Reviews and reflections on films, plays, music and concerts — published to no schedule, whenever something asks to be written about.
Elia Suleiman made a film whose hero changes almost nothing — which is exactly what leaves you alone with your own conclusions.

Not a recommendation but an attempt to think it through — written straight after the run at the Lensoviet Theatre.

How "Robot Kostya" came about — Russia's first robotic theatre production, where it turned out Chekhovian passions were within a robot's range after all.
Poems that find more breath in the music each time round, and end up better listening than most songs.
"The Queen's Gambit" made chess reachable even for people who've held a queen maybe twice in their lives.
Since Teodor Currentzis arrived, Dom Radio has become the city's fixed point. On a building you walk into in order to come out different.

Debussy, Ravel, Stravinsky and Satie in one evening at the Philharmonic — and a hall that came back to life along with the music.

Leos Carax's film, in which the end of the story isn't the end of it — everybody sets their own.
The moment where the question of age stops applying: she's fifty, and she's outside time.
Natalia Kudryashova's film — written in verse, about a city held down by snow, and about whether you're ready to get off the ground.

Alexander Zeldovich's film, where the words don't compete with the music — and one question is left standing: do you understand me?

Vertinsky in the flesh on the Seventh Tier of the Alexandrinsky — and the question of how defenceless a person is, and how far shut inside their own body.

On art not always saving you — and on trying to simply carry on living.
Several short verdicts in a row, from "Hoppers" to the backrooms — and why the liminal-space trend works right up until somebody explains it.
Watched it for free, and it does impress: serious money, a conflict that's properly built. But the context behind the accusations has been wiped.
Good cast, beautiful images, and the film still comes apart. On stepping behind the camera too early.
The credits roll halfway through, and that turns out to be the whole point. On an elderly couple, flowers, and the premium version of ascending.
His first film in colour, where even the colour he had wasn't enough — and the subject turned out to be a crisis of everything.
A black-and-white film that ends with the hero losing his head but not his point. One of the few reasons to go to Dom Radio for something like this.
Everything sits where it should and the moves are good, and there's still a sense he's simply got old.
A world about to disappear, turned into an enormous tip. Not theatre for the casual, and half a manifesto for the theatregoer hidden inside a review.
A serious cast, a cinematographer who shot Balabanov — and the film still goes after your tears with a cheaply built romance.
A brilliant Soviet pianist and composer the Ministry of Culture is in no hurry to show anyone, despite having paid for the film.
A cast with no inhibitions, ready for anything in the name of art — and a film that drowns in a claim to meanings that were never there.
Scorsese, a de-aged De Niro and Pacino, 309 scenes across 117 locations — and a hero who simply goes with the current, having no further use for a soul.
McBurney got the better of Zweig without quite showing how. Bondar didn't get the better of Vodolazkin, or of the small stage either.
Expected another round of Russian misery, got a literary and religious story worthy of Dostoevsky. Maxim Sukhanov gives the best performance in Russian cinema this year.
The problem of tolerance sits above every other problem we have. Zakharov was shouting about it under Soviet censorship; it only rings louder now.
Armchair critics called it pornography for intellectuals, and it was kept out of Russian cinemas. On landing in the wrong world for you — or the wrong year.

A portrait of the modern person who prefers a screen to being in the room — and what that costs.

The second post I've written about one Roma Kaganovich production, because reciting the same stock phrases about quality is too crude a thing to do.

During the young playwrights' festival, Teatr.doc comes apart at the seams with nerves and delight — and the best of these readings can be watched from anywhere.
Currentzis turned Perm from a provincial backwater into a cultural centre — and was then sent off to the city where he'd been a student.

The Lensoviet Theatre never released a recording of Yuri Butusov's production. It has to be remembered through footage kind people put up themselves.

Taika Waititi plays Hitler as a ten-year-old's imaginary friend — and the result is that rare thing, a form fused properly to its content.

Ten years on, some of the devices already look archaic — and the catharsis still arrives, even through a screen.

The Alexandrinsky streamed the premiere, and it turned my whole idea of theatre on video around. I understood about twenty per cent of it, which was plenty.

On the physics of sound turned into a form of art — and on a place you can't download, only walk into and feel.