The Idiot(s) Review – A Raucous, Unhinged Look at Dostoevsky’s Darker Side

When you sit down to watch a biopic about a literary giant, you usually expect sweeping vistas, solemn narration and a reverent tone. "The Idiot(s)" throws all that out the window and decides, instead, to follow a drunken, gambling‑addicted Fyodor Dostoevsky (Johnny Flynn) as he staggers through his honeymoon in 1860s Germany with his much‑younger wife Anna (Aimee Lou Wood). It’s a strange premise, but it works because the film never pretends to be a polished tribute; it’s deliberately messy, just like its subject.

The film is the brainchild of Polish duo Małgorzata Szumowska and Michał Englert, a pair whose collaborative history reads like a love‑letter to off‑beat storytelling. Their previous work together, from the bleakly comic "Never Gonna Snow Again" to the visually ambitious "Infinite Storm," shows they love to blend darkness with a wink. Here they base their screenplay on Andrew D. Kaufman’s novel "The Gambler Wife," which gives Anna a heftier narrative spine than most biopics afford to a spouse.

Flynn’s Dostoevsky is anything but the bearded sage you see on textbook covers. He’s a flesh‑and‑blood mess, prone to vomiting, fist‑pumping, and incessant self‑pity. In one delightfully absurd scene, he challenges fellow writer Ivan Turgenev (Christian Friedel) to an impromptu dance‑off, a moment that feels both hilarious and oddly telling about his need to out‑perform even his peers. The rivalry is less about artistry and more about national pride – the Russian author can’t stomach the slickness of Western Europe, and he makes that clear in every slurred line.

Anna, portrayed by Wood, is surprisingly the film’s emotional anchor. She oscillates between naive optimism and steely determination, often stepping in to smooth over her husband’s self‑destructive spirals. Wood injects the character with a warmth that feels genuine, even when the script dips into melodramatic territory. Their chemistry is uneven at times, but it’s enough to keep you invested in their bizarre road‑trip romance.

Visually, the movie swings between plush aristocratic settings and cramped, squalid rooms where the couple scrabble for a place to write the manuscript for "The Idiot." The contrast feels intentional, underscoring how out‑of‑touch the elite are to the author’s grinding reality. Vicky Krieps pops up as a aristocratic vamp who relishes the decadence of her class; her snarky commentary provides a darkly comic counterpoint to the protagonists’ struggle.

The humor leans heavily on scatological jokes and cringe‑worthy moments – think of Fyodor sprawled on the floor begging for more roulette chips while simultaneously delivering a haunting tale about class suffering. It’s a fine line between laugh‑out‑loud and squirm‑away, and the film occasionally trips, but the boldness of that gamble feels earned.

All told, "The Idiot(s)" is not a traditional reverence‑filled portrait; it’s a rogue, tonally inconsistent romp that asks whether we can separate an artist’s flawed humanity from the brilliance of his work. If you’re looking for a polished, reverent ode to Dostoevsky, keep scrolling. If you want a wild, imperfect, and oddly heartfelt look at the man behind the myths, this two‑hander will surprise you.