Centaur (2023)

Centaur turns a simple taxi ride into a pressure-cooker of atmosphere, using the nocturnal glow of Moscow to make every stoplight feel like a question and every silence feel like an answer you’re not ready to hear. Kirill Kemnits directs with a tight, street-level immediacy, and the film’s greatest trick is how it keeps shifting your footing—sometimes you’re soothed by the driver’s calm competence, and seconds later you’re scanning the backseat for what you missed. Yura Borisov brings a quietly magnetic unpredictability to Sasha, while Anastasia Talyzina gives Liza a fierce, human alertness that makes the danger feel personal rather than sensational. It’s a lean, nerve-jangling thriller with a dramatic core, though if you prefer your crime films breezy or your tension spaced out, this one’s relentless by design.

Centaur is aiming for a slick, nocturnal Moscow thriller where a single taxi ride becomes a pressure cooker of suspicion, power games, and shifting identities. It does a solid job of building unease with confined-space tension and strong, watchable performances, especially if you like stories that live on glances, pauses, and paranoia rather than big action beats. But it can feel more like a mood piece than a fully satisfying mystery, leaning hard on ambiguity and “who’s really in control?” teases that may frustrate viewers who want clearer answers or a faster, twistier plot. If you’re not into grim subject matter involving violence toward sex workers or you prefer thrillers that don’t keep you trapped in the same tense loop for long stretches, this one may test your patience.