In the era of self-isolation and remote work, the erotic thriller Sliver, based on Ira Levin’s novel, feels even more sinister than it did 32 years ago. At its core, the film reveals a complete absence of the right to privacy without the constant fear of intrusion from outside forces, a restless voyeurism as the key code of both cinema and life itself, and the ethical catastrophe of the metropolis, where men are by default the subjects of unending violence, and women, correspondingly, mere objects. Whoever desires can indulge, but how thin is the line between the perversion of observing every facet of another’s experience and the perversion of snuff as the deliberate outcome of such engaged observation. Sliver is not merely a thriller but a dark mirror reflecting the anxieties of modernity. In 1993, the film already felt provocative, but in 2025, as the boundaries between public and private have all but dissolved, it gains a new sharpness. Self-isolation and remote work, normalized in the wake of the pandemic, have heightened the sense of vulnerability. Webcams for virtual meetings, smart devices, algorithms tracking every click—these have turned private life into a performance for others’ eyes. In this context, Sliver becomes not just a story of voyeurism but a prophetic text about total transparency, where everyone is both observer and observed. The film’s protagonist, Zeke Hawkins, embodies the archetype of the modern voyeur. His obsession with watching the residents of a skyscraper through hidden cameras is not merely a personal pathology but a metaphor for the digital age, where technology enables intrusion into others’ lives with alarming ease. In the 1990s, surveillance cameras were a novelty, evoking a mix of curiosity and fear. Today, they are ubiquitous: in homes, on streets, in phones. Zeke is not just a maniac but a precursor to modern algorithms that analyze our habits, desires, and fears, turning them into data for sale or manipulation. His actions in the film are a hyperbolic version of how technology claims ownership over our inner worlds. Carly Norris, played by Sharon Stone, becomes a symbol of a woman whose agency is constantly undermined. A successful book editor, her life is nonetheless dictated by the male gaze, whether it’s Zeke or other men in her orbit. The film lays bare a gender dynamic where women remain objects of desire and control, even as they strive for independence. This dynamic resonates profoundly in the era of #MeToo, where issues of power, consent, and exploitation have taken center stage in public discourse. Carly, like many women, is trapped: her pursuit of autonomy clashes with a reality where her body and choices are subject to external scrutiny. In this sense, Sliver is not only a thriller but an exploration of how the metropolis, with its anonymity and claustrophobia, amplifies feelings of vulnerability. The metropolis in the film is not just a backdrop but a full-fledged character. New York, with its glass skyscrapers, becomes a symbol of cold, alienated modernity, where people live side by side yet remain isolated. In the era of quarantine, this sense of alienation has become even more tangible. Self-isolation physically separated people, but technology created an illusion of closeness. Social media, video calls, streaming platforms—all foster a paradoxical situation where we are simultaneously alone and under constant observation. Sliver foresaw this paradox, showing how technology can both connect and disconnect, turning us into objects of others’ curiosity. Voyeurism in Sliver transcends personal perversion to become a metaphor for societal structures. The film raises the question: where is the line between curiosity and violence? Observation, which begins as an innocent desire to know more about another, quickly escalates into an obsession with control. Zeke doesn’t just watch—he manipulates, controls, and ultimately destroys the lives of those he observes. This trajectory is eerily similar to how modern technology turns us into participants in an endless spectacle, where every click, like, or post becomes part of someone’s database. Snuff, as the extreme form of voyeurism, remains a hint in the film, but that hint grows increasingly relevant in an era where violent content spreads at an alarming rate. The ethical catastrophe the film depicts lies not only in the characters’ actions but in the very structure of a world where privacy boundaries vanish. In 2025, when data about us is collected without our knowledge and artificial intelligence predicts our actions, Sliver reads as a warning. The film shows that voyeurism is not just a personal failing but a systemic issue, where technology and social structures encourage intrusion into others’ lives. This is a world where observation becomes a form of power, and power, a form of violence. The visual language of Sliver amplifies this sense of unease. The cold, sterile interiors of the skyscraper, glass walls, and mirrors create a feeling of constant surveillance. Director Phillip Noyce’s camera often adopts the voyeur’s perspective, making the viewer complicit. This technique, typical of 1990s thrillers, feels today like a prediction of an era where each of us is a potential Zeke, a potential Carly. We watch others through screens, but we ourselves become objects of observation. Ultimately, Sliver is not just an erotic thriller but a philosophical text about the nature of human desire, power, and vulnerability. In an era of self-isolation, when we are confined to our homes yet exposed to the digital world, the film becomes a mirror reflecting our fears and dependencies. The thin line between observation and violence, which the film highlights, has grown even thinner today. Sliver reminds us that in a world where everything is visible, no one is free.