Bridge

Writer-director Aryan D. Roy collages mesmeric beauty with abstract terror in this purgatorial stroll into the spiritual.

In Bridge, there is a frenetic hum of electricity in the air; a near-tangible, static din pervading the ear canals and careening around the brain in a display of Lynchian zeal. It’s a deeply penetrating sound, one which cannot be escaped or assuaged. And so begins this deeply stifling psycho-horror, in which one man’s stroll through the moonlight streets of an Indian suburb becomes a purgatorial nightmare, complete with wandering souls and uncanny tales of wasted lives.

Seen through the incredulous eyes of unassuming Soumya Majumdar, the universe presented in Bridge seemingly takes place in a world between worlds, a space between spaces. It’s an odd matrix free of earthly intrusion: the sound of oft sprawling night trade runs silent, and vehicles have disappeared from the roads. And running through this strange afront to reality is an abandoned highway lit with the luminous glow of streetlamps – photographed with mesmeric beauty by Ayan and Samriddha Ganguly – which feels like a winding vestibule into the great ethereal plains. Where has Majumdar gone? And is he alone?

These existential quandaries point towards an eerie conclusion when Majumdar stumbles upon a stranger strewn across the sidewalk: a steely-eyed, self-described “factionalist” – played with a cold knowingness by Apratim Chatterjee – engaged in serious reflection over his time as a purveyor of religious violence. Chatterjee recalls one of David Lynch’s Black Lodge creatures here; a soul blackened by the evil of his actions and devoid of all but the most basic of human nuances. But perhaps most terrifying is the Factionalist’s proposed solution to Majumdar: “give me your soul so I can start afresh.”

The sum of these suffocating set pieces forms a mini tapestry of abstract terror, one which curiously gazes into the maws of the spiritual only to be chomped to a bloody pulp. Bridge is a force to be reckoned with.