“Stuck” — A Quiet Allegory of Resolve and Moral Conviction
The short fourteen-minute movie Stuck (2020), the latest work by writer-director David Mikalson, unfolds as a contemplative space brimming with tension and moral pain. Set almost entirely in a single location, the film exposes the dark undercurrents of a world that feels disturbingly familiar yet often ignored: that of sexual predators operating in spaces meant to be safe for children.
Rather than placing the victim at the narrative center, Mikalson opts for a quieter, more piercing approach—viewing the story through the eyes of a wounded gymnastics coach, both physically and emotionally, who stands as the sole line of defense for her students. The film Stuck received a rating of 6.6/10 from 295 viewers on the IMDb platform. Here are some interesting points:
A Wounded Body, an Unyielding Spirit
The film opens on a quiet morning, as the coach—limping from an old injury—enters the still-empty gym. Her steps are heavy but determined, mirroring her long history as both an athlete and a protector. Outside the building, a suspicious middle-aged man sits in a car, feigning illness over the phone. When approached by the coach, he claims to be a parent. But his repeated presence in two separate classes quickly exposes a sinister intent.
Violence doesn’t arrive immediately, but the atmosphere thickens. After forcing the man to leave, the coach returns to the gym to prepare for the day’s session—arranging equipment, ensuring everything is in place. As students begin to arrive, the air shifts from tense to lively, filled with the innocent energy of teenagers. Yet beneath the joy, the threat still lingers.
Tension Woven with Precision
Scenes unfold at a deliberate pace. The camera tracks the coach’s every move with near-meditative focus—checking equipment, giving instructions, training her students with the firm guidance of someone who truly cares for them. Then comes a nearly imperceptible moment: a mat, slightly unzipped, reveals a pair of eyes burning with repulsive desire.
There are no shouts. No dramatic outbursts. What follows is a quiet, brutal act—the coach zips the mat shut from the outside, then instructs her students to begin their jumps. One after another, bodies slam down onto the mat. The coach plays music from her phone—not to energize the students, but to mask the muffled groans of pain from beneath.
The scene reaches its peak when the coach herself leaps, landing squarely on the predator’s head. Blood begins to seep through. His body is crushed under the weight of children oblivious to his presence.
Once practice ends, the coach calmly cleans the bloodstains, rolls up the mat, and disposes of it—body and all—in the trash.
An Ethical Dilemma in a Tightly Composed Frame
In a cinematic era that often glorifies the anti-hero, Stuck offers something else—a character who seeks no validation for her violence, but acts because silence would mean surrender. This isn’t a revenge tale; it’s a story of protection born from quiet rage and deep care.
Technically modest, the film’s power lies in its restraint. A minimalist set, precise camera movements, and practical effects used on the predator’s body lend an unsettling realism. The “see-through” mat becomes a symbol of the betrayal of safe spaces, and Mikalson knows exactly how to wield it as a tool of psychological horror.
A Short Film with Long-Lasting Impact
Stuck transcends the limits of its runtime. It doesn’t just raise an urgent issue—it delivers it through cinema that is sharp and deeply empathetic. A film that knows exactly what it wants to say, and says it with a whisper far more piercing than a scream. This is the kind of work that deserves a wider audience—not just as a warning, but as a defiant stance against the silence that destroys. If you’ve already watched it, please leave your review in the comments section!
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