Valya, a 30-year-old university dropout, works for the police by acting out murder victims during reconstructions of crimes, a grim duty that his colleagues treat with a mix of ritual precision and weary humor. Valya’s team includes the captain Vitaliy Khaev, a charismatic but exacting leader who pushes everyone to the limit; Lyuda Anna Mikhalkova, the relentless camerawoman who records every moment from her own point of view; and the dim-witted sergeant Seva Aleksandr Ilyin Jr, whose blunt sarcasm punctuates the room with a troubling ease. At home, Valya’s widowed mother Marina Golub has begun a relationship with Valya’s uncle Fyodor Dobronravov, a stern man who views Valya as a rebellious “punk” and urges him toward a traditional, steady job. Night after night, Valya is visited by childhood memories and dreams of his father, a figure who seems to condemn his choices even in sleep.
The film creates a tension-filled montage of reconstructions that are always filtered through Lyuda’s lens, blending deadpan, almost absurd humor with the stark realism of real crime work. These scenes often juxtapose the silliness of improvised, chaotic performances with the heavy weight of what they’re reenacting, turning each act into a study of perception and responsibility. Valya’s carefree attitude—his refusal to take much of anything seriously—irritates the captain, amuses Seva, and irks his uncle, underscoring a fault line within the whole crew: duty versus personal detachment.
As the pressure of the job mounts, the captain’s temper erupts in a long, profanity-laden tirade about Russia’s new generation and the fate of the country’s football identity, a moment that feels almost ritual in its intensity and serves to expose the fragility of the group’s camaraderie. The personal and professional bleed together when Valya, consumed by a troubling fixation, ends up poisoning Japanese food for his own family and for his recently pregnant girlfriend, Olya Elena Morozova. In a tense recreation, three other people are cast as the victims while Valya plays the accused, and he insists that he lived through every sensation to capture the truth of what happened, a faltering defense that blurs the line between memory and manipulation.
The closing stretches of the film return to memory, where a pivotal scene resurfaces: a young Valya is set adrift in a rowboat by his father, a moment his mother had hinted at earlier, and the memory lands with a quiet, unsettling resonance. The past and present collide as Valya confronts the haunting echoes of his upbringing, leaving viewers with a lingering sense of unease about what the work really asks of those who perform it—and what it reveals about the people behind the masks.
