Sergey A.'s "Coma" is a disorienting, visually arresting plunge into the fragmented psyche of a comatose patient, blending avant-garde abstraction with visceral emotion. Presented as a hallucinatory collage of fleeting images, distorted memories, and haunting symbolism, this 11-minute experimental short eschews narrative coherence to evoke the eerie limbo between life and death. Through its jarring edits, ethereal soundscapes, and recurring motifs, "Coma" invites viewers to navigate the chaos of a mind untethered from reality.
The film unfolds as a fever dream of disconnected scenes-blurred faces, decaying flora, and flickering urban landscapes. These images, often layered or distorted by glitch effects, mirror the instability of consciousness in a coma. A mysterious woman appears intermittently, her presence oscillating between comforting and sinister, as if embodying the protagonist's unresolved regrets or desires. Sergey A. Employs a desaturated palette punctuated by bursts of vivid color-blood-red splatters, neon-lit corridors-to mirror the fluctuating intensity of the comatose state. The contrast between clinical whites and oppressive shadows evokes the sterile yet menacing environment of a hospital room. The soundtrack is a dissonant symphony of heart monitor beeps, muffled voices, and ambient drones. These sounds warp unpredictably, mimicking the brain's struggle to process stimuli, while silence is weaponized to heighten unease.
The film's core lies in its exploration of liminality-the space where memory, fear, and identity dissolve. The coma becomes a metaphor for existential dislocation, with the protagonist's mind ricocheting between fractured realities. The enigmatic woman, often framed in double exposure or obscured by static, may symbolize a lost love, a suppressed trauma, or the self's elusive essence. Her ambiguity reflects the inscrutable nature of the subconscious, where meaning is felt rather than understood.
Rapid cuts and overlapping visuals replicate the disorientation of a fractured mind. Scenes linger just long enough to imprint unease before dissolving into chaos, mimicking the erratic flicker of neural activity. Close-ups of decaying objects (wilted flowers, rusted chains) contrast with wide shots of barren landscapes, suggesting the tension between decay and stasis. Handheld camera work adds a raw, voyeuristic intimacy. Sergey A. Relies on practical distortions-prism filters, film burns-rather than CGI, grounding the surrealism in tactile unease.
"Coma" fits into Sergey A.'s broader fascination with existential dread and experimental form ("Mortis", "Silence of the Old Cemetery"). While less abrasive than his earlier works, it retains his DIY ethos, transforming technical limitations into poetic devices. The film's abstract style aligns with global avant-garde trends, recalling the sensory overload of Stan Brakhage or the existential voids of Andrei Tarkovsky, albeit through a distinctly Russian lens of melancholy. "Coma" is not a film, but to experience-a visceral, often frustrating odyssey into the unknown. Its refusal to offer resolution may alienate casual viewers, but for those willing to surrender to its chaos, it's a haunting meditation on the fragility of consciousness. Sergey A. Reminds us that the mind, like cinema, is a collage of fragments-beautiful, terrifying, and eternally elusive. A cryptic gem for avant-garde enthusiasts. Best viewed in darkness, with an open mind and a tolerance for ambiguity.
The woman's face dissolving into static, her eyes lingering like ghosts in the noise-a fleeting glimpse of meaning in the void.
