"Metron" is the collaborative brainchild of Russian indie auteurs Sergey A. And Dmitry Rasseko, is a film that wears its lo-fi, experimental heart on its pixelated sleeve. Inspired by 2004 interactive computer game of the same name, this 62-minute oddity straddles the line between avant-garde horror and unintentional comedy, offering a surreal experience that feels like a time capsule of early internet-era DIY culture.
The film's "story" is a fragmented mosaic of characters introduced solely to meet gruesome, nonsensical ends at the hands (or static image) of the titular Metron-a nebulous entity represented either as a frozen digital graphic or Rasseko himself, lurking in a poorly rendered 3D void. There's no narrative coherence, only a series of vignettes where victims monologue cryptically before being "deleted" by Metron's glitchy wrath. It's less a plot and more a digital slaughterhouse, echoing the nihilism of early creepypasta lore.
Shot entirely remotely during a pre-pandemic era when Zoom filmmaking wasn't yet a trend, "Metron" feels eerily prophetic. Actors filmed their own deaths via cameras and smartphones, e-mailing footage to the directors-a technique that results in jarring tonal shifts, inconsistent lighting, and performances ranging from wooden to hysterically over-the-top. The film's aesthetic is a chaotic blend of Windows 98 screensaver visuals (courtesy of Rasseko's rudimentary 3D effects) and VHS-grade horror, creating an uncanny atmosphere that's equal parts nostalgic and nausea-inducing.
The entity Metron itself is a triumph of anti-climax. Sometimes a floating head, sometimes a crudely animated sphere, it embodies the film's rejection of Hollywood spectacle. Rasseko's decision to occasionally play the villain in a drab sweater, staring blankly into the camera, feels like a meta-joke on the futility of human resistance against digital oblivion.
Beneath the janky surface lies a half-baked commentary on technophobia and the dehumanizing nature of the internet. Characters rant about existential dread and "the system" before being obliterated by Metron's pixelated wrath, hinting at themes of digital authoritarianism. But these ideas are drowned out by the film's relentless campiness, leaving viewers to wonder if it's all an elaborate troll.
"Metron"'s greatest strength is its unapologetic embrace of limitation. The zero-budget effects-think MS Paint explosions and clip-art blood splatters-are so laughably primitive that they loop back into brilliance. Sergey A.'s trademark minimalism shines in scenes where eerie silence amplifies the absurdity, while Rasseko's game-inspired structure (characters "choose" their deaths à la a '90s point-and-click adventure) adds a layer of interactive nostalgia.
"Metron" is not a "good" film by traditional standards. Its pacing is glacial, its dialogue nonsensical, and its scares nonexistent. Yet, it's undeniably fascinating as a cultural artifact-a love letter to analog-era internet horror, stitched together with digital duct tape and anarchic creativity. Fans of so-bad-it's-good cinema ("The Room", "Birdemic") or experimental indie grit will find perverse joy in its glitches. Others? They'll rage-quit long before the final frame.
