By Maria Bregman, writer, film and literary critic
The silver screen has long wrestled with Russia’s literary titans, but none have dared to cast Alexander Pushkin as a battle-rapping antihero – until now. Prophet. The Story of Alexander Pushkin, Felix Umarov’s audacious musical biopic, arrives in cinemas on Valentine’s Day 2025 with a premise as volatile as the poet’s duelling pistols. Oscar-nominated Yura Borisov dons the sideburns of Russia’s bard, threading verses from Eugene Onegin into trap beats while sparring with Tsar Nicholas I’s censors. The result? A cinematic curio that sparks more bewilderment than brilliance.
Rhyme Without Reason
Umarov’s gamble – to frame Pushkin’s life as a hip-hopera – initially intrigues. The poet’s linguistic dexterity feels ripe for rap; his defiance of imperial oppression mirrors modern dissident art. Yet the execution falters catastrophically. Ryan Otter’s score (previously heard in the Gogol film series) stitches Pushkin’s verses into Auto-Tuned ballads and lumbering rap battles, creating a soundscape akin to Tchaikovsky remixed by an algorithm. A cringe-inducing duel scene between Pushkin and Georges d’Anthès (Florian Desbiendras) sees the latter spitting bars like “Your rhymes are weak, your wife’s en garde” over dubstep wobbles – a nadir even for genre revisionism.
Borisov, fresh from Anora’s critical acclaim, commits fully to the absurdity. His Pushkin swaggers with cocksure charm, channelling the poet’s legendary magnetism. Yet the script reduces his genius to Wikipedia bullet points: lyceum days (glossed over), exile to Mikhailovskoye (a montage), marriage to Natalia Goncharova (Anya Chipovskaya, underused). Vital figures like nanny Arina Rodionovna vanish entirely, leaving the emotional core as hollow as a samovar drained of tea.
Tsarist Tropes and Tragic Flaws
Amid the cacophony, glimmers of substance emerge. Sergei Gilev steals scenes as Count Benckendorff, head of the Third Section, whose villainous aria “Ink and Iron” channels Les Misérables’ Javert with Putin-era menace. Evgeny Schwartz’s Tsar Nicholas I – petty, paranoid, and perversely entertaining – avoids hagiography, a rarity in state-adjacent Russian cinema. Umarov even nods to Pushkin’s moral ambiguities: his protagonist grovels for royal favour while penning subversive odes, embodying the artist’s eternal dance with power.
Yet these nuances drown in Umarov’s frenetic pacing. The director, whose football drama Home Pitch balanced grit and heart, here succumbs to maximalist overreach. Dance numbers feature peasants twerking in period dress; a La La Land-inspired dream sequence sees Pushkin tap-dancing across Nevsky Prospect. It’s as if Baz Luhrmann directed a school play after mainlining Red Bull – exhausting, not exhilarating.
Historical Revisionism or Missed Beat?
Comparisons to 2024’s Master and Margarita are inevitable. Both films recontextualise literary giants for Gen Z, but where Mikhail Lokshin’s Bulgakov adaptation fused phantasmagoria with political allegory, Prophet feels like a TikTok trend stretched to feature length. The rap elements, intended as a bridge to youth audiences, instead highlight generational divides. Lyrics like “I’m the Byron of the Steppes / Quill sharp, censorship weak” land with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, while contemporary slang (“Fire verses, bro!”) jars against Pushkin’s elevated diction.
Purists may bristle at liberties taken, but greater sins lie in the music’s blandness. Tracks oscillate between forgettable EDM and half-hearted Hamilton pastiche, lacking the rhythmic ingenuity Pushkin’s poetry demands. A climactic rendition of The Bronze Horseman set to drill beats should electrify; instead, it numbs through repetition.
Casting Shadows and Light
Borisov’s performance remains the film’s redeeming grace. His Pushkin is mercurial – vain yet vulnerable, revolutionary yet compromised. In quieter moments, he channels the poet’s isolation: slumped over manuscripts in a dim study, ink-stained fingers trembling as he censors his own work. It’s a nuanced portrayal let down by the script’s insistence on spectacle over soul.
Supporting players fare worse. Ilya Vinogorsky’s Zhukovsky drifts through scenes like a spectral tutor, while Alena Dolgolenko’s Natalia Pushkina is reduced to pouting in ballgowns. Only Roman Vasiliev, as loyal second Konstantin Danzas, injects levity, muttering the film’s truest line: “Should’ve written about cats.”
A Prophet Without Honour
Umarov’s film joins Russia’s fraught tradition of literary adaptations – from Tarkovsky’s transcendent Stalker to the risible Anna Karenina (2017) with its EDM-fueled balls. Prophet falls somewhere between, too timid for avant-garde daring yet too erratic for mainstream appeal. Its 137-minute runtime drags, though box office prospects shine given Pushkin’s saintly status and Mikhalkov’s promotional muscle.
For non-Russian audiences, the film may baffle more than enlighten. Subtitle translations struggle with rhyming couplets, flattening Pushkin’s wit into blunt prose. Yet as a cultural artifact, Prophet fascinates: a glimpse into how Putin-era cinema negotiates rebellious art, where critiques of 19th-century autocracy safely deflect from modern parallels.
To Watch or Not to Watch?
Prophet’s failures are as instructive as its ambitions. For students of Russian literature, it offers a cautionary tale – biopics that prioritise style over substance risk reducing genius to caricature. Cinephiles may appreciate Borisov’s commitment amidst the chaos, while hip-hop historians might mine the soundtrack for so-bad-it’s-good camp.
Yet Pushkin deserves better. The man who fused vernacular Russian with high art, who dueled tyranny with iambic tetrameter, merits a film as innovative as his verse. Instead, Umarov delivers a mishmash – a Moulin Rouge! sans passion, a Hamilton sans politics. As Borisov’s Pushkin laments in the film’s sole poignant rap: “They’ll frame my fire in gilded lies / While the prophet’s truth in shadow dies.” The verse, ironically, is original – proof that even misfires can spark fleeting brilliance.
