ew incidents were as illuminating about the international commentariat’s lack of understanding about Russia as the aborted June 2023 rebellion instigated by Yevgeny Prigozhin—the hot dog vendor turned warlord. It was a “coup” attempt, many asserted. It signaled the looming end of President Vladimir Putin’s reign. Surely, the president could not survive such a public humiliation. Two months later, Prigozhin’s plane exploded in midair, killing all aboard, showcasing that Putin remained very much in charge, and that there were clear consequences for those who crossed Russia’s president.
That so many got, and continue to get, Russia so wrong is both a function of a lack of understanding of the Russian system and a collective clinging to outdated and inaccurate mental models. The delta between assumed knowledge about Russian politics and truth about the court of the Kremlin is yawning. “Downfall” by authors Mark Galeotti and Anna Arutunyan leverages Prigozhin’s story to great effect, adroitly bridging that gap. They have penned not only a deeply interesting biography of Prigozhin, but also a penetrating account of Russia under Putin. “Downfall” is as much a biography of a system as a biography of a man.
Prigozhin is an odd but well–placed window into both Putin’s court and Russia in general during a period of profound transition. He was a striver, a schemer, an entrepreneur, and an opportunist. He knew how to court those above him whether during his time in prison or in the Kremlin. He curried favor with the right people. In the heady days of the post–Soviet Union, when much was predicated on those personal relationships, Prigozhin seized opportunities when they became available and created others, such as his infamous hot dog stands. He was a systemic survivor, adapting to changing currents. When his Wagner Group fell out of immediate favor with the Ministry of Defense, which took credit for the company’s successes in Syria, and his cashflow was sharply curtailed, he struck out on his own into Africa, striking deals across the continent, exchanging mineral and energy resources for services.
Insights like these set “Downfall” apart from other books on Russia. It serves to correct the received wisdom and, in so doing, inform and elucidate. Savvier readers will see the pointed, but nonetheless polite, corrections Galeotti and Arutunyan offer to other (unnamed) popular books on the subject.
The Russian system the authors present is both alien and familiar to Western readers. Russia is “a modern, bureaucratic state… Atop it, though, is an almost medieval court, in which constantly competing factions and individuals are struggling for the most important currency of them all: Putin’s favor.” Russia is much less Spectre and much more House of Lannister. The personalist, autocratic nature of the Putin regime and Russian court take this to extremes, but court politics is court politics—in the West, the differences are found in the rule of law, democratic accountability, and, of course, the absence of physical bloodshed.
This system of court favor and reading the intentions of Putin leads to an “adhocracy” where policy is created and implemented by fluid coalitions of coalescing and fragmenting interests. When private actions align with the interests of the state (with a fair amount of opportunity for personal profit), so much the better. In Africa, Wagner Group’s actions and presence became a de facto extension of Russian foreign policy—it was the tail wagging the dog. Private military companies were technically illegal under Russian law, but so long as they served a useful purpose, the law was fungible—something all the more striking when one realizes the Ministry of Defence simply set up its own companies when it saw the potential utility of foreign policy by proxy.
In Galeotti and Arutunyan’s telling, Prigozhin proved himself a savvy operator, navigating the capricious whims of the Kremlin and seizing opportunities when they became apparent. Much of what Prigozhin and other elites did was anticipatory; doing things they thought would please Putin in anticipation of gaining future benefits. Prigozhin’s much–vaunted Internet Research Agency was, initially, a vehicle for him to attack his opponents in the press and media, only later becoming a useful tool for the Kremlin in its efforts to sow discord in the United States.
This is a precarious existence for anyone. Remaining in favor is never guaranteed, even for those in the closest, most intimate circle, of which Prigozhin was decidedly not—despite the West’s assumption of a close relationship between him and Putin. “The maddening irony,” Galeotti and Arutunyan write, “was that [Prigozhin’s] profile was higher in the West than in Russia.” Yet, in further irony, “the more reviled Prigozhin was in Washington, the higher his stock in Moscow.” Prigozhin did not skate in the night hockey leagues with Putin. He was not a member of the elite, closed housing community. He did not vacation with the tsar as Sergei Shoigu, the defense minister who would later become Prigozhin’s nemesis, did. Prigozhin was an aspirant to the court. A minigarch among proper oligarchs. A useful serf, but destined to forever remain a serf.
Prigozhin seemed, in the authors’ telling, predestined to clash with the system. The accumulation of perceived and real slights and his striving for but never reaching the top table fed into his frustration and sense of grievance. He clashed with the Kremlin at being forced out of Syria, and deprived of credit and recognition for the success of Wagner Group. His struggles with the Ministry of Defense would prove to be his undoing. Writing about the aborted rebellion, the authors shrewdly observe: “Prigozhin’s career had been driven by resentment, a stubborn unwillingness to give in. He couldn’t let go, but rather had to make one last throw of the dice. And he lost.”
Russia’s expanded invasion of Ukraine in February 2022 proved to be the breaking point. He stood on the frontlines with his Wagner Group forces, decrying the lack of support from the Ministry of Defense. He went after the families of Russia’s elite, criticizing their pampered existence when his soldiers were fighting and dying. He vocally attacked Shoigu and Chief of the General Staff Valery Gerasimov for the failed strategy and the Ministry of Defense withholding support to his forces—but his attacks on “grandpa”—a thinly veiled swipe at Putin—went too far.
His objection to the Ministry of Defense’s requirement that his fighters sign contracts with the government, thereby depriving him of a powerbase, was the final straw.. He vocally criticized the war and its justification, undercutting the Kremlin’s own narratives. He turned himself into a populist figure, but one aligned by naked self–interest. His rebellion was not a coup but a mutiny, and one that hoped to change on–the–ground conditions, not the entire system. As Galeotti and Arutunyan write, “The march on Moscow may have been impressive in its speed and striking for the lack of serious resistance, but it was essentially theatrical.”
Putin, as he is wont to do, dithered–he is far less decisive than most assume him to be. Taken by surprise both by Prigozhin’s audacity and the general failure of Russian internal forces to anticipate and interdict the looming plot or stop it when it started, Putin avoided acting. He denounced the treason, but then hosted the traitors for tea after an agreement had been reached by Belarus’ president, Alexander Lukashenko. Prigozhin was supposed to go into the wilderness. This he ostensibly did, but it became clear he was living on borrowed time. Two months to the day of his rebellion, his plane exploded in midair and the government began dismantling his Concord Management and Consulting empire, which oversaw Wagner Group and more.
Did Prigozhin ever really pose a threat to Putin and the regime? Arguably, not directly. The symbolism of his actions, however, is a different story. “Prigozhin may be dead, but his rise, rebellion and fall demonstrated for all to see, a fundamental weakness of the Putin regime,” write Galeotti and Arutunyan. The tsar, it turned out, was not infallible. The system didn’t work as it was supposed to do—those inner–court politics burst out onto the public stage, even if only for a violent moment, and exposed fault lines and vulnerabilities.
The legacy of the rebellion is uncertain. True, the authors note, “rebellions and revolutions are fickle: a spark can ignite the brittle, wood–work–riddled framework of an aging regime…,” but it is also true that the system is proving much more resilient than most expected. Three years into the war against Ukraine, Russia’s economy has proven exceptionally adaptable. Putin’s regime faces no real domestic opposition at home and is demonstrably resilient abroad, especially in the Global South. The greatest contribution of “Downfall” by Galeotti and Arutunyan is that it right–sizes Russia through the fascinating rise and violent fall of one of the country’s more interesting recent actors, offering a key truth about the country: It is neither 10 feet tall nor a teetering façade, but vastly more complex and interesting than either extreme.
a global affairs media network
Putin’s power and Prigozhin’s consequence in the Kremlin’s court
June 22, 2024
“Downfall,” a new book by Mark Galeotti and Anna Arutunyan about the rise and fall of Yevgeny Prigozhin in Russia, is as much a superb biography of a system as a biography of a man, writes Joshua Huminski.
F
ew incidents were as illuminating about the international commentariat’s lack of understanding about Russia as the aborted June 2023 rebellion instigated by Yevgeny Prigozhin—the hot dog vendor turned warlord. It was a “coup” attempt, many asserted. It signaled the looming end of President Vladimir Putin’s reign. Surely, the president could not survive such a public humiliation. Two months later, Prigozhin’s plane exploded in midair, killing all aboard, showcasing that Putin remained very much in charge, and that there were clear consequences for those who crossed Russia’s president.
That so many got, and continue to get, Russia so wrong is both a function of a lack of understanding of the Russian system and a collective clinging to outdated and inaccurate mental models. The delta between assumed knowledge about Russian politics and truth about the court of the Kremlin is yawning. “Downfall” by authors Mark Galeotti and Anna Arutunyan leverages Prigozhin’s story to great effect, adroitly bridging that gap. They have penned not only a deeply interesting biography of Prigozhin, but also a penetrating account of Russia under Putin. “Downfall” is as much a biography of a system as a biography of a man.
Prigozhin is an odd but well–placed window into both Putin’s court and Russia in general during a period of profound transition. He was a striver, a schemer, an entrepreneur, and an opportunist. He knew how to court those above him whether during his time in prison or in the Kremlin. He curried favor with the right people. In the heady days of the post–Soviet Union, when much was predicated on those personal relationships, Prigozhin seized opportunities when they became available and created others, such as his infamous hot dog stands. He was a systemic survivor, adapting to changing currents. When his Wagner Group fell out of immediate favor with the Ministry of Defense, which took credit for the company’s successes in Syria, and his cashflow was sharply curtailed, he struck out on his own into Africa, striking deals across the continent, exchanging mineral and energy resources for services.
Insights like these set “Downfall” apart from other books on Russia. It serves to correct the received wisdom and, in so doing, inform and elucidate. Savvier readers will see the pointed, but nonetheless polite, corrections Galeotti and Arutunyan offer to other (unnamed) popular books on the subject.
The Russian system the authors present is both alien and familiar to Western readers. Russia is “a modern, bureaucratic state… Atop it, though, is an almost medieval court, in which constantly competing factions and individuals are struggling for the most important currency of them all: Putin’s favor.” Russia is much less Spectre and much more House of Lannister. The personalist, autocratic nature of the Putin regime and Russian court take this to extremes, but court politics is court politics—in the West, the differences are found in the rule of law, democratic accountability, and, of course, the absence of physical bloodshed.
This system of court favor and reading the intentions of Putin leads to an “adhocracy” where policy is created and implemented by fluid coalitions of coalescing and fragmenting interests. When private actions align with the interests of the state (with a fair amount of opportunity for personal profit), so much the better. In Africa, Wagner Group’s actions and presence became a de facto extension of Russian foreign policy—it was the tail wagging the dog. Private military companies were technically illegal under Russian law, but so long as they served a useful purpose, the law was fungible—something all the more striking when one realizes the Ministry of Defence simply set up its own companies when it saw the potential utility of foreign policy by proxy.
In Galeotti and Arutunyan’s telling, Prigozhin proved himself a savvy operator, navigating the capricious whims of the Kremlin and seizing opportunities when they became apparent. Much of what Prigozhin and other elites did was anticipatory; doing things they thought would please Putin in anticipation of gaining future benefits. Prigozhin’s much–vaunted Internet Research Agency was, initially, a vehicle for him to attack his opponents in the press and media, only later becoming a useful tool for the Kremlin in its efforts to sow discord in the United States.
This is a precarious existence for anyone. Remaining in favor is never guaranteed, even for those in the closest, most intimate circle, of which Prigozhin was decidedly not—despite the West’s assumption of a close relationship between him and Putin. “The maddening irony,” Galeotti and Arutunyan write, “was that [Prigozhin’s] profile was higher in the West than in Russia.” Yet, in further irony, “the more reviled Prigozhin was in Washington, the higher his stock in Moscow.” Prigozhin did not skate in the night hockey leagues with Putin. He was not a member of the elite, closed housing community. He did not vacation with the tsar as Sergei Shoigu, the defense minister who would later become Prigozhin’s nemesis, did. Prigozhin was an aspirant to the court. A minigarch among proper oligarchs. A useful serf, but destined to forever remain a serf.
Prigozhin seemed, in the authors’ telling, predestined to clash with the system. The accumulation of perceived and real slights and his striving for but never reaching the top table fed into his frustration and sense of grievance. He clashed with the Kremlin at being forced out of Syria, and deprived of credit and recognition for the success of Wagner Group. His struggles with the Ministry of Defense would prove to be his undoing. Writing about the aborted rebellion, the authors shrewdly observe: “Prigozhin’s career had been driven by resentment, a stubborn unwillingness to give in. He couldn’t let go, but rather had to make one last throw of the dice. And he lost.”
Russia’s expanded invasion of Ukraine in February 2022 proved to be the breaking point. He stood on the frontlines with his Wagner Group forces, decrying the lack of support from the Ministry of Defense. He went after the families of Russia’s elite, criticizing their pampered existence when his soldiers were fighting and dying. He vocally attacked Shoigu and Chief of the General Staff Valery Gerasimov for the failed strategy and the Ministry of Defense withholding support to his forces—but his attacks on “grandpa”—a thinly veiled swipe at Putin—went too far.
His objection to the Ministry of Defense’s requirement that his fighters sign contracts with the government, thereby depriving him of a powerbase, was the final straw.. He vocally criticized the war and its justification, undercutting the Kremlin’s own narratives. He turned himself into a populist figure, but one aligned by naked self–interest. His rebellion was not a coup but a mutiny, and one that hoped to change on–the–ground conditions, not the entire system. As Galeotti and Arutunyan write, “The march on Moscow may have been impressive in its speed and striking for the lack of serious resistance, but it was essentially theatrical.”
Putin, as he is wont to do, dithered–he is far less decisive than most assume him to be. Taken by surprise both by Prigozhin’s audacity and the general failure of Russian internal forces to anticipate and interdict the looming plot or stop it when it started, Putin avoided acting. He denounced the treason, but then hosted the traitors for tea after an agreement had been reached by Belarus’ president, Alexander Lukashenko. Prigozhin was supposed to go into the wilderness. This he ostensibly did, but it became clear he was living on borrowed time. Two months to the day of his rebellion, his plane exploded in midair and the government began dismantling his Concord Management and Consulting empire, which oversaw Wagner Group and more.
Did Prigozhin ever really pose a threat to Putin and the regime? Arguably, not directly. The symbolism of his actions, however, is a different story. “Prigozhin may be dead, but his rise, rebellion and fall demonstrated for all to see, a fundamental weakness of the Putin regime,” write Galeotti and Arutunyan. The tsar, it turned out, was not infallible. The system didn’t work as it was supposed to do—those inner–court politics burst out onto the public stage, even if only for a violent moment, and exposed fault lines and vulnerabilities.
The legacy of the rebellion is uncertain. True, the authors note, “rebellions and revolutions are fickle: a spark can ignite the brittle, wood–work–riddled framework of an aging regime…,” but it is also true that the system is proving much more resilient than most expected. Three years into the war against Ukraine, Russia’s economy has proven exceptionally adaptable. Putin’s regime faces no real domestic opposition at home and is demonstrably resilient abroad, especially in the Global South. The greatest contribution of “Downfall” by Galeotti and Arutunyan is that it right–sizes Russia through the fascinating rise and violent fall of one of the country’s more interesting recent actors, offering a key truth about the country: It is neither 10 feet tall nor a teetering façade, but vastly more complex and interesting than either extreme.
