In this blog post, I’ll examine ‘Eastern Promises’ from the perspectives of the gangster genre and the noir anti-hero, exploring how the boundary between good and evil is shaken and eroded as the violent world and the ordinary world collide.

The Catharsis Arising from the Reversal of Good and Evil: Gangster Films

The origins of the gangster genre, which began in the United States in the 1920s, present a particularly fascinating point. Amid the Great Depression and Prohibition, skepticism toward the capitalist system was rampant in the United States at the time, and a massive economic disparity emerged across all social classes—excluding the privileged elite. The gangster genre began to emerge during this “dark age,” a period of hopelessness where people were at a loss as to how to channel their anger.
The reason the lives of gangsters—who were cast as clear-cut villains—garnered so much attention was a form of vicarious satisfaction. Their way of life—in which vertical social mobility was possible through individual or collective effort, regardless of background, even if that effort involved violence—was portrayed as a source of hope for audiences at the time. Their defiance of state authority—which had become a symbol of incompetence and injustice—served as a source of anger amid the existing unreasonable circumstances of the era; yet, by confronting the state and government—entities that were a source of frustration but seemed inescapable—they provided audiences with a cathartic sense of “rewarding the good and punishing the evil.”
In other words, gangster films were a genre with a socially critical nature that strongly reflected the circumstances of the time. What we must note here is that gangsters—who represent the realm of clear evil—and state authority—which represents the realm of clear good—each seem to possess a nature that shifts from evil to good, or from good to evil. So why can good and evil change? If they can change, does that mean the very boundary between good and evil is meaningless to begin with?
This is precisely the core theme that runs through ‘Eastern Promises’.
However, what is interesting about ‘Eastern Promises’ is that the conflict between good and evil does not follow the typical dichotomous structure of a confrontation between law enforcement and gangsters. The film explores the clash between two worlds—the world of violence and the ordinary world—that cannot coexist.

A fateful encounter between the world of violence and the ordinary world, and a man torn between them

In this film, the violent world labeled as “evil” is embodied by the Russian mafia led by Bori V. Zakon, who, true to the gangster film genre, place a high value on family. This is similar to Coppola’s ‘The Godfather’: while the family exhibits a close-knit, gentle, and domestic character among its blood relatives, behind the scenes, it harbors an exclusionary attitude toward groups outside its own, a blind faith in its own legitimacy, and an extreme sense of contempt for socially marginalized groups such as prostitutes and homosexuals.
The effect these elements create is one of contradiction, and through this, a solidified image of evil is established. Furthermore, the abnormal emotional bond between Semyon, the family’s boss, and his son Kirill serves to brand their sordid secrets and evil like a stigma. It is this very bond that gives rise to the child who directly triggers the aforementioned clash between worlds.
The role of good, which stands in opposition to this evil, is played by Anna—the midwife—who belongs to the ordinary world like us. Driven by a sense of loss stemming from her past experience with Yunsan, she feels sympathy for Tatiana, who came to her hospital as an emergency patient, gave birth, and died; she also feels maternal affection for the child left behind; and through the diary Tatiana left behind, she witnesses the ugly inner workings of absolute evil. She then adopts the typical stance of goodness, determined to resolve this situation.
While the audience comes to view her as the embodiment of justice, the conflict between the two seems utterly absurd, and Anna’s goodness appears infinitely small and precarious in the face of absolute evil. The disruption of the balance between good and evil that arises from this is the source of the tension that permeates the film, and ultimately, it compels the audience—driven by the ethical values inherent in all of us—to seek a figure upon whom the realm of good, which appears so fragile, can rely. At the very center of this stands the driver, Nikolai.
Nikolai is the epitome of evil, serving as a sort of enforcer who acts as a driver for a Russian mafia organization. However, throughout the film, rather than embodying pure evil, he acts as a bridge between the two realms mentioned earlier—the ordinary world and the violent world—which are otherwise completely separate and unreachable. Furthermore, he becomes the figure upon whom the aforementioned “good” can rely.
This effect stems from the ambiguity he exudes, as exemplified by his recurring line, “I’m just a driver.” Throughout the film, he demonstrates that he absorbs all the violence attempting to seep into the ordinary world and consistently helps Anna’s world. The ethical ambiguity created by this embodiment of overt evil—where it becomes impossible to determine whether he is good or evil—is precisely what defines him as a quintessential noir antihero. David Cronenberg seeks to explore the boundary between good and evil by positioning this antihero character at the midpoint between the two.

Gangster Genre Conventions and the Noir Anti-Hero, Nikolai

In the basic conventions of the gangster genre, characters use violence as a tool to achieve specific goals, such as securing their position within an organization, ensuring survival, or climbing the hierarchical ladder. Nikolai occupies a position within the organization where he is trusted and expected to act as a problem-solver, thanks to his abilities and absolute violence; yet he himself appears to have no purpose or desire regarding this. This is precisely the effect that a noir-style antihero character has within the gangster genre, and it is this ambiguity that prevents the audience from consistently viewing Nikolai—who is clearly positioned as the villain—as purely evil.

The Boundary Between Good and Evil Shattered by Violence

In the latter half of the film, Cronenberg uses this character—who has become as ambiguous as possible—to demonstrate the very ambiguity of the boundary between good and evil, which was his original objective. This is none other than the bathhouse action sequence, the film’s most iconic scene and its only action sequence.
The violence Nikolai displays here is absolute. It is violence in its purest form. The struggle between the naked Nikolai and the assassins in black who have come to kill him is neither the stylish action typically seen in gangster films nor a scene designed to highlight Nikolai’s character appeal; rather, it is a scene of miserable and harrowing violence.
That is why this scene is unsettling. The knife wounds appearing on his naked body at every moment and the spurting blood create a pain that feels as though it’s seeping into the audience’s own skin, while Nikolai’s violence—stabbing eyes and slitting throats—raises doubts among viewers who had previously relied on him as a force for good. It leaves no one able to confidently assert that he is good.
Perhaps capitalizing on Nikolai’s transformation from a paragon of virtue into the embodiment of violence, David Cronenberg employs one of the gangster genre’s key conventions: the undercover cop. Immediately after this bathhouse fight, when Nikolai is transported to the hospital, a London police officer who appeared earlier in the film arrives to reveal his true identity—and we feel a sense of betrayal that isn’t quite betrayal.

“Nikolai is a cop?”

However, this is no longer welcome news to us. The ambiguous boundary where two conflicting perspectives—one that relied on him as a force for good and another that defined him as evil—coexisted has now been shattered by the absolute violence previously depicted, namely the sauna scene, leaving us unable to confidently categorize him as either. We are left with the inescapable feeling that the boundary itself has been shattered.
Does the fact that he is a police officer mean that the violent aspects he has displayed and revealed thus far are legitimized as “good”? Is he evil—even if he is an undercover officer—simply because he committed absolute violence?
These points of doubt are amplified and remain unresolved even in the final scene, which is often described as the heart of the film. When Nikolai’s identity as an FSB agent—that is, a member of the Russian secret police—is revealed at the hospital, the London police advise him to terminate his mission. However, he persists, pushing through the door to assert his determination to become the boss of the Russian mafia in London.
Nikolai’s choice here presents a different facet from the conventional undercover cop tropes that the film borrows, as mentioned earlier.

Nikolai’s Identity, Caught Between Good and Evil

When compared to ‘Infernal Affairs’, a classic undercover cop film, “Wing-yan,” the undercover agent in ‘Infernal Affairs’, constantly felt confusion and conflict—specifically, the divide between good and evil—during his mission. He repeatedly demanded that his assignment be terminated, and one could sense his strong desire to return to his original position as a police officer, that is, to the realm of good.
In contrast, Nikolai’s choice—on the surface—is to continue his mission, arguing that becoming a full-fledged member of the mafia will make his work easier; yet, we find this choice unsatisfying.
And at the film’s conclusion, as he sits in the Russian mafia’s restaurant, he appears to have become the boss of the London branch of the Russian mafia. However, beneath that image, the film reveals yet another conflict, accompanied by a narration from a passage in the diary of the late Titiana—the very source of all the previous conflicts.
The narration, which states that she “left to live a better life” following her father’s death, bears a resemblance to Nikolai’s answers to the elders’ questions during his screening to officially become a member of the Bori V Zakon mafia.
Nikolai’s father, a low-level civil servant, was a mechanic who repaired government vehicles, and Nikolai confesses that he had been stealing parts from them to survive since he was 15. This suggests that his life was just as disadvantaged as Titiana’s; furthermore, his confession that he was “already as good as dead” at age 15 implies that his current position in London is no different from Titiana’s—who left Russia to live a better life.
Consequently, these flashbacks and Tatiana’s confessions make Nikolai’s identity—as a Russian mafia boss—even more ambiguous. Why is he in that position? Is it truly a choice he made out of a sense of duty to punish evil and uphold the side of good in the line of duty, or is it a desire for a certain kind of power—one he lost in his youth but has now regained?
In gangster narratives—which derive their pleasure from defining good and evil and the punitive nature of such definitions—we find ourselves helpless in the face of an ambiguous character who defies such categorization.
Is he good or evil?
Who is he?
This ambiguity is precisely what sets this film apart from past gangster genres; it is the film’s core, and it was also Cronenberg’s intention to demonstrate the meaninglessness of the boundary between good and evil in the face of violence. In other words, the source of this ambiguity can be seen as an effect achieved by constructing a so-called hybrid genre—one that incorporates noir-style characters into the framework of the gangster genre.

The Collapse of Good and Evil in the Face of Violence

There is a saying that good and evil are like two sides of the same coin. This means that the two are inseparable—that good cannot exist without evil, nor evil without good—and therefore, they cannot be treated as distinct entities, and the boundary between them is inherently ambiguous.
It is violence that shatters that boundary.
Is violence—murder, destruction—committed in the name of “good” truly good? Can the mere difference in one’s perspective alter the fundamental meaning of violence?
Our contradictions, which neither side can definitively explain.
This is precisely the irony of our existence that Cronenberg, the master of violence, sought to portray through genre blending and variations on genre.