Bring us into the open door of Sergei Loznitsa, the pitch-black "two prosecutors" is that huge, scarred metal gate that never happened to the back. It was the Soviet Union in 1937, so the title quickly tells us: "The height of terror in Stalin." It was said later that this tenacious gate would open for the second time, which was undestroyed, and then ended the final end of a curtain of a historical tragedy, and in order to reiterate Marx's famous motto, we now repeat ourselves around us, this time with a weird unsatisfied fanaticism.

The huge steel door is the entrance to the prison, which is the original, locked, college scale photography of Oleg Mutu’s painting quality that saves the frustrating environment from the dourness, not to mention Christiaan Verbeek’s excellent classical score to mention. While the Chai Guard ordered barking barking in the yard of scaffolding, in the superb production design of Jurij Grigorovič and Aldis Meinerts, the shaky wooden background looks like the huge Tic Tic-toc Toe-ever An X of each square-is almost comedy, redundant trumpet parps, and gives the entire Mine pressure the Mine heprecorp timage timi touti jac time touti touti tigi tigi touti.

Collected, teams of malnourished prisoners are being allocated to implement some debris involving corruption and paranoid status. One such task is that from the faithful gathering to the “Dear Comrade Stalin” burning a bunch of unopened petitions, falling on an old man who was imprisoned with some kind of slim excuse, he was pushed into a room equipped with a small stove and gave a game. The desaturated palette, the paleness of the man, the axes of the cold lamps he sat on - the lens could be a classical painting of the Beetle or Moses, this non-heroic and ugly behavior of heroic hero frame is a perfect sampler for the ironic loznitsa loznitsa, which is maintained by opposing the corrosive appearance of the content.

Although he was told to destroy every message, the old man's purple one: a card with a few sharp words on it, which he stuffed into his sun shirt. The matter about this note prompted the poor creature to bring a dangerous gesture of pity. Maybe it's because it's written in blood. It is statistically impossible like this tiny act of resistance, which is a much less likely, invisible chain of events, and then happens, and the note actually reaches the local prosecutor Kornyev (which, despite the performance of several words, has been shown incredible). With his boxer profile and direct, incredible gaze, Kornyev is a newly appointed man, young, smart, principled, and completely unprepared for the impact of his system of caring for these qualities.

Kornyev visited the prison and, in the irritating plot and the strategy of delaying the prison authorities (many "two prosecutors", composed of Kornyev waiting, sitting in a series of stubborn chairs), he insisted on seeing Stepniak (Alexander Filippenko) (Alexander Filippenko), who was Inmate, who wrote notes. Stepniak, a once-respected thinker, speaks on the theme of “The Great Bolshevik Truth” in the Jubilee of Law School, telling the story of his failure and injustice in the local NKVD (Secret Police) with Moscow as an example under the analysis of the local NKVD (Secret Police) and Kornyev. There, in a huge municipal building, on the top of the seemingly never-ending staircase, his distant superior, the blank bureaucrat Vyshynsky (Anatoli Beliy), occupied a huge office and conducted a brief, ruthless meeting with the supplications according to strict plans.

Based on a book by George Demidov, written in 1969 but published only in 2009, the story is not driven by any particular sense of suspense – although there may be moments when playing in 2025 that familiar shock may be recorded as a character track against a "culture in which experts are replaced by ignorant Charlatans." "Otherwise, when historically hindsight, we all know better than Kornyev, even in Loznitsa's trademark cynicism, even the most abandoned moments will be dusty, it will bring some surprises to what our increasingly unfortunate heroes do.

But this is not the kind of movie that is suddenly revealed or unpaid. Indeed, the mediocrity of the humiliation and disillusionment of the slow installation of Kangyev takes great importance. The obsession of the film is in its structure, the detailed destruction, the speed at which the fallen body was removed from the prison yard, as if it had never been like that, and we never grabbed the way Kornyev jumped like we did when the buzzer buzzed.

Loznitsa's legacy as an important and influential documentary is assured, but his last two novel features - 2017's "The Tender Creature," a slightly unsatisfactory exercise in social surrealism, while 2018's "Donbass," a more offensive black comedy - is less dishonest. In "Two Prosecutors", perhaps out of respect for the source text, Loznitsa is more explicit than in any of these titles, and the result is stronger to it, as if he had encountered some self-setting challenges, and can see how effective a strict formal aesthetic effect can make people evoke the horrors of the horrors of life under generalized control. It makes the experience of watching "Two Inquisitors" almost a touch-sensitive text, such as reading a slim paperback classic from Camus or Kafka or Orwell, where discovery pages are found as they age, but the insight is still painful, vividly fresh.