I don’t know whether to cry for Nastazja, for Myshkin, or for the ghost of love itself.

Wajda doesn’t just adapt Dostoevsky, he drains it of realism and leaves behind only ghosts and grief. A single room. A single man. Tadeusz Łomnicki plays both Myshkin and Rogozhin, and it’s like watching one soul argue with itself in the aftermath of tragedy. No flashbacks. No comfort. Just memory, madness, and mourning. The choice to cast a Bunraku puppet as Nastazja feels insane until it feels inevitable, as if she was never real to begin with. Just a doll men projected their torment onto. A symbol, a wound, a woman no one could understand without destroying. This isn’t an adaptation of The Idiot so much as it is the funeral of its final chapter. Still, silent, and devastating.

I don’t know whether to cry for Nastazja, for Myshkin, or for the ghost of love itself.

Wajda doesn’t just adapt Dostoevsky, he drains it of realism and leaves behind only ghosts and grief. A single room. A single man. Tadeusz Łomnicki plays both Myshkin and Rogozhin, and it’s like watching one soul argue with itself in the aftermath of tragedy. No flashbacks. No comfort. Just memory, madness, and mourning. The choice to cast a Bunraku puppet as Nastazja feels insane until it feels inevitable, as if she was never real to begin with. Just a doll men projected their torment onto. A symbol, a wound, a woman no one could understand without destroying. This isn’t an adaptation of The Idiot so much as it is the funeral of its final chapter. Still, silent, and devastating.