The Idiot(s) – A Raucous, Off‑beat Portrait of Dostoevsky

When you hear the word “biopic,” you probably picture solemn reenactments, archival photos and a reverent tone. "The Idiot(s)" throws that playbook out the window on its very first frame. Instead of a glossy portrait of Fyodor Dostoevsky, we get a sloshing‑over‑the‑barrel version of the man who wrote "Crime and Punishment," played with reckless abandon by Johnny Flynn.

Flynn’s Dostoevsky is not the sage‑bearded sage you might expect. He’s a perpetually hungover, jittery gambler, muttering about his next roulette spin while clutching a half‑finished manuscript. The film opens with him and his much younger wife, Anna (Aimee Lou Wood), arriving in Germany for their honeymoon—an odd choice, considering his pen is already drenched in debt and desperation.

Wood’s Anna is a revelation. She’s not just a footnote to the great writer; she’s a full‑on personality who keeps his chaos from spilling over completely. Their chemistry feels like a tossed‑together scrapbook of love‑letters, arguments, and clumsy affection, making the marriage feel both absurdly comic and oddly intimate.

The Polish duo behind the camera, Małgorzata Szumowska and Michał Englert, have a long‑standing partnership—both romantic and professional—that shines through in this two‑hander. Their previous work together, like "Never Gonna Snow Again," showed a knack for blending gritty realism with dark humor; here they lean fully into the latter, sprinkling scatological jokes and cringe‑worthy moments that keep you squirming in your seat.

Based loosely on Andrew D. Kaufman’s "The Gambler Wife," the screenplay zeroes in on a thin slice of Dostoevsky’s life: his struggle to finish "The Idiot" while battling debt, gambling addiction, and the oppressive expectations of Europe’s elite. The directors paint the aristocracy as cartoonish caricatures—Vicky Krieps delivers a deliciously snide performance as a decadent socialite who drinks in the misery of the poor.

One standout set‑piece has Fyodor forced to tell a scandalous story to a group of aristocrats hungry for titillation. He obliges, delivering a tale that’s both a masterclass in narrative and a thinly veiled critique of his audience’s moral bankruptcy. Flynn leans into the discomfort, his trembling hands and stained shirt turning the scene into something that feels half comedy, half existential crisis.

Visually, the film revels in contrast. Opulent ballroom chandeliers sit next to cramped, squalid rooms where Fyodor and Anna scramble to write. The stark differences mirror the internal battle between Dostoevsky’s lofty ideas and his messy, very human existence.

It’s not a polished tribute; it’s a messy, drunken love‑letter to a man who was both genius and disaster. By the end, you might still be unsure whether you should adore or pity him, but you’ll certainly remember the peculiar pleasure of watching a literary titan stumble through a night at the roulette table.