Leon! Are you alive?
Leon! Where are you going? Are you crazy?
What are you doing?
You think you will win? By working for them?
Trotsky wins by making a gracious exit. Yes?
Hell no! Don't even think about giving up like this.
-I will not let you give up... -Natalia!
I'll only give up if I fear him. Don't you see?
He'll win when Leon Trotsky is afraid to walk when he wants...
and where he wants.
-I heard shots. -I'm not hurt.
You should go back home.
-Mister Trotsky. -Leon, let's go home.
-Are you alright, sir? -I'm fine.
I am... the failed victim of the attack.
-Not a scratch, as always. -Yeah, poor guy.
Thank you.
But to be honest, Trotsky, you've always been a danger for those around you.
Don't blame me.
It's not me who killed all those who had shaken my hand once.
It's not me who sent millions of innocents to camps.
It's not me who sends assassins in the night.
Are you sure it's Stalin? Don't flatter yourself.
He already won. Why would he hunt you? You're no threat.
You see nothing, Jacson. I'll always be a threat to him.
Even if I shut up, even if I surrender. But I won't.
It's a boomerang, Jacson.
What? A boomerang?
I made a golem.
And he won't stop until he destroys his creator.
GEORGIA, 1903
Help me.
Here he is.
How are you going to open it? With your finger?
Look at this.
TROTSKY IS RIGHT!
To all those golden epaulets and gray whiskers,
to all those chauvinists
with shoulder knots in halls of gold and marble,
to all who repress workers' freedom of thought,
we want to say this.
Do you really think you may sleep peacefully?
No. We will come and kick you in the ass.
Because we are stronger, we are younger, and we are right.
And we will win. It's me, Leon Trotsky, who said this.
Are you a Marxist?
A sympathizer.
So why do you serve exploiters, Comrade Sympathizer?
Have to feed my mother and sister. They have only me.
You bastard!
Mother, sister...
A family handicaps a revolutionary.
We don't need sympathizers.
We need brothers-in-arms.
Well done, brother.
PROF. S. FREUD "PSYCHOPATHOLOGY OF EVERYDAY LIFE"
Natalia.
Good afternoon.
Trotsky, are you stalking me?
Am I? Yes. I want to ask you something.
Go ahead.
Want a fruit?
All right...
Why do you find our meetings boring?
You are in Europe, Trotsky.
There are museums, theaters and exhibitions here.
So much life. And you sit in coffeehouses and talk of changes.
Can you change life if you don't know it and don't see it?
Yes, yes. Yes, you're right. I don't know this life.
I spent four years in exile. No museums, no theaters.
No future, people have no reason to live.
And I want to give them a reason to live.
-Freud. -Yes.
-Quite a choice for a rebel. -Just want to know. Freud's in fashion.
He's curious. His ideas of sexuality may shock.
But he has a very keen mind.
See you.
Natalia.
So what if I want to see that kind of life you enjoy?
What do I start with?
I'm invited to a soiree this evening.
You may join if you want.
And what is a "soiree"?
-A dinner party. -Maybe I'll come.
Wow! Trotsky, you surprise me.
My god, Natalia, you're here!
I'm so happy to see you.
Hello, Nel. Meet my friend Leon Trotsky.
Impressive.
Even better when mad. Excuse me.
-You would burn him if you could. -I would.
And not just him. Everyone.
You would burn me too?
Trotsky. Tell me. I think I understand you.
Inside you lives a little kid
who envied others' charm, intelligence or courage.
And he is ready to destroy anyone who is better than he is. Is it so?
You, all of you here, indulge your vices,
while others live in misery and humiliation.
Others who toil like slaves to earn their bread
and to provide you with this rotten luxury.
And you think you're better than them.
No. You are kids, hiding from real life, not me.
But the storm is coming. And when it comes rushing,
you won't believe you could have stolen from these people for so long.
My apologies, I'm not made for parties. Have a nice night.
Trotsky! My gosh, wait!
-How's your charge? -Everything is as planned, herr Kobert.
-He's in the papers. -Very well.
I organized meetings for him to speak at.
He's getting popular. I invested a lot.
Not a problem.
Remember: we are short of time.
Don't worry. I'll send you more.
What are you thinking of doing?
After talking at the Congress, he'll gain real power.
But they won't let him talk without Lenin's permission.
I've taken care of that.
Very well.
My father is a good man, but too conservative.
What waited for me? A golden cage, a good match, a host of children...
So I ran away. To study in Europe.
Mine didn't understand me either.
It's ridiculous: I'm a grown-up,
but I still want him to be proud of me, to understand me.
When we disobey our parents, do we betray their love?
Perhaps. I know I'm right, but I still feel guilty.
A paradox.
Stop!
-Am I interrupting? -Not at all.
We've been at the party. Leon wanted to see the European life.
I have a surprise for you, Trotsky. A gift.
What's that?
A deputy mandate for the Brussels Congress.
Lenin told me in confidence that he wants you to join
the Iskra editorial board.
-But I'm... -That's what he said.
Goodbye.
MANDATE NUMBER 4
RUSSIA, 1903
Gentlemen. ID check.
Your ID.
Vakh... Vakhtang...
Mir... khvali?
-Have a look, sir! -What now?
Come on.
You exaggerate your role a lot.
You pretend you created Stalin.
Before meeting me, Koba was a forager.
A laborer of the revolution, as he said himself.
Keep this one.
But he read my articles and understood
the world will be changed not by well-fed highbrows,
but by people like him, ready to spill blood.
So how didn't you see the monster he would become, with your intuition?
Other people that I was dealing with were much tougher.
I feared they would be...
a real danger.
PARIS, 1903
Ah, Leon. I didn't expect you today.
Vladimir Ilyich, I've read your remarks on my speech for Congress.
You're twisting the facts:
Plekhanov never said and never wrote that.
To hell with him. An old donkey.
He never said that, but he thinks so. We'll dethrone the old fool.
Then I'd like to read your speech.
Why?
To be sure you're not afraid to soil your hands.
Want to come out in the open? As you wish.
I am the head. You are the instrument. I command, you obey.
No doubts, no questions, no girlish snivel.
You just obey. Is that clear?
If so, find yourself another instrument.
I have a head of my own.
What are you...
Your life is in my hands.
If I let go, you are finished as a man and as a politician.
So you'll do as I say.
Or you'll never talk at congresses, nor walk in parks.
Get out.
Nice try.
You didn't frighten me. You didn't.
And I realized that it's me who frightens you.
I'll be the new leader. People will follow me, not you.
One day, you'll come and beg for an alliance.
Thank you. You are charming.
Hello, Natalia.
Hello, Leon. Enjoying beautiful views?
Hundreds, even thousands of people will see these pictures.
I'm just the first one.
You disapprove.
You don't know me, Natalia.
My belief is no one tells a woman what to do with her body.
This moral is of the past, I live for the future.
Is your future immoral then?
A woman will decide herself to whom she gives her body.
Her body and her heart.
If she freely chooses to be faithful to just one man,
it will be more honest than all this two-faced morals.
And then, this is beautiful.
Yes, it is.
And you're right.
It's me who decides to whom I give myself.
You said you liked Freud.
Here you are.
-Freud's talk? -Yes.
-In Vienna. -Yes.
The train departs in an hour. We'd better hurry.
There's a congress soon?
That's right.
From Vienna I'm going to Brussels. Come with me.
-To Brussels? -Yes.
That's boring.
Yes!
Madame. Monsieur. ID check.
Kristo... Hm. Samo... Som...
Samoksa...
Kristo Samokovalov.
We Bulgarians have long names.
Madame Sedova. Monsieur Samoko... Sa...
Don't even try. Goodbye.
Trotsky! What the hell was that?
Daily routine of a social democrat.
Nevertheless, mediocre academics
still claim that human behavior is driven...
VIENNA. 1903
...by reason, ideals and social rules.
Nonsense!
SIGMUND FREUD 1856-1939
Utter rubbish!
I insist that human behavior is driven by two principles:
fear of death and sexual desire.
-What of money? -Money, my friend, is the simplest
and the plainest form of sexual desire.
What of dreams?
Aren't we driven by dreams?
Sorry to upset you, young lady.
Your dreams, too, are a form of sexual desire.
Sex is the only motivation for all activity.
Millionaires and dreamers
want the same thing that an ardent lover wants.
To prove their worth, to reach,
to possess.
Do you know what your friend dreams of?
Of world revolution.
Good for you.
That boring gentleman's desire flows through money.
As for your mate, to have you, he is willing to burn half the world.
For him, sex is revolution!
Society is also based on sexual desire.
Social groups are pulled together just like a man and a woman.
The struggle for power is the struggle for a woman.
Subjects obey the rules because they...
Fear them.
Indeed. But they also love them.
In the most sexual way.
Make people want you.
And they will move the Earth for you.
Any questions, ladies and gentlemen?
You, Herr Revolutionary?
You talked to us for two hours.
Our eyes were on you, nobody else existed for us.
Does this mean that we all
wanted you?
You're simplifying my theory I'd say.
But if that is your question, answer it yourself, and honestly.
I have an answer.
I didn't want you. I'm a normal man.
And you couldn't answer my question. Neither yes nor no.
A "yes" would make a fool of you.
A "no" would confirm your theory is wrong.
But I didn't go away.
I listened fascinated.
You know why?
Because you are right. A paradox.
Our life is made of paradoxes.
Bravo.
He is a genius. Or an oversexed maniac.
-He knows how to shock. -To shock?
How can one shock a woman
who poses naked in front of a dozen men?
I have to earn my bread; I don't want to owe Parvus.
There is no sexual implication.
Freud says there is always some.
Herr Revolutionary!
You are a rare type of a sexual aggressor.
You tried to set a trap for me just to shatter my authority.
But when I was lost, you offered me your hand.
Herr Freud, please excuse my superficial question.
You have a critical mind.
You are not easily fooled; the laws of the crowd don't work for you.
Your psych type is known to kill at once.
But something keeps you from finishing your victim.
Yes, yes, yes, yes. May it be weakness?
I gave you my hand,
when you were drowning in your own demagogy.
Is that weakness to you?
How fast your pupils contract.
I've only seen that in two types of people:
serial killers and religious zealots.
You can be either if you overcome your weakness.
I find no interest in fighting weakness.
I prefer fighting strength. Goodbye.
Are you staying in Vienna? I'd like to study you.
Next time, Herr Freud. I have to go to Brussels.
MEXICO, 1940
Hi, Jose.
Leon! Long time no see. My friend. I'm glad, always glad.
I'm not alone. I brought Frank. We'll give you a hand.
As you wish, amigo. You're crazy, but I like it.
-Thank you. -Come here.
Jose is a great man.
He makes awesome quesadillas.
Sometimes I escape from my desk and find shelter here.
To drive away bad thoughts.
You're not afraid to spoil your hands, are you?
-I'm not. -Very well, join me.
Surprised to see Leon Trotsky kneading dough?
Not at all. Hitler is an artist. Mussolini is fond of cars.
No.
But they are still what they are. So are you.
Painting and cars are for super humans.
Quesadilla is more primitive,
closer to the soil on which common men are walking.
You contradict yourself, Trotsky.
Yesterday you called yourself a superhuman who replaced God.
Today a common man.
Your narrow mind sees a contradiction when there is none.
I was a superhuman because I did a superhuman's job.
Then nobody could see me cooking. Now you can.
But any moment I can become God again.
When you see an idol at a close range,
it disappoints you.
The mightier is the god, the more you are disappointed.
Convenient logic. Allows room to forget faith and loyalty.
I have always been loyal to one thing.
-Revolution was my God. -Mine also.
Far from it. You personified it with your Stalin.
You worship a man. As common people do.
That's why we create myths about ourselves.
If you think about it, you are apostates, not me.
You follow your leader at his first call, not the idea.
I was never fooled.
I've always seen leaders as humans,
and, alas, not the very best.
Alas.
BRUSSELS, 1903
Trotsky's coming.
Hello, Vladimir Ilyich.
A shame you're so dressed up. Your talk has been canceled.
I changed my mind. I'll do what you asked of me.
Your speech.
Thank you.
I yield the floor to Comrade Trotsky.
Comrades! I am Leon Trotsky.
I have known exile and the hell of prison cells.
I have seen the misery of Russian people and the injustice of law.
I address my speech to the revolutionaries.
Though they are too few here.
How's that?!
You sit idle in Paris, Berlin, London.
Talking politics, writing articles, growing fat!
You can't save peasants and guide workers from a coffeehouse.
You can't arm the proletariat by drinking coffee!
Look at yourselves! A shame!
You are all eunuchs!
You're not struggling, you're simulating struggle!
And discrediting the great idea of revolution!
Comrade Plekhanov!
Are you comfortable enough to think about revolution after a good lunch?
Are you warm and well clothed? Russian peasants can wait.
For a revolution in advanced Europe.
Right, Comrade Plekhanov?
-Enough of that. -And you, Lenin, what are you smiling at?
Are you better? You sit in the same coffeehouse,
weaving your plots.
You as much a eunuch as everyone else.
The Russian revolution has had her full
of helpless Parisian and Viennese peacocks.
She needs new leaders, new fighters.
-Revolution is a woman. -Well said!
She needs a true man.
Enough chitchat! Time for Russian revolution!
Be men! Inseminate her!
And she will beget a new world, a just world!
Yes! That's true!
A true revolutionary is ready to go out with a gun.
A true revolutionary is not afraid of drowning in streams of blood.
Long live the Russian revolution!
Yes!
Long live the cleansing through blood!
Thank you.
-Comrade Trotsky, an outstanding speech. -Thank you!
You exceeded my expectations.
You got rid so elegantly of two hindrances at once.
Three. Tell your moneybag friends that I don't need them anymore.
You neither, by the way.
Outstanding.
Thank you. Thank you.
Thank you.
-You are a ruffian. -I am a revolutionary.
You were rude with me.
I made you happy by the means I had.
Is that your way to build the new world?
Why not? If the result is the same.
In what way?
In the way we make everyone happy in the end.
-Everyone? -Everyone.
Aren't you too cocky, Comrade Revolutionary?
You've seduced a weak girl, now you expect the whole nation to want you?
-All the people? -That's what a nation is. A weak girl.
The masses have a female psychology. You are passive by nature.
You wait for what a man offers you and choose the best.
The masses are the same. Especially Russians.
These people are like well-bred ladies: they never make the first step,
but when they see a strong, confident man,
they lie under him at once.
How can you speak so scornfully about the whole nation that you want to make happy?
There is no scorn. There is a clear understanding of the material.
You should see your face.
The scorn is all it shows. In capital letters.
What of it?
The people who have tolerated tyranny for centuries do deserve some scorn.
So why fight for those who you scorn?
I've had my fill of scorn. I want to love them.
I want to see people who deserve love.
To see normal, beautiful, happy, smiling faces. Just like yours.
All around me. Don't you want that?
I do.
...you hook-nose! Come on now!
RUSSIA. 1919
We've a new world to build! Come here!
He broke the front between 8th and 9th armies and gained our rear.
Who? How many men has he got? Where is he going to?
-Inquire. Report. -Yes, Comrade Chairman.
I'll find out.
Here, here! Smile, all of you!
Don't push me! Smile, lads!
What's going on?
Stand still!
A photo together, that's all.
Caught a kike in the street. I mean, a photographer.
And this?
Expropriated for the army's needs.
Such a hottie, a shame to leave her behind.
Comrade Chairman!
Please, a photo together!
They won't believe me!
A tramp, a rolling stone. They won't believe I've been in your troops.
A photo to make them believe?
I want to see people who deserve love.
To see beautiful, happy, smiling faces. Just like yours.
Should I write about that too?
It's your book. You decide.
Tell me, Jacson, what is propaganda for?
To inform people of the state's position.
To draw illusions that you will hold dear.
The picture of your world is wonderful.
A paradise on earth, ruled by good and fair titans
protecting you from all evil.
You are so eager to believe in it that your mind rejects
any fact that contradicts this picture.
Alas.
This self-hypnosis is driven by your craving for comfort, not by facts.
The fact is, by the way, that half a world worships Lenin.
And Stalin is his disciple.
Could a couple of zeroes have such a success?
You have used a precise word, Frank. Worship.
Free your mind, start thinking!
Worship is religion.
As an atheist, you must avoid it.
By the way, they didn't invent anything.
They used old myths.
Lenin plays the role of God the Father, Stalin - of God the Son.
Yep. And you are Judas.
Yes.
I've heard that.
Trotsky the Judas.
But you are, judging by your story.
You betrayed both Lenin and Parvus.
Judas is the best-fitting Christian character for you.
Do you think they would blame Judas
if he'd betrayed the High Priest and not Jesus?
And if the priests would have built a paradise on earth,
would people worship them or Jesus?
You have a very keen mind for a Stalinist.
See you tomorrow, Jacson.
And mark this:
Lenin and Parvus didn't want to build a paradise, perhaps, for themselves only.
That's it.
Let me.
And what do you need?
Me?
I already died a year ago, I need nothing.
I thought you called me.
Another man died because of me.
And I felt nothing. I am empty.
Yes.
You didn't become a serial killer nor a religious zealot.
You became something more terrible.
You're not being original.
I've heard that a lot since they exiled me from the USSR.
A maniac kills to feel.
A zealot kills himself and others to feel.
For a long time, you feel nothing, Herr Revolutionary.
No love, no pity, no hate.
No compassion for your victims.
What do you want? My excuses?
I remember looking into your eyes
and seeing your pupils contract in the moment of stress.
It was beautiful.
But what do I see now?
Nothing. An empty look.
You are indifferent to others' death...
and to your own.
Only the weak fear death, Herr Freud.
You had reproached me of weakness.
Now I'm strong. I am not afraid to die.
Your fearlessness is quite natural.
Do you know who is not afraid to die?
-Who? -Those who are...
already dead.