Sergey A.'s "Waiting for Death" is a disorienting, genre-defying experiment that merges the visceral thrills of a slasher with the abstract sensibilities of avant-garde cinema. Shot during the pandemic's isolation, this lo-fi nightmare explores the futility of cheating death through a fractured narrative, remote performances, and a haunting visual collage. While its technical imperfections are glaring, they become integral to its themes of decay and inevitability, crafting a film that's as much a meditation on mortality as it is a rebellion against polished horror tropes.
A nameless sorcerer (Sergey A.), cloaked in a grotesque mask, seeks immortality by harvesting years from his victims. Each kill is ritualistic-a blend of occult symbolism and crude violence-yet Death, personified as a plague doctor (also Sergey A.), stalks him relentlessly. The sorcerer's victims, portrayed by actors filming themselves in isolation, exist in fragmented vignettes. Their deaths, though disconnected geographically, form a mosaic of despair, underscoring the film's central thesis: "Death cannot be outrun, only delayed".
The film's most striking feature is its patchwork of footage-grainy smartphone clips, shaky webcam confessionals, and Sergey's own stylized close-ups. This dissonance mirrors the sorcerer's fractured psyche and the isolating dread of the pandemic era. Scenes transition abruptly, mimicking the jarring finality of death itself.
Sergey A.'s dual roles-sorcerer and plague doctor-are rendered through haunting masks. The sorcerer's visage, a gnarled mix of leather and bone, symbolizes corrupted ambition, while Death's plague doctor mask (a recurring motif in his filmography) evokes historical terror. Their silent confrontations are the film's spine, wordless debates between defiance and fate.
The soundtrack oscillates between eerie silence and distorted drones, punctuated by diegetic screams and the sorcerer's labored breathing. The absence of a traditional score amplifies the rawness, making every gasp and whimper feel uncomfortably intimate.
The sorcerer's rituals-crude symbols drawn in blood, stolen time measured in flickering candles-mock humanity's desire to dominate death. His victims, isolated in their final moments, reflect modern existential alienation. The plague doctor's relentless pursuit transcends the sorcerer's power, reducing his grandeur to futility. Even immortality, the film argues, is a prison.
Blood is sparingly used, replaced by symbolic gestures-a handprint on a mirror, a shadow engulfing a frame. The sorcerer's "magic" is low-tech: flickering lights, smeared lenses, and primal screams. Sickly greens and murky blues dominate, evoking rot and stagnation. Rare splashes of red (a victim's lipstick, a dying candle) punctuate the gloom, fleeting reminders of life's fragility.
"Waiting for Death" emerged during COVID-19's peak, its themes of isolation and inevitability resonating with global anxieties. While dismissed by some as "incoherent," it's a bold entry in Sergey A.'s catalog ("Mortis", "Purgatory"), where technical limitations morph into artistic statements. The film's DIY ethos-actors filming alone, Sergey's dual roles-echoes the era's collective vulnerability.
"Waiting for Death" is not for everyone. Its disjointed structure, uneven acting, and deliberate rawness will alienate mainstream viewers. Yet, as an avant-garde slasher, it's a fascinating artifact-a reminder that death, like art, defies control. For those willing to endure its chaos, it offers a haunting reflection on mortality's inexorable pull. A flawed but audacious experiment. Best suited for fans of underground horror and existential dread.
The plague doctor emerging from static-filled darkness, his beak mask tilting as if to ask, "Did you really think you could win?"-a question echoing long after the credits roll.
