The Most Polite Apocalypse in the Galaxy
Some films scream their terror. They Will All Die in Space whispers it through the hum of an oxygen recycler. Javier Chillon’s 14-minute cosmic nightmare takes the isolation and dread of Alien, runs it through a Moebius comic filter, and delivers something so bleakly beautiful that you’ll find yourself smiling at the void.
In a genre obsessed with jump scares and exploding heads, Chillon proves that horror doesn’t need to shout. It can quietly float in zero gravity, dripping menace like condensation on the inside of a coffin-shaped cryo-pod. The title alone doesn’t lie — everyone will, in fact, die in space — but the real revelation is how elegant, haunting, and weirdly funny that slow demise can be.
The Setup: Cold Awakenings and Colder Motives
The film begins with Alexander Talabot (Julio Perillán) waking up from cryo-sleep aboard the starship Tantalus. Two crew members, Phil (Ben Temple) and Dan (Francesc Garrido), inform him that the ship was hit by an asteroid storm, leaving them stranded and out of contact for months. The problem: they need his technical expertise to repair communications and call for help.
It’s a familiar setup — man wakes up, spaceship broken, ominous crewmates lurking — but Chillon’s direction turns it into a slow-burn detective story. The sterile corridors, flickering lights, and hushed voices feel like a séance for the living.
Alexander, still groggy from cryo-stasis, slowly begins to suspect that Phil and Dan are not telling him everything. Their polite conversation carries an undercurrent of something rotten — not just in the air supply, but in their souls. When he suggests waking his wife to help fix the systems, their refusal lands like a death sentence. You can practically hear the vacuum of space smirking.
Performances: Ice-Cold Perfection
Julio Perillán’s Alexander is the ideal mix of vulnerable and suspicious — a man who can’t decide if he’s trapped in a malfunctioning spacecraft or a cosmic joke. His wide-eyed confusion morphs beautifully into quiet dread as he realizes the nightmare he’s truly in.
Ben Temple’s Phil is all calm menace, like a bureaucrat from Hell. He delivers exposition with the measured tone of someone reading a eulogy for the living. Meanwhile, Francesc Garrido’s Dan hovers somewhere between accomplice and victim — the kind of man who’d apologize before murdering you with a wrench.
Together, the trio forms an unsettling triangle of mistrust, desperation, and moral decay. You don’t need aliens, ghosts, or monsters when you’ve got three humans slowly remembering what they’re capable of.
Direction: Moebius Meets Misanthropy
Chillon’s visual style is a love letter to the 1970s science fiction aesthetic — the grimy machinery, the analog blinking lights, the claustrophobic architecture that feels more like a mausoleum than a vessel. You can feel the influence of Alienand Outland, but filtered through the hallucinatory lines of Moebius and the existential melancholy of Solaris.
Every shot is painterly and oppressive, full of gorgeous decay. The metallic corridors of the Tantalus gleam with the false promise of technology — a reminder that in deep space, the future is as indifferent as the stars.
And while the film’s visual language screams “big budget,” the production is a masterclass in minimalism. Chillon makes a few rooms, a handful of actors, and some top-notch lighting feel like an epic descent into cosmic madness. Kubrick would’ve called it “efficient.” Lovecraft would’ve called it “home.”
Tone: The Dark Humor of Inevitability
For a film titled They Will All Die in Space, there’s a surprisingly dry sense of humor lurking beneath the vacuum-sealed despair. The title alone feels like a spoiler delivered with a smirk — as if Chillon is warning you upfront, “Don’t get attached.”
It’s that kind of gallows humor that makes the short so perversely enjoyable. There’s no melodrama, no screaming fits, no slow-motion sacrifices — just quiet resignation dressed up in silver jumpsuits. When the characters discuss their dwindling options, it feels less like a crisis briefing and more like coworkers deciding who gets to finish the last pot of coffee before the apocalypse.
The horror isn’t in what happens — it’s in how politely it happens. The crew exchanges looks that say, “Yes, this is horrifying, but let’s keep it professional.” It’s British restraint meets cosmic annihilation.
A Study in Trust, Technology, and Terrible Decisions
Beneath its sleek sci-fi exterior, They Will All Die in Space is a story about human failure — not the loud, heroic kind, but the quiet kind that happens when people convince themselves they’re doing the right thing.
The cryo-pods symbolize our faith in control — in technology, in procedures, in systems that promise survival. But once the machinery breaks and communication dies, we revert to something primal and cowardly. Chillon understands this better than most modern directors: the real monster in space isn’t an alien — it’s the human ego.
And the horror twist, when it comes, lands with surgical precision. It’s less of a shock and more of a revelation — the kind that makes you laugh nervously before realizing you’re complicit in the dread.
Visual and Audio Design: A Symphony of Dread
The sound design is exquisite — metallic creaks, distant hums, and the faint sound of air hissing like a dying breath. There’s music, but it’s more atmospheric pulse than melody — the kind of score that feels like your heartbeat trying to escape your chest.
Visually, the film is stunning. Every frame could double as a panel from a Métal Hurlant comic — glowing control panels, fogged glass, the cold gleam of chrome hiding something organic and wrong underneath. The film’s textures make you want to reach out and touch them — though you suspect they’d be sticky with regret.
Even the lighting deserves applause: it shifts from surgical white to deep shadow, mirroring the moral slide of its characters. It’s like watching the fluorescent bulbs of sanity flicker out one by one.
Chillon’s Craft: A Morbid Poet in Space
By the time Chillon made this, he had already earned a cult following for his earlier works (Die Schneider Krankheit, Decapoda Shock). But here, he dials back the absurdity to craft something more mature — and paradoxically, more disturbing.
He once said he wanted to make a film that was “straight up science fiction,” no supernatural gimmicks — and he succeeded. They Will All Die in Space is pure, distilled cosmic dread: humanity alone, adrift, trying to justify its existence to the cold machinery it built.
It’s the kind of short film that makes you want to call NASA and apologize.
Final Verdict: Die Beautifully, Die Quietly
They Will All Die in Space manages to be both timeless and cruelly relevant. In just 14 minutes, it captures the futility of human survival instincts — the urge to fix, to wake, to try — even when the universe has already decided otherwise.
It’s rare for a film this short to feel so expansive, but Chillon pulls it off with confidence and precision. He doesn’t need CGI monsters or tearful goodbyes; he just needs three people, a malfunctioning ship, and a camera that knows how to stare too long into the abyss.
By the end, you don’t mourn the characters — you envy them. At least they get closure. The rest of us are still drifting, staring into our screens, wondering when the air will finally run out.
Grade: A
Recommended for: People who think “doom” can be chic, fans of Moebius and Kubrick, and anyone who prefers their horror slow, beautiful, and terminal.
