Kin-dza-dza! 1986

In a vivid, sharply observed portrait of late Soviet life rewritten as a surreal fable, the story starts in 1980s Moscow with Vladimir Nikolaevich Mashkov — known to friends as Uncle Vova Stanislav Lyubshin — trudging home after a grueling day as a construction foreman. His wife asks him to pick up groceries, and the ordinary evening is upended when, parked in the city centre on Kalinin Prospekt, a barefoot man in a tattered coat stops him with an almost biblical question: “Tell me the number of your planet in the Tentura? Or at least the number of your galaxy in the spiral?” The moment is casual yet eerie, a doorway opened to something entirely alien.

Vova and a young Georgian student with a violin, who becomes the film’s memorable Violinist Levan Gabriadze, pause to talk to the stranger. The stranger unveils a device he calls a device for moving in space, a teleportation thing that promises a shortcut beyond time and space. Skeptical but curious, Uncle Vova presses a random button despite the stranger’s warnings, and in a flash they are ripped from their familiar street to a place very far from home: the planet Pluke in the Kin-dza-dza galaxy.

On Pluke, life unfolds with a strange, almost childlike directness that mocks human pretensions. The inhabitants look almost ordinary but live by a tongue-in-cheek, telepathic code, and the two indispensable words of their culture are ku (for goodness) and kyu (for every form of badness). The locals are quick to adapt to Russian and Georgian, which helps the Earth newcomers survive in a world where speech is only a ritual, not a barrier. The society is split into two rigid camps: Chatlanians and Patsaks. A small handheld device called the visator reveals who is who—an orange light marks a Chatlanian, while a green light marks a Patsak—making social status an on-the-spot verdict. The Patsaks, though, carry the burden of ritual worship and obedience, while the Chatlanians enjoy a tentative privilege, a dynamic that hints at a broader, unsettling commentary on power and class. (The narrative makes clear that the two groups are not fixed by fate; Pluke’s tensions shift depending on where you are, who you’re with, and what you own.)

The landscape of power on Pluke is guarded by the ecilopps—the only group allowed to wield weapons, known to locals by their backward-spelled name for “police.” The everyday social currency is bizarre yet revealing: the color of one’s pants becomes a sign of status, dictating how many times one must say ku as a form of submission. The planet’s ruler, a figure named Mr. P-Zh, seems harmless at close range but exerts coercive power through ritual reverence and fear. The fuel that powers Pluke’s world, called luts, is produced from water; water itself is scarce and valuable because every drop must be converted into this processed energy, a detail that underscores how basic resources shape social order.

Amid this strange society, ordinary objects take on extraordinary value. Wooden matches, called ketse, become precious relics, traded and sought after much as much more mundane items would be on Earth. The Earth travelers encounter locals named Uef and Bi, who drift in and out of their efforts to fix a way home. These encounters swing between aid and betrayal, shaping the duo’s attempts to repair a ship or raid the private domain of the enigmatic Mr. P-Zh in hopes of reclaiming their way back to Earth. The plot threads alternate between moments of peril and sly humor, revealing a world where survival often hinges on wit, luck, and a willingness to play by rules that feel absurdly arbitrary to outsiders.

As the journey unfolds, the mission to return home grows ever more urgent. The story eventually threads back to the moment at the film’s start, but with a twist: the man who began their odyssey returns Uncle Vova and the Violinist not to their own city, but to the film’s opening scene. The world seems to reset, and when Uncle Vova steps outside again, he and the Violinist do not recognize each other at first. A passing tractor flashes an orange light, and the two instinctively crouch and utter “ku”—the ritual of fear and deference that has defined their lives on Pluke. It is only then that they re-establish a connection, and the film closes on a note of melancholy irony and muted wonder as Uncle Vova looks up at the sky and hears the distant, hopeful strains of a song performed by the locals Wef Evgeni Leonov and Bi.