Why Does Every Putin Drama Fail to Capture the Real Villain?
Let’s get straight to the point: Why is it so hard to make a compelling film about Vladimir Putin? Olivier Assayas’ The Wizard of the Kremlin joins a long line of attempts to dissect the Russian leader’s rise, yet it stumbles in the most baffling way—by sidelining Putin himself. If you’re expecting a psychological deep dive into the man who reshaped modern geopolitics, you’ll leave disappointed. But maybe that’s the point. The film’s failure to grapple with Putin’s essence mirrors the West’s own confusion about how a former KGB officer became a global bogeyman.
The Spin Doctor Dilemma
The movie centers on Vadim Baranov, a fictional spin doctor played by Paul Dano with all the emotional range of a spreadsheet. His calculated machinations to prop up a Soviet successor state’s democracy-turned-autocracy are meant to be fascinating. But here’s the problem: Baranov’s cold pragmatism feels like a TED Talk on power without the stakes. Personally, I think Assayas wanted to expose the banality of evil in post-Soviet politics, but what we get is a masterclass in how to make systemic corruption feel… boring. The love story with Alicia Vikander’s character? A subplot so undercooked it might as well be a grocery list.
What many people don’t realize is that the film’s real subject isn’t Putin—it’s the cult of technocratic enablers who think they’re smarter than history itself. Baranov’s arc—from idealist to pawn—is a cautionary tale about intellectuals who mistake manipulation for control. But instead of tension, we get lectures. The film’s expository voiceovers feel like a college seminar where everyone’s half-awake.
Where’s Putin When You Need Him?
Jude Law’s Putin is the movie’s most provocative choice—and its biggest missed opportunity. Law embodies the leader’s physicality (the scowls! the manspreading!) without caricature, but he’s on screen for roughly 15% of the film. This isn’t just a narrative misstep; it’s a philosophical one. Putin isn’t just a character here—he’s the gravitational center of a geopolitical black hole. By treating him as a cameo, the film dodges the unsettling question: What makes a man like Putin magnetic?
A detail I find especially interesting is how Law’s performance subtly hints at Putin’s simmering resentment—a man who resents the West for dismissing him even as he weaponizes that disdain. But these moments are fleeting. Compare this to, say, Anthony Hopkins’ Nixon or Bryan Cranston’s LBJ: They made you feel the weight of power’s corruption. Law’s Putin? He’s a shadow puppet.
The Bigger Picture: Why These Stories Matter
Let’s zoom out. The Wizard of the Kremlin isn’t just a film—it’s a symptom of our obsession with demystifying autocrats. But here’s the irony: The more we try to humanize dictators, the less terrifying they become. Putin’s genius isn’t his ruthlessness; it’s his ability to stay inscrutable. He thrives in the fog of our assumptions. If you want to understand Russia’s descent into authoritarianism, focus on the system, not the man—yet Assayas can’t decide where to point the camera.
What this really suggests is a crisis in political storytelling. We’re stuck between two poles: dry historical reenactments (The Post) and hyperbolic villainy (House of Cards). The sweet spot? Stories that capture how power warps everyone—idealists, opportunists, and dictators alike. The Wizard tries, but its pacing is as sluggish as a Soviet bureaucracy.
Final Thoughts: The Autocrat’s Paradox
In my opinion, the film’s greatest flaw isn’t its structure—it’s its timidity. Russia’s transformation into a “sovereign democracy” wasn’t just a tale of oligarchs and spin doctors; it was a mass psychological experiment. The Kremlin’s wizards didn’t just manipulate media—they weaponized nihilism, convincing a nation that democracy was just another con. But the movie treats this as a backdrop, not the main event.
If you take a step back and think about it, Putin’s enduring power isn’t about propaganda—it’s about theater. He’s the lead actor in a drama where the audience isn’t sure if they’re watching a tragedy or a farce. The Wizard of the Kremlin should’ve been a mirror to that paradox. Instead, it’s a history lesson with a mute button on its most fascinating subject. Maybe the real wizard isn’t Putin, Surkov, or Baranov—it’s the system that turns all of them into prisoners. But you won’t find that insight here. For that, you’ll need to rewatch The Death of Stalin and ponder who’s laughing hardest: the tyrant, or the fools who thought they could control him.
