It kicks off as a bit of a daydream: awkward superfan gets waved past the velvet rope, suddenly hanging out with a rising pop star. For a little while, that access feels giddy and fun. Then Lurker starts asking the awkward question: are you a mate, a fan, or just unpaid staff with a laminate?
There’s a definite Patricia Highsmith hum in the background – not knock-off Ripley, but that chilly slide where affection turns into imitation, and “I admire you” drifts towards “I’ll manage you.” The film keeps everything low-key and recognisable, which makes it sting more. No big thriller theatrics, just brittle social tension and boundaries being nudged, nudged, then shoved while everyone insists it’s fine.
When it finally blows up, it really does. The charm evaporates, the room goes cold, and the inner circle suddenly rediscovers the word “no”. It’s tight, queasy, and sharply attuned to how fandom and free labour blur in the age of access.