Drop (2025)
Tense from its first moment and unrelenting until the end, Drop is one of those films that grabs you by the nerves and doesn’t let go. Directed by Christopher Landon (Happy Death Day), it takes a very simple night out—a first date in a stylish Chicago restaurant—and spins it into a claustrophobic thriller that feels both sleek and unsettlingly close to real life.
The story centres on Violet (Meghann Fahy), a widowed mother giving dating another shot. Her evening with Henry (Brandon Sklenar) seems promising at first—charming banter, candlelight, the kind of restaurant where every dish is arranged like a tiny sculpture. But then Violet’s phone pings. A message from someone she doesn’t know. And another. And another. Someone nearby is watching her. And they know things. Intimate things.
The messages come through a fictional app called DigiDrop, which lets people within range send anonymous notes to anyone around them. It’s a smart and genuinely creepy device—like the text equivalent of someone breathing down your neck. The film cleverly plays on our dependence on technology, our willingness to share, and how quickly our private lives can become vulnerable, especially in public spaces. If Phone Booth and The Gift had a baby with a smartphone addiction, you’d get something like this.
Fahy is terrific. She carries the film with quiet strength, letting panic slowly build behind her eyes. There’s a real humanity to her performance—you believe her fear, but also her instincts and quick thinking. Sklenar, as her date, walks the line between charming and ambiguous so well that you’re never quite sure whether you should root for him or run from him. And then there’s Jeffery Self, playing the waiter with just enough camp and sharp wit to offer comic relief without ever breaking the tension.
Landon keeps the story tightly wound. Most of the action takes place inside the restaurant, which turns out to be a masterstroke. The space starts off feeling open and romantic, but as the story tightens, it begins to feel like a trap. Marc Spicer’s cinematography is elegant but just shadowy enough to keep you on edge. The camera lingers in corners, catches reflections, and knows just when to move in close. And Bear McCreary’s score hums with low unease, peppered with soft jazz and a haunting version of Moon River that somehow makes everything worse—in the best way.
Visually, the film is a feast. Warm lighting contrasts with the cold, clinical feel of the messages Violet keeps receiving. The editing leans into that contrast too—pacing is brisk, and the on-screen messages feel like digital whispers, always interrupting, always intruding. It’s a clever way to pull the viewer inside Violet’s head without needing clunky exposition.
There are moments where the plot asks you to go along with some far-fetched twists. The extent of the stalker’s knowledge and the complexity of their plan push credibility, especially towards the end. But Drop isn’t aiming for realism—it’s going for emotional impact, for the gnawing dread of being watched and cornered with nowhere to go. In that, it succeeds spectacularly.
There are also subtle layers here for viewers paying close attention. The inclusion of queer-coded characters and musical choices give the film a distinct voice. It’s not just representation for representation’s sake—it’s part of the world, part of what makes the restaurant feel real and lived in.
Drop is a stylish, nerve-wracking thriller that speaks to our digital age while keeping one foot firmly in old-school suspense. It doesn’t reinvent the genre, but it knows exactly what it’s doing and does it with confidence, flair, and just enough heart to make you care. You might want to turn your phone off for this one—but good luck resisting the urge to check who’s messaging you when the credits roll.