400 Words on: Until Dawn (2025)

or, “Buying-In to the Confusion”:
A spoiler-free mini movie review.


3 out of 5

While my wife would call me a “gamer”, I don’t clock nearly as many hours as when I was a kid: life gets in the way. So when I do play, it’s almost exclusively ‘arcade-style’ games that I can disconnect from quickly – physically & mentally – and there must be a Pause button.

Though I can’t attest, “Until Dawn” seems regarded as one of the premier, Western-made, story-driven video games of the previous console generation: a group of disposable teens trying to survive a throng of wendigos, with a branching narrative based on player interaction. “Until Dawn: The Movie” swaps out the choose-your-own-adventure input for a “Groundhog Day” esque time-loop, with some other surprises meant to mimic the discovery a player would get from the game.

My surprise was palpable. Though lacking the original’s star-power (which featured Rami Malek & Hayden Panettiere), the movie’s twenty-something players do a convincing job and, tonically, all five are spotlighted equally throughout the script. The savagery is effective, including a show-stopping water tower sequence & a close-up of a crushed face that gave me “Irréversible” flashbacks. The dialogue isn’t bad either, often breaking the fourth-wall to cheekily address the core plot’s uninspiredness, or the suicidal inclinations of its protagonists to reset the loop & try again.

[cont’d]

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young romans

A one-act play.

“Two former Film School classmates – one successful, one a dropout – confront their presumed demons during a lunch reunion.”

THE SCENE
The street-side patio of a trendy restaurant, sometime in early-Summer. Present Day.

THE CAST
Dave, mid-to-late-30s, registered with the Film Union and good-to-go.
Ben, mid-to-late-30s, an unregistered freelancer.
A waiter, 18-20, just trying to do their job.
A proper man, 60s, who “should know what he’s talking about”.
His wife, 60s, who “should know her place better”.

*

LIGHTS UP. DAVE is waiting at a small, round table with three chairs. He’s dressed business-casual, playing with his phone. There are busy sounds around him: traffic; pedestrians – the city.

DAVE
Where the fuck is he…

A WAITER enters stage-left and approaches him.

WAITER
Have you had a chance to look at our menu yet, Sir?

DAVE
(callously)
That’s what I’m doing right now.

WAITER
Anything peak your interest?

DAVE
I don’t know, I’m not even at the appetizers yet! I’m still flipping through your sixteen-thousand pages of drinks!

WAITER
I’m sorry, Sir.

DAVE
Stupid question!

WAITER
We are well known for our selection of beer and spirits, Sir. If you’ll permit me, I could recommend something…

DAVE
No. Just go away until my guest arrives.

The waiter exits the same way he came in. From stage-right, in bursts BEN, dressed aloha-shirt casual. Dave is happy to see him, and they embrace platonically. Ben is despondent: hunched over, with closed-off body language.

DAVE
(cont’d) Wow! There’s the Big Guy!

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sting is his own worst yoko ono

A poem.


art is sabotage.

what are we really like, beneath
our own justification?
what rationale does one have
to corner the written word like water
or oil?
where do we stand outside the issues?
not within reach
but beyond?

“excuses excuses,
all you give me is excuses.”
then give me a reason.

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