The infamous ‘movie set that ate itself’ has finally delivered its magnum opus after two decades: a three-and-a-half-hour, often cacophonous and repetitive biopic centered on Greek-born Soviet physicist Lev Landau, portrayed by Teodor Currentzis. This feature is just one of 14 films, alongside several series and installations, meticulously carved from director Ilya Khrzhanovsky’s sprawling mega-production. His audacious project involved a fully-functioning recreation of mid-century Moscow, operating day and night for years, and garnered notoriety for its immersive art experiment rife with allegations of abuse. While the story of its making is morbidly fascinating, the film itself, as a standalone cinematic experience, leans more towards a whimper than a bang.

Simply titled "Dau," distinguishing it from sibling features like "DAU. Natasha" and "DAU. Degeneration" that premiered in Berlin in 2020, this Venice competition entry aligns with Khrzhanovsky's initial vision before it morphed into a Soviet "Truman Show." Yet, it struggles to stand alone outside its experimental context. This is partly due to Khrzhanovsky's directorial choice to frequently shift the camera's focus from its lead characters to the surrounding environment and background.

This aesthetic choice intentionally reinforces one of the film’s central themes: Lenin’s promise of a Marxist utopia gradually curdling into a pervasive Big Brother state. While any historical figure's narrative is inextricably linked to its time and place, the film's particular unfolding often proves distracting. Despite its four-decade narrative, the core aesthetic ideas remain largely on the surface, rarely congealing into compelling intrigue or dramatic rigor.

Orchestral conductor Teodor Currentzis embodies Landau with an awkwardness that unpredictably bursts into vitality, mirrored by a chaotic barrage of sounds and images that open "Dau." This off-putting introduction is deliberate, but its frequent recurrence rarely anchors the audience in a coherent psychological or emotional landscape – unlike, for instance, the nightmare visions in a fellow nuclear biopic such as "Oppenheimer." The film is loud and brash, much like the production itself, which has drawn both fascination and ire. Similarly, Landau, in the film’s portrayal, remains conflicted between his scientific ethics and his Soviet duty when faced with building nuclear weapons.

Landau’s principled debates with his aged mentor, theatre director Anatoly Vasiliev as Pytor Kryupitsa, form a significant part of the plot. However, these discussions often lack dramatic variation with each recurrence. What does change is the eye-popping staging, with conversations unfolding in wildly different locales, such as atop a cage-like grid or along a nearly 45-degree slope. "Dau" boasts the detailed, weighty celluloid texture of a grand historical drama, consistently offering visually interesting scenes. Yet, visual appeal doesn't always translate to engagement, raising the question of whether Khrzhanovsky's undeniable photographic eye is truly cinematic.

The actual drama within the film is alternately stretched and thinly spread across its extensive runtime. A substantial portion explores Landau’s turbulent relationship with his eventual wife, Nora, played by actress and TV presenter Radmila Schegoleva. Among the film’s diverse, multi-disciplinary performers, Schegoleva crafts a lively, complex dynamic with Currentzis, often bordering on violent furor and setting the stage for illicit affairs. While the story’s improvised feel generates wildly naturalistic scenes of romance gone awry, these raw sensations come at a cost. Despite being awash in spectacle and scale, "Dau" often lacks coherent composition, a probable consequence of its freewheeling, spontaneous production methods.

When the camera fortuitously captures a glimpse of a truly great performance, it often feels accidental, a rare kind of magic. More frequently, viewers are left observing untrained screen actors who appear unsure of their blocking or inadvertently obscure the camera with their movements. If Khrzhanovsky’s ambition was to recreate social and cultural conditions to capture raw, unadulterated drama, the resulting film inadvertently reinforces Hitchcock’s classic adage: drama is simply life with the dull bits edited out.

This isn’t to say "Dau" is without its merits. By meticulously staging a faux surveillance state where thousands of extras lived under constant watch and even informed on one another, Khrzhanovsky masterfully weaves a pervasive fabric of indifference and complicity into his backdrop. Actors often keep their heads down as enormous, sometimes violent, events unfold before them. Scenes of interrogation, where KGB operatives coerce Landau’s loved ones to betray him, crackle with palpable tension. As the narrative progresses into the 1950s, the atmosphere of paranoia even follows Landau home, subtly infusing minor interactions after a friend is released from prison.

However, these successes, while notable, feel like damning "Dau" with faint praise. Such moments are fleeting, comprising only minor fractions of the movie’s gargantuan runtime. Despite concluding with a perfectly symbolic ending, the film then ventures into an extended epilogue, redundantly hammering home points already made ad nauseam. While there's a certain allure in witnessing a real-world "Synecdoche, New York" come to life, the movie ultimately fails to justify its immense hubbub, meandering through scenes that appear strung together more by happenstance than deliberate intention.

As Landau muses, "It’s very distressing to know that you’re not god." One can’t help but wonder if the film’s all-powerful, all-seeing director feels a similar sentiment about his creation, now that it exists beyond his direct manipulation and control.

Grade: C. "Dau" premiered at the 2026 Venice Film Festival and is currently seeking U.S. distribution.