Walking the Streets of Moscow (1964) Review

At the heart of Soviet comedies stand three towering figures: Leonid Gaidai, Eldar Ryazanov and Georgiy Daneliya. Widely considered the triumvirate of the genre, their films often blend wry humour with pointed social commentary. However, while comparable in stature, their sensibilities diverge sharply. Gaidai revelled in anarchic slapstick, Ryazanov excelled in bittersweet satire, and Daneliya- perhaps the most quietly profound of the three- infused his comedies with a gentle, lingering wistfulness and palpable realism.

This sensibility would later define such greats as ‘Afonya’, ‘Mimino’ and ‘Autumn Marathon’, but its earliest, brightest expression appears in ‘Walking the Streets of Moscow’ (also known as ‘I Walk Around Moscow)- a film where Daneliya’s grounded sensibility is softened by a buoyant, youthful optimism that glows from within. It tells a relatively simple tale: Volodya, a young writer from Siberia, comes to Moscow. He is almost instantly befriended by Kolya, a charming construction worker. Traversing the city together, their meandering journey captures a moment in Soviet life when possibility seemed to lie around every corner.

Though modest in narrative, the film emerged at a pivotal moment in Soviet cultural life. Released in 1964, it debuted at the tail-end of the Khrushchev Thaw- that brief, hopeful interlude after the traumas of war and Stalinism when Soviet cinema was suddenly allowed to breathe again. To some extent, censorship was eased. Filmmakers could show ordinary people, everyday joys, small frustrations and the texture of real urban life without the heavy hand of ideological messaging.

‘Walking the Streets of Moscow’ captures this atmosphere perfectly: its breezy optimism, its casual encounters, even its refusal to force a grand plot all reflect a society tentatively rediscovering lightness after decades of fear and austerity. The Thaw would effectively end the same year with Khrushchev’s removal from power, making Daneliya’s film one of the last works of the period to fully capture that fleeting sense of openness.

What follows is less a conventional plot than a series of lightly connected, amusing vignettes, each one revealing a different facet of the city and the people who inhabit it. A chance meeting in the metro, a brief romantic misunderstanding, a trip to a concert in Gorky Park- none of these episodes are dramatic on their own, yet together form a mosaic of youthful generosity and spontaneous kindness; moments that gradually reveal the film’s deeper concerns.

One such moment comes about midway through. Volodya and Kolya encounter a man they take to be a famous writer, only to be met with his weary cynicism. People, he insists, are opportunists, driven by self‑interest. His bleak worldview stands in stark contrast to the boys’ instinctive belief that people are, on the whole, good. Although the scene is brief, it crystallises the film’s deeper purpose: a gentle defence of decency at a time when such faith felt both fragile and necessary.

Through these small encounters, Daneliya crafts a portrait of Moscow not just as a modern Soviet capital but as a living, breathing place on the cusp of change; where friendships spark easily and strangers help one another without hesitation. The film’s strength lies precisely in this accumulation of minor moments: they build into a grand celebration of the city and the simple human connections that give it warmth.

For all its charm, though, it can’t be denied that Daneliya’s version of Moscow is unmistakably idealised. Not only does every Muscovite seem endlessly patient and helpful, but the city itself appears almost utopian: shops are fully stocked, streets gleam with impossible cleanliness, modern appliances hum in tidy apartments, attractive people stroll about in stylish, contemporary clothes. It is a Moscow scrubbed of hardship, a city where the everyday inconveniences of Soviet life- queues, shortages, bureaucracy- simply do not exist.

In this sense, the film shares something with ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’: a portrait of a place not as it was, but as it might have been in the collective imagination. Whether this idealisation edges into propaganda, however, is debatable. Rather than promoting a political message, Daneliya seems more interested in capturing the emotional atmosphere of the time, a fleeting moment when optimism felt not only possible but natural.

Much of this atmosphere is carried not just by the film’s characters and vignettes, but by the way the city itself is seen. Cinematographer Vadim Yusov shoots the film with an almost documentary ease, favouring an unpretentious realism. His camera rarely calls attention to itself; instead, it glides through streets, underpasses and courtyards with a lightness that mirrors the characters’ own movements. This unobtrusive style allows the city to emerge naturally, as a place of everyday rhythms, fleeting encounters and quiet beauty.

Visually, a subtle dialogue between tradition and modernity can be discerned. Yusov’s camera lingers on a Moscow poised between eras: gleaming new streetlights and bright shopfronts share the frame with statues, monuments and the heavy stone architecture of the past. Characters are often positioned against this contrast- the old city rising behind them as they move with a new generation’s ease and confidence; reinforced by the meticulous production design. This atmosphere is heightened by Andrey Petrov’s playful score, whose airy melodies lend proceedings a buoyant rhythm. Quirky without tipping into whimsy, the music floats above the city, helping the film maintain its delicate tonal balance.

The film’s easy charm depends enormously on its young cast. Nikita Mikhalkov, in one of his earliest screen roles, is magnetic as Kolya. Breezy, confident, effortlessly charismatic, he is kind of young man who seems to dance through life. Opposite him, Aleksei Loktev brings a gentler, more tentative energy to Volodya; his sincerity the perfect counterbalance to Kolya’s swagger. Their chemistry is the film’s engine: one grounded, one buoyant, both instantly believable as friends who might have met only hours ago yet feel as if they’ve known each other for years.

Galina Polskikh adds a note of warmth and quiet complexity as Alyona, the record‑shop salesgirl whom Volodya fancies (and whom Kolya, in his own casual way, seems drawn to as well). She plays the role with a lightness that never slips into caricature, suggesting a young woman who is both amused by and slightly wary of the boys’ attention. Additionally, Evgeniy Steblov, as their friend Sasha, brings a beautifully understated melancholy to the film. His impending marriage and attempts to avoid the draft introduce a subtle tension beneath the narrative’s breezy surface, reminding us that even in this idealised Moscow, adulthood, and its complications, are waiting just offscreen.

Taken as a whole, Georgiy Daneliya’s ‘Walking the Streets of Moscow’ stands as both a product of its era and a gentle rebuke to it. Its idealised cityscape, its breezy encounters, its faith in ordinary decency, all reflect the brief cultural thaw that allowed Soviet cinema to rediscover everyday life. Yet Daneliya’s artistry ensures the film is more than a historical curiosity. Its vignettes, performances and visual grace cohere into a portrait of youth poised between innocence and experience, hope and uncertainty. To watch it now is to glimpse a Moscow suspended in sunlight, and to be reminded of how rare- how precious- such optimism can be.