Watching this film felt like standing outside on a Midwestern autumn night-clouded sky, no moon, no streetlights-just nothing, layered upon nothing, for as far as fear can perceive.
I don't think Centauri 29 set out to invent a genre, and I wouldn't say it did. But it absolutely awakened my desire for one I've long wished existed: Somber Cinema. If that were a recognized form-if we allowed space for quiet, slow-moving pictures that don't aim to entertain but to gently haunt-then David Jon Foster might already be considered a master.
This isn't a blockbuster. It's not trying to be. And any attempt to view it through that lens will only rob it of its honesty.
It's a chamber play in the vast nothing. A portrait of desolation, not a thrill ride through it. There are no epic moments here-just pressure. Pressure between people who don't particularly like each other but are too lonely to care. That's what I found most affecting: the absence. I wanted more of that. More silence. More room to sit in the void. Because in that space, I felt something.
But films like this are rarely allowed to simply be. They're expected to explain themselves, speed up, and prove they're "worth it." And I get the sense this one didn't want to-but maybe felt it had to.
Visually, Centauri 29 commits to its limitations with a kind of vintage boldness. It doesn't chase realism-it shows care. From 1980s-inspired ingenuity in the sets to lo-fi, 1990s-style effects, it reminded me of painted backdrops from Poverty Row B-movies. Not meant to convince you, just to immerse you. Like a stage play, where the audience meets the art halfway out of respect, not expectation.
And that's what this film earns-my respect. And that's what it got from me because that's what it gave me. It respected my time, my imagination, and my life. And we owe it that same amount of respect in return.
Though I struggled with the dialogue-it was fast, dense, and heavily expository-the film never punished me for missing things. It let me float in and out, allowing curiosity and the freedom to drift into thought and life.
We talk about genre like it's a box. But the genre is only a language designed for a culture that speaks it. Horror fans have created dozens of subgenres to describe nuance: slow-burn, cosmic, psychological, and splatter. But we haven't done that for films like this-and that's a disservice. Because without the correct language, audiences don't know how to communicate with the director.
Centauri 29 asks to be watched with stillness. But we're not used to stillness anymore. With our phones always calling, modern cinema tries to scream louder to keep us from drifting. But David Jon Foster doesn't scream. Like his ship in space, he allows you to drift. And if you miss something, that's okay. It doesn't mind. It's still moving forward-quietly and confidently, at its own pace.
This picture isn't designed to thrill you but instead to trap you in space with its cast and leave you there to slowly rot.
Like that autumn night, Centauri 29 didn't light the way-it let me stand in the dark long enough to see for myself.
