Samuel Gonzalez Jr. is no stranger to psychological horror, and with Plastic Man, he crafts a film that transcends the genre, bordering on existential drama. With a budget of just $250,000, the director tells the story of Jonathan Teller (James Preston), a Vietnam War veteran whose life is marked by the relentless progression of post-traumatic stress disorder. The film’s title is no coincidence: Plastic Man serves as a cruel yet fitting metaphor for those who have felt used like a toy—disposable, manipulated, and ultimately forgotten.

The film opens with Jonathan’s voiceover, drawing us into his tormented mind. Since childhood, he has been exposed to a romanticized vision of war—heroes in uniform, medals, and glory. But the reality he faced on the battlefield was something else entirely. The narrative unfolds through a series of dated sequences, each marking a slow descent into the abyss, as the trauma of war seeps into his everyday life. His symptoms emerge gradually—hallucinations, panic attacks, and a distorted perception of reality. For Jonathan, the war never truly ended, and the world around him is ill-equipped to address his suffering.

James Preston delivers a layered and gripping performance, portraying a man slowly unraveling before our eyes. In the first half of the film, his Jonathan clings to a semblance of normality, but in the latter half, the transformation is unstoppable—his breakdown is complete. Preston captures every nuance of Jonathan’s despair, the guilt and remorse consuming him.

Visually, Plastic Man employs horror elements with precision, without relying on excessive special effects. Gonzalez Jr. builds tension through deliberate stylistic choices: claustrophobic framing, blinding lights, and sharp cuts that mirror the protagonist’s fractured psyche. The result is disorienting, almost suffocating. The cinematography plays a crucial role, turning the environment into a mental prison from which Jonathan cannot escape.

Yet, the film is not just a portrait of a broken man—it is also a scathing critique of a system that sends young men to war, glorifies them when they are needed, and discards them when they return. Plastic Man exposes how American society treated Vietnam veterans: they left as heroes but came back as ghosts. The film highlights the systemic failure to address mental health, the institutionalized response of isolation and violence, and the abandonment of those who once served.

Here, the horror does not stem from supernatural creatures or tangible threats but from guilt, a fractured identity, and an unrelenting sense of remorse. Jonathan sees himself as a murderer, a mere cog in a greater machine of death. But is there still hope? A chance for redemption? Plastic Man offers no easy answers, leaving us instead with a haunting and profound meditation on the weight of choices and the value of life.

Samuel Gonzalez Jr. has crafted a deeply unsettling yet essential film. It is not horror in the conventional sense, but the nightmare it portrays is all too real.