This one doesn't grab you, it disorients you, and that's the point. A man wanders a festival night and the horror isn't the grotesque things moving through the frenzy, it's the dawning realization that he's the one who was here but wasn't here. The phantom. It works because it refuses to explain itself: memories thick with inhibition, promises never kept, words washing up on a shore like debris, and poems drifting in on the waves from whatever's on the other side. Nothing explodes. Nobody monologues the theme at you. Half the people who start it bail because it moves at the speed of contemplation instead of plot, and the other half come back a second time and catch the rhyme they missed. It's short, it's slept on, and it lands the way an unanswered voicemail from someone you failed does.

On a night of frenzy, a man becomes lost in a rift in time. The phantom here is not the grotesque creatures or monsters around him but the man himself, someone present and absent at once. Weighed down by restrained memories and promises left unfulfilled, he finds time holding him apart from a certain place. From the far side, rhyming poems reach him on the waves that wash against the shore. A psychological film told in a dreamlike, poetic register.