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After the tale by Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin. Graduation performance, developed into a film. Filming took place in the Pushkin museum.
Two writers. One deadline. Zero clue that their imagination just broke the universe.
A naked, blood-soaked man throws a corpse into a dimly lit basement. The cadaver lands against another body.
Fragments of a contemplative essay film drifting between memory and dream. I see an old man haunted by an elusive voice, and a fading childhood quietly watching over him, in a space where prolonged sleep blurs the boundary of what is real. This is a story written from elsewhere a place where I listen, observe, and record his story, in an attempt to weave together images of family, and the quiet violence of growing up.
There are those who sleep. There are those who don't. Tormented by insomnia, lack of air, incontinence, intestinal gases, rheumatic pains, nocturnal coughing fits, bronchitis, remorse, fright. Sleepless nights, easy victims for backyard demons, invisible from the street. Nobody sees it, but the backyard ghost is there, attentive. Nobody can free themselves of evil!