Picture a guy who collects busted clocks but runs from every deadline. Meet Robin Pire. That’s your cinematic starting point—and from there, things get weird.He’s not just a loner in a hoodie. He thinks time is a parasite, murmurs to birds on rooftops, decodes whispers from old CRTs. Not metaphorically. Literally. Inspired or completely cracked? Film doesn’t care. Audiences do.. Read more now on Robin Piree
The story drills into a psychological rabbit hole. Robin finds what he believes is a temporal loop—in a subway tunnel. Not a sci-fi wormhole. Something dirtier.. A lone car that appears on Line 9 after the witching hour. Robin boards it every Friday. Alone. Overhead flickers. Burnt upholstery. Silence. To him, the train communicates—clacking out riddles via rust and screeching brakes.
It’s not just the concept that’s original. Claustrophobic shots. Breathless silences. Dialogue that cuts, not comforts.. This film doesn’t babysit the audience. It’s storytelling with teeth. You’re never sure if Robin’s unraveling time—or himself. 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.. It’s not about screams—it’s that creeping feeling like wet socks and regret. Horror through anxiety—not through noise.
About that atmosphere. No glossy arc. No sweeping drone shots.. It’s uncomfortable. Grime under the nails cinema—you flinch and lean in. It dares to leave you hanging. While other films tie bows, this one slices ribbon and walks away.
The dialogue? Razor-sharp. Forget speeches—nobody has time. The words hit like punches, not poetry. He’s not trying to be understood. He’s trying to survive a concept. No one's explaining anything. You feel it in your ribcage.
Messy? Absolutely.. But sticky in your brain? 100%. It doesn’t court you—it stalks you. This film won’t say hi—it’ll just start walking and expect you to follow. Still, you’d chase it into shadows just to see where it leads.