Drumroll 1993

In the depths of a cold winter, a funeral sets off an uncanny chain of events. At the ceremony, a dazzling, instrument-laden gift arrives—a large Stradivarius drum that seems to resonate with something beyond the ordinary. The drummer who performs with the ensemble soon discovers that the drum is not just an object, but a vehicle for a life of its own. As nightly rhythms spill from the drum, the bond between player and instrument tightens in a way that makes parting impossible, and the drummer is compelled to abandon his hostel and embark on a wandering journey.

Across the sprawling borders of the new post-Soviet space, the traveler carries only the drum as his tether to the world. Customs checks, shifting identities, and the relentless grind of movement erase most of his belongings, leaving him with nothing but the drum and a growing sense that the rhythm it carries may be his only steady companion. In the subterranean pulse of the city, the drummer tries to earn a living by tapping out coins in the subway; yet the money he earns slips away—taken by young, athletic youths, then by a policeman—and the sense of belonging slips further from reach. A diner encounter changes the day: a patient waitress shrouds the drum with a tablecloth, turning the shared act of eating into a strange, communal scene where food from others’ plates finds its way to him. A chance encounter with a pie and a kind, hungry young woman leads to an invitation into a modest home, where a mat is laid beside the door for the drum’s resting place.

The following morning brings a new energy as the drummer attempts to craft music anew, but life at home intrudes in improbable ways—the mundane embrace of a washing machine set inside the drum by his domestic partner. Escaping that suffocating scene, he seeks refuge among a sprawling dumping ground, a liminal universe where the homeless survive among discarded things, and where his world narrows to life inside the drum itself. The dump’s routines are interrupted by police raids, and wariness and grit rub shoulders with small acts of mercy. A delegation of French homeless people arrives, accompanied by officials, turning the two communities into a shared microcosm of cross-border humanity. They exchange stories, swap gifts, and toast in a makeshift harmony; the drummer keeps time beside a Black French colleague who answers his rhythms with his own, and a spark of friendship blooms. Before parting, the Frenchman invites the drummer to visit, hinting at a wider world beyond the dump’s fence.

Soon the drum travels again, now as a passport to a foreign land. A foreign passport is issued, and the drummer travels abroad, returning home with bags full of purchases only to be robbed at the airport. The harshness of loss lands him back on the streets, now colder and more determined than before, a winter of homelessness pressing in from all sides. In a moment of frustration and fury, the drum is shattered, its pieces scattered like memories that refuse to stay whole.

The film closes not with a tidy resolution but with a mockumentary-style newsreel that playfully muses on the origins of drums, imagining ancient peoples fashioning instruments from dinosaur skins. The ending leaves the viewer with a wry, almost folkloric reflection on music, migration, and the stubborn, stubbornly human impulse to create rhythm—even when the world seems to fall apart around us.