Scenario for the least interesting Sci-Fi movie: The protagonist gets transported 20 years back into the past, but does not realize it because he lives in Samara.

 

The Un-Time Traveler

Our "hero," Anatoly, wakes up one morning in his usual Samara apartment. He glances at the calendar – June 20th, 2025. He goes about his day: a bland breakfast, a tedious commute on the same old bus, and another mind-numbing shift at the regional accounting office. The only "event" of his day is when his neighbor, Svetlana, complains about the perpetually broken elevator. Again.

 

Unbeknownst to Anatoly, a freak temporal anomaly occurred overnight, precisely at 3:00 AM. While he slept, dreaming of a slightly less dreary life, his entire apartment building, and only his apartment building, was shunted back exactly two decades. It is, in fact, June 20th, 2005.

 

The problem? Samara, for Anatoly, is a city frozen in time. The same Soviet-era apartment blocks dominate the skyline. The same perpetually under-construction tram lines crisscross the streets. The same dreary shops sell the same limited goods. His Nokia 3310 (yes, he still uses one, even in 2025) still functions perfectly fine, as do the payphones scattered around the city. The fashion, the cars, the general air of resigned apathy – it all feels utterly identical to what he's used to.

 

He doesn't notice that Svetlana's complaints about the elevator are identical to those she made 20 years ago. He doesn't notice that the brand of kefir in his fridge is an older version. He doesn't notice that his favorite corner store, which closed in 2010, is inexplicably open again. Even a billboard he passes daily advertising a long-defunct local bank goes completely unnoticed. Why would he notice? It's just Samara.

 

The film's climax features Anatoly watching a news report on TV about a minor local official being arrested for corruption – a story he vaguely remembers from years ago. His only thought is, "Huh, seems like things never change around here." He then makes himself a cup of instant coffee, completely oblivious to his temporal displacement, and the credits roll.

 

The entire movie is 90 minutes of Anatoly's monotonous routine, punctuated by brief, unremarked-upon anachronisms. There's no revelation, no conflict, no character development. Just Samara, twenty years apart, looking exactly the same to a man who wouldn't notice if the world turned upside down.