Original subtitles

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.

So.

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"