Apartment Zero

In a crumbling Buenos Baires neighborhood at the dawn of the 1980s, the city breathes a thin veil of ordinary decay over a restless, post‑dictatorship undercurrent. The streets are lined with faded storefronts, and tucked behind a failing revival house lies an equally dilapidated apartment block where whispers of past atrocities linger in the air. The atmosphere is thick with the hum of old film reels and the barely contained tension of a society still learning how to speak its traumas.

Adrian LeDuc, a British expatriate who clings to classic American cinema as both refuge and identity, finds his world narrowing as the theater’s finances dwindle. To keep the lights on, he opens his modest dwelling to a boarder, hoping the extra rent will buy him a little stability. This decision introduces Jack Carney, a quiet yet confidently American stranger whose polished exterior masks an inscrutable purpose. Their initial encounter crackles with a blend of curiosity and unease, the sort of silent negotiation that suggests both companionship and competition.

The building’s other tenants—eccentric, quarrelsome, and unfailingly suspicious—populate the corridors with a chorus of fragmented lives. Their interactions hint at hidden agendas and a community still haunted by the specter of state violence. As Adrian and Jack navigate the thin line between neighborly camaraderie and guarded distance, the apartment itself becomes a character, its secret doors and shadowed hallways reflecting the concealed motives that swirl just beneath the surface.

The film unfolds as a slow‑burning psychological thriller, drenched in noir‑ish visual style and an ever‑present sense of dread. Its tone balances the intimate world of a struggling cinema owner with the broader, uneasy mood of a city where danger lingers behind ordinary façades, leaving the audience to wonder what truths lie hidden behind closed doors.

Last Updated: December 03, 2025 at 23:49