In the midst of the frostiest relations between Russia and the UK since the cold war, this weekend Russia is sending over a cultural present: the controversial historical drama Matilda opens in British cinemas. It features beautiful costumes (7,000 of them, according to the LA Times), an international cast, lavish sets and a fair amount of nudity. Perhaps this is the warm and generous Russian gift to bring the thaw we have been waiting for.

Or perhaps not. Matilda comes trailing bitter arguments over historical accuracy and accusations of blasphemy. It’s the erotic scenes that have caused a scandal in Russia. The film details (with a large dollop of artistic licence) the real-life relationship between tsar Nicholas II and prima ballerina Matilda Kshesinskaya, an affair which almost derailed his 1896 coronation and, some argue, set in train the events which led to the revolution of 1917.

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When the film opened in Moscow in October, it was met with a series of protests by Russian Orthodox Christians. Tsar Nicholas II was canonised in 2000, and to suggest that he may have had a premarital affair is considered offensive to the point of heresy. Once you make someone into a saint, it gets awkward if you portray the same person nearly fainting with lust when a ballerina has a wardrobe malfunction during Swan Lake.

Months before, when trailers were shown at a cinema in Yekaterinburg, there were arson attacks. At the premiere a protester tried to hand one of the actors 30 pieces of silver (representing Judas’ betrayal of Jesus) and a placard held aloft summed up the problem: “Matilda slanders the anointed.” (Not a poster slogan anyone ever expected to read anywhere.) MP Natalia Poklonskaya ran a campaign to block the release of the film. Although the film was never “banned”, one cinema group with theatres in 28 cities withdrew it supposedly in order to protect the public from protesters. Others cinemas cited “technical reasons” for cancelling screenings.

The reaction was frustrating for the cast, most of whom missed the premiere because it was judged too dangerous to attend. “I’m not Orthodox and I don’t want to be insulting to Orthodox people,” said Ingeborga Dapkūnaitė, who plays tsar Nicholas II’s mother in the film, “But there is no precedent for this. The film went on general release in the end. But it was a problem in that you would want the film to be watched without that kind of argument. It’s a love story. It’s a piece of entertainment. It’s by no means a political piece.”

In fact, the film is a delightfully watchable romp with many unintentionally funny subplots. (Especially the eccentric German shaman/scientist who appears to be channelling the Nazi commander in Raiders of the Lost Ark.) It compares favourably to the BBC’s War and Peace and its cinematography (by the celebrated Yuri Klimenko) is spectacular. Both War and Peace and Matilda were shot on location in St Petersburg and use many of the same backdrops. Matilda is fascinating to watch, not least because it has one of the biggest film budgets in Russia’s recent history: $25m (£17.6m) against a usual budget of $2-3m, according to director Alexei Uchitel. The Russian ministry of culture put up a third of the money.



The reaction to Matilda represents, in microcosm, many of the contradictions of contemporary Russian culture. It should have been a flagship Russian movie, designed to show the world how fabulous Russian cinematography is and – no small thing – what a beautiful place St Petersburg is. It originally had Oscar ambitions. Instead, the film’s reception was derailed by religious purists.

Part of Vladimir Putin’s narrative is that he, too, is part of Russia’s imperial legacy. Some think that he believes he has been divinely ordained to play his role. In some ways, this has been an embarrassment for the government: they part-funded the film. But they couldn’t defend it, as the protesters were articulating one of the key tenets of Putin’s presidency: Russia needs to return to the greatness of the tsars and to its Orthodox church roots.

As Russia gears up to mark the 100th anniversary of the death of the Romanovs, the uncomfortable contradictions in an ambitious project to align Russia’s past, present and future are beginning to emerge. In the meantime, focus on tsar Nicholas II’s uncanny resemblance to Rory Kinnear, the German and that wardrobe malfunction.