Sometimes the scariest moment isn’t the turbulence – it’s realizing the life you’re landing into might not be yours.
Turbulence (2016) takes place where all great existential crises should happen – on an airplane, trapped between a seatbelt sign and a life you’re not sure you actually want. Alex and Brett are a couple on a short flight to Toronto, but emotionally they are somewhere between “top 30 under 30” and “I might ruin my entire life if I don’t speak now.”
Alex is about to start his shiny new job at an ad agency, the kind where creativity is carefully diluted until it no longer frightens clients. Brett, meanwhile, has his future laminated and framed: law school, partner track, penthouse in Greece, emotionally optimized happiness. On paper, it’s perfect. In real life, it’s giving Alex mild panic attacks at 30,000 feet.
The genius of Turbulence is that nothing really happens. No explosions, no dramatic exits, no running down airport terminals. Just words. Sharp ones. Funny ones. The kind that sound playful until you realize they’re aimed straight at the soft parts of your identity. Childhood humiliation, fear of failure, the terror of disappointing parents who already struggled to accept you – it all comes out between sips of airplane anxiety.
The film is wickedly self-aware. It knows exactly how ridiculous adult ambition sounds when spoken out loud. “Top 30 under 30” becomes a curse. “Being realistic” turns into a polite way of killing dreams. And Brett’s well-meaning support slowly reveals itself as something far more dangerous: control disguised as love.
There’s a quiet cruelty in how encouragement is weaponized here. “I believe in you” somehow translates into “as long as you stay inside the plan.” Alex, meanwhile, keeps trying to explain himself using metaphors about fish, pencils, and crayons, because sometimes that’s the only way to say “I don’t belong in this life” without completely falling apart.
The turbulence itself comes and goes quickly, but the emotional aftershocks linger. By the time the plane lands, something irreversible has shifted. Not dramatically, not loudly, but enough that you know this relationship will never return to its original cruising altitude.
Turbulence is short, smart, and uncomfortable in the best way. It’s about love, ambition, fear, and the moment you realize that staying safe might actually be the riskiest choice of all. Also, it will make you rethink every supportive sentence you’ve ever said to someone you love.
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