Waiting for a Cure That Won’t Come

MOVIE REVIEW
No More Time
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Genre: Psychological Thriller, Pandemic Horror, Folk Horror
Year Released: 2025
Runtime: 1h 22m
Director(s): Dalila Droege
Writer(s): Dalila Droege, Jennifer Harlow
Cast: Jennifer Harlow, Mark Reeb, Tunde Adebimpe, David Sullivan, Amy Seimetz, Jim Beaver
Where to Watch: on digital platforms starting December 19, 2025

RAVING REVIEW: Some pandemic stories flood the screen with chaos because it makes the fear easier to process. NO MORE TIME goes in the opposite direction — it drains the world until there’s barely anything left. The setting of empty cabins in the mountains, half-finished sentences on the radio, and two people trying to hold onto themselves even as the world outside forces everyone into a state of survival that looks more feral than human. It’s a pandemic movie, but it isn’t recreating headlines. It’s more interested in the slow deterioration of trust when catastrophe becomes normal.

The premise centers on a couple, Hilaire and Steve, who have escaped a viral outbreak capable of turning some people into violent killers while causing others to disappear. That twist isn’t meant as realism — it works as a metaphor. The “disappearing” feels symbolic of the isolation that follows fear, while the outbreak of violence speaks to how easily humanity fractures under pressure. Instead of exploring the mechanics of the disease, the story focuses on how people treat one another when there are no social expectations left, only instincts.

Dalila Droege directs with a patient, observational style. The film has an indie intimacy — characters are framed as if they’re being watched through cabin windows, rather than staged for drama. The mountains look deceptively peaceful, and the film's use of that landscape is intentional. Nature doesn’t react to the virus. Trees don’t mourn cities. Compared to the characters' behavior, the environment seems healed. It creates an indirect but sharp commentary: the world doesn’t need us to survive, and it may function better without us. The horror isn’t the virus; it’s the realization of what happens when human desperation collides with an ecosystem that doesn’t care.

Jennifer Harlow plays Hilaire with guarded calm. Her performance is internal — built from tension in the shoulders, and pauses in speech that hint at thoughts she doesn’t feel safe voicing. Mark Reeb is the emotional counterweight, showing the physical exhaustion of someone trying to stay alive while every part of the world tells him he’s outmatched. Their dynamic is tense, especially in moments when survival requires decisions they don’t have time to justify. That pressure doesn’t push the film into melodrama — it forces small moral fractures that say more about them than any speech could.

Tunde Adebimpe appears as Noah, a local survivor whose arrival changes the stakes. He brings unpredictability, approaching the couple with reason but carrying the weight of someone who’s already seen how ugly people become when structure collapses. The film avoids turning him into a savior or villain. His presence adds another perspective: the pandemic already rewired instincts, and no one trusts anyone enough to let down their defenses. Adebimpe’s performance adds complexity — you can’t fully read him until the film is ready to reveal what he actually wants.

The film’s commentary is pointed, but never subtle. Hatred is depicted as an infection, not a reaction. The pandemic isn’t just killing bodies — it’s accelerating the collapse of empathy. At times, the symbolism is direct to the point of bluntness, but that’s part of the film’s thesis: everything about this situation feels raw rather than refined. The virus becomes a stand-in for what people believed during the real pandemic — violence justified by fear, people disappearing from each other’s lives, literally and emotionally. The film doesn’t pretend to be objective about it. It says plainly that humanity failed the test.

Where the film struggles is in cohesion. Some sequences feel like fragments of ideas that never connect into a full arc. You understand what the film wants to say — nature is the only neutral force left, people are capable of cruelty without any system above them, and survival exposes the ugliest instincts — but the storytelling sometimes drops off without payoff. Scenes wander into surreal territory without building tension toward a clear point. Those choices give the film its hypnotic tone, but they also create distance. You admire the intent, but don’t always feel the emotional release. For a story built on fear and pressure, the pacing works against suspense — it lingers instead of tightening.

NO MORE TIME isn’t trying to be the next “pandemic horror” title packaged for streaming algorithms. It’s personal. The director's statement in the press kit emphasizes a “cinematic exploration of collapse rooted in character psychology,” grounded in emotional truth rather than genre convention. The filmmakers wanted to create a world where everything feels fragile — relationships, identity, sanity — because they experienced that fragility firsthand. The pandemic didn’t just disrupt society; it exposed the parts of human nature that culture usually hides. Droege is more interested in that revelation than any biological threat.

The ending leans toward a concept that stays with you after the credits: nature heals through subtraction. Humanity may not be the protagonist of Earth’s story. The camera holds on to landscapes that look untouched and thriving, even as the characters crumble. It’s a final reminder that the world doesn’t measure time the way we do. What feels like an apocalypse to us is just another season to forces older than civilization.

NO MORE TIME is imperfect, but it resonates. The filmmaking voice is strong, even when the narrative becomes less clear. Its power comes from the discomfort it leaves behind — the sense that, after everything, the forest remains, the mountains are unchanged, and people never realize how small they were until it is too late. It’s a psychological thriller dressed as pandemic horror, with a folk heart beating under the surface. You feel its urgency even in the stillness, and that quiet approach might be the most honest way to portray collapse.

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[photo courtesy of VERTICAL ENTERTAINMENT, THE CUBE]

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