"Attack of the Killer Pigeons" is a gleeful middle finger to serious cinema, embracing its status as a low-budget, high-concept parody of horror schlock. Clocking in at 12 gloriously unhinged minutes, this DIY disasterpiece weaponizes absurdity to mock the genre's obsession with gratuitous death scenes, replacing zombies or slashers with the least threatening villains imaginable: poorly animated pigeons.
The titular pigeons are literal clip-art images, crudely pasted into scenes and "animated" via shaky zooms and Microsoft Paint-level effects. Their attacks-accompanied by stock squawks and overdubbed screams-transform horror's visceral thrills into laugh-out-loud farce. Sergey A. Filmed most scenes guerrilla-style in Moscow, enlisting baffled passersby and three remote actors (whose grainy, mismatched footage adds to the disarray). The result feels like a home movie hijacked by a meme-obsessed anarchist. By reducing horror to its basest formula-random deaths, zero stakes-the film lampoons franchises like "Final Destination" or "Birdemic". Each kill is so over-the-top that it becomes a meta-joke on audience desensitization.
The pigeons, devoid of motive or menace, embody the absurdity of horror's reliance on spectacle. Their attacks are random, their "victims" oblivious-a critique of how modern horror often prioritizes shock over substance. Even the film's title mocks sensationalism, asking: "What's scarier than a pigeon? Absolutely nothing."
The pigeons' jerky movements and floating bodies (often hovering like cursed stickers) are so inept they loop back to avant-garde. A cacophony of royalty-free screeches, melodramatic gasps, and a synth track that sounds like a kazoo orchestra trapped in a blender. The cast's wooden delivery and confused glances (Did they know they were in a horror satire? Unclear.) amplify the film's accidental brilliance.
"Attack of the Killer Pigeons" won't win awards, but it's a cult curio for fans of "so-bad-it's-good" cinema. Its unapologetic idiocy and DIY ethos make it a spiritual sibling to "The Room" or "Troll 2", albeit with a distinctly Russian flair for existential absurdity.
This is less a movie and more a 12-minute prank on the concept of filmmaking. Its charm lies in its refusal to take itself seriously-or to make sense. For trash-cinema aficionados, it's a riot; for others, a baffling waste of pixels. A featherweight satire best enjoyed with friends, vodka, and zero expectations.
