All language subtitles for The_Master_and_Margarita.2023[eng]

Translation by Kukazumba.
Copyright reserved.

-What's there?

-Hey!

[O.Latunsky]

Hey!

Comrade Latunsky, open the door!

-Don't break my door!
What's going on here?

-You're flooding us!

-There's no peace in this house!

-Mama!
-Shhh.

Don't be frightened, darling.

It's only some boys breaking windows.

-Miss.

Where are you?

-I'm nowhere.

You're dreaming about me.

Now you lie down,
put your hand under your cheek.

And I'll tell you a story.

Once upon a time there was a woman.

She had no children,
neither had she happiness.

At first she just used to cry,
then one day she turned very evil.

Margarita gently put the hammer
on the windowsill and flew out of the window.

Below, disorder reigned.

People were shouting

and running up and down
the glass-strewn pavement.

...glass-strewn pavement.
Across the street,

dark silhouettes of people
appeared in all of the windows.

They were trying to understand...
-You're still writing.

Is it at least about love?

Not only.

Come, lie down.

Ah, love is good.

It's about you too, Praskovia Fyodorovna.

Oh really.

And Dr.Stravinksy?

Of course.

How can I forget about him?

He has a whole line with a patient.

With who? You?

With one proletarian poet.

Every newcomer appears to be a poet.

As if it weren't an asylum here,
but, what they call it,...

the Writers' Union.

Let me read it afterwards.
I wonder what you wrote about us.

Sure. It's almost finished.

Here you are.

We're done here.

Ah, butter fingers.

He writes and writes.

We all will read it. Yeah.

Sleep crept up on the poet,

when suddenly the grille
slid noiselessly aside.

A mysterious figure
appeared on the moonlit balcony

and pointed a threatening finger at Ivan.

S-s-h-h.

Can I sit here?

What's your job?

I'm a poet.

What's your name?

Bezdomny.

Oh-oh-oh.

What, don't you like my poetry?

No, I don't.

Have you read any of it?

How did you get in here?

A year ago I wrote a piece
about Pontius Pilate.

-Are you a writer?

I'm a master.

She embroidered it herself.

-Her?

What's your name?

I no longer have a name.

I've renounced it.

As I've renounced life itself.

[A year ago]

[Theater]

Oh, hello.

Hello.

[Premiere. Pilate]

Will you sign?

-M-m?

Like modern drama?

Uh-huh.

Gala.

Gala.

It's the main play of the season.

I just came to Moscow.

I'm an actress, by the way.

And want to work in your theater.

It's not really MY theter.

Have a good day.

Hello.

Excuse me again.

You're from the Writers' Union, right?

Maybe.

The Writers' club is playing
real american jazz tonigt...

Hello.

Hi.

And you probably want me
to invite you there?

Hello.

Moscow favors you.

Thanks.

Here you are, comrade playwrighter.

Will you excuse me?

See you then. It starts at 8.

Ah, everyone's waiting for you!

Is Efim Romanovich here?

He isn't coming.

We can't rehearse
without the director.

Actors know their lines.

As the author you can correct them too.

(in Latin)
Hegemon.

The accused from Galilee.

Ahead, prisoner! Move!

So you are, Yeshua Ha-Notsri?

Who's been inciting the people
to destroy the temple of Jerusalem?

Good man! Believe me . . .

You must call a Roman Procurator 'Hegemon'!
Understand? Don't make me hit you!

I speak your language, Hegemon.

Good.

So you intended to destroy the temple
building and incited the people to do so?

Never in my life, Hegemon, have I
intended to destroy the temple.

Nor have I ever tried to persuade anyone to
do such a senseless thing.

You're a liar.

Witnesses have said so.

These good people have confused
everything I said.

I'm beginning to fear that
this confusion will last for a very long time.

Stop pretending to be insane.

What has been written down
about you is enough to hang you.

No, no, Hegemon.

There's one man.

He follows me with parchment
everywhere and writes incessantly.

I once caught a glimpse of it
and I was horrified.

I hadn't said a word
of what was written there.

So what did you say to the crowd
in the temple forecourt?

I said that the temple
of the old beliefs would fall down
and the new temple would be built up.

The temple of truth.

And what is truth?

The truth is chiefly
that your head is aching.

And aching so hard that you're
having cowardly thoughts about death.

You have lost faith in people.

But the pain will stop soon.

And your headache will go.

There, it has gone.

I'm so glad about it.

Untie his hands.

Sorry. We need that.

-What is it? What?...

Huh?

Comrades, what's going on?

Can't you see we're rehearsing?

-They cancelled the play.

What do you mean?
How can it be?

Good people, put the props back!

-Are you crazy?! Don't you see?!

I'm the National Artist of the USSR!

What's going on?

We were told to dismantle everything.

-Who said it?!

Here, comrade Rimsky.
It's very fresh.

Grigory Danilovich!

-You're fine.

They're dismantling the props right now.

The National Commissariat
of Education has banned it.

-But we've got their approval.

-Don't worry. Today they ban, tomorrow - allow.

What's the reason?

I only run finances.

You should ask comrade Likhodeyev.

But he's not here yet.

He's still on a bisness trip.

[drinking sign]

-Again?

It's been over a week.

Where can I find him?

He lives in Sadovaya street.

Apartment 50.

Thank you.

Tremble, tzarist swine

It's your payday.

Fire!

You'll remember it!

[S.B. Likhodeyev]

I need Stepan Bogdanovich.

He isn't at home.

I was told he was here.

He's in Yalta. Not here.

*Grunya!*

*Water!*

Stepan Bogdanovich!

*Grunya!*

No visitors.

*Water!*

*Grunya!*

Mikhail Alexandrovich.

How did you learn my address?

I didn't.

I'm visiting Likhodeyev.

We're neighbors now.

Theater director and your editor in one place.
How convenient!

But he's not taking anyone.

Oh really? He's "taking" something else!
Yesterday it was a true den here!

Why are you sitting?
The meeting starts soon.

What meeting?

Ah, THAT one.

I moved in just recently.

Former residents moved somewhere.

You'll move soon too, darn elites.
Each hogs 3 rooms! Not for long!

This is a wicked apartment! Wicked!

Annushka. She's weak-minded.
Took the proletarian war too close to her heart.

Mikhail Alexandrovich. "Pilate" was cancelled.

Don't worry. Shows and plays
are always considered independently.

If the performance is banned,
everobody will rush to read the play.

And here it is, dear comrades!
In the fresh issue of our magazine.

As the Writers' Union
deputy head I declare:

if you had any problems,
I'd be the first to know about them.

We thank Nastasia Lukinishna
for her report on the sea storybook.

"George the Navigator", much expected.

And the next question on the agenda.

Artistic and political value of the play "Pilate".

We welcome the author to come out.

Sit down please.

Here?

Yes.

We welcome the critic,
Osaf Semyonovich Latunsky.

For a start I'd like to remind
my literature comrades here

that the primary goal of the soviet criticism

is to reveal the objective,
class meaning of literary works.

Back to the topic now.

While the Party and the government
is doing teir best

to forever and ever eliminate

reactionist and religious
prejudices in our country,

a member of the Soviet Writers' Union
creates an apology of religious bigotry.

He writes a play about Pontius Pilate
and Jesus Christ

who he bashfully called Yeshua Ha-Notsri.

Under the cover of a historical work
he criticizes the Soviet government.

Let me...

I'm not finished yet.

Sit down please.

Let me quote this Ha-Notsri.

"All power is a form of violence
exercised over people".

What does it mean?

That the proletarian power is also violence?

Yes, violence.

But necessary.

And needed.

The whole piece is like this, comrades.

"Pilate" is a politically harmful
and dangerous work

that has no place among
the Soviet literature.

Bravo!

Let's continue the debate.

Comrades! A small improvisation!

Once Pontius Pilate
Became a Soviet pilot!

Di bi dam! Da di bi dam!...

Comrade Bezdomny, it's no time
for improvisation.

We have timings.

Okay, one more.

Why need paradise?
Crimean region will suffice!

What about trip vouchers
to the Crimea?

And the housing problem
needs specification too.

Will you come down
or leave yourself?

I calm down.

Thanks. We continue the debate.

We call on Boris Petrovich Maigel.

How did this happen that the play "Pilate"

was published and even staged?

Because better a "Pilate" fish
than an empty dish.

But our mission isn't to just ban things

and show our enemies that the USSR has
no freedom of speech as they expect us.

Our mission is to help the author.

Guide him on his way of
serving the proletarians.

As comrade Lenin once said:

"The wise one isn't the one
who doesn't make mistakes.

It's the one who's quick to fix them".

Comrade Meigel!

May I?

Please, comrade Berlioz.

First of all, as the editor

who allowed this play for publication

I want to make a sencere apology
to my colleagues.

For my political blindness.

I am sorry.

I suggest immediate withdrawal of
the lastest magazine issue on sale.

I'm sure that, guiding the author,
we'll be able to refine the play

to follow an ideologically right direction.

Bravo! Bravo!

Now all that remains is to listen
to the author's opinion.

May I speak?

Of course.

Please speak.

Well, I've already written MY piece.

Good.

Why wouldn't you use your talent

to write something that actually
interests the Soviet readers?

For example, about the people's labor feat.

Well, it just hapenned that
I've never worked in a factory or mine.

Never reaped oats.

How can I write about something I don't know?

As far as I know, you've never
been to Ancient Judea either.

Excuse me, but I'm a historian.

Then write about the Revolution history.

I'm afraid you won't like it either.

Comrades, another improvisation!

Comrade Bezdomny, stop it.

It's very short.

A Soviet poet doesn't want Christ divine!

A Soviet poet wants a new pump line!

Gasification, electrification,
oil production!

This is our spiritual nutrition!

Where are you going?

Out there.

Buddy!

Everything you said was right.

I wanted to support you,
but it was already over.

That was powerful.

Or stupid.

Depending how you look at. It's dialectical.

Don't look at it.

If it goes all bad, you'll write
a novel about a collective farm.

How rye was riping, for example.

I think you can whip up something
like that in a week.

Wow, it's like a hotel in here!

People back then knew
how to live beautifully!

What a fat cat, like a bourgeois.

Ps-ps-ps.

What's his name?

Behemoth (Hippo).

Yours?

He drops in sometimes.

Just like me.

Watch your head.

In my communal apartment
they made a toilet schedule.

Imagine?

Ehh.

I'm an artist. I can't use toilet on schedule.

While you live in a writer's paradise.

I think they won't let me translate
even children's rhymes after today's "purgatory".

And I won't be able to afford this paradise.

Please, don't bury yourself before the time.

Their power is in our fear.

Give them a week or two
to forget about it.

You just need some time off.

Tonight in our club they're playing this...

-Jazz.

-Jazz!

Oh, I invited her tonight...

-Her?

One tremendously ambicious young actress.

Who came to conquer the capital.

My favorite type.

But not mine.

I'll save you.

I'll take it over.

Anything for my friend.

Please welcome.

Harlem Swing.

With their song "Hallelujah".

Enjoy.

[WRITER'S CLUB]

Good evening.

Good evening.

Good evening.

Welcome.

Meet Aloysius Mogarych. Screenwriter.

Gala.

Nice to meet you.

My pleasure.

Um-m take a seat.

Here.

Champagne?

Yes. But not much.

Champagne makes my inner devils come out.

I'm willing to take the risk.

Would you excuse us for a little moment.

Champagne, please!

Listen, I talked to people.
And everyone is literally shocked.

You have many sympathizers.

Look, there's a suggestion to come out.

Where?

On a strike. For freedom of literary creativity.

-I'm all on your side.

Thank you.

Tomorrow at 10 at the Union's House.

But there will be The May Day
parade at the same time.

-Exactly.

There's no better time.

If we don't speak out now,
everyone will be at your place.

Like in Dumas: "Un pour tous, tous pour un!"

Exactement!

I want to make a toast.

To our beauty that can only
be outshined by our talent.

Is this the theater director over there?

Likhodeyev?

Yes, this is Stepan Bogdanovich.

And I need to speak to him.

Comrade, show your writer's ID.

It's annulled from now on. Please, leave.

What...?

I ask that you leave.

Thank you.

Are you a writer by any chance?

I was told it was their club here.

Yes, I am.

Your accent tells me
you're from Germany.

Yes, from Germany as well.

(in German)
So why are you here?

I came to look at your incredible
soviet social experiment.

Have you come for work or for the soul?

To me they're the same thing.

Bad day?

My play was cancelled today.

The magazine where it was published
is withdrawn from sale.

They've just taken away my writer's ID.

Besides that I'm fine.

Why did they do it?

Things that were permitted yesterday
are not permitted today.

New country - new rules.

And people?

Are they new too?

New people...

New people are well forgotten old ones.

You know, as far as I know,
no other country in the history

tried to get rid of God
and build a society

that preaches atheism as a religion.

This must change people, don't you think?

Now I see how this all looks
from the foreign perspective.

Now imagine how it looks from up there.

Or down there.

It could be a nice idea for a book.

The devil that nobody believes in
decides to visit Moscow in person.

He would restore the order!

Such thing would never be published.

Then who would I write it for?

Write not for publishers,
but for those who distributes copies.

Do you know who you remind me?

Have a good evening!

It's time, professor.

Coming, comrade Koroviev.

Do you want to keep me company?

Not today, if you don't mind.

That's a pity. I'd love to see you
some other time.

Think about it.

I'm planning on staying
in Moscow a little longer.

(in Russian)
Need a lift?

- Please.
- Merci.

So where's everyone?

E-e-eh.

They all promised to come.

One for all. All for one.

They must be sleeping after yesterday.

I'll drop by you soon.

I was walking along this May boulevard,
thoughts swarming in my head.

Maybe I should start writing opera librettos?

Well, librettos then...

I bitterly regretted that
I had given up science

and condemned myself
to a miserable existence.

But God knows. Only my love
of literature was the reason for it.

Excuse me, can I cross over there?

The street is closed
throughout the whole parade.

A flag or a flower?

I'll pass.

Maybe I should request
a permission to leave the country?

Why would they need to keep an author

whose works cannot exist in the USSR?

-How can I...
-The pass is closed.

*Five-Year Plan in four years.*

No writer can be silenced.

And if he can be, then he's
never been a real one.

If you silence a real one, he will die.

*Stop him!*

There must have been hundreds, thousands
of people marching down the street.

But I swear that she saw no one but me.

She had a look of disturbance, even suffering.

I was struck less by her beauty

than by the extraordinary
loneliness in her eyes.

Do you like my flowers?

No.

Don't you like flowers at all?

No, I like flowers.

But not this kind.

What else do you like?

The seaside.
Only I've never been there.

How can you love something
you've never seen before?

Are you a writer?

You guessed it right.

And you?

An angel?

Angel...

I'm rather a witch.

At once I realized that
never have I liked

or would like anyone
as much as this woman.

I already knew it that same day

when we found ourselves, quite unawares,
below the Kremlin wall.

We talked as though we had
only parted the day before.

As though we had known
each other for years.

Aren't you afraid to say
such things to a stranger?

Telling the truth is easy and pleasant.

So you're a writer. And what do you write?

Currently nothing.

I have one idea, but it's doomed.

It makes it only more interesting.
Will you tell me?

It's one of my favorite places in Moscow.

But soon it'll change too.

Imagine the time when all these grand projects

will turn into colossal
buildings and monuments.

And over there they'll open a tram line.

And right here, along the new Patriarch's Ponds, a literary magazine editor M.A. Berlioz

will be strolling together with a young
poet Ivan Panyrev who uses a pseudonym Bezdomny.

After the Alexander garden I invited her to the Patriarch's Ponds.

-The Patriarch's?!

This is exactly where all this hapenned.

What hapenned?

This is where we met him.

A consultant.

Tell me, I beg you.

They come up to a water shop
and want some Narzan - there's none.

So they take apricot soda.
And here they meet him.

Meet who?

The thing is that long before Jesus
there were lots of other divine sons.

Berlioz was commissioning Bezdomny
an anti-religious poem for another book.

So he was giving him a sort of
a lecture for some guidance.

None of those ancient historians
has mentioned anything about Christ.

Even though they were supposed
to be his alleged contemporaries.

There isn't a single Eastern religion

without a chaste virgin
who gave birth to the God.

So Christians couldn't do anything better

but creating their own Jesus
who in fact never existed.

This is what you should
emphasize in your art.

You've opened my eyes.
I'll rewrite it.

Excuse me.

I'm sorry for allowing myself
to interrupt you without introducing myself.

However, the topic of your discussion
is so curious that I couldn't...

May I take a seat?

If I heard it right, you claimed
that Jesus never existed.

You heard it right.
Exactly like this.

How interesting.
And did you agree with your companion?

A hundred percent.

Beautiful.

So it means that you both are... atheists?

Of course, we are atheists.

Thank you with all my soul.

Wait, what are you thanking him for?

For very important information which
interests me greatly as a traveller.

But what about proofs of
the existence of God?

As far as I know, there are
at least fünf - five of them.

According to Kant.

He's also unconvincing.

I wish I could take
this Kant and his proofs

and send them to the Solovki
prison for a few years!

Sh-sh-sh, Ivan!

No, no, no. He's right.
Him - to Solovki.

However, if you say that there's no God,

then who rules all this?

People, lives and order of the universe?

The man himself. With his own hands.

Don't be ridiculous!

A man can't even plan things for some
laughably short term of a thousand years.

He can't even be sure
about his tomorrow.

Imagine. You get sick.

Let's say it's... aaagghh... lung cancer.

And you don't feel
so almighty anymore.

It can be even worse.

A man can slip up
and CHINK - fall under a tram.

Won't you tell me that he
arranged that for himself?

Man is mortal. No one will argue with that.

-Yes-yes! Of course he is!

But the trouble is that
man is mortal so suddenly.

And he can't even say
what he'll be doing tonight.

Now there you exaggerate.

I know what I'm going
to be doing tonight.

Provided of course that a brick
doesn't fall on my head in the street.

A brick, ha-ha!

No, not like this.

Nothing will fall on your
head, don't worry.

Your death will be different.

Perhaps you know how I'm going to die?

The head.

Your head will be cut off.

By whom?

Enemies?

Foreign spies?

Tonight I'll be in my house.

That's impossible.

Why?

Because Annushka has already
bought the cooking oil.

Not only that, she's
already spilled it.

What has oil got to do with it?

And who is Annushka?

Comrade, have you ever hapenned
to be in...

some mental houses by any chance?

Ha-ha-ha!

Yes! I have, Ivan Nikolayevich.

How do you know my name?

Pardon me, everybody knows you!

I assume you'd like to smoke?
What do you prefer?

Our brand, the blue one. Why?

Here you are.

And then I thought that he was
no foreign consultant. He was a spy!

Are you German?

You speak Russian very well.

[T. WOLAND. PROFRSSOR]

What's your specialty?

Where did you stay? At a hotel?

At your apartment.

The devil doesn't
exist either, I suppose?

That's enough, okay?
There's no devil.

How funny it turnes out.

Whatever you look at, it doesn't exist.

Professor, please stay here
with comrade Bezdomny.

I'll make a quick call.
And then we'll take you wherever.

Of course, go ahead.

One last thing before I go:
the devil exists, believe me.

This is all I ask.

And there's a proof of it.
The seventh one.

And it's about to be
demonstrated to you.

Okay.

Keep an eye on him.
I'll make a call and get help.

-Can't find the turnstile, buddy?

This way, please.

Straight ahead.
And there it is.

Straight on.

There.

How about buying me a pint
for my help, sir?

Oof.

Uh-oh! Uh-oh!

Move, you fool!

The head had rolled so far
that they only found it by dusk.

-Thanks!

You indeed have a very rich imagination.

What is next?

Next...

Next...

I don't know yet.

You surely must write it down.

Thank you for walking me home.

Wait.

I live in the Mansurovsky alley.

In an only wooden house there.
The entrance...

I'm married.

...via the gate...

But you still write it.

Write it.

Chapter one.

"Never Talk to Strangers".

At the sunset hour of one warm spring day

two men were to be seen at
Patriarch's Ponds.

The first of them - dressed in ...

Chapter four. "The Pursuit".

As the poet heard the first cry
he rushed towards the turnstile.

*Step aside! Step aside!*

As I heard the first cry
I rushed towards the turnstile.

Of course I forgot all
about the mad German.

I could do nothing but wonder

how one minute I could've been
talking to Berlioz

and the next minute - his head...

*He threw himself under my wheels!*

*Doctor!*

*Where's the head? Did anybody see it?*

*There's spilled oil at the turnstile!*

*Annushka spilled it!*

It's Misha! Berlioz!

It's Misha!

It's Misha!

Get away!

It's him!

There!

That consultant. He killed!
Catch him!

A-A-A-A! Catch him!

Police! He's leaving!

Freeze!

Ahaha! Ahahaaa!

Freeze I said!

People! He's leaving!

Stop him!

Freeze!

A spy!

Over there!

(cat)
My ticket.

No cats allowed! Shoo!

Get out! Or I'll call the police!

(cat)
What a brute.

Stop!

A cat on the roof!

You have a cat on the roof!

Wait! A cat! There's a cat!

Freeze! It's a spy!

Stop!

[Building 13]

Comrades! Help! A spy!

[finds a holy picture]

Catch up and overtake, young man!
(pop Soviet slogan)

Comrades! Comrades!

Let me in!

Silence! Silence!

How did police let him
walk around like that?

He has come!

Who has come, comrade Bezdomny?

The consultant!

And this consultant... at the Patriarch’s Ponds...

He's killed Misha Berlioz!

Killed our Misha!

Mikhail Alexandrovich died?

He was killed!

We must catch the consultant!
Do you understand? He'll cause troubles!

Huge toubles!

Pardon me.

What do you mean by "killed"?

Who killed?

The consultant!

We must catch him!

While you're sitting here!
And celebrating!

Here!

Hear me out, people!

Call the police right now!

And demand!

Five motorcycles with machine-guns!

Bezdomny, take it easy.

I'm easy.

Be so kind...

-I'll be kind! But not to you!

*Call the loony bin!*

Let me go! Let me go!

And this was my own
brothers in literature!

This is how I got in here.

You can only blame yourself, my dear.

You shouldn't have been so cheeky
and even arrogant to him.

But WHO is he at last?

Yesterday you met Satan
at the Patriarch’s Ponds.

It can't be! Satan doesn't exist.

You're clearly not the one to say this.

You already got in the mental house
but keep saying that he doesn't exist!

He'll cause hell of troubles!

He must be caught immediately!

You already tried, enough of you.

As for him, he'll surely do something.

What a shame that it wasn't me who met him.

Why would you need this?

Coming!

So? Are you writing?

Yes.

Finished another chapter just now.

They're reconstructing here.
Just like everywhere else.

And here is a rosebush.

Sorry, it's downstairs.

I'm sorry, it's not really clean in here.

Want some tea?

Well, no tea. I'm out.

Can I read it?

You're welcome.

Do you have the title yet?

Meanwhile it's "The Dark Lord".

I'm glad it's meanwhile.

[THE DARK LORD]

"The Great Chancellor"?

I'll keep thinking.

I know why you named him Woland.

It's one of the Mephisto's
names in Goethe.

That Power I serve
Which wills forever evil
Yet does forever good.

I’ll leave you to it.

I'm sorry for allowing myself
to interrupt you...

However, the topic of your
discussion is so curious that I...

...who in fact never existed!

Here you are.

Bear in mind that Jesus did exist.

Then any proof of that is needed!

No proofs needed. It's much easier.

In a white cloak with a blood-red lining,
with the shuffling gait of a cavalryman,

early in the morning of the fourteenth
day of the spring month of Nisan,

into the arcade connecting the
two wings of the palace of Herod the Great

emerged the procurator of Judea.

Pontius Pilate.

(in Latin)
Four criminals, arrested in Jerusalem

for murder, incitement to rebellion,
contempt of the law and blasphemy,

have been condemned to the most
shameful form of execution - crucifixion!

Which of the two felons did the Sanhedrin
propose to discharge?

Bar-Abba or Ha-Notsri?

The execution will be carried out
shortly on Bald Mountain.

Felons' names are Dismas,
Hestas, Bar-Abba and Ha-Notsri!

*Bar-Abba! Bar-Abba!*

What is truth?

Are you a great physician?

No, I'm not.

Tell me, why do you
always say "good people"?

Do you call everyone good?

Yes, everyone.

There are no evil people in the world.

But only three of them are to be executed.

For, in accordance with law and custom
of the great feast of Passover,

at the choice of the Sanhedrin and with the
approval of the Roman government,

the magnanimous emperor Caesar will
return to one of these men his contemptible life!

The Sanhedrin requests the release of Bar-Abba.

Their crimes are not comparable in gravity.

Bar-Abba is guilty of a murder, while
Ha-Notsri - of making some absurd speeches.

It's stuffy today, isn't it?

Do you know Judas of Karioth?

Yes, I've met him.

A very good man and eager to learn.

The name of the man to be
discharged right now is...

Why? Even after my petition?

For the third time we inform you
that we choose Bar-Abba.

So what did you tell the crowd
about the temple?

Among other things I said that all power
is a form of violence exercised over people.

And that the time will come when there will be
no rule by Caesar nor any other form of rule.

Bar-Abba!

Your story is incredibly interesting.

But it has too many deviations
from the the Gospels.

You know, I witnessed it personally.

Secretly. Incognito, in other words.

So please don't tell anyone my biggest secret.

He seems to be a bit shy
in front of you.

When one doesn't want to upset an author,
they usually say "a lot has been done".

You didn't tell me about any
Jerusalem and Pontius Pilate before.

It's from my play called "Pilate".

After we met, I thought this all
could be interrelated and...

Strange, isn't it?

Strange indeed.

Do you already know
how all this will end?

I have no clue.

I can think of the next chapter,
but cannot guess any further.

[phone ring]

Listening.

Yes, it's me.

When?

Okay, I'm coming.

They urgently want me
in the theather.

Seems like they want
to take my play back.

I can walk you there. And you'll
tell me about the new chapter.

It'll be related to the theater, by the way.

Precisely, to S.B.Likhodeyev.

One morning he woke up
in his apartment, in this very house.

Its former owners were "compacted".
Now it's a co-living for the modern elite.

For a while this apartment had
a reputation not as bad as strange.

Two years ago people
started vanishing from it without trace.

Vanishing?

So, this chapter will tell how

S.B. Likhodeyev mysteriously
vanished from the wicked apartment.

A great bell was tolling
in his head. He felt sick.

And his nausea was somehow connected
with the annoying sound of a gramophone.

He ran a trembling hand down his
hip to test whether his pants were on.

The test showed negative.

Grunya...

Grunya...

Pain relievers...

Ivan...

Guten Tag, my dearest
Stepan Bogdanovich-h-h!

I'm s-sorry for my ap-pearance.

And voilà.

Follow the wise old rule
to cure like with like.

Voilà.

Aww.

W-weenies.

Oopsie.

S-sorry.

Ugh, Stepan!

Dear Stepan Bogdanovich, I see
you unwound a bit last night.

Port wine following vodka, right?

It was an... accident.

I hope now you're recollecting me.

Woland. Professor of dark magic.

Yesterday we signed a contract

for 7 performances
and arranged to meet at 10.

And, tadadadam, here I am.

Yes?

Stepan Bogdanovich?

Yes, it's me.

Here's one thing...

Purr-meow.

I'm having this artist...

Woland.

About today's performance.

Bonjour.

Grunya...?

I'll be there in 30.

Don't worry, Stepan Bogdanovich.

The cat is mine.

Grunya.

Oh yeah. Grunya.

Grunya's not here.

I sent her away to her family.
She complained that you had
cheated her out of her leave.

That's much better.

A-a?

Aaaaaaa, aaaaaaaa!

-Ouuuuuch!

Ouuuuuch!

Comrade!

Comrade!

Comrade! Ouch!

Are you blind?

-No...

Watch your seat!

-I...

You seem slightly astonished.

But I assure you there is nothing
to be surprised at.

They're mon entourage.

And they all need a place to stay.
So someone is an extra here.

That one, I rather think, is you.

- Yes, they've been behaving
disgustingly lately!

Getting drunk, carrying on with women,

as they're completely incompetent at work!

- And drives around in a free car!

I wonder how he got there.
He's as much a director as I am a bishop.

It's time to vacate the space.

Will you permit me, Messire, to
hella kick him out of Moscow?

Um-m. Yes!

Meow.

*Bon voyage.*

Shoo! Shoo! Begone, demon!

It's okay, calm down.

I beg you, tell me, where am I?

You're in the clinic of Dr.Stravinsky.

What town is this?

Yalta.

Come on, Doctor.

Yalta.

-Yalta?

Today we need to go
to the Commitee as well.

So that they allocate us more wards.

You're still not willing
to take off your hat?

Praskovia Fyodorovna, double his dose.

Schizophrenic symptoms don't go away.

We must catch him!
He'll kill someone else!

Ah, we have a newbie here?

A poet.

Stepan Bogdanovich, how is it in Yalta?

Why Yalta?

When Likhodeyev goes on binges,
he always says he's left for Yalta.

Woland punished him less than Berlioz.

Stepan Bogdanovich deserves leniency.

He only drinks to turn the blind
eye on the dealings in the theater.

Here we go...

I'm very sorry.

Now you can dedicate all
your time to the novel.

Shall we have dinner?

Breakfast.

I'll come in the morning
for the new chapter.

Here,

here and here.

What's this?

-Your paycheck.

-He dares to complain!

Sometimes they don't pay at all
when a play is cancelled before the premiere.

It's at least something.

For half a year of work?

Wait a second.

Ivan Savelich...

One, two...Here.

Premiere freebies.

No, thanks.

We're sold out.
So you can make a good deal of these.

The full collection?

Yes.

You can sell it off my counter
to keep it clean.

Thanks.

You can stand here.

Come.

I though why not dine in the morning?

Where did you get all this luxury?

Let's say I won a lottery.

I'd never think that you could dance.

I thought you knew everything about me.

As you're a witch.

Careful.

Our family legend says that my
great-great-great-grandma

was trialed for dealing with the devil.

Ah!

I imagine you fly over the night Moscow.

On a broomstick?

Probably.

What I'm downed as an enemy aircraft

by the valorous Soviet aviation?

Well, you're invisible to them.

So you can't see me?

No, I can of course.

And you're...

bare.

What if I make you the heroine
of my novel?

Well, she won’t be quite you.

But her name will be Margarita.

Then let her have a paramour.

A writer who writes a novel
about Pontius Pilate.

Is he a good...writer?

Quite her taste.

It's the most important thing.

Will she have a husband?

Uh-huh.

He's a brilliant scientist who
has made a discovery of national importance.

Young, handsome, kind, honest.

Adores her.

But she never loved him.

Help me.

Another thing.

The day they met

she wanted to kill herself.

I have to go.

And very soon this woman
became my secret wife.

She would come to me in the morning
and leave at the sunset.

Put on an apron as first thing,
she would prepare breakfast
in the cramped hall.

-The administrator was agitated
and full of energy.

After the insolent
phone call he had no doubts

that it was hooligans
playing nasty tricks.

and that these tricks were connected
with the disappearance of Likhodeev.

Nobody knew about our liaison.
I assure you of that.

Neither her husband, nor her friends.

During the May storms, when water
rushed noisily through the gateway
past the near-sighted windows,

threatening to flood my last refuge,

we would light the furnace.

I wrote and she endlessly re-read it.

She loudly chanted certain
phrases that she liked.

She boded fame and urged me on.

It was then when she began
to call me the Master.

She said that her entire life
was in this novel.

We loved each other so deeply
that we became completely inseparable.

We were sure that fate itself
had brought us together at that boulevard.

And that we had been ment
for each other for eternity.

"Pilatism".

What is this?

This is the Soviet criticism
of my art.

Why do you collect them?

I'm proud of them!

I've never been written about this much.

"Religious dauber under
the guise of a writer".
O.Latunsky.

It's my favorite one.

"With red-hot iron, we must
burn out from the Soviet press

this ugly abscess of hateful tzarism

covered with a fig leaf of literature".

Do you know where he lives?

Who?

Latunsky.

In the house of Drama
and Literature Workers.

Why?

Margarita Nikolayevna,
what are you up to?

Breaking Latunsky's windows.

With a hammer?
What if he lives high?

You can't take offence from
critics and executors.

It's not out of malice.
It's just his job.

Then what one should do?
Write a funny sketch about him?

Wonderful idea, actually.

Everyone has his own methods.

Margarita Nikolayevna.

I hope he's at home.

Good afternoon.

Meet Aloysius.

Playwrighter.

Screenwriter.

Margarita...

Lover.

Muse.

I wonder what novels
are made with such a muse?

He didn't try to preach
to the soldiers, did he?

The only thing he said was
that among human vices

he considered cowardice
one of the worst.

He has to be buried in a secret place.

This land is full of superstitions.

And every day they expect
the coming of the Messiah.

You're certainly right.

And the other matter...

Judas of Kiriath.

He is responsible for
Yeshua’s detention, right?

Yeah.

I was informed that this Judas
would be stabbed tonight.

-Tonight?

-Tonight.

That's why I ask you
to look into this matter.

To take all measures to protect
Judas of Kiriath.

Understood.

But this night...

I'm sure he'll be stabbed this night.

I rely on you.

The third man squatted down
beside the body and looked into his face.

A few seconds later there was
not a living soul on the road.

The lifeless body lay
with arms outstretched.

It's not only about ancient Judea.

It's all about now too.

They talk just like that now.

And understand each other
at half word.

It's clear who the secret
service's head represents.

But Pilate? He's the...?

Well...

People in our studio
vanish almost every day.

And everyone is scared
to ask about it.

Maybe he got sick?..

Just like in your wicked apartment.

I were you, I wouldn't read
this to anybody.

To be on the safe side.

Even to you?

Look.

Do you want to read my new script?

The idea is director's though.

But I wrote some interesting
lines, I think.

It's like a musical comedy
about a communal farm.

In the Hollywood style.

You listening?

-Ah yeah. Go ahead.

A young tractor driver falls
in love with a milkmaid.

She sings and dances
in a local ensemble.

Then communist auditors
come to the village...

-Disposess everyone.

And a merry dance at the end.

Huh?

I got you.

Not everyone can afford
to be so uncompromising.

You don't need to pay child support.

Sorry.

Shall we go to the
theater this Sunday?

They stage a musical instead
of my play. "Forward to the future".

For your inspiration.

Another time.

I have to report to the
artistic council.

[PROFESSOR DR. T.WOLAND]

Forward!

To the future!

(in German)
I should admit.

I've never seen such a confidence
in the future like here.

You can think less of the present
having your mind in tomorrow.

Thanks a lot for inviting.

It's a wonderful place to observe

your "population", as you call it now.

Greetings, simple worker at the bench.

I'm joining the Party.
I'm the son of the Land of Soviets.

The old world is destroyed!

But the new one is yet to be built.

Ah, how much I'd love
to see this new world!

What year should we go

to see how our great country
lives with our own eyes?

I'm setting December 30, year 2022!

Let's go!

*We mark exactly one hundred years since
the foundation of our great and inviolable...*

*Soviet Union!*

Dear girls, where are we now?

In the Soviet Union of People's Republics!

And how many republics
does it have now?

All! All republics of the world!

Then tell us, how do you
live here, in the future?

We'd better sing about it!

♪ Go around the whole world ♪

♪ You won't find another land
With all people just as equal ♪

♪ From most young and to most old! ♪

♪ And in our wonderful state ♪

-I'll be right back.

♪ We have a quite full plate! ♪

Ahahahaha!

Ehehehe!

-Aaa!

Good evening! Good evening, comrades!

Hullo! Hullo!

Ex-excuse me, who are you?

Here!

I don't understand...

-Read!

From the Leader himself!

Here!

Stand here!

D-dear guests, we have slight
changes in the program.

M-meet a famous foreign
artist, Monsieur Wolánd.

Wóland! Wóland! Wóland!
Ahahaha!

W-with his seance of dark magic...

But no magic exists of course!

Maestro Woland is just a higly
professional conjurer!

And the most interesting part
of the show will be...

t-the exposure of the trick.

Ahahaha!

We ask m-maestro Woland
to begin the seance.

Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!

Tell me, dear Fagott, do you think

that the population of Moscow
has changed greatly?

Yes, Messire!

The appearance of the
city-dwellers has changed.

As well as that of the city itself.

Now there are these... trams, automobiles.

But of course I wonder more

if these city-dwellers
have changed inside.

Exactly like it, Messire!
It's the most important question!

Less talking though, dear Fagott.

The audience is getting bored.

Show something simple for a start.

-Something simple!

Yes, Messire! Bravo, bravo!

Please welcome
"See Nothing, Hear Nothing"!

Fly far, little ball!
Bring joy to them all!

It flies!

Money! Money! Money!

More! More! More!

Grab it! Grab it!

Money! Money! Money!

Don't be shy!

There's enough for everyone!

-Please, stop it! Calm down!

Comrades! Stop it!

Comrades, we've just witnessed
so-called mass hypnosis!

That's the best proof
that magic doesn't exist!

Comrades! Comrades!

*Go off the stage!*

-People! The bills are real!

-Absolutely!

And THIS one annoys me!

Pardon?

He's constantly poking his nose!

Excuse me.

Distracts us!

He's spoiling our seance!

People, what should we do to him?

Kick him out of the theater!

For ever!

Rip his head off!

Rip his head off!

Rip it! Rip it! Rip it!

Don't you wory!

Go to your favorite spot!

Where you stand.

Right here!

Behemoth, are you ready?

-Always ready.

Aaand EIN!

Aaand ZWEI!

Aaand DREI!

I got it! My headie!

Azazello!

Will he lie again or not?

For God's sake, don't torture!
Forgive him!

Messire!

What's your order?

-Well.

They're like any other people.

Love money.

Like in any times.

And mercy sometimes
touches their hearts.

In general, they resemble old ones.

But the housing problem has
corrupted them, yeah.

Take my apartment!

Paintings too!

Only return my head!

Put it back then.

Stand still!

-What the hell are you doing!

Now, when we've got rid
of this wet blanket

and your pockets are full of cash,

let's open...

ladies

boutique!

Aah?

Woohoo!

Woohoo!

Élégance! Magnifique! Incroyable!

Bonjour, Moscow.

Totally gratis, our small boutique
exchanges soviet women's dresses and shoes

for the latest Parisian models.

Guerlain, Chanel №5, Mitsouko, Narcisse Noir.

Evening gowns. Cocktail dresses.

Who's brave?
Come to our boutique!

Hurry!

-Me...
-Don't.

Don't be shy!

Oh! Bravo, bravo, bravo!

We'll turn you into a gem!

Come inside!

Close!

Alley-oop!

Ha-ha!

Abracadabra!

Voilà!

Please!

Please come with me!

Abracadabra! Voilà!

Line up!

Please!

Let me go!

Where?!

And what do you need?

My wife is sick!
Can I go there too?

Please, welcome!

As you please!

Alley-oop!

Alley-oop!

Alley-oop!

Alley-oop!

Alley-oop!

Alley-oop!

Voilà!

Attention, Monsieur and Madame.

Due to late hour

our boutique is closed!

Yes-yes, it's sad!

Yes! Not enough time! I can't help it!

But there's good news!

Everything on the shelves is yours!

Let me go!

Tyrant!

Philistine!

♪ Everyone is equal! ♪

♪ And we have it all! ♪

♪ Clothes to wear and a full food bowl! ♪

Yeah, it'll be harder to cancel the love
of money than that of God.

Everyone is equal!

And we have it all!

Clothes to wear and a full food bowl!

Brilliant!

(in German)
Is it her?

Your Margarita?

Mine.

Twelve through five.
Five days a week.

How can one fail to sing now?

♪ Satan rules the ball here! ♪

♪ Rules the ball! ♪

How did you like
"Forward to the future"?

A lot has been done.

Why do you watch such things?

For inspiration.

And...this?

Also for inspiration?

Yet I've finished
another chapter.

Do you like to listen?

-Dark magic!...

-Not here.

You just need... some air.

I had a dream today.

I saw a strange, unfamiliar place.

Half-naked trees, and something
like a cabin behind them.

Suddenly the door of this
cabin flings open.

And you emerge out of it.

Tattered clothes.

Disheveled hair.

Anxious eyes.

You beckon me with your hand.

And I run to you
over some tussocks.

And then I woke up.

But it's just a dream.

Margarita Nikolayevna, is it you?

I was thinking if it was your
hat or not. You said...

Natasha, it's not me.

It's some other woman
that looks as like as two peas.

You understand?

It's Natasha, my maid.

I wish we could fly away somewhere.

To the seaside?

To a place with no one but us.

Every time I go to you, I have fear.

I don't want to come here one day
to not find you.

I've decided.

I love you over my life.
And I don't want to lie anymore.

I'd stay with you now.
But I don't want to do it this way.

I'll explain it to him.

I wont allow you.

Things won’t go well for me.

and I don’t want you to perish with me.

Is it the only reason?

-The only one.

The last thing I remember from my
life is a strip of light in my front hall,

and in that strip of light
her uncurled hair strand,

and her eyes filled
with determination.

Tomorrow morning I'll be with you!

We'll fly away.

Meet me at the aerodrome.

Those were her last words in my life.

I love you.

And then?

(in German)
That’s it for now.

I'm devastated.

What? No, wait!

This is magnificent!

You must finish it.

Maybe you suggest what Woland
could do next?

You're asking me?

Yeah.

Well I don't know!

I think he would hold
a party that night.

And bring all sweet evil
spirits together.

I like this idea.

I know where we'll go tonight.

To a wonderful party
at Likhodeyev's!

No, please no!

It's for insperation!

Not today!

I need to sleep before
tomorrow's departure.

A novel requires sacrifice!

And a great novel - great sacrifice!

No.

Let's go.

Bonjour.

Bonsoir.

Password?

Yalta.

Stepan Bogdanovich, meet new guests!

Your Hella (Gala) is
a natural vimpress!

-Emma, sweetie, do you
like black caviar?

-A lot!

-Help yourself!

Wow.

What a surprise...

Why so shy, dear fellow?

Come on in!

Take of your coats!

Gala, take care of our
guests please!

Comrades! A toast!

At the ball of Stepa Likhodeyev
the usual laws don't work!

Cheers, comrades!

It's the room of Berlioz.

Isn't he here?

He's not with us for a long time.

-I'll get it!

You mean Hector Berlioz,
a French composer, don't you?

He lies at Montmartre
Cemetery in Paris.

I don't know any OTHER Berlioz.

Oh! Osaf, dear!

-Stepan Bogdanovich!

Hello, my dear!

(in German)
There are more ministers than in Kremlin!

Recognize that one?
Behind my back, in the corner.

State security minister.

Indeed.

And you were afraid
it wouldn't be fun!

-Here, comrades!
Look who's here today!

-Ah! Glad to see you!

-Let's go.

-One moment.

I hope you understand it's
just my job. Nothing personal.

-I understand. Everything.

(in German)
Come here.

-As people who try to eliminate the bourgeoisie,
they look too much like it.

-Maybe this is how they
imagine communism?

We've prepared a little
surprise for you!

On this stage, welcome a new
theater and movie star!

Lyubov...

You thought Orlova?

No, comrades!

Luybov Bengalskaya!

Welcome!

Oh, Baron Meigel!

My bad... Comrade.

(in German)
Comrade Meigel has an interesting lifestory.

He used to be a real Baron.

Allegedly, he was given a choice.

Either three years at
the Solovki prison camp or...

-Good evening!

-There you are!

This is the writer who requested
to leave the country.
In his letter...

(in German)
-Baron is responsible for recruiting
secret cultural influencers.

-What a character!

-This is the ball of the dead
who don't know they'll die soon.

(in Russian)
Ladies and Gentlemen!

A toast!

Let's drink to communism!

That we've built in this
very apartment!

Ha-ha-ha! Bravo!

*Cheers, comrades!*

The fire roared in the furnace.
Rain lashed at the windows.

Then the final thing happened.

(in German)
Thanks for a great night!

Now I know how to finish my novel!

-Write it down before you forget.

-Good idea!

-And I'll help you pack.

Tell me,

will you take the small
Pilate with you?

-I'm not sure it's Pilate.

As nobody knows what he looked like.

-This is surely the procurator
of Ancient Judea Pontius Pilate.

-How do you know?

-How do I know?

I've seen him myself!

Just like I see you now.

Sorry!

Your novel got stuck in my head,
so I decided to be Woland for a bit.

Are you expecting any guests?

Perpaps they're interested
in your manuscript.

*Comrades, hurry up!
Departure is in two minutes!*

So you decided to get rid of evidence
of anti-soviet propaganda?

In vain! We knew anyway what
had been written there.

-You didn't have to burn it.

-About the tram that cut off the
Writers' Union chairman's head.

And the blackening of
the Soviet government.

Who told you all this?

Don't interrupt!

Who?

Let's say your lover.

What was her name? Margarita?

That is not true.

And what is truth?

The only truth is what
is inside of this folder.

He seemed unreliable to us
from the first moment.

It's written on his face.
He's not one of us.

I didn't even know it was Jesus!

And who did you think it was?

He said it was Yeshua.

I'm an actor, you see?
I play what I'm told to!

Who else is in your
counter-revolutionary group?

Theater director Likhodeyev?

He incited you to write
this harfmful play?

You even visited him recently.

He's not involved.

I was invited by Professor Woland.

Stop misleading the investigation.
We've checked everything.

You were alone at the party.
And no Woland exists in reality.

Believe me, he does exist!

I'll show you how we treat feigners!
That galleys will seem heaven to you!

(in German)
-Your novel has been read.

Yeah.

And they said only one thing:

"Unfortunately, it’s not finished."

-It's hateful to me.

This novel.

I've suffered too much because of it.

Nothing interests me anymore.

Except for her.

-Margarita!

Yeah.

But she said herself that her
entire life was in this novel.

And she's right.

The Master and Margarita can
be together forever in it.

All this depends on you.

For this you need to finish the novel.

-Unfortunately, I can't do it.

You saw me burn it in the furnace.

-Manuscripts don't burn.

-Who are you?

(in Russian)
-Who are you?

That Power I serve
Which wills forever evil
Yet does forever good.

Is it how it goes in Wolfgang Goethe?

You've got into a very
dangerous situation.

Article 58.

Treason and espionage.

There are people among our Leaders
who keep a close eye on your art.

Up there... They like when
you sroke against the fur.

Stroke. Understand?

Understand.

We'll recover you in the Writers' Union.

Royalties.

Then a cottage house.

Then a personal driver and a car.

Then you'll get everything.

Your sacrifice...

is pointless.

And yours is not.

What?

You'll be sacrificed.

At the ball.

What ball?

The Satan's ball.

You'll be the main entertainment.

The Queen of the ball herself will be
drinking your blood out of Berlioz's skull.

What is all this nonsense?

Woland is already awaiting you.

You've indeed gone insane.

[MANDATORY TREATMENT]

Fellow, did you suffer
hallucinations before?

And these supernatural powers
from your novel?

Do you think they really exist?

Then where are the proofs?

*But she said herself that her
entire life was in this novel.*

*And she's right. The Master and
Margarita can be together forever in it.*

*All this depends on you.*

*For this you need to finish the novel.*

We'll help you.

We shall start with 30 mg of morphine.

Tonight you'll sleep perfectly.

You'll feel better.

Can I ask?

What, sweetie?

A pencil and some paper.

It's not allowed.

Diagnosis: dissociative personality
disorder, paranoid schizophrenia.

We prescribe a course
of electroconvulsive therapy.

Let’s start with 100 Volts.

Chapter one.

"Never Talk to Strangers".

At the sunset hour of one warm
spring day two men were to be seen
at Patriarch's Ponds...

140 Volts.

Here's for your tale,
to keep your sheets safe.

Chapter nineteen.

You'll feel better.

"Margarita".

Enough for today.

[THE MASTER AND MARGARITA]

She doesn't know where I am.

And will never know.

-But you could've let her know.

-She would've received
a letter from a madhouse.

How can one send letters
from such an address?

A mental patient.

This is ridiculus, my friend.

-See you at the parade, dear?

No.

To make her unhappy.

I'm incapable of that.

Aloisius?

Where is he?

What are you talking about?

Is he alive?

How do I know?

Did you tell anybody
about the novel?

You're out of your mind, leave.

Leave now.

Tell me where he is.

Praskovia Fyodorovna.

I finished it.

I ask one favor of you.

If some woman ever comes here
and asks for me,

give her this manuscript.

-Her name is...
-Margarita.

And you're the Master?
I've read the name.

Okay. Now lie down.

Tomorrow morning I'll take
you to the procedures.

I've come say farewell.

Unfortunately, I can't be your
neighbor any longer.

-I'll keep my word.

And won't write idiotic
poems anymore.

I’m interested in
something else now.

I want to write
something else.

While I lay here,
a lot became clear to me.

-And that's good.

That's good...

Do you hear?

-The storm roaring?

-No, they're calling me.
It's time for me to go

(in German)
Full moon, like back then.

When the full moon comes,
he is tormented by insomnia.

He always says the same thing.
That the moon gives him no peace

and that his duty is a bad one.

He always says it
when he isn't asleep.

And when he sleeps, he dreams
one and the same thing.

A moonlight path.

And he wants to walk down it and
talk with the prisoner Ha-Nozri.

Because, as he claims, he had
more to say to him on that day.

Now you can finish your
novel with one phrase.

-You're free.

-I'm telling you. Your novel
is sure to bring more surprizes.

-This is very sad.

-No. Not at all.

- Professor Stravinsky.
- Yes.

How did you get in here?

I'm listening.

You have a patient. He's a writer.

I'm sorry, but I forbade to disclose
information about our patients.

-How did you get in here?
-I really need to see him.

-Please! I...
-I'm sorry, I can't help you.

And I ask you to leave
the clinic immediately.

Show the comrade out, please.

I know that he's here!
Get your hands off!

You wrecked him, yes?!

An insult is a common reward
for a well done job,

Praskovia Fyodorovna...

I'll be right back.

Wait!

I'll take care of her. Go work.

Go, go.

-You're Margarita, right?
-How do you know me?

-I recognized you at once.

I was asked to give you something.

-Who asked?

-The Master, of course.

I must see him.

Margarita Nikolayevna, your
husband called to say

he's only returning tomorrow.

You're done for the day.

Thanks, Natasha.

At the sunset hour of one warm
spring day in Moscow,

at Patriarch's Ponds...

...Berlioz was commissioning Bezdomny
an anti-religious poem for another book...

...She could see the Manege.

Margarita squinted in
the bright sunlight.

She was recalling how exactly
a year ago, this very day and hour,

she had sat next to him
on this same bench.

A funeral procession appeared ahead.

-I wonder who that oddly-faced
crowd is going to bury?

-Mikhail Alexandrovich Berlioz,
the charman of the Writers' Union.

So those following the coffin
happen to be writers?

-Uh-huh. Naturally them.

Perhaps there's critic Latunsky
among them too?

I see you dispice this Latunsky.

Huh? Margarita Nikolayevna?

I'm authorized to invite you
to dinner tonight.

To some very noble foreigner.

Not a single soul will know
of this visit.

And you can use the opportunity...

You're hinting that I may hear
some news of him there?

Here, take.
It’ll come in useful.

Margarita was sitting
in front of the pier-glass,

with a bathrobe thrown
over her naked body.

On a page torn from a notebook,
without any corrections,

she pencilled a note quickly
and in big letters:

"Forgive me and forget
me as soon as possible.

I'm leaving you for ever.

Don't look for me, it's useless.

Misery and unhappiness have
turned me into a witch.

It’s time for me to go.
Farewell".

*Tonight, at exactly half past ten,*

*you'll kindly strip naked and rub
this ointment all over your face and body.*

With her fingertip, Margarita put
a small dab of the cream on her palm.

The smell of swamp grass
and forest grew strong.

The cream spreaded easily.

And, as it seemed to Margarita,
evaporated at once.

Having rubbed several times,
Margarita glanced into the mirror.

Is everything alright?

How?...

Let me introduce myself.
Koroviev.

You're surprized with
the lack of light.

Out of economy, you think? No-no-no!

Messire simply doesn't like
electric light.

After you.

Please.

-Most of all I wonder, how all
this could squeeze in here?

-It's not so difficult.

For those familiar with
the fifth dimension

it doesnt take anything to expand
space to one's liking.

There's a tradition.

The Queen of the ball must
have the name of Maragrita, for one.

And for two, she must be
a native of the place.

I hope you won’t refuse to take
this responsibility upon yourself?

I won't.

Follow me.

Messire apologizes for receiving you
in his bedroom with no ceremonies.

-Attack in the way. Check.

-Come in, come in..

Please, don't be shy, come in.

O-o-oh!

Not doing great, Behemoth!

-The situation is serious
but not hopeless.

-Please! To the bedrom!

Greetings, my fair Queen.

Come in.

Please excuse me for
my informal attire.

Greetings, Messire.

Blood. Blood always has an impact.

Margarita was nervous.

She felt dizzy. Everything
around looked vague.

She only discerned the room
where she was prepared for the ball.

It was made of some black glass
or smoky stone.

-It'll be hard... Respect is crucial.

If you don't like someone,
you can't even think about it!

They'll surely notice it.
And nobody tolerates disregard.

Please, put your foot here.

Your gorgeous little foot.

Yes, like that.

Ha-ha-ha.

-Where are the guests?

-It's no more than ten
seconds to midnight.

It's about to begin.

Queen, allow me give the signal.

Me, me! Give it already!

The ball!

Monsieur Jacques and his wife!

I recommend, Queen.

A most interesting man.

He's known for having poisoned
the king's mistress in 1450.

Your Majesty.

-Mille merci.

-Enchanté!
-Queen is delighted! Ha-ha-ha!

-Queen is delighted!

-Ah! Signora Tafana!

She was extremely popular among
pretty young girls of Naples.

Especially those who got
tired of their husbands.

-Men can be hella annoying!
-Yeah.

-Signora Tafana sold
them some water in vials.

Girls poured it into
their husbands' soup.

And became free as the spring wind.
Ha-ha-ha!

Welcome.

-Mille merci.

-Queen is delighted!

Welcome.

-Queen is delighted!

-Enchanté.

Enchanté.

Queen is delighted!

We are delighted!

Ah, ha-ha!
Here is a newcomer!

-Fresh one.

-He wanted to get rid of a guy
who endangered his exposure.

So he ordered his secretary to spray
poison over that guy's office.

We are delighted, Dark Queen!

We are delighted!

We are delighted.

-Enchanté!

-Enchanté! Enchanté!

There was no end to this river.

Its source - the enormous fireplace -
continued to feed it.

An hour passed, then another.

Margarita showed no interest
in any dukes, poisoners, gallows-birds

procuresses, jailers, card-sharpers
hangmen, informers, traitors, molesters.

All their names became
jumbled in her head.

Their faces merged into
one huge blob.

Margarita’s legs were giving way.

She was afraid of bursting
into tears at any moment.

Enchanté! Enchanté!

We are delighted!
We are delighted!

And this is Frieda!

She worked in a cafe, the owner
enticed her to the pantry.

In 9 month she delivered a boy.

She took him to the forest,
stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth

and buried him.

(in German)
I'm happy to be invited to
the great ball of the Full Moon.

Oh, yeah! Here! Here you are!

Your handkerchief! Take it please!

Yes!

Come on in!

-Frieda.

-Come on in!

-Frieda! My name is Frieda!

-Lady please, come on in!
There’s champagne!

Escorted by Koroviev,
she returned to the ballroom again.

But now there was no dancing

and guests crowded between
the columns.

At the last stroke of the clock,
coming from thin air,

silence fell on the crowd
of guests.

Then Margarita saw Woland again.

Hah! Ha-ha!

It all has come true, Mikhail Alexandrovich!

And your session has
never hapenned, has it?

The head was cut off by a woman.
It's a fact, right?

And facts are stubborn things.

You've always been a passionate
advocate of the theory

that upon beheading, the man's
life stops and he goes into oblivion.

What a stupid theory.
All these theories are worth each other.

My theory is: each one is rewarded
according to his faith.

You'll go into oblivion.

And I'll drink to afterlife

from the chalice you'll become now.

Chalice!

The doorbell! He's here!
Coming! Ha-ha-ha!
Opening! Ha-ha-ha!

-Where are you taking me?

-Please come on in!

Let me introduce you,
the most esteemed Baron Meigel!

-Umm...
-Everyone's been waiting for you.

Here, here!

-Please come!

By the way, Herr Baron...

Rumors have been going round
about your exceptional curiosity.

Furthermore, wicked tongues have already
dropped words like rat, spy, stool-pigeon.

This will bring you to a sorry
end in no more than a month.

If that's the case, we'll deliver
you from this painful anticipation.

Your health, ladies and gentlemen!

Drink.

Drink! It's wine.

Fear not, Queen.

The blood has long since gone
into the earth.

And where it was spilled, grape
vines are already growing.

My Queen.

Take a seat.

Yes, yes, here.

Frankly, are you exhausted?

Oh no, Messire.

The night of the full moon!
The festive night.

And tonight I'm dining among
my entourage and servants.

And my guests.

-Drink it up.
-It's pure alcohol.

Maybe you want something?

No.

Nothing, Messire.

Moreover, if you still need me,
I'll eagerly do anything you will.

-Bravo!
-Way to go!

You've passed the test.

Remember...

Never ask anyone for anything.

Anything.

From anyone.

Especially from those
who are more powerful.

They'll come themselves.
And offer you everything.

So, Margot.

For your service as my Queen...

What do you want?

C'mon. Don't be shy.

For I'm offering.

Say.

Your wish.

I suppose I can ask for one thing.

Demand it!

I want that Frieda is no more given
the handkerchief she strangled her baby with.

You seem to be a highly moral person.

No, Messire.

Honestly speaking,

I asked for her only because
I was careless enough to give her strong hope.

So this doesn't count.

Margot.

What do you want for yourself, proud woman?

I want my lover back. The Master.

To make everything the way it was.

I ask to bring us back to
the basement on Arbat.

You can't make everything
exactly the way it was.

But we'll try our best.

It's you!

You're not dreaming.

It's really me.

You do remind a witch now.

I AM a witch.

And very glad about it.

Ain’t misbehaving.
Ain’t bothering anybody.

Just reparing my primus.

I also consider it my
duty to warn you

that the cat is an ancient
and inviolable animal.

Well, inviolable ventriloquous cat.

Come right in.

Shoot him!

It's all over.

Step back.

Let me say farewell to the world.

-Get the net.

Net him.

Hey!
Watch out! It can explode!

[GAS TO EVERY SOVIET HOUSE!]

Quite an interesting city, isn't it?

Messire, I like Rome better.

The darkness that came from
the Mediterranean Sea

covered the city hated by the procurator.

Has everything been paid off?

Yes.

The time has come.

Time to go.

Listen to the soundlessness.

Listen and enjoy what you've
always been deprived of.

The silence.

That Power I serve
Which wills forever evil
Yet does forever good.

THE MASTER AND MARGARITA

Based on the novel of M.A.Bulgakov
"The Master and Margarita"