Review

This one creeps up on you. At first it feels familiar, like it’s going to play out as a standard thriller—you think you know the rhythm, the beats, the kinds of twists you’re about to see. But the longer it goes, the more it sheds that predictability, pulling you deeper into something darker and more suffocating than you expect. By the halfway point, you’re not coasting along on genre comfort anymore—you’re stuck in this slow grind of dread, and it doesn’t let you back out.

The pacing is deliberate, and I mean that in the best way. Scenes take their time, conversations linger longer than feels comfortable, silences stretch on like the air’s been sucked out of the room. That pressure builds with each passing moment, making even the small things feel like they could snap the whole story open. It’s not a movie that runs on big set pieces or jump scares—it runs on inevitability. You don’t just watch bad decisions get made and lives spiral downward; you feel the weight of every choice dragging everyone closer to disaster. It’s like watching a fuse burn in slow motion, knowing exactly what’s at the end of it but powerless to stop it.

The performances are what lock all of this into place. The lead actor doesn’t play grief like a clean, dramatic beat—they play it as something ugly, erratic, constantly shifting between rage, despair, numbness, and obsession. It’s raw in a way that makes the character hard to watch at times, but that discomfort is the point. You’re supposed to see someone tearing themselves apart and feel the pain of it. The supporting cast doesn’t get lost in the background either. Every side character adds to the bleak machinery of the plot, each one feeling like another gear grinding down toward the inevitable.

The horror here isn’t really about what happens—it’s about what doesn’t stop happening. The losses, the regrets, the obsessions that won’t let go. Even when there’s no violence on screen, you feel trapped in it, like the whole world is rigged against anyone making it out whole. And when the violence does hit, it’s not flashy. It’s ugly, sudden, and final. The film doesn’t linger on spectacle—it lingers on aftermath. That’s what makes it land harder than anything that’s just designed to shock.

If there’s one place where the film stumbles, it’s the ending. It pushes just a little too far, leaning into melodrama when it didn’t really need to. The spiral was already powerful enough on its own, but the final punch goes a touch over the top. Not enough to derail the story or sour the experience—just enough to make you wish it had been pared down slightly. Still, I’ll take a movie that overreaches because it’s trying to devastate you over one that plays it safe and lands flat.

What lingers most after watching isn’t the scares or even the violence—it’s the sense of inevitability, the way it frames grief and obsession as traps you can’t claw your way out of. There’s no clean escape, no neat resolution. Just the lingering knowledge that loss changes people, and not always in ways they can control. It’s not easy to watch, but it’s the kind of film that sticks with you long after the credits roll. And for me, that impact makes it an easy 4.5/5.