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.
Forget bedtime stories. Forget the saccharine sugarcoating of fairy tales. Adorable Humans is Hans Christian Andersen after a month-long bender in a Copenhagen back alley, the ice of the north gnawing at his bones, the human condition revealed as cruel, horny, and violent. This is Denmark in its purest, most savage cinematic form — bleak, stylish, unnerving, and absolutely relentless.
Segment 1 – The Dead Man We start in the graveyard of human decency. A corpse becomes the mirror to a living world rotten with selfishness, desire, and unspoken cruelties. The Dead Man doesn’t just speak to mortality; it shouts, spits, and bites at the audience. You feel the chill of decomposition on your skin as if the film itself exhumed something buried deep within your own psyche. It’s grotesque, funny, and tragic all at once — the kind of nightmare that curls around your ribs and refuses to let go.
Segment 2 – The Story of a Mother Ah, grief incarnate. The Story of a Mother drags you through the sludge of loss and obsession, and if you’ve ever felt a parental instinct twist into something toxic, you’ll know the sensation in your gut: sharp, jagged, relentless. Here, Michael Kunov exposes the fragility of care, turning love into a vice, and mourning into a weapon. The camera lingers just long enough to make your soul ache and then jolts you with a cruel snap of reality — motherhood, possession, mortality, all tangled in a way that leaves you twitching long after the credits roll.
Segment 3 – The Snow Queen Cold, ruthless, and merciless. The Snow Queen is Denmark’s answer to isolation, cruelty, and obsession, wrapped in a winter storm that gnashes its teeth. Kasper Juhl’s segment is a frozen fever dream where desire and danger swirl like snowflakes, blurring the line between predator and prey, hero and victim. It’s a segment that literally chills your bones and reminds you that even beauty can be a weapon, even ice can burn, and the darkness outside is nothing compared to what lurks in the human heart.
Segment 4 – Aunty Toothache If you thought the previous three segments were cruel, Michael Panduro shatters that illusion with Aunty Toothache. Here, domesticity turns monstrous, and familial bonds twist into chains of terror. The segment is absurd, grotesque, and horrifyingly human — a macabre carnival of psychological, physical, and sexual transgression. It’s the Danish version of biting the hand that feeds you, then discovering that the hand has teeth, claws, and a very bad attitude. You laugh, you recoil, and you realize the joke is on all of us.
The Prognosis:
Collectively, Adorable Humans doesn’t just tell stories; it gnaws at your sanity. It’s an anthology of darkness, human frailty, and twisted morality, each segment a scalpel dissecting the uncomfortable truths of life, love, and the innate horror of being human. This isn’t polite horror. It’s not even Scandinavian noir in a friendly way. It’s pure, cold, dazzlingly executed dread. Beautifully shot, meticulously scored, and deeply, disturbingly Danish.
By the end, you’re left trembling, laughing nervously, and questioning the adjective “adorable” — because nothing about these humans is cute. They’re vicious, flawed, intoxicating, and unforgettable.
There’s a point, somewhere around hour three of a sleepless binge on cigarettes and neon, when the city stops being a grid of steel and glass and becomes a writhing organism — teeth in the pavement, eyes in the gutters, a heartbeat under the asphalt. SUN lives in that fever-space, a feral descent through New York’s arteries, pumping black blood and paranoia, dragging a haunted dancer through a nightmare carnival of his own making.
Dominic Lahiff isn’t interested in narrative comfort or traditional story beats; he takes the audience by the throat and hurls them down a staircase of toxic masculinity, one cracked vertebra at a time. The dancer, played with apocalyptic intensity by Cordell “Storm” Purnell, becomes both predator and prey — a man poisoned by love, overprotection, and jealousy until it curdles into possession, body and soul. Watching him stumble through the city’s nocturnal labyrinth is like witnessing a man wrestle not just with ghosts but with the razor-bladed reflection in his own mirror.
And here’s where it goes nuclear: Lahiff choreographs this collapse not with words but with movement. Purnell’s physicality — twitching, spasming, exploding into motion like a man possessed by every violent urge his body has ever contained — becomes the language of descent. Dance as madness. Dance as confession. Dance as exorcism. It’s a performance that slips the leash of acting and lunges straight into the ritualistic.
The themes are sharp and cruel. SUN is a meditation on how men weaponize protection into control, how jealousy gnaws holes in the skull, how love can deform into something ravenous and diseased. Lahiff has no patience for redemption arcs — this is about confronting the rot, peeling back the skin, and finding not salvation but raw meat pulsing in the dark.
Visually, it’s a knockout. Every frame looks soaked in cigarette smoke and concrete sweat, the cinematography catching the city not as backdrop but as living antagonist. And the score — sweet hell, the score — it doesn’t just accompany, it punishes. A pounding, relentless soundtrack that syncs with Purnell’s movements until sound and body blur into one convulsive dirge. It’s like watching a man dance his way into the underworld with the subway screeching along as orchestra.
The Prognosis:
SUN is cinema as possession. A film that doesn’t want to be watched so much as endured, swallowed, vomited back up in chunks of neon and bile. It’s beautiful, it’s punishing, and it leaves you trembling in the realization that sometimes the monsters we fear aren’t lurking in the alleys of New York — they’re standing right behind our own eyes, grinning, waiting for the music to start.
The shadows are calling again. The screen is no longer a safe window to peer through but a chasm, hungry and alive, waiting to swallow you whole. Strap in, Sydney — Dark Nights Film Fest Vol. 2 has crawled out of the grave and into the Ritz, and this time it’s not here to play nice.
This isn’t cinema for the faint, the casual, or the polite. This is cinema that stalks you through the back alleys of your subconscious, cinema that rips the floorboards off your cozy illusions and drags you headfirst into a pit of worms. Just when you thought the blood had dried and the screams had faded, festival director Bryn Tilly has cranked open the gates again, ushering in a delirious parade of maniacs, monsters, and midnight visions.
Nine Australian premieres. One unholy cult resurrection. Twenty-two short, sharp shocks from across the globe. It’s a full-course banquet of nightmares, each dish steaming with dread and dripping with the strange juices of cinema’s dark heart.
Opening night doesn’t just raise a curtain — it tears open the roof with Hell House LLC: Lineage, an unhinged carnival of terror where haunted basements and clown-faced demons set the tone for what’s to come: fear without safety nets. From there the fest descends into Germany’s tangled woods with Bark, drags you through the neon purgatory of America in A Desert, and burns you alive with the Serbian one-two punch of A Serbian Documentary and Karmadonna — films that don’t just push buttons, they rip them out and swallow them whole.
But the crown jewel of delirium? Peter Jackson’s Braindead in screaming 4K glory. Thirty years since its last Australian theatrical run, and the pus-filled carnage hasn’t aged a day. This isn’t a screening — it’s an exorcism of sanity, an orgy of undead slapstick that makes every Marvel movie look like a children’s nap-time.
And just when your skull’s about to split, along comes Necromorphosis, burrowing into your flesh like a cockroach in heat, and Sun, a fever-dream hybrid of movement and madness that dances straight into the abyss. By the time the anthology Adorable Humans rolls around, Hans Christian Andersen will be spinning in his grave fast enough to power a small Danish village.
Closing night locks the doors and swallows the keys with The School Duel, a dystopian grenade lobbed at society’s fragile bones — ferocious, timely, and cruelly relevant.
This isn’t just a festival. It’s a séance. A bacchanal of blood, dread, and midnight delirium. Between the Aussie and international shorts, the Movie Boutique of VHS relics and arcane treasures, and filmmakers dropping truth bombs about low-budget survival, Dark Nights is where the monsters come to play.
Forget safe cinema. Forget the plush multiplex glow. The Ritz is where the shadows come alive, and the screen bites back.
Dark Nights Film Fest Vol. 2 — October 9–12, Ritz Cinemas, Randwick. Bring your nerves, bring your nightmares, and leave your soul at the door.
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.
Johannes Grenzfurthner’s Solvent is a visceral dive into both the found footage and body horror sub-genres, subverting expectations at every turn. The film introduces us to a team of experts searching for Nazi documents in an isolated Austrian farmhouse, only to uncover a far more sinister secret hidden in the shadows of history. As the team leader becomes obsessed with revealing the truth, his sanity slips away, revealing the true horror that lies beneath—the corrosive force of obsession itself.
What sets Solvent apart from typical found footage films is its refusal to adhere to the genre’s usual tropes. While many found footage films struggle to balance realism with narrative tension, Solvent blends body horror and the obsessive drive for truth, immersing the audience in a descent into madness that feels both surreal and grotesque. Grenzfurthner’s approach to this format is deliberate, calculated, and refreshingly inventive. The faux-documentary style doesn’t just feel like a device to capture jump scares but becomes an integral part of the narrative’s tension, one that slowly unravels with each disturbing discovery.
The film’s brilliance lies in how it explores the toll that the pursuit of truth can take on the human spirit. As the leader of the investigation digs deeper into the farmhouse’s disturbing past, the very act of seeking knowledge becomes a self-destructive obsession. The further he delves, the more he sacrifices his humanity, willingly eroding his moral compass in exchange for answers. This theme is amplified by the body horror elements, where the human form begins to mirror the mental and emotional decay taking place within. It’s a journey through fluid debauchery—one that seeps into every pore of the film, leaving the viewer unsettled and questioning how much one should risk in pursuit of the unknown.
Admittedly, found footage has never been my favorite genre. However, Solvent shifts the direction enough to make it a harrowing and engaging experience. The film hooks you from the very beginning, pulling you deep into its underworld of depravity and insanity. Each moment feels like a gamble with pure evil, and the tension builds to an unbearable crescendo, leaving you wondering whether anyone can truly negotiate with forces so dark and extreme.
Solvent isn’t just a film about unearthing historical horrors; it’s a philosophical exploration of the lengths people will go to when consumed by obsession. Grenzfurthner takes the familiar tropes of body horror and found footage, blends them with a slow-burning narrative, and crafts something perversely unique. It’s a dizzying descent into madness, but for those willing to follow it down the rabbit hole, it’s a ride that will infect you long after the credits roll.
In 1978, directors Luciano and Nicolás Onetti conjure a nightmarish world that echoes the horrors of Lucio Fulci’s apocalyptic cinema while weaving in the real-life political unrest of Argentina’s “Dirty War.” Set against the backdrop of the 1978 Soccer World Cup, a time when the world’s eyes were on Argentina, this film dives into the dark, gruesome underbelly of a country gripped by a military dictatorship. It’s a tale not just of political torture and brutality but of humanity at its most depraved, where the lines between man and monster blur until they disappear entirely.
The film opens with an almost deceptive sense of calm—a card game, where tension simmers under the surface but never quite boils over. The dialogue, tinged with dark humor, feels Tarantinoesque in its banter, a momentary reprieve from the sinister atmosphere lurking just beneath. But the Onetti brothers pull the rug out from under the audience, shifting from this relatively lighthearted scene to a brutally torturous one in a matter of moments. It’s in this jarring transition that 1978 truly begins, announcing its arrival as a grim, unrelenting portrayal of the horrors that can be unleashed under political regimes.
Drawing heavy influence from the work of Fulci, the film exudes a Euro-horror atmosphere that’s thick with dread, claustrophobia, and macabre surrealism. The Onetti brothers have long been known for their no-holds-barred approach to horror, and here they channel Fulci’s signature mix of grotesquery and existential despair. Like in The Beyond or City of the Living Dead, there’s a pervasive sense that the characters are trapped in a world governed by forces far beyond their control—forces that are both human and inhuman. The military dictatorship, with its secret detention centers and brutal tactics, provides the terrifying human component, while an unseen, darker entity lurks in the shadows, adding a supernatural layer to the unfolding horror.
The real-life political context of the “Dirty War” amplifies the terror. During this period in Argentina, thousands of suspected political dissidents were “disappeared” by the government—kidnapped, tortured, and murdered in secret. 1978 uses this historical backdrop as the foundation for its narrative, grounding its nightmarish scenes of violence in a reality that is equally horrific. The military’s brutal interrogations in the film mirror those real-life atrocities, making the viewer question whether the greatest evil on display is the supernatural one or the human one. The Onetti brothers force the audience to grapple with this question throughout the film, testing their allegiances and perceptions of good and evil.
As the narrative unfolds, 1978 slowly but deliberately shifts its focus from political unrest to something far more cosmic and horrific. The torture scenes—vivid, grotesque, and unflinchingly brutal—serve as just one layer of the film’s descent into madness. Beneath the physical violence lies a deeper, more metaphysical horror: the idea that in the face of such atrocities, humanity itself is stripped away, leaving only madness, chaos, and, perhaps, something darker and more sinister in its wake. The Onetti brothers masterfully build this tension, allowing the macabre nature of the film to slowly spiral out of control as the characters find themselves at the mercy of forces they cannot comprehend or escape.
The film also tests the viewer’s allegiances at every turn. What begins as a narrative about victims and captors becomes much more complex as each character’s true nature is revealed. The political activists, initially portrayed as righteous in their resistance, harbor dark secrets of their own. The torturers, while sadistic, seem to be following orders from something far greater than themselves. The shifting dynamics between captors and captives keep the audience in a constant state of uncertainty, unsure of who to root for or fear. The film’s slow, deliberate pacing allows for this moral ambiguity to simmer, building to a crescendo where no one is truly innocent, and everyone is complicit in the madness.
In its final act, 1978 fully embraces its Fulci influences, descending into a Grand Guignol spectacle of blood and terror. The grotesque visuals are heightened by the film’s relentless atmosphere of dread, making for a climax that is as disturbing as it is mesmerising. By the time the credits roll, the audience is left questioning not just the nature of the horror they’ve witnessed but the nature of humanity itself.
The Prognosis:
While 1978 may not be to everyone’s taste—its methodical pacing, relentless brutality, and grotesque atmosphere can be overwhelming—it’s impossible to deny the sheer force of its vision. The Onetti brothers have conjured a film that plunges into the depths of human depravity, intertwining political and supernatural horrors in a way that is as disturbing as it is captivating. For those prepared to face the darkness, 1978 offers a haunting and visceral descent into a hell that feels all too real—a place where the lines between humanity and monstrosity blur, and every road inevitably leads to a devastating conclusion.
Sayara, the latest offering from Turkish director Can Evrenol, departs from the supernatural horrors of his previous works (Baskin, Housewife) and ventures into a brutal, grounded tale of revenge. With Sayara, Evrenol has crafted an ultraviolent, nihilistic thriller that recalls the raw, unflinching energy of Nicolas Winding Refn’s Pusher trilogy. The film is a relentless journey into the darker corners of humanity, where justice, once forsaken by law, is taken into savage hands.
At the heart of this blood-soaked tale is the protagonist, Saýara (played with terrifying intensity by Duygu Kocabiyik), whose quiet, janitorial existence is upended by the horrific murder of her sister at the hands of her gym’s corrupt, politically connected owner. As the system fails to bring justice, Saýara finds herself not just seeking vengeance but embodying it—using her after-hours training and the skills passed down by her Soviet Sambo champion father to execute a grim, calculated form of retribution.
The film is anchored by the core theme of savage revenge, and Evrenol wastes no time illustrating the violence and systemic exploitation of women and marginalised cultures. The character of Saýara, subjected to the constant oppression of her environment, becomes a symbolic force for those left voiceless. The gym owner and his cronies, who initially represent untouchable power, soon find themselves facing a brutal reckoning. Saýara is not just fighting back—she’s tearing down the structures that have upheld their dominance.
One of the film’s standout features is the use of sound, particularly the deep, resonant bass that seems to vibrate through the film like a heartbeat. Evrenol masterfully uses sound to dial up tension, drawing the viewer deeper into the depravity and violence that envelops the characters. The slow escalation of this auditory experience mirrors the pacing of the narrative itself—gradually building to a climax that is both gruesome and inevitable. As Saýara’s quest for revenge unfolds, the audience is pulled into her world, where every action reverberates with weight and consequence.
The film is unapologetically violent, but there’s a purpose behind every blow, every drop of blood. Evrenol doesn’t shy away from depicting the true cost of vengeance, and Sayara becomes a brutal commentary on the destruction wrought by unchecked power. The violence is not just physical but psychological, each fight stripping away more of Saýara’s humanity, leaving behind only a raw, visceral need for retribution. The path she walks is one from which there is no return, leading her straight into the fiery depths of her own personal hell. Once she steps onto this road, all exits disappear, leaving her with only one inevitable destination: a violent confrontation where there are no survivors—only victors and the damned.
The final showdown is a slow, excruciating crescendo, where Saýara confronts her enemies with the full force of her rage and skill. The choreography of these scenes is vicious, each movement designed for maximum impact, both physically and emotionally. The face-off feels like the culmination of not just Saýara’s journey, but the audience’s as well, watching as she becomes the embodiment of cold, calculated vengeance. The film’s climax is as gruesome as it is cathartic, a visceral explosion of blood and fury that leaves the viewer stunned in its wake.
Sayara is not for the faint-hearted, but for those who can stomach its brutal nature, it offers a haunting, powerful experience. Duygu Kocabiyik delivers a standout performance, turning Saýara into one of the most compelling anti-heroines in recent memory. With the substance of Evrenol’s past work absent, he instead crafts a stark, unrelenting atmosphere, with themes of retribution, justice, and the inescapable hell that vengeance brings.
The Prognosis:
In Sayara, there is no sanctuary—only fire, blood, and the cold, unflinching march toward retribution. This is a revenge film that takes no prisoners, delivering a punch that lingers long after the credits roll.
Surgeons of Horror 