kornyev!), and in terms of information engineering, the audience has complete superiority over the protagonist, seeing the ending from the very beginning. This means that it is not the drama itself, but the audience’s experience of it, that serves as the true driving force of the film.
The screenplay has a particularly minimalistic structure. The entire film can be divided into five long conversations and two walks through two buildings—one being the prison and the other the Procurator General of the USSR—so let us first turn to the latter.
Perhaps the most memorable aspect that will linger for years are the walks through two different buildings. Beyond cinematography, cell-like claustrophobic 4:3 aspect ratio, set design, and visually striking mise-en-scène, Loznitsa’s clever and subtly humorous innovation lies in the fact that these walks are created in complete correspondence and similarity with each other. In both buildings, an extremely long path must be taken to reach the destination. In both, one must traverse from corridor to corridor, from hall to hall. In both, one must endure excuses and obstructions to meet the intended person. In both, one must wait for hours. All of this shouts, with clarity and intensity, just one sentence: in totalitarian regimes, justice is merely another prison!
Yet, the film’s long conversations should not be taken lightly. The main dialogues unfold in the following order: Kornyev with the prison chief, Kornyev with the prisoner Stepniak, a man on the train addressing all passengers, particularly the sleepy Kornyev; Kornyev with the Procurator General, and Kornyev with the suspicious train passengers.
In the conversation with the prison chief, the obstructions and excuses immediately catch Kornyev’s attention. In the conversation with Stepniak, the prisoner, Kornyev only then realises the full depth of the NKVD’s crimes. In the train scene, it is the old man speaking to the passengers, rather than Kornyev, who becomes the focus, allowing the audience to grasp the ignorance and deprivation of the people. Meanwhile, in the conversation with the Procurator General, tension rises significantly.
Although the film does not strictly follow a classic screenplay structure, the final act still serves as a stage for escalating tension, which reaches its peak in the conversation with the two train passengers—where we, the audience, alongside Kornyev, are suspicious of everything and everyone, unaware of the intentions and identities of these two strangers. This, too, is another characteristic of totalitarian regimes. It is as if people are constantly in a hidden identity party game, always on alert for spies, mercenaries, and traitors.
After years of grappling with history and politics, and a career marked by striking achievements in documentary filmmaking and a constant formal precision, Loznitsa reaches a singular point with Two Prosecutors. Awards aside, this is a film that will linger in the memory of cinephiles for many years.
