Taurus (2022)

Taurus feels special because it doesn’t romanticize the tortured-artist myth so much as crawl inside it, turning a familiar premise into something uncomfortably intimate. Colson Baker gives a raw, magnetic performance that makes the film’s late-night haze of fame, craving, and self-sabotage feel lived-in rather than performed, and the music-world backdrop hums with nervous energy. The movie plays like an emotional fever dream—sometimes abrasive, often haunting—where the search for one last spark becomes a reckoning with the void itself. It’s not for viewers looking for a tidy redemption arc, but if you want an authentic, hard-hitting drama that lingers in your chest, Taurus is worth the plunge.

Taurus is aiming for a raw, hazy portrait of a musician in freefall, more vibe and emotional drift than traditional story, and you can see the intent to capture that lonely, self-destructive headspace. The problem is it often mistakes numbness for depth: the narrative feels thin, the character can be hard to spend time with, and the film leans so heavily into moody wandering that it can come off plotless and self-indulgent. If you need a clear arc, meaningful insight into addiction/mental health, or a protagonist you can root for, this may feel like an exercise in staring into the void without much payoff. If you’re patient with slow, impressionistic dramas and you’re mainly here for the atmosphere, music-world texture, and a committed lead performance, you might still find something to latch onto.