FOREVER

There is a deeply existential ache at the core of "Forever," a film that meditates on time, grief, and the unrelenting consequences of trauma. It tells the story of Phil, a World War II soldier who should have died on the battlefield but instead discovers he cannot. Inexplicably immortal, he dedicates himself to raising the son of his fallen comrade—a noble act that gradually collapses under the weight of his own inner demons.

At only 13 minutes long, "Forever" attempts to distill a sweeping, almost cosmic idea into an intimate, human story. It is ambitious, compelling, and—at times—frustratingly unrefined. But if cinema is, at its best, a director’s personal wrestling match with the universe, then George Pavlidis has stepped into the ring with admirable conviction.

The film’s Nolan-esque inspirations are immediately clear, both structurally and thematically. There is a certain ethereal quality to its storytelling, one that plays with time in a way that mirrors the main character’s psychological state. The dream sequences, particularly the stark white room, feel like a purgatorial space—neither here nor there, life nor death. These moments capture the lingering presence of war, the way it imprints itself onto the mind long after the battlefield has disappeared.

However, "Forever" does not merely concern itself with trauma—it explores the isolation that comes with living beyond consequence. Phil’s immortality is not a gift, but a curse that severs his ability to truly connect with those around him. When his nightmares begin to affect his relationship with Scott, the very boy he swore to protect, his immortality is revealed not as an extension of life, but an endless loop of loss.

Pavlidis, drawing from personal experience in the father-son dynamics, crafts a film with real emotional ambition. However, ambition does not always translate seamlessly to execution. There is an abruptness to some of the film’s most pivotal moments that undercuts their intended weight. The logic of the one scene in particular does not hold. It is a choice that reads more as a filmmaker's eagerness to show rather than tell, rather than one rooted in character psychology. Given more time and experience, one imagines Pavlidis would approach this moment with greater restraint and emotion, finding a way to communicate Phil’s anguish without resorting to an act that derails the emotional authenticity of the story.

Similarly, the dialogue at times struggles to carry the depth of the film’s themes. Conversations between Phil and Scott, particularly in their moments of conflict, feel like they are searching for emotional resonance rather than fully embodying it. With only 13 minutes to tell such a layered story, every word must be weighted, every silence charged. There are glimpses of this, particularly in Phil’s final moment at Scott’s bedside, but the journey to that point feels slightly underdeveloped.

The film’s structure, while engaging, could benefit from a greater focus on the emotional throughline rather than its high-concept elements. The most affecting part of the story is not Phil’s immortality, but the consequences of his choices, his failure to stay, and the decades of regret that lead him back to Scott’s deathbed. If "Forever" lingers in the mind, it is because of this—because it dares to ask whether unlimited time truly allows for redemption, or simply prolongs the pain of missed opportunities.

Despite its flaws, "Forever" is a striking effort from a young filmmaker whose reach exceeds his grasp in the best possible way. It is raw, imperfect, and occasionally heavy-handed, but it is also thoughtful, deeply personal, and full of promise. Pavlidis may still be refining his craft, but the ambition on display here suggests that, given time, he will find a way to balance the weight of his ideas with the subtlety of human emotion.