Reword the title by Colin Burgess from Ryan Martin Brown’s Gen Z Comedy.

In a bold proclamation that might raise a few eyebrows, writer-director Ryan Martin Brown’s feature debut, Free Time, has been dubbed a “generation-defining movie.” This micro-budget comedy, filmed in a brisk 10 days with a cast of relative unknowns, has artfully dodged the Hollywood spotlight. It premiered at several mid-tier festivals before its limited rollout in select U.S. cities, currently gracing the screens at the Quad in NYC and the Landmark Westwood in L.A. (the latter likely filled with hipsters and people wondering what year it actually is).

Yet, lurking beneath its indie charm is an unexpectedly timely examination of Generation Z ennui. The film centers on a disgruntled 20-something office worker who, in a moment of what can only be described as existential mania, quits his job amid the post-pandemic Great Resignation. Spoiler alert: he soon discovers that lounging around with a bowl of snacks is not quite as fulfilling as he’d imagined. Tipping the scales at a breezy 78 minutes, it offers a nostalgic nod to the gritty NYC indie films that are becoming as rare as public restrooms in Manhattan.

Once upon a time—circa the mid-aughts—movies like Free Time were a dime a dozen. Think indie flicks dripping with hipster charm, like Andrew Bujalski’s Mutual Appreciation or Lena Dunham’s Tiny Furniture. Fast forward to today, and rent prices in New York have skyrocketed, effectively kicking most aspiring artists to the curb. So, it’s no wonder that our protagonist’s struggle after quitting the daily grind feels all too relatable. It’s just unfortunate that no one informed him that ‘freedom’ looks an awful lot like a Netflix binge-session.

Set against the backdrop of a post-COVID reality, Brown weaves a shaggy-dog tale that walks a fine line between early Woody Allen and mumblecore. Our hero, Drew (the incomparable Colin Burgess, a video editor at The Hollywood Reporter—who knew those jobs could lead to fame?), resembles a modern-day Groucho Marx, complete with wire-rimmed glasses and an absurdly ironic T-shirt collection. Nothing says sophistication quite like “I thrifted this!”

Now, Drew—our antihero extraordinaire—trades in the dull monotony of data entry for a life of existential dread. After quitting out of what appears to be sheer spite (or incompetence), he returns to his Brooklyn brownstone, where he informs his roommate (played by Rajat Suresh, a clickbait writer whose job title sounds as engaging as watching paint dry) that he finally understands the true meaning of capitalism. Spoiler: he actually doesn’t.

With no friends to speak of—because who needs them when you’re full of your own self-importance?—Drew spends his newfound leisure time ensconced in bed, rewatching the same movie on repeat. As he attempts to pursue a side-career as a keyboardist, he learns that the band has opted for a delightful new genre: country music. I mean, who wouldn’t jump at the chance to trade their cool Brooklyn dreams for line-dancing nightmares?

As Drew’s encounters spiral into a comedic abyss—be it at parties where he’s about as welcome as a gluten allergy (hello, awkward kitchen shot) or his ludicrous attempts to get re-hired under an alias—one can’t help but find amusement in his failures. His evolution from a self-absorbed, failure-to-launch millennial to a relatable figure is so absurdly entertaining that it perfectly encapsulates the current state of American life. In a world where “making it” seems less about success and more about just surviving, Drew’s antics reveal a satirical glimpse into today’s financial malaise.

While Free Time may not be a biting satire, it does offer a cheeky commentary on a generation grappling with dreams far more expensive than their bank accounts can handle. As Drew ultimately wrestles with his fate—fighting tooth and nail to avoid financial pitfalls—one wonders what the future holds for him and a generation that’s learned to embrace the grind. In the end, there’s no sweeping romance here, no grand fireworks. Just the sobering realization that maybe, just maybe, finding solace in the daily grind is the best New York has to offer these days.