“This is not a historical film; this is about now, about our reality.” In Two Prosecutors, Sergei Loznitsa turns a stark lens on Stalinist terror, tracing the quiet unraveling of a young idealist caught in the machinery of repression.
In Two Prosecutors, Ukrainian filmmaker Sergei Loznitsa confronts the brutal legacy of Soviet totalitarianism, crafting a film that is as visually stark as it is morally devastating. Set in 1937, during the height of Stalin’s Great Purge, the story follows a young Soviet prosecutor, Alexander Kornev, whose quiet idealism leads him down a treacherous path of bureaucratic corridors, secret police files, and moral compromise.
The film is based on a short story by Georgy Demidov, a former gulag prisoner. Demidov’s work, long suppressed by the Soviet regime, was only published posthumously and has since become a powerful exploration of the catastrophic impact of totalitarianism.
In the opening, a pile of letters—desperate cries for help from prisoners accused under Stalin’s regime—are callously thrown into a fire, their contents never read. One letter, however, miraculously escapes the flames and lands on the desk of Kornev, played with haunting restraint by Aleksandr Kuznetsov. Newly appointed and filled with idealism, Kornev reads it and chooses to act, unaware of the system he is about to confront.
Two Prosecutors plays out like a chilling parable for our times, offering a meditation on truth, complicity, and the silent machinery of repression. With its muted color palette and emotional precision, the film provides only the cold clarity of a world where justice is the first casualty of ideology.
Visually, Two Prosecutors is intentionally suffocating. The framing is tight, closing in on the characters and enhancing their sense of isolation and helplessness. The color scheme is drained of life—shades of grey, brown, and beige dominate, offering no warmth or relief. This aesthetic, as Loznitsa notes, is “devoid of the colors of life.” It is not a mere visual choice, but an integral reflection of the film’s emotional and moral landscape. Offices, corridors, and prison cells become symbolic enclosures—visual metaphors for a system designed to suppress and contain.
At the heart of the film is Aleksandr Kuznetsov’s restrained and compelling portrayal of Kornev. He plays the young prosecutor not as someone who is tragically steadfast in his belief in justice. Loznitsa avoids sentimentality or overt dramatization, instead focusing on the quiet, unsettling reality of the characters’ struggles and the harsh system they are trapped in. The tension in Two Prosecutors does not stem from violence or outbursts, but from the chilling, methodical nature of the system at work. Sergei Loznitsa also features Alexander Filippenko in a pivotal role as Stepnyak, a prisoner from the special block, whose character and strength of will remain unbroken, yet he pays the ultimate price for it, nearly sacrificing his own life in the process.
The film’s title hints at a deeper symmetry, drawing a parallel between Kornev and Stepnyak, two officials navigating the same oppressive system but in opposite directions. It also reflects the duality of the film itself—two prisoners, two fates, and two forms of silence. As Loznitsa states, “This is not a historical film; this is about now, about our reality.” The film speaks directly to the erosion of institutions, the fragility of civil courage, and the enduring mechanisms of fear found in modern authoritarian regimes.
Emotionally, the film is relentless. The viewer is swept by waves of dread, internal resistance, and quiet despair. Kornev’s fate feels inevitable, not because he is weak, but because he continues to believe in a system that punishes belief. In a world ruled by fear, hope itself becomes a dangerous liability.
Two Prosecutors offers no comfort. Instead, it immerses the viewer in the same heavy, gloomy atmosphere it depicts—a world without hope, where illusions have long vanished, and the price for them is incredibly high—the price of life. It is this unrelenting mood, unresolved and persistent, that lingers with the viewer, staying long after the film has ended.
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