All language subtitles for Master i Margarita

ART FOR THE MASSES

O. LATUNSKY

Based on the novel by Mikhail Bulgakov

Comrade Latunsky, open up!

- Do something!
- We’ll have to break down the door.

Don’t do it! What do you
mean break my door!?

- What’s going on here?
- You’re flooding us, that’s what!

This is a respectable house goddamnit!

Mommy!

Don’t be scared.

Those noises are just boys
playing with slingshots.

Miss, but where are you?

I’m not here. I am your dream.

You lie down, get comfy
and I’ll tell you a story.

Once upon a time there was a lady...

she had no children
and she was never ever happy.

At first she just used to cry,
then one day she became angry...

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

Below, chaos reigned.

People were shouting
and screaming and running

on the glass-strewn pavement.

People watched from their windows,
trying to understand what happened.

You just can't stop scribbling, can you?

Is it about love at least?

In a way. But there’s more.

Come on, lay down.

That’s nice, that it’s about love.

You’re in it too, Praskovya Fedorovna.

Oh, you don't say.

And Doctor Stravinsky?

Of course.

How could I do without him?

He has his own plotline
with one of his patients.

Which patient might that be?
Don't tell me it's you?

No. A certain proletarian poet.

Ah, well, we've been admitting
a lot of poets recently.

Like this isn’t
a mental hospital, but a...

what did Gorky
call that place on the radio,

like we’re a Writer’s Union, right!

Shh, Shh. That's it.

Will you let me read it?

I’m curious to see what
you’ve been scribbling about us.

Of course. As soon as I’m done.
It won’t be long now.

That's it.

Now you rest up.

Clumsy girl.

You rest up.

And we'll have some
nice treatments in the morning.

Ivan was almost asleep

when suddenly the door
noiselessly slid open.

A mysterious figure appeared on
the balcony, hiding from the moonlight,

as a finger cautioned Ivan.

Can I sit down?

Profession?

I’m a poet.

And your name?

- Bezdomny.
- Oh my.

What, you don’t like my poetry?

- I detest it.
- What have you read of mine?

Why are you here?

You see, a year ago I wrote
a play about Pontius Pilate.

So you're a writer.

I'm a Master.

She sewed it for me
with her own hands.

And your name?

I don’t have a name anymore.

I’ve forgotten it,

along with everything else in my life.

ONE YEAR AGO

- Oh, hello.
- Hello.

PILATE

Could you sign this please?

It’s nice to see such interest
in contemporary playwriting.

Gala.

Gala.

Well isn’t this the most important
premiere of the season?

I’m kind of new in Moscow.
And, as it happens, I’m an actress...

And I'd love to try out
for your theatre...

It’s not exactly my theatre.

Have a nice day.

Excuse me for intruding, but
you’re part of the Writer’s Union, right?

You could say that.

There’s a real American jazz band

performing in the member's club tonight.

Hello.

If I understand you correctly,
you'd like me to invite you, right?

Hello.

Moscow is definitely
your capital.

Indeed.

The sentry is tired of waiting,
comrade playwright!

Hello.

- If you’ll excuse me.
- So, I’ll see you in the evening.

It starts at 8.

The actors are ready for the rehearsal.

Is the director here?

He’s not coming.

Hello. How are we going to rehearse
without the director?

I’ll come by in a sec.

The actors know their lines.

And if they have questions - just correct
them. You wrote those lines after all.

Hegemon.

The criminal from Galilee.

Move it!

Are you Ieshua Ha-Nozri

who called on the people to destroy
the temple of Iershalaim?

Good man, please,
listen to me...

You must address the
Roman procurator as Hegemon.

Understand?! Or must I beat you?

Yes.

I speak Latin, Hegemon,
if that’s more convenient.

Good.

So did you call for
the destruction of the temple?

And call for an insurrection?

Good man... I mean, Hegemon,

I never wanted to destroy the temple

and would never call on the people
to do this meaningless action.

You are a liar.

We have witnesses.

These good men Hegemon

confused everything I said.

I am starting to worry

that this misunderstanding
will last for a long time.

Stop pretending to be mad.

We have enough evidence to hang you.

No, no Hegemon.

One person has been writing
and writing all that I say.

Once, I looked at his parchment
and was shocked.

I had said nothing of what
he had written down.

What then did you preach about
the temple at the market?

Hegemon,

I said that the temple of
the old religion would crumble -

and a temple of new truth would be built.

What is truth?

The truth is...

that you have such a terrible headache

that you are cowardly contemplating death.

You have lost faith in people.

But your suffering will pass shortly.

You see... It's gone.

And I am very happy about that.

Untie his hands.

Excuse me.

What is going on?

Comrades, can’t you see
we’re in the middle of a rehearsal?!

They told us that
we need to change the set.

- How is this possible?
- Put the props back in place!

Have you gone mad?

I am an Honored Artist
of the Soviet Union!

Answer?!

We were told to urgently take down the set.

Who told you?

Here you are, Comrade Rimsky!

Fresh ones.

- Grigoriy Danilovich!
- It's okay.

Stagemen started to dismantle the set
while we were rehearsing.

The play has been canceled by
the People's Commissariat of Arts.

- But why? We passed all the commissions.
- Don’t you worry.

Today they cancel it,
tomorrow they put it back on.

- Why did they cancel it?
- I am just the finance guy.

Comrade Rimsky, please!

You’ll have to ask
Comrade Director Likhodeev.

- He’s not in his office.
- He’s on a "business trip."

- Again?
- Haven't seen him for the past week or so.

- Do you know where I can find him?
- 302 Sadovaya Street

Apartment #50.

Much obliged.

You're dead, White scum!

Time for revenge!

You'll remember Comrade Sitnik!

- I’m here to see Stepan Bogdanovich.
- Comrade Likhodeev isn’t here.

I was told that he's here.

He’s in Yalta. He isn't here.

(mumbling voice)
Water...

Stepan Bogdanovich!

He‘s not seeing anyone!

(behind door)
Grunya! Water!

Mikhail Alexandrovich?

How did you know I now live here too?

I didn't know.
I’m here to see Likhodeev.

Oh, right.
We're now in the same communal flat.

Your theater director and your editor
in the same apartment.

- How convenient for you.
- But he's not seeing anyone.

Oh no, believe me, he's
seeing most everyone!

Yesterday he had such
a shindig going on here.

Come on, we should be going.
The conference is about to start.

Conference?

Oh, that one.

I just recently moved in.

The previous tenants,
you know... disappeared.

You will disappear soon too,
you bourgeoisie intelligentsia!

You've got 3 rooms for just the 2 of you,
but we'll end that soon.

It is a bad flat! A very bad flat!

Annushka, poor soul.

Took the fight of
proletariat too close to heart.

Mikhail Aleksandrovich.

“Pilate” has been canceled.

You needn't worry.

Theater and literature are overseen
by different governmental departments.

So if the play got canceled in the theatre,

just means - everyone will want to read it.

And lucky enough, it's published
in the next issue of my magazine!

Trust my word as the
Chair of the Writer’s Union

If you had any problems
with the play's publication,

I'd be the first to know.

(Soviet Writer's Union)

Thank you Nastasia Lukinichna

for her report on the collection
of Soviet maritime stories

"Steersman George."
We look forward to reading it.

Next up on our agenda:

A dispute about the political
messaging of the play "Pilate."

We ask the author to come up on stage.

Sit down, please.

Critic Osaf Semenovich
Latunsky is invited to speak first.

First, I would like to remind

the assembled writers - that
the task of a Soviet critic is

to reveal the objective class
meaning of literary works.

And now, to the subject matter...

At a time when the government
is implementing policies

to once and for all rid the country

of harmful reactionary
and religious prejudices,

a member of the Soviet Writers Union,

creates an apology for
religious obscurantism -

by writing a play about Pontius Pilate

And Jesus Christ,

who he timidly renamed Yeshua Ha-Nozri.

In doing so, he hides behind a period piece

to undertake a harsh
critique of the Soviet Union.

- May I?
- I haven't finished yet.

Sit down, please.

To quote this Ha-Nozri:

"All power is violence against people."

What does the writer really mean by this?

That the power of the proletarian
dictatorship - is also violence?

Yes, it is violence. But this is
a just and necessary violence.

Comrades! And so it goes on.

“Pilate” is a politically harmful and
extremely dangerous piece of work

that has no place in Soviet literature!

Bravo!

You're right!

Next up, please welcome...

Comrades!
A small ad-lib!

One day, old man Pilate
Went to work at the Narkomat!

Comrade Bezdomny, we
have no time for ad-libs!

Poem readings are
allowed in designated slots.

Just one more!

Why seek Eden, where tales are spun, When
there's Crimea's garden basking in sun?

Quiet!

Speaking of which, what about
the promised vacation trips to Crimea?

And about the housing issue...

Poprikhin, will you stop
haggling about the housing,

- or do I need to have you removed?
- I will stop haggling.

Thank you.

Now, back to the debates.

Please welcome Boris Petrovich Miegel.

How could a reactionary play like "Pilate"

be published in a magazine...

And even be almost staged
at a prominent theater?

As the saying goes: "in fishless
times even Pilate is a fish."

Our task is not to prohibit the play,

so that our enemies can
happily point their finger at us,

and claim that the Soviet Union
doesn't have freedom of speech.

Our task is to help the writer.

To channel his talent into
serving the working people.

As Comrade Lenin said, “Smart is not
the one who does not make mistakes.

The smart one is the one who knows
how to quickly rectify his mistakes."

Comrade Meigel, may I?

Please, Comrade Berlioz.

First of all, as the editor,

who allowed this play to
go to press, I would like

to sincerely apologize

for my political myopia.

I'm so very sorry.

I propose to withdraw
the magazine from print.

And I am certain that
together with the writer

we will find a way to rewrite the play

in an ideologically correct way.

Now let's hear what our writer has to say.

- I can speak?
- Of course. Go on.

Well... I already wrote my play.

Indeed.

But why not use your talent

to write about issues that are
really important to Soviet readers?

For example, the
triumphs of our proletariat.

I've never worked in a factory,

have never been at a slaughterhouse,

never planted wheat.

How can I write about things
I have never experienced?

As far I’m aware, you’ve never
experienced ancient Judea either.

I’m a historian.

Well, why not write about the
history of the revolution then?

I’m afraid you wouldn't
like my version of that story.

Comrades, one more ad-lib!

- Stop it, Comrade Bezdomny!
- It's short!

The Soviet poet, is not into Christ

In a pump he finds endless might!

Electrification,
Gasification, Oil

production, - are the
heartbeat of our plight!

The religion of
progress - our spirits lift!

Comrades! Quiet down!

Comrades!

Comrade!

Where are you going?

Out there.

You did everything right, my friend.

I wanted to support you, but
didn't find the right moment.

That was powerful.

Or stupid. Depends on the dialectics.

Who cares about dialectics.

Listen, well, as a last resort,
you can write them a novel

about the collective farm:
"How the Rye Grows”.

You could write that in a week.
You know, if worst comes to worst.

Wow, your place is like a resort!

Crazy how people used to live...

Such a fat cat.

- What’s his name?
- Behemoth.

Yours?

- He pays a visit when he feels like it.
- Just like me.

Mind your head.

In my communal apartment,
we now have a schedule

to use the bathroom. Can you imagine that!

How's a creative person supposed to

go to the bathroom on a schedule?

Your place is a writer’s paradise!

Well, after today’s purge they won’t
let me even translate kid's poems.

So, not sure how I'll pay
for this "paradise" anymore.

Don't let them get you down.

Their strength is in our fear.

Everyone will forget
this in a couple of weeks.

You should just act as
if nothing’s happened.

For instance, let's go to the
Union's restaurant tonight,

there’s going to be some...

- Jazz?
- Jazz...

- Right, I promised to get her in.
- Her? Who?

A certain ambitious young actress,

who is scheming to
take the capital by storm.

- My favorite type.
- But not mine.

I'll save you. Take one for the team.

You know you can always count on me.

And now welcome the Harlem Swing!
With the song "Hallelujah"! Take it away!

RESTAURANT

Aloisy Mogarych. Scriptwriter.
And this is Gala.

Nice to meet you.

Please!

- Champagne?
- Yes please.

If I have too much -
the dark side might come out.

That’s a risk I’m willing to take.

Excuse us, for a quick chat...

Listen, everyone's been talking.

We're all shocked by what
happened at the conference.

Most everyone's on your side.

And there is an idea to go for it.

Go for what?

Go for a walk-out against state censorship.
For creative freedom!

Tomorrow at 10 a.m. In
front of the Writer's Union.

But tomorrow is the May 1st parade.

Exactly. If not now, then when?

Just like Dumas wrote –
"All for one and one for all!"

I have a toast!

Let our talent be matched
only by our beauty.

Is that there Likhodeev?
The theatre director?

Stepan Bogdanovich, yes.
I need to have a word with him...

Comrade, please show
me your membership card.

As of today, your card is not valid.
The exit's there.

- What do you mean?
- That way.

Thank you.

And you must be a writer?

I heard this is a restaurant for writers.

I am a writer.

And, going by your accent,
you must be from Germany?

Yes, I’m from Germany too.

What are you doing here?

I was curious about this
Soviet experiment of yours.

Curious for work or for the soul?

Those are one and the same for me.

Hard day?

My play was canceled.

I've been kicked out of the Writer's Union.

But otherwise,

everything is just great.

Why did this happen to you?

In our country, what is permitted
yesterday, gets prohibited the day after.

A new country always invents new rules.

But what about people?

- Are they new too?
- New people...

People are the same as before.

However, as far as I’m aware,

not a single country in
the history of mankind

has tried to promote
atheism as a state religion.

That has to change people, don't you think?

You suddenly make me
realize how this all looks

in the eyes of a foreigner.

- Now imagine how it looks from up there.

- Or down there.

Ha, that would make a great book.
Maybe you should write it?

The Devil, in whom none
of the atheists believe anymore,

decides to visit Moscow in person.

He'd sure wreck havoc.

That could never be published nowadays.

Who would I write this book for?

Perhaps one should write
not to be published now,

but be republished forever after.

Do you know who you remind me of?

Professor, we're running late.

I’m coming, Comrade Koroviev.

Would you like
to join me for a quick tour?

I apologize, but not today.

Alas. It was a pleasure to speak to you.

Hope to see you again.
I'll be in Moscow for some time.

Please join us.

So, where is everyone?

Everybody said they’d be here.

All for one, one for all... Darn...

They're probably just
resting up after last night.

I'll come by to your place in a few days...

And here I was, walking
down this May boulevard,

thoughts racing through my head.

Perhaps I could be allowed
to write an opera? A libretto?

How could they censor an opera libretto?

I resented bitterly that I had
quit my academic endeavors

and condemned myself
to a life full of hardships.

But God knows that it was
all for my love of literature.

Happy May Day!

Can I cross here?

Tverskaya Street is closed
off until the end of the parade.

Flag? Flower?

No, thanks.

Perhaps I could try again with that
petition to be allowed to immigrate?

Why would they want to keep
a writer in the USSR,

whose works can't exist in the USSR?

- Can I cross?
- Crossings are prohibited.

- But I live on that side...
- Crossings are prohibited.

If a writer falls silent,

then he stops being a real writer.

If a real writer falls
silent, - he'll perish.

There must have been a thousand
people that day on Tverskaya,

but I swear - she saw only me.

I was struck both by her beauty

and by the extraordinary
loneliness in her eyes.

Do you like my flowers?

No.

Don’t you love flowers?

I do, just not those.

What else do you love?

The sea. Although I’ve never been.

How can you love what you’ve never seen?

- You must be a writer.
- Yes, indeed.

And you? A guardian angel?

Angel? No, more like a witch.

That day I knew that I'd never love

any woman as much as her.

This dawned on me as we passed

through the city, not noticing it.

And wound up at the Kremlin wall.

We talked as though we
saw each other yesterday.

As though we had known
each other for years.

Are you not afraid to say
those thing to a stranger?

It's easy and pleasant to speak the truth.

Are you writing something
new at the moment?

Not really.

- Although, I have an idea, but...
- But?

It can never be published.

That makes it even
more interesting. Tell me.

The Ponds are one of my
favorite places in Moscow.

But soon this too will be destroyed.

Just imagine when all these
“grand constructions” are completed.

There’ll be gigantic buildings everywhere.

And even here, on old
Bronnaya, there’ll be tram lines...

The story starts here, on
the New Patriarch Ponds.

An editor of a literary magazine,
one Mikhail Aleksandrovich Berlioz,

is taking a stroll with a young
poet, Ivan Nikolaevich Ponyrev,

also known as Poet Bezdomny.

After the Kremlin,

we walked to the Patriarch’s Ponds.

The Ponds?!

- That's where it all happened!
- What happened?

That's where I met him!

The consultant.

Do tell me everything...

It was an extremely hot day.

We were thirsty and stopped at
the water kiosk to buy some mineral water.

And it's here, after buying some
soda, that they encountered him.

Him?

Trust me, way before Jesus

there were many other
sons of Gods in history...

Berlioz was commissioning
an anti-religious poem

for a new anthology.

And was now lecturing
him on how best to write it.

None of these historians of antiquity
make a single mention of Christ.

Although both of them lived
at the same time he supposedly lived.

There is not a single Eastern religion

in which a vestal virgin
does not give birth to a God.

The Christians were
not trying to be original

when they came up with a
virgin giving birth to Jesus.

Jesus never lived!

That's what you have to
emphasise in your poems!

You have really opened
my eyes! I now see it clearly -

and will rewrite everything!

Excuse me.

Excuse me, please,

for allowing myself to intervene
without even an introduction...

But the subject of your scholarly
conversation is so interesting that...

May I sit down?

If I’m not mistaken,

you were saying that Jesus
never existed, is that correct?

No, you’re not mistaken,
that’s precisely what I said.

How interesting!

And you were agreeing with your companion?

One hundred percent!

Amazing!

Is it safe to say then
that you are both atheists?

- Yes. We are atheists.
- Allow me to thank you!

What are you thanking him for?

For a very important piece of information

that is extremely interesting
to me as a traveler.

But, let me ask you, what about
the proofs of the existence of God,

of which, as you probably
know, there are at least five?

If you're referring to Kant's five proofs,

then they are not verifiable.

That guy Kant should get three years
at the Solovki gulag for those proofs!

- Ivan! Come on...
- Precisely! Precisely!

That’s exactly where he belongs!

But here's the question that bothers me:

If there is no God,
then the question arises,

who controls a man's destiny
and keeps order on earth?

Man himself is in control,
with these two hands.

Ha, ridiculous.

Man can't control his
destiny for some short time

like a thousand years...

Or even know what will happen tomorrow?

Imagine that you have,
say a sarcoma in the lungs.

You think you control anything with that?

Or even worse.

A man sometimes just
slips and falls under a tram!

How then can you possibly say
that man is in control of his destiny?

Look, a human being is mortal, of course...

Humans are mortal, but
that's just half the dilemma.

The other half is that man is
sometimes suddenly mortal!

And no one can say for certain
what he or she will do tonight.

Well, now that’s an exaggeration.

I know my evening plans pretty well.

Of course, if a brick falls on
my head on Bronnaya Street...

No, no, no.

No brick will fall on your head.
You will die a different death.

So, you think you know how I will die?

Your head will be disjointed
from your shoulders!

By whom exactly?

Enemies? Traitors?

Look, tonight I'll go to my
apartment on Sadovaya...

- No, that is impossible.
- And why is that?

Because Annushka has already
bought the sunflower seed oil.

In fact, she has not only bought
it, but has already spilled it.

What has sunflower oil
got to do with any of this?

- And which Annushka?
- Misha. Misha...

Comrade, have you ever
spent time in a mental hospital?

He's crazy.

I sure have, Ivan
Nikolaevich, and many times!

How do you know my name?

Ivan Nikolaevich, but
who doesn't know of you?

What cigarettes do you smoke?

"Folks," the blue pack.

Help yourself.

And then I realized that he must be a spy!

Are you German?

You speak Russian really well.

What is your occupation?

Where are you staying at the moment?
Where will you live?

In your apartment.

So, you really think there’s
no God and no Devil, correct?

Listen, stop it!

There is no Devil!

Well now, this is really interesting!

According to you, no one exists!

Professor, please stay here a
minute with Comrade Bezdomny.

- I'll make a quick phone call.
- Of course.

And then we'll walk you home.

Yes, of course, go and make your call.

But know - the Devil exists.

And, as a farewell request,

know that there's also a
seventh proof of God's existence

and it will soon be demonstrated to you.

Fine, fine.

Watch him closely.

Looking for the turnstile, sir?

Over there! Straight on, and
you’ll get where you need to go.

Straight on, straight on.

Could you spare a dime
for showing you the way, sir?

Get out of the way!

The head rolled so far - it
couldn’t be found until after dark.

You weren’t lying. You really
do have a good imagination.

And what happens next?

Next... well... I haven't
figured it out yet.

You must write this novel.

Thank you for walking me home.

Wait.

I live in the basement of a two
story house on Mansurovsky Lane.

- The entrance is...
- I’m married.

Through the gate.

But do write this book. Write it.

Chapter 1.

"Never talk to strangers."

As the sunset dawned on a warm Moscow day,

two men strolled by the Patriarch's Ponds.

One of them, dressed
in a gray summer suit...

Chapter 4. The chase.

I rushed to the turnstile as
soon as I heard the first scream.

And for a moment forgot
about that crazy German.

Instead, I tried to understand
- how could it be possible

that I was just talking to
Berlioz and then he lost his head!

What happened?

- Clear the way!
- Clear the way!

- He jumped in front of the tram!
- Move away from the body!

I saw that someone spilled some oil here.

It's Misha! It's Misha!

Get out of here!

It's him... It was him!

He killed him! Arrest him!

Stop! Catch him!

Stop!

Stop!

Comrades! Help!

Stop him!

Stop!

That's a spy!

Here's my ticket.

What? Don't be rude!

It hurts!

Stop!

The cat on the roof!

There is a cat on the roof!

Cat! There is a cat! There is a cat!

Stop! He's a spy!

Stop!

Comrades! There is a spy in your house!

Faster and better, is the
Soviet motto, young man!

Comrades! Comrades!

Quiet!

Let me go! Listen to me! Everyone!

What are you doing?

Quiet!

How was he not arrested, dressed like that?

He has appeared!

Who has appeared, Comrade Bezdomny?

The consultant!

And this consultant has killed
Misha Berlioz at the Patriarch’s Ponds.

He killed our Misha!

Has Mikhail Alexandrovich died?

He's been killed!

We must catch that consultant,
or else he will cause more evil!

- Unspeakable pains for all!
- Could you be more precise?

What do you mean killed?
Who is the murderer?

The consultant! We need to catch him!

You just go on singing and
dancing, ha. That's all you do!

What are you looking at?

Everybody, listen to me.
Call the police and tell them

to send five motorcycles with machine guns.

Comrade Bezdomny, calm down!

- I'm calm.
- Excuse me, Comrade Bezdomny...

I will not excuse you!

I was so naive to consider
them my brothers in literature.

Well, and that’s how I ended up here.

But you yourself, my dear,
are to blame for everything.

You shouldn’t have acted
the way you did with him.

But who is he for God’s sake?!

Yesterday, at the Patriarch’s
Ponds, you met Satan.

That’s impossible! Satan doesn’t exist.

I beg your pardon.

You’re here in a mental
hospital because of him -

and still say he doesn’t exist.

What else could he do? Someone
needs to catch him immediately.

You've already tried. And that's enough.

You needn't worry what he might do.

Such a shame that you had
that encounter and not me.

Why would you want to meet him?

I'm coming!

So, have you been writing?

Yes.

Just finished a new chapter.

They’re tearing down the street.
But I guess that’s everywhere now.

These here are roses.

Excuse me, but it's this way.

Downstairs.

My place is a little messy.

Would you like some tea?

Darn, there is no tea.

I am all out of tea.

- Can I read it?
- Please.

You already have a title?

I was thinking “The Lord of Darkness”.

Maybe keep thinking.

Or “The Great Chancellor”?
I’m still working on it!

I know why you named him Woland.

It’s a name for Mephistopheles
in Goethe's Faust.

“That Power I serve
Which wills forever evil

- Yet does forever good."

I won't disturb you.

Excuse me, please,

for allowing myself to intervene
without even an introduction...

Jesus did exist, you know.

But you don't have any proof...

I saw it all with my own two eyes.

It was like this: early in the morning,

on the 14th day of the
spring month of Nisan

the Procurator of Judaea stepped out of
the arcade of the palace of Herod the Great

in a white cloak with a blood-red lining.

Pontius Pilate...

Here chained are four
criminals arrested in Judea

for murder, theft and
insults against faith.

They have all been
sentenced to death on pillars.

Which of the two criminals does
the Sinedrion propose to let free?

Var-ravvan or Ha-Nozri?

The execution is going to
take place on the Bald Mountain.

The names of the criminals are

Dismas,

Hestas,

Var-ravvan,

and Ha-Nozri.

Are you a great doctor?

No, I am not a doctor.

Why do you call everybody "good man"?

Do you think everyone is good?

Yes, there are no bad people in this world.

But only three of them
are going to be executed.

In honor of Passover

there is a tradition in which

the Sinedrion and the Roman state choose

one whose despicable life will be saved!

The Great Caesar is very generous!

The Sinedrion requests
that Var-ravvan be pardoned.

But their deeds can't be compared.

If one is a murderer

then Ha-Nozri did nothing
but preach crazy preachings.

Isn't it stuffy today?

Do you know Judas from
Kiriath who betrayed you?

I have met him.

He is a very kind and curious man.

And the name of the
criminal to be let free...

Even after my request?

For the third time, I’ll repeat that
we intend to pardon Var-ravvan.

What did you preach to
the people at the market?

I simply said that all power is a
form of violence against people.

And there will come a time
when there are no authorities,

no Caesar, nor any Empires.

Var-ravvan!

Your story is very interesting.

But you must realize it’s
completely different in the Gospels.

Of course. But I saw
this all myself. I was there.

Secretly, incognito, so to speak.

So, don't breathe a word of this to
anyone, keep it an absolute secret.

The cat's a bit shy.

When one doesn’t want to offend
the author, they sometimes just say:

"A lot of work was put into this."

The transition to Judea was unexpected.

Pontius Pilate... You
didn’t mention him before.

I took that storyline
from my play, "Pilate".

I suddenly saw there was a connection...

Do you think the mix of
storylines is too strange?

It’s definitely strange.

Do you know how the story will end?

Not yet.

But I do have some
ideas for the next chapter.

Hello. Yes, it's me.

When?

I’ll be there.

That was the theater, they want
me to come as soon as possible.

Maybe my play is back on?

How about I walk you there?

And you tell me about the
next chapter along the way.

This new chapter will
actually be about the theater.

A certain theatre director, by the name of
Stepan Bogdanovich Likhodeev,

woke up one morning in his apartment.

His apartment is just here - see?

The previous tenants recently
disappeared and he happily moved in.

This apartment, for some time, had a
reputation of being a ‘bad apartment.’

Strange things happened there.

Two years ago, people began to
‘disappear’ from it without a trace.

Disappear?

And this chapter is about
the mysterious vanishing

of Likhodeev from the ‘bad apartment’.

A bell was ringing in
his head. He felt sick.

And it seemed that his nausea
was scored by the music.

from an annoying gramophone.

He ran a trembling hand down his hip

to test whether he had
his trousers on or not

and the experiment was inconclusive.

Grunya!

Grunya!

Painkillers!

Good day to you, my
dear Stepan Bogdanovich!

Sorry, wait a minute.

Voila!

The best cure for a
malady is the malady itself.

Oh! Sausages!

I'm sorry.

Stepan Bogdanovich!
Am I right to suggest that

you chased the vodka
down with port last night?

It was an accident.

I hope that now you’ve remembered my name?

Woland.

Professor of black magic.

Yesterday we signed a
contract for my performances

and agreed to meet here at ten o'clock.

And so, as you can see, I am here.

Yes?

- Stepan Bogdanovich.
- Yes, it's me.

Listen up,

What?

I have this guy here with
me... uh, that artist - Woland.

He's asking about his
performance in the theater tonight.

Bonjour.

I'll be there in 30 minutes.

Don't worry, Stepan
Bogdanovich, this is my cat.

And Grunya is gone.

You see, she complained that you
had not given her a vacation in ages.

Ah, that’s better.

Don’t, please! Comrade!

Comrade! Comrade!

Are you blind? Look where you sit! Hello!

You seem slightly surprised,
my dear Stepan Bogdanovich.

But I assure you there is
nothing to be alarmed about.

This is my entourage.

And my entourage need a place to live in.

However, it seems that there
is one too many of us in this flat.

And that one too many, I dare to say -

is you.

Yes, it's them! They've been
behaving disgustingly lately.

Getting drunk. Abusing women.

Using their power for their own
good. No work ethic to speak of.

Although, how could
they have a work ethic, if

they were utterly
incompetent to begin with!

They drive around in a government car!

I can't comprehend how someone like him
could become a theater director!

If he’s a director, then I am a bishop!

You hardly look like a bishop, Azazello.

Will you permit us, messier,
to kick him out of Moscow?

Uh, sure...

Shoo! Shoo! Be gone, demon!

- It's okay. It's okay. Calm down.
- Where am I?

You are at Doctor Stravinsky’s clinic.

Where?! What city?

Yalta, Crimea.

I have to go to the Committee today.

How many rooms free do we have?

Two. 301 just freed up.

Well well, my dear, you don't seem
to plan to take off your hat, do you?

Praskovya Federovna,
give him an extra dose today.

His dementia is progressing

as I said before.

The consultant must be
caught, or he will continue to kill!

Oh, who’s this new guest, here.

He is a poet.

Stepan Bogdanovich!

How’s Yalta doing these days?

Why Yalta?

Whenever Likhodeev
was on one of his benders

he’d always say he was
on a work trip to Yalta.

Woland was quite merciful to
Likhodeev compared to Berlioz.

Likhodeev deserves leniency.

He drinks to not be part of the
things that happen at the Theater...

So that’s what it was...

I’m so sorry.

But at least now you can
concentrate on your novel.

How about dinner?

It’ll have to be breakfast.

I'll come in the morning,
to hear a new chapter.

This.

This.

And this.

- What is this?
- Your salary, obviously.

So ungrateful!

Usually, when a play gets
cancelled there’s no payment due.

This is much better than nothing.

For half a year’s work?

Wait.

Ivan Sergeevich, come here.

Give them to me.

Here, take these tickets.
They're for the premiere.

- Thank you, but I don’t need them.
- It’s impossible to get these tickets.

You could sell them for a good
price, at the very least.

- Those are a collector’s edition of Gogol?
- Yes.

You can put them here, on my table.
So they don’t get dirty.

Thank you.

Stand here.

That's a great edition.

Why have breakfast when you
can have dinner in the morning?

This is quite luxurious.

Let’s just say I won the lottery.

I would never have thought
you knew how to dance.

I thought you knew everything about me.

Didn't you say you were a witch?

Be careful.

According to family legend,
my great-great-grandmother

was tried for having a
relationship with the Devil.

I can picture you flying
over Moscow at night.

- On a broomstick?
- Possibly.

I would be shot out of the
sky as an unknown flying object

by our valiant Soviet aviation.

You will be an invisible witch for them.

So, you won’t see me either?

No, I can see you.

And I see you...

Naked.

What would you say if I really did
include you as a character in my novel?

It wouldn’t be exactly you.

But her name would be Margarita.

Then her lover must be a writer,

who wrote a play about Pontius Pilate.

Is he a good...

Writer?

- She likes what he writes.
- That's the most important thing.

She has a husband, doesn’t she?

He is an up-and-coming scientist,

who made a discovery
of national importance.

He is young, handsome, kind

and adores her...

But she never loved him.

Can you help me with the buttons?

And another thing.

The day she met the writer

she was considering taking her life.

It's time for me to go.

And soon enough this woman
became my secret wife.

She came over every day at noon.
And left before sunset.

She would make breakfast.

The theater's administrator was agitated.

After the insolent phone
call, he had no doubts

the malefactors were
playing nasty tricks.

Baffled by the disappearance of Likhodeev.

No one knew of our liaison, I assure you.

Her husband didn't know,
her acquaintances didn't know.

As the May thunderstorms came,

and the waters rolled down

my half-blind cellar windows,

threatening to flood my humble abode

we kindled the stove.

I wrote and wrote. And
she read and gave notes.

She repeated aloud in a sing-song
voice certain phrases that she liked.

She foretold fame, she urged me on,

and it was then that she
began to call me Master.

She said that her whole
life was now in this novel.

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

We were sure that fate itself had
thrown us together on Tverskaya

and that we had been created
for each other for all time.

"Pontius Pilate-ism". What’s that?

This is what Soviet critics call my work.

- Why are you collecting all these reviews?
- I'm proud of them.

I’m now actually being written about.

"Icon-dauber under the guise of a writer."

- O. Latunsky.
- Oh, that's my favorite.

"We must remove this ugly abscess
of the reactionary aristocrats,

which barely hide their essence
with a fig leaf of literalism".

Do you know where he lives?

- Who?
- Latunsky.

The Dramlit Building
on Lavrushinsky Street.

Why do you ask?

Margarita Nikolaevna, what are you doing?

I’m going to go and
break Latunsky’s windows.

With a hammer? What
if he’s on a higher floor?

Listen, one should never be
offended by critics and executioners.

They're not really bad people.
They're just doing their job.

What do you propose to do then?

Just write some funny sketch about him?

That's actually a nice idea.

You have your own methods. I have mine.

- Margarita Nikolaevna!
- I hope he’s at home.

Good afternoon.

Meet Aloisy, he's a dramaturg.

And scriptwriter.

- Margarita. My...
- Mistress.

And muse.

I wonder what kind of novels
one writes with a muse like that?

Did he try to preach anything
in the presence of soldiers?

The only thing he said

was that one of Man’s
worst vices is cowardice.

He must be buried in a secret place.

This land is full of superstitions,

and people wait for the
Messiah to arrive any day.

You are definitely right.

And another thing...

This Judas from Kiriath.

Is he the one who betrayed Ieshua?

Yes... I received
information that this Judas

is going to be killed tonight.

- Tonight?
- Yes.

That's why I ask you
to do something about it.

You should "protect" Judas from Kiriath.

I see, but tonight...

I am sure that he is
going to be killed. Tonight.

I am counting on you.

He then squatted down by the stabbed
man and checked if he was dead.

A few seconds later there
was not a living man in sight.

The lifeless body lay
with outstretched arms.

That’s...

That’s not really about
ancient Judea at all.

It’s about now.

That’s how they all talk among each other.

They use these code words.

The Chief of the Secret
Police, that’s... it’s obvious he’s...

And Pilate is...

Look, my colleagues are disappearing
from our studio almost daily.

No one even asks questions about
them anymore. Everyone is afraid.

Like, maybe they’re just sick?

It’s all like in your ‘bad apartment.’

I wouldn’t let anyone read this,
if I were you.

Including you?

Listen. Do you want to
read my new screenplay?

I mean, obviously, I
wrote it just to pay my

bills. But still I think
it has some fun ideas.

It’s a musical comedy about a Kolkhoz.
Very Hollywood-style.

Are you listening?

Yes. What’s it about?

A young tractorist falls
in love with a milkmaid

who sings in a local band.

When suddenly a state
inspection committee arrives.

They purge the reactionary
bourgeoisie farmers

and in the end everyone
happily sings and dances?

Okay, I get it.

You should realise that not everyone
can afford to be as rebellious as you.

You don’t have alimony to pay.

I’m sorry...

Hey, I have these tickets. For
the premiere of this new play.

It’s a musical comedy
called "Into the Future."

For your inspiration.

Some other time. I need to prepare
for the Union’s conference and all.

Into...

... the Future.

I have to admit,

that I have never seen such
obsession about the future as here.

You can think less about
today if you live in the future.

You're quite right.

Thank you for the invitation.

This seems like a great place
to observe all the different types

of Soviet citizens in one place.

I am the noble factory worker.
Soon a party member...

I am a son of the Soviet Union.

The old world has been destroyed.

But the new one has yet to be built.

I so want to see what
the new world will be like!

What year shall we go to, so we
can see the future of our great country?

Let’s set it for the 30th of December 2022.

And off we go!

Exactly 100 years after the creation

of our great and
indestructible Soviet Union.

Comrades, tell me, where am I?

In the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

And how many republics are there?

All of them!
All the republics of the world.

Comrades, tell me everything!
How is life in this future?!

We will sing you a song about this future!

Go around the whole planet,
and you will not find

another country where everyone is
so equal to each other.

In our fabulous country,

we have enough of everything.

We share everything equally...

We have everything we need!

- What are you doing?!
- Read!

It’s from the One and Only himself.

Go on now!

Comrades, it seems that there’s
been a slight change to our program.

You are about to see a performance

by the famous artist - Monsieur Wolánd.

Wóland! Wóland! Wóland!

A master of dark magic.

Comrades, but we all, of course, know that
dark magic doesn't exist!

Monsieur Woland might just be very skilled
in the field of deception and disguise.

And this will be clear in the finale, when...

the magic is deconstructed...

Please welcome Monsieur Woland.
And his seance of black magic.

Tell me, my good Koroviev,

the people of Moscow have
changed significantly, have they not?

Right you are, Sir!

The citizens have
changed as well as the city.

Now they have all these...

What d'you call 'em... tramways, cars...

But I think that the more
important question here is:

have the citizens changed deep inside?

Yes, my Lord, that is the
most vital of questions!

However, we’re rambling on and on...

The audience is getting bored.
Let's start with some simple tricks.

We don't see anything.
We don't hear anything!

Fly! Fly!

More! More! Take it!

Comrades! Citizens,
we’ve just all witnessed

a demonstration of what’s
known as mass hypnosis.

The money is fake and, as we
know, dark magic doesn't exist.

Comrades! Comrades!

The money is real!

But I am sick and tired of this man!

He speaks when no one asked him to speak!

His boring comments are
ruining our performance!

Comrades! What should we all do with him?

Fire him from the theater!

Yes, cancel him!

Cut off his head!

What?

Cut off his head.

Just over here to your favorite place!
Here, here, here!

Are you ready?

Caught it! Caught it!

Your head! Your head!

Azazello, what do you think?

Is he going to continue his nonsense?

For God’s sake, don’t torture him!

Forgive him!

What do you say, monsieur?

Well, these people here are
more or less like others before them.

They like money.

As always.

They even sometimes feel compassion.

Just like people did in olden times.

The only change is that the housing
shortage has twisted their morals.

Take my apartment
just give me back my head!

Ok. Put his head back on.

Stop this awful performance!

And now that we’ve ridden ourselves
of that annoying man,

and you lot have pockets
bursting with money...

Let’s open

a boutique shop for ladies!

Bonjour, Moscow!

Our humble boutique will exchange

Soviet dresses and shoes

for the latest styles from Paris for free.

Guerlain, Chanel #5,
Mitsuko, Narcisse Noir,

evening gowns, cocktail dresses...

Don't be shy and come to our boutique!

Don't be shy!

Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!

Turn her into a diamond!

And close!

Abracadabra!

Abracadabra! Voila!

Abracadabra! Voila!

What do you want?

My wife has got the flu.
Can I please go in instead of her?

Voila!

Pardon Monsieurs and Madams!

Because it’s so late,
the store will be closing.

Yes, yes. I understand. It's sad.

But I have good news too!

Everything in the shop window is now yours.

Let me go, you tyrant and petty-bourgeois!

It will be much more difficult for these
new people to get rid of money than God!

We share everything,
We have everything.

We have something to wear,
We have something to eat.

It was amazing!

Is that your Margarita?

From 12 to 5pm.
Five times a week.

When in doubt - sing.

Satan leads the ball,
He lets metal fall.

What did you think of "Into the Future"?

They put a lot of work into it.

Why did you go?

For inspiration.

Is this for inspiration too?

I wrote a new chapter thanks to it.

Do you want me to read it?

Not here.

You need a change of scenery.

I had a dream last night.

I dreamt of some strange unknown place.

Half-naked trees and between the trees -
some crooked log building.

And then the door of the
log cabin swings open,

and you emerge from it.

Raggedy. Hair disheveled, eyes sick.

You beckon me with your hand.

And I run to you across
the swamps and hillocks...

And then I woke up.

It was just a dream.

Margarita Nikolaevna?

It is you!

I saw your hat and couldn’t understand.

- You said you were leaving...
- Natasha, it’s not me.

It’s some other woman
who looks just like me.

Do you understand what I’m saying?

Natasha. My housekeeper.

If only we could fly far away from here.

To the seaside?

Anywhere, where it
would be just the two of us.

Every day, when I come here, I panic.

I don’t want to one day come and see that
you have just disappeared.

I've decided.

I love you more than my life.
I don't want to lie anymore.

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

- I'll explain to him.
- That won’t be right.

Life with me would be a life of suffering.

I don't want you to die with me.

- Is that the only reason?
- Yes.

The last thing I remember from my life
is light shining through a crack,

shining on her, and
her loose strand of hair,

and her eyes filled with determination.

I'll be with you tomorrow.

We'll fly away.

Meet me at the aerodrome.

Those were her last words in my life.

I love you.

What happens next?

That's all.
I can’t finish it.

Wait, no! It's...

Magnificent! You have to finish it!

Perhaps you have an idea
what Woland would do next?

- You’re asking me?
- Yes.

I don't know.

Perhaps he'd throw a
celebration in her honor.

And he'd gather all the evildoers
and evil spirits in one place.

Interesting.

I know where we'll go tonight.

It’ll be great for your novel!

- To Likhodeev’s party!
- No, no. Please, no.

We have to! For inspiration!

I want to sleep well
before tomorrow's trip.

You need to sacrifice
to write a novel, and

to write a great novel
- sacrifice even more!

- No.
- We’re going!

Bonjour.

Bonsoir.

- Password?
- Yalta.

Gala, darling, where did you go?

Stepan Bogdanovich,
your guests are here.

Gella sure is a vampire.

- Do you like black caviar?
- I do!

Go help yourself! Enjoy!

What a surprise!

My friend, don’t be shy!

Come on in.

Gala, help our guests!

Comrades! I have a toast!

My ball is a country with its own laws.

Hooray, comrades! Hooray!

This is Berlioz's room, right?
He isn't here?

Oh, he left us long ago.

I'll open the door.

You mean Hector Berlioz, right?
The French composer?

He's buried in Paris
in Monmartre's cemetery.

And I don't know any other Berlioz.

- Osaf, my dear.
- Stepan Bogdanovich!

Nice to see you.

Where are you going?

There are more politicians here
than in the wall of the Kremlin.

Do you recognize this one?

People’s Commissar of State Security.

That's right.

Now you see how inspiring this is!

Look who came!

Good to see you!

- Come this way.
- I’ll catch up.

It’s all just work, nothing personal.
You must understand.

I really do.

Toast!

Come on in.

For the people who are trying
to destroy the bourgeoisie,

they act remarkably
similar. Don’t you think?

They think that this is
what communism looks like.

Comrades! We have a surprise for you!

Today, a new star will perform for you!

Lubov! Did you think I’d say Orlova?

No Comrades! Not her!

It’s Lubov Bengalskaya!
Please, welcome to the stage!

Oh, Baron Meigel. I mean,
excuse me - Comrade.

He has a very interesting story.

He really is a Baron.

And, according to rumors,
he was given a choice:

three years in a correctional
gulag on Solovki, or serve...

Have a good evening.

Here you are...

Is that the writer who
petitioned to let him emigrate?

What was it he wrote in his letter?

Since then, he has been responsible
for recruiting undercover agents

from the cultural elites.

Fantastic characters!

This is the ball of the dead who
don't yet know they are summoned.

Gentlemen!

Toast!

Let's drink to Communism!

Communism which has been achieved
in this one apartment!

Bravo!

Hooray, Comrades!

The wood burned in the fireplace,

rain lashed at the windows.

And that was the finale.

Thank you for the amazing evening!

Now I know how to finish this novel.

Perhaps you should write
down your idea before you forget.

Good idea.

I'll help you pack your things.

Do you plan to take little
Pontius Pilate with you?

I'm not sure that is Pilate.
Nobody exactly knows what he looked like.

This is the Procurator of Judea,
Pontius Pilate.

How could you be so sure?

How can I be sure?
I saw him.

Just as I see you now.

So sorry...

Your novel is so stuck in my head
that I decided to play Woland for a bit.

Open up!

Are you expecting guests?

Break it down.

Maybe they're interested
in your manuscript?

You tried to burn evidence of
your anti-Soviet propaganda.

We know all about your manuscript.
And what’s written in it.

You didn't have to burn it.

We know about the tram

which cut off the head of the
chairman of the Writer’s Union.

And about denigration
of Soviet politicians.

- Who told you all this?
- Don't interrupt me.

- Who?
- Let’s say for now - your mistress.

What's her name? Margarita?

This is not true.

The truth is everything
that is in this folder.

We all knew that he was unreliable,
from the first moment we saw him.

You can tell by his face
that he's not one of us.

I didn't even know
that I was to play Jesus.

Who did you think you were playing?

He said that it's Yeshua.

I'm an actor. I play what I'm told to play!

Who else is in your
counter-revolutionary gang?

Was the theater director
Likhodeev part of it?

Did he know about this novel?

Weren't you at his place recently?

He has nothing to do with this.

Professor Woland invited me there.

Stop obstructing our investigation.

You were alone, we have witnesses.

In reality Professor Woland does not exist.

If you don't stop
pretending to be crazy I'll

make the gulag seem
like paradise for you!

Your manuscript has been read.

Yes.

All I was told was that it’s not finished.

I hate this novel so much.

I’ve suffered too much because of it.

I don’t care about anything
except her anymore.

Margarita. Yes.

Didn’t she herself say that
her whole life is in this novel?

Look, Master and Margarita
can be together in the novel.

All you need to do is finish it.

I can’t finish the novel.

You saw me burn it.

Manuscripts don’t burn.

Who are you, really?

Who are you?

“That Power I serve, which wills
forever evil. Yet does forever good.”

As Goethe put it.

You’re in a very dangerous situation.

Article 58. Treason and espionage.

There are those in the government

who have been following your work.

They...

are not against being
stroked against the

fur... but they want to
be stroked nonetheless.

You do understand?

We’ll reinstate you in the Writer’s Union.

Pay you. Give you a dacha.

A chauffeured car. You'll have everything.

Your sacrifice is meaningless.

But your sacrifice is not.

What?

You will soon be sacrificed. At the ball.

What ball?

Satan’s Ball.

You will be the main
attraction for the guests.

The Queen of the ball will drink
your blood from Berlioz’s skull.

What gibberish! What are you saying?

Woland is already waiting for you.

You really have gone mad.

Compulsory treatment

My dear, have you ever suffered
from hallucinations before?

What about those supernatural entities
that you write about in your novel?

Do you really think
that they actually exist?

Do you have any evidence?

We can help you.

Let’s start with thirty
milligrams of morphine.

You’ll get a great night’s sleep.
You’ll feel all better.

- Can I ask you a favor?
- What is it, deary?

- Could you get me some paper and pencil?
- That’s against the rules.

Diagnosis. Dissociative
Personality Disorder.

Paranoid schizophrenia.

We'll administer a course
of electroconvulsive therapy.

Let's start from 100 volts.

Chapter 1.

"Never talk to strangers."

As the hot spring sun set over Moscow,

- two citizens strolled...
- 140.

This is for that novella of yours.
To keep the sheets together.

You'll get better.

Hide it.

That’s enough for today.

THE MASTER AND MARGARITA

She doesn't know where I am.

And she will never know.

But you could have let
her know that you’re here?

You suggest she receive a
letter from a mental institution?

I could never send her a
letter from such an address.

She’d then imagine me mentally ill.

How could I ever do that, my friend?

I’ll see you at the parade, darling.

How could I live knowing
that she was unhappy.

One, two, three. Left, left.
One, two, three.

Left, left.
One, two, three.

Aloisy?

Where is he?

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

- Is he alive?
- How should I know?

Did you tell somebody about the novel?

You’re not well. Leave. Leave.

Leave.

Where is he?

Praskovya Fedorovna.

I’ve finished my novel.

I have one last favor to ask of you.

If a woman ever comes here asking about me,

give her this manuscript.

- Her name is...
- Margarita.

And you’re the Master.

I read it.

Now, go to bed.

When you wake up in the morning
we'll get some good treatments.

I came to say goodbye.

I can't be your neighbor anymore.

I will keep my word and
won’t write poems anymore.

I'm interested in other things now,
I want to write other things.

In my time here I've understood a lot.

That’s good,

really good.

Do you hear that?

- A storm is coming.
- No...

that is my summon.

It's time...

The full moon. Just as back then.

When the full moon comes, he has insomnia.

And he always says the same:

"I have no peace of mind
and my job is the worst of all."

He always says that when he doesn't sleep.

When he does sleep, he sees a moonlit path.

He wants to walk on it with Ha-Nozri.

He knows they didn’t have the
conversation they were meant to.

You now can finish your
novel with one phrase.

Freedom.

Your novel is going to surprise you.

You will see.

It's very sad.

No, it isn't.

- Professor Stravinsky?
- Yes.

How did you get in here?

You have my attention.

You have a patient here. He’s a writer...

I'm sorry, I can't help you.

Patient names are confidential.

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

- Please...
- Sorry, I can't help you.

Leave now.

Show her the exit.

I know that he is here!

You’ve destroyed him, haven’t you?

Insults are quite common for
the doctor who gets the job done.

Praskovya Fedorovna...

Wait.

Just a moment.

I’ll see her off. Get back to work.

It’s you, isn’t it? Margarita?

How do you know my name?

I recognized you right away.

I was asked
to give something to you.

Who asked you?

Master.

I have to see him, please.

Margarita Nikolaevna,

Vyacheslav Sergeevich called to say
that his train will only leave tomorrow.

You can take the rest of the day off.

Thank you, Natasha.

As the hot spring sun set over Moscow

two citizens strolled by
the Patriarch's Ponds.

The shock of love
struck both of us instantly,

like a murderer strikes his
victim in an empty alleyway!

Margarita squinted her eyes
in the bright sunlight and remembered

that exactly a year ago to the hour

she had sat on this same bench beside him.

A funeral procession
appeared in front of her.

I wonder who that strange
group of people plans to bury?

Mikhail Alexandrovich Berlioz.

The Writer’s Union chairman.

So, these people are all
from the Writer’s Union?

Oh, yeah.

Do you know if the critic
Latunsky is among them?

It seems you hate this Latunsky.

Margarita Nikolaevna?

I am here to relay to you
an invitation for this evening

by a very distinguished foreign gentleman.

And not a soul will find out about it.

- You can use this chance...
- Do you mean I can find out about him?

Here you are.

You’ll be needing this.

Margarita Nikolaevna
sat at her dressing table,

dressed in a robe.

She wrote her note quickly

knowing exactly what she wanted to say.

Please forgive me and forget me
as quickly as you may.

I am leaving you forever.

Don't look for me, it will be useless.

I have become a witch from the grief
and calamities that have struck me.

It is time for me to go. Farewell.

Tonight, at exactly half past nine,

take off your clothes

and rub your face and your
whole body with this ointment.

With the tip of her finger, Margarita put
a small dab of the cream on her palm -

the smell of swamp grass
and the forest grew stronger.

The cream spread easily and, as it
seemed to Margarita, evaporated at once.

Having rubbed several times,
Margarita glanced into the mirror.

Allow me to introduce myself.
My name is Koroviev.

Are you surprised that there is no light?

I suppose you thought
we haven’t paid the bills?

No! Monsieur simply
doesn’t care for electric lights.

Please. Please.

What really puzzles me is how
this space fits in this building.

Easily! For anyone who knows
how to handle the fifth dimension,

it’s no problem to expand any
place to whatever size you please.

Now then. It has become a
tradition that the hostess of the ball

must be named Margarita and,

secondly, she must be a native
of the place where the ball is held.

I hope you won’t decline
this offer, will you?

- I will not.
- Please.

Monsieur apologizes that he will meet
with you in his bedroom informally.

Please, don't be shy!

Oh, this looks serious, Behemoth.

It's serious, but it's not hopeless.

Please, come in the bedroom.

Greetings, my Queen.

Please excuse my appearance.

Greetings, monsieur.

Blood. Blood will always tell.

You can't think disrespectfully
about guests, they will feel it.

They will notice!

Please, put your foot there. Yes!

Your magnificent foot. Yes, great!

Ten seconds till midnight.
It's going to start!

Queen, may I give the signal?!

Go on!

Ball!

Sir Jacque with his wife.

He’s quite an interesting one, my Queen.

He became famous in 1450
when he poisoned a royal mistress.

The Queen is delighted.

Signora Toffana

was extremely popular among the young
and attractive ladies of Naples,

especially among those who
were tired of their husbands.

- Can’t a husband become a burden?!
- Oh, yes.

Signora Toffana sold
them mysterious potions.

These women then added these
potions to their husbands' soups.

And a day later these
women were free as air.

Please!

- There are our new guests!
- Fresh guests!

A certain minister
wanted to get rid of

them, as he was sure
they knew some secrets.

So, he ordered his secretary to
spray a secret poison on their wallpaper.

Enchanté, Dark Queen.

Enchanté, my Queen.

The Queen is delighted.

There was no end to this river of bodies.

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

Thus, one hour passed
and a second commenced.

Margarita wasn't interested
in any of the dukes,

poisoners, gallowsbirds, procuresses,

prison guards, executioners, informers,

traitors, seducers.

All of their names became
jumbled in her head,

their faces stuck together in one blob.

Margarita's legs could barely hold her -

she was afraid of bursting
into tears at any moment.

And this is Frieda.

When she served in a cafe, her
employer locked her in the pantry,

and after nine months
she gave birth to a boy.

She carried the baby into the forest,

put a scarf in his mouth,
and then buried him.

I’m happy, my Queen, to be
invited to the full moon ball.

Please. Take it. This is your handkerchief!

Please. No. I can't.

Frieda! My name is Frieda!

Please go. Please!

The champagne is there!
That's it.

Accompanied by Koroviev, she
again found herself in the ballroom,

but now there was no dancing in it,

and the guests pressed back
between the columns,

leaving the middle of the chamber open.

Margarita didn’t remember
who helped her get there.

Ah, Mikhail Alexandrovich, yes!

Everything has come true, hasn't it?

Your head was cut off by a woman,
and I live in your apartment.

That's a fact.

And a fact is the most
stubborn thing in the world.

You were sure that once
a man’s head is cut off,

life ceases, he turns to
ashes and stops existing.

But that’s a silly theory.

My theory: each receives
in accordance with their beliefs.

Now you'll enter into a
state of non-existence.

And I'll drink from the grail you become.

Grail!

The doorbell's ringing!

Coming! Coming!

Please.

I am happy to introduce
to you Baron Meigel.

Come! Please!

By the way. Baron, rumors
have been circulating

that you have an unquenchable curiosity.

What is more, evil tongues have let
slip the words "eavesdropper" and "spy."

And that your end could be very near.

So, we are here to help speed it up.

A toast to your life!

Drink!

Drink! It’s just wine.

Don’t be afraid, Your Majesty,

the blood has long since
drained into the earth.

And where it was spilled,
grapevines are already growing.

Please, my Queen.

Sit down.

Please.

Are you exhausted?

No, Monsieur.

The night of the full moon
is a night of celebration.

That’s why, I’m dining
with those closest to me.

You are my guest.

Drink, please.

Perhaps you'd like to ask for something?

No. Nothing, monsieur.

However, if you still need me,
I am ready to do anything you wish.

Well said! That’s the correct answer.

We have put you to the test.

You should never ask anyone for anything.

Never and nothing.

Especially from those who
are more powerful than yourself.

When the time is right, they
will give of their own accord.

So, Margot,

what do you want for having been

the Queen of the Night?

Tell me, don’t be shy,

for it is I who am asking.

Come on, don't be afraid.

Do you mean I can ask for one thing?

Of course.

I want Frieda to never
have to see that scarf again...

the one she smothered her child with.

Are you a person of high moral standards?

No, monsieur.

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

Charm!

Do you want to ask of
something for you?

Proud woman?

I want my lover, the Master, to come back.

I want everything to be as it was.

And I want us to live like we did
in that small basement off Arbat.

Nothing can ever be as it was.

But we can try.

It's you.

Don't doubt, it's me.

You really do look like a witch now.

I am a witch and very pleased about it.

I'm doing no one harm,
I'm just mending this primus,

and I'd better warn you that a cat
is an ancient and inviolable animal.

Well, inviolable talking cat,

come on over.

Remise! Fire!

It’s all over...

Stand back. Let me bid
my farewell to this earth.

What an interesting city, don't you say?

I much prefer Rome, monsieur!

The storm from the Mediterranean Sea

covered the city that Pilate so detested.

- All's been taken care of?
- Yes.

It's time.

Hear the stillness.

Listen and enjoy what you
were not allowed to enjoy in your life.

Silence.

I am part of that power which eternally
wills evil and eternally works good.

THE MASTER AND MARGARITA

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