Rituals in Ruin: 28 Years Later: Bone Temple (2026)

25 Saturday Apr 2026

Posted by in Movie review

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

There is a point, deep into 28 Years Later: Bone Temple, where the infection — once a visceral, immediate terror — gives way to something far more unsettling: myth. Not just survival, not just rage, but ritual. What emerges from the ashes of civilisation is not merely chaos, but structure — and with it, a far more disquieting question about what humanity becomes when it has time to adapt to horror.

If earlier entries in the franchise were defined by urgency and collapse, Bone Temple is defined by aftermath.

From Infection to Ideology

Where 28 Days Later thrived on momentum — the frantic unravelling of society — Bone Temple slows the pulse to examine what lingers. The infected are no longer simply a threat; they are part of an ecosystem, one that survivors have begun to interpret, mythologise, even weaponise.

The titular “Bone Temple” is less a location than an idea — a manifestation of humanity’s desperate need to impose meaning on the incomprehensible. Structures built from death, rituals carved out of trauma, belief systems emerging in the vacuum left behind by the old world.

This is horror evolving into anthropology.

Nia DaCosta’s Controlled Descent

Under the direction of Nia DaCosta, the film takes on a markedly different tonal register from its predecessors. Where once chaos reigned, DaCosta imposes a sense of deliberate control — not to diminish the horror, but to refine it.

Her approach is patient, almost observational. She allows dread to accumulate rather than erupt, trusting the audience to sit within discomfort. It’s a bold pivot that may alienate those expecting relentless intensity, but it ultimately enriches the film’s thematic ambitions. DaCosta is less interested in jump scares than in cultural decay, in how societies rebuild themselves around trauma.

The Aesthetic of Decay

Visually, the film leans into a stark, almost reverential depiction of ruin. Landscapes feel less abandoned than reclaimed, nature and decay intertwining with the remnants of human architecture. There is a quiet, oppressive beauty to it — a sense that the world has moved on, even if humanity has not.

The camera lingers. It observes. It allows the audience to sit within this new order, rather than recoil from it.

And in doing so, it reinforces the film’s central thesis: that horror, when sustained long enough, ceases to be an interruption and becomes a state of being.

Performance and Presence

At the centre of this evolving world stands Ralph Fiennes, delivering a performance that is as measured as it is magnetic. There is a quiet authority to his presence — one that suggests a man who has not only survived the collapse, but adapted to it in ways that are morally ambiguous at best.

Fiennes resists grandiosity. Instead, he leans into restraint, allowing subtle shifts in expression and tone to carry weight. It is a performance that mirrors the film itself: controlled, deliberate, and quietly unsettling.

Violence Recontextualised

The violence here is markedly different from the raw, chaotic brutality of earlier instalments. It is no less shocking, but it is more deliberate. Where once it was survival-driven, now it carries intention — ritualistic, symbolic, sometimes even performative.

This shift is crucial. It reframes the infected not just as antagonists, but as catalysts for transformation. The real horror lies not in their existence, but in how the uninfected respond to it.

Sound, Memory, and Cultural Echoes

One of the film’s most striking sequences is underscored by the unmistakable presence of Iron Maiden — a choice that feels both anachronistic and eerily appropriate. The music cuts through the film’s otherwise restrained sonic landscape, injecting a jolt of cultural memory into a world that has largely lost its connection to the past.

It’s a reminder that even in collapse, fragments of identity persist. Music, like ritual, becomes a bridge between what was and what remains.

Echoes of the Past

Fans of the original will find a quiet but meaningful connection in the appearance of Cillian Murphy, whose cameo serves less as fan service and more as a spectral reminder of the franchise’s origins. His presence underscores the passage of time — not just within the narrative, but within the cultural memory of the series itself.

It is brief, but resonant.

A Demanding Evolution

This is not a film interested in easy engagement.

Its pacing is measured, occasionally to the point of frustration. Its narrative resists clear answers, favouring ambiguity and thematic exploration over plot-driven clarity. Characters are often secondary to the world they inhabit — vessels through which ideas are explored rather than traditional protagonists to root for.

For some, this will feel like a betrayal of the franchise’s origins.

For others, it will feel like its natural evolution.

The Prognosis:

28 Years Later: Bone Temple is a bold, highbrow extension of a franchise that could easily have settled into repetition. Instead, it pivots toward something more reflective, more unsettling, and ultimately more enduring.

A meditative, ritualistic descent into post-apocalyptic identity, where the true horror is not the infection, but the meaning we build around it.

  • Saul Muerte

Innocence Unleashed: Who Can Kill a Child? (1976)

25 Saturday Apr 2026

Posted by in retrospective

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , ,

There are few films that confront the audience with a question so blunt, so morally paralysing, as Who Can Kill a Child?. Directed by Chicho Ibáñez Serrador, this unnerving slice of Spanish horror does not rely on elaborate mythology or baroque excess. Instead, it weaponises something far more disquieting:

Innocence itself.

The Horror of the Unthinkable

From its opening frames, Serrador signals his intent. A montage of real-world images — war, famine, suffering — grounds the film in a recognisable reality, implicating humanity long before the narrative begins. By the time the English couple arrive on the sun-drenched island of Almanzora, the question has already been posed, quietly but insistently:

What have we done to the world… and what might the next generation do in return?

What follows is a slow unravelling. The absence of adults is not immediately terrifying — merely strange, faintly uncanny. Children play, laugh, and watch. Always watching. It is in their stillness, their smiles, that Serrador finds his dread.

There is no rush to violence. Only the creeping realisation that something is profoundly, irrevocably wrong.

Sunlight as Terror

Unlike the shadow-drenched gothic traditions of horror, Who Can Kill a Child? unfolds largely in broad daylight. The Mediterranean setting — bright, open, deceptively serene — becomes a stage for unease.

Serrador understands that horror need not hide in darkness. Here, it thrives in exposure.

The empty streets, the echo of footsteps, the oppressive quiet of a village stripped of its adult presence — all contribute to an atmosphere that feels less like a nightmare and more like a waking dread. The world is visible, tangible… and entirely hostile.

Morality as the True Battleground

The film’s most enduring power lies in its central dilemma. As the threat becomes undeniable, the question ceases to be abstract.

It becomes immediate. Personal. Inescapable.

Who can kill a child?

Serrador refuses easy answers. The film does not revel in violence, nor does it offer catharsis. Instead, it traps both its characters and its audience within an ethical paradox — survival demands an unthinkable act, yet to commit it is to cross a line that cannot be uncrossed.

In this way, the film transcends its premise. It is not simply about killer children — a trope that would later be explored in films like Children of the Corn — but about the collapse of moral certainty under extreme conditions.

A Measured, Relentless Descent

Serrador’s pacing is deliberate, almost clinical. The tension builds not through escalation, but through accumulation — each moment adding weight to an already suffocating atmosphere.

If there is a flaw, it lies in this restraint. The film’s commitment to its central conceit occasionally limits its emotional range, keeping the characters at a slight remove. We observe their descent more than we fully inhabit it.

And yet, this distance may well be intentional. A buffer between the viewer and the horror they are being asked to contemplate.

Legacy of Unease

Decades on, Who Can Kill a Child? remains one of the most unsettling entries in European horror — not because of what it shows, but because of what it demands.

It asks the audience to consider the unthinkable… and then refuses to let them look away.

In an era where horror often seeks to shock through excess, Serrador’s film endures through precision. Through the careful construction of a scenario in which there are no good choices — only consequences.

The Prognosis:

Who Can Kill a Child? is not an easy film to watch, nor is it meant to be. It is a moral provocation wrapped in the guise of horror, a work that lingers not in the memory of its images, but in the weight of its question.

A chilling, sunlit nightmare that transforms innocence into terror, and forces us to confront the limits of our own humanity.

  • Saul Muerte

Five Against the Void: Five (1951) at 75

24 Friday Apr 2026

Posted by in retrospective

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

If The Thing from Another World gave shape to the externalised fears of the atomic age — invasion, contamination, the unknown — then Five, directed by Arch Oboler, turns inward. It strips away spectacle, removes the monster, and asks a far more unsettling question:

What remains of humanity when humanity is all but gone?

Seventy-five years on, Five stands as one of the earliest cinematic meditations on nuclear annihilation — a stark, philosophical counterpoint to the more populist science fiction of its era.

The End of the World, Without the Explosion

Unlike many of its contemporaries, Five does not dramatise the apocalypse. The bombs have already fallen. The devastation has already occurred. What we are left with is absence — an emptied world, defined not by destruction, but by silence.

Five survivors — four men and one woman — converge on an isolated hillside home, drawn together less by hope than by necessity. From this premise, Oboler constructs a chamber piece, one that prioritises dialogue and ideology over action.

In contrast to the kinetic tension of The Thing from Another World, where threat is immediate and external, Five allows its dread to emerge gradually, through conversation, conflict, and the slow erosion of social order.

Humanity as the Final Frontier

What distinguishes Five is its insistence that the true battleground is not the wasteland outside, but the fragile ecosystem within the group itself.

Each character represents a facet of post-war consciousness — faith, science, authority, survivalism — and as resources dwindle and tensions rise, these identities begin to fracture. The film becomes less about survival in a physical sense, and more about the viability of civilisation in miniature.

Can morality exist without structure?
Can cooperation endure without consequence?
What does power look like when there is no one left to challenge it?

These are the questions that linger, long after the film’s modest runtime concludes.

Minimalism as Statement

Oboler’s direction is deliberately austere. Shot largely within a single location, the film embraces its limitations, using space — or the lack of it — to reinforce its thematic concerns.

The outside world, glimpsed only briefly, feels distant and abstract. There are no sprawling ruins, no grand visualisations of destruction. Instead, the apocalypse is suggested through absence, through what is no longer there.

This restraint, while intellectually compelling, also contributes to the film’s uneven pacing. At times, Five risks feeling more like a staged philosophical exercise than a fully realised cinematic experience.

Yet there is a quiet boldness in this approach — a refusal to sensationalise, to exploit, or to dramatise beyond necessity.

A Different Kind of Horror

Where The Thing from Another World found terror in the alien, Five locates it in the human condition.

There are no creatures here. No external antagonists. Only the slow, creeping realisation that the end of the world does not erase the flaws that led to it.

If anything, it amplifies them.

This is horror not of what might come… but of what remains.

Legacy in the Long Shadow

While Five never achieved the same cultural penetration as its more accessible contemporaries, its influence can be felt in later post-apocalyptic cinema — from intimate survival dramas to existential meditations on human collapse.

It is, in many ways, a precursor to a different strain of genre filmmaking — one that prioritises introspection over spectacle, and philosophy over fear.

Placed alongside The Thing from Another World, it reveals the duality of 1950s science fiction:
One looks outward, toward the stars.
The other looks inward, toward ourselves.

The Prognosis:

Five is not an easy film, nor is it an entirely satisfying one. Its ambitions occasionally outpace its execution, and its minimalism can verge on stagnation.

But as a document of its time — and as a counterpoint to the more sensationalist science fiction of the era — it remains a fascinating, if imperfect, piece of cinematic history.

A stark, introspective vision of the apocalypse that trades spectacle for philosophy, offering a quieter, more unsettling reflection on what it means to survive the end of the world.

  • Saul Muerte

Playtime Turns Predatory: Dolly

23 Thursday Apr 2026

Posted by in Movie review

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , ,

There is a familiar rhythm to Dolly, a film that arrives wrapped in the well-worn trappings of captivity horror and slasher sensibilities, yet occasionally hints at something more psychologically curious beneath its surface. Premiering as a Shudder original, it treads a precarious line between formula and subversion — rarely straying too far from the former, but not entirely devoid of the latter.

A Familiar Game of Survival

At its core, Dolly is disarmingly simple. A young woman, Macy — played with a grounded resilience by Fabianne Therese — is abducted by a grotesque, childlike figure intent on “raising” her. The premise is unsettling in theory, tapping into distorted notions of family, control, and psychological regression.

In execution, however, the film largely adheres to a paint-by-numbers structure. The beats are recognisable: capture, resistance, escalation, and survival. Tension rises and falls in expected intervals, rarely deviating from the genre’s established blueprint.

Flashes Beneath the Surface

And yet, it would be reductive to dismiss Dolly entirely.

There are fleeting moments — brief, almost intrusive — where the film gestures toward a more complex identity. The central antagonist, portrayed with unnerving physicality by Max the Impaler, carries a disquieting blend of menace and arrested development. The idea of imposed infantilisation, of forced dependency, lingers as an underexplored but compelling thematic thread.

Similarly, the inclusion of dark humour — often abrupt, sometimes jarring — suggests a film aware of its own absurdity, even if it struggles to fully integrate that awareness into a cohesive tone.

Violence as Punctuation

Where Dolly finds its most immediate impact is in its bursts of gore. These moments arrive sporadically, punctuating the narrative with flashes of brutality that momentarily jolt the film to life.

They are effective, if fleeting — less a sustained atmosphere of dread than intermittent reminders of the stakes. In this sense, the film operates more as a sequence of peaks and valleys than a steadily mounting crescendo.

The Weight of Simplicity

The film’s greatest strength — its simplicity — ultimately becomes its limitation.

By adhering so closely to familiar genre mechanics, Dolly never quite earns the psychological depth it gestures toward. Its exploration of trauma, control, and identity remains surface-level, hinted at rather than interrogated.

Even performances from recognisable faces like Seann William Scott and Ethan Suplee feel underutilised, existing more as texture than as integral components of the narrative.

The Prognosis:

Dolly is a film caught between impulses — the desire to deliver straightforward genre thrills and the ambition to probe something darker, more psychological. It succeeds intermittently on both fronts, but never fully commits to either.

A serviceable slasher with flashes of twisted promise, where moments of gore and uneasy humour briefly break through an otherwise familiar and simplistic framework.

  • Saul Muerte

Dolly streams on Shudder from Fri 24th April.

Flesh, Dependency, and the Cosmic High: Touch Me (2025)

22 Wednesday Apr 2026

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

There is something inherently transgressive about the premise of Touch Me, the latest feature from Addison Heimann — a film that fuses intimacy, addiction, and cosmic horror into a heady, often abrasive cocktail. It is, at once, deeply personal and wildly conceptual; a story of co-dependency refracted through the prism of alien encounter.

And like many works that attempt to balance the human and the unknowable, it does not always land cleanly.

Addiction as Contact

At its core, Touch Me is less about extraterrestrial invasion than it is about emotional entanglement. Two best friends, bound by a fragile, codependent dynamic, find themselves seduced — chemically, physically, psychologically — by an alien presence whose touch delivers euphoric release.

The metaphor is hardly subtle. This is addiction in its purest cinematic form: immediate gratification, escalating need, and the gradual erosion of autonomy.

What elevates Heimann’s approach is the layering of that addiction within intimacy. The alien is not simply a threat — it is a conduit. A provider. A manipulator. Its influence seeps into the emotional architecture of the central relationship, amplifying fractures that already exist.

The Lovecraftian Body

There is a distinctly H. P. Lovecraft-adjacent sensibility at play here — not in the traditional tentacled sense, but in the idea of cosmic intrusion through the body. The unknowable does not arrive from the stars with grandeur; it arrives through touch, through sensation, through the dissolution of boundaries between self and other.

Heimann leans into this with a visual language that oscillates between the sensual and the grotesque. Flesh becomes porous. Identity becomes unstable. The film’s horror is not simply what the alien does, but what it reveals — that the characters are already primed for collapse.

A Difficult Entry Point

And yet, for all its conceptual ambition, Touch Me is not an easy film to inhabit.

Its characters — intentionally flawed, often abrasive — create an initial barrier. Their codependency is not romanticised; it is messy, frustrating, and at times alienating in its own right. The audience is not invited to sympathise so much as to observe.

This is where the film risks losing its grip. It takes time to acclimatise to its rhythm, to its tone, to its deliberately uncomfortable interpersonal dynamics. For some, that investment may not fully pay off.

But for those willing to push through, something more substantial begins to emerge.

Genre as Expression

What ultimately distinguishes Touch Me is its refusal to sit neatly within genre confines. It is horror, certainly — but also satire, relationship drama, and a kind of psychedelic character study.

Heimann, building on the sensibilities explored in his earlier work, demonstrates a clear interest in using genre as a vessel for emotional excavation. The alien is not just a plot device; it is an extension of the characters’ internal states — a manifestation of their need to feel, to escape, to connect.

Performances and Fractured Intimacy

The central performances from Olivia Taylor Dudley and Lou Taylor Pucci anchor the film’s chaos, grounding its more surreal elements in recognisable emotional beats. There is a volatility to their dynamic that feels authentic, even when the surrounding narrative veers into the abstract.

Their chemistry — by turns tender, toxic, and destabilising — is what ultimately sustains the film.

The Prognosis:

Touch Me is a film that demands patience. It resists easy engagement, presenting characters and ideas that are as prickly as they are provocative. Yet beneath its abrasive surface lies a thoughtful exploration of addiction, intimacy, and the porous boundaries of self.

An uneven but compelling descent into a sexualised, Lovecraftian nightmare, where the true horror lies not in the alien touch, but in the human need for it.

  • Saul Muerte

Fog, Fire and Frustration: Silent Hill at 20 — and the Return We Didn’t Need

20 Monday Apr 2026

Posted by in Movie review, retrospective

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

,

Few video game adaptations have arrived with the weight of expectation quite like Silent Hill. At a time when the genre was still struggling to shake off its reputation for shallow cash-ins, director Christophe Gans sought to do something different — to translate not just the iconography of Silent Hill, but its suffocating atmosphere, its psychological dread, and its nightmarish symbolism.

Twenty years on, the result remains… conflicted.

A Faithful Descent into Atmosphere

There’s no denying that Silent Hill (2006) looks the part. Gans’ film is drenched in ash, fog, and decay — a visual language that mirrors the oppressive tone of the original games. The production design is meticulous, bringing to life a town that feels both abandoned and alive with malevolent intent.

Creatures like Pyramid Head and the twitching nurses are rendered with a fidelity that borders on reverence, capturing the grotesque beauty that made the games so iconic. In this sense, Silent Hill succeeds where many adaptations of its era — including entries in the Resident Evil franchise — often prioritised action over atmosphere.

Gans understands that Silent Hill is not about survival in the traditional sense. It’s about punishment. About guilt. About the horrors we construct within ourselves.

Style Over Substance

And yet, for all its aesthetic triumphs, the film struggles under the weight of its own ambition.

The narrative — centred on Rose’s search for her missing daughter — becomes increasingly convoluted as it attempts to weave together multiple strands of lore. Exposition is delivered in heavy, often clunky bursts, culminating in a third act that feels less like revelation and more like overload.

What works in the interactive, interpretive space of a video game becomes far more rigid on screen. The ambiguity that defines the Silent Hill experience is replaced by over-explanation, stripping the story of much of its psychological potency.

It’s a film caught between two impulses: the desire to remain faithful, and the need to translate that faithfulness into a coherent cinematic narrative.

A High Point in Game Adaptations… Almost

Despite its flaws, Silent Hill still stands as one of the more ambitious video game adaptations of its time. It dared to take the source material seriously, to embrace its darkness rather than dilute it for mainstream appeal.

But ambition alone isn’t enough.

The film remains visually striking, tonally committed, and undeniably influential — yet ultimately uneven. A beautiful nightmare that never quite finds its footing.

A visually faithful adaptation that captures the look of Silent Hill, but not always its soul.

A Return Lost in the Fog

Fast forward two decades, and Gans returns to the franchise with Return to Silent Hill — a film that promises to revisit the psychological depths of the series, this time drawing heavily from Silent Hill 2.

What unfolds, however, is a far more frustrating experience.

Guilt Without Clarity

The premise is compelling: James, drawn back to Silent Hill by a mysterious letter from his lost love, descends into a world shaped by his own guilt and fractured psyche.

On paper, this is the series at its most potent.

In execution, it becomes a muddled, overly complicated narrative that struggles to balance psychological introspection with coherent storytelling. Where the 2006 film over-explained, Return to Silent Hill paradoxically feels both overstuffed and underdeveloped — layering symbolism without grounding it in emotional clarity.

When Faithfulness Becomes a Trap

Gans once again demonstrates a keen eye for visual detail. The town is as oppressive as ever, the creatures as grotesque, the atmosphere as suffocating.

But this time, the aesthetic fidelity feels hollow.

The film leans so heavily into recreating the imagery and themes of the games that it forgets to function as a film in its own right. Characters drift through the narrative rather than driving it, and the emotional core — so crucial to Silent Hill 2’s enduring impact — is lost in a haze of convoluted plotting.

A Misguided Return

Where Silent Hill (2006) faltered but remained admirable in its ambition, Return to Silent Hill feels like a step backward — a film that mistakes complexity for depth and reverence for understanding.

It’s a reminder that adapting Silent Hill is not simply about recreating its imagery, but about capturing the fragile, deeply human emotions that underpin its horror.

And here, that connection is sorely lacking.

Visually committed but narratively incoherent, a return that loses itself in the very fog it seeks to explore.

The Prognosis:

Together, these two films form an uneasy legacy.

One is an ambitious, flawed attempt to bring a landmark game to life.
The other, a misjudged return that proves just how difficult that task truly is.

Sometimes, the scariest thing about Silent Hill… is how hard it is to escape.

  • Saul Muerte

Dark Nights Film Fest V.3: Surgery on the Soul of Modern Horror

14 Tuesday Apr 2026

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , ,

There’s a growing divide within modern horror.

On one side, the polished and palatable—the algorithm-friendly nightmares designed to deliver quick shocks and clean resolutions. On the other, something far more insidious: films that resist structure, that burrow into the psyche, and refuse to offer the audience the comfort of escape.

It’s within this latter space that Dark Nights Film Fest has firmly embedded itself.

Returning for its third iteration on October 10 at The Reservoir Cinema in Sydney, Dark Nights Film Fest V.3 continues its quiet, calculated dissection of what horror can be when it is stripped back to its rawest nerve endings. This is not a festival concerned with spectacle—it is concerned with sensation. With unease. With the lingering afterimage.

From its inception, Dark Nights has operated less like a traditional festival and more like a curatorial scalpel, carving out a space for filmmakers who exist on the fringes of genre. Those who understand that true horror is not always seen—but felt. A slow infection rather than a sudden shock.

Festival Director and Curator Bryn Tilly articulates this ethos with precision: this is not a platform for safe horror. It is a space for works that feel almost unnatural in their existence—films that challenge, provoke, and destabilise.

And in many ways, this philosophy aligns with the core of what Surgeons of Horror has long explored: the idea that horror, at its most potent, functions as a form of psychological excavation. A peeling back of layers to expose something uncomfortable, something unresolved.

Dark Nights Film Fest V.3 sharpens this focus even further through its pared-back, single-night format. There is no excess here—only intention. Each film selected is part of a carefully constructed experience designed to immerse audiences in a continuum of dread, where the boundaries between stories begin to blur into a singular, oppressive atmosphere.

It’s also worth noting the festival’s continued commitment to nurturing new voices—not only through its short film program but via its unproduced screenplay competition. In an industry often dominated by established names and recognisable formulas, this remains a vital artery for fresh, unfiltered perspectives to emerge.

Recognition from Dread Central—which listed Dark Nights among the “90 Best Genre Film Festivals on Earth – 2025”—only reinforces what many within the horror community are already beginning to understand: that this is a festival less concerned with growth in size, and more invested in depth of impact.

Because horror, in its purest form, has never been about comfort.

It is about confrontation.

It is about forcing an audience to sit with something they would rather avoid.

Dark Nights Film Fest V.3 doesn’t just programme films—it curates experiences that linger in the subconscious, resurfacing long after the screen has gone dark.

For filmmakers, the invitation is clear: abandon restraint. Reject convention. Submit the work that feels too strange, too confrontational, too much.

Because those are often the films that matter most.

Submissions are now open via FilmFreeway, with deadlines running through to August 30.

For audiences, October 10 marks an opportunity not simply to watch horror—but to undergo it.

And as any good surgeon knows… the deeper the incision, the more revealing the outcome.

  • Saul Muerte

Dark Nights Film Fest – V.3

The Reservoir Cinema, Sydney – October 10

Submissions via FilmFreeway.com/DarkNightsFilmFest

Deadlines:

Earlybird – April 30, Regular – June 21 , Late – August 2, Final – August 30  

For festival info and submission guidelines, visit darknightsfilmfest.com

The Sound of Silence: Undertone (2026)

13 Monday Apr 2026

Posted by in Movie review

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

There is a quiet audacity to Undertone — a film that dares to strip horror back to its barest components and, in doing so, exposes both the potency and the peril of minimalism. Where many genre efforts lean into excess — of imagery, of narrative, of shock — Undertone instead retreats inward, crafting an experience defined less by what is shown than by what is felt.

It is, for better and worse, a film built on absence.

Less as Language

Minimalism in cinema is often misunderstood as restraint for its own sake. In Undertone, it becomes a language — one that communicates through negative space, elongated silence, and the careful withholding of information.

The narrative itself is skeletal, almost deliberately so, allowing themes of grief, emotional suppression, and psychological entrapment to seep through the cracks rather than announce themselves outright. Characters feel less like fully articulated individuals and more like vessels for internal states — fractured, repressed, and quietly unraveling.

This approach is undeniably immersive… but also demanding.

The Power of Sound

If Undertone has a defining strength, it lies in its sonic architecture.

Sound here is not merely accompaniment — it is the film’s primary instrument of tension. Subtle shifts in tone, the intrusion of low-frequency hums, the absence of expected auditory cues — all contribute to a sense of unease that lingers beneath the surface.

In many ways, Undertone aligns itself with traditions of psychological horror that privilege atmosphere over spectacle. It understands that fear often resides not in what we see, but in what we anticipate — and what we cannot quite place.

The result is a film that listens as much as it shows.

The Slow Burn of Suppression

Thematically, Undertone is preoccupied with what happens when emotion is buried rather than expressed. Grief, in particular, becomes a suffocating presence — not explosive, but corrosive. It manifests in the stillness, in the hesitation, in the inability of its characters to confront what lies beneath.

This is horror as internalised pressure.

The pacing reflects this intent. Scenes linger. Moments stretch. Time itself feels elongated, mirroring the psychological stasis of its characters. For some, this will read as hypnotic — an invitation to sit within discomfort. For others, it may verge on inertia.

Minimalism as Double-Edged Sword

And here lies the film’s central tension.

The same minimalism that gives Undertone its identity also limits its reach. The scarcity of overt scares, the deliberate narrative opacity, and the glacial pacing risk alienating viewers who seek more immediate engagement.

There are moments where the film feels on the cusp of revelation — where its restraint might give way to something more tangible — only to retreat once again into ambiguity. This can be frustrating, particularly when the emotional payoff does not fully match the investment required.

Yet to criticise Undertone for this is also to acknowledge its commitment. It refuses to compromise its vision, even when that vision narrows its audience.

The Prognosis:

Undertone is a film that exists in the margins — of sound, of space, of emotion. It is an exercise in restraint that occasionally teeters into limitation, but never without purpose.

A haunting, slow-burning meditation on grief and suppression, where minimalism becomes both its greatest strength and its most significant constraint.

  • Saul Muerte

Undertone is currently screening in cinemas nationwide

They Bite Back: Critters (1986)

10 Friday Apr 2026

Posted by in retrospective

≈ Leave a comment

Before horror-comedy became a carefully calibrated studio formula, Critters arrived like a feral little gremlin — scrappy, irreverent, and gleefully chaotic. Directed by Stephen Herek, this pint-sized creature feature didn’t just ride the wave of 80s monster mania — it bit into it with razor-sharp teeth and refused to let go.

Nearly four decades on, Critters remains a cult favourite, not because it tries to be polished or profound, but because it understands something fundamental about horror: sometimes, the most memorable monsters are the ones having the most fun.

Small Creatures, Big Attitude

At first glance, the film’s premise feels comfortingly familiar — small-town America, a quiet Kansas farm, and something from the stars crash-landing into unsuspecting territory. But where Critters distinguishes itself is in its creatures.

The Krites — carnivorous, fur-covered, needle-toothed balls of extraterrestrial appetite — are pure 80s invention. Brought to life through practical effects that favour personality over realism, they chatter, roll, swarm, and devour with gleeful abandon. They are less silent predators and more anarchic invaders, driven by hunger and mischief in equal measure.

It’s impossible not to draw comparisons to Gremlins, but Critters carves its own identity by leaning harder into the horror. These creatures don’t just cause chaos — they kill, and they do so with a vicious streak that gives the film real bite beneath its playful exterior.

Madcap Mayhem from the Cosmos

Then there are the bounty hunters — shape-shifting intergalactic lawmen whose presence injects an entirely different strain of absurdity into the film. Their awkward attempts at blending into human society provide some of Critters’ most memorable moments, particularly as they adopt bizarre, often ill-fitting disguises.

This collision of tones — small-town horror, sci-fi absurdity, and slapstick comedy — could easily have unravelled in less capable hands. But Herek keeps the film moving at a brisk pace, allowing the madness to escalate without ever losing its sense of momentum.

There’s an infectious energy to it all, a sense that the film is constantly teetering on the edge of chaos — and enjoying every second of it.

The Heart of 80s Creature Feature Cinema

What makes Critters endure is its commitment to the spirit of practical filmmaking. The creatures feel tangible, their presence grounded in physical effects that give them weight and texture. There’s a scrappiness to the production that works in its favour, lending the film an authenticity that glossy modern creature features often lack.

It also taps into the quintessential 80s horror formula — the invasion of the domestic space. The Brown family farm becomes a battleground, a place of supposed safety transformed into a site of escalating terror. This grounding in everyday life makes the absurdity all the more effective.

A Cult Legacy That Keeps Rolling

While it may not have reached the same mainstream heights as some of its contemporaries, Critters has carved out a lasting legacy within genre circles. Its success spawned sequels, expanded its mythology, and cemented the Krites as enduring icons of creature-feature cinema.

The film also serves as an early showcase for Herek, who would go on to helm films like Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure, carrying with him that same sense of playful irreverence.

The Prognosis:

Critters is messy, mischievous, and gloriously unrefined — a film that embraces its own ridiculousness while delivering genuine thrills and memorable monsters.

It may not be the most sophisticated entry in the 80s horror canon, but it’s undoubtedly one of the most fun.

A madcap creature feature that proves sometimes the smallest monsters leave the biggest bite.

  • Saul Muerte

Ready or Not… It’s Hunting Season Again

07 Tuesday Apr 2026

Posted by in Movie review

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , ,

5…4…3…2…1…. Ready or not, here it comes!

A sequel to 2019’s Ready or Not.

There are many angles this review could take, but regular readers will probably think we’ll go through the Six Qualities that make a good sequel checklist. And you’d be right.

  • Does it respect the first film and not shit on it?
  • Is it just a carbon copy of the first film?
  • Is it just a carbon copy of the first film, but “bigger” and nothing more?
  • Does it add/expand on the legend/universe started by the first film?
  • Does it still stay within the SAME SPIRIT established by the first film?
  • Does it stand on its own 2 feet as a standalone film?

Before we go through these points, just a quick recap. In the first movie a young woman – Grace – marries into an uber rich family. It’s established she has no living relatives, so marrying for big love and even bigger money is pretty much jackpot for her! Cue the night of the wedding, and Grace’s new husband tells her his clan has a tradition where any newcomer must play a game with them. Over the years they have made a fortune selling boardgames, so as traditions go, it’s quirky more than weird. That is until Grace pulls a playing card to determine what kind of game they’ll be enjoying, and the card says “hide ‘n’ seek”. Said fam then all try and kill Grace in their giant mansion by sunrise – otherwise their mysterious benefactor; who has bestowed upon them all their family’s good fortune and glory – will be displeased. And will appear and kill them all if Grace is not caught. And the dude is basically the devil.

So onto movie 2, which would have been waaaay cooler if the #2 hadn’t appeared in the title. I mean from a marketing perspective I get it, people are idiots, but if the sequel to Ready or Not was just actually Ready or Not, Here I Come… that would have been awesome along the lines of Aliens to Alien. Prey to Predator. Happy Death Day 2U to Happy Death Day. As this fits into Point # 7 (which is not mandatory) Does it have a cool title that doesn’t have a number tagged on the end (like most sequels do) or a subtitle? Eg: Indiana Jones and the ever- decreasing quality of adventure.

Anyway – this new instalment literally picks up from the last scene of the last movie, and Grace – it is revealed – has a sister! And if you think that feels like a jammed in retcon, you’d be right. But more on that later. It is also revealed that the family Grace married into is actually one of 6 who have made the same pact with the devil. And as Grace has effectively wiped out one of these families (her former in- laws) the title for head family (think Lannisters versus all the other Houses) is up for grabs. So, one kidnapping later of her and her sister (who is estranged from Grace – of course; ya gotta have sibling conflict) and we have our setting for another round of deadly hide and seek. Whichever family gets to kill Grace before sunrise gets the brass ring (or in this case gold ring) to rule them all; and with it get a ton of world influencing power.

So – going through our points, does this pass the Surgeons’ Pub Test of what makes a good sequel? Does it respect the first film and not shit on it like Highlander 2 did to Highlander?

Well, considering the sister angle was from another script from directors Matt Bettinelli-Olpin and Tyler Gillett that they then re-purposed for this movie, you would be forgiven for thinking this could go off the rails ala the plethora of Die Hard movies after 3. But this film is very much in-universe in flavour, and whatever leaps it takes feels natural and earned. Even the explanation as to why Grace has a sister when the first film has her earnestly state she has no siblings, feels acceptable. Sort of. Certainly the fact this bump happens at the start of this movie makes it easier to drive over, as you are still open to seeing if this instalment will be any good.

Is it a carbon copy of the first film? Or a carbon copy, but just bigger? Ie: a re-hash with just more kills – like any number of countless slasher horror sequels, the most offensive in recent memory being I Know What You Did Last Summer Because It’s I Know What You Did last Summer. This is a delicate one for a lot of films, as the main hook for a horror called “hide & seek” is that it should contain characters playing hide and seek. So if this film deviates from that, then it violates point 1. But if it contrives a lazy way to throw Grace into another mansion to be hunted in, then it fails point 2 & 3.

But the set up as to why Grace (and her sister) gets hunted in this film feels well-earned enough to check off point 4, as it expands this movie’s in-universe mythos in a compelling way.

Point 5, does it stay in the same spirit of the last movie? Considering that spirit is an entertaining graphic horror tale with a strong streak of black humour?
Definitely. Two words, bride fight. You’ll get it when you see it.

Point 6 – does it stand up on its own 2 feet? Again, yes. There are multiple reasons why, but one (and this might be a little surprising) is Samara Weaving (who plays Grace). There is no questioning her acting pedigree, but her chops – especially at the gut-wrenching realisation that the nightmare she has just endured is about to happen again – is surprisingly grounded and real. Being in a popcorn movie doesn’t mean you can’t sell it. In fact, it’s one thing to act powerfully with Oscar award winning material. But to draw in an audience in a setting that is meant to be silly fun… some would say that’s where the real game lies.

The Prognosis:

This is a worthy sequel to a film that felt like a nice self-contained B-grade home run. It didn’t need a second instalment, but that didn’t stop the film makers from crushing it. The fun is still there, the jeopardy is still there, and the sister element – whilst at times feels a little forced – doesn’t get in the way of another well executed romp.

Ready or Not… this finds you.

  • Antony Yee 06/04/26