In the Greek myth that gives Andrei Zvyagintsev’s political thriller Minotaur its name, the hero Theseus is tasked with killing the minotaur, a creature that is half man and half bull and eats humans. The minotaur is kept in an impossibly complex labyrinth ruled by King Minos. Killing the minotaur is thus not Theseus’s only trial—he must find a way to escape from the labyrinth after slaying the beast. He does so in the myth with a golden thread given to him by the king’s daughter, Ariadne, who falls in love with the handsome Theseus. After escaping the labyrinth, Theseus and Ariadne sail away, only for Theseus to abandon her on a deserted island to usurp the throne for himself.
Minotaur’s protagonist Gleb (Dmitriy Mazurov) shares similar traits with Theseus, ambition, resourcefulness, and masculinity chief among them. Where they differ is in the scope of their task. Zvyagintsev’s film, like much of his prior work, keeps the story close to home. Minotaur’s action transpires in a small town near the Russian border with Ukraine in 2022. The Russo-Ukrainian war is on everyone’s mind, but the action is kept off-screen in large part. Instead, our attention is drawn to the activities of the upper class, primarily Gleb, his wife Galina (Iris Lebedeva), and his son Seryozha (Boris Kudrin).
The family resides in a horrifically sterile house on a lake, with no neighbors to speak of. This gilded cage stokes the flames of tension that motivate Minotaur’s main narrative thread: Galina is having an affair with a younger and poorer photographer who lives in a small apartment. Despite the beauty and the ease of wealth, Galina wants more. She wants to be seen and appreciated, something that Gleb, whose job as the head of a shipping company provides the comforts the family enjoys, is too preoccupied to give to her. It is implied throughout the film that he has stepped out on her before, too. He’s pretty lousy.
If you’ve seen Adrian Lyne’s Unfaithful or Claude Chebrol’s La Femme Infedèle, you know where this is going. Zvyagintsev does not alter the narrative much beyond its source. Gleb discovers, with the help of a private investigator, Galina’s infidelity and takes matters into his own hands. Like the Greek myth, the specifics of the story are not what is important, but rather their ramifications and the ways the story is told.
Zvyagintsev chooses to tell his version of the story by allowing his characters time and space to process. Scenes are long, actions take time. We see how the characters think through their actions and actively consider and reconsider their lives. It’s not uncommon in the film for a shot to linger on Kudrin washing his face or Lebedeva drinking a glass of wine, shaking her (absolutely fabulous) bob. Their emotions are expressed in these processes; often, things go unsaid, and when things are said, it’s often instead of saying what is really meant. Like a fable, the message comes across in subtle ways.
Take, for example, a scene at a dinner with Gleb’s friends. Zvyagintsev’s stationary camera emphasizes the dialogue, but the words themselves aren’t as important as the ways they’re said and how they’re received. We watch as the men discuss their house cleaners and joke about pornography while their wives remain mostly silent. Only the new girlfriend, a younger, surgically-enhanced woman from Moscow, interjects, making herself the butt of the joke.
When the other two wives conduct the traditional ritual of bathroom mirror gossip, the new girlfriend is the focus of conversation. They joke and chat, but their tone and gesture betrays their true position: vulnerability. Though they have power and success in their small town, they really are small fries in the Russian power scheme—powerless against their husband’s desires and against Putin. It’s no wonder Galina steps out. It’s the only way she can take back her life.
Zvyagintsev’s mastery of tone elevates and incisively specifies the material to speak to its moment. Light and color are largely absent from Minotaur’s world, so when we see glimpses of brightness, as in a scene of intimacy between Galina and her lover, it comes as something of a shock to the system. We finally realize that the comforts are not enough, the life of luxury is not enough if that life is dead. Here is where Lebedeva flexes her acting prowess, selling the tension between wealth and happiness. The quiet glances and repression are as fully realized as the passion she shows with her young lover. We believe that the affair means more to her than just the sex. She comes alive.
In that same scene the camera too activates, moving circularly around the space as we hear the ambient sounds of the lover’s camera shutter, cutting through the silence of the apartment like a gun. Violence, despite the militaristic themes throughout, rarely permeates the frame. It’s kept largely off-screen, which can make Minotaur feel a bit disjointed or shallow early on. I found myself wondering when the other shoe was going to drop, when the threads of the film would tie together to make a broader statement. But by the end, Zvyagintsev’s thesis is clear. Violence plays out on the Russian landscape in small and large ways, leaving anyone that doesn’t serve its mission in the dust. Honesty is only important if power is controlled.
Unlike its predecessors, it’s hard to call Minotaur a true erotic thriller. Adrian Lyne is a much flashier filmmaker than Zvyagintsev, more bombastic and explicit in his messaging. There is a tussle for sex and power throughout Minotaur, it’s just encased in ice. To me, though, it made the more explosive moments all the more thrilling. And you can’t go wrong with a woman with a bob as fantastic as Lebedeva’s. I found it a scintillating and captivating watch, one I can’t wait to revisit this November.