I’m Not a Robot

In the humming confines of a modern Dutch recording studio, Lara moves through waves of sound, her headphones pulsing to a haunting cover of Radiohead’s “Creep.” As a music producer, she thrives on the subtle chemistry between rhythm and emotion, letting the steady beat of the office—keyboards clacking, coffee machines sighing—be the backdrop to her creative world. The setting feels both sleek and intimate, a place where technology serves as a conduit for art, yet quietly reminds her of the invisible systems that shape everyday life.

A routine software update shatters that rhythm, forcing a reboot that floods her screen with an endless series of CAPTCHA challenges. Despite entering the correct answers, each test rejects her, and a terse voice on the line suggests an unsettling possibility: perhaps she isn’t human at all. The system eventually delivers a cold statistic—an 87 % likelihood that she is a robot—followed by a strangely welcoming invitation to a “bot community.” The absurdity of the moment sits uneasily beside the genuine panic it provokes, turning a simple tech glitch into a profound existential puzzle.

The experience ripples through Lara’s personal life, especially her relationship with her boyfriend Daniël. Their connection, once anchored in shared moments and music, now feels filtered through a lens of doubt and digital uncertainty. As she navigates office meetings and whispered conversations, a subtle tension builds between her longing for genuine emotion and the cold, algorithmic verdict that haunts her thoughts. The film’s tone blends muted melancholy with a sleek, almost clinical aesthetic, inviting viewers to linger on the uneasy space where human feeling meets the ever‑advancing logic of machines.

Last Updated: October 05, 2025 at 16:50