Book: Ilya Ilf, Yevgeni Petrov “The Twelve Chairs”

The first time I read the books about Ostap Bender was in my teenage years. I don’t think that’s the best age for such reading, but the book was on our shelf, I had heard a lot about it, and I already liked the film version of The Twelve Chairs directed by Mark Zakharov. Probably because of the songs — but still, I liked it.

I remember that I read both The Twelve Chairs and The Little Golden Calf back to back. I really enjoyed the first book, while the sequel left me with a feeling of melancholy. That impression of the duology stayed with me for years. However, I recently decided to reread them as an adult, to see how my perception might have changed.

Looking at the editions currently available, I came across an expanded version titled “the most complete edition.” That piqued my interest, so I chose to read that one.

In case someone out there either doesn’t remember or has never heard of this book (which would be hard to believe), here’s a brief summary. The setting is the 1920s. A former nobleman, Ippolit Matveyevich Vorobyaninov, lives a modest life as a registry office clerk when he suddenly learns that during the revolution, his mother-in-law hid the family jewels inside one of the chairs from their noble furniture set. He throws himself into a frantic search — and is unexpectedly joined by a stranger, Ostap Bender. In reality, it’s Ostap who takes the lead in the hunt. Thanks to his wit and the skill of a “great schemer,” he masterfully navigates even the trickiest situations. Poor Ippolit Matveyevich is hardly a match for him.

Against the backdrop of the duo’s adventures, the novel offers a satirical portrayal of life in the 1920s, making it an easy and enjoyable read. Many of the book’s phrases became catchphrases long before I was even born.

Unlike the classic edition, which had remained unchanged for over fifty years, the “complete version” I chose to read was thoroughly and skillfully edited. The editors did a great job of compiling not only the final author-approved version but also fragments that were previously removed by earlier editors. In some places, it’s just a few extra sentences or a paragraph — but in others, entire chapters were restored. Yes, this edition includes three additional chapters.

The first two delve into the lavish pre-revolutionary life of one of the main characters — Kisa Vorobyaninov (as Ostap eventually starts calling him). Back then, the revolution hadn’t yet turned the world upside down, and Vorobyaninov was still swimming in luxury and throwing money around rather than hunting down hidden diamonds and counting every ruble.

Another added chapter focuses more closely on the incredibly “prolific” poet-hack Lapis Trubetskoy (and yes, for those who might not know — the Belarusian band “Lyapis Trubetskoy” took their name in honor of this wonderful literary character).

So what does all of this add to the novel? To be honest, I believe the Soviet editors knew what they were doing. The backstory of Kisa Vorobyaninov contributes little to the main storyline. Sure, it’s an interesting look at what a careless aristocrat he once was, but none of those past escapades really influence the plot about chasing the treasure. These two chapters were even published separately in some editions as a standalone short story.

The chapter about Lapis Trubetskoy, on the other hand, gives more insight into the lives of so-called writers of the era and how they tried to produce ideologically “correct” literature. But again, it has no connection to the actual hunt for the chairs. Its absence from the classic edition doesn’t feel like a loss at all.

As for the revised wording and edits — most simply bring the language in line with modern usage. So, strange as it may sound, in this case, the careful editing actually benefited the book. To me, it made the text more cohesive and organic.

It’s hard to describe the novel itself — it’s a classic. Oddly enough, my attitude toward it has changed over time. Yes, a huge number of its lines became household phrases, and the satire still feels relevant. But while I was more excited by it in my youth, now my overall impression has somehow shifted to just “good.”

Additional Materials

At the same time, this particular edition offers a major advantage — and it has nothing to do with the so-called “author’s version.” The real gem lies in the second half of the book, where literary scholars delve deeply into everything that remained behind the scenes. Yes, it’s literally half the book — meaning the research takes up as much space as the novel The Twelve Chairs itself. But it’s no less captivating to read.

First, we’re given more context about the authors themselves. There’s a long-standing legend that the idea for the novel actually came from the brother of one of the authors — Valentin Kataev — and that Ilf and Petrov were simply brought in to help flesh it out. Of course, Kataev did provide support to the duo, but whether he truly conceived the idea is debatable. Still, his help was likely key in getting the writers noticed, even though they were already fairly successful employees at a publishing house (which, incidentally, they partly portrayed in the novel as a newspaper editorial office).

However, when it came to their own personal stories, the authors were always rather reserved — and occasionally evasive. This book explains why. The real biographies of Ilf and Petrov could have put them in serious danger during those times, potentially leading to imprisonment or even execution. That’s why there were numerous clever maneuvers to ensure that certain facts — such as the involvement with the White movement in Odessa or the service in the Tsarist army — remained hidden as much as possible.

Secondly, the book offers a detailed look at the era depicted in the novel. It was a time of economic relaxation — the NEP was still in effect and had not yet been labeled sabotage. However, the political elite was already engaged in a struggle for power. Trotsky was becoming increasingly inconvenient for the rising Stalin, and that’s why there are subtle jabs at the Trotskyists throughout the novel. Today, these hints may go unnoticed, but at the time, contemporary readers would have recognized them instantly. Moreover, there’s strong evidence that the book was, at least in part, a “timely commissioned work” — which explains how quickly it was published. It wasn’t just written for entertainment, but also intended to help shape public opinion. Personally, I had never heard of this before, so I’d never considered the novel from that angle.

Thirdly, the book is full of references to real-life figures of that era — references we often miss today, but which contemporary readers understood perfectly. Some names are obscure now, while others are more recognizable. The biggest surprise for me was the explanation behind the phrase “Kisa and Osya were here,” which the main characters carve into rocks in the Caucasus mountains. At first glance, it seems obvious: Kisa is Ippolit Matveyevich Vorobyaninov, and Osya is Ostap Bender. But it turns out this was a direct nod to the famous “throuple” of Vladimir Mayakovsky and his beloved Lilya Brik, who lived with her husband Osip Brik. Mayakovsky called Lilya “Kisa,” and Osip was, of course, “Osya.” On top of that, the character of Lapis Trubetskoy is in many ways a satire of Mayakovsky himself — who, by that time, many believed had “burned out” creatively and was churning out shallow, opportunistic verse. Hence the satirical “Gavril was a postman, Gavril delivered the mail…”

So once again, I want to emphasize: this particular edition of the novel is fascinating not only because it contains the classic text itself, but also because it gives the reader access to a trove of “behind-the-scenes” information — allowing you to draw connections and understand historical context as you go.

Film Adaptations

To wrap things up, I’d like to briefly touch on the Soviet film adaptations. There are essentially two that are worth attention: the well-known film by Leonid Gaidai and the four-part TV version directed by Mark Zakharov.

Among the general public, it’s commonly believed that the best portrayal of Ostap Bender comes from Gaidai’s version, where he was played by the Georgian actor Archil Gomiashvili. This film premiered in 1971 and, in many ways, resembles other Gaidai comedies — though this one is based directly on the novel rather than being a standalone script. It features a wonderful cast, but the runtime simply doesn’t allow for all the book’s events to be fully captured. As for Gomiashvili, I personally never liked him in the role of Bender. I’m not sure why so many people consider his performance iconic. For me, he always came across as too rushed, too aggressive. The literary Bender is far more subtle and calculated in his actions. On the other hand, Sergey Filippov did quite a good job portraying Kisa Vorobyaninov.

At the same time, the second film adaptation — directed by Mark Zakharov — is a very different take. Zakharov was primarily a theater director and the hallmark of the Lenkom Theatre, where he staged nearly all of their most celebrated productions. All of his television films are essentially filmed plays, and The Twelve Chairs is no exception.

Both Zakharov and Gaidai used a technique where a significant portion of the author’s original narration is read by a voice-over. That’s because many of those brilliant lines, which describe the characters and events, simply can’t be conveyed visually or through dialogue alone. However, Zakharov went a step further. In his version, many of the characters “break the fourth wall,” speaking directly to the audience, sometimes adding lines not found in the novel — but ones that blend perfectly with the tone and characterization.

What’s more, Zakharov’s film isn’t just a filmed play — it’s almost a musical. The film features numerous songs performed as full-fledged musical numbers. The lead roles are played by Andrey Mironov as Ostap and Anatoliy Papanov as Kisa. And this is where opinions on the casting start to diverge.

As I mentioned, I loved Zakharov’s version ever since I was a child, largely because of its musicality. I adored those songs, and they were often featured in movie-themed TV concerts. But now, comparing the literary characters with their on-screen portrayals, I’ve come to believe that Anatoliy Papanov delivered a stronger performance as Kisa Vorobyaninov. I used to think his version of Kisa and Filippov’s were on equal footing, but today I’d say Papanov captured the character more fully. He acts with his entire body — his expressions, his eyes, his every movement. Filippov is a brilliant actor, and I admire him greatly, but in this case, Papanov steals the show. Mironov, on the other hand, is a bit more complicated. He was an excellent actor, no doubt. But at the time of filming in 1976, he was 35 years old, while Ostap in the novel is meant to be at least ten years younger. As a result, Mironov’s Ostap lacks the youthful exuberance of the character in the book. On the other hand, Mironov brings a refined maturity to the role. His Bender is composed, confident, and deliberate — a man who knows his worth and operates with calm precision. Every iconic line is delivered with pinpoint timing and the right emphasis. This is where, in my view, he significantly outperforms Archil Gomiashvili.

And of course, the longer runtime of Zakharov’s adaptation (four episodes in total) allows for a much deeper dive into the novel’s events, savoring all the little nuances the authors embedded in the story. For example, this version includes a wonderfully portrayed scene with the shy thief Alchen, played by Oleg Tabakov — a character who is barely noticeable in Gaidai’s film.

Interestingly, both versions also share a similar deviation from the book: the “missing” chair. In the original novel, Ostap retrieves only one chair from the newspaper office. But in both film adaptations, he collects two. That’s because each director cut one of the buyers from the auction scene. Gaidai’s film excludes the character of Iznurenkov but keeps the poet Lapis Trubetskoy, while Zakharov does the opposite — Lapis is gone, Iznurenkov remains.

There were also other screen adaptations — one in 1966 and another in 2005. The 1966 version was quickly overshadowed by the more well-known films. As for the 2005 version, it was less a true film and more of a variety-style parody featuring pop culture figures of the time (some of whom are indeed talented actors, but still). A new film adaptation is reportedly set for release in 2023… We’ll see how it turns out.

Interestingly, several actors appeared in both Gaidai’s and Zakharov’s versions of The Twelve Chairs, though playing different roles — for example, Saveliy Kramarov. But there is one actor who played the exact same role in both films: the waiter in the restaurant where Kisa Vorobyaninov throws his lavish dinner party. Another fun fact: actress Glikeriya Bogdanova-Chesnokova played the same character — Elena Bour, the former love interest of Ippolit Matveyevich — in both Gaidai’s adaptation and the earlier 1966 film. And then there’s the talented Nikolay Boyarskiy, who played Vorobyaninov in the 1966 adaptation. He would go on to give another great performance as Adam Kozlevich in The Golden Calf, the sequel to The Twelve Chairs — but that story deserves its own separate post.

So, if you want to revisit the novel (or perhaps read it for the first time), I highly recommend this complete edition with all the supplemental essays at the end. And once you’ve read the book, the film adaptations are absolutely worth watching too.

My rating of the book: 3.5/5

Ilya Ilf, Yevgeni Petrov “The Twelve Chairs”

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