Wounded Game

In the ruins of post‑war Odessa, the city’s cracked façades and lingering greyness echo a generation that grew up without fathers. The film paints this landscape with a quiet, almost lyrical austerity, letting the cold wind off the Black Sea and the muted chatter of market stalls become a backdrop for a story about memory and loss. The cinematography moves like a slow‑motion recollection, inviting the audience to feel the weight of history that still presses on the streets and the people who wander them.

​Aleksey Bartenev, now a writer, returns to the place of his childhood orphanage, driven by a stubborn compulsion to stitch together fragments of a family erased by war. His personal archives and the faded whispers of old neighbors become his map, and his investigation is less a detective story than a meditation on how the past survives in the lining of everyday life. As he navigates dusty records and hesitant testimonies, the audience senses his yearning to fill the silent spaces left by parents who never returned.

Along his path he encounters Grigoriy Albertovich Krivoruchko, a figure whose own isolation hints at the broader scattering of kin, and learns of his siblings: Sergey Pogartsev, whose life has taken a hard‑bought turn; Denis Kuskov, raised far from the hardships of the city; and Natasha, a sister whose memory still haunts the family’s narrative. Their divergent existences suggest the many ways war reshapes destiny, without revealing the specifics of each journey.

The tone remains tender yet unflinching, balancing melancholy with the resilience of those who cling to the idea of belonging. A voiceover drawn from Gennady Shpalikov’s poetry underscores the film’s reverence for forgotten stories, turning Aleksey’s personal quest into a universal contemplation of how the echoes of conflict linger long after the gunfire has ceased.

Last Updated: December 04, 2025 at 18:05