I have always been an ardent devotee of comedy, and several years ago, I went in search of some obscure, alternative comedy that would satiate my desire to find something different to anything I had seen before. There were two television shows that I encountered that were of extreme fascination – The Day Today and I’m Alan Partridge. These shows were rather different in subject matter and brand of comedy, but they had one distinctive feature in common – Armando Iannucci, who has become arguably the most important political satirist working in television today. His groundbreaking satire The Thick of It (and the subsequent film, In the Loop) cast a sarcastic gaze over the early millennial years in British government, while the iconic Veep showed a new side of American politics. Iannucci has always brought cultural relevance and current resonance to everything he does, and his effortless talent at satirizing the political system positions him as a true visionary. Yet, his latest work has distanced itself far from anything he has done before, while still remaining very much within Iannucci’s wheelhouse, and his most recent piece of political satire has the filmmaker looking at over half a century before, into the treacherous depths of the Soviet Union in The Death of Stalin, which is not only arguably Iannucci’s best work to date, but also undeniably one of the most effective (and quite frankly, utterly terrifying) pieces of commentary of this decade, a film that is as relevant as it is darkly comical.

The Death of Stalin is about exactly what the title promises – it centres on the day immediately following the death of the grandiose and monstrous Joseph Stalin, and the battle for power between his legion of confidantes and advisors, all of which are in lustful search to satisfy the desire to have control over the entire Soviet Union. The personalities of these individuals all clash as they attempt to act in the interests of the people, while still ensuring that they are able to seize the control that they so desperately need. Among these are Georgy Malenkov (Jeffrey Tambor), Stalin’s second-in-command who reluctantly takes power as General Secretary of the Soviet Union, used purely as a pawn by the vicious and malevolent Lavrentiy Beria (Simon Russell Beale), the leader of the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs, who is the embodiment of pure evil and is in search of even more power to assert his violent desires. The most distinctive rival to Beria’s plot to seize control is Nikita Khrushchev (Steve Buscemi), the seemingly-ethical moral paragon of the Soviet government who wants to implement more liberal actions after dismantling some of Stalin’s most questionable decisions. These individuals, and others who are not quite as significant but still very meaningful struggle to keep order in the post-Stalin era, as the entire Soviet Union falls into catastrophe, and the leadership is anything but certain.

Whenever I find myself watching something in which Armando Iannucci has had major creative control, I am absolutely awe-struck, and I frequently question how he is able to construct such well-formed, fascinating stories that are as darkly hilarious as they are resonant and intellectually-stimulating. He has frequently extracted some deeply interesting and darkly comical stories out of the most unlikely situations, and his keen sense of the comedic works well in the contexts of these very serious stories. A filmmaker attempting to make a film about the death of Joseph Stalin seemingly only has two options in terms of what kind of approach to take – either, a dull historical account of the truthful events, or a tense and violent political thriller. Iannucci takes the least likely approach, making a comedy, and it was almost celestial in how the style of the filmmaker matched with the underlying implications of the real-world events, with the events surrounding Stalin’s death being absurd, awkward and utterly ludicrous in every way, material ripe for the unflinching cynicism only Iannucci and his acidic sense of humor are capable of conveying. There are countless moments of sheer comical genius, ranging from the most grandiose and farcical elements to the smallest nuances of suggestion. This story was most certainly difficult to approach correctly, but Iannucci managed to find a serendipitous balance between the broadly comedic and gravely serious, and it is masterful the way in which this film navigates the seemingly-impossible tonal tightrope, resulting in an absolute triumph of political satire that will not soon be forgotten.

Iannucci has several talents as a writer and director, but perhaps his biggest merit is his ability to handle his casts effectively. In nearly everything he has done, each member of the ensemble is a well-placed, effective element of the larger narrative, and The Death of Stalin is not an exception. Composed of an unexpected ensemble of brilliant veterans, almost all of which play against type in some way, the film is only supported by the dedicated and effortlessly wonderful performances of the talented cast. Two particular standouts are Jeffrey Tambor and Steve Buscemi, who play two pivotal roles that are central to the narrative. Tambor plays a vaguely dimwitted klutz who possesses rare moments of uncharacteristic vitriol, especially as he grows more comfortable with his recently-earned position of power, and he is tremendous in the role. Buscemi, who is always extremely consistent regardless of the film or role, once again plays the slight-sleazy milquetoast, but different to how we’ve seen him play it before, with his character being far less of the comedic relief, and more akin to the protagonist of the story (even if this film is very much characteristic of Iannucci’s other works, comprised of a set of despicable, irredeemable idiots). Tambor and Buscemi are the central forces within this film, and much of it revolves around them and their respective crises of power – do they seize the opportunity to assert their own politically-charged beliefs on one of the most powerful empires of the twentieth century, or do they act in the interest of the people, who have been so egregiously harmed under Stalin? Of course, Iannucci strips away all morals and virtues and shows these characters as morons who could not run a marathon, let alone the entire Soviet Union, and Buscemi and Tambor do a terrific job of bringing out the nuances in such unlikable characters.

Yet, while Buscemi and Tambor may be the soul of the film, at the heart of The Death of Stalin is a truly tremendous performance by one of Britain’s finest actors, Simon Russell Beale. Beale, playing the utterly despicable Lavrentiy Beria, is absolutely astonishing – squirming, vile and unspeakably evil, it is a performance that required an unhinged sense of pure malevolence on the part of the actor. Giving a performance that is undeniably one of the most sinister villainous turns ever committed to film, Beale is extraordinary, and his firm grasp of the sheer evil of this character is remarkable – and he does it so effortlessly, oscillating between snarling stupidity to sinister cruelty without even the fading of a malignant grin. Beale deserves endless praise for the performance he gave in The Death of Stalin, mainly due to the fact that such a role does not require too much on the part of the actor, as Iannucci’s script and direction are usually sufficient in providing the actor with the tools to construct a memorable performance, but Beale brings so much complexity to the character, finding the depths of inhumanity that existed within this character. I have found that when presented with a historical figure less known or more obscure in a biographical film or one based on true events, it is indicative of a great performance on the part of the actor tasked with portraying that character if they are more memorable than the performances of the more well-known historical figures, and Beale’s nuanced and macabre portrayal of Beria lingers on in my mind, making an indelible impression that will not soon fade.

The entire cast of The Death of Stalin is terrific, and everyone fires on all cylinders in this film. Comedic genius Michael Palin is excellent as the loyal but scheming Vyacheslav Molotov. Rupert Friend and Andrea Riseborough have some great moments as the children of Stalin who grieve the death of the titular character in a very different way, seeing his death not as the passing of a national figure, but the loss of their father. Olga Kurylenko is also marvelous in her small role as the defiant pianist who indirectly plays a pivotal role in the death of Stalin, and her relentless defiance is juxtaposed with the spineless sycophantic quest for power present within the other characters. Jason Isaacs, who possesses the same quality that has so spectacularly been bestowed upon the likes of Bill Murray and Jeff Goldblum, insofar as his presence automatically improves a film by the very virtue of his involvement (in what I am officially formalizing as “The Stanton Rule”, named after the iconic Harry Dean Stanton), is wonderful as the trigger-happy, extraordinarily violent head of the Soviet army, Georgy Zhukov. As a whole, the cast of The Death of Stalin are extraordinary and are all invaluable components of a brilliant masterwork of political satire.

There was something quite odd about The Death of Stalin – despite being set in 1953 and based around Russian politics and the running of the Soviet Union, there was a sinister sense of the modern political landscape present throughout. Without entertaining the possibility of discussing political beliefs or the distressing nature of the world at the present moment, I’d like to comment on the fact that The Death of Stalin is far more than simply being a comedic retelling of a particular historical event, and Iannucci filters some very potent social commentary that is applicable to our current world, and transforms The Death of Stalin into less of a comedy, and more of an indictment on the volatile, sleazy nature of politics. We are living in a world where both sides of the political spectrum, left and right, are filled with immorality and are driven by a lustful desire for power and influence. The interests of the people are not even vaguely considered much of the time, and while Iannucci undeniably attempted to make a very funny film, he managed to convey a bleak vision of government that is beyond depressing. Filled with the bureaucratic horror of Franz Kafka and the cynical surrealism of Thomas Pynchon, amongst others, The Death of Stalin makes some very serious statements in an extremely entertaining way, and just proves Iannucci as a true revolutionary of modern political satire, relentless in sardonic representations of the truth. There is certainly a reason why The Death of Stalin has been called “a comedy of terrors”, that’s for sure.

Armando Iannucci (as well as his co-writers, David Schneider, Ian Martin and Peter Fellows, to give them well-deserved credit as well) did some tremendous with The Death of Stalin – combining a historical event with his characteristic absurd wit and fierce control of comedic narrative, he constructs a bleak but entertaining fable about dishonesty and the lack of virtues that persist throughout politics. He brings out the very best in his entire cast, populated by some extraordinary actors, such as Steve Buscemi, Jeffrey Tambor and especially Simon Russell Beale, who anchors this film with his unforgettable performance. The Death of Stalin is a film that did not have to be as effective and resonant as it was, and it could have easily been a memorable and entertaining historical comedy, but the layered nuances and grave seriousness that Iannucci and his collaborators imbue in this film, attempting to comment on more relevant and currently-pertinent issues, was astonishing. The Death of Stalin often feels like a political horror film, with despair and pure malevolence being only partially shrouded in the broadly comedic sheen of the film. In no uncertain words, The Death of Stalin is a terrific film and a towering achievement by one of the most brilliant satirists working today.