Nyctophobia

Nyctophobia offers a visually intense and emotionally charged look into the restless mind. Its stark black-and-white style, punctuated by sudden flashes of color, creates a dreamlike world shaped by fear and unease. While it occasionally drags with repeated imagery, the film's atmosphere and bold direction hold attention. It's less about telling a story and more about capturing a feeling-unsettling, anxious, and strangely beautiful. Though uneven at times, it leaves a lasting impression as a raw, artistic exploration of sleeplessness, anxiety, and the haunting cycle of intrusive, obsessive thoughts.

Nyctophobia is less a conventional horror film than a slow, surreal dive into the subconscious-a cinematic anxiety spiral wrapped in dream logic and drenched in atmosphere. Written and directed by Seayoon Jeong, the film follows Liz (Olivia Clari Nice), a young woman struggling with the titular fear of the dark. As insomnia eats away at her sanity, Liz slips into a dream world where childhood memories and nightmares blur, and nothing-especially not time or space-feels safe or linear.

What distinguishes Nyctophobia is its commitment to mood over plot. There's a confidence in how it lets its images and silences speak. Olivia Clari Nice gives a mostly wordless performance, grounded in physicality and expression. Her portrayal of Liz is both fragile and haunted, anchoring the film's more abstract elements in something deeply human.

The visual design is where Nyctophobia excels. From mannequin-filled classrooms to clown-faced authority figures, the film embraces a nightmarish surrealism that recalls Lynch or early Aronofsky, albeit with more heart and less edge. A carousel tunnel becomes a warping dream-puzzle, old televisions glitch with unsettling nostalgia, and color is used sparingly but pointedly-especially the saturated reds against grayscale backdrops. These touches give the film a lo-fi, arthouse texture that leans into the theatricality of dreams.

That said, not everything works equally well. The clown motif, while tied to childhood trauma, feels tired in the horror landscape-even if this isn't strictly a horror film. Some sequences, like the disco room or the exaggerated vintage costuming, can feel more style than substance. The symbolic layering-though rich in suggestion-never quite coalesces into a thematically deep interrogation of fear, memory, or trauma. You get a mood, a feeling, a sense-but not necessarily a revelation.

Still, Jeong's refusal to spoon-feed meaning is admirable. Nyctophobia trusts its viewers to sit with ambiguity, and while the pacing is slow and intentionally disorienting, the film remains visually engaging throughout. It's the kind of work that prioritizes sensation over narrative clarity, and for those receptive to its dreamlike rhythm, it offers something rare in indie psychological horror: an aesthetic and emotional experience over easy resolution.

In short, Nyctophobia is flawed, but fascinating. It won't be for everyone, but if you're drawn to introspective, visually expressive films that explore mental states through experimental storytelling, this one might just get under your skin. It's not just about fear of the dark-it's about understanding what that darkness contains.

Out of the MANY movies I've rated this is only the 6th to get a 1/10, and it's WELL deserved. Most movies have some kind of redeeming quality, something that they do well. This doesn't. It's pretentious (black-and-white and all). It's agonizingly slow. It's surrealist with no real plot to give it direction. It's the kind of thing that's produced when a writer thinks far too highly of themself. It's as if the writer/director absolutely despises every single human being and wants to punish them.

This is supposed to be the various stages of falling asleep, but it's really just an excuse for surrealist slop. Every stage (and really, every scene) goes on FAR longer than it should. As in, five minutes for something that should have been 15 seconds. There are also numerous times when entire sequences are replayed with no variation whatsoever. I wound up skipping past her singing a boring song for at least five minutes. During the next stage I left the room to go do something, came back and the same thing was on the screen. It's not just that these scenes are boring and overly long, they serve no purpose because there's no plot to begin with.

There are more than a few elements that are reminiscent of Eraserhead (the writer/director is clearly a fan), but without the necessary talent none of the imagery has any impact. Things that are clearly meant to be creepy just come off as painfully dumb.

The only reason I even made it through this was a sort of fascination that a movie could be so bad and actually get released. It's like when your friend is proud of something and you don't have the heart to tell them that it's terrible. The movie is excruciating, and the only people that will like it are critics that want to feel intelligent.

This film will not hold your hand. It won't give you jump scares, tidy resolutions, or an easy sense of closure. Instead, it invites you into a quiet, often uncomfortable space - the kind that mirrors the disorienting experience of drifting in and out of sleep while carrying the weight of anxiety or trauma.

It's a risky approach, and for some, it may feel too abstract or slow. But to dismiss it as meaningless because it doesn't follow a conventional narrative does a disservice not only to the filmmaker - but to the idea of film as a vessel for emotional truth.

The visuals are haunting: black-and-white frames punctuated by sudden washes of color, like emotional memories bleeding into the subconscious. The pacing may be meditative, even glacial at times, but that slowness isn't empty - it's evocative. The repetition mirrors the looping thoughts of insomnia, the stagnation of emotional paralysis. These choices feel intentional, not careless.

What truly carries the film, though, is its mood. The sound design is immersive and organic, drawing you into the liminal space between dread and surrender. The long silences, the distorted lullabies, the feeling that time has stretched and bent - it's all in service of a raw, vulnerable experience that many mainstream films would never dare to explore.

Still, this is not a film for everyone. Its dreamlike structure and lack of traditional progression may alienate some viewers, and there are moments where even the emotionally invested may crave a bit more variation or narrative shape. But for those willing to meet it on its terms, it offers a strange and strangely beautiful form of catharsis.

It may not be perfect - but it's brave, deeply felt, and unlike anything else I've seen this year.

Seayoon Jeong's Nyctophobia is not just another indie horror experiment - it's a precise, slow-burning exploration of fear, memory, and the fragile boundary between reality and hallucination. Anchored by a minimalist yet haunting atmosphere, the film delivers a chilling experience that proves style and substance can thrive even in confined spaces.

The title, which refers to an intense fear of the dark, sets the stage for a narrative built almost entirely on psychological unease rather than cheap jump scares. From the opening frame, Jeong wastes no time establishing a tone of quiet dread. The film's lead - a woman struggling with trauma, isolation, and escalating paranoia - finds herself trapped in what seems like a safe domestic environment. But as night falls and the lights flicker out, the darkness becomes a character of its own.

What makes Nyctophobia compelling is how it uses the absence of light as a storytelling device. Jeong's direction is careful and deliberate, emphasizing shadows, negative space, and subtle sound design to suggest horror rather than show it outright. It's a smart and effective approach that harks back to the psychological thrillers of the '70s while maintaining a distinctly modern aesthetic.

Performance-wise, the film benefits immensely from its central actress (whose name deserves mention once the cast list is officially available). Her portrayal of escalating fear is nuanced - never over-the-top, yet deeply visceral. With minimal dialogue, she communicates a spectrum of emotions: dread, confusion, desperation, and ultimately, a resigned acceptance of her fate.

The cinematography is stark and claustrophobic, with tight shots and dim lighting that mirror the protagonist's deteriorating mental state. The editing is restrained, allowing scenes to breathe and tension to build slowly - a refreshing change from the frenetic pacing typical of mainstream horror.

That said, Nyctophobia may test the patience of some viewers. Its pacing is methodical, and those expecting constant thrills might find it too subdued. The narrative also leans heavily into ambiguity, especially in the final act, where reality blurs completely. But rather than feeling incomplete, this ambiguity enhances the experience, leaving space for interpretation and lingering unease.

Jeong's thematic exploration is subtly layered. Beyond its horror trappings, Nyctophobia touches on grief, trauma, and the unseen scars people carry. The darkness is not just literal - it's symbolic of unresolved guilt and the terror of confronting one's inner demons. This psychological underpinning gives the film surprising emotional weight.

In short, Nyctophobia is not bad at all - in fact, it's a striking and confident debut that suggests Seayoon Jeong is a filmmaker to watch. It may not reinvent the horror genre, but it respects it, and in doing so, it offers a thought-provoking experience for fans of atmospheric, introspective storytelling.