Sam Raimi‘s Send Help opens as a slow-burning Tour de Doom, immersing us in the quiet desperation of Rachel McAdams Linda—a woman whose entire existence feels like a prolonged, polite sigh. For its first act, the film is an emotional Flavortown of musical chairs, set against the backdrop of a corporate jungle that makes Lost look like a children’s game. where makeup artists have made a respectful, if futile, attempt to convince us Rachel McAdams isn’t fundamentally radiant.
Linda is a workhorse. She gives 200% only to be shut down 100% of the time. Is it her fault? Well, no, but in some cases yes—kind of. She doesn’t quite grasp social cues or the unspoken rules of a “normal” interaction, but what society now pathologizes, we used to call a free spirit. Let’s just chalk that up to the haters. Where her colleagues move on a soul-crushing conveyor belt that loops endlessly into itself, Linda struggles to see the light—or at least, she tries to. She views herself as a “woman who can,” while the world persistently labels her a “woman who shouldn’t.” Clinging to a promised promotion from the former CEO, Linda operates on the hopeful delusion that hard work guarantees reward. As you might guess, things do not pan out for the office’s designated pin-the-tail donkey.
Enter Bradley Preston (Dylan O’Brien), our classic jerk-off corporate archetype. If you can picture it, you’re probably right. The character isn’t poorly played—O’Brien commits—but he is painfully cliché. He’s also a necessary foil. As the new CEO of a Fortune 500 “whackoff” company, he inherits his father’s throne and immediately despises Linda for the crime of not “looking inviting.” The verbal abuse she absorbs is so viscerally uncomfortable that you’ll find yourself clenching your fists as she implodes internally—tears balled up, humiliation hidden behind a mask of forced composure in front of the entire office after being publicly denied her promised promotion.
This is where Linda’s profound loneliness truly settles in. She isn’t just overlooked; she is emotionally sidelined. Gaslit into believing her dedication is worthless, talked over, met with placating smiles instead of genuine listening—hers is a quiet, chronic form of emotional abuse that leaves no bruises but erodes a person from the inside out.
But the indignities don’t stop there.
Bradley, oozing the smug entitlement of a man whose greatest talent is “smacking a small ball with a large rod,” offers her a deal: accompany him on a plane to oversee a merger and “prove me wrong.” Aboard the flight, as Linda diligently prepares a detailed merger plan, Bradley and his cronies pull up a self-tape of her auditioning for Survivor—just to laugh at her dreams.
And then, the film truly begins.
A plane crash. Two survivors. A hellscape of decisions that spiral into an extraordinary tale of preservation and psychological decay.
Sam Raimi visual direction shines here with palpable passion. Strands of horror are woven into intense drama, leaving you shifting in your seat, unsure if what you’re feeling is excitement, rage, confusion, or pure bewilderment. (The answer is: all of them.)
Almost immediately Linda seems natural in the wild—almost blossoming. A brief glimpse into her past reveals a core of sadness, grief, and misplaced hope, hinting at a flaw that some might see as a form of quiet retribution. It’s a small, human crack. But slowly, subtly, something begins to change.
Bradley, in a rare moment of vulnerability, opens up. He reveals his own demons: an absent father and a mother who was both emotionally and physically abusive. It doesn’t excuse his cruelty, but it reframes it. His monstrosity feels learned, passed down—he’s a damaged kid wearing power as armor.
Let’s talk about that boar. In a scene that is nothing short of a primal unveiling, Linda stalks her prey with terrifying calculation. “Strategy and Planning” is her game. When she has her target trapped, she drives a spear into it, again and again, before beheading it. It isn’t triumphant. It’s raw, brutal, and necessary. The camera doesn’t flinch, and neither does her resolve. This is the first true glimpse of who Linda has always been beneath the office politics and forced smiles.
And that’s when the slow reveal completes itself.
Linda isn’t just resilient. She’s dangerous.
What was once social awkwardness becomes chilling calculation. What felt like emotional fragility transforms into cold, unwavering resolve. The wilderness doesn’t create her darkness—it exposes it. This is a woman who has been suppressed, belittled, and emotionally abused for a lifetime. Here, there are no HR departments, no office walls, no polite rules.
Just instinct.
Through twists that feel both shocking and grimly inevitable, Send Help wraps itself in a blanket of Cast Away gone feral, sprinkled with dark comedy, karmic justice, and visceral combat served on a bamboo leaf. The violence is intimate and exhausting; bodies colliding in mud and blood. You feel every breath, every scream, every desperate grab for control. Linda fights like someone who has been quietly breaking for years and has finally found permission to unleash.
In its final moments, the film redeems truly no one—but we finally understand who these characters are and what they represent.
With all the trauma dumped and toxic traits laid bare, the film’s thesis becomes painfully clear:
In the end, no one was really saved.
Send Help is an intensely enjoyable experience—a cocktail of fun, unsettling terror, and psychological excavation that lingers long after the credits roll.
