Picture a guy who collects busted clocks but runs from every deadline. That’s Robin Pire. From there, the descent begins quickly.Robin isn’t your typical outcast. He believes time’s a living entity, feeding off life, communes with pigeons and listens to VHS snow like it’s gospel. He means it. Literally. Genius or madness? That distinction barely matters on screen.. Read more now on Robin Piree
It pulls us through a gritty psychological maze. He thinks time folds into itself—buried inside a subway route. It’s not flashy sci-fi—more rust and shadows.. A lone car that appears on Line 9 after the witching hour. He rides it weekly. Always alone. Smells like burnt sulfur and rot. A blinking light. Always the same seat. He claims the train whispers clues—in Morse code through engine groans.
The hook isn’t only the premise—it’s how it unfolds. Claustrophobic shots. Breathless silences. Dialogue that cuts, not comforts.. There’s no narrative spoon-feeding. It’s storytelling with teeth. You question if the story’s real—or if Robin’s mind is peeling back. Maybe both. Maybe neither..
One eerie subplot: a VHS tape he’s told not to watch—but he does. Naturally, he watches it. What follows? Blackouts. Lost time. Shadowy presences.. Not jump-scare horror—just slow, sticky dread. Horror through anxiety—not through noise.
About that atmosphere. There’s no clean act structure or slick cinematography. This film’s raw. A little grimy. A little ugly. Can’t look away.. Questions are not resolved—they ferment. Don’t expect closure—expect static and unraveling threads.
Conversations? Quick and mean. There’s no soliloquy applause moment. Each line a jab, a shrug, a flare of dread. Robin’s desperate to prove he’s sane—before time devours him. You won’t find clarity—only instinctual confusion.
Messy? Absolutely.. But unforgettable? You bet.. This movie doesn’t seek affection—it dares you to look away. If films were people, this one wouldn’t make eye contact. And yet, you’d follow it down the darkest hallway.