Synnoia is basically what happens when Black Mirror, Her, and a midlife existential crisis all show up to the same party and trauma-bond. The script kicks off with a quiet, moody energy — soft photos, gentle memories, and this painfully empty apartment that already screams, “Yeah, my friend, something tragic went down.” Marcos staring at his phone like it holds his entire personality is a solid opening image. It instantly sets the emotional tone: grief, longing, and the kind of heartbreak that makes you forget what day it is.

The transition from nostalgia to trauma is smooth and cinematic. The intrusive flashes of the accident feel brutal in the best way — they interrupt the calm just like grief interrupts life. That’s dope visual storytelling.

Then we cut to the hospital scene, and this is where the script starts throwing punches with both hands. The doctor is doing that classic “I don’t wanna tell you this, but I literally have to” energy, and Marcos’ breakdown feels honest. But the real scene-stealer? Leonardo Strauss. My guy walks in like an iPhone update with legs — clean, sleek, unsettling, and you know something’s wrong, but you can’t tap “Remind me later.” His dialogue is cold, precise, and almost inhuman, which fits perfectly because the whole Synnoia concept is meant to feel like tech plus cult plus emotional manipulation.

And — the future simulation scene? Wild. Disturbing. Effective. The script makes it feel like Marcos is being forced to watch his own tragedy on fast-forward, which raises the stakes hard. The predictive-technology explanation is minimal but creepy enough to pass; you’re not over-explaining the sci-fi, which keeps the mystery alive. Also, major points for the near-perfect psychological manipulation: show the guy his own future suicide, then offer him an escape button disguised as salvation. Classic cult-tech move. Love that.

The introduction of the capsule — and the whole “consciousness extraction” pitch — immediately puts the audience on edge. The script nails the vibe of, “This sounds loving, but also, my dude, this is a horrible idea.” The best part is how Marcos’ desperation makes him vulnerable enough to accept it. It’s believable. Painfully believable.

Once he swallows the capsule, the horror shifts from external to internal. Eva’s voice entering his mind is equal parts heartbreaking and terrifying — like you’re stuck inside someone’s WhatsApp voice note forever. You feel the panic, the grief, the confusion. The moment she asks, “Why am I inside your body?” hits like a truck.

Then comes the twist with Luis. The pendant reveal? Chef’s kiss. The script plants the visual earlier, so when Marcos notices it, it clicks instantly. The flashbacks are well-edited, emotionally charged, and paced like memories flooding a cracked mind. The affair isn’t just a plot twist — it becomes the emotional centre point of Marcos’ unravelling. Suddenly, the grief isn’t pure anymore. Now it’s grief plus betrayal plus possession. That’s a deadly combo.

Where the script shines is in its commitment to tragedy. Marcos confronting Eva’s consciousness feels raw; he sounds like someone who’s been holding a wound inside his chest for too long. And Eva’s response — not defensive, not cruel, but deeply human — adds complexity. You don’t reduce her to “the cheating wife.” You let her be a layered person who loved imperfectly.

The gun scene is intense, and Marcos’ final line — “There are things that can’t stay inside” — hits way harder once you realise the metaphor is literal and emotional. His death is inevitable, not because he’s weak, but because he’s been emotionally cornered by grief, betrayal, and unnatural tech. It lands.

And then the Luis ending. Here, the writer flipped the whole story. Instead of ending with Marcos’ tragedy, you shift to Luis — the “other man” — but instead of villainising him, you let the audience breathe with him. His moment on the beach, hearing Eva’s voice, feels like the closure the story desperately needed. It reframes love as freedom, not possession, which is the exact opposite of Marcos’ final descent. That contrast is beautiful and haunting.

Visually, the final image — Luis and spiritual-Eva sitting together as the camera slowly pulls away — is honestly cinema. Thematically, it lands harder than expected: love isn’t about holding on at any cost; it’s about letting someone exist freely.

Synnoia is stylish, tragic, emotionally dense, and psychologically sharp. The writer has a killer grasp of pacing, visual storytelling, and moral tension. The ending leaves the audience both wrecked and somehow peaceful — which is honestly a flex. I like to give it 4.5 stars out of 5 stars.