Petrov's Flu (2021)

Petrov’s Flu is the rare film that doesn’t just depict sickness—it makes you feel its heat-haze logic, turning an ordinary Russian winter into a delirious, darkly funny fever dream with real emotional weight underneath. Kirill Serebrennikov directs with bravura confidence, gliding through crowded apartments, buses, and memories until everyday life and hallucination mingle so seamlessly you stop asking which is which and start surrendering to the ride. It’s gritty satire with a surprisingly tender pulse, full of visual invention and audacious transitions that reward viewers who like cinema that takes risks. Fair warning: it’s tense, unsettling, and occasionally disturbing, so it won’t be everyone’s comfort watch—but if you want something boldly imaginative and unlike anything else, it’s exhilarating.

Petrov’s Flu is aiming for a fever-dream portrait of post-Soviet malaise—part family drama, part dark comedy, part supernatural slipstream—where being sick isn’t just a plot point, it’s the whole viewing experience. The problem is that it often feels willfully chaotic: scenes bleed into each other, logic dissolves, and what’s meant to be disorienting can quickly become exhausting and oddly arbitrary if you’re looking for a clear story or emotional through-line. That said, the craft is hard to deny—stylish filmmaking, committed performances, and a grim, lived-in atmosphere that can be hypnotic if you’re in the mood for something abrasive and experimental. If you don’t enjoy surreal, unsettling cinema that prioritizes mood and sensation over clarity, this one is likely to test your patience rather than reward it.