Still Time

I watched Still Time (2023) on a Tuesday evening while my robot vacuum aggressively bumped into my ankles, and honestly, the irony was almost too much to handle. Here I was, trying to "optimize" my chores by letting a disc of sensors do the work so I could "save time" to watch a movie about a man literally losing his life to the clock. It’s the kind of meta-moment that makes you want to throw your smartphone into a lake and go live in a hut, which is exactly the existential panic this Italian gem taps into.

Released globally on Netflix, Still Time (or Era ora) is a contemporary remake of the 2021 Australian film Long Story Short. While the "time loop" or "time jump" gimmick is well-trodden territory—think Groundhog Day meets Click—this version swaps the broad slapstick of its predecessors for a distinctly Roman brand of melancholy and charm. It’s a film that feels very "now," capturing that post-pandemic anxiety where we all suddenly realized that "doing nothing" is a luxury we’ve forgotten how to afford.

The High-Speed Commute of Existence

The premise is a nightmare for anyone who has ever felt like they’re "too busy." Dante, played with a fantastic, fraying-at-the-edges energy by Edoardo Leo, is a man obsessed with the future. He’s the guy who takes business calls during his own surprise party and measures his worth by his billable hours. After accidentally kissing the wrong woman (who turns out to be the right one, Barbara Ronchi’s Alice) and jumping into a relationship, he hits his 40th birthday.

He goes to sleep and wakes up. It’s his 41st birthday. Alice is four months pregnant. He has no memory of the intervening year. Then he wakes up again. He’s 42. There’s a baby in the house. The film essentially becomes a stressful game of The Sims played on triple-speed while the player is in the bathroom.

Director Alessandro Aronadio handles these transitions with a seamless, almost cruel efficiency. There are no swirling portals or magical clocks; Dante simply walks through a door or wakes up from a nap, and the world has moved on without him. It’s a brilliant directorial choice that mirrors the way we actually experience life in the digital age—one minute you’re checking an email, the next it’s dark outside and you’ve forgotten to eat.

A Masterclass in Domestic Panic

The heavy lifting here is done by the two leads. Edoardo Leo is a staple of modern Italian cinema, often playing the everyman, but here he manages to make Dante’s confusion feel genuinely tragic rather than just a plot device. His performance is a frantic sprint; he’s constantly trying to catch up on conversations he supposedly had months ago.

However, the real soul of the movie is Barbara Ronchi. In most "husband learns a lesson" movies, the wife is a two-dimensional scold. But Ronchi plays Alice with a weary, evolving grace. Because we only see her once a year, her character arc is jarringly poignant. We see the light go out of her eyes as Dante’s absence (mental and physical) takes its toll. Watching her change from a vibrant artist to a woman who has learned to live around a hole in her life is the film’s most effective dramatic gut-punch.

The chemistry between them is what keeps the film from floating off into "high-concept" silliness. You care about their relationship because it feels lived-in, even if Dante can’t remember living it. It reminds me of how contemporary dramas are shifting—moving away from grand, cinematic gestures and focusing on the quiet, devastating erosion of intimacy in a world that demands our attention 24/7.

Why This Lost-In-The-Shuffle Gem Works

Despite being a remake, Still Time feels like it belongs to the current era of "algorithmic anxiety." In an age where streaming platforms dump hundreds of titles a month, a film about the fear of being forgotten or missing out feels incredibly pointed. It didn't get a massive theatrical push outside of Italy, finding its life instead through word-of-mouth on Netflix, which is fitting for a story about how quickly things move.

The script, co-written by Renato Sannio, manages to find humor in the horror. There’s a recurring bit involving Dante’s best friend, Valerio (Mario Sgueglia), whose own health struggles provide a sobering counterpoint to Dante’s "time travel." It’s a reminder that while Dante is skipping time metaphorically, everyone else is losing it literally.

If there’s a flaw, it’s that the film occasionally leans a bit too hard into its moral. We get it: stop and smell the roses. But Leo’s performance is so vibrantly panicked, like a man trying to put out a forest fire with a water pistol, that you forgive the occasional heavy-handedness. It’s a comedy that isn't afraid to let the silence sit, and a drama that isn't afraid to be absurd.

Still Time is the perfect "mid-week" movie—the kind of thoughtful, mid-budget adult drama that used to fill theaters but now thrives on our television screens. It’s funny, it’s frustrating, and it will almost certainly make you want to call your parents or put down your phone for ten minutes. Just be warned: if you watch it while you're feeling particularly overwhelmed by your to-do list, it might feel less like a movie and more like a documentary of your own soul. It’s a poignant, beautifully acted reminder that the "important stuff" isn't the promotion or the mortgage—it's the stuff we usually fast-forward through.