In the sacred halls of Soviet cinema—somewhere between grim-faced war epics and three-hour tractor parades—there emerged Viy, a deliciously weird, darkly magical folk horror tale that proudly answers the question: What if your worst acid trip starred a drunken seminarian and an undead sorceress who used to be your Uber?
Based on Nikolai Gogol’s short story, this 1967 film is an atmospheric marvel, a Gothic horror rollercoaster wrapped in Orthodox dread and Slavic superstition. It’s Sleepy Hollow by way of borscht and bad decisions.
Plot: Of Witches, Vodka, and Regret
Khoma Brutus (yes, really), our “hero,” is a theology student whose piety lasts exactly until a witch throws a saddle on him and rides him bareback across the Ukrainian countryside. It’s a kinky opener, sure, but things quickly go from weirdly erotic to spiritually catastrophic when Khoma beats the old crone nearly to death—only to find she’s morphed into a beautiful young woman who promptly dies and then requests him to say prayers over her corpse. Which is basically the Eastern Orthodox version of “You up?”
Thus begins a three-night vigil of escalating terror in a locked chapel, where Khoma must recite prayers over the witch’s corpse, armed only with a stick of chalk and the kind of religious fervor that seems to fade every time the vodka does.
Production Value: DIY Satanic Panic
You want Soviet special effects? You get Soviet special effects. Animated coffins, floating witches, and hellspawn that look like the rejected designs for Labyrinth meet HR Giger’s potato years. The set pieces are wonderfully eerie—particularly the chapel itself, which feels like the inside of a haunted samovar. The practical effects may be creaky by today’s standards, but that’s part of the charm. It’s Gothic horror on a budget, and it still outpaces half the CGI sludge we’re force-fed today.
The climax, when the corpse-girl summons demons who look like they moonlight as Eastern Bloc goblin-punk band members, is pure nightmare fuel. And then comes Viy himself: a massive, mole-eyed titan who looks like Slender Man’s yoked Ukrainian uncle. When his eyelids are so heavy they need assistance, you know this eldritch being did not come to play.
Tone & Atmosphere: Somewhere Between Fairy Tale and Existential Dread
Viy walks a tightrope between earnest religious horror and Gogol’s signature deadpan absurdity. It knows when to be creepy, but it also knows when to lean into the lunacy of its premise. A chalk circle is treated with more reverence than the Eucharist, and Khoma’s nightly descent into terror is punctuated by slapstick-level cowardice and very relatable “I’m-too-hungover-for-this” energy.
The villagers are a parade of grotesques—one has the face of a walnut, another looks like he was built out of beetroot and broken promises. They speak in riddles, glare suspiciously, and drink with the kind of despairing commitment only 19th-century Slavs and college students can truly understand.
Performances: Screams, Sneezes, and Slavic Suffering
Leonid Kuravlyov as Khoma Brutus sells the mix of terror, arrogance, and spiritual constipation with a crooked grin and increasingly desperate prayers. His arc—from confident seminarian to traumatized corpse fodder—is both hilarious and genuinely affecting. Natalia Varley (voiced by Klara Rumyanova) as the witch/dead girl floats between alluring and terrifying with remarkable grace—even while lying motionless in a coffin.
Everyone else serves the plot as supporting shades of rural menace and occult nonsense, adding texture to the fog-drenched madness.
The Verdict: Viy Is a Wicked Folkloric Delight
While Soviet censors clipped its darker edges, Viy still punches above its folkloric weight. It’s a rare artifact: a horror film where the demons are real, the chalk line is sacred, and your karma catches up with you wearing hooves and a bad wig.
It’s spooky. It’s strange. It’s Soviet Gothic theater on hallucinogens, and it’s glorious.
Rating: 4.5 out of 5 bewitched livestock.
