Ash

Stepping into a Flying Lotus film is a bit like sticking your head into a particle accelerator filled with neon paint and industrial bass. If you survived his 2017 debut, Kuso—a movie so relentlessly "extra" it made most body horror look like a Sunday morning cartoon—you know the man doesn't do "subtle." But with Ash, the artist also known as Steven Ellison has traded in the literal buckets of slime for a sleek, suffocating brand of sci-fi paranoia that feels remarkably grown-up without losing his signature hallucinatory edge.

I watched this while trying to assemble a piece of IKEA furniture that was missing three crucial screws, and honestly, the mounting frustration of things not fitting together was the perfect emotional appetizer for this story.

Neon Nightmares and Silent Screams

The setup is classic "cold open" terror: Riya, played with a serrated edge by Eiza González (who we loved in Baby Driver), wakes up on the remote planet of Ash to find her entire crew has been turned into a very messy art installation. She’s alone, she’s traumatized, and the atmosphere is thick enough to choke a horse. Then enters Aaron Paul, playing a guy named Brion who claims he’s there to help.

Now, we’ve all seen Aaron Paul do "distressed" before—it’s his bread and butter—but here he brings a weary, blue-collar grit that clashes beautifully with the high-concept surroundings. The central hook isn't just "will they survive the planet?" but "will they survive each other?" It’s a two-hander that leans heavily on the chemistry between the leads, and for the most part, it holds. They spend a good chunk of the 95-minute runtime circling one another like stray cats in a thunderstorm, and the tension is genuinely earned.

The Sound of Impending Doom

If you’re hiring Flying Lotus to direct, you’re doing it for the sensory experience. The man literally scored the film himself, and the music doesn't just sit in the background; it’s a character that threatens to vibrate the fillings right out of your teeth. The sound design is a masterclass in how to use silence as a weapon. One minute you’re listening to the low hum of a life-support system, and the next, a jagged synth line cuts through the scene like a serrated knife.

Visually, the film is a triumph of "contained" sci-fi. Cinematographer Richard Bluck, who cut his teeth on the massive sets of Avatar and the second unit of The Lord of the Rings, manages to make the claustrophobic interiors of the station feel both vast and crushing. The lighting is moody, relying on deep shadows and harsh, artificial flares that suggest the set design was inspired by a high-end gaming PC having a nervous breakdown in a morgue. It’s gorgeous, but it’s the kind of beauty that makes you want to check the locks on your front door.

A Different Kind of Fight

The real wild card here is Iko Uwais. If you’ve seen The Raid, you know he’s a human whirlwind. Seeing him in a psychological sci-fi thriller feels like a bit of a flex—it’s like hiring a master chef to make a grilled cheese sandwich. He’s great, but you’re constantly waiting for him to explode into the kind of kinetic violence he’s known for. When the action does hit, it’s fast and mean, favoring the "thriller" side of the genre over the "action" side.

The screenplay by Jonni Remmler keeps the "mindbender" promise of the tagline. There are moments where the narrative logic starts to fray, but in a way that feels intentional, mirroring Riya’s crumbling sanity. It’s a contemporary piece of genre filmmaking that understands we’ve all seen Alien and The Thing a thousand times; it doesn't try to out-monster them, but rather out-think them. My only real gripe? Some of the mid-film pacing feels like a DJ set that forgets to let the beat drop, hovering in a state of atmospheric build-up for just a hair too long.

Behind the Scenes of the Void

Interestingly, Ash was filmed in New Zealand, taking advantage of those otherworldly landscapes that have become a staple for big-budget fantasy, yet it manages to make them feel entirely alien and hostile. The production itself was a lean, mean operation compared to the sprawling franchises that usually dominate the January-to-March release window. In an era where every sci-fi movie feels like it’s auditioning for a ten-part cinematic universe, there’s something incredibly refreshing about a 95-minute nightmare that knows exactly what it wants to be and then gets out of the way.

The film also reflects our current obsession with objective truth—or the lack thereof. In the age of deepfakes and social media echo chambers, a story about two people who literally cannot verify if the person standing in front of them is a savior or a butcher feels uncomfortably relevant. It’s "post-truth" horror at its finest.

Flying Lotus has successfully transitioned from the "look at this weird thing I can do" energy of his early work to becoming a filmmaker with a distinct, authoritative voice. Ash might not reinvent the wheel of the "trapped in space" subgenre, but it chromes that wheel out and drives it off a cliff in the most stylish way possible. It’s a tense, gorgeous, and sonic assault that proves Aaron Paul’s permanent state of existential crisis is still one of cinema’s most reliable special effects. If you want a movie that sticks in your brain like a splinter, this is your weekend watch.