Three Stories (1997)

Three Stories is special because it turns murder into a darkly comic mirror, reflecting how small humiliations, cramped living, and wounded pride can curdle into something unthinkable—while never letting you settle into easy judgment. Kira Muratova stages these three novellas with a mischievous, razor-edged intelligence: the dialogue bites, the situations feel absurdly plausible, and the mood swings from grim to strangely playful in a way that keeps you alert and fascinated. It’s the kind of film where the camera seems to listen as much as it watches, finding bleak poetry in boiler rooms, hospital corridors, and neighborly “civilization.” Fair warning: it’s chilly, morally provocative, and not designed to comfort you—but if you like crime stories that behave like satire and drama at the same time, this is a bracing, unforgettable watch.

Three Stories is Kira Muratova doing what she does best: using darkly comic, deliberately uncomfortable vignettes to poke at moral rot, petty cruelty, and the casual way violence can seep into ordinary lives. If you’re expecting a conventional crime-comedy with tidy setups and payoffs, this will feel abrasive and oddly paced, with characters who are more like provocations than people you’re meant to “root for.” The tone is icy, the humor is pitch-black, and the film seems to enjoy keeping you off-balance rather than entertained in a friendly way. That said, if you like art-house cinema that’s unapologetically strange, sharply observed, and willing to stare at ugliness without blinking, it has a nasty little originality and a director’s voice you won’t confuse with anyone else.