The reason so many reviews took so long to appear? Simple—the film had left too deep an impact. The shock, the emotion, the lingering thoughts… it took time to process before putting words to paper.
That explanation made perfect sense.
When something truly moves you, don't you need time to sit with it, to digest it, to let the feeling settle?
Not long after Horton posted his glowing review, more and more viewer responses began to surface. They all shared a common trait: they had seen the movie on premiere night, yet had waited until now to write anything.
The reason? It had hit them too hard. Some even confessed they couldn't sleep the entire night—the film kept playing in their minds on a loop.
"This is hands down Laila Moran's best work. Her previous films were great, no doubt, but none ever left an impression this deep.
I'll never forget that final scene—Roy standing before a freshly dug grave, surrounded by a deathly stillness. That silence… it was the kind that withers the soul."
"Why did he have to die?! He was my favorite Eastern actor—I want to know everything about him!"
"This film is terrifying. It starts so exciting, even fun, and then completely flips your world upside down. The once-bright visuals turn grim.
When the Eastern lead character died… I felt something inside me die with him."
"I usually just watch movies for fun, and I hate preachy films—even a hint of it turns me off. But this one was different. I clearly saw what Director Moran wanted to say.
I understood the truths she wanted to express. She used this single story to absolutely shatter me."
"When I watched Blood Diamond, I thought Laila's films were becoming deeper. I worried she might go the route of some other directors—abandoning commercial appeal for overly abstract arthouse stuff.
But after watching Silent, I finally understand—Hollywood only has one Laila Moran. Even when she makes an art film, there's nothing obscure about it."
Within a single afternoon, the online narrative around Laila's new film reversed completely.
Just that morning, it had been:
"Laila's finished."
"She's out of ideas."
"What a disaster of a movie."
By afternoon, it had become:
"A powerful, moving masterpiece."
"Laila's best film to date."
"One of the most important works of her career."
The turnaround shocked not just casual onlookers—it left professional critics speechless, especially the handful who had coordinated their early hit pieces against her. They had published articles in major media outlets, loudly proclaiming her failure.
Now, just a few hours later, were they about to get completely slapped in the face?
"How could so many positive reviews pop up all at once?"
"This has to be a PR stunt, right?"
"Don't forget her last name is Moran. Who else could manipulate public opinion more easily?"
Panicked and desperate not to be humiliated, those critics scrambled to spread muddy water—releasing vague accusations within their networks, alleging that Laila was using paid bots to salvage her film's reputation.
And truthfully, some of them did believe that.
Because honestly, how could public opinion change this fast? It had to be Moran Media pulling strings behind the scenes, paying off influencers to flood the net with fake praise to preserve her "undefeated goddess" image.
They had seen the movie themselves. They knew what the atmosphere in the theater had been like. Even at the premiere, the applause had been sparse, tepid at best.
That reaction? Not the kind you'd expect from a successful film.
Do they even compare? At the premiere of Laila's last film—Avengers—the cheers and claps had nearly lifted the theater's roof.
So how could a film that drew such a lukewarm in-theater response suddenly generate this wave of praise?
Their conclusion: the new reviews must be fake.
So they doubled down, mocking and dismissing the wave of new reviews as bot-written whitewashing pieces.
But what they didn't realize was—these reviewers were not hired shills. Many of them were longtime fans of Laila, active members of her fandom, well-known among fellow followers. Whether they were bots or not, the fanbase knew the truth better than anyone.
From the fans' perspective, it wasn't the glowing reviews that were laughable—it was the critics who clearly didn't even understand the movie.
How could they be taken seriously?
Soon, the critics who had slammed Laila began to notice something disturbing: their follower counts were plummeting. Every refresh dropped their numbers by dozens, even hundreds.
And for accounts with only tens or hundreds of thousands of followers to begin with, this mass exodus was no small matter.
Worse, people weren't just quietly unfollowing—they were leaving comments, too:
"You fabricated ridiculous lies about Laila—we can't even bear to look."
"Laila will never fail!"
"Only fools would believe her films can flop!"
"Director Moran is the best director in Hollywood, and her films are the best.
You can't understand her work, and you still have the nerve to pretend you're qualified to judge? That's the biggest disgrace in film criticism."
An avalanche of angry comments poured in. Some critics panicked, terrified that their reputations and influence were crumbling in real time. But others… were oddly excited.
After all, their profiles had never seen this much activity before.
Now they understood why the New York Post loved bashing Laila—because hate draws attention.
So what if some people unfollowed them? There were just as many new followers coming in—curious spectators who wanted to see what the fuss was about.
And while all of this unfolded in the West, across the Atlantic, Asia was just wrapping up its first day of screenings due to the time zone difference.
In Asia, promotion centered heavily on Leslie Cheung. It was a very standard marketing tactic. After all, he was Asian, and he played a lead role in a major Hollywood production.
Even more importantly, his popularity across Asia was immense. With that kind of fan base, he could easily handle all regional promotional campaigns by himself.
And let's be real—he wasn't just a lead. In the past, other Asian actors had been featured in Hollywood blockbusters, only to appear for a mere two lines, and yet those films would shamelessly make that actor the center of the promo in Asia. Viewers would go in expecting a major role, only to discover they'd been tricked—reduced to glorified extras.
This kind of bait-and-switch happened so often that it had burned through the goodwill of Asian moviegoers.
Fortunately, Leslie and Laila both had excellent reputations in Asia.
After seeing the trailers—and hearing it was a dual male lead film—Asian audiences were more hopeful than ever that Laila had finally delivered a film where an Asian character wasn't just a token, but a true protagonist.