Chapter One: Murders in Dikanka (And in Pacing)
Let’s begin with the crime scene: Gogol. Origins (2017), a movie so convinced of its own genius that it mistakes every puff of fog for atmosphere and every epileptic seizure for plot development. Directed by Yegor Baranov and starring Alexander Petrov as the titular writer, it’s the cinematic equivalent of a haunted carriage that keeps losing a wheel — loud, slow, and destined for the ditch.
The premise, on paper, sounds delicious: a young Nikolai Gogol, tortured by visions, helps a detective solve supernatural murders in 1829 Russia. What could go wrong? Everything, apparently. The film wants to be a gothic stew — a dash of Sleepy Hollow, a sprinkle of Sherlock Holmes, a ladle of Crimson Peak — but it ends up more like boiled cabbage left too long on the stove.
It’s not that Baranov lacks ambition. It’s that his ambition is wearing someone else’s boots — namely, Tim Burton’s. Every candlelit frame, every horseman galloping through fog, screams “Look, I too can be spooky and stylish!” Unfortunately, the end result looks less like Burton and more like a Halloween episode of Downton Abbey filmed through a vaseline-coated lens.
The Case of the Overacting Clerk
Alexander Petrov’s Gogol spends much of the film either fainting, scribbling, or staring dramatically into the distance — a sort of Russian emo poet cosplayer who’s constantly one vision away from becoming a meme. His performance can best be described as “possessed by indecision.” One moment he’s trembling with intensity; the next, he’s collapsing in a heap like a fainting goat at a séance.
To his credit, Petrov manages to look good while doing it. His cheekbones could cut glass, and that seems to be his primary weapon in the fight against evil. But it’s hard to invest in a protagonist who spends 90% of his time unconscious. If this is what inspired Gogol to write The Overcoat, it’s no wonder the man was obsessed with death — he probably just wanted a break from his own plotlines.
The Supporting Cast (or: A Parade of Eyebrows and Sighs)
Oleg Menshikov plays Investigator Guro with the weary air of an actor who knows he’s better than the material but signed the contract anyway. He’s part mentor, part mystery, and entirely too dignified to be in a film where witches get their hands ripped off by water spirits. Yevgeny Stychkin’s Binh is the local cop, whose defining trait is his ability to look exasperated in 19th-century outerwear.
Then there’s Oksana, the ghostly rusalka who drifts in and out of Gogol’s dreams like a wet napkin of exposition. She delivers her lines with the kind of ethereal vagueness that says, “I’m haunting you, but gently.” By contrast, the blacksmith Vakula and the coroner Dr. Bomgart inject some much-needed life — though in this film, “life” means rolling eyes and muttering, “There’s no such thing as witches!” seconds before a witch kills someone.
Plot Twists from the Twilight Zone (or: I See Dumb People)
The plot lurches from one supernatural clue to another with all the grace of a drunk Cossack. Murder in a village. A ghostly girl. A witch missing a hand. A resurrected corpse. At one point, a character dies of fright during a romantic encounter, which, honestly, is the most relatable thing in the movie.
Each revelation feels like it was written by a committee of ghosts who never met. There’s an entire subplot about hallucinogenic candles that cause people to confront their worst fears — a fascinating idea, if the film weren’t too busy cutting back to more of Gogol twitching and whispering cryptic poetry into his journal.
And the pacing! My God, the pacing. The movie runs for two hours but feels longer than a Russian winter. Every “clue” arrives wrapped in dramatic silence, followed by slow-motion glances and thunder. By the 90-minute mark, I was rooting for the Dark Horseman just to put the film out of its misery.
Visuals: Gothic Glamour, Zero Guts
Visually, Gogol. Origins is stunning — if you mute it. The production design deserves its own standing ovation: flickering candles, snow-dusted forests, and enough fog to make a London pea-souper jealous. It’s the kind of movie where you can practically smell the mildew. Unfortunately, the cinematography seems to believe that sepia tone equals suspense.
There’s a fine line between atmosphere and Instagram filter, and this film gallops over it on a horse made of pretension. Everything is so art-directed it starts to feel embalmed — beautiful, but dead inside. It’s like staring at a wax museum exhibit that occasionally sighs in Russian.
The Horror of Editing (and Dialogue)
Editing-wise, the movie is allergic to momentum. Scenes linger past the point of interest, like an uninvited guest who insists on telling you his dream. Dialogue alternates between overwrought monologues (“The darkness within me… it calls!”) and clunky exposition (“Ah yes, the witch’s blood moon ritual!”). Subtitles deserve hazard pay for surviving the ordeal.
And then there are the “visions,” the film’s narrative crutch. Every time the story runs out of ideas — which is often — Gogol has another seizure and sees something spooky. If jump cuts were a horror element, this movie would be terrifying. Instead, it’s like watching an 1800s TikTok challenge gone wrong.
The Myth, the Madness, the Marketing
Perhaps the strangest part of Gogol. Origins is its reputation. It was marketed as the first Russian television series to get a theatrical release — an “event” of national pride! Which makes sense, because only patriotism could explain sitting through it twice. The fact that it spawned two sequels (Viy and Terrible Revenge) suggests that somewhere, audiences actually wanted more of this literary fanfiction meets paranormal procedural.
Maybe they were bewitched. Maybe it was the hallucinogenic candle again.
A Final Séance: Gogol vs. Gogol
If the real Nikolai Gogol could see what’s been done in his name, he’d likely tear up another manuscript and toss it into the fire. The film borrows his settings and titles but none of his wit, satire, or existential dread. Gogol’s Evenings on a Farm Near Dikanka was full of folkloric wonder and absurdist charm. Gogol. Origins turns that into melodrama with CGI horsemen and shirtless trances.
Even the meta idea — turning Gogol himself into a gothic detective haunted by his imagination — could’ve worked. But Baranov’s direction confuses brooding with boredom, and what might have been an inspired homage becomes a long, foggy walk to nowhere.
Verdict: Some Murders Are Justified
In the end, Gogol. Origins is a film about inspiration, but ironically, it has none. It mistakes slow motion for suspense, candlelight for character, and seizure montages for storytelling. It’s not the worst horror film ever made — it’s just one that keeps insisting it’s literature.
If you enjoy long coats, moody sighs, and the occasional decapitation delivered with more style than sense, this may be your cup of cursed tea. But if you’re looking for horror that chills rather than sedates, you’d be better off reading the actual Gogol — or staring into a candle until you start hallucinating something better.
Final Rating: ★★☆☆☆
(Two stars for atmosphere, zero for coherence, one for the accidental comedy.)
