Lurker (2025)
Alex Russell’s first film as director asks a straightforward question: what happens when proximity becomes the only thing that matters? Lurker tracks Matthew (Théodore Pellerin), a Los Angeles shop clerk who befriends Oliver (Archie Madekwe), a musician on the precipice of proper fame. Their friendship begins with the kind of earnest enthusiasm reserved for people who bond over obscure bands nobody else cares about. Matthew starts filming Oliver’s rise, documenting studio sessions and backstage moments, gradually becoming part of the entourage. But the film understands something crucial about these ecosystems: every inner circle has invisible borders, and crossing them uninvited is how you get ejected.
The real achievement here is Pellerin’s performance. Matthew could easily collapse into a recognisable archetype, the creepy fan who takes things too far, but Pellerin refuses that simplicity. He plays Matthew as someone genuinely excited about Oliver’s music, someone who might actually be a decent friend under different circumstances. The unease comes from never quite knowing which version you’re watching. Is this admiration or calculation? The answer shifts scene by scene, sometimes within a single conversation. Madekwe matches him effectively, capturing the particular exhaustion of someone who’s always performing, even when he thinks he isn’t.
Russell previously produced The Bear and Beef, and he’s brought that same attention to suffocating atmospheres and professional anxieties. Pat Scola’s cinematography gives the LA music scene a kinetic, oversaturated energy, mixing in video diary footage that mirrors Matthew’s increasing obsession. Kenny Beats’ synth score does heavy lifting during the tension-building sequences, perhaps slightly too much lifting at times. Some moments might have benefited from trusting the silence.
What makes Lurker more than just a cautionary tale about fandom is how it maps the economic realities underneath the social dynamics. Matthew’s desperation isn’t just loneliness; it’s the terror of remaining peripheral in a city that treats invisibility as personal failure. Everyone around Oliver is performing labour they call friendship, hoping their investment pays off when he properly breaks through. The film never lectures about class or access or the machinery of cultural capital, but these tensions saturate every interaction.
The problems emerge in the final act. Russell opts for an ending that prioritises being clever over being satisfying, which is a choice one can make, though not necessarily one that serves this particular story. The carefully modulated control that defines the first hour starts slipping. Certain escalations feel imported from a different genre, as though Russell couldn’t quite decide whether he was making a character study or a thriller. The result lands awkwardly between both.
Still, Lurker captures something essential about how we relate to creativity and fame now. The infrastructure that once kept fans at a respectful distance has been systematically dismantled, replaced by platforms that promise access as a default setting. But actual proximity, the kind that matters, remains jealously guarded. Matthew represents what happens when someone takes the promises seriously, when they believe the gap between audience and artist has truly closed. The film is smart enough to recognise that this isn’t just a personal failing; it’s a structural condition.
At 100 minutes, it makes its point without overstaying. I do wish Russell had committed more fully to his premise rather than hedging toward conventional thriller beats, but there’s enough sharp observation here to recommend the film. It understands that admiration and obsession aren’t opposites but neighbours, separated by boundaries that dissolve more easily than we’d like to admit.