Shudder’s latest original, Daddy’s Head, follows a path well-trodden in horror, diving into themes of grief, mental health, and the complicated relationship between a grieving child and a struggling stepmother. While these are common threads in horror cinema, Daddy’s Head still manages to carve out moments of eerie tension that linger long after the film’s conclusion.
Set in the vast isolation of a rural estate, the film places the young boy at its emotional core. His confusion and loss after the sudden death of his father create an unsettling atmosphere, one that is heightened by his stepmother’s emotional distance. As the boy becomes haunted by a grotesque creature resembling his father, his stepmother dismisses his warnings, believing them to be mere figments of a grieving mind. This dismissal, of course, only tightens the grip of the sinister entity, with the boy’s warnings becoming more urgent.
Where Daddy’s Head shines is in the execution of its most disturbing moments. The eerie sounds echoing through the halls, the glimpses of the monstrous father figure, and the growing tension between the boy and his stepmother all contribute to a sense of creeping dread. The film effectively taps into the fear of being ignored when something truly menacing is lurking just out of sight.
However, it’s hard to ignore that Daddy’s Head leans heavily on well-known tropes. The child who sees what the adults don’t, the stepmother struggling to fill the role of parent, and the supernatural manifestation of unresolved grief all feel familiar. While the film crafts a decent narrative around these elements, it doesn’t quite escape the shadow of similar films that have come before it.
The Prognosis:
In spite of its predictability, Daddy’s Head does manage to resonate thanks to its haunting moments and unsettling creature design. It won’t revolutionise the genre, but it crafts a sufficiently sinister tale that horror fans will find some satisfaction in.
Saul Muerte
Daddy’s Head premieres Exclusively on Shudder and AMC+ Friday 11 October
Hellboy: The Crooked Manmarks the fourth live-action installment in the Hellboy franchise and, unfortunately, continues the downward trend started by the 2019 Neil Marshall-directed reboot (which, full disclosure, I haven’t seen—so I won’t judge it too harshly). However, what The Crooked Man struggles with most is shaking off the long shadow cast by Guillermo del Toro’s Hellboy films, which, if I’m being honest, I hold a bit of bias for given my love for del Toro’s visionary style.
In The Crooked Man, Hellboy, played by Jack Kesy, teams up with a rookie agent from the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense (BPRD) to face witches and a local demon terrorizing a small 1950s Appalachian community. The setup is atmospheric, dripping with dark and moody rural horror vibes, but the style swings between working well in some moments and feeling like a TV pilot trying to test the waters for more adventures.
While Mike Mignola himself pens the screenplay, keeping the source material’s spirit alive, the execution of that spirit sometimes feels thin. There are certainly eerie moments and a heavy use of gothic imagery, but for all the darkness, the film rarely finds space for genuine scares. The “Crooked Man” villain has some potential, but he never feels quite as menacing as he should be, and the plot doesn’t take the time to build tension or fear effectively.
One thing I will credit the film for is its aesthetic, which evokes a grungy, eerie folklore atmosphere fitting for the Appalachia setting. Yet even here, the film can’t quite find its balance, often coming across as more stylistic than substantive. At times, it feels like a collection of eerie vignettes rather than a cohesive, immersive narrative.
The Prognosis:
Hellboy: The Crooked Man is not without some merit—there are moments where the moody visuals start to work, and the film grows on you as you settle into its world. But it struggles to rise above the feeling of being just another attempt at relaunching Hellboy into mainstream success, and unfortunately, it doesn’t hit the mark. It ends up feeling more like a trial run for something bigger that never quite takes off.
Fans of the comics might appreciate the nods to Mignola’s work but compared to the grand scope of del Toro’s vision for the character, The Crooked Man leaves much to be desired. It’s dark, yes, but not quite deep enough to make a lasting impression.
Saul Muerte
HELLBOY: THE CROOKED MAN will release in cinemas nationally on October 10 through Rialto Distribution.
It’s What’s Inside delivers a twisted, high-concept psychological thriller, exploring the dark side of identity, body swapping, and the lengths people will go to when driven by revenge, jealousy, and ambition. Directed by Greg Jardin, the film’s central premise—the manipulation of bodies and identities through a cutting-edge device—presents a disturbing reflection on the cost of transformation, both physical and moral.
The story revolves around a group of friends who reunite at Reuben’s (Devon Terrell) house for a pre-wedding party. Amid the celebration, their estranged friend Forbes (David W. Thompson) reappears, carrying a strange device that allows its users to swap bodies with one another. What begins as a game quickly spirals into chaos as lies are exposed, hidden desires come to light, and deep-seated grudges from their college days erupt with deadly consequences.
The film’s greatest strength lies in its unsettling portrayal of how changing one’s body—whether for vanity, power, or escape—can expose the true, often corrupt, personalities that lie within. As the group engages in their body-swapping game, it becomes clear that their outward transformations only serve to amplify their internal flaws. Forbes’s invention doesn’t just allow the characters to slip into new skins; it brings out the darkness they’ve hidden beneath the surface. As identities blur and alliances crumble, each character is forced to confront the parts of themselves they’ve tried to repress, revealing a disturbing lack of empathy and moral decay.
One of the most compelling elements of It’s What’s Inside is its critique of a generation that has lost sight of its purpose. The characters—consumed by a need for success, revenge, and personal gain—are driven by their ambitions with little concern for the consequences. Shelby (Brittany O’Grady), who eagerly embraces her newfound appearance after swapping into Nikki’s (Alycia Debnam-Carey) body, exemplifies this obsession with image and social media status. Meanwhile, Cyrus’s (James Morosini) jealousy and insecurity bubble over as he navigates the body-swapping game, becoming a key player in the film’s explosive climax. The group, so intent on achieving what they believe to be success, revenge, or escape, fail to realize the dangers of playing with their identities until it’s too late.
As the narrative escalates, we see the tragic consequences of their actions—deaths, betrayal, and a complete breakdown of trust including a shocking demise during the second round of body swapping sets the stage for the film’s darker turn, as Forbes, Shelby, and the others begin to unravel, trapped in a vicious cycle of lies and deception. The notion of swapping bodies as a game becomes a perverse metaphor for youth’s reckless pursuit of validation, where nothing—including one’s own identity—is sacred or permanent.
The ending leaves a lasting impression, and a final twist of revenge, leaving the audience and its players in a world where no one’s identity is fixed and everyone is willing to sacrifice their true selves for personal gain, It’s What’s Inside raises unsettling questions about the lengths people will go to control their own narratives. Even after the dust settles, the repercussions of the group’s actions hang over them, leaving the audience with an eerie sense of inevitability.
The Prognosis:
It’s What’s Inside offers a disturbing exploration of identity, revenge, and the corrupting influence of ambition. While the plot occasionally stumbles under the weight of its complex narrative, the film still manages to deliver a chilling commentary on the cost of changing one’s body, and by extension, oneself. As youth grapples with the allure of success and validation, the film serves as a cautionary tale of how easily one can lose sight of who they truly are. With its unsettling atmosphere and darkly intriguing concept, It’s What’s Inside lingers in the mind, reminding us that the greatest horrors come from within.
Saul Muerte
It’s What’s Inside is currently streaming on Netflix.
I Saw The TV Glow arrives with a wave of early praise, bolstered by its intriguing mix of nostalgia, psychological horror, and a striking exploration of identity. Directed by Jane Schoenbrun, the film centers around two troubled high school students (Justice Smith and Brigette Lundy-Paine) whose obsession with a television show begins to warp their sense of reality and their own identities. While the premise offers plenty of promise and builds an atmospheric tension reminiscent of Candle Cove and David Lynch’s work, the film struggles to lift itself beyond its ambitions, leaving a lingering sense of missed opportunity.
The narrative is ripe with themes of nostalgia and the feeling of being trapped—whether it’s in a body that doesn’t feel like yours or in a reality that’s constantly shifting and untrustworthy. These elements mirror the protagonists’ internal struggles as they face issues of gender reassignment and self-doubt. However, the execution becomes muddled, never quite delivering the emotional impact or the depth that these weighty themes demand. Instead, the film remains more interested in style and atmosphere, leaving the characters’ arcs feeling underdeveloped.
Schoenbrun’s exploration of nostalgia takes centre stage in the film’s aesthetic choices, leaning heavily into a Candle Cove-style approach, with eerie television broadcasts and strange occurrences making the characters—and the audience—question what’s real. There’s a palpable sense of dread that permeates the film, much of it owing to the Lynchian vibes that pulse through the visuals and soundscape. The surreal, dreamlike quality is one of the film’s greatest strengths, capturing the confusion and fear that comes from losing your grip on reality. Yet, where Lynch often manages to weave abstract ideas with emotional clarity, I Saw The TV Glow falters, leaving too much ambiguity without a satisfying resolution.
The killer soundtrack is another standout feature. Packed with an eclectic mix of tracks, it underscores the film’s nostalgic tone while also adding to its unsettling atmosphere. The music choices help immerse the viewer in the world Schoenbrun has crafted, one that feels just off-kilter enough to unsettle without overtly terrifying. It’s a sensory experience that lingers long after the film ends, even if the narrative doesn’t fully stick the landing.
Despite its shortcomings, I Saw The TV Glow is not without merit. The performances by Justice Smith and Brigette Lundy-Paine are compelling, capturing the emotional confusion and intensity of their characters. They deliver strong portrayals of youth grappling with identity, even if the script doesn’t always give them enough room to fully develop their characters. The supporting cast, including Helena Howard, Fred Durst, and Danielle Deadwyler, offer intriguing contributions but are often sidelined by the film’s focus on atmosphere over substance.
The film’s visual style, coupled with its heady themes, does manage to create a lingering impression. There’s something undeniably hypnotic about the way I Saw The TV Glow merges nostalgia with surreal horror, but it’s hard to shake the feeling that the movie, like its characters, is trapped in its own potential—constantly reaching but never fully achieving.
The Prognosis:
While I Saw The TV Glow boasts a promising premise, strong performances, and an unforgettable soundtrack, it ultimately falls short of delivering on its potential. The Lynchian atmosphere and Candle Cove-inspired narrative pull you in, but the film struggles to tie its themes together in a cohesive way, leaving viewers with more questions than answers. It lingers long after the credits roll, but more for what it could have been than what it is. A stylish but emotionally distant experience that never quite reaches the heights it sets out to achieve.
Hold Your Breath, the latest psychological horror-thriller from directors Karrie Crouse and Will Joines, had all the ingredients to be a standout film. Set against the haunting backdrop of the 1930s Dust Bowl, with a compelling premise and Sarah Paulson leading the charge, the film seemed poised to deliver a chilling exploration of fear and paranoia. Unfortunately, despite Paulson’s strong performance and the intriguing concept of an antagonist hidden within the dust, Hold Your Breath falls flat, weighed down by slow pacing, underdeveloped tension, and a lackluster narrative.
The story centers on Mabel (Paulson), a young mother living in rural Oklahoma, whose life is unraveling as the unforgiving dust storms ravage the land and her mind. Paulson brings depth and intensity to her role, portraying Mabel’s descent into paranoia and fear with her trademark skill. Her performance is by far the highlight of the film, effectively conveying the crushing burden of motherhood in a world that feels as hostile as it is desolate. As Mabel becomes convinced that a malevolent presence is lurking in the dust storms, Paulson’s portrayal of her psychological breakdown feels visceral and authentic, grounding the film in moments that would otherwise be lost in the haze.
The premise itself is promising—an unknown threat hiding in the dust, a force of nature that becomes a villain in its own right. There’s something deeply unnerving about the idea that something as natural as the wind could be hiding something sinister. However, Hold Your Breath struggles to capitalise on this. Instead of using the dust storms to build a creeping sense of dread, the film meanders, failing to fully deliver on its supernatural promise or lean into the psychological horror it teases.
The pacing is one of the film’s biggest issues. While the slow-burn approach can work wonders in building tension, Hold Your Breath takes it too far, with long stretches where little happens beyond Mabel’s growing unease. For all the atmospheric dust and the potential of an unseen threat lurking within it, the tension never truly escalates. The film teeters on the edge of suspense but never tips over into genuine horror or even psychological thrills. By the time it reaches its conclusion, the payoff feels underwhelming, leaving the audience more frustrated than fearful.
The dust, intended as a central figure in the narrative, is visually striking but ultimately underutilised. It swirls ominously throughout the film, but the menace it promises never quite materialises. The dust could have been a powerful metaphor for Mabel’s disintegrating mind, her inability to see clearly or escape her situation, but instead, it becomes just a backdrop—an aesthetic choice rather than a narrative driver. There’s a missed opportunity in not making the dust storms more integral to the psychological unraveling or the supernatural terror.
Even with a strong supporting cast, including Amiah Miller and Ebon Moss-Bachrach, the characters surrounding Mabel feel flat. Their roles seem more like props to Mabel’s story rather than fully fleshed-out individuals, which detracts from the emotional weight of her breakdown. The interactions between Mabel and her family lack the depth needed to make her increasing isolation and fear resonate on a deeper level.
The Prognosis:
Hold Your Breath boasts a cracking premise and a standout performance from Sarah Paulson, who anchors the film with emotional depth and conviction. The idea of a villain hidden within the dust storms of the 1930s Oklahoma Dust Bowl offers so much potential for both psychological and supernatural horror, but the film’s sluggish pacing and lack of genuine tension leave much to be desired. Despite its atmospheric setting and strong central performance, Hold Your Breath ultimately fails to make a lasting impression, squandering its intriguing concept in a haze of missed opportunities.
Saul Muerte
Hold Your Breath is streaming on Disney Plus from Oct 4th.
Blumhouse has long been synonymous with delivering low-budget horror with a sharp edge, but in recent years, their output has felt a bit predictable, leaving some fans yearning for the earlier days of their groundbreaking horror. House of Spoils, however, offers a fresh twist on familiar supernatural elements, blending witchcraft, female empowerment, and the culinary world in a tale that simmers with intrigue, even if it doesn’t fully deliver the knockout punch expected from the studio.
Written and directed by Bridget Savage Cole and Danielle Krudy, House of Spoils stars the ever-charismatic Ariana DeBose as Elena, an ambitious chef trying to launch her first restaurant in a remote estate. What should be a dream come true quickly spirals into a nightmare as Elena battles not only the pressures of running a kitchen and a shady investor (Arian Moayed) but also the spirit of the estate’s previous owner. This vengeful ghost seems hellbent on sabotaging her every move, lurking in the shadows and slowly unraveling Elena’s sanity.
The film plays out in an almost fable-like way, weaving in themes of witchcraft and earth magic, particularly in how Elena connects to the land she’s building her restaurant on. The kitchen, in this context, becomes more than a place of creativity and chaos—it’s a battleground, not just for Elena’s culinary dreams, but for her very soul. As she fends off both supernatural and real-world threats, the movie delves into the struggles of female empowerment in a male-dominated industry. It’s here that House of Spoils finds some of its most interesting material, reflecting on how women are forced to navigate a world of doubt, both external and internal, while being undermined by those around them.
Ariana DeBose shines as the determined chef, capturing Elena’s strength and vulnerability with nuance, though the script sometimes doesn’t give her enough to fully flesh out the character. Barbie Ferreira plays the role of Elena’s skeptical sous-chef, bringing a grounded, sardonic energy to the film, while Arian Moayed as the investor adds a layer of sleazy opportunism that heightens the tension.
Where House of Spoils really excels is in its atmosphere. The remote, crumbling estate is the perfect setting for a horror film, its dilapidated beauty mirroring the decaying hopes of its protagonist. There’s a distinct connection to the earth and natural elements throughout the film, almost as though the land itself is alive—and hostile. The ghostly presence of the previous owner feels intertwined with these elements, adding a layer of witchy folklore that sets the film apart from typical haunted house fare.
The culinary angle also brings a unique flavor to the film (pun intended). The stress and artistry of the kitchen mirror the growing supernatural threat, with moments of tension rising to a boil as Elena tries to hold her life and restaurant together. The culinary scenes are visually engaging and offer a fresh take on the typical horror setup, though at times they can feel somewhat underutilized in terms of narrative depth.
Despite these strong elements, House of Spoils isn’t without its shortcomings. While it explores rich themes of female resilience and empowerment, the pacing occasionally drags, and the scares feel too restrained for a Blumhouse production. The spirit haunting the restaurant never quite reaches its full terrifying potential, leaving the horror feeling a bit more muted than it should. Fans of Blumhouse’s more visceral scares might find the subtlety here frustrating, but those who appreciate a slow-burn, atmospheric approach will find much to enjoy.
At its heart, House of Spoils is a meditation on ambition, doubt, and the costs of chasing your dreams in the face of adversity. Its exploration of witchcraft and earth magic ties beautifully into its themes of resilience and nature’s power, and while it may not be a Blumhouse classic, it stands as a solid, enjoyable entry into the supernatural horror genre. There’s enough intrigue, originality, and thematic richness here to make it worth a watch, even if it doesn’t quite reach the heights it aspires to.
The Prognosis:
House of Spoils might not be a return to form for Blumhouse, but it’s a welcome detour into a world of supernatural folklore, female empowerment, and kitchen chaos. With strong performances from Ariana DeBose and an intriguing setting, it serves up a satisfying, if not entirely groundbreaking, horror tale.
Saul Muerte
House of Spoils will stream on Amazon Prime from Oct 4th.
The V/H/S franchise has always leaned into its unpredictable, chaotic nature, and V/H/S/Beyond continues this tradition, offering a new collection of short horror films that range from inventive and chilling to downright bizarre. This latest installment comes with some solid scares and intriguing ideas, but like most anthologies, it’s a mixed bag. The strongest segments manage to elevate the overall experience, while a few others hold it back. Here’s a breakdown of each story:
“Abduction/Adduction” – Frame Narrative
Directed by Jay Cheel, “Abduction/Adduction” serves as the glue that holds the anthology together. The premise follows a group of people documenting bizarre encounters with alien abductions, which links the other stories in a creative, albeit predictable, manner. The narrative keeps things moving with just enough intrigue, but ultimately it’s more functional than memorable.
Directed by Jordan Downey, “Stork” is easily one of the anthology’s highlights. This segment centers around a police unit investigating a string of baby disappearances in a decrepit house. What starts as a procedural investigation quickly devolves into something much more unsettling, with the house itself becoming a labyrinth of horrors. Downey creates a palpable sense of dread throughout, blending supernatural elements with gritty realism. The imagery is nightmarish, and the tension builds to a truly disturbing climax.
Strengths: Atmosphere, direction, disturbing imagery. Weaknesses: Some predictable elements, but it’s a standout.
“Dream Girl” – Bollywood Horror with a Twist
Virat Pal’s “Dream Girl” takes the found footage genre in an unexpected direction, focusing on two paparazzi who sneak onto the set of a Bollywood film. What starts off as a humorous misadventure quickly turns into a chilling encounter with Tara, a famous actress hiding dark secrets in her trailer. The blending of Bollywood glitz with horror works well here, and the segment’s twist is both shocking and satisfying. Pal’s ability to shift from lighthearted moments to sheer terror makes this one of the more engaging stories.
Strengths: Originality, strong twist. Weaknesses: Some pacing issues.
“Live and Let Dive” – Fun but Chaotic
Justin Martinez’s “Live and Let Dive” takes the anthology in a more action-packed direction, following a group of skydivers who find themselves in a fight for survival after their plane collides with a UFO. This segment is a wild ride from start to finish, blending sci-fi with horror. While the concept is thrilling, the execution feels rushed, and the story lacks depth. That said, it’s still fun, especially for those who enjoy chaotic, fast-paced horror.
Directed by Justin Long and Christian Long, “Fur Babies” is easily the weakest link in the anthology. The story follows animal rights activists who break into a taxidermist’s house, only to find a grotesque secret in her basement. Despite an interesting premise, the segment feels disjointed and lacks the sharp edge needed to make it effective. Long seems to be channeling some Tusk-era vibes here, but the result is more off-putting than terrifying. The horror elements feel forced, and the comedic moments don’t land, leaving the segment feeling out of place in the anthology.
Strengths: Potential in the premise. Weaknesses: Disjointed execution, forced humor.
“Stowaway” – A Strong Directorial Debut
Rounding out the anthology is “Stowaway,” directed by Kate Siegel in her directorial debut and written by horror maestro Mike Flanagan. This segment centers on a woman documenting strange lights over the Mojave Desert, slowly unraveling a terrifying mystery. “Stowaway” shines with its minimalist approach, building suspense through atmosphere and subtle scares rather than relying on gore or jump scares. Siegel proves herself as a promising director, and with Flanagan’s script, this segment serves as a perfect closer, leaving audiences with an unsettling feeling that lingers after the credits roll.
Strengths: Atmosphere, storytelling, direction. Weaknesses: Some might find the pacing too slow.
The Prognosis:
V/H/S/Beyond continues the franchise’s tradition of showcasing diverse horror styles within the found footage format. While some segments, like “Stork” and “Stowaway,” rise above the rest, others, like “Fur Babies,” drag the overall experience down. Still, it offers enough creativity and scares to make it a worthy entry in the series. Fans of the franchise will appreciate the variety, even if the anthology doesn’t always hit the mark.
Saul Muerte
V/H/S/Beyond will stream on Shudder from 4th October.
Takashi Miike’s Audition is a film that blurs the line between genres, perceptions, and expectations. Initially masquerading as a melancholic romance, it stealthily devolves into a nerve-shattering nightmare that helped cement the late 1990s surge of the J-horror movement. But more than just a horror film, Audition is a visceral exploration of feminism, misogyny, and the grotesque power dynamics between men and women.
At its core, Audition presents itself as a critique of patriarchal entitlement. The premise, in which a middle-aged widower, Aoyama, uses a fake casting call to audition women for a potential new wife, unfolds like a manifestation of male objectification. His desire to “choose” the perfect partner through deception echoes centuries of male-dominated narratives. This setup is a classic male fantasy—until it unravels into a female nightmare, and Miike deftly shifts the audience’s sympathies.
Enter Asami Yamazaki, played by Eihi Shiina, one of the most compelling antagonists in modern cinema. Asami initially appears soft-spoken, delicate, and vulnerable, but she quickly becomes the embodiment of pent-up rage against male oppression. Her transformation is as much a shock to the audience as it is to Aoyama, turning from passive prey into the embodiment of vengeance. Asami’s cruelty is chilling not because it’s unexplained, but because it feels so justifiable within the framework of the film. She avenges not only her own pain but the collective trauma of silenced women, using sadistic torture as her means of expression. Asami’s soft “Kiri, kiri, kiri” during the film’s climax is one of the most terrifying and iconic moments in cinema—a sweet whisper of brutality that echoes long after the film ends.
Audition also stands as a pivotal film in the torture-horror subgenre, long before “torture porn” was coined to describe Western films like Saw and Hostel. What separates Miike’s film is the emotional and psychological depth behind the violence. The infamous torture scene—where Aoyama is rendered immobile and subjected to unspeakable pain—is not just there for shock value. It reflects deeper themes of control, vengeance, and the fragility of human bodies and relationships. It’s a slow, methodical build-up to terror, with Miike ensuring that every second of pain is felt by both the characters and the audience.
Released at the height of the J-horror wave alongside films like Ringu and Ju-on, Audition managed to stand apart due to its hybrid nature. While Ringu and its peers focused on supernatural dread, Audition delves into the psychological horror of human relationships. The supernatural in Miike’s world is implied rather than overt—it’s in the dreamlike sequences, the uncanny disconnect between Asami’s sweet demeanor and her sadism, and the eerie stillness that pervades every frame. Miike’s use of restrained cinematography, especially in the film’s first half, lulls the viewer into a false sense of security before pulling the rug out in the third act, transforming romantic subtleties into abject terror.
The film’s feminism and misogyny walk hand in hand, both reflecting and critiquing societal norms. Asami’s vengeance, in a sense, can be seen as a rebuke to the ingrained misogyny Aoyama represents, but Miike also uses Asami’s character to question the extremities of feminist retaliation. Her actions are simultaneously righteous and monstrous, blurring the lines between victim and villain. This duality forces the viewer to grapple with their own moral compass, never offering a clean resolution or simple interpretation.
Audition is a film that lingers. Its depiction of torture, emotional manipulation, and gender politics still resonates in modern horror. Asami Yamazaki remains an unforgettable figure, not just in J-horror but in global cinema—a character as terrifying as she is tragic. Audition is a masterpiece that’s not just about horror but about the human capacity for cruelty, control, and vengeance.
Takashi Miike’s work here is a testament to the power of cinema to provoke, unsettle, and challenge. With Audition, he delivered a film that stands tall in the pantheon of horror, one that haunts the mind long after the final frame.
Paul Evans Thomas’s feature debutWithin The Pinespulls you into a world where sound becomes both a weapon and a warning, shaping a tense, atmospheric thriller that clings to your nerves and doesn’t let go. After years of crafting shorts, including his proof-of-concept Foley Man, Thomas has created a film that masterfully taps into primal fear, using sound design to create an immersive experience that is as unsettling as it is captivating.
The story follows a seasoned sound recordist (Brendan Cooney) who ventures deep into an isolated forest to capture natural foley work. His search for the perfect audio, however, quickly turns into a harrowing nightmare when his microphone picks up a mysterious and terrifying sound. From that moment on, the forest—once tranquil—becomes a labyrinth of dread, where every crackle, every rustle, becomes a potential threat. Thomas weaves this sensory experience into the very fabric of the film, making it clear that sound, in Within The Pines, isn’t just a tool—it’s the heart of the story.
What stands out most is how Thomas makes audio the driving force behind the film’s atmosphere. The sound design is meticulously crafted, with each subtle noise adding to the tension. This is a film that demands to be listened to as much as watched. Every footstep, distant echo, and distorted whisper creates an air of unease, leading the audience into a heightened state of anxiety. As the recordist moves deeper into the woods, the soundscape begins to blur the line between reality and imagination, transforming the forest into a living, breathing entity. It’s a brilliant showcase of how integral sound is to the art of cinema, drawing you into the film’s core and ensnaring you in its thrilling journey.
Brendan Cooney’s performance as the recordist is central to Within The Pines’ success. His portrayal of a man caught between his professional duty and a growing sense of terror feels deeply authentic. Cooney’s ability to convey dread without dialogue—relying on his reactions to the sounds around him—makes for a compelling and understated performance. He becomes the audience’s conduit, hearing what we hear, feeling the tension grow with each auditory clue.
The location itself, an isolated and foreboding forest, works hand in hand with the sound design to create a sense of claustrophobia despite the open space. The forest is vast, but Thomas’s direction and sharp editing give the impression that it’s closing in on our protagonist. The trees feel like silent observers, while the sounds lurking within suggest something far more sinister. The film taps into the primal fear of being hunted, and it’s this constant feeling of pursuit—heightened by the expert use of sound—that makes Within The Pines so effective.
Within The Pines also excels in its pacing. Thomas builds the tension slowly, allowing the audience to settle into the rhythm of the recordist’s work before turning the peaceful setting into a nightmarish maze. It’s a gradual escalation of suspense, marked by small, subtle audio cues that hint at something lurking just out of sight. The film never rushes, instead drawing out the dread until it becomes almost unbearable, leading to a final act that delivers a scorpion sting in its tail.
This is a film that understands the importance of sensory storytelling. Paul Evans Thomas has crafted a deeply entrenched thriller that ensnares you in its world, using sound to create an atmosphere of fear and paranoia. The film’s brilliant use of audio isn’t just a technical achievement—it’s the very essence of the story, highlighting how crucial the sense of sound is to the cinematic experience.
The Prognosis:
Within The Pines is a gripping debut that showcases Thomas’s ability to create tension from the simplest of elements, leaving audiences with a film that lingers long after the final sound fades.
Die, Monster, Die! (1965), directed by Daniel Haller, is an intriguing yet flawed adaptation of H.P. Lovecraft’s The Colour Out of Space, blending Gothic horror with science fiction elements to create a moody, if uneven, 1960s fright fest. Anchored by another chilling turn from the legendary Boris Karloff, the film successfully captures a sense of eerie dread, even if the narrative struggles to live up to the actor’s powerhouse presence.
Set in the decaying mansion of the Witley family, the film follows young American Stephen Reinhart (Nick Adams) as he visits his fiancée’s mysterious ancestral home. It’s here that he encounters Nahum Witley (Karloff), the wheelchair-bound patriarch, who harbors dark secrets tied to a glowing meteorite that has slowly corrupted the land—and everyone in it.
Boris Karloff’s portrayal of Nahum Witley is a masterclass in restrained menace. Even in his later years, Karloff radiated a sinister charisma that few could match, and Die, Monster, Die! is no exception. His depiction of a once-powerful man slowly descending into madness is what keeps the film afloat, drawing on his talent for playing tortured, tragic figures. Witley’s deteriorating condition mirrors Karloff’s physicality, making him a looming presence despite his wheelchair-bound state. It’s another reminder of Karloff’s enduring ability to inject even the most outlandish material with gravitas and unease.
The film’s roots are clear in its mix of Gothic horror tropes and science fiction weirdness. The Witley mansion, draped in shadows and fog, feels like a throwback to classic Universal monster movies—an appropriate setting for Karloff, given his legendary role in that era. The eerie, almost surreal atmosphere is one of the film’s strengths, with director Daniel Haller, a frequent collaborator with Roger Corman, effectively using set design and lighting to heighten the sense of decay and dread.
However, Die, Monster, Die! is far from perfect. The pacing can be sluggish, especially in the first half, as the story meanders through its setup. The plot itself, loosely based on Lovecraft’s work, fails to capture the cosmic horror of the source material, instead relying on more conventional horror devices. The screenplay doesn’t delve deeply into the psychological terror that could have made the story more compelling, leaving the narrative feeling somewhat shallow and predictable.
That being said, the film redeems itself with its second-half escalation, as the corruption of the Witley estate becomes more apparent. The grotesque imagery, including deformed plants and monstrous mutations, adds a layer of visual horror that feels appropriately eerie for a Lovecraft-inspired tale. The practical effects, while limited by the era’s technology, have a certain charm and complement the film’s Gothic atmosphere.
Supporting performances, including Nick Adams as the skeptical outsider and Suzan Farmer as Susan Witley, are serviceable, but they pale in comparison to Karloff’s towering presence. The film’s biggest strength lies in its atmosphere and Karloff’s portrayal of Nahum, with the rest of the cast often serving as mere vehicles for the narrative.
The Prognosis:
Die, Monster, Die! is an atmospheric but uneven entry in 1960s horror cinema. It’s not a flawless adaptation of Lovecraft, nor is it the most exciting entry in Karloff’s career. Yet, for fans of Gothic horror and those who relish Karloff’s maniacal performances, it offers enough thrills and eerie moments to make it a worthwhile watch. Karloff’s ability to elevate even the most conventional material shines through once again, and that alone makes Die, Monster, Die! a film worth revisiting.
Surgeons of Horror 