Imagine a film that doesn’t just tell a story but weaponizes metaphor to dissect one of the most volatile conflicts of our time. That’s exactly what Natalka Vorozhbyt’s Demons achieves, and it’s a masterstroke of cinematic audacity. The trailer alone—featuring a brooding drunkard and a fiercely independent older woman in a remote village—hints at something far more layered than a simple romance. This isn’t just a film; it’s a psychological battleground where personal relationships, national identities, and ancient folklore collide. What makes this particularly fascinating is how Vorozhbyt dares to frame Russia-Ukraine tensions through the lens of a love triangle gone sour. It’s a narrative gambit that feels both daring and deeply necessary in an era where diplomacy is often drowned out by artillery fire.
Let’s unpack this. The film’s premise—a Russian drifter and a Ukrainian matriarch navigating a village steeped in mysticism—isn’t just a plot device. It’s a Trojan horse for geopolitical commentary. Personally, I think the choice to set this in the 1990s is genius. That era was a liminal space for both nations: Russia reeling from the Soviet collapse, Ukraine grappling with its newfound independence. By anchoring the story in that decade, Vorozhbyt creates a parallel to today’s fractured post-Soviet landscape. The village becomes a microcosm of a region where borders are porous, histories are contested, and trust is a luxury few can afford. What many people don’t realize is that this isn’t just about the present war—it’s about the centuries of mistrust and cultural friction that preceded it.
The director’s insistence on three interconnected layers—personal, socio-political, and mystical—is where the film’s brilliance lies. Take the mystical element: witches, the dead speaking to the living. This isn’t mere whimsy. It’s a metaphor for the haunting legacies of war, the way trauma lingers like a ghost in every village square. In my opinion, the supernatural aspects amplify the emotional stakes. When Nina, the Ukrainian matriarch, faces danger, it’s not just a personal threat—it’s a symbolic reckoning with the existential risks her nation has faced since the 1990s. The line between folklore and reality blurs, much like the line between historical memory and propaganda in today’s media landscape.
And let’s talk about the casting. Ruslana Pysanka and Aleksey Mitin aren’t just actors—they’re cultural touchstones. Pysanka, a singer and activist, brings a raw authenticity to the role of Nina, a woman who embodies Ukraine’s resilience. Mitin, with his brooding intensity, plays the Russian outsider whose past is as murky as the village’s secrets. This isn’t just a story of two individuals; it’s a clash of national archetypes. What this really suggests is that Vorozhbyt is using character dynamics to critique the broader narrative of Russian imperialism and Ukrainian resistance. The trailer’s emphasis on ‘fire in the belly’ isn’t just about passion—it’s about the simmering rage and determination that fuels both personal and political battles.
But here’s the deeper question: Can a film like Demons change anything? I don’t think so—but that’s not its purpose. What it does is force viewers to confront uncomfortable truths. When the village’s hidden rules are revealed, it mirrors the way real-world conflicts are governed by unspoken power dynamics, coded histories, and the manipulation of memory. Vorozhbyt isn’t offering solutions; she’s exposing the rot beneath the surface. And in doing so, she’s creating a cultural artifact that will outlive the headlines. A detail that I find especially interesting is the choice to premiere this at Locarno, a festival known for its avant-garde sensibilities. It’s a fitting stage for a film that defies easy categorization, much like the conflict it portrays.
As I watch the trailer, I’m struck by how the film’s ambiguity is its greatest strength. There’s no clear villain, no tidy resolution. That’s the reality of war: it’s messy, cyclical, and often devoid of moral clarity. Vorozhbyt’s genius is in capturing that complexity without succumbing to cliché. If you take a step back and think about it, this film is a reminder that art can be a form of resistance, a way to preserve truth when political discourse is mired in rhetoric. The real demons here aren’t supernatural—they’re the ones we create through fear, misinformation, and the refusal to listen. And that, I think, is the most terrifying part of all.
