Published on March 31, 2026
Dehumanization can be imposed and experienced in many ways. It affects the most mistreated prisoners and victims of war, as well as those who live under the facade of peace and freedom amidst dire and precarious conditions. More broadly, the term encompasses anyone whose development as a person is stifled, reduced to an object that is used and discarded or merely a cog in a repetitive machine. This phenomenon spread with industrialization and the subsequent rise of capitalism, defining the assembly line workers or the faceless employees of any routine enterprise. It is also applicable to individuals under totalitarian regimes, including ordinary citizens and subordinate officials—not to mention the prisoners whose numbers exponentially rise in any self-respecting totalitarian state. Stalin’s regime serves as a classic example, often categorized alongside Nazism in political theory. Under that Soviet leader, the population was truly dehumanized, with thousands vanishing into anonymity, many more exiled or incarcerated for arbitrary reasons, and the fortunate few who initially served the state were also subjected to clear, external instructions, as refusing to comply risked their own imprisonment.
The latest film Sergei Loznitsa, Two Prosecutors, is based on a short story of the same name , whose autobiographical elements are evident as he was arrested in 1938 and brutally interrogated, with no regard for human rights—another inherent aspect of dehumanization. Set within this turbulent historical backdrop, the film opens with new inmates arriving at an ambiguously sized Soviet prison. Shortly thereafter, a young prosecutor arrives to deal with a Kafkaesque request, caught between his legal idealism and the amoral pragmatism of those around him. From the outset, Loznitsa establishes a style that captures the cold distance yet precise detail of the oppressive environment (omitting direct horror, as seen in similar previous works like *The Zone of Interest*, which was recently presented at Cannes by a seasoned director).
The primary setting, the prison, reflects a space where surveillance is omnipresent, with relief only found behind the confines of a cell. This is illustrated by a prisoner assigned to burn countless letters of plea directed at the authorities—a task he partially fulfills. The beauty of the frame showing the condemned man tossing the papers into the incinerator starkly contrasts the intrinsic coldness of the act, both in its context and goal, emphasized and deliberation. This unceasing inertia justifies the static nature of the film’s shots.
Indeed, the camera remains motionless and confines its subjects in tight frames, whether wide shots or close-ups—where symmetry and framing limit any perspective. The rigor of the staging is relentless, with shots crafted for the camera to await the character’s action before it concludes, underscoring their preordained, even fated nature. This style aligns with the lives of individuals required to follow predetermined steps dictated force simply to survive under such an oppressive regime. Consequently, the protagonist, unable to adapt to reality, faces obstacles at every turn. His character prevents him from recognizing that he is not supposed to conduct his work but rather to become another cog in the machinery, adhering rigidly to the routine.
The character’s conflict, classic in its depiction of a man versus his environment, unfolds through both tangible impediments and lengthy dialogues that masquerade as logical dialogues but devolve into circumlocutions or soliloquies that obscure rather than clarify the narrative. These extended exchanges disrupt the almost metronomic flow of scenes often restricted to back-and-forth transitions that emphasize the impossibility of progression and the suffocating closed circuit in which everyone is entangled—arguably the film’s most effective aspect. Thus, the film loses some momentum in lengthier conversations, although necessary, to paint a picture of egoism, frustration, and despair reflective of a historical period not entirely forgotten. While strict totalitarian regimes may no longer exist, wars, repression, and dehumanizing censorship remain, all too present in today’s world.
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