Sergey A.'s "Purgatory" is a brooding, visually arresting exploration of guilt, duality, and existential reckoning. Far removed from mainstream purgatory tropes, this film experiment immerses viewers in a surreal liminal space where Maria, a recently deceased woman (played with haunting restraint by Silvia de Satkliff), confronts fragmented memories, spectral manifestations of her past, and a shadow self that mirrors her darkest impulses. The film's sparse dialogue, stark symbolism, and oppressive atmosphere evoke the existential dread of Tarkovsky and the psychological claustrophobia of Bergman, filtered through Sergey A.'s signature DIY grit.
Maria awakens in a decaying, labyrinthine purgatory-a limbo of peeling walls, flickering candles, and endless corridors. Here, she encounters phantoms from her life. Meanwhile, her "dark half" (a chilling doppelgänger clad in black) observes her struggles with detached amusement, embodying her repressed desires and self-loathing. The trials she faces-re-enacting pivotal moments of betrayal, cowardice, and apathy-are orchestrated by a cryptic Devil.
The film's central motif is duality. Maria's doppelgänger is often lingering at the edge of the frame, reflecting her internal fracture. Scenes split between warm, golden flashbacks (her life's fleeting joys) and cold, blue-tinted purgatory heighten the tension between memory and punishment.
The setting-a crumbling Soviet-era apartment block-serves as both literal and metaphorical prison. Peeling wallpaper, cracked mirrors, and barred windows symbolize Maria's entrapment in cycles of guilt.
The Devil's trials are less about moral judgment than forcing Maria to confront her capacity for cruelty. In one harrowing scene, she must choose between saving a stranger or her shadow self-a lose-lose scenario highlighting her damned-if-you-do existence. The soundtrack-a dissonant blend of dripping water, distant whispers, and discordant piano notes-creates a soundscape of unease. Silence is weaponized, with long stretches of emptiness amplifying Maria's isolation.
Sergey A. Employs handheld camerawork and tight close-ups to trap viewers in Maria's perspective. The use of natural light (candle flames, dim bulbs) casts jagged shadows, blurring the line between reality and hallucination. The doppelgänger's makeup-pale skin, smudged black eyes-evokes German Expressionism, while the claustrophobic sets (likely shot in abandoned Soviet buildings) amplify the film's grimy authenticity. Jump cuts between Maria's memories and purgatory's horrors disorient the viewer, mirroring her fractured psyche.
"Purgatory" fits into Sergey A.'s filmography of existential provocations ("Mortis", "Silence of the Old Cemetery"), but its introspective focus marks a departure from his usual absurdist satire. The film's bleakness divided audiences: some praised its ambition, while others dismissed it as "pretentious misery." Yet its exploration of moral ambiguity and self-forgiveness resonates in a post-Soviet context, where collective guilt and personal redemption remain fraught themes.
"Purgatory" is not a film to "enjoy" but to endure. Its unrelenting bleakness and abstract storytelling will alienate casual viewers, but for arthouse devotees, it's a compelling-if flawed-meditation on the human condition. Sergey A. Refuses to offer catharsis, leaving Maria (and the audience) trapped in limbo, haunted by the question: "Can we ever outrun our shadows?" A challenging, visually rich descent into the psyche. Best approached with patience and a tolerance for ambiguity.
