Night of violence

Night of Violence, Illya Konstantin's debut feature film, is not a film that beats around the bush. From the very first minutes, it asserts itself as a bloody cry against the unbridled greed of big pharmaceutical companies and the morally corrupt systems that allow them to thrive at the expense of ordinary people's lives. Set against the backdrop of a major legal victory for Robinek, a pharmaceutical giant, the film quickly abandons any sense of glamour or triumph, plunging the audience into a nihilistic nightmare of revenge and carnage. What begins as a decadent office party, where alcohol, ego, and illusions of success reign supreme, quickly turns into a claustrophobic battlefield where masks, knives, and improvised weapons transform a corporate tower into a slaughterhouse. Director Illya Konstantin ensures that every image reflects the grotesque irony of the situation: the company that profited from suffering is forced to drown in it, in the most literal sense of the word.

The energy that runs through the film is undeniable, and it's clear that Illya Konstantin approaches his story with rage and relish. He doesn't hide behind metaphors or subtle gestures; on the contrary, he embraces the language of exploitation cinema and channels it into a modern parable about greed, survival, and moral decay. The film clearly echoes The Belko Experiment and Mayhem, with its concept of an office party that turns into a bloodbath, but there is something more pointed in the way it draws inspiration from real-life scandals such as Purdue Pharma and the opioid crisis. When we see the CEO arrive at the party on a trolley, Hannibal Lecter-style, before his throat is theatrically slit, the scene is not just a grotesque spectacle, but a scathing condemnation of the leaders who, in the real world, have gotten away with untouched profits and destroyed lives. It's brazen, unsubtle, and steeped in excess, but it's precisely that excess that gives the film its power.

The actors play a key role in grounding the chaos, even if most of their characters are designed to be hated. Russ Russo dominates the screen as Blake, the arrogant, chauvinistic lawyer who revels in Robinek's “victory.” His lines drip with contempt for everyone around him, and his triumphant bravado contrasts violently with the horror of the situation that soon engulfs him. He is the embodiment of corporate ego taken to the extreme, a figure the audience will despise but find impossible to ignore. Kit Lang brings a more down-to-earth presence to the role of Eliott, the character most viewers are supposed to identify with, even though he is plagued by remorse over his complicity in Robinek's decisions. Eliott's hesitations and moral unease contrast sharply with his colleagues, such as Rudy, played by Vince Benvenuto, an archetypal smiling frat boy more interested in drugs and one-night stands than his conscience, and Janelle, played by Abria Jackson, the object of Eliott's hesitant affection. Together, these characters illustrate the full range of corporate culture: from recklessness to selfishness to reluctant complicity. And while the script sometimes reduces them to simplistic archetypes, the performances elevate the text, particularly in moments when terror strips away their masks of confidence and leaves only despair.

What stands out in Illya Konstantin's approach is his remarkable use of space to create a feeling of suffocating anxiety. The Robinek Tower becomes a character in its own right: endless corridors stretch out like nightmares, staircases turn in endless loops, and underground maintenance rooms vibrate with an eerie silence, a sign of invisible danger. The geography of the building evokes the unsettling atmosphere of “back rooms,” where escape always seems possible but never happens. This design reflects the broader theme of the corporate machine, a system in which workers are trapped in labyrinthine hierarchies with no clear way out. The violence that erupts in these spaces feels less like a random massacre and more like a grotesque inevitability, a physical manifestation of the corruption and denial that eat away at the walls of the company. It is in these settings that Illya Konstantin creates some of his most electrifying sequences, such as the explosion of a grenade that lights up the night sky, a moment so exhilarating and yet so illogical that it highlights both the strengths and weaknesses of his cinema: relentless adrenaline at the expense of plausibility.

Yet beneath all the chaos and spectacle, Night of Violence insists on being taken seriously as a commentary on the price of greed. It deliberately blurs moral boundaries, leaving the audience wondering whether the masked avengers are villains or simply the inevitable result of a corrupt system. The victims here are not innocent citizens, but the employees of a company that has buried human suffering under confidentiality agreements and renamed dangerous drugs to continue making profits. The horror lies not only in the carnage, but in the realization that this cycle—greed meets violence, arrogance meets revenge—has its roots in the real world. The parallels with the opioid crisis are undeniable, and Illya Konstantin uses the spectacle to confront the viewer with questions that continue to resonate long after the credits roll: Is revenge ever justified, and what happens when the institutions that are supposed to protect lives play with them?

Of course, the film is not without its flaws, which stem largely from its ambition. The script often suffers from the weight of its own themes, falling into dialogue that feels more like political slogans than natural conversation. The characters are broadly drawn, their moral positions revealed rather than discovered through their actions. As a result, the satire can feel heavy-handed, its most powerful ideas blunted by repetition. The gore, while impressively staged, sometimes overshadows the human stakes, creating a numbing effect where spectacle trumps emotional investment. These weaknesses are undeniable, but they never manage to break the film's momentum. Illya Konstantin's vision is too compelling, the execution too energetic for the flaws to overshadow the whole. He is a filmmaker who prefers to think big and take risks rather than play it safe, and in the realm of genre cinema, that boldness counts for a lot.

Night of Violence isn't so much about who survives as it is about what survival means in a system based on exploitation. In the end, it's clear that no one comes out unscathed. The employees who believed they could hide behind legal victories and corporate jargon are literally and figuratively drained of their substance, while the masked avengers achieve only hollow justice born of blood. Even Eliott, the character closest to a moral compass in the film, is weakened, his survival less a triumph than a grim reminder of his complicity. Thus, Illya Konstantin refuses to offer easy catharsis. Instead, he leaves us with the unsettling idea that in a profit-driven world, violence is not an aberration but a inevitability. The film may not be perfect, but it is undeniably a statement, a furious, messy, and uncompromising declaration that establishes Illya Konstantin as a director who is not afraid to challenge, provoke, and disturb.

Night of Violence
Directed by Illya Konstantin
Written by Illya Konstantin, Kit Lang
Produced by Sean D Brewer, Pete Dancy, Graeme Dempsey, Illya Konstantin, Christopher Lang
Starring Kit Lang, Illya Konstantin, Sean D. Brewer, Samuel Gonzalez Jr.
Cinematography: Edgar Luzanilla
Music by Chris Dudley, Marco Antonio Flores Godoy
Production companies: Opera Machina Films
Distributed by NC
Release dates: NC
Running time: 84 minutes

Seen on August 18, 2025 (Frightfest press screener)

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