All language subtitles for Le Mage du Kremlin (2026).9.eng

This film is adapted from the eponymous
novel by Giuliano da Empoli.

While it is based on historical events,

it remains an original work of fiction
with artistic intent.

The characters, as well as their
statements and opinions, are fictional.

Since Vadim Baranov
stepped down as advisor

to Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin,
the Tzar,

the legends about him haven't waned,
they've multiplied.

Most men of power get their aura
from the position they hold.

When they lose it,
it's like a plug has been pulled.

Baranov was a different breed.

Some say he retreated
to a monastery in Mount Athos.

Others swore they saw him in Ibiza,

surrounded by coked-up models.

Still others insist they spotted him
on the front line in Donbas.

Vadim Baranov went through life
in a swirl of enigmas.

The sole certainty
was his influence on the Tzar.

In his fifteen years of service,

he contributed decisively
to the growth of the Tzar's power.

He was known
as the Wizard of the Kremlin,

the New Rasputin.

He'd show up unannounced
at the President's office late at night

to handle urgent matters.

Perhaps the Tzar himself
would call him in on his personal line.

Occasionally the two of them
were joined by a prominent minister

or the CEO
of some state-owned conglomerate,

but these witnesses
shed no light on the Tzar

and his advisors' nightly activities.

When I returned to Moscow
a few years after his disappearance

Baranov's memory still loomed large.

The press persisted in attributing to him

the most baffling measures
taken by the Kremlin.

As for me, I had just published
an essay in Foreign Affairs

that created something of a stir.

It was called: "Vadim Baranov
and the Invention of Fake Democracy".

If you need anything, just dial 9.

Thank you.

- Have a good day, Mr. Rowland.
- You too.

I took a year's sabbatical from Yale

to write the first biography
of Yevgeny Zamyatin,

one of Russia's great writers

and an early antagonist
of Stalin's communist regime.

I walked in the pale winter light,

leafed through old books.

Zamyatin became my obsession.

He was a visionary,
and not just when it came to Stalin.

All subsequent dictators as well.

From Silicon Valley oligarchs
to China's one-party state,

from Mark Zuckerberg to Xi Jinping.

His dystopian novel We

inspired George Orwell's 1984.

I didn't know you read Zamyatin
in American universities.

Zamyatin is the oracle of our times.

How long are you in Moscow?

I have something to show you.

Just outside the city

gloomy, never-ending woods
stretched all the way to Siberia.

I felt a mix of curiosity
and apprehension.

In Russia,
things generally go pretty well.

But when they go bad,
they go really bad.

Please follow me, Mr. Rowland.

May I take your coat?

I will bring you some tea. Thank you.

I didn't know you collected old books.

I don't collect them, I read them.

There's a major difference.

So you're a reader of Zamyatin.

I have something to show you
that you will truly appreciate.

Do you know what this is?

A letter Zamyatin wrote to Stalin.

Asking permission to leave the USSR.

"Dear Iosif Vissarionovich,

"just as the Christians created the Devil

"as a convenient personification
of all evil,

"so the critics have transformed me
into the Devil of Soviet literature."

Zamyatin understood too much,
too quickly,

and made the rash decision
to write about it.

Please,

have a seat.

- You read it?
- Of course.

You even took the time to make notes.

I'm honored.

Let's not get carried away.

However, compared to the others,
you did understand something.

Not much, but something.

Thank you.

You said
you consider yourself an artist.

Let's just say I played
a supporting role. I'm retired now.

You don't miss the adrenaline?

Trust me, there is no greater joy
than waking up every morning,

having coffee

and taking your daughter to school.

How did the others take it?

My leaving?

Badly, of course.

Courtiers forgive everyone:
thieves, murderers, traitors.

But not deserters.

"What? You don't want
what we're willing to kill for?"

And the Tzar?

The Tzar is a different story.

My father feared this library.

It belonged to my grandfather.

Custine, Gracián,

Machiavelli...

The skeptics, the disillusioned.

Hardly the Soviet doxa.

But to his credit,
he never tried to deny me any of them.

Your father?

He ended up director of the Academy of
Social Sciences for the Communist Party.

His one goal in life was to avoid

being awakened at dawn
by the KGB banging on his door.

In his position,
he shouldn't have had to worry.

No one was safe in the Soviet Union.

No one is safe in Russia,

period.

Not me.

Not even you.

When I was young,
the greatest privilege in Moscow

was the Kremlyovka,

a food basket
for the Party's senior officials.

What are we eating today?

Salmon piroshki,

lamb cutlets...

Ultimately, my problem is
that I had a happy childhood.

And in Russia, that's not normal.

All the Russian elite
experienced Soviet poverty

before they gained access
to villas on the Côte d'Azur.

They still haven't gotten over it.

Even the Tzar:

"Me, the kid who grew up
in a shoddy kommunalka

"in a gloomy courtyard
in Saint Petersburg.

"Now I'm invited to Buckingham Palace!"

- Things have changed.
- Not that much.

For you Westerners, money is essential.

What matters in Russia
is your proximity to power.

The Soviet system
was based on privilege,

not cash.

Yesterday there wasn't any.
Tomorrow, who knows, so...

you might as well just blow it all.

Do you know what a vertushka is?

It was a telephone without a dial

that allowed Party leaders
to communicate directly with you.

Having one meant you'd made it.

Look. This is a vertushka.

Gray, like everything Soviet.

You think Moscow's gray, try Washington.

God, they're not gray there,
they're dead.

Anyway, I'm banned
from entering the USA and Europe.

- Is your father still alive?
- No.

He might have subsisted
in this world for a long time.

But then along came Gorbachev
and his glass of milk.

Glass of milk?

We could tell Gorbachev
would destroy the Soviet Union.

It was enough to look at him.

He took to the rostrum,
they handed him a glass of milk.

And he proceeded
to double the price of vodka.

And try to get everyone on milk.

In Russia!

Can you imagine?

No wonder everything spun
out of control.

That was it for communism
and for my father.

He lost everything.

His job, privileges, reputation.

What about you?
What did you do in those times?

My father wanted me to be a diplomat.

But I was never keen on studying.

I did odd jobs. Found television sets,
cassette decks, and resold them.

Business was good.

I started to make more money
than my father. A lot more than my father.

I was just a know-nothing kid.

That's why I was better suited
to the new world.

THE NEW RUSSIANS

In the early '90s,

Moscow was a dynamic city.

The place was filled with hope
for a few years. Just a few.

Banned books
were coming out every week.

Solzhenitsyn, Pasternak, Bulgakov...

Art magazines and literary revues
were selling in the millions.

The Russian appetite for freedom
was insatiable.

So I enrolled
in the Russian Institute of Theater Arts

and began living the messy life
of a thespian.

We were barely 20 and a whole new world
had opened up to us

just as we were finally strong enough
to conquer it.

Open the door!

Open the fucking door

or I'll bust you up!

We were so excited we never slept
more than 3 or 4 hours a night.

We were convinced
it was finally our turn

to rebuild society on new foundations.

We could see plays from Europe,

meet the actors and directors
and talk all night long.

You really think
freedom will change everything

and you will live
in a world of culture and poetry?

Our generation rejected the system.

Our parents kept their heads down,
not us.

You won't like what I'm about to say.

Communism was the reign
of culture and poetry.

How can you say such a thing?

Under communism, being a loser

was the only way
to be a decent human being.

You were not complicit, at least.

You! Fuck off!

Fuck you!

Perfect.

You really impressed me.

Yeah?

I had to tell you
because it doesn't happen often.

Well...

That's interesting...

Guess you must be pretty important.

- What exactly impressed you?
- You.

Your performance.

What performance?

Wasn't that you singing?

You call that singing?

What do you call it?

Trendy... bullshit?

I did that as a favor.

For who?

The KGB agents watching us.

And I'm happy to give them something
to spice up their reports.

That's a shame, you have talent.

Because I do what New Yorkers did
15 years ago?

You're a real Soviet.

You think the world's
just waiting for you.

And you're not a real Soviet?

My parents were poor and crazy.

They were hippies.

They carted me around
from commune to commune.

Now they're old and don't believe
in their old values anymore.

I tell you,
I'm not gonna end up like them.

I'd like to discuss a role.

Would you deign
to take me seriously for a second?

A role.

What,

you mean like the kind
offered to actresses?

The kind offered to actresses.

Well, unfortunately,

I'm not an actress.
And I have no desire to be one.

I might even say
I've done everything in my power

not to be one.

Do you know Yevgeny Zamyatin?

An icon of the most conventional
avant-gardists.

I'm not into that stuff.

With all due respect,
you're missing out.

I'm putting on a version of his novel We
at the Institute of Theater Arts.

You take risks.
I might be warming to you a bit.

- Do you have a car?
- Yes.

Take me home.

I'm done with this party.

In a hurry?

What? Too fast for you?

I don't know how I managed
to make contact with Planet Ksenia,

but I knew immediately
that even if I lived a thousand years,

I'd never meet anyone else like her.

Alright, take it again from the top.
Places, please.

Scissors, D-503, places. Let's go!

Which scene?

The scene we've been doing all night,
the mirror scene.

- Should I sit or lie down?
- You should be lying.

When you feel the lights
from the Integral, sit up.

Alright, it's all in the repetition.

This was excellent, thank you ladies.

The dinner scene was far too casual.
I need something more mechanical.

- Is the Integral ready?
- Ready!

Alright, keep your actions going

until you feel the lights
from the Integral,

at which point you all stand up
and walk towards the windows.

Milana, ready?

Yes!

This is a bad case!

It appears you have developed a soul.

Is it very serious, Doctor?

Untreatable.

But what exactly is it?
I don't understand.

How can I explain?

Take a surface.

Here, this mirror.

You know that a regular mirror
reflects reality.

This one absorbs it

and retains a trace of everything.

My brothers,

as you all know,
down below in the city

they're building
the Integral Spaceship.

Down with the Integral!
Down with it!

My brothers,

the Integral must be ours.

And she will be ours.

When she rises skywards
for the first time,

we will be the ones aboard.

For we have with us
the builder of the Integral.

He left the city
and came here with me.

To be with you.

Long live the Builder!

Her ambitions may have been vague, but...

Muscovite avant-garde theater
had little chance of satisfying them.

I know,
I lived in Moscow during those years.

There were no limits.

Everything was collapsing
and being rebuilt at once.

It was a fascinating and terrifying time.

Ksenia and I lived in our artistic bubble

while life outside
was rife with possibilities.

Nearly every day, a former classmate
would come with an idea,

a business proposition.

First on his grandfather's bicycle,

then in an armored Bentley,
surrounded by bodyguards.

That's pretty much how it happened
for Dmitry.

- Sidorov?
- Sidorov, yes.

Dmitry Sidorov.

I'd known him in high school.

Now he was head of the Young
Communist League at the university.

Don't think he was a Party apparatchik.

In the late '80s

the student cooperative
was the incubator for Russian capitalism.

I liked hearing about his adventures.

I wanted to write a play
about entrepreneurs like him.

You seen Dmitry?

Saw him 5 minutes ago.
Check the bar.

They were a new social class,
emerging out of nowhere in just months.

It was pretty remarkable.

Vadya!

Good to see you.

This café was my first business
but I used it as a launching pad

for more lucrative endeavors.

Not all of which were legal.

Vadya! Legality is over, forget it.
I'll tell you a story.

No writing, close your eyes.
Pretend I'm your Mama.

Once upon a time,
I come across a supply of cognac.

- You mean fake cognac.
- Who cares? Not the point.

I put it on the market for $50 a bottle.

You hear that?

Nothing.
No one wants it.

I mark it up to $500,
they're fighting for it!

I'm sure you didn't stop at cognac.

Computers, acid-wash jeans,
souvenirs, software...

all thanks to the Student Cooperative.

A few minor cons.
I struggle to believe you.

Can't fool you!

Stories to make you
and your audience laugh.

It's a play!

I came up with a scheme

to facilitate payments
between state-run businesses.

I borrow money
and lend it to others for a fee.

Basically what is known as a bank, but...

no one in this country knows
what a bank is.

Tough questions!

Yes, you could say I created
Russia's first commercial bank.

I'll tell you how.
I found a book:

Commercial Banks of Capitalist Countries.

Remarkable work!

It explains simply and in great detail
how the banking system works.

And I said, hey, I like this.

Would you describe yourself as greedy?

Absolutely. Yes, absolutely.

I didn't use to be,
but I grow greedier by the day.

An asset in my line of work.
I have a banker's personality.

I love money.

- Nice suit.
- Nice shirt.

Good read.

They're behind the times,
you still had your mustache.

Journalists are always behind the times.
You know that, Vadya.

Bloody hick mustache.

You did well to shave it off.

How's the play coming along?

- My play about you?
- Yes.

- I won't write it.
- Why?

Because it's over now.
You can't tell me the truth anymore.

You're right.

But I never could tell you
the whole truth.

But you used to tell me a bit more.

So, this is the famous Dmitry?

I see no other.

Vadim says you're worth
80 million rubles a year.

- Is that true?
- Could be, I don't know.

He also says you're a thug.

Is that so?

Nothing wrong with that.

Ulysse Nardin.

A bit too flashy to be elegant.

Flashy? Says the girl
wearing a fucking bear!

In the world I move in,
it's better to be flashy than elegant.

You get more respect.

Explains your dreadful tie.

Eugenio Marinelli from Naples, va bene!

Bellissima cravata.

Never heard of it.

Of course you haven't, one tiny boutique.

He travels the world
to make ties to measure.

They make ties to measure?

In the world I move in, they can.

You like champagne?
Too flashy for you?

I should have known from that first
encounter that my fate was sealed.

Ksenia would choose Dmitry,

his vulgarity, his energy.

He felt it immediately.

And so did I.

But for a long time
I refused to believe it.

Yes?

Coming, coming...

- Bad time?
- Dmitry?

I wanted to surprise you.

Let's go, let's go!
Are you hungry?

I have some flashy things! Caviar!

From that moment on,

Dmitry became a frequent visitor
to our house.

There I was, thinking he came out
of some deep-rooted respect

for the art Ksenia and I had chosen
to dedicate our lives to.

As if culture still had the power to exert
any influence over the real world.

I love that sound!

The sleek, shiny world of money
was Dmitry's natural habitat.

Nothing could turn him away from it.

But he wanted Ksenia, so he was willing
to spend a little time with us

in the ruins of the city of the dead.

As the months passed,

Ksenia became increasingly receptive
to his largesse.

Everything that initially
defined our friendship,

books we shared, concerts,
the all-night discussions,

had fallen by the wayside in favor
of more money-centric activities.

Gallery and discotheque openings,

dinners at White Sun or Ermitazh.

Ksenia was getting higher by the minute
on Dmitry's lifestyle.

Vadya's dancing!

Vadya! Smile!

I'm smiling!

Communism is dead.
There's a whole new world to invent.

You're gonna be a part of it.

You know Vadya,
he doesn't like to go out.

What he likes is going home.

I remember waking up one night
and gazing at her for a long time.

I felt so tired, even though
I hadn't accomplished anything yet.

I nurtured the illusion that
Ksenia would perceive my greatness.

But as the days passed,

I noticed that the way she saw me
was changing.

What began as a vague look of irony
was morphing into contempt.

"You're stronger than I am
because you don't love me,"

I wanted to tell her.

My pain only augmented her boredom.

Stop the car.

Stop the car!

Stop the fucking car!

You want some water?

There you go.

Dmitry,

I've told you 10 times
you drive too rough!

I know no other way.

Let Vadim take the wheel
or I hitchhike home.

Do you wanna, like,
go in the back, or...

That's sweet of you, honey,
but I get even sicker in the back.

There's something I forgot to tell you.

I'm listening.

I'm leaving.

Is that all you can muster?

You saw me in the car with Dmitry.
Think I missed that?

It's been over between us
for a long time.

Come in.

You're not disturbing me.

I was afraid to wake you.

Have a seat.

Finally I have an excuse
to stay in bed all day.

Rereading the classics and dozing.
That suits me.

There's the illness.

This may surprise you,

but illness is not necessarily
a serious thing.

Serious things,

like effort and work,

are the burden of people in good health.

The dying have nothing more to do.

They can just enjoy their days.

I left Ksenia.

I know.

You'll have a dozen opportunities
to start over.

I expected to suffer terribly, but...

I feel lighter, and strong.

You see.

But theater is no longer enough for me.

Losing Ksenia has made me ambitious.

Ambitious now?

That's unexpected.

But all the better.
I'll take it as good news.

I cannot bear
the writer's failure to affect reality.

I want to be part of my times,

not just a witness.

You know what?

I'll leave your times to you.

With no regrets.

This is Sputnik.

The only one allowed inside.

Come here, Sputy, say hi.

My daughter loves him.

In the end, my father had an attack
and died very suddenly.

The ceremony wasn't exactly
headline news.

Four poor souls followed the hearse
in a beat-up car

while the shiny SUVs
of the nouveaux riches sped past them.

He died too late.

He probably would have wanted
a nicer funeral.

But in the end
he didn't give a damn.

At least, I hope he didn't.

I needed to get my mind off things,

and Moscow in the mid-'90s
was the perfect place to do that.

Imagine all those young men and women

suddenly seeing a new world
of possibility opening up before them.

They could become
whatever they wanted,

amass fortunes, travel the world.

It was enough to make your head spin.

It was a time of incredible violence.

There was gunfire everywhere,
for the most frivolous reasons.

Men of no importance
were escorted by private militia

until the day they were blown sky-high.

Turning my theater experience
into a career as a TV producer

was like going from a horse and cart
to a Lamborghini.

One day I was in a kitchen

rhapsodizing about Mayakovsky
and drinking hot tea.

The next, I was nursing a latte

in an open space
designed by Dutch architects.

Forget Channel One, forget state TV.

We're a private company.
Times have changed.

We're going to do game shows
and politics.

But different.

The Soviets tried to smother this country
under a lid of boredom.

First rule, don't be boring.

There's one project that stands out
from the others. This one.

Do you know why?

Because it has
all the Russian stereotypes,

not a single one left out.

The provincial Babushka,

the nihilistic student,

the ambitious slut.

I read it. It stinks.

- I read them all, they all stink!
- Especially that one.

Except that it'll work.

We're not just producing shows,

all the other institutions have collapsed.

It's now up to TV to show the way.

Maybe a reality show
about finishing schools

that teach young girls to attract
freshly minted millionaires?

Not bad.
Does that genuinely exist?

It totally exists.
It's big and it's getting bigger.

My dream
is to be an international superstar.

My dream is to buy my mom
the most beautiful house in Krasnoyarsk.

My dream is to be the trophy wife

of the richest oligarch in Russia

and live my life in Monte Carlo.

She's the one.

No, seriously, she's the one.

It's an excellent project

and this girl rightfully belongs in it.

At that time, the owner of RTP

was a mathematician who'd become
a billionaire, Boris Berezovsky.

He bought an old palace
on Novokuznetskaya Street.

It was meant to be
the headquarters of his business

but Berezovsky
did something else with it,

something far more special.

Made it a club of sorts,
the LogoVaz Club.

It was very exclusive.

The crème de la crème of politics,
big business, show biz and crime.

So picture the scene:
the Caucasus, we're in Chechnya.

And I'm standing in front of a warlord

who has taken Russian officers hostage.

And it's no joke.

He's already beheaded one of them.

But it wasn't politics, it was business.
He wanted cash.

Right now.
I don't have cash on me.

I don't walk around with wads of cash.

But I notice him eyeing my watch.

A Patek Philippe Nautilus like this one.

So I say to him,

"You like my watch?

"Know how much it's worth?
More than your hostages."

And he says, "I know exactly what
it's worth: $800,000, used."

That floored me.
He knew the exact price.

Rustam was no fool.

He said,

"If you take the hostages home,

"the publicity you'll get on TV
is worth more than $800,000."

And he gave me this vacuous
soldier's stare. Zero bullshit.

"So you come out ahead. Is it a deal?"

I gave him my watch,
took the hostages home.

It was the opening story
on the evening news.

In those days my modest achievements
as a TV producer

got me the occasional invitation
to LogoVaz club.

Usually, Berezovsky would summon me
for an update on some project

or to suggest
I hire some random relative

or equally random mistress.

Come in.

- Vadya!
- Boris.

Our friend Vadya is a wizard.

With his help,

we pulverize our opponents.

You happy where you are?

I'm not sure I understand.

In this country you run the same risk,
dog in the fight or no.

I'll tell you my story,

you'll see what I mean.

So I was perfectly content
doing my own thing.

I'd built a smart, modern, clean business.

From what I hear
your business was more of a scam.

You resold stolen cars
right off the assembly line.

- I was doing what everyone was doing.
- Only worse.

You weren't choosy about your partners
and their methods. No offense.

Anyway.

One day this bastard tries to steal
my business out from under me.

What do you think he does?
Open a competing dealership?

Try to beat me fair and square,
like in the US or Europe?

No Boris, that's not what he did.

That son of a bitch
filled an old Opel with TNT,

parked it on my route home,

and as I passed,
he pushed a remote and boom...

no more Berezovsky.

At least that was the plan.

Unfortunately,
it didn't work out for him.

And I ended up
with my chauffeur's head in my arms.

I survived.

But that day I realized
that if you don't grab power,

power grabs you.

So I went to Switzerland
for two weeks to recover

and do you know what I did
when I got back to Moscow?

You learned to play tennis.

And it wasn't easy.
I hate the sport.

You hate all sports!

The old President, Boris Yeltsin,
was in decline.

He overdid it on the vodka, they say.

He had a sports club
built on Sparrow Hills

that looked out over Moscow.

He spent all his spare time
playing tennis there.

It was the only way to get near him.

Let's face it, Boris was finished.

Elections were coming,
his numbers were in the dumps.

His whole retinue of petty schemers
were at rock bottom.

They quickly understood
I was their only hope.

We hadn't lost yet.

Listen to me,

Boris Nikolayevich.

Russia still needs you.
Your courage and your...

integrity.

No one loves me anymore.

I saved democracy,

but democracy here means

that everyone has become poor.

Except for a few smart devils like you,

who've gotten filthy rich!

Well, if you give me

control of state TV,

I will give you an election campaign
like you've never seen.

You're in dire straits now,
but in 2 months you'll be on top.

This is how I took control of Channel 1.
RTP, as it's now called.

And for the record,

I kept my word.
I revived him in the polls.

What you did was sink his rivals.

A bunch of Communist nostalgics.
A cinch.

You defended your interests,
those of oligarchs.

True. So what?

- All part of the democratic process.
- Right!

When you have
a very loose notion of democracy.

Over the course of the rallies

the old man began to enjoy himself.

Problem was,

two weeks before the election
he had a heart attack.

That was a close call.

The very day he was supposed
to record his final speech to the nation.

Obviously we canceled everything.

But a few days later,
the rumors began to spread,

he had to show up.

Except his doctor
wouldn't let him leave his residence.

Too risky.
So we figured, to keep up appearances,

we'd bring the Kremlin furniture to him.

OK, flags.
Put the flags in the stands.

Put the national flag on the left.
Check the distance.

The President is on his way down.

Good morning, Boris Nikolayevich!

Come see what we've done.

A perfect copy of your Kremlin office.

No one will notice the difference.

Help him with the chair.

Russian citizens...

it's why...

the motherland...

Let's try again.

Misha, can you slow down the prompter?

Once again, please.

Russian citizens...

the 3rd of July

elections day...

you'll not...

only vote for Yeltsin...

This is not going to work.

Just make him move his lips

and we'll dub in bits
from his old speeches.

Yeltsin was reelected by a landslide.

And then he fell back into lethargy.

He had two more heart attacks.

For four years of his 2nd term,

Berezovsky was the real leader
of Russia.

The oligarchs raked in
everything they could.

That's how my old pal, Dmitry Sidorov,
bought himself a fossil fuel giant

for a mere 168 million.

It would go on to make him
3 billion a year.

Olya!

Berezovsky sensed the winds were turning.

The Russians were tired
and needed order.

They'd grown up in a motherland,
now all they had was a supermarket.

Our challenge was to come up
with a solution before someone else did.

So yes.

I have friends in the Kremlin.

And I lend a hand from time to time.

But the scenario has completely changed.

It's no longer a matter
of supporting the current regime.

We need to invent something new.

Something and someone.

The President won't make it
to the end of his term.

Someone to embody it, of course.
That's the easy part.

But what we need,

first, is a party
for everyone to rally around.

The Unity Party.

What do you think, Vadya?

I already have an emblem.

The bear.

Symbol of the Russian soul.

So, will you join us?

I don't know, Boris.
I like my job.

It's the same job.

I'm merely suggesting
that you graduate to the next level.

Stop making up stories,

start inventing reality.

With me.

LUBYANKA
HEADQUARTERS OF THE FSB

The head of the FSB
would make a good candidate.

The old geezer trusts him,

he's shown his mettle
at decisive moments

and he's a modest guy.

You'll like him.

Director Putin will see you now.

Come, sit.

Sit.

I know why you're here.

You're the best-informed man in Russia.

I've been thinking it over,
Boris Abramovich.

You see,

the Secret Service
has all the advantages of politics

without any of the drawbacks.

I'm at the center of the system.

I'm well positioned.
I hear, I see everything.

I can effectively intervene
to protect the President, his family.

I've done it before, I'll do it again.

You take me out of here,
put me in government,

they chew me up, spit me out
like every other Prime Minister

these past years,
these past months, right?

And you lose the most loyal guardian
of the State.

If we don't act quickly,

within a year there'll be no more
President or family to protect.

The first thing
the new head of the Kremlin will do

is replace you.

Why me?

I'm a civil servant.

Sure, I've given...

a couple of speeches in public,

but they were never earth-shattering.

The President steps into a room
and sniffs the air,

everyone's on his side in two minutes,
laughing, crying,

like chatting in his kitchen.

I'm not that man.
I'm not cut from that cloth.

If I may, Vladimir Vladimirovich,

that's exactly what this is about.

The President
has a one-of-a-kind personality.

His human qualities were essential
for moving our country

from the old Soviet Union
to today's Russia.

But he's all used up.

We need someone different.

A clean break.

If the President names you Prime Minister,
Vladimir Vladimirovich,

you will represent legitimate authority.

Russians need stability and security.

You're young, athletic, energetic.

Something about you says,

"I can handle
the full responsibility of command."

Your career in the secret services
guarantees you're trustworthy.

And being a man of few words
will work in your favor.

Not against you.

Russians are tired of carnival barkers.

And the campaign we have in mind

won't be the usual rallies
and empty promises.

We want to take the risk
of portraying you

as a different brand of politician.

Vladimir Vladimirovich,
I don't know much about politics

but I do know a few things
about communication.

There are two dimensions in a society.

The horizontal axis
that is daily life

and the vertical axis,
which is authority.

The Soviet system was vertical

then all of a sudden
since the end of the Soviet period

it has become horizontal.

Too much horizontality
is synonymous with chaos.

Russians dream of verticality.

A psychoanalyst would say

they're waiting for a leader
to obliterate the language of the mother

and impose the word of the father
once again.

Public opinion coalesces fast.

We only have a few months
to convince the Russian people

that you are the man of the hour.

And remember,
you won't be on your own.

I'll be there by your side
to help you and to advise you

whenever you need me.

It's in the bag.

He's no rocket scientist,
but for now he'll do just fine.

I nodded along and laughed with him.

But things were a bit more complicated
than Berezovsky seemed to grasp.

When he addressed him
with his own brand of chummy joviality,

I sensed a hint of annoyance
in Putin's gaze.

And then there was that flash of irony

when Boris promised to guide him
every step of the way.

It seemed the very idea
of being guided by this man

was wildly funny to the FSB chief.

Hurry up, Vadim Alexeyevich.

Vladimir Vladimirovich is waiting.

Good afternoon, sir.

Recommendations?

Today we have excellent sea scallops

with cauliflower mousseline...

A bowl of kasha.

- Two.
- Certainly, sir.

I have a lot of respect for Berezovsky.

I'm grateful

for his offer, but if...

I embark

on this...

journey,

I'll be relying on my own strengths.

Not someone else's.

The Russian president cannot

and must not

be subservient to anyone.

It's unthinkable to me.

Your analysis the other day
was very interesting.

But first we should clarify something.

If you accept my offer,

you'll be working exclusively for me,

Vadim Alexeyevich.

I've been thinking
about your concept of verticality.

It's potent.

But it cannot remain abstract.

We need a well-defined arena where we can
restore the verticality of power.

Otherwise we'll appear helpless,
like all politicians in this country.

Indeed, Vladimir Vladimirovich,

but we can't just snap our fingers.

There is always the unexpected.

Which is always a result of incompetence.

- We're at the mercy of circumstance.
- Circumstance?

It's staring us in the face.

Don't you see it?

The Islamic fundamentalists

are no longer content with just Chechnya.

They want Dagestan,

Ingushetia, Bashkortostan.

We let them have them,

in a few years there'll be nothing left
of the Russian Federation.

I would think twice
before getting involved in that mess.

These past few years

Chechnya has killed
more political careers in Moscow

than enemies on the battlefield.

None of them have put enough energy
into the issue.

Those politicians want a war

that dare not speak its name.

A humane war,

like the Americans do.

I'm talking about something else.

I'm not interested
in winning the Nobel Peace Prize.

What interests me

is restoring integrity
to the Russian Federation.

I won't comment on geopolitics.

That's not my field of expertise.

What I will say, however,

is that it's political suicide.

I think you're mistaken.

You've let Westerners persuade you
that an electoral campaign has to be

two teams of economists
discussing PowerPoint presentations.

In Russia,

power

is something else entirely.

That day, I didn't understand
precisely what Putin meant.

But I left the lunch with one certainty:

Berezovsky had just made
the biggest mistake of his life.

In the early days of August,

Boris Yeltsin chose a new Prime Minister,

unknown to most.

The choice of Vladimir Putin
was greeted with general skepticism.

He was the fifth head of government
Yeltsin had enthroned in under a year.

Our offices were
in the former House of Soviets,

dubbed the Russian White House.

A giant block of naphthalene
on the banks of the Moskva River.

A whole floor had been freed up
for new hires.

Putin knew there were only a few weeks
left to harness public opinion.

He had no time to lose.

Tell that son of a bitch
the Prime Minister wants results.

Doesn't matter how.

Sorry, but the media
doesn't set our agenda, politics does.

We're here to produce results,

not limp excuses.

I have the polls you requested.
You must crunch the numbers.

I'll meet you later.
I have to see Gusinsky first.

We're on the right track.

Dmitry Anatolyevich,
we shouldn't be on the right track,

we should already be there.

Where's Gusinsky?

Unfortunately he couldn't make it.

Are we not important enough for him?

He's abroad.

So who are you, his messengers?

We run the NTV network.

Please give Mr. Gusinsky
the following message:

The policies of the Russian Federation

are not to be decided
in the offices of NTV.

That never crossed Mr. Gusinsky's mind.

I watch Kukly,
your political puppet show.

Sometimes I find it funny.
I laugh, I do!

Unfortunately the Prime Minister
doesn't share your sense of humor.

He suspects Mr. Gusinsky
may have a bone to pick with him.

No way, never in a million years.

Shame he's not here
to explain that himself.

You represent
Prime Minister Vladimir Putin as a midget.

That's not correct...

A deformed dwarf
manipulated by oligarchs.

In the minds of the gagmen,
he's more of a child.

Yes, exactly.

And you see that as grounds for laughter,
an infantile gnome?

It's a satirical show.

The Prime Minister determines the line
between satire and insult,

especially during election season.

The PM has determined a line
that must not be crossed.

I believe Mr. Gusinsky
can guess where that line is.

If not, he'll find out at his own expense.

Good day!

Of course I was working 18-hour days.
Back-to-back meetings with the PM,

every single one of them involving
decisions of major historical importance.

The deeper I sank
into the routine of governing men,

the more the world seemed rife
with misunderstanding

and missed opportunities.

And that's
when the unexpected happened.

One autumn night, just after midnight,

a terrific rumbling
tore through the darkness of the capital.

On Guryanova Street
on the outskirts of Moscow,

hundreds of kilos of explosives

literally cut a 9-story
apartment complex in two.

Dozens of sleeping families
were swallowed up alive by the explosion.

Four days later,

a second explosion rocked the city
at 5 in the morning,

destroying another building
in the suburbs.

Over a hundred victims.

It was our September 11th.

Before that,
the Chechen War felt remote.

But when buildings started blowing up
in the Moscow suburbs,

Russians found themselves
with a war at their front door.

Of course,

you know what...

people say?

They say we were behind it.

By "we" I mean the FSB.

It isn't just a rumor.

There's serious evidence to back it up.

Frankly, I don't know.

If this is a bona fide secret,
thank God nobody shared it with me.

Why would we have done that?

We were certain to win.

To instill fear.

So the Russian people
would feel threatened by the Chechens.

To justify the second Chechen War.

Perfectly timed to warm public opinion

to a coming authoritarian regime.

I don't like public speaking.

Right now the people
need to hear your voice.

Here, on a state visit,
not from the Kremlin Palace.

Give them a sense of urgency.

I'm not an actor.

I'll give them a simple statement.

Word has it you've ordered
the bombing of Grozny Airport

in retaliation for the attacks.

Don't you think such actions

could aggravate the situation?

I'm tired of this kind of question.

We'll get the terrorists
wherever they're hiding.

If they're in an airport,
we'll strike the airport,

if they're in the shitter,
excuse my language,

but we'll get them in the shitter.

You have no idea
the impact that one sentence

had on the Russian people.

Finally, we were hearing
a voice of command and control.

Russians hadn't heard that
in the longest time.

Stalin's voice?

Not Yeltsin's in any case.

Or Gorbachev's.

That day, Putin became the Tzar.

THE POWER VERTICAL

Mr. Prime Minister,
we can't land at Gudermes,

visibility is too poor.

I planned to spend New Year's Eve
with our troops. Understand?

We must land!

No, we must land!

We need 150 meters of visibility.

We've got scarcely 100.
It's too dangerous.

We have troops stationed in Dagestan.

They're ready for inspection.
Could serve as an alternative.

If the Tzar wanted
to ring in the New Year in Chechnya,

well then, that's where we'd go.

At 1 a.m. we got into some jeeps
and headed for the mountain passes.

33rd division, Lieutenant Colonel Fedorov.

Welcome on the base, Mr. Putin.

Men, what you're doing is so important.

People believe in you.
I'm here to tell you that.

We're proud of you.
You're working hard.

I know what you and your men have done.
Very courageous.

I want you to know the Russian people

think of you

and are proud of you.

Happy New Year.

Wait, wait.

I would love to drink a toast
to the health of the wounded

and to wish

everyone present here
a happy new year,

but we have serious tasks ahead.

As you all know,

we're not only fighting for the honor
and dignity of our country,

we're fighting to prevent Russia
from disintegrating.

We can't afford one second of weakness,
not one second.

If we let our guard down,

all those who died,

died in vain.

So I suggest we put our glasses down.

We will toast, but... later.

I am leaving...

Leaving before the end of my term.

I understand that it is necessary.

Russia must enter

a new millennium
with new political leaders,

and I leave you all
in the trusted hands

of Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin.

The Yeltsin era is over.

Your friend Berezovsky has to know

I'm fed up with his bullshit memos.

I thought he was our friend.

Boris is a very smart man.

But his intelligence is no safeguard
for his stupidity.

Better bring him in.

Boris Abramovich.

Come.

Sit.

I've read your messages,

some of your memos.

You've always offered good advice.
I'm all ears.

Volodya, you made me wait an hour...

You asked for this meeting.

Here we are.

Go ahead.

Well, I'll be brief.

We're becoming too negative, Volodya.

Too dark.
We're at war, fine, we get it.

You're a great general,

you'll lead us all to victory,
but let's make an effort.

Give these poor Russians
a little bit of hope, too.

Otherwise rather than voting for you,
they'll jump out the window.

Rallies and concerts,

TV commercials, posters!

We need to make a splash.

Who'll pay for that?

I will, of course!

I heard you passed up

free public TV airtime?

That's correct.

It's our choice. Our strategy.

We'll see if the facts prove us right.

If you keep this up,
people will forget you're a candidate.

Don't be ridiculous, Boris.

I've been interim President for 3 months.
We're the government.

Our campaign is the news,
what we're doing,

the history we're making.

Nobody believes advertising anymore.

Facts are the only advertising
we're interested in.

The Tzar had reinstated
the Power Vertical

and voters were grateful to him for it.

He was elected President of
the Russian Federation with no runoff.

Berezovsky stopped bombarding the Kremlin
with unanswered phone calls.

Naturally, his media mocked
the pompous inauguration ceremony.

But Boris was waiting
for something else:

a chance to show the Tzar
who was really in charge.

SOCHI
SUMMER RESIDENCE OF RUSSIAN PRESIDENTS

- More?
- Yes.

I remember, you like yours...

medium rare.

Thank you for remembering.

Sir...

On August 12, 2000, the Kursk,

one of the world's
largest nuclear submarines,

sank during a training exercise
in the Barents Sea.

There were a hundred crewmen aboard.

Some of them died instantly.

Others were trapped
at the bottom of the sea.

This was the opportunity
Berezovsky had been waiting for.

We rented a helicopter to keep an eye
on the area where the sub sank.

- Has it been identified?
- Yes.

The information just dropped,
but no rescue team is on site.

Revolting,
that's what we have to expose.

Russian experts
won't go on the record.

- Find them abroad.
- We have a crew in Germany.

They say NATO forces offered their help,

but the Russian navy turned it down.

They're spy ships.

Russia can't humiliate herself
in front of them.

Can't humiliate herself
in front of them?

Go find the families,
ask them what they think!

- That's what we're doing.
- TV's about emotion.

The emotion's with the families.
Can you imagine their anguish?

Their loved ones may still be alive,
trapped inside a watertight container,

waiting for a rescue
that may never come!

How long will this last?

Our sons are paid 50 dollars a month,

and now they're locked in this tin can!

What good did it do me to raise my son?
Do you have children?

Who can understand us?

You people in power
never understand anything!

You only think about getting fat!

Our sailors have nothing to live on
and you let them die.

The situation was out of control.

I rushed to Sochi.

I couldn't understand
why Putin wasn't on the ground.

What would you have me do?

They're all dead, it's obvious.

We can't say it until we reach them.

According to all the experts,
there are survivors on board.

That's a fact.
We have to save them.

Whether they're dead or alive,
Berezovsky's circus is about hurting me.

Everyone is waiting for you to act.

I act when I decide the time is right.

Your composure has enhanced
your popularity thus far,

but it's becoming a liability.

The Russian people are suffering
and you're not with them.

This is a serious matter.

Since the authorities
are still refusing to budge,

RTP has created a fund
for the families of the sailors.

Call this number to support...

Do you realize?

They destroyed the State,
pillaged it for ten years,

bankrupted our army,
now they're raising money!

Fucking bastards!

Why don't they sell

their fucking chalets in Saint-Moritz!

Get that son of a bitch on the phone.

Do you realize what you're doing?

Your network
is giving round-the-clock airtime

to whores
pretending to be sailors' wives.

What are you talking about?
You out of your mind?

They're not whores,
they're the real wives!

You're State television, Boris,

and you're conspiring
against the Presidency!

What does that mean?

What does this mean, exactly?
I'm asking you a question!

I have a question for you,
Vladimir Vladimirovich.

What the hell are you doing
vacationing on the Black Sea?

Shouldn't you be in Murmansk
running operations?

Where are you?

Fucking laughing! Where are you?

Côte d'Azur, right?
What are you doing there?

C'mon!

I'm not the President,
nobody gives a damn where I am!

Plus, it so happens I am in Moscow!

Just think about it, Volodya.

If you go and console the sailors' wives,

your ratings will go through the roof.

And our network
will put its full firepower behind you.

And you know that's substantial.

Well?

We're going back to Moscow.
Set up that fucking meeting.

We have no choice.

And once this mess is behind us,

we'll take care of your friend Boris.

How could Boris
have deluded himself into thinking

he'd tolerate a relationship of equals

with one of his subjects?

All the oligarchs got it wrong.

When they decided to bet on Putin, they...

thought they were changing straw men
and not the whole system.

Taking over Berezovsky's network
was a piece of cake.

He wasn't the majority shareholder.
He only had 49%.

All it took was a call to the CEO of RTP

and he was now to take his orders
from the Kremlin.

He doesn't mean you any harm.
He respects you.

You stay safely in Moscow,
do whatever business you like.

But you must stay out of politics
once and for all.

Politics is his business.

Putin is the pure product of the KGB.

Its fiercest species.

He will put Russia in shackles.

And all we've done in the last 10 years
to turn it into a normal country

will be swept away.

Even you, Vadya.

You're creating a regime
worse than the Soviet Union.

At least back then,

the Party could muzzle
the KGB guard dogs.

But now the Party no longer exists.

The FSB is worse than the KGB.

Who's gonna stop them, you?

Certainly not.
You've become one of them.

They're vicious animals.

They come from the void.

They've cleared their path
with a sledgehammer.

No rules, no limits.

They're hungry.
It's brutish hunger.

They were humiliated.

They're descended
from centuries of humiliation.

They have to grab everything right away.

Because they know the tables will turn.

Maybe, Boris.

I don't know.

What I do know is that Russia
has always been forged this way.

With an axe.

UNITED NATIONS HQ
NEW YORK

Cautiously,
Berezovsky chose exile in London.

Meanwhile,
we were taking off for New York.

When you reach the top,

politics propels you onto
the world stage with no preparation.

The world's greats become your peers.

But they're a closed circle.

They've had time to get acquainted,
learn the ground rules.

However much you may be feared
and respected in your own country,

here,
you're just the new kid on the block.

The Waldorf Astoria is the best hotel.

Protocol has booked us a whole floor.
20 rooms.

Penthouse?

No.

Why not?

Top 3 floors are booked by the year
for the Saudis.

Won't take more than an hour.

15 minutes to the TV studio,
half-hour interview, 15 minutes back.

It's a good hit for us.

What's this?

It's the freeze.

The US President's motorcade
is on the move.

No one else can budge.

How long does it last?

Depends.

So what's it like being a spy?

Not very different
from being a journalist.

Your job is to gather information,
to synthesize it.

You show it to the decision makers
who can use that information.

Did you enjoy it?

Working in intelligence
allowed me to broaden my vision.

To acquire certain skills.

Skills of management,
focusing on priorities.

A learning experience.

The Kursk tragedy shook everyone.

Can you tell me what happened?

What happened to the submarine?

It sank.

If fucking Martians

were to seize power in Moscow,

the US would immediately see them
as a legitimate government,

just as long
as they didn't go near their interests

and deferred to them as the big boss.

The trouble is,
they think they won the Cold War,

but the Soviet Union

didn't lose it.

The Cold War ended because
we freed ourselves from a dictatorship,

which is not the same thing.

We dismantled the Warsaw Pact.

We offered them an olive branch.

Not surrender.

They should bear that in mind.

Just once in a while.

Limonov respects you.

I thought he despised me.

He's a visionary.

Everyone has a place in his party.

So what do you think
of my revolutionary avant-garde?

The Kremlin isn't exactly
quaking in its boots.

The Kremlin is very wrong.
Sit down.

So, how was the trip?

You know what it's like over there.

Always fairly amusing I guess.

New York can be fun,
as long as you avoid the Americans.

Which one do you prefer, Eduard?

This one!

Have you ever been
to one of their posh dinners?

All the men have been
to Princeton or Yale.

They all have children
who go to the same schools.

At least when I was younger

I could screw one of their
buxom blonde wives in the bathroom.

The discreet charm of the bourgeoisie.
It's the same everywhere.

Vadya, America has destroyed
the bourgeoisie.

The bourgeoisie had values.

These people only believe in numbers.

They're boring as hell.

Imperialism isn't the problem,

American culture is.

You were attracted to it, until
it swallowed you up and spat you out.

Watching Yeltsin

turn Russia into a cheap version
of the American nursing home

prompted me to form
the National Bolshevik Party.

And you know why I called it that?

To infuriate you!

Nazbol!

We bring together former Stalinists,

homosexuals and punks,

anarchists, skinheads,

religious fanatics

from Buddhist to Orthodox!

The hardest part is keeping them
from smashing each other's heads in.

You can be sure
they will sooner or later.

You don't understand.

These young people want to escape
the boredom of ordinary life.

They crave heroics.

It would be a shame to waste that.

May I bum a cigarette, Sergei?

Yes.

I need a walk.

I'd always seen Eduard Limonov
as a brilliant sociopath

with no political acumen whatsoever.

So I wasn't yet ready to recognize
that he was right.

But for the first time
I saw his reasoning for what it was.

Not the result of rigorous analysis

but far more than casual intuition.

END OF THE OLIGARCHS

Come in.

Vladimir Vladimirovich,

Vadim Alexeyevich is here to see you.

You may come in.

How are my ratings?
Elections are coming, Vadya.

No need to worry.

Around 60%.
Closest candidate gets no more than 12%.

I'm not interested in them,
they're insignificant.

One Russian is more popular than I am.

Stalin.

I believe he's been dead
for some time.

You intellectuals insist on denouncing
the horrors of the Gulag.

You think Stalin was popular
in spite of the killings. Wrong.

Stalin was popular
because of the killings,

because he knew how to handle
a thief, a traitor.

Know what Stalin did when
the Soviet-run trains started to derail?

No, I don't.

He had the head of the railway
shot for sabotage.

It didn't solve the problem,
possibly aggravated it.

But it allowed an outlet for fury.

Fury is a structural given.

No point fighting it,
it must be managed.

- You want to feed the fury.
- Yes.

People want a head to roll.

Whose?

The most arrogant oligarch.

Dmitry Sidorov.

Your former friend.

I'm told he ran off with your woman.

Must make you happy.

Didn't last long.
Let bygones be bygones.

He's planning to sell a majority share
of his fossil fuel empire

to Exxon Mobil.

Been at it long enough.

He'll make himself
20 billion dollars richer

by putting our fossil fuel giant
in the hands of American investors.

You could say a Russian company
will acquire international status.

I won't say that, it isn't true.

He's gathered a huge war chest
to run against me in the 2007 election.

How do you know?

How do you think?
We tapped his phone.

"Nonentity."

That's what he calls me
when he speaks to his friends in D.C.

"A nonentity."

He explains that when elected,
he'll change the constitution

and dismantle the nuclear arsenal.

"Nonentity!"

"Nonentity!"

This man...

has fed me more mud than I can swallow.

So I've ordered

Dmitry Sidorov be arrested

tomorrow at dawn.

He's heading to Siberia,
has to stop to refuel.

That's where we'll take him.

Cameramen, photographers,
they'll all be on site.

Your job
is to orchestrate it for the media.

OK...

This is it.

Here we are.

The news went all around the world.

The immediate effect was to remind people
money can't protect you from everything.

Of course for you Westerners,
this is totally taboo.

A politician arrested, why not?

But a billionaire? Unthinkable.

Your society
was founded on the principle

that there is no power
greater than money.

My job was to fit Dmitry's fall from grace
into a successful TV format.

This wasn't difficult.

The masses have always loved
to watch a powerful man's head roll.

There's no bloodier dictator
than the people.

Once Sidorov was arrested,

Putin's reelection was a mere formality.

From that point forward,

the Russian government began
undergoing a profound change.

The power struggle shifted
from the public stage

to the Tzar's inner circle.

The State once again depended
on court intrigue.

There are those
with an office close to the Tzar's

and those with a direct line to him.

Those who accompany him
on overseas missions,

and those who vacation with him
in Sochi.

No detail can be overlooked,
no matter how trivial.

From seating plans at gala dinners,

to waiting times
in the President's antechamber.

Nothing escapes a courtier's attention.

I adapted to the new regime
as I adapt to everything.

Some were far better at it than I was.

Like Igor Sechin.

Especially Igor Sechin.

Like many men of his kind

he drew his strength
from being underestimated.

When the period of the courtiers came,
he was in his element.

Indeed, he was head courtier.

With Dmitri Sidorov in prison,

the problem was what to do
with his company.

Sechin gobbled it up in a single bite.

Judicial receivership,
public auction with just one participant,

and it ends up in the hands
of a financial group so opaque

it doesn't even have a phone number.

Well, did you get what you want?

Got what the Tzar wanted.

He wanted Dmitry's business for himself?

What he wants
is to destroy the oligarchs.

And replace them
with siloviki like yourself?

Russia has always needed strongmen.

Soldiers, spies, police.

That's how I got where I am.

And why you take what you want.
Well done.

If that's how you wish to put it,
Vadim Alexeyevich.

Watch out.

He's back from the G20 in Berlin.
Tired, bad-tempered.

It's always the same,
they treat me like I'm...

the president of Finland.

They better watch out.
They need to be very careful.

The ability to inspire fear
is a poor man's sole weapon

when he's defending his dignity.
I learned that on the street.

Trouble is, Mr. President,
by spooking our enemies

we're in danger
of spooking the markets too.

We can't afford that.

The markets never ruled Russia, Vadya.

Maybe once.

Maybe once under Yeltsin.

What was the result then?
Law of the jungle.

We need...

to take control.

Take control of all the wealth
of the country.

The forests, the mines, the gas,
and the petrol.

We'll see to it
that it serves the interests

and the glory of the Russian people.

Like with Dmitry.

What about Dmitry?

Well, the oil monopolies

went directly
from Sidorov's pocket to Sechin's.

What's that got to do with the interest
and glory of the Russian people?

Lovely weather,
you should have a dip before you leave.

Thanks, another time.

You prefer Sochi?

You know why I'm here.

I'd like to hear you say it.

- There's a rumor...
- You didn't come about a rumor.

We have very reliable intel

that you're one of
the Ukrainian protesters' main supporters.

Since you know...

Putin is spitting mad.

I was worried,

but in fact
you come bearing good news.

Ukraine has been an integral part
of Russian territory for centuries.

- You genuinely believe that?
- I'm just the messenger!

Know what he said?

"Go and see that fucker!

"Tell him he's gone too far

"and try to reason with him."

- Know what his problem is?
- I know what you think it is.

That he's not your regular politician,
that he's KGB, a spy.

He's not a spy.

A spy's job is to gather accurate intel,
but he's a counterspy.

A counterspy's job is to be paranoid,

to see conspiracies everywhere,

and to invent them if necessary.

You've been in exile too long.

You've lost touch.

As if the poor Ukrainians
don't have every reason to revolt

against a pro-Russian government.

You know who the main supporters
of the Ukrainian protesters are?

The CIA, the US State Department,

major American foundations,

George Soros and you,

to the tune of 30 million dollars!

Or so I've heard.

Well, that's politics, Vadya.

Do you know what else it is?

It's democracy.

You forgot the meaning
of that word long ago.

Remember, I'm not here by choice.

I'm living in exile here, Vadya.

If I even set foot in Russia,
I'll end up in Siberia like Sidorov.

Boris,

despite our differences,
the Tzar is still your friend.

You were permitted
to sell your Russian assets.

1.3 billion, correct?

Far less than they were worth.

What if I keep on at it?

You gonna send hit men for me?

Look.

I've got some of my own.

And they're better than yours.

Because I pay them ten times more.

I didn't come here to threaten you.

I understand your resentment.

But you can't turn against your country.

Putin's Russia isn't my country.

In spite of all our flaws,
we managed to build a free country

where you could do what you want,
say what you want

for the first time in Russian history.

And you have wrecked all that
in just a few years.

You turned Russia back into
what it always was...

a prison the size of a country.

Just like in the Soviet times.

Hello.

Is this your boat?

Nothing is ever mine.

At least not in the way you mean.

Oligarch money?

Are you afraid?

Afraid your masters will find out?

Masters?

From what I hear,

you're in the service to power now.

I suppose so.

You don't like
Vladimir Vladimirovich very much.

No, you're right.

I don't like power.

I like it even less
when you pretend it's modern art.

Sorry Vadya, but I find you despicable.

Despicable?

That's a bit harsh.

You've earned it.

You dodged my question.

Are we being bankrolled
by oligarchs as we speak?

This boat belongs to
a businessman from Portland.

He invented some software
when he was 24,

was a multi-millionaire by 26

and sold his company
to Microsoft by 28.

Been bored stiff ever since.

He'd like to have another idea
in his lifetime but it's slow in coming.

You sleeping with him?

Absolutely not.

When I have an idea
of a line of jewelry,

he funds it.

Sometimes he makes a bit of money.

I mean,
clearly chump change to him.

He lends you his boat
when you fancy it?

Yes.

When I'm bored of this world,
which is often,

I take refuge here.

A gilded cage.

Your comfort zone.

I loved Dmitry.

We had fun for a few months.

I loved the crazy wind that was blowing.

Then you got rid of him too.

I wasn't cruel.

Not that time.

We grew apart.

Dmitry got interested in oil.

That didn't bring him much luck.

But for a few years
I preferred Los Angeles

to anywhere else.

Was Hollywood up to your standards?

Hollywood!

I stayed away from Hollywood.
It's like Moscow.

Only power relationships count,
the rest is insignificant.

I liked the desert,

I liked the ocean waves,

driving along the Pacific Coast Highway...

and when I felt like going to Japan,
I went to Japan.

This is the prettiest cove.

Your plane awaits.

Tonight I'll be in Moscow.

How miserable.

ORANGE REVOLUTION

MAIDAN INDEPENDANCE SQUARE
UKRAINE 2004

The following autumn, as expected,

the situation in Ukraine worsened.

The protesters refused
to accept the election results.

Hundreds of thousands of them
occupied the Maidan,

Kiev's central square,
with songs, orange ribbons,

multicolored tents
and pro-Western slogans.

Don't disperse!

Stay on the Maidan!

Hundreds of thousands of Ukrainians
are joining us!

Suddenly, international observers

came out of the woodwork
to dispute the results of the election

which were won by
pro-Russian candidate Yanukovych.

Those elections were notoriously rigged.
I happened to be there.

Really?

There'd just been a vote in Iraq

with American soldiers
controlling polling stations,

and everyone thought that was fine.
But not in Ukraine.

No, in Ukraine
there had to be another vote,

because the result wasn't right.

They called that farce
the Orange Revolution,

and the previous year in Georgia
it was the Rose Revolution.

Another poetic revolution,
all pretty girls and lofty ideals.

Yet another stooge of the Americans
is catapulted to power.

Do you seriously believe
it takes a CIA conspiracy

to make Ukrainians
want to flee Russia's orbit

in favor of the European Union?

What people do you mean?

Do you really think everyone
finds your Europe so attractive?

We don't need a crystal ball
to see that Russia's turn is coming.

The next lovely color-coded revolution
will be in Moscow.

The future president of Russia
will have a degree from Yale.

That process seemed inevitable.

The young people were fed up with us,
and the Americans

were making the most of that rebellion.

We'd have to be stronger than them
to survive.

Now the old methods
had outlived their usefulness,

locking up agitators,
expelling diplomats...

If we were in a bad mood that day,
eliminating opponents.

I don't believe in any of that.

So I took a chance
and tried a different tack.

The President has been informed
of your arrival. He sends his greetings.

Alexander Sergeyevich,

I've been following you
and your Night Wolves for a few years.

I'm impressed.

You take those lost souls and...

give them a home,
a sense of discipline.

Our group

gives them two things they lacked:

fraternity and strength.

You aren't just a biker gang,
you're true Russian patriots.

We have values.

Russian values.

Those of our Holy Mother,
the Orthodox Church.

I understand, Alexander Sergeyevich,
and so does the President.

Wolves are not merely predators,

they're also
the guardians of the forest.

Did you see what happened
in Ukraine?

Yes. Revolution.

A coup.

Do you know who took power?

- The Americans.
- Spot on!

They set up a youth organization,
paid for free concerts in Maidan Square.

I bet even the orange ribbon
was thought up by an adman.

Everything is geared to the young

because their energy is the most
precious commodity out there.

Their frustration,
their desire to change the world.

Young people need a cause.

And an enemy.

We need to find them
a cause and an enemy

before they choose those things
for themselves.

Or worse, the Americans choose for them.

Except we can't do that.

Look around you, Alexander,

all we have here
are bureaucrats in suits.

We're the adults,

we're in power.
We're their true enemy.

You're younger than me, I believe.

You've taken a different path.

You embody freedom and adventure.
Your vitality is undimmed.

Young people can feel that.

The Tzar is with you.
He's your brother.

He's no bureaucrat.

He likes speed, he does judo, he hunts.

He is of the race of conquerors.

Do you think he'd join
one of our rallies?

Of course.

The Night Wolves will be honored.

We'll hold a rally
for all the young patriots.

We'll kick off the struggle
against our true foe:

the decadent West and its false values.

Maidan, but in reverse.

Exactly.

Russia must become a place

where people can vent their rage
against the world

while remaining
faithful servants to the Tzar.

Basically,

you want to make revolution impossible.

Let's just say
we want to remove the need for one.

Without a drop of vodka,

Zaldostanov left the Kremlin intoxicated.

Little did he know my next meeting
was with the intriguing spokesperson

of an Orthodox renaissance movement...

Followed by the head of a group
of strikingly crusty young communists...

And the leader
of the Spartak supporters.

I recruited them all:

bikers and hooligans,

anarchists and skinheads,
communists and religious fanatics,

from the far right to the far left
and beyond.

After what happened in Ukraine,

we could no longer leave
the forces of fury unchecked.

Monopolizing power
was no longer enough,

we needed to monopolize subversion.

So who didn't I bring on board?

The technocrats responsible
for the disasters of the '90s,

the remaining oligarchs,

the politically correct banner-wavers.

The vegans...

Actually,

I needed those characters
in the opposition.

They were my best players.

Virgin Mary, Mother of God

Banish Putin, banish Putin!

Black robes brag, gold epaulettes

All parishioners genuflect!

Freedom's ghost has gone to heaven

Gay Pride's chained and in detention!

When Pussy Riot marched
into the Cathedral of Christ the Savior

yelling obscenities
against Putin and Patriarch Kirill,

we went up five points
in the opinion polls.

I thought they were heroic, personally.

They go about it the wrong way.

They score against their own team.
In politics, the sanction is swift.

The sanction cuts both ways.

It gave them worldwide recognition.

I'd love to come, especially if she's not.

Wait, I will be back.

Vadim!

Miss Chekhova.

I'm so flattered
you blessed us with your presence.

Don't mock me.
You know how influential your salon is.

Love,

society gossip
has never had much influence on power.

Thanks to you
I can rub shoulders with my opponents.

Indeed.

Garry Kasparov is here.

Chess champions
have never gone far in politics.

Vadim Baranov.

The Wizard of the Kremlin.

That's me.

I hear you've given
your doctrine a name.

Indeed. "Sovereign Democracy."

Russia needs to be a democracy
to benefit from globalization.

I see no traces of democracy
in our society, but do carry on.

Sovereignty is politically synonymous
with stability.

The more stable the regime,
the more competitive it is.

You know what people say
of your "sovereign democracy?"

That it is to democracy

what an electric chair is to a chair.

A bit of clever wit! At least it's funny.

You left the Côte d'Azur.

I never stay anywhere for long.

You know me,
it's not one of my attributes.

Are you living in Moscow?

When I'm here,
I stay at the Hotel Metropol.

I rent a suite year-round.

Are you inviting me?

Do you remember my dear friend,
the dog-man?

Of course.

Arseny.

He's an acclaimed director now.

He's putting on Monteverdi's Orfeo.

He's turning the whole theater
into a pagan basilica.

He calls it a space liturgy.

I was his high priestess in Paris.

You want to come?

Maybe that kind of provocation
no longer interests you.

I'm not sure I remember who you are.

I get lost in all your mazes.

It's a game.

Politics is really
the only game worth playing.

You've become cynical.

You've reached the limit
of your intelligence.

Cynical.

Possibly.

But not only.

I don't know.

I'll have to get back to you on it.

As for now, I'm not sure.

Come with me to the opera.

We'll dine at the Metropol.

I'm tired, Ksenia.

What of?

Using your black magic
in the service of power?

The other day I caught a glimpse
of myself in a mirror,

only it wasn't me.

It was my father.

My father's face imprinted on mine

despite my best efforts.

Let's go in.

I'm cold.

Last time you asked me a question.

Remember?

You told me you needed some time.

Now I can answer.

You aren't just cynical.

You have chosen

to espouse your times.

You could just as easily
have run away from them.

Do you like these times?

They're ours.

We're no better or worse than they are.

I don't think I'm kidding myself.
I embody the worst of them.

You think you're gonna have
to answer for them one day.

Do you believe in the future?

I don't.

The future doesn't give a shit about us.

"Our wound is raw
beneath the yoke of these times.

"See,

"behind the forest we walk,

"trembling,

"how a castle already lit

"in the evening awaits."

Rilke.

I'd forgotten.

I've never been fascinated
by St. Petersburg.

It's a museum city, stuck in the past.

The Tzar, on the other hand,
can only fully relax there

with his oldest, truest friends:

a motley crew of former FSB agents,
black belt judokas

and real-life thugs
who have hit the big time.

They, it must be said,
were straight out of Richard III.

In just a few years,
the shady provincial dealers

had amassed wealth worthy of Gulf emirs.

Remarkable!

Delightful.

OK, guys.

Our new chef's

specialty is truffle risotto.

Let me know if I should keep him
or send him back to Italy.

Bon appétit.

Genia, you let us down.

You serve us truffle risotto,
but where is the arugula?

Shall I remind you
that our ice hockey team

finished the last championship
in sixth place?

We moved up seven spots in the ranking

and overtook Dynamo Moscow.

Wait till next year,

you will see!

Well then,
you'll have your arugula next year.

You can't find decent arugula
in Russia.

But I've just bought an estate
by the Black Sea in order to grow it.

It will be magnificent,
but there's a wait.

Keep the chef!

He knows what he's doing.

His flight home
to Pisa was already booked...

on Ryanair!

Yevgeny clearly has high standards.

But his talent goes beyond food.
It touches on geopolitics.

Even some subjects
we've been discussing lately.

It would be good
if you two had a word, Vadya.

I didn't know Prigozhin well.
Except as a restaurateur.

But I did know Putin
had been shepherding his ascent

with unwavering benevolence.

A 5-minute flight.

Shortly after taking off

we began maneuvers
to land on Kamenny Island,

where the Tzar's close friends
lived in the grandest palaces

of the imperial aristocracy.

I'm not an intellectual like you,
but life has taught me a few lessons.

And not only in jail!

I don't doubt that.

Do you know how I started out?

My partners and I
obtained Saint Petersburg's

first-ever casino license.

Or the Tzar gave it to you,
when he was deputy mayor there?

Know what a casino is?

A monument to human irrationality.

Why the hell throw away your money
when all the odds are against you?

When you bet on human irrationality,
you always win.

Sure.

Sure. Take an average guy.

As long as he's comfortable,

has a safe job,
can take family holidays at the seaside,

has a retirement plan...

he stays put.

But if things don't look so good...

If he loses his job, his house,

if the future is less certain...

will he play it safe?

Hardly!

He'll prefer risk
to a hopeless status quo.

Chaos becomes
more attractive than order.

Westerners see China, India,
thank God, Russia,

making great strides
while they're stalling.

And they're willing to make
the most unreasonable bets.

Our job is to encourage them.

The Internet.

It's the battleground of modern warfare.

I built the tool.

Now the Tzar wants you to take over.

"Internet Research Agency."
I thought up the name.

Sounds good, right? What do you think?

Anton!

Our managing editor.

He has a PhD
in international relations

and speaks every language
you can think of.

Pleased to meet you, Anton.

Tell him what you guys are doing here.

Influence. Information.

The Russian point of view on the West,
for Westerners.

They're convinced their media
and elites lie about everything,

so they'll buy alternative versions.

The message we're sending is that
we tell the truth.

Russia tells the truth.

Like Russia Today.

Except that we work in social media,
not TV.

Shall we get some coffee?

We have a nice little break area.
Sofas, houseplants.

And ping pong tables.

You go on. We'll catch up with you.

Yevgeny, you'll...

have to explain
because I don't quite get it.

Something wrong?

Can we talk?

Sure.

I thought our goal was to affect mindsets
in Europe and the States.

Get into people's heads.

And now you bring me Anton?

- He's the best.
- That's exactly the problem.

Don't you realize that Westerners
aren't interested in politics anymore?

If we want to screw them over, we should
talk about anything but politics.

We don't need Anton.

- Who do we need?
- We need idiots.

Highly addictive ones.

Cyber-dependent otakus,

beauty-advice bimbos,
YouTube conspiracy theorists...

Anything that generates clicks.

But we have to get our message
through at some point.

Who do you think we are?

The Komintern?

I regret to inform you
that the Soviet Union is gone.

No more party line,
no message to get across either, Yevgeny.

Just wire.

Come on, let's go.
We're wasting our time here.

What wire do you mean?

How do you break a wire?

You twist it one way,
and then the other.

That's what we're going to do, Yevgeny.

And how do you do that?

Build your network
and see who takes the bait.

They'll all have an obsession.
Which? The clicks will show us.

One will be an anti-vaxxer,
another will be pro-life or pro-choice.

It doesn't matter.
We won't convert anyone.

We just need them all
to have something that drives them nuts

and someone who enrages them.

It's infallible.

No preferences, no arguments.

Just wire.

We twist it one way
and then the other until it breaks.

I got it. Wire.

But everything is traceable
on the Internet,

and sooner or later we'll get caught.

Yes, we will.
And that's what we're after.

Serving our allies is predictable.
But how will they react

when they realize we're also supporting
our own opponents?

They'll think we're fools.

They'll go insane!
Lose their bearings.

All they'll know is that
we've gotten into their heads

and are playing with
their neural circuits as we please.

The Americans wrote the algorithm.

We'll use it too,

only better than them.

Anyone accusing us of plotting
against democracy will be an ally.

They'll build the myth
that we're all-powerful.

It'll be the greatest of all secrets
because everyone will know it:

the Russians are controlling
the modern world.

They are its masters.

That's the interesting thing
about politics, Yevgeny.

Anything that makes you seem strong

actually increases that strength.

LONDON
2013

Borya.

Vadya.

Do you come bearing a message?

Sorry Borya, no message.

So, to what do I owe this?

Purely pleasure.

You're in London to see
the British Olympic Association?

You're well informed, as ever.

The Sochi Olympics seem to be
all the Tzar cares about these days.

The President was kind enough to let me
supervise the opening ceremony.

I hope you'll be giving out medals
to the best political assassination.

I don't know, Boris.

The main thing is
for Russia to come out on top.

I'm not worried.

You'll find...

the worst possible solution.

You always do.

Well, you may not
have a message for me, but...

I have one for him.

Come on, there's no polonium in it.

It's a letter to the Tzar.
I wrote it from the heart.

You can read it if you want to.

"I beg you to grant me
your forgiveness as a Christian..."

Are you serious?

I'm appealing to his faith,
and I'm offering my services.

"Based on the experience I've gained..."

Listen, honestly, no way!

Times have changed.

You're not in the running anymore.
Sorry if I'm being cruel.

I'm appealing to his humanity.

Who are you kidding?

"The hardship of exile?"

"The passage of time..."

"Death drawing near." I get it.

But I don't think it'll make him blink.

The comfort of spending my final days
in our motherland.

You don't think he'll understand that?

I have to go now.

Just give him the letter, anyway.

I think it might cut it.

I genuinely do.

I wish I could've told him
it would work.

That the Tzar would be moved

and we'd all sit together
at the Olympics in the VIP box seats.

I was fond of him.

He wasn't a saint,
but there was a childlike joy about him.

Ever since the Tzar
had banished his kind,

all that was left were strongmen
and their grim determination.

Worst of all,
I'd played a part in making it happen.

So...

Did it go well?

How could it possibly?

He helped you.
You could give him a hand.

Boris sees
the Sochi Olympics approaching.

There's still plenty of money
to be made,

even if everyone's already
lined their pockets.

Present company included.

Do you like those?

They're the main costumes
for the Opening Ceremony.

Most importantly,

does the British Olympic Association
like them?

Who cares?

They've already had to swallow a Winter
Olympics at a balmy seaside resort.

Totally devoid
of athletic infrastructure.

Have you seen the others?

No. Not really, no.

Look. Each island represents
a period in our history.

They're animatronic
and float in midair.

Our entire literary history
will go marching by.

All the domes of Saint Basil's
will fly away.

And then... Swan Lake.

Like it?

Vadya, that Russia doesn't exist.

At least not anymore.

But they're the ones
who inspired us back then.

It's too late now.

You know that.

You won't save your soul.

The ceremony is just a mask
for the dictatorship,

and the rest...

is just empty pretext.

I see through you.

It doesn't mean I don't love you.

But I'm not gonna be
your partner in crime.

- Can I offer a drink?
- Champagne, please.

Same. Thanks.

The Tzar is...

going to free our old friend Dmitry.

Are you sure? It isn't the first time
you've told me that.

He'll do it
two weeks before the Games start.

Western media will have a field day.

That's the idea.

You never asked me what I did today.

Not shopping...

that's not like you.

Something edgier.

Drop the sarcasm, will you?

I was trying to guess.

I went to the gynecologist.

I'm pregnant.

You look...

I'm a little shocked, yes.

Actually, I'm blown away.

I have no words.

WAR IN CRIMEA

According to early police reports

Boris Berezovsky's death
is consistent with hanging.

Berezovsky was found dead last night
in his Ascot residence.

Pathologists have found
no signs of a struggle.

Access has been closed
until the results of the tests

for chemical, biological
and nuclear agents.

It had to end this way.

Exile was too painful for him.

I'll miss him.

He painted an appalling image
of the opposition.

That was priceless for us.

This is the program
for the opening ceremony.

Updated according to your notes.

What is "Daft Punk"?

Electronic music.

No. 1 worldwide.

Two Frenchmen
who never remove their robot helmets.

This setup wasn't in the previous draft.

They won 5 Grammy awards last week.
We have to get up to date.

You've asked the police choir
to sing their song?

He's turning the whole ceremony
into a farce.

Explain your rationale to Igor.

Today it's what people want to dance to.
It's that simple.

It'll be ridiculous.

It'll be kitsch.

The entire world,
three billion spectators

are waiting for the greatest show
they've ever seen.

It can only be
the apotheosis of kitsch.

Kitsch is the only language
available to us

if we are to communicate
with the masses.

- We want to show them our Russia.
- They don't want to see your Russia.

Besides, you have nothing to show
and everything to hide.

We want to paint the picture
of an open Russia.

Sure-footed,
but also capable of smiling.

Today's world requires self-deprecation.

Not your balalaikas, Igor.

Do you understand what I'm saying
or is it gibberish to you?

What can you do?

Vadya...

is an acrobat.

An artist for politicians,
a politician for artists.

Be careful, Vadya.

Sooner or later
you might miss the trapeze.

Fall flat on your face.

I declare

the 22nd Winter Olympic Games

of Sochi open.

That was probably
the night I should have left.

Closed the book at that page.
It was a good ending for me.

The Ukrainian independence movement
seized on the Olympic ceasefire

to occupy Maidan Square again.

Two days before the end of the Games

they ousted
pro-Russian President Yanukovych,

who fled the same day.

The chaos that ensued
gave the Tzar

a golden opportunity
to invade Ukraine.

Russian snipers
killed over a hundred protesters.

They say you were in charge.

Who says?

Ukrainians.

From your own emails.

They say you have Ukrainian blood
on your hands.

The night before the closing ceremony

following his grand plan,

the Tzar decided to annex Crimea.

Crimea was part of Ukraine.

We weren't about to send regular troops
to invade a sovereign country.

You sent in Russian soldiers
who weren't wearing any national insignia.

"Little green men",
as your fellow journalists used to say.

When Zaldostanov and his Night Wolves
brought their circus to Crimea,

you were pulling the strings.

True.

I gave them a supporting part.

Supporting actors are important.

As long as they don't get
too carried away.

Have you seen our flags?

We're not using
the Federation ones anymore.

We have something else in mind.

We're no longer a federation, Vadya.
We're conquering new lands.

We have taken back Crimea
from the Ukrainians.

Soon all of Donbas will be Russian.

It's high time to take stock.

Take stock. Truly.

I'm a man of action.

We're here to support the Russian army.

Help them bring you victory.

Who said anything about victory?

What we want in Ukraine isn't conquest.

It's chaos.

The Ukrainians fooled themselves

into thinking their Orange Revolution
would get them into Europe,

but it's going to take them back
to the Middle Ages.

If you listen to Westerners' promises
it always ends like that.

They drop you at the first hurdle

and you're left alone,
your country in ruins.

That's the moral of the story.

You see, Alexander?
This war isn't fought in real life,

but in the people's minds,

on the TV news.

In Moscow, Kiev, Berlin.

You're actors in a play
that goes over your heads

and resonates far beyond these borders.

Either you agree to be a pawn in my game,
with the attendant advantages,

or you don't.

But remember, I can pull
the plug on you whenever I like.

And then things will get
a great deal more complicated for you,

your Wolves
and your little business ventures.

Which are flourishing,

from what I gather.

Can I bother you for a moment,
Vadim Alexeyevich?

Go right ahead.

How did your trip to Lugansk go?
Well?

I'm sure you've read
your services' reports.

We have news from the Americans.

What news?

Seems they've drawn up a blacklist

of people forbidden on their soil.

Your name is on it.

You'll have to forget
about going to New York for a while.

Their sanctions for the takeover
of Crimea. When do they start?

This Monday.

Good thing I stopped liking New York
a long time ago.

I've heard something else, too.

Go on.

It'll be official tomorrow.

Your name is also
on the Europeans' shortlist.

Paris,

London,

no more.

I'm told you'll miss Naples.

I won't bother you any longer,
Vadim Alexeyevich.

I'm sure you have arrangements to make.

And fast.

Lionia, have you heard?

Yes, tonight
or tomorrow at the latest.

No, no interviews, just a press release.

Can you take this down?

"I see this sanction as an Oscar

"awarded for my entire political career.

"It means I have served my country
honorably." Full stop.

No, that's all.

Thank you.

Ksenia,

pack your bags,
I'll be over in 15 minutes.

A few hours later
we landed in Stockholm

for our last European weekend.

I suppose it was bound to happen.

Only you could avoid it.

By resigning.

For instance.

Power is addictive.
It's a tough habit to kick.

Before, when you spouted
that kind of truism,

I could hear the irony.

Not anymore.

There was none.

The war in Ukraine is like the rest.

I never wanted it.
I even opposed it.

If you say so.

Indeed.

I do say so.

And I also say that once the Tzar
had made up his mind,

I did everything I could
to see it succeed.

Out of habit.

Out of pride.

And because I could.

With no compunction.

That's true.

That's how it's always been.

With the Moscow bombings
and the war in Chechnya.

With Dmitry's arrest
and Berezovsky's fall.

And now the murders on the Maidan.

I never wanted any of those things, yet...

each depended on my tireless labor.

And now you're tired.

Russia devoured my grandfather.

You met my father,
it devoured him too.

I don't know about me.
I don't know if I'll be saved.

Probably not.

In any case, it's too late.

But our child will be saved.

Ksenia?

Ksenia!

Going to Novo-Ogaryovo
was never much of a thrill.

The bleak, sporty mood pained me.

After I got back from Stockholm
I almost never set foot there again.

A prince's trust is not a privilege,
but a conviction.

I had played my part.
I was no longer of any use.

I let him get out of the habit
of seeing me.

That's all.

He gets up early
and breakfasts on fresh eggs

sent by Patriarch Kirill from his farm.

If there's an emergency,
he reads his confidential notes

and makes his wishes known.

Next,

he swims a kilometer.

His first visitors wait by the pool.

Ministers, advisors, CEOs.

The presidential motorcade only leaves
for the Kremlin in the early afternoon.

The streets are closed
half an hour prior.

Putin drives
from Novo-Ogaryovo to the Kremlin

through his frozen capital.

And his real day begins.

Sometimes only ending at dawn.

One man stays awake

while everyone else who matters
in Moscow shares his vigil.

Like in Stalin's day.

Who's that? Who's this?

Hi, my sweet one.

Can I play with Machka?

Of course you can.
You're not bothering us.

Where is she?

Where's that Machka?

- Is she under the table?
- No.

- She's not under the table?
- No.

- Is she under the cushion?
- No.

- Are you sure?
- No.

- Is she under the piano?
- No.

There she is.

All the happiness I've known
in the world is concentrated in her.

Daddy,

what do you think Machka would say
if she could talk?

I think she'd say,

"I'd have more fun with a real rabbit."

Daddy!

She'd say,

"I like you best of all, Anya,

"I only want to play with you."

Cats aren't my favorite thing.

But how much longer
will I be able to make her happy?

I never felt fear before Anya.

From the moment I first laid eyes on her,
I've been living in terror.

I realize my life is in her hands,
not the other way around.

My daughter doesn't count
the hours or the days.

I've always lived in the future.

And she has given me the present.

THE WIZARD OF THE KREMLIN

Subtitling: TransPerfect Media France