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Hell House LLC: Lineage — The Ghost of a Franchise Haunted by Its Own Myth

27 Monday Oct 2025

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Across five films, Stephen Cognetti has quietly built one of the more curious mythologies in modern horror — a patchwork of haunted architecture, cursed tapes, and cyclical tragedy orbiting the ghostly epicentre of the Abaddon Hotel. Hell House LLC: Lineage seeks to close this circle, but in doing so, becomes trapped within it.

Forsaking the found-footage style that once defined the franchise, Cognetti’s latest entry opts for a more traditional, narrative form. It’s an understandable evolution — and yet one that inadvertently severs the series from its greatest source of dread: immediacy. Where Hell House LLC (2015) thrived on grainy footage and fractured perspective, Lineage feels distant, almost elegiac. Its horrors unfold with the politeness of recollection rather than the panic of experience.

At the centre is Vanessa Shepherd (Elizabeth Vermilyea), a woman tethered to Abaddon by blood and dream, her life dissolving beneath the weight of inherited trauma. Vermilyea brings a weary conviction to the role, grounding the supernatural within something painfully human — grief as a form of haunting. Around her, Cognetti threads familiar motifs: the flicker of dying light, the whisper of unseen presences, the inescapable architecture of fate. These moments remind us why the director’s early work resonated — his ability to make space itself feel sentient.

But Lineage, for all its ambition, buckles under the burden of its own mythology. The film drifts between closure and repetition, explaining away its mysteries rather than deepening them. The Abaddon myth — once an unknowable wound — becomes over-articulated, every secret illuminated until nothing remains in shadow. What was once terrifying for its ambiguity now feels embalmed by overexposure.

Cognetti’s direction still glimmers with craft — a movement in the periphery, a dissonant hum in the sound design — yet the sense of discovery is gone. Lineage isn’t so much a haunting as it is a requiem, mourning what the series once was: a small, scrappy miracle of lo-fi horror ingenuity.

The Prognosis:

Hell House LLC: Lineage closes the curtain with a sigh rather than a scream. It is a ghost story about the exhaustion of storytelling itself — beautiful in fragments, hollow in execution. The Abaddon Hotel may still echo, but the fear has long since checked out.

  • Saul Muerte

Buried Truths & Walking Away: Why Weapons (2025) Matters

27 Monday Oct 2025

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From the sinewy shock of Barbarian, Zach Cregger already marked himself as a horror director to watch. With Weapons, he doesn’t just advance — he detonates expectations. This second feature is not merely a follow-up; it’s a recalibration. It announces that horror’s pulse today beats in the fissures beneath the suburban façade, in the worn edges of trust, in the vanishing of innocence — and in the uncomfortable realisation that the scariest weapon might already be inside us.

Disappearance as the new nightmare

The opening image of Weapons is deceptively simple: at exactly 2:17 a.m., seventeen third-graders leave their homes in a quiet Pennsylvania town and vanish. One child remains. One teacher becomes suspect. One grieving parent begins to hunt. On paper, it’s a disappearance-mystery. In execution, it becomes a sprawling meditation on what gets lost when the promise of security dissolves. Wikipedia+2High On Films+2

Here, Cregger takes the school as a metaphor for safety, the teacher as a figure of authority, the parent as wounded faith. But the vanishing children — they become more than victims; they are the unlost ghosts of generational damage. As one analyst proffers, the “weapons” of the title are not just guns or hooks, but systems: fear, manipulation, the warp of hope. High On Films+1

Style, structure and the fracture of form

What distinguishes Weapons is how formal mechanics mirror thematic unease. Cregger and cinematographer Larkin Seiple create a visual rhythm that is at once pristine and off-kilter: children running in long-takes, snow-white lawns under dawn light, the teacher caught in surveillance shots, the father hidden behind phone-screens. NME+1

The narrative fractures into multiple perspectives: the teacher (Julia Garner), the parent (Josh Brolin), the cop (Alden Ehrenreich), the one remaining child (Cary Christopher). The result is less a linear mystery and more a mosaic of dread. As one review put it: “It’s a puzzle you’re almost too afraid to solve”. Heaven of Horror+1

This is significant because horror today often demands instantaneous clarity; Weapons gives the opposite. It gives blur, ambiguity, the feeling that you’re running in corridors of your own assumptions. In its uncertainty lies its power.

Grief, legacy and the weight of genre

Cregger has admitted that the film was born of very personal trauma — the sudden death of a close friend. Polygon+1 This grief is not neatly transmuted into “the monster”, but folded into the film’s architecture: the teacher slipping into alcoholism, the parent’s rage, the town complicit in its own blindness.

In this sense, Weapons speaks to horror’s evolving ambition. No longer content with jump-scares or superficial transgression, it invites emotional excavation. The “missing children” are shadows of lost futures; the investigation is a metaphor for the long haul of trauma. That it arrives with mainstream box-office success (grossing in the hundreds of millions) means more: it signals that audiences are open to horror that doesn’t just frighten — it unsettles and lingers. Wikipedia

Why it matters for Halloweekend

As you craft your Halloweekend marathon, Weapons deserves a place not just as a scare-ritual but as a statement piece. It isn’t the easiest watch — the payoff is less about shock and more about reflection. But that makes it an essential counter-balance to more straightforward fright-fests.

It offers:

  • Depth – an exploration of communal wounds rather than a lone killer.
  • Style with substance – formal horror mechanics married to emotional weight.
  • Conversation starter – the kind of film viewers will talk about long after the credits.

This is the horror film that proves the genre still has places left to unearth. In between the classic chills and the fun cult throwbacks, Weapons is the grown-up scare that stays with you when the children have finally gone to bed.

The Prognosis:

Weapons may not offer the catharsis of a neatly tied-up thriller, but perhaps that’s the point. In a world where so much is unresolved, to leave with a question instead of an answer is the greater horror and the greater gift. Cregger invites us into a house of mirrors — only to show that the reflection we fear is our own. Watch it not just for the chills, but for the echo that follows.

  • Saul Muerte

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Weapons (2025): Secrets Buried, Stories Unleashed

Vampire in Brooklyn — When Fangs Meet Farce and Nobody Wins

26 Sunday Oct 2025

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When Vampire in Brooklyn (1995) first hit cinemas, it seemed like a sure thing. Eddie Murphy, still one of Hollywood’s biggest stars, teaming up with horror maestro Wes Craven — fresh off New Nightmare and on the cusp of Scream — for a supernatural horror-comedy that promised both chills and laughs. On paper, it sounded like a bloody good time. In execution, however, it became a messy, tone-deaf experiment caught between two creative egos and a studio unsure of what it wanted.

Murphy, who also co-wrote and co-produced the film, was eager to move beyond the wisecracking cop persona that had defined his career. He envisioned Vampire in Brooklyn as a darker, more serious take on horror — a stylish Gothic thriller with him at its centre as the suave, seductive vampire Maximilian. Paramount, however, saw something very different: a horror-comedy vehicle for its bankable star. What emerged was an uneasy hybrid that fails to find its footing, unsure whether to scare or to entertain.

Craven, ever the craftsman, tries valiantly to balance the clashing tones. There are flashes of his visual flair — an eerie opening sequence aboard a derelict ship, the crimson-lit interiors of Maximilian’s lair, and a few moments that recall his knack for the grotesque. Yet, it’s clear he’s wrestling with a script that doesn’t know what film it wants to be. The result is a workmanlike effort from a director capable of brilliance, dulled by interference and conflicting visions.

Murphy’s performance doesn’t help matters. As Maximilian, he is clearly struggling to play it straight in a film that refuses to let him. Worse still, his multiple side characters — including a shapeshifting preacher and a slick Italian hood — are cartoonish distractions that undercut any atmosphere the film manages to build. The humour feels forced, the scares are neutered, and the pacing plods.

The film’s saving grace is Angela Bassett, whose portrayal of Detective Rita Veder adds depth and gravitas where the script provides little. Bassett commands every frame with her trademark intensity, grounding the absurdity around her with genuine emotional weight. In a better film, her character’s arc — caught between duty and seduction — might have resonated as a modern Gothic tragedy. Here, it merely hints at what Vampire in Brooklyn could have been.

Wes Craven would rebound just a year later with Scream, proving his instincts were still razor-sharp when given the right material. Vampire in Brooklyn, by contrast, feels like a creative crossroads for all involved — a misfire born from too many competing intentions and not enough cohesion.

The Prognosis:

A muddled mix of horror and humour, Vampire in Brooklyn never finds its bite. Caught between Murphy’s comedic impulses and Craven’s horror pedigree, it flails when it should fly. Angela Bassett alone keeps the film from turning to dust, but even she can’t save this lifeless experiment from the shadows.

  • Saul Muerte

Beyond the Crime Scene: Stuart Ortiz and the Cosmic Anatomy of Fear

20 Monday Oct 2025

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In Strange Harvest, Ortiz reshapes the language of true-crime horror, transforming the procedural form into a conduit for cosmic unease — a subtle evolution from his Grave Encounters origins.

In Strange Harvest, Stuart Ortiz — one half of the duo behind Grave Encounters — returns to the found footage-adjacent horror landscape with a surprising degree of control and maturity. Where Grave Encounters (2011) revelled in its haunted asylum chaos and digital distortion, Strange Harvest feels leaner and more deliberate, channelling that same eerie energy into a faux true-crime format that plays like Zodiac meets The Fourth Kind.

The film opens with what seems like a procedural—detectives responding to a welfare check in suburban San Bernardino—but quickly descends into something far darker. A murdered family, strange symbols written in blood, and the re-emergence of a serial killer known as “Mr. Shiny” set the stage for a horror narrative that thrives on implication and dread. Each new crime scene pushes the story further into cosmic territory, hinting at malevolent forces that exist well beyond the scope of human comprehension.

Ortiz demonstrates that he’s learned from over a decade in the horror trenches. His handling of the faux documentary format feels both grounded and authentic, using interviews, news footage, and handheld police recordings to build a layered mythology around the murders. The pacing is steady but tense, and the editing keeps the viewer in that unnerving space between realism and the supernatural — a sweet spot Ortiz has always excelled at.

While the premise is simple, that’s part of its strength. Strange Harvest doesn’t overcomplicate its narrative or chase high-concept spectacle; instead, it leans into its lo-fi authenticity, letting the horror emerge through atmosphere and suggestion. There are shades of procedural TV mixed with cosmic unease, but Ortiz ties it together with a firm grasp of tone and an eye for unsettling imagery.

It’s a testament to Ortiz’s craft that what could have been another run-of-the-mill mockumentary instead feels genuinely unnerving. Strange Harvest proves that the Grave Encounters legacy wasn’t a one-off fluke — Ortiz remains a filmmaker who understands how to weaponise form, texture, and the illusion of truth to make horror hit a little too close to home.

The Prognosis:

A deceptively simple yet chilling faux true-crime horror that tightens the screws through atmosphere and implication. Ortiz’s strongest solo work to date.

  • Saul Muerte

Black Phone 2 — Derrickson Dials Back the Horror, But the Line’s Gone Cold

16 Thursday Oct 2025

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Scott Derrickson returns to familiar ground with Black Phone 2 (2025), a sequel that stretches the eerie premise of his 2022 hit into icier, more supernatural territory — but the call doesn’t quite connect this time.

Set four years after Finney Blake’s (Mason Thames) narrow escape from The Grabber, the film finds the once-traumatised boy struggling to rebuild his life under the weight of memory and unresolved fear. His sister Gwen (Madeleine McGraw) remains gifted — or cursed — with psychic visions, and when she begins dreaming of three missing boys at a winter camp, the black phone begins to ring again. Only this time, the voice on the other end isn’t just calling from the past — it’s pulling them back into it.

Derrickson, who cut his teeth on Sinister and Deliver Us from Evil, once again demonstrates a clear mastery of atmosphere. His use of light and shadow is chillingly deliberate, and the wintry backdrop gives the sequel a haunting, desaturated beauty that recalls the nightmare logic of A Nightmare on Elm Street crossed with the isolation of Friday the 13th. The cinematography by Brett Jutkiewicz captures frost-bitten textures and dreamlike corridors of fear, keeping the mood taut even when the story falters.

And falter it does. Despite a promising setup, Black Phone 2 struggles to escape the confines of its own mythology. What once felt mysterious and emotionally grounded now feels repetitive and muddled. The attempts to expand The Grabber’s lore — turning him into a supernatural force rather than a disturbed man — rob the story of its primal fear. The original thrived on ambiguity; this sequel over-explains.

Mason Thames and Madeleine McGraw both deliver earnest performances, grounding their characters in shared trauma, but they’re hampered by dialogue that’s often clunky and exposition-heavy. Even the film’s pacing, once one of Derrickson’s strong suits, slips into uneven rhythms — long stretches of ghostly visions interrupted by bursts of predictable violence.

Still, credit where it’s due: Derrickson’s visual language remains potent. Echoes of Sinister resonate throughout, from the use of distorted sound design to the flicker of analogue textures, suggesting a filmmaker who still knows how to craft a mood. The Grabber, though used sparingly, continues to terrify — his mask, redesigned with subtle variations, remains one of modern horror’s most unsettling icons.

But for all its chills, Black Phone 2 can’t shake the feeling of déjà vu. It’s a sequel haunted not only by its ghostly antagonist but by the shadow of a stronger predecessor. Derrickson’s talent for visual dread is undeniable — he just needs a story worth listening to again.

The Prognosis:

Black Phone 2 has the atmosphere, tension, and menace you’d expect from Scott Derrickson, but not the clarity or emotional pull that made the original so striking. Despite its best efforts to evolve into a supernatural slasher, this follow-up never quite finds its signal.

In the end, Black Phone 2 just doesn’t have time to thaw out properly — it rings, but the line’s gone cold.

  • Saul Muerte

Watching Herself Unravel — “Other” Struggles to Find Its Focus

13 Monday Oct 2025

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David Moreau, best known for his sleek genre work (Them, The Eye, It Boy), returns to the psychological horror fold with Other — a moody, paranoia-laden mystery that tries to blend domestic trauma with techno-surveillance dread. On paper, it’s an enticing setup: Olga Kurylenko’s Alice returns to her childhood home following her mother’s sudden death, only to find herself under constant watch by a high-tech system that seems to know more about her than she does. What unfolds is a slow burn of suspicion and shadow, where the hum of hidden cameras replaces the creak of haunted floorboards.

There’s an admirable restraint in Moreau’s direction. He builds atmosphere through cold precision — lingering frames, muted lighting, and uneasy stillness — but the payoff rarely matches the setup. The house itself, eerie and static, becomes a sterile stage rather than a vessel for emotional tension. Kurylenko shoulders most of the film’s weight, her performance caught between brittle vulnerability and steely detachment, yet the script gives her little room to evolve beyond a cipher.

Hints of a darker, more personal horror flicker beneath the surface — grief, guilt, and identity all swirl in the static — but the film never fully tunes in. Other wants to be a modern ghost story for the surveillance age, but it feels more like a polished echo of better work.

While there are moments that capture Moreau’s visual confidence — particularly in how the camera mirrors Alice’s fractured psyche — the pacing drags, and the final revelation lands without the intended sting. After last year’s MADS, this feels like a creative step backward: beautifully shot, conceptually intriguing, but emotionally hollow.

The Prognosis:

A technically sleek yet curiously empty thriller. Other watches its heroine fall apart but forgets to make us care what she finds in the end.

  • Saul Muerte

V/H/S/Halloween (2025): Analog Nightmares, Digital Fatigue

08 Wednesday Oct 2025

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Eight films in, and the V/H/S franchise has reached that strange liminal space between reinvention and redundancy. V/H/S/Halloween promises another grab bag of analog nightmares, but what it ultimately offers is a reminder that this format — and perhaps found footage itself — is struggling to justify its continued revival.

Segmented through Bryan M. Ferguson’s Diet Phantasma, a frame narrative about a possessed soft drink, the film pulses between absurdist body horror and tongue-in-cheek satire. It’s gory, chaotic, and knowingly silly — a kind of VHS-era Cronenberg-lite filtered through Slimehouse aesthetics. It’s amusing enough, but its placement between each short becomes little more than a sugar rush: a filler designed to jolt, not haunt.

Anna Zlokovic’s Coochie Coochie Coo aims for Barbarian-esque weirdness but collapses under its own shaky-cam chaos. It’s conceptually interesting — exploring the monstrous side of motherhood and lost innocence — yet the execution feels forced, desperate to shock rather than unsettle.

Paco Plaza’s Ut Supra Sic Infra is easily the standout. The [REC] director flexes his mastery of dread with a metaphysical descent into ritual horror and the supernatural. It’s slick, moody, and genuinely disorienting, proving that when the right filmmaker takes the reins, the V/H/S anthology format can still bite.

Casper Kelly’s Fun Size, however, is a regression — an infantile splatter piece that mistakes noise for novelty. Whether its deliberately bad performances are meant to parody ‘80s horror cheese or are just poorly handled is anyone’s guess, but it grates either way.

Alex Ross Perry’s Kidprint ends things on a troubling note, tackling child abduction and snuff imagery with an uneasy hand. The idea — a man unwittingly complicit in a ring of video-taped killings — could have been chilling, but the tone wobbles between exploitative and hollow. It’s a grim finish that leaves you numb rather than disturbed.

And that’s the core issue here: V/H/S/Halloween feels like it’s circling the drain of its own nostalgia. The analog grime, the static, the jittery cuts — once the aesthetic of underground menace — now play like ritualised pastiche. There are sparks of invention, but they’re buried under too many loud edits and too few genuine scares.

The Prognosis:

Maybe it’s time to admit what’s been lurking behind the flicker for years: the found footage format — once raw, immediate, and terrifying — is finally running out of tape.

  • Saul Muerte

The Drowned: A Mythic Thriller That Never Quite Breaks the Surface

08 Wednesday Oct 2025

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Greek myths meet murky waters in a low-budget thriller that almost makes it to shore.

Samuel Clemens’ The Drowned attempts to merge myth and morality within a low-budget psychological thriller, dipping into the murky waters of Greek legend to find something ancient beneath the surface. The results, however, are mixed—an ambitious premise buoyed by striking influences but ultimately weighed down by pacing and atmosphere that never fully submerge the viewer.

Drawing on the myth of Hylas and the nymphs—immortalised in John William Waterhouse’s 1896 oil painting—Clemens reimagines the seductive call of the sea as a modern-day reckoning for guilt and greed. Three thieves hole up in a seaside safehouse after stealing a priceless painting, only to find their fourth member missing and an ominous presence rising from the tide. The film’s mythological undercurrents give it a literary backbone, but they’re never quite fleshed out enough to transform into something transcendent.

There’s a palpable sense of ambition here: The Drowned tries to swim in deep waters, blending folklore, crime, and psychological tension. Yet much like the doomed figures in its inspiration, it finds itself lured by its own reflection—entranced by imagery but unable to escape the shallows of its limited scope.

Performances by Alan Calton, Lara Lemon, and Lily Catalifo lend the feature some stability, grounding its mythic aspirations in believable tension. The cinematography occasionally captures the desolate beauty of the coast with painterly intent, echoing Waterhouse’s haunting stillness. But the low budget is keenly felt, particularly in its uneven pacing and abrupt tonal shifts.

The Prognosis:

The Drowned deserves some credit for attempting to do more than most thrillers in its range—it’s an atmospheric, if uneven, meditation on temptation and consequence. Yet, despite its mythic intentions, it never quite earns its place among the more evocative modern fables. The sirens sing, but their song doesn’t linger.

  • Saul Muerte

House on Eden – Where Found Footage Finally Flatlines

03 Friday Oct 2025

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Kris Collins’ House on Eden feels like a film caught between admiration and imitation. On one hand, there’s a clear love for the stripped-down mechanics of low-budget horror — a small cast, a single creepy location, a reliance on atmosphere over spectacle. On the other, its DNA is so heavily indebted to The Blair Witch Project that it struggles to escape that long shadow, never quite finding its own voice in a subgenre that has already been mined for all it’s worth.

The setup is textbook found footage: paranormal investigators Kris, Celina, and their videographer Jay stumble into an abandoned house in the woods, where unsettling sounds, missing crew members, and unnerving presences steadily erode their sanity. To Collins’ credit, the film knows how to milk tension out of a flickering flashlight and a half-glimpsed shadow. There’s a genuine appreciation for the lo-fi aesthetic, which at times gives the film a scrappy, grassroots charm.

But charm isn’t enough when the beats feel so familiar. Every missing person, every static-laden frame, every anguished scream into the darkness calls back to 1999 — but without the raw novelty or cultural punch that made Blair Witch revolutionary. Instead of reinventing the formula, House on Eden seems content to echo it, and in doing so highlights just how stale the found footage format can feel in 2025.

The biggest frustration is that there are hints of potential. The lore surrounding the house suggests something ancient and malevolent, but the film barely scratches at it before retreating into shaky cam hysteria. A stronger commitment to its own mythology might have given it some distinction. Instead, what lingers is the sense of a genre on its last legs — a reminder that what once felt like the future of horror may finally be ready for burial.

The Prognosis:

House on Eden isn’t unwatchable, and diehard found footage fans may appreciate its sincerity. But for most, it lands as a pale reflection of a classic, underscoring that sometimes the scariest thing a horror movie can show us is that the format itself might be dead.

  • Saul Muerte

House on Eden is currently streaming on Shudder.

Roots of Guilt: Bark Ties a Man to His Own Demons in the Depths of the Forest

03 Friday Oct 2025

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The forest doesn’t care about you. It doesn’t care about your excuses, your regrets, your carefully constructed lies. Out there, among the trees, the world strips itself down to its bones — dirt, bark, roots, breath. That’s where Marc Schölermann drags us with Bark, a taut psychological thriller that ties both its protagonist and its audience to the raw elements of survival, guilt, and reckoning.

It begins with a man bound to a tree — a literal prisoner of nature and a figurative captive of his own sins. Charismatic Nolan Bentley wakes disoriented, tied down in the belly of a remote German forest. Enter the mysterious stranger, a figure both tormentor and liberator, whose taunting presence digs deeper than any rope ever could. The question isn’t just whether Bentley can escape. The question is whether he deserves to.

Bark is at its sharpest when it leans into this elemental battle: man vs. nature, man vs. stranger, man vs. himself. Schölermann uses the forest not as a backdrop but as a psychological weapon — the trees loom like silent judges, the soil feels heavy with secrets, and every snap of a branch echoes like a gavel slamming down in a cosmic courtroom.

At its core, the film isn’t about knots and ropes, it’s about consequences. You can’t disassociate from your own past forever; eventually the demons scratch their way through the bark and claw at your skin. Bark dramatises that inexorable truth with sweat, soil, and tension so tight it feels like the trees themselves are holding their breath.

The performances ground it — Bentley sells both desperation and denial, while the enigmatic outdoorsman needles and prods until every scab of guilt bursts open. And though the film runs its tension on a fairly narrow track, the payoff is a psychological unearthing that hits with the force of an axe to the trunk.

The Prognosis:

Bark is not just a thriller. It’s a meditation on accountability, guilt, and the way nature can strip us bare until we are nothing but the truth we tried to bury. Some secrets don’t stay hidden. Some forests don’t let you out.

  • Saul Muerte

Bark will screen as part of Dark Nights Film Fest on Fri 10 Oct at 7pm