The Wizard of the Kremlin – Movie Review
Take The Apprentice with a sprinkle of The Death of Stalin and you get The Wizard of the Kremlin, a compelling but uneven political drama that peels back the curtain on the architects of the modern Russian regime. The result is a film that’s intelligently dialogue-driven and filled with strong performances accompanied by unnervingly relevant political observations, but it never quite decides whether it wants to be a faithful historical drama or a fictional political fable and in trying to be both, it loses some of the potency either approach would have offered.
Director Oliver Assayas latest is an adaptation of Giuliano da Empoli’s bestselling 2022 historical political novel The Wizard of the Kremlin. Although deeply rooted in real political events and recognisable historical figures, the novel deliberately invents Vadim Baranov as a fictional composite character, most clearly inspired by Kremlin strategist Vladislav Surkov. This gives the story some freedom to speculate about the personalities and conversations behind Russia’s political transformation without claiming to present literal history.
The film follows Baranov (Paul Dano), as he rises from the artistic world of theatre into the audience-shaping world of television to eventually becoming the chief image-maker behind Vladimir Putin’s (Jude Law) ascent. As Russia evolves through the chaotic years following the collapse of the Soviet Union, Vadim becomes increasingly instrumental in shaping not only the public perception of Putin but the machinery of modern Russian politics itself. His narration to journalist Rowland (Jeffrey Wright) guides the audience through a world where media, propaganda, performance and power become virtually indistinguishable.
Ironically, this fictional framing becomes one of the adaptation’s greatest weaknesses. The film surrounds Vadim with real historical figures like Putin, Berezovsky, Prigozhin and Yeltsin, but asks audiences to emotionally invest in a protagonist who never actually existed as he likewise tells his story to a journalist who also never existed and the result feels trapped somewhere between docudrama and allegory. Had Assayas centered the story on the real Surkov, the film may have carried greater historical weight, or alternatively, had he embraced a fully fictional political landscape populated entirely by archetypal characters that may have allowed the themes and examinations of propaganda, media influence/manipulation and authoritarianism to resonate more universally. By constantly asking viewers to distinguish between real history and invented drama (and not fully disclosing the blurred lines within the film itself), the movie muddles both approaches and whilst it’s easy to appreciate its craft, the hybrid approach prevents it from reaching the heights of the best political dramas.
Furthermore, the film’s greatest potential missed opportunity is the format of being a film itself. Covering decades of political transformation, media manipulation and shifting alliances within a two-and-a-half-hour runtime inevitably leaves fascinating developments feeling far too compressed. This material naturally lends itself to a prestige television miniseries, where the gradual consolidation of power and its lead’s own moral deterioration could have unfolded with greater patience and complexity and been less of a test to the audience’s own patience and resolve.
Fortunately, the performances consistently elevate the material. Paul Dano delivers another quietly remarkable performance, perfectly capturing the fictional Vadim’s intelligence, ambition and gradual moral compromise. Dano rarely plays characters who dominate a room physically, yet he excels at portraying men like Eli Sunday or Edward Nygma whose influence comes through observation, calculation and restraint. Jude Law is equally impressive beneath the mask of Vladimir Putin. Rather than attempting a broad impersonation, Law opts for subtle physicality and measured restraint, allowing Putin’s calm exterior to mask an increasingly unsettling ruthlessness. However, one distracting element is the inconsistent approach to accents. Some actors lean heavily into Russian inflections while others retain unmistakably British or American voices. Whilst some historical dramas can effectively take this approach, here the inconsistency often breaks the immersion of an otherwise meticulously recreated world.
Even so, The Wizard of the Kremlin remains an engrossing political drama. Its attention to historical detail, razor-sharp dialogue, disquieting narration and exceptional central performances create an unsettling portrait of propaganda’s architects and the manufacture of authoritarian power. In an age where truth itself has become contested territory and political image-making often matters more than political substance, The Wizard of the Kremlin feels less like a historical reflection than a timely warning. It may muddy its own waters, but through the opaque delivery, the film’s themes shine sharply through.
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