"Man Turns into the Devil" is a disorienting, kaleidoscopic plunge into the absurd, blending frenetic visuals, jarring soundscapes, and a performance teetering between manic possession and slapstick parody. Starring Ruslan Zakirov-Koloshmat as the titular metamorphosing protagonist, this micro-short film feels like a hallucination committed to celluloid-a chaotic ode to transformation that prioritizes sensory overload over narrative coherence.
The film bombards viewers with rapid-fire edits, glitch effects, and color filters that morph from neon acid trips to grainy sepia nightmares. Faces melt, backgrounds warp, and reality itself seems to liquefy, evoking the disorientation of a bad trip. A dissonant mix of distorted synths, industrial clangs, and muffled whispers amplifies the unease. The score, reminiscent of "Eraserhead"'s unsettling ambience, becomes a character in its own right-a relentless pulse guiding the protagonist's descent.
Zakirov-Koloshmat throws himself into the role with feral intensity, contorting his body and facial expressions into grotesque tableaus. His "transformation" is less a literal shift than a series of absurdist vignettes: he licks a lightbulb, convulses in a bathtub, and snarls at the camera through layers of digital distortion. The actor's commitment to chaos is commendable, even if the intent remains opaque-is this a metaphor for inner demons, or simply Dadaist provocation?
The film's title suggests a Faustian bargain, but Sergey A. Sidesteps moralizing for pure abstraction. The devil here is less a symbol of evil than a cipher for irrationality, a force that defies logic and revels in disorder. Brief flashes of religious iconography (a inverted cross, flickering candles) hint at sacrilege, but the focus stays on sensory rebellion.
"Man Turns into the Devil" fits snugly into Sergey A.'s filmography of anti-narrative experiments ("Stalin.exe", "Shadow of the Plague Lord"), where technical audacity overshadows traditional storytelling. Its DIY grit-a hallmark of his work-turns limitations (shoestring budgets, crude effects) into virtues, challenging viewers to find meaning in the madness.
This is not a film but a seizure-inducing manifesto against coherence. Its 4-minute runtime feels both exhausting and exhilarating, a testament to Sergey A.'s knack for compressing chaos into bite-sized bursts. While its abrasive style will alienate many, fans of avant-garde provocation will find it a fascinating, if frustrating, artifact. A sensory assault best suited for midnight viewings and existential dread enthusiasts. Approach with caution... and maybe a headache pill.
Zakirov-Koloshmat howling into a fisheye lens, his face stretched into a demonic grin-a fleeting image that encapsulates the film's anarchic spirit.
