There is something abjectly masochistic in watching and pulling for someone who is confronting their doom for an hour and a half. In an era when so many have been taken before their time by violence or by a virus, to gaze upon a microcosm of collective global isolation and cosmic uncertainty is an exercise in self-flagellation. It's fitting, then, that the heroine of Alexandre Aja’s Oxygen depends on her own suffering for survival. What comes of that festival of misery is precarious and by the skin of the teeth, the very prognosis that the dawn of the 2020s brings.
Some of Oxygen's relevance, to be sure, is tragic coincidence; Christie LeBlanc’s screenplay, which features a global pandemic as a narrative jump-off (and possibly, b