If you’ve ever wondered what happens when a deadpan heist movie crashes into a surrealist nightmare, look no further than The Diamond. Directed by the visionary Vedran Rupic and presented by The New Yorker Screening Room, this 13-minute journey into the woods is a masterclass in tone, discomfort, and the sheer absurdity of human desire.

The film follows Stefan, a man whose physical ailments—most notably a glaringly obvious cold sore—are nothing compared to the rot of his greed. Stefan has found a diamond, but it’s trapped at the bottom of a hole too narrow for a human arm. His solution? He doesn’t need a tool; he needs a person. Enter Douglas, a tiny man Stefan “recruits” (read: kidnaps with a smile) from a hospital waiting room.

What follows is a bizarre training montage where Stefan prepares Douglas for the “final test.” Rupic’s humor is bone-dry, found in the awkward silences and the clinical way Stefan explains that “crisis” and “opportunity” are the same word in China while showing Douglas a drawing of a person falling into a pit. The chemistry between the two—the predatory optimism of the giant and the weary confusion of the small man—is what keeps the tension at a snapping point.

Visually, The Diamond is stunning. The forest sequences feel both expansive and claustrophobic, especially once the “heist” begins. But the real stroke of genius is the final act. When the inevitable betrayal occurs, the film doesn’t just end; it transforms into a musical odyssey. A red-robed choir appears in a field to sing a hauntingly catchy anthem about “not realizing” what you’ve got until it’s gone, while Stefan literally rolls across the landscape—and through traffic—in a state of karmic shock.

The Diamond is more than a dark comedy; it’s a sensory experience that explores the high cost of a “fortune.” It’s weird, it’s uncomfortable, and it’s one of the most original things you’ll watch this year.