390 days. That is precisely how long, by Nikita Mikhalkov's own count, the Russian government has failed to carry out the presidential directive on quotas for foreign cinema. Armed with this figure, he appeared before the Presidential Council on Culture — and delivered a speech which, on closer examination, should be read not as the grievance of a cultural figure, but as a business proposition from a would-be monopolist.
Mikhalkov skilfully conflated two entirely different demands in a single address. The first — the introduction of quotas on foreign films, that is, the restriction of competitors. The second — an increase in state funding for domestic production, that is, more subsidies for his own. Both demands point towards the same pocket. Whose precisely — on this point, Nikita Sergeyevich preferred to remain silent.
bn Cinema Fund budget 2026 (roubles)
bn total Russian box office receipts in 2025 (roubles)
The public, of course, foots the bill. The state pours tens of billions of roubles annually into Russian cinema: the Cinema Fund's budget alone stood at 10.2 bn roubles in 2025, with 10.4 bn planned for 2026. The Ministry of Culture adds a further 4.3 bn. The Institute for Internet Development — on a separate line — receives 25.9 bn roubles per year for "national content." In total, we are speaking of over forty billion roubles annually, allocated from the federal budget to what is conventionally called culture.
"The state gives enormous sums to cinema. Genuinely real support for film," Mikhalkov admitted himself. And immediately demanded more.
What are the results? In 2025, 35 films received state subsidies in one form or another. Four recouped their costs at the box office. In other words, nine out of ten pictures made with public money returned nothing to the public. In 2022, only one of 26 subsidised films achieved commercial success. According to research centre PROGRESS, 88% of all state-supported projects failed at the box office in 2025.
Before us is the classic logic of the rent-seeker: the worse the results, the louder the demand to increase investment. Mikhalkov does not propose accounting for the billions already spent. He proposes a system under which the flow of money will grow still wider — and fall under the control of an ever narrower circle of individuals.
Five Demands for One Monopoly
The Mikhalkov Programme — in substance
- A monopoly on production. Private cinema, in Mikhalkov's telling, is incapable of producing quality content without state money. Therefore, the state is obliged to fund — and whoever controls the funding decides what gets made.
- A monopoly on rent from foreign cinema. Mikhalkov proposed a mandatory entry fee of 5 million roubles for each foreign film submitted for consideration for distribution in Russia. A barrier to entry — in favour of a system controlled by the Union of Cinematographers.
- A monopoly on selection. Who exactly will decide which foreign film the Russian audience deserves to see, and which it does not — this was left unspecified in the address. But a "single window" implies a single filter.
- A monopoly on the collection of box office receipts. Mikhalkov proposed directing 10% of box office takings from foreign films towards the financing of Russian cinema. With annual market receipts of 45.2 bn roubles, this amounts to billions in additional redistribution.
- A monopoly on distribution. As the "single window" for all foreign cinema, Mikhalkov proposed deploying Gazprom-Media Holding and the National Media Group — structures affiliated with the state and its loyalists. Where the collected funds would go thereafter is a rhetorical question.
Of particular note is the claim that quotas are necessary, set against the actual market data. By the end of 2025, domestic cinema already accounts for approximately 70% of the Russian box office — without any quotas whatsoever. The leading film of the year was The Wizard of the Emerald City with takings of 3.3 bn roubles. Finist. The First Bogatyr — 2.7 bn. A foreign film (Now You See Me 3) entered the top three for the first time since 2021 — and even then with just 1.8 bn roubles.
The question Mikhalkov carefully avoids: if domestic cinema already dominates 70% of the market, why are quotas needed? The answer is straightforward: quotas are not needed to protect the market from competitors, but to establish control over the cash flow from the remaining 30%. With market receipts of 45 bn roubles, 10% of the foreign segment amounts to a further 1.35 bn roubles annually, channelled through the "single window."
Quotas are not needed to protect Russian cinema from Hollywood. Hollywood has already retreated. Quotas are needed so that the remaining foreign films pay tribute.
The complaint about the bureaucracy of the Cinema Fund deserves separate examination. Mikhalkov laments that funds reach studios only in August and September, destroying 90% of the filming season. The Fund's Supervisory Board has met twice in four years, against the eight times required. These are real problems of real administrative paralysis. But who chairs the Union of Cinematographers, with its direct line to the President? The same Mikhalkov. Who has spent decades shaping the industry's agenda and the composition of its boards? The same Mikhalkov. To blame bureaucratic inefficiency whilst being both part of it and one of its principal beneficiaries — this is not a critique of the system. It is haggling for better terms within it.
The officials present at the Council meeting behaved precisely as one would expect. Medinsky reported that the protocol had been signed "yesterday or the day before" — only to qualify himself immediately: "as far as I know." He had not personally seen the signed document. Lyubimova assured the room that she would "manage." Putin asked that the "compromise document" be implemented "as quickly as possible" and praised Mikhalkov for raising "vitally important questions."
Two interpretations of Medinsky's qualifier are equally telling. Either the decision had been taken in advance — and the entire public dressing-down was a procedure for legitimising a scheme already agreed behind closed doors. Or the protocol did not yet exist at all — and the official, under the pressure of the moment, promised what was not yet there, compelling the system to deliver after the fact. In the first case, we are witnessing theatre. In the second — an improvisation that immediately became a binding commitment. The outcome is identical in either scenario: the scheme received the public blessing of the President.
Against this backdrop, the conduct of Tatyana Golikova — Deputy Prime Minister formally overseeing the social sphere — is instructive. She openly stated that she had not participated in the meeting and was unaware of which protocol was being discussed. In the room, this sounded like incompetence. In substance, it was the only honest remark of the evening. Golikova simply refused to play the role she had not been assigned. A seasoned apparatchik, she publicly stepped out of the game before any obligations were incurred. "I don't know" — translated into the language of bureaucratic politics — means: "I am not responsible."
390 days of a presidential directive going unexecuted — and the result is yet another directive. The system reproduces itself. The money continues to flow. There is no accountability. The monopoly is consolidated — now with personal benediction.
Dzerzhinsky wrote from a Warsaw prison: the true enemy of the people is not he who attacks from without, but he who from within the system appropriates what has been created by common labour. Nikita Mikhalkov is not an enemy from without. He is an architect of rent from within, draped in the mantle of a patriot and advocate for "our lives."
It is important to understand: Bolshevism was precisely a diagnosis of this disease — and an attempt to cure it. Dzerzhinsky did not create the Cheka against an external enemy, but against those who from within the revolutionary system appropriated common resources under the guise of serving the state. The Soviet parasite spoke the language of party interest — and in doing so discredited the system. What we observe today is the disease in its third generation, one that has learnt to imitate the medicine. Mikhalkov speaks the language of state interest. The form is the same. The substance — a private monopoly.
The question worth asking after this address is simple: forty billion roubles of public money per year — and 88% failures. Who bears responsibility? And who receives the next tranche?