I’m filing a formal complaint. Exit 8 is not, as the marketing would have you believe, adapted from a video game. It’s adapted from my anxiety dreams, and I’d like some credit.
One man, trapped in an endlessly looping underground corridor — the rules deceptively simple, the atmosphere anything but. If you’ve ever got lost trying to find the right exit at Old Street tube station and emerged into the roundabout genuinely unsure which direction leads to daylight, civilisation, or hope, you’ll find something uncomfortably familiar here. That low-grade urban dread — the creeping suspicion that the architecture itself is actively hostile — is where the film earns its keep. It doesn’t feel borrowed from a game at all. It feels borrowed from your subconscious.
It’s not reinventing the survival thriller, and there’s only so much mileage in watching a man repeatedly fail at corridor admin. But as a paranoia delivery mechanism, it earns its runtime — claustrophobic, committed, and nasty in all the right ways.
My therapist remains unavailable for comment.