When Borscht Boils Over: How a Film About Demons Captures the Madness of Geopolitical Love-Hate
There’s something almost poetic about a film titled Demons using borscht—a soup as earthy as it is blood-red—to symbolize the tangled mess of the Russia-Ukraine relationship. But Ukrainian director Natalka Vorozhbyt isn’t aiming for subtlety. Her movie, which premiered at Locarno, weaponizes metaphor like a chef wields a cleaver: messy, visceral, and unforgettable. And honestly? It might be the only way to make sense of a relationship that’s equal parts passion, resentment, and generational trauma.
Why Metaphors Matter When Politics Fail
Let’s get this straight: Demons isn’t about literal witches or flying vehicles smashing TV sets. It’s about how nations anthropomorphize their grudges. By casting a Russian drifter (Slavik) and a Ukrainian widow (Nina) as stand-ins for their countries, Vorozhbyt sidesteps the trap of literal storytelling. Personally, I think this is genius. When have political dramas ever captured the feel of a broken alliance? Facts numb us; fairy tales haunt us. The village’s ‘hidden rules’—where the dead speak and graves hold secrets—are less about the supernatural and more about how history clings like a curse. Sound familiar?
The Toxic Tango of Love and Betrayal
The film’s core dynamic—a younger man and an older woman thrown together—mirrors the Soviet Union’s forced intimacy and Ukraine’s post-independence reckoning. Nina’s ‘strong, independent’ persona isn’t just feminist symbolism; it’s a rejection of the narrative that Ukraine is forever Russia’s ‘younger sibling.’ But here’s what fascinates me: Vorozhbyt doesn’t villainize Slavik. He’s a drifter, yes, but also a victim of the same toxic legacy. That ambiguity feels deliberate. In my opinion, it’s a subtle jab at how both nations are trapped in cycles of mutual blame, unable to divorce without losing parts of themselves.
Borscht, Blood, and the Burden of Symbols
Let’s talk about that soup. Borscht isn’t just a meal; it’s a battleground. Who ‘owns’ it? Ukrainians, Russians, or the diaspora? By making it a recurring image, Vorozhbyt highlights how culture becomes a weapon. The flying vehicle smashing a TV? A middle finger to media narratives that reduce complex conflicts to soundbites. And the graves? Oh, the graves. They’re not just physical—they’re emotional. Every betrayal, every unmarked Russian ‘grave’ in Ukraine’s soil, becomes a metaphor for unresolved grief. This isn’t filmmaking; it’s therapy with a body count.
Why This Story Works (And Why It Doesn’t)
I’ll admit: Demons risks being too on-the-nose. Reducing nations to characters could feel reductive. But here’s the twist: the film’s power lies in its refusal to simplify. The village isn’t just Ukraine; it’s a microcosm of any place torn between tradition and modernity. What many people don’t realize is that Vorozhbyt’s approach mirrors the very conflict it depicts—blending folklore with modern trauma, just as Ukraine balances its Soviet past with a Western-looking future. The director’s choice to mix violence with absurdity (flying cars?!) also feels eerily accurate. After all, what’s more absurd than a war that feels both ancient and shockingly new?
The Bigger Picture: When Art Becomes a Mirror
If you take a step back, Demons isn’t just about two countries. It’s a parable for any fractured relationship where love curdles into resentment. The film’s real achievement? It forces viewers to ask: Can you ever truly ‘move on’ from a bond forged in coercion? From my perspective, the answer here is no—and that’s the tragedy. The graves keep filling because the living won’t stop digging. But maybe, just maybe, the act of telling stories like this is the first step toward healing. Or at least understanding. Even if the story ends with blood on the floor and a pot of borscht left to boil over.
