By Sara Bright
Felix Umarov’s The Prophet: The Story of Alexander Pushkin arrives in cinemas as a flamboyant, if flawed, attempt to recast Russia’s literary titan into a jazz-handed, rap-spouting protagonist. Blending 19th-century Romanticism with the frenetic energy of a TikTok-era musical, the film positions itself as a bold reimagining of Pushkin’s life – a man whose genius and recklessness remain eternally ripe for reinterpretation. Yet beneath its glittering surface lies a paradox: can a man synonymous with linguistic precision thrive in a medium that prioritises spectacle over substance?
Borisov’s Charismatic Reinvention
Yura Borisov, fresh off his Oscar-nominated turn in Anora, swaps brooding intensity for flamboyant theatricality as the adult Pushkin. Clad in period curls and sideburns, he delivers a performance that veers between campy bravado and earnest vulnerability. This marks a stark departure from roles that capitalised on his stoic physicality – here, Borisov revels in verbosity, spitting rhyming couplets and duetting with lovers. While the script reduces Pushkin’s literary prowess to a subplot, Borisov’s magnetic presence anchors the film. His chemistry with Anya Chipovskaya’s Countess Vorontsova – a whirlwind affair set against a garishly reimagined Odessa – offers fleeting moments of emotional depth amidst the chaos.
Aesthetic Ambitions and Anachronisms
Umarov’s vision oscillates between lavish homage and jarring anachronism. St. Petersburg’s ballrooms drip with opulence, resembling “luxury brothels” (as one critic quipped), while Odessa morphs into a hallucinatory carnival of neon-lit minarets and papier-mâché palm trees. These choices, though visually arresting, often undermine historical texture. The film’s most daring sequence – a rap battle between young Pushkin (Kai Getz) and an ageing Derzhavin – plays like Hamilton meets Eurovision, complete with beatboxing courtiers. It’s a gambit that delights and baffles in equal measure, emblematic of a production more concerned with vibes than verisimilitude.
Music’s Hit-and-Miss Gamble
Composer Ryan Otter (né Rostislav Pimenov) infuses the soundtrack with electro-folk beats and power ballads, aiming to bridge centuries. The results are mixed. While Borisov and Alena Dolgolenko’s mournful duet as Pushkin and Natalia Goncharova lingers poignantly, many numbers succumb to generic theatrics. A villainous serenade by Sergei Gilev’s Count Benckendorff, echoing Soviet-era rock, feels tonally adrift. Lyrics by Vasily Zorky – a former journalist – strain for relevance, grafting contemporary slang onto Pushkin’s verse. “Freedom isn’t just a hashtag,” declares Borisov in one cringe-inducing crescendo, a line that encapsulates the film’s uneasy marriage of past and present.
Legacy Overshadowed by Levity
The film’s title, The Prophet, nods to Pushkin’s famed poem – a work grappling with artistic destiny and divine inspiration. Yet Umarov sidesteps such profundity, opting instead for a Greatest Hits montage of duels, dalliances, and bureaucratic skirmishes. Pushkin’s revolutionary fervour is reduced to cheeky defiance; his poetic mastery, a footnote. This narrative lightness mirrors Andrei Sinyavsky’s irreverent biography Strolls with Pushkin, which framed the poet as a “frivolous genius.” But where Sinyavsky’s wit illuminated paradoxes, Umarov’s approach risks trivialisation. The climactic duel with D’Anthès (Florian Desbendras) feels rushed, a tragic footnote in a tale more invested in rom-com escapades.
Cultural Paradox in Cinematic Form
The Prophet arrives amid a fraught moment for Russian cinema – a landscape torn between global ambitions and geopolitical isolation. Borisov’s Oscar nod is aggressively marketed, yet the film’s parochial campiness jars with its aspirations for international appeal. This dissonance echoes Pushkin’s own legacy: a national icon endlessly appropriated for political and cultural agendas. Umarov’s decision to frame Pushkin as a proto-hipster – a rebellious wordsmith chasing love and clout – resonates with Gen Z sensibilities but risks alienating purists.
Between Farce and Revelation
Critics have dismissed the film as “Moulin Rouge meets a school play,” yet its unapologetic excess harbours accidental wisdom. Pushkin, ever the shapeshifter, defies ossification. By reducing him to a lovable rogue, Umarov inadvertently mirrors the poet’s own knack for eluding categorization. The film’s garishness becomes a metaphor for Pushkin’s enduring malleability – a figure claimed by monarchists, revolutionaries, and now, meme-makers.
Will Audiences Embrace the Chaos?
Box office success may hinge on Borisov’s star power and Russia’s appetite for escapism. Yet The Prophet’s greatest triumph could be unintended: driving viewers back to Pushkin’s verse. As the credits roll, one wonders if this kaleidoscopic mess might achieve what drier biopics cannot – sparking curiosity in the man behind the myth. After all, Pushkin himself thrived on contradictions, once quipping, “I write for myself, but publish for money.” In that spirit, Umarov’s film, for all its flaws, is a fittingly chaotic tribute to a poet who mastered the art of keeping the world guessing.
