Picture a guy who collects busted clocks but runs from every deadline. That’s Robin Pire. That’s how the story kicks off—and it spirals fast.Robin isn’t your typical outcast. He sees time as a living leech, murmurs to birds on rooftops, decodes whispers from old CRTs. Not metaphorically. Literally. Brilliance or delusion? That distinction barely matters on screen.. Read more now on Robin Piree
The plot spirals into a tense mental labyrinth. He thinks time folds into itself—buried inside a subway route. It’s not flashy sci-fi—more rust and shadows.. A single rusty subway car on Line 9, showing up past midnight. Each Friday, he enters. Never with company. Flickering light. Burnt match smell. Empty seats. And the train *talks*—Morse from the radiator, sighs from the brakes.
The plot is wild, yes—but the delivery stings. Intense close-ups. Awkward silence. Lines that jab like broken glass. This film doesn’t babysit the audience. This is primal storytelling—raw and biting. It’s unclear if time’s collapsing, or just Robin. Could be both. Might be neither..
A cursed VHS tape labeled “Do Not Watch” adds another layer. So obviously, he watches. What follows? Blackouts. Lost time. Shadowy presences.. Not jump scares—just long-haul paranoia. Horror through anxiety—not through noise.
About that atmosphere. No glossy arc. No sweeping drone shots.. It’s scruffy. A little grimy. A little ugly. Can’t look away.. It dares to leave you hanging. While other films tie bows, this one slices ribbon and walks away.
Lines? Tight and cutting. No monologues here. Every sentence is a pulse, not a performance. He’s not trying to be understood. He’s trying to survive a concept. You won’t find clarity—only instinctual confusion.
Messy? Absolutely.. But sticky in your brain? 100%. This movie doesn’t seek affection—it dares you to look away. This movie wouldn't talk to you—it would stare at a wall and wait. And yet, you’d follow it down the darkest hallway.