A.R.

I’ll admit, I went into *A.R.* expecting another by-the-numbers Scandinavian thriller—moody landscapes, brooding detectives, the usual. What I got instead was something far more unsettling: a story that feels like it’s happening in real time, where every decision the protagonist makes drags him deeper into a moral quagmire. The premise is deceptively simple: a man hits something (or someone?) on a deserted road late at night, and his attempts to cover it up snowball into something far worse. But Harvig’s real talent lies in how he stretches that tension over six hours without ever letting it sag. There’s no filler here—just a relentless, almost claustrophobic focus on one man’s unraveling. David Garmark’s performance is pitch-perfect for this material. He doesn’t do voices or dramatic flourishes; instead, he leans into a flat, exhausted delivery that makes the protagonist’s panic feel eerily authentic. The production is clean, with no distracting background noise, but I’ll knock it a point for the occasional awkward pause between scenes—just long enough to pull you out of the moment. My bigger critique, though, is the ending. Without spoiling anything, it lands with more of a whimper than a bang, trading the story’s simmering tension for a resolution that feels a touch too neat. Still, the journey there is so gripping, so *visceral*, that it’s hard to hold that against it. If you like your crime fiction with a side of existential dread—and a narrator who sounds like he’s one wrong turn away from a breakdown—this is your next late-night listen.