The Idiot(s) Review – A Playful, Indulgent Tribute to Dostoevsky’s Forgotten Wife

When Anna Dostoevskaya (Aimee Lou Wood) finishes transcribing what will become her husband’s next literary masterpiece, she can’t help but blur the lines between pride and affection: “This is our best novel yet!” she declares, then quickly corrects herself. It’s a tiny slip, but it says a lot about the film’s gentle, humanizing touch.

Directed by Malgorzata Szumowska and Michal Englert, The Idiot(s) isn’t a stern, reverent biopic. Instead, it feels like a warm‑hearted dinner party where the guests are allowed to brag, stumble, and even make a fool of themselves. The pair—Anna and the famously brooding Fyodor (Johnny Flynn)—are shown arriving in late‑19th‑century Germany, ostensibly so Fyodor can finish his next great work. In practice, he spends most of his time spiraling into debt, flirting with the literary elite, and occasionally dragging Anna into bizarre foot‑fetish rituals.

Wood brings a spark to Anna that feels both fresh and familiar. There’s a bright, almost reckless optimism that harks back to her breakout role in The White Lotus, yet it’s tempered by a steely determination that prevents the character from becoming a mere victim of her circumstances. She’s the kind of partner who can light up a dreary train carriage with a smile, even as the world around her crumbles like a Dostoevskian plot.

Flynn, on the other hand, embraces the absurdity of his legendary subject with gusto. He plays Fyodor as a maddening cocktail of self‑pity, inflated confidence, and child‑like petulance. One moment he’s muttering “Tolstoy’s gonna shit himself” about the looming novel; the next he’s demanding a kick to the face as part of an oddly tender intimacy. The performance is deliberately over‑the‑top, a reminder that reverence for an artist’s output does not have to translate into reverence for the artist himself.

The film’s visual style leans into the period without feeling heavy. Cinematographer Michal Englert (also co‑director) frames the sprawling German streets and smoky taverns with a painterly softness, while the score—often hyper‑dramatic—underscores Fyodor’s mood swings with an almost comic intensity.

Supporting players, especially Vicky Krieps as the enigmatic Turgenev’s lover, add texture, though some of their moments feel under‑used. The film’s pacing, at a little over two hours, occasionally lingers too long on decorative scenes, making the runtime feel a shade overstretched. Still, the indulgence feels intentional: the filmmakers want Anna to finally occupy the center of a story that has long been dominated by her husband’s legend.

In the end, The Idiot(s) is a love letter to the often‑overlooked women behind great men. It celebrates Anna’s quiet resilience, her fierce affection, and the chaotic brilliance of a writer who could barely keep his own life in order. If the movie occasionally overindulges, it does so with a wink, inviting the audience to join in the fun.