Among the series of Christian-themed films produced in post-2000s Russia that have attracted large audiences whilst also challenging the mind and spirit is the dramatic comedy directed by Nikolai Dostal, The Monk and the Demon (Monah i bes), based on a screenplay by Yuri Arabov.
The talented writer and screenwriter, who passed away on 27 December 2023 at the age of 69, was closely associated with Aleksandr Sokurov, with whom he collaborated fruitfully and consistently. The film The Monk and the Demon, a co-production by independent studios, co-funded by the Ministry of Culture of the Russian Federation, was released in 2016 and falls within the genre offable with a hagiographic underpinning, open to religious meditation – a genre specific to post-2000s Russian Christian cinema.
Nikolai Dostal, a highly regarded director in Russia, but relatively little known in Romania, made his international name with the resounding success of the dramatic comedy Cloud-Paradise (Oblako-rai, 1990), which won four awards at Locarno and other honours in France and Russia. The Monk and the Demon was the final film by the late Russian filmmaker, who also passed away in 2023, on 18 January, aged 76.
Following in the footsteps of the dramedy 1 – a spiritual parable from Ostrovul (2006), Pavel Lunghin’s Christian masterpiece – the film The Monk and the Demon enjoyed almost as resounding and almost as enduring a success, even if it did not spark quite as many theological disputes. The film was well received by specialist circles in Russia, but above all by the general public. It was immediately classified as an ‘Orthodox’ film, even though some purists managed to find fault with it in this regard (as, indeed, was the case with Ostrov).
The film has won a host of awards in Russia: the Grand Prix at the ‘Pokrov’ Orthodox Film Festival in 2016, the ‘Golden Eagle’ award for Best Screenplay, four prestigious NIKA awards (for Best Screenplay, Best Leading Actor: Timofei Tribuntsev; Best Supporting Actor: Boris Kamorzin; Best Sound Design: Maxim Belovolov) and other honours and nominations.
Drawing on the distinctly Russian model of satirical comedy set in a monastic environment, the film develops, in its first half, a spiritual fable in the vein of Ivan Turbincă and Stan Pățitul, spiced with delightful humour, in which the simple Christian both quarrels and makes peace with the devil, whom he overcomes through cleverness, humour and wisdom.
A number of striking and well-defined character studies, drawn both from monastic life and from the milieu of high-ranking state officials in Russia during the first half of the nineteenth century, bring to life a surprising hagiographic and sapiential fable, spiced with bewildering miracles, treated in an ironic and fantastical vein, with ambiguities that challenge the mind and spirit of the contemporary viewer, who is accustomed to cinematic challenges of all kinds, but less so to the questioning of inner religiosity.
Dostal’s fantastical-religious dramedy boasts an impeccable screenplay, with delightful plot twists and an unpredictable ending, a script brought to life with directorial virtuosity and a performance full of fervour, precision and dedication.
Starting from the somewhat innocent complicity that, in the Eastern peasant mindset, man shares with the devil, Yuri Arabov develops a disturbing theological thesis, also explored in the masterpiece Faust (2011), directed by Sokurov from a screenplay by Arabov. Both films explore a complex relationship between man and the devil, viewed – in accordance with popular belief – as temporary travelling companions – even if driven by opposing goals – on life’s journey. In one of his many public appearances, Yuri Arabov remarked, immediately after the release of the philosophical cinematic parable Faust, that the relationship between man and the devil has changed over the last few hundred years: whereas previously the devil would chase after man to tempt him, in recent times it is man who chases after the devil, seeking to draw inspiration from his so-called ingenuity and to surpass him in wickedness.
In the tradition of a strand of Russian theology, the film The Monk and the Demon revisits the age-old question of whether fallen angels can be humanised, through repentance or as a result of the prayers of the righteous – phenomena occasionally mentioned in hagiographic literature. With wisdom and humour, Yuri Arabov develops a screenplay based on the Gospel commandment of love and the premise of God’s goodness, in order to make this hypothesis plausible. Specifically, the plot follows the story of a young monk tempted by the devil, who resorts to the devil’s help to fulfil his arduous monastic duties. The help is so effective and spectacular that it arouses suspicion, so that the monk is unmasked by his fellow monks, which leads both of them – the monk and the tempting devil – into a fabulous series of adventures, in which each is tested to their limits and undergoes existential transformations. Thus, the idea of taming evil takes on meaning.
This soteriological inquiry into the salvation of fallen souls—achieved not automatically (Deus ex machina) but as a result of their own evolution—is developed not in a scholastic-speculative manner, but dramaturgically, by delving into the human condition and carefully constructing the relationship between the characters – the monk Ivan and the demon named Legion – a dynamic antagonistic relationship in which the partners interact psychologically and both evolve. A provocative theological hypothesis!
But here is the story:
We are in the first half of the nineteenth century, during the reign of Tsar Nicholas I. Having just escaped a fire, the young monk Ivan knocks at the gates of an isolated monastery. Because of his agitation, he is received with suspicion. Ivan speaks hurriedly, using parables and popular sayings, and constantly changes the subject, which throws the brothers off balance; he puts the abbot to a severe test when he confesses in confession that he loves all creation, including—and indeed, especially—demons. Shortly afterwards, the abbot is visited by a demon in the guise of a bishop, who suddenly vanishes. Ivan is given the penance of unclogging a well full of mud, a task he completes suspiciously quickly, just as he does with other hard labour entrusted to him. He seems the perfect labourer in a poor and dilapidated monastery! Suspecting that something is amiss, the monks tie him to a raft and set him adrift on a river, but the raft returns to the bank. It is only when Ivan is sent into a forest to cut down all the old fir trees that the demon who had been helping him with his chores makes an appearance. Whilst Ivan eats rusks and prays, the devil tempts him with delicacies and tries to win him over.
Their exchanges are as if taken from the Paterikon: ‘You will only be able to shine after fighting me!’ – Legiune proclaims menacingly; ‘And you cannot do without us!’ – Ivan replies calmly. Between the two lies a long-standing relationship of tense coexistence. We witness a whimsical yet credible dramatisation of the ontological reality of the Unseen War, as described by Nicodim the Athonite, and the film shifts imperceptibly from a satire of monastic life to the most authentic spiritual drama.
Pursuing his well-known aim, the devil abandons his threats, seeing that Ivan fears neither poverty nor death and that God protects him. When the Legion binds Ivan to burn him for his disobedience, Ivan sings psalms, rejoicing in his martyr’s death, and the fire dies down.
Eventually, Ivan agrees to give his soul to the devil, provided that the devil will fly him to Jerusalem to worship at the Saviour’s Tomb. The bargain is a difficult one, but out of necessity the devil accepts it. Upon arriving before the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Ivan rebukes the sellers of false relics and overturns their stalls, just as Jesus once did in the famous Gospel episode; the merchants beat him mercilessly, but Legiune miraculously heals him. Standing with Legion in front of the holiest of churches, Ivan forces him to go in with him, citing the bond of friendship (‘If we’ve been together until now, we can’t part ways just now!’).
The film’s climax is just as far-fetched, with Ivan emerging from the Church of the Resurrection carrying the devil, who is unconscious in his arms and groaning as if dying. Legion loses his power to perform miracles; in other words, he is on the verge of losing his ontological identity. Ivan advises him to pray. Unable to return home to distant Russia, the two beg on the streets of Jerusalem. They are arrested for vagrancy and accused of all the crimes committed in the city, for which Ivan calmly takes the blame. Sentenced to numerous lashes, Ivan breathes his last, much to the despair of Legiune, who fails to save either his body or claim his soul.
A perfect demonstration, including from a theological perspective (at least at first glance), within the conventions of the genre.
Limping and ragged, a man knocks on the massive gate of the same monastery, as if nothing had changed. We recognise the contrite face of the hapless devil. The monks open the gate; the abbot feels as though he might recognise him, but cannot recall from where… ‘Why must we take in just anyone?!’ retorts one of the monks. ‘But if not us, then who?’ replies the abbot.
Can we, indeed, conceive of a Russian Faust without the demon’s conversion? Aleksandr Sokurov and Yuri Arabov took up this challenge a few years ago in one of their masterpieces, Faust, a philosophical cinematic parable in which man proves more adept at wickedness and more corrupt than Satan, who in the end almost throws in the towel. However, Sokurov’s Mephistopheles does not become humanised, for there is no room for optimism in his film.
But the demon’s conversion, or at least his softening through satire, is characteristic of Eastern Orthodox folk culture; Ion Creangă’s Ivan Turbincă, like Romanian or Russian folktales and stories in which the devil is left ashamed, tames the evil one through humour and even compassion, for in popular wisdom, evil is equated with stupidity. And how could the devil not flee from such humiliation?!
Ultimately, the film The Monk and the Devil speaks of love for people and for God, of courage in the face of superstition, and of forgiveness.
‘For me and for Yuri Arabov, the key to the film lies in this parable: “A monk returns exhausted to his cell after a hard day’s work and can’t wait to lie down in bed. But lo and behold, a devil is lying in the bed. The monk says to himself: ‘So he, poor thing, is tired too!’ And he lies down under the bed. And the devil immediately leaves the monk’s cell.’ This, then, is how we can overcome evil through love. ‘I wanted our film to convey this message too,’ admits Nikolai Dostal, the film’s director, in an interview for the Tzar-Grad TV channel (2016). This idea comes across very clearly in the film.
Nikolai Dostal, a creator of dramedies featuring innocent characters touched by the angel’s wing (such as Petya on the Way to the Kingdom of Heaven / Petya po doroge v tsarstvo nebesnoe (2009), which won the Grand Prix at the Moscow Film Festival), as well as acclaimed historical television series, possesses that great quality, so characteristic of Russian cinema, of speaking with warmth and nonchalance about the most serious of matters. This is probably why the filmmaker received, for his film Cloud-Paradise (Oblako-rai, 1990), not only a Silver Leopard at Locarno, but also an award ‘for breaking down the barrier between popular and elite cinema’ at the Kinotavr Festival (Russia, 1991).
This breaking down of the barriers between popular and elite cinema, achieved for the first time by the genre of Christian Orthodox fiction film in Lunghin’s Island, is the main asset behind the success of The Monk and the Demon. This success is underpinned, first and foremost, by the perfectly rounded structure of the screenplay, complemented by the frenetic energy of the acting – energetic, warm and captivating – as well as the brisk pace, typical of comedy, with its – slapstick, situational and linguistic – characteristic of the Russian cinematic tradition. The versatility of the main character – mischievous and unpredictable – played with well-measured verve by Timofei Tribunțev, who models his character on Piotr Mamonov from The Island, is captivating. The rest of the cast, led by Boris Kamorzin, who plays the abbot of the monastery, and Georgy Fetisov, who plays the demon, work together in the most organic harmony.
The dominant comic tone, based on the folk tale, is complemented by religious undertones, initially subtle, but whose seriousness gradually increases until, after nearly an hour of hearty laughter, they coalesce into a coherent and lucid religious discourse—surprising for a comedy—to create a postmodern blend of genres that is highly popular with audiences.
Whether we classify the film as a dramedy with theological overtones, or simply as a folk parable with a Christian moral, matters little. What matters is the film’s magnetism, its ability to attract – through artistic performance, sincerity and the universality of the themes – a wide audience, regardless of religious belief or denominational affiliation.
The spiritual realism of the monk-demon relationship portrayed in the film may well spark catechetical and parish debates. Do demons, as depicted in Dostal’s film, harbour nostalgia for their childhood? Can they become humanised? The question touches upon the controversial doctrine of apocatastasis, without the film addressing it head-on or betraying heretical tendencies. Orthodox tradition does, however, record isolated cases of demons being saved through the prayers of a monk, who was subsequently rebuked by God, who commanded him to stop praying for Satan.
‘Why don’t you go to the saints, instead of wasting your time with me?’ Ivan asks the Legion, bored by the demon’s insistence. ‘The places there are all taken; no one will have me,’ the demon replies. Are demons capable of making confessions, other than under the pressure of the holiness of figures such as Anthony the Great? Do they allow themselves to be defeated by the ascetic’s humility, or do they return after a respite, to strike with greater force?
In the film, literary fantasy intertwines with spiritual wisdom. But fiction always shapes human and spiritual realities according to the narrative structure of the story. I suspect it will not be difficult for well-informed viewers to distinguish between ascetic tradition and literary invention, nor to discern the spirit in which this artistic blend—with its substantial spiritual content—is conceived. It is no secret that many of the mischievous monk’s escapades are inspired by an authentic hagiography of a real 12th-century saint, namely ‘The Journey of Archbishop John of Novgorod to the Devil in Jerusalem’, a text recorded in the Novgorod Chronicle (14th century), which was widely circulated in Russia and inspired many literary works.
And whilst the monk Ivan converses with a creature of darkness, he does so not out of idle curiosity or pride, but to continue his ascetic struggle, undertaken for the glory of God, Who in His love desires that all may be saved. This all-encompassing and humble love shines through, beyond the barbs of social satire, from every layer of the film.
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Dramedy: a hybrid genre: drama with elements of comedy, or dramatic comedy.