THE MASTER, MARGARITA, AND FREEDOM: Mikhail Lokshin on Cinema and Censorship in Art
Mikhail Lokshin / latimes.com
Director Mikhail Lokshin, the creator of the acclaimed film The Master and Margarita, hailed as the best adaptation of Mikhail Bulgakov’s novel to date, shares how he has been living a year after the controversy sparked by the film and what it means to be labeled a terrorist. From the very beginning of the war, Lokshin took a firm anti-war stance and actively supported Ukraine. Today, he continues working on his embattled film and is planning another project — this time exploring the moral responsibility of those connected to the war, told through the lens of a different historical era.
A year has passed since the film’s release. Do you still feel that Bulgakov lives within you?
I was occupied with this throughout 2024, but only now has there been some progress. Most likely, the film will be released in Europe this year. In Germany, its theatrical release is scheduled for May. Before the film came out, no one wanted to take on its distribution, but after the harsh reaction from Russian propaganda, the world realized that the film stands on the other side of Putin’s regime.
To understand The Master and Margarita, numerous researchers say one must break free from stereotypes and seek the truth. Do you share this view?
Absolutely. But I would go even further and say that I don’t know of another novel with such a vast range of interpretations — sometimes completely contradictory. For decades, neither ordinary readers nor Bulgakov scholars have been able to reach a consensus. And that is its beauty. With such a multifaceted and polysemous work, it’s difficult to settle on a single interpretation, especially since that would contradict the very essence of Bulgakov’s method.
So yes, one must break free from stereotypes. But I should clarify that while working on the film, fully aware of the novel’s complexity, I never set out to be its definitive interpreter or to create the one true reading of Bulgakov’s text.
Together with my co-writer, Roman Kanter, we concluded that it is a concept that shapes the story into an accessible film for a broad audience rather than an auteur experiment. The goal was to make a film that, on the one hand, is engaging even for those who haven’t read the book and, on the other, conveys the spirit of the novel.
My greatest joy as the film’s director is that it has reignited interest in the literary source. After watching the movie, many people return to the novel. If I recall correctly, book sales have increased twelvefold.
Some kind of statistic like that. And it brings me great joy that, after watching the film, people felt compelled to revisit the book.
Were you afraid to take on the adaptation? Were there people who tried to dissuade you from stepping into these waters?
You know, there was certainly a sense of fear. But it wasn’t about mysticism or the so-called curse that so many legends have been built around. Rather, it wasn’t fear as much as the realization that one should only take on this film if there is a clear vision of how to translate the novel onto the screen. And yes, that perspective helped us develop the concept.
After that, the fear disappeared because we knew exactly what we were doing and what the film would be about. We understood which themes were central to us and why this film needed to exist. We had answers to those questions.
How long did it take you to develop that vision? How long did you search for the key?
Just a couple of months. Roman Kanter and I immersed ourselves in the material, digging through a massive amount of sources. Then, during the pandemic, we wrote the script.
We understood that simply adapting the text as is was impossible. The Master and Margarita is a modernist novel with numerous characters and disconnected storylines. I lean toward straightforward dramaturgical solutions built around clear protagonists and a three-act structure — something that is not explicitly present in the book.
Moreover, it was crucial to find a justification for the novel’s phantasmagorical events. Who are Woland and his entourage? I instinctively felt that I wasn’t prepared to simply depict the Devil arriving in Stalinist USSR and present it as reality. There needed to be some narrative device to provide at least some grounding for the unfolding fantastical elements.
Attentive Bulgakov fans still wonder — who is actually telling this story? Who is the true protagonist — The Master or someone else?
That was one of the key questions we had to address. Various scholars of the novel don’t necessarily consider The Master its main character. Some see Ivan Bezdomny in that role, others point to Bulgakov himself, and some even argue that it’s Woland.
In one English-language study, I came across a theory suggesting that The Master is actually the one writing The Master and Margarita. When I read that, everything suddenly clicked for me in terms of how to approach the story cinematically. It became clear to me how to tell it.
What do you mean?
Through The Master, it was possible to connect Woland and all the other characters. The Master had a clear arc — from a renowned playwright to a persecuted man in a psychiatric hospital, punished for his principles. Moreover, in some ways, The Master can be seen as Bulgakov’s alter ego.
And where did Bulgakov’s inspiration come from? Who stands behind the character of Woland? For example, he was influenced by foreigners whom the writer met in Moscow in the 1930s. One thing led to another…
I’m not claiming that this is the only possible interpretation! But this approach allowed the story to be structured into a coherent, accessible film rather than an auteur experiment. A film that, I hope, will be understandable even to those who haven’t read the novel.
Many Bulgakov scholars and fans still don’t have a definitive answer to what the book is truly about. After working on it for so long, can you answer that question for yourself?
I wouldn’t attempt to sum up what the novel is about in a single sentence. But the film, at its core, is about the relationship between the artist and power, about creative freedom and personal freedom (love) in a totalitarian society. In such circumstances, all a writer can do is write and love. That is where his freedom lies. To write in order to remain free, to resist totalitarian authority in this way. This is precisely what Bulgakov himself did.
That’s where I started — by separating these two questions. I distinguished between the literary analysis of the novel and the functional approach needed for the film. Even now, rereading the book after completing the film, I keep discovering new motifs, metaphors, and meanings.
So, in a way, your version could be called a biography of the novel…
In a sense, yes. Though, of course, it’s not a literal one…
When you started working on the script, were you aware of the mystical resistance this material possesses? Many of your famous predecessors, like Elem Klimov, struggled with this book. Some never got their projects off the ground, while others failed…
Of course, I was aware of that history. But I wasn’t mystical about it in the way you mean. At least, I didn’t approach the novel with mysticism. I believed that the power of thought — if backed by a clear concept — could overcome any so-called «curses». Rationality, I thought, could dispel them. That was my approach. And again, if I hadn’t had a solid concept, I simply wouldn’t have made the film.
I approached this project with a lot of skepticism. There were essential questions that needed answers. Beyond figuring out who the main character was and what the central message should be Roman and I focused on two key questions: Why are we making this film now? and How does it relate to our lives today?
We answered them step by step. And once we had those answers, we gained confidence that this could work. After that, no amount of mysticism could scare us. I’m certain that more film adaptations of this novel will come in the future, each offering a new interpretation.
For example, I would have loved to see what Baz Luhrmann (the renowned Australian director of Romeo + Juliet (1996), The Great Gatsby (2013), and Elvis (2022)) would have done with The Master and Margarita. He had planned to adapt it, but as far as I know, he ultimately decided not to go forward with the project.
At one point, Paramount aimed to adapt the novel. I believe it was in 1999 or 2000, before Bortko’s TV series. Al Pacino was supposed to play Woland, and Leonardo DiCaprio was considered for The Master. There was talk of a big star-studded cast, but nothing ever came of it…
Yes, that happens quite often. In the 1980s, Roman Polanski planned to make a film based on The Master and Margarita, and later, there was a long saga with Baz Luhrmann. So, there have been numerous attempts to adapt this novel. But I wouldn’t say that some «curse» prevented Hollywood from making it happen. There are plenty of similar cases in the industry, even with other novels, without any so-called curse involved. Big studio projects can take decades, with stars and directors constantly changing… So far, a Hollywood version of The Master and Margarita simply hasn’t happened.
It seems that part of your success comes from having the right perspective. As an American, you are free from a kind of… religious reverence toward Bulgakov and this novel. You don’t have that hushed, almost sacred attitude that often prevents people from seeing the material, its essence, and its possible interpretations in a new light. Would you agree?
It’s difficult to evaluate myself from that perspective. After all, I did live in the USSR, went to school there, and therefore understood the culture from the inside as well. But yes, I always felt a bit like an outsider. So, I’d agree with your wording — I find it quite fitting.
Would you consider yourself a genre filmmaker or an auteur director? While working on this adaptation, which question was more important to you — «what» or «how»?
I don’t think The Master and Margarita fits neatly into a single genre. It’s both an auteur film and one designed for a mass audience — crafted in a way that engages with universal human psychology through genre-driven scenes. Emotional connection with the audience was important to me, including for those who may not have read the novel. Purely auteur cinema is often associated with films that appeal to a rather niche audience. I aimed to balance an auteur vision with a genre approach.
I asked this deliberately because Mick Jagger, who wrote The Rolling Stones’ mega-hit Symphony for the Devil under the influence of The Master and Margarita, recalled that the novel shaped not just the song’s content but also its form. The structure of your film also stands out significantly from the visual language traditionally used for this material.
Yes, of course. But I still started with the question of what the film was about before deciding how it should look and what its tone should be. That sequence — where form naturally emerges from content and meaning — was crucial for me.
No one before you has conveyed the novel’s leaden atmosphere quite the way you have — people without a sky, and therefore without God…
I tried to capture the spirit of the time as depicted in the novel. Bulgakov writes about a society that has forgotten God and abandoned spirituality. He is particularly interested in this new, historical atheism. No country had ever attempted to construct a society that entirely rejected God — this is, in essence, the theme of Woland’s conversation with Berlioz.
I wanted to express this atheism visually — through the city and the spaces. In contrast, The Master’s basement and his life had to serve as the antithesis to this soullessness. Both The Master himself and Margarita’s world — their warm, intimate existence — needed to stand apart in form from everything else.
How did you come up with the idea of casting August Diehl as Woland? Because I think it was an absolutely brilliant decision.
Thank you. To me, it was clear from the start that Woland had to be played by a foreign actor. There were several reasons for this. First, it’s in the essence of the character — he arrives like a foreign tourist, so to speak, to observe the new Soviet society. He’s an outsider, someone who looks at everything from a certain distance.
In English, there’s a term for this: fish out of water — a person who doesn’t belong. That’s exactly how Bulgakov describes him: dressed in a European fashion, in his 40s or so, an elegant gentleman, clearly different from a Soviet citizen. Not an old man, as he’s often portrayed, but a middle-aged man. And, of course, with «a German accent» — a direct connection to Mephistopheles from Faust.
August Diehl was the first actor to come to mind once we settled on this concept. On top of that, he loves the novel, knows it well, and, if I’m not mistaken, even performed in a stage adaptation of The Master and Margarita in his youth.
How did you first discover him?
Through Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds (2009) and later in Terrence Malick’s A Hidden Life (2019). But it was really his performance in Tarantino’s film that captivated me. We cast him without an audition — just based on his agreement to take the role. The same happened with Claes Bang (the star of The Square (2017), a sharp social satire), who played Pontius Pilate.
What was the logic behind this decision?
The logic is simple — Bulgakov’s Judean chapters convey a sense of historical authenticity. It was essential to convince the audience of the realism of those events. That’s why I looked for a European actor to play Pilate, someone who could perform in Latin. The chapters about Pilate are essentially about his inner world. The drama in those scenes belongs to him, not Yeshua. I needed an actor who could embody that internal conflict. Claes Bang was at the top of my list. And we were lucky — he agreed and was willing to learn his lines in Latin. Though after filming, he said he would never take on another role in a language he doesn’t know.
You said there were no auditions… That’s quite a risk, isn’t it?
With actors of this caliber, it works differently. You make them an offer, and that’s it. You have to know their previous roles and be confident that they will deliver exactly what you need. That’s how the industry operates.
Where were you when you heard about the start of the war, and what did you feel at that moment?
I was at home in Los Angeles. What did I feel? I was in a terrible state. The news reached me while I was in the middle of editing. It shocked me so much that I couldn’t continue working. I have many friends and colleagues in Ukraine who went to the front. I had worked in Kyiv multiple times, and my grandparents were from there.
I had anticipated that war might begin, but I didn’t expect it on such a scale. Like many others, I thought they wouldn’t go for Kyiv and other regions — that it would be limited to Donbas at most. Watching everything unfold from sunny LA while feeling utter darkness inside was surreal.
I was only able to return to editing a month later. And at that point, my editor and I suddenly realized that the film now felt completely different — it wasn’t the same as it had been just a couple of months earlier. Over time, I started noticing how the perception of the edit kept shifting in response to the unfolding events. Then, the editing process halted entirely until the end of the year due to my support for Ukraine, and for a while, it was unclear whether we would ever finish the film…
How did the war affect your film?
As we were editing, certain scenes and storylines began to take on entirely new meanings. Sitting in the editing room, I started seeing not the past but the present on the screen.
Even during script development and filming in 2021, we felt that Putin’s Russia was increasingly resembling Stalin’s 1930s. Though at that time, it was still in its early stages compared to what we see today. Then, with the war, repression, censorship, denunciations, lies, and fear escalated to the level of the 1930s.
I could never have imagined just how much the film would mirror the processes unfolding in Russia today. I didn’t expect it to become so painfully relevant.
Do you think this film has saved anyone from hatred, from justifying the invasion, from embracing the ugliness of it all?
I’m cautious about making such statements, and I haven’t been to Russia since 2021, so I haven’t witnessed screenings there firsthand. But I’ve heard from others that, for some, the film became a kind of symbol — something that gave them faith in the existence of truth in a world saturated with lies.
What did you learn about the nature of totalitarianism and creative freedom while working on the film?
Personal freedom, the freedom to love, and creative freedom — these are the central themes of the film (and the novel itself). In a totalitarian society, inner freedom is felt far more acutely. I suppose, like the film’s protagonist, I ultimately came to believe that you can lose everything in life — except freedom and faith.
Regarding Kyiv, where you’ve worked many times shooting commercials — there’s a theory that the Moscow in The Master and Margarita isn’t really Moscow but rather Bulgakov’s Kyiv. A mystical city. Many Bulgakov scholars insist on this interpretation. How inclined are you to agree?
Yes, I’m familiar with this interpretation. It’s complex for me — more on a mystical, intuitive level. You can’t really argue with someone’s perception if that’s how they see it. But personally, it didn’t fully resonate with my own vision.
In one interview, you mentioned that you plan to make a film about the events of this war. Can you share more details?
Not exactly. What I said was that I wanted to reflect on current events through a different historical era — by indirect means. I’m not planning to make a direct war film. Time needs to pass before it can be fully processed artistically. That said, Coppola made Apocalypse Now just a few years after the Vietnam War ended, and he captured its essence with remarkable accuracy.
But personally, I’m not sure we can yet fully grasp the scale and consequences of this monstrous war. And besides, we still don’t know when or how it will end. That’s why I’d like to focus not so much on the war itself but on the moral complicity of those who see themselves as mere «cogs in the system.» And I want to explore this theme through a completely different era.
Which era, if it’s not a secret?
It’s a bit too early to say. I’d rather not discuss it just yet.
