GAS STATION SUSHI

There are bad weekends, and then there are biblically cursed weekends — the kind where time fractures, trust collapses, and you end up wondering if the universe has it out for you specifically. "Gas Station Sushi" is a 16-minute panic spiral in cinematic form, and I mean that in the most complimentary, deeply concerned way possible.

We follow Hannah — though “follow” is generous. We cling to her like a lifeline as she’s dragged into a spiralling vortex of drug-fueled egomania, emotional sinkholes, and bathroom sink epiphanies, all sparked by the kind of personal scare that turns every conversation into a trapdoor and every surface into a funhouse mirror. She’s the lone sane molecule in a compound of absurdity, and her silence speaks volumes — judgment, dread, disbelief, and the growing urge to simply dissolve into the wallpaper.

What’s remarkable here is the film’s commitment to tonal whiplash as a narrative device. Every beat is a contradiction: beautifully composed 35mm cinematography capturing a descent into pure, unhinged chaos. It’s like Terrence Malick threw a house party with TikTok influencers and forgot to lock the medicine cabinet. You’ll laugh — you have to, or you’ll implode.

Hannah's experience is rendered with such deadpan precision that it feels almost intrusive to watch. Her wide-eyed reactions become the emotional barometer of the film, grounding us as the madness ratchets up around her. If you’ve ever felt trapped in a room full of extroverts doing mushrooms and monologuing about late capitalism, this is your Dunkirk.

The title, "Gas Station Sushi," is the perfect metaphor: a decision you make out of hunger, regret almost instantly, and spend hours contemplating as your body betrays you. It’s gross. It’s funny. It’s deeply human. Much like the film, it doesn’t so much unfold as it spills — leaking tension, dread, and humour from every scene.

Corhan directs with a kind of calculated chaos, pushing discomfort to its comedic edge without ever losing the core of emotional truth. It's a tightrope walk above a pit of secondhand embarrassment, and he dances across it gleefully. Practical effects pop up like surreal punchlines, characters speak with the sincerity of cult leaders on their third microdose, and the pacing is relentless — it’s as if the film itself is trying to escape the scenario along with Hannah.

Yet, beneath all the chaos, there's something oddly poignant. This isn’t just a nightmare weekend. It’s a portrait of the quietly harrowing emotional load women are expected to carry while smiling politely through other people's nonsense. The film's brilliance lies in its refusal to spell that out — it just shows it, uncomfortably, hilariously, and with an eye for the absurd.

In short, "Gas Station Sushi" is not a film that asks, “Are you okay?” It’s a film that laughs as it throws you into the deep end and lets you figure it out — and somehow, you come out the other side grateful for the experience, nauseated but enlightened.

Watch it. Then maybe cancel your plans this weekend. Just in case.