🧗 FALL (2022): It’s not the height that kills you — it’s what’s dragging you down.

“It wasn’t the height that broke them — it was everything they never said.”

Would you climb 2,000 feet with no safety, no ropes, and no way back — just to forget? To feel alive again? Or to face the truth that what’s killing you isn’t the fall… but what’s buried inside?

“Fall (2022)” is one of the year’s most unexpectedly gripping survival thrillers — simple in premise, relentless in execution, and unforgettable in the emotional storm hidden beneath its sunlit, sky-high frames.

Not everyone falls from a great height. Some break apart slowly — from the inside.
After a tragic climbing accident takes her husband’s life, Becky is paralyzed by grief, guilt, and numbness. With no will to live, she drifts — until her thrill-seeking friend Hunter, a daredevil vlogger, shows up with a reckless offer: climb a 2,000-foot abandoned TV tower in the middle of the desert.

At first, Becky says no. But then… she climbs.

Climbing to conquer fear. But the higher you go, the tighter the past holds on.
The ascent is grueling — a test of muscle, nerve, and breath. But once the girls are stranded at the top with no signal, no rescue, and no clear way down, the real trial begins.

Each hour becomes a battle between logic and panic, survival and surrender. As dehydration sets in, the sun burns, and strength fades — a secret between them begins to unravel.

Not everyone climbs to survive. Some climb to finally let go — where no one can reach them.

A survival film with no monsters — because the real terror is inside.
Director Scott Mann crafts an aerial nightmare with patient, sweeping camerawork and haunting stillness. The vast skies, the creaking steel, the endless wind — everything works to pull the viewer into vertigo. And beneath it all lies a human core: grief, regret, and the kind of silence that screams the loudest.

Fall is not about height. It’s about weight — of secrets, of loss, of forgiveness.

It’s not the height that kills you. But silence, regret — and the truth you never dared to say — just might.