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CARRIE REBORN: The Girl, the Blood and the Burden of Empathy

11 Sunday Oct 2026

Posted by surgeons of horror in series review

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Alison Thornton, books, carrie, horror, mike flanagan, reviews, Samantha Sloyan, siena agudong, Stephen King, Summer H. Howell,

Mike Flanagan’s eight-part adaptation of Stephen King’s debut novel brings the horror of adolescence into the age of social media. It is a thoughtful, visually assured reimagining of a familiar nightmare, but in its determination to preserve Carrie White’s innocence, it ultimately compromises the tragedy that makes her story endure.

Series: Carrie
Created by: Mike Flanagan
Based on the novel by: Stephen King
Starring: Summer H. Howell, Samantha Sloyan, Siena Agudong, Alison Thornton, Thalia Dudek and Joel Oulette
Platform: Prime Video
Release date: 7 October 2026

The Girl Who Would Not Stay Buried

There are few horror stories as thoroughly embedded in popular culture as Stephen King’s Carrie. Since its publication in 1974, King’s debut novel has become a foundational text in the mythology of the bullied outsider, its imagery absorbed into the collective vocabulary of horror. The shower-room humiliation, the pig’s blood, the prom queen’s crown and the telekinetic fury of a teenage girl pushed beyond endurance have acquired lives of their own, reinforced by Brian De Palma’s celebrated 1976 adaptation. To revisit Carrie is therefore to confront not simply a familiar story, but a series of images whose cultural familiarity threatens to obscure the tragedy from which they emerged.

Mike Flanagan, one of contemporary horror’s most accomplished storytellers, approaches the material with an understanding that faithful reproduction is not necessarily the same as meaningful adaptation. His eight-part Prime Video series relocates King’s nightmare to a world in which social media has transformed the nature of teenage humiliation, where identities are curated for public consumption and the private boundaries that once offered some protection from cruelty have become increasingly porous. It is a modernisation that feels both natural and necessary, recognising that the mechanisms through which young people construct, negotiate and defend their identities have changed considerably since King first introduced Carrie White.

Flanagan is an especially compelling filmmaker for this undertaking. His work repeatedly demonstrates an ability to combine strong visual direction with emotionally attentive storytelling, drawing on the talents of a network of collaborators while maintaining a clear thematic sensibility. He understands that horror is not simply a matter of frightening images or supernatural spectacle. Its most enduring power emerges when the monstrous exposes something recognisably human: grief, repression, guilt, shame, religious fanaticism or the terrible consequences of refusing to acknowledge another person’s suffering.

That instinct serves Carrie well. The series is not content to reproduce the familiar sequence of abuse, humiliation and supernatural retaliation. It expands the social environment surrounding its protagonist, gives supporting characters more room to develop and explores the ways in which cruelty becomes embedded in the structures of everyday life. Yet its ambition eventually encounters a contradiction. In broadening Carrie’s world and attempting to preserve the possibility of a future for her, Flanagan alters the emotional architecture of the story. His Carrie is frequently perceptive, often affecting and unmistakably the work of a thoughtful horror storyteller. But when its tragedy reaches the point at which it must finally confront the consequences of its own construction, the series appears unwilling to follow through.

The Facade and the Girl Beneath It

At its heart, Carrie has always been a story about the distance between the person we are and the person the world permits us to become. Carrie White grows up in a household governed by Margaret’s religious extremism, where her body, desires and developing identity are treated as sources of shame. When she enters the outside world, she encounters a different system of judgement, one governed by popularity, appearance, social standing and the fragile currency of acceptance. The rules change, but the demand for conformity remains.

Flanagan’s contemporary setting sharpens this conflict by introducing social media as an extension of the social machinery that has always surrounded Carrie. Humiliation is no longer confined to the school corridor, the gymnasium or the whispered conversation. It can be recorded, circulated, reproduced and revived before an audience that may have no direct connection to the original event. A moment of vulnerability becomes a public identity, while the person at its centre loses control over the meaning of their own experience.

This is where the series demonstrates the strength of its modern perspective. Social media is not merely a technological update, a fashionable detail added to make King’s story more contemporary. It becomes an expression of the facades people construct around themselves and the social structures that sustain them. The online persona, the carefully managed reputation and the performance of belonging all depend upon an audience willing to accept the image being presented. When that image fractures, the consequences can be devastating.

For an adolescent, still negotiating the uncertain process of becoming an individual, the experience can be particularly destructive. Identity is never entirely private, but the pressure to perform it publicly has become an increasingly dominant feature of contemporary life. The individual is expected to present a coherent version of themselves while simultaneously negotiating the judgements, expectations and insecurities of everyone watching.

Carrie occupies the most vulnerable position within this system. She has been sheltered from the outside world, denied the knowledge and experience that might help her navigate it, and then exposed to a social environment in which ignorance and awkwardness become opportunities for humiliation. She is expected to understand rules she has never been taught, to conform to standards she has never been allowed to explore and to accept the judgement of people who have little interest in understanding her.

The series recognises the cruelty inherent in this arrangement. Its strongest moments arise when the social spectacle becomes inseparable from the private damage it inflicts, when the audience’s desire to watch and participate begins to resemble the behaviour of the people carrying out the humiliation itself. Flanagan understands that cruelty does not always require direct physical contact. Sometimes it is enough to make someone an object of public attention, then allow the machinery of social judgement to do the rest.

The horror of Carrie has always rested on the destruction of a fragile identity. Flanagan’s adaptation gives that destruction a contemporary vocabulary, demonstrating how the facades through which we negotiate the world can become instruments of our own vulnerability. The tragedy is that Carrie has so little opportunity to establish an identity of her own before other people begin defining her.

The Body Remembers

Beneath the modernisation lies the bodily horror that made King’s novel so potent. Carrie’s first period remains the essential starting point because it transforms an ordinary biological process into a crisis of identity. Her classmates turn a moment of vulnerability into public entertainment, while her mother’s religious teachings have left her without the knowledge required to understand what is happening. The incident establishes the central pattern of Carrie’s life: what should be an opportunity for care and education becomes an occasion for shame.

Menstruation, religious repression, sexuality and telekinetic violence are not separate concerns in King’s novel. They belong to a single thematic structure in which the developing female body becomes a battleground for competing systems of control. Carrie’s emerging powers give physical expression to feelings she has been taught to suppress. Her anger, fear and desire can no longer be contained within the private boundaries of the body; they become forces capable of transforming the world around her.

Flanagan understands the symbolic relationship between adolescence and the supernatural. Growing up involves discovering that the self is not always as manageable as one might wish. Emotions arrive before we possess the language or experience to understand them, while the desire for acceptance can make rejection feel like a judgement on our very existence. Carrie’s telekinesis literalises these tensions, transforming the ordinary turmoil of adolescence into an extraordinary and increasingly dangerous power.

Yet the series also raises a difficult question about the relationship between suffering and responsibility. Carrie’s anger is understandable, but the consequences of that anger cannot be reduced to the circumstances that produced it. The people who torment her are responsible for their cruelty, and the community that permits that cruelty cannot simply absolve itself when the consequences become visible. But Carrie is also more than a passive instrument of other people’s failures. Her suffering helps explain her actions without necessarily resolving their moral implications.

This distinction is central to the enduring power of the character. Carrie is neither an innocent angel nor an uncomplicated monster. She is a young woman whose suffering is real, whose rage is understandable and whose capacity for destruction remains horrifying. The tragedy emerges from the collision of these truths, not from the discovery of a single explanation that allows one to cancel out the others.

Summer H. Howell: The Vulnerability of Carrie White

Summer H. Howell provides the series with a compelling emotional centre. Her Carrie is curious about the world beyond her home, eager to establish connections and understandably overwhelmed by experiences that other teenagers take for granted. Howell captures the uncertainty of a young woman encountering unfamiliar social rules while carrying the accumulated damage of a childhood in which knowledge, independence and self-expression have been tightly restricted.

There is a sincerity to the performance that makes Carrie’s desire for ordinary experiences genuinely affecting. The prospect of friendship, the possibility of romance and the simple pleasure of being accepted acquire a significance that extends beyond the familiar coming-of-age narrative. For Carrie, these are not merely the expected milestones of adolescence. They represent the possibility of escaping the identity imposed upon her by her mother and the hostile community into which she has been thrust.

Howell also gives the character a recognisable emotional openness. Carrie wants to understand the people around her, even when she lacks the experience to interpret their intentions accurately. Her vulnerability is not simply a consequence of her isolation; it is also part of her willingness to believe that the world might offer something better than what she has known.

The difficulty is that the series sometimes places too much emphasis on preserving this innocence. Carrie’s awkwardness and vulnerability are essential, but her anger, resentment and capacity for cruelty are equally important. She is not simply a sweet, misunderstood girl waiting for the world to recognise her worth. She is a person developing under extraordinary pressure, denied the emotional resources that might otherwise help her understand herself.

Howell is more than capable of conveying this complexity. The limitation lies in the broader characterisation, which occasionally seems reluctant to allow Carrie’s darker impulses to exist without immediately placing them within a framework of victimisation. The more carefully the series establishes her innocence, the harder it becomes for the narrative to accommodate the moral ambiguity that should define her transformation.

A horror protagonist does not need to be morally admirable to be emotionally compelling. Indeed, some of the genre’s most disturbing characters are those whose suffering we understand completely, even as their actions become impossible to excuse. Carrie’s tragedy depends upon our ability to recognise both the girl who has been wronged and the terrifying consequences of what happens to her.

Margaret White: Love as Possession

Samantha Sloyan’s Margaret White is the other essential pillar of the series. Margaret is not merely a domineering parent but the architect of a private theology in which the body is sinful, desire is dangerous and obedience becomes the only acceptable expression of love. Her religious extremism transforms the domestic environment into a prison, sustained by the conviction that cruelty is justified when exercised in the service of moral purity.

The relationship between mother and daughter is horrifying because it confuses protection with possession. Margaret believes she is shielding Carrie from a corrupt world, yet her attempts to preserve her daughter’s innocence ensure that Carrie enters that world dangerously unprepared. The mother’s fear becomes the daughter’s ignorance; the mother’s shame becomes the daughter’s self-loathing.

Flanagan’s instinct for psychological complexity gives this relationship additional texture. He is interested in the histories, fears and destructive patterns that shape people, and he is rarely satisfied with reducing an antagonist to a collection of monstrous traits. That approach can be rewarding, particularly when it reveals the ways in which abuse and repression reproduce themselves across generations.

But understanding the origins of abuse is not the same as diminishing its reality. Margaret’s religious convictions are not simply an eccentric expression of anxiety. They constitute a system of domination through which Carrie is taught to regard her own body and desires as evidence of moral failure. The horror lies in the way Margaret’s need for control becomes inseparable from her understanding of love.

Sloyan brings an imposing intensity to the role, making Margaret a formidable presence within the domestic world of the series. The character’s significance extends beyond her treatment of Carrie, however. She represents a culture of shame in miniature, a figure who has internalised a destructive worldview so completely that she can no longer distinguish care from punishment.

The relationship is most disturbing when love, fear and control become indistinguishable. Margaret believes she is protecting her daughter, but the very methods through which she exercises that protection help create the catastrophe she fears. Her tragedy is not simply that she fails to understand Carrie. It is that her attempts to control her daughter make genuine understanding impossible.

The School as a Machine of Cruelty

Flanagan’s treatment of the school environment is another of the adaptation’s strengths. The students are not merely a collection of bullies waiting to torment Carrie; they inhabit a social ecosystem governed by status, performance and the need to establish one’s position within a group. Cruelty becomes a means of maintaining those hierarchies, while the public humiliation of an outsider reassures everyone else that their own position remains secure.

Alison Thornton’s Chris Hargensen occupies a particularly important place within this structure. Chris is shaped by status and resentment, her identity bound to the power she possesses within the school’s social hierarchy. The series attempts to explore the circumstances surrounding her behaviour without erasing the harm she causes. Siena Agudong’s Sue Snell and Joel Oulette’s Tommy Ross also help establish the social world into which Carrie is suddenly thrust, offering different perspectives on kindness, intervention and the possibility of acceptance.

The expanded cast gives Flanagan room to examine the ways in which ordinary social instincts become destructive when reinforced by a group. Some people actively inflict harm, others encourage it, and still others remain silent because intervention might threaten their own standing. The result is a community in which responsibility becomes conveniently diffuse. Everyone can identify someone more directly responsible, and almost everyone can find a reason why they should not be expected to act.

The online environment intensifies this problem. The person who shares a humiliating image may regard it as entertainment; the person who comments may claim merely to be participating in a conversation; the person who watches may insist that observation is not endorsement. The distinction between perpetrator and audience becomes increasingly unstable when attention itself rewards cruelty.

This is a sharp contemporary interpretation of King’s original social critique. Flanagan recognises that bullying is rarely sustained by a single individual. It depends upon the participation of those who benefit from it, those who tolerate it and those who convince themselves that its consequences are someone else’s responsibility.

At times, however, the series makes its commentary too explicit. Its social observations are most effective when they emerge through behaviour and consequence, allowing the audience to recognise the cruelty without being instructed how to interpret it. Horror loses some of its force when its moral implications are explained before its images have had time to settle.

King’s novel remains powerful partly because it trusts the reader to understand the social world that creates Carrie without requiring every character to articulate its meaning. The same principle applies here. The spectacle of humiliation should be enough to disturb us. Its significance does not always need to be underlined.

The Outsiders and the Shining

The most ambitious element of Flanagan’s adaptation is its expansion of Carrie’s supernatural world. By introducing other individuals with extraordinary abilities, the series connects Carrie to the wider mythology associated with King’s fiction, particularly the psychic phenomenon known as the Shine. The implication is that Carrie is not an isolated anomaly but part of a hidden world in which unusual abilities have long existed beyond public knowledge.

As world-building, the idea is intriguing. It gives Carrie’s powers a history and context beyond her immediate circumstances, while introducing questions about the people who might recognise, monitor or seek to influence those who possess such gifts. The mysterious outsiders create a new source of uncertainty, suggesting that Carrie’s abilities may attract attention from forces whose motivations extend well beyond the immediate conflict in Chamberlain.

For viewers familiar with King’s wider body of work, these connections offer an additional layer of interest. Flanagan has demonstrated a particular affection for the interrelated dimensions of King’s fictional universe, and the possibility of allowing seemingly separate supernatural stories to occupy a shared landscape is an understandable creative temptation. The outsiders provide the series with a larger horizon, opening possibilities that a more contained adaptation would necessarily leave unexplored.

Yet there is a distinction between expanding a fictional universe and expanding a tragedy.

As the series progresses, Carrie’s story becomes increasingly entangled with the interests of those who understand her abilities. The narrative shifts from the intimate relationship between Carrie and her immediate environment towards a broader supernatural framework in which she becomes a figure of interest to a hidden network of gifted individuals. Her powers are no longer simply the terrifying expression of a life shaped by repression and cruelty; they become evidence of a larger phenomenon, something to be investigated, managed or potentially recruited.

This shift is not inherently misguided. King’s fictional universe can accommodate inherited abilities, psychic connections and hidden organisations. The problem is what the series sacrifices to accommodate them. The more attention is devoted to the outsiders, the easier it becomes to imagine a future in which Carrie’s abilities might be explained, controlled or redirected. The supernatural mystery begins to promise a new adventure, while the personal tragedy that originally gave those abilities their meaning becomes less central.

The outsiders are intriguing precisely because they suggest that Carrie’s experience belongs to a much larger world. But the emotional power of Carrie has always depended upon the opposite proposition: that the entire catastrophe can be understood through the terrible intimacy of a young woman’s life. Margaret, the schoolchildren and the wider community do not simply provide the circumstances for a supernatural event. They create the emotional conditions through which that event becomes inevitable.

The expanded mythology offers a future for the franchise. It also threatens to distract from the devastating finality that gives Carrie’s story its meaning.

Eight Episodes and the Weight of Expansion

The eight-episode structure provides Flanagan with the opportunity to explore characters and relationships that a feature-length adaptation can only suggest. It allows the school to acquire a more complicated social texture, gives Carrie’s relationships room to develop and provides space for the supernatural elements to emerge gradually. Some of this expansion is productive, particularly when it deepens our understanding of the pressures surrounding Carrie.

Elsewhere, the narrative feels overextended. Supporting characters and additional mythology compete for attention, while the central trajectory becomes less immediate as the series broadens its scope. The question of how a vulnerable teenager might be driven towards catastrophe is repeatedly displaced by the demands of a larger narrative architecture.

Flanagan is clearly interested in the possibility that Carrie can sustain a mythology beyond the familiar tragedy. But an expanded world must earn its place within the story rather than simply provide a reason for the story to continue. The original narrative derives much of its force from its terrible inevitability. The domestic and social pressures accumulate until the prom becomes the point at which the unresolved tensions converge. As the narrative approaches that catastrophe, the audience should feel that the outcome has become both horrifying and unavoidable.

The series sometimes weakens that pressure by directing our attention elsewhere. The world grows larger, but Carrie herself risks becoming less central to it. What should be the culmination of her personal tragedy increasingly becomes the gateway to a wider supernatural conflict.

This is the underlying tension in Flanagan’s approach. His instinct for expansion allows him to explore the wider implications of King’s fictional world, but his desire to preserve Carrie’s future begins to alter the meaning of the narrative that brings her there. The problem is not simply that the series takes liberties with the source material. Adaptation requires such liberties. The problem is that the changes ultimately undermine the emotional logic of the story they are intended to expand.

The following section discusses major spoilers for the finale of Mike Flanagan’s Carrie.

Spoilers: The Tragedy That Never Arrives

The decisive departure comes at the end, when Flanagan refuses to allow Carrie’s story to conclude as the tragedy it has been building towards. In King’s novel, Carrie returns home after the destruction at the prom and confronts Margaret. Their final encounter culminates in Margaret’s death at Carrie’s own hands, before Carrie succumbs to her injuries. The conclusion offers no comforting escape from the accumulated consequences of the violence that has shaped her life. Carrie’s revenge cannot restore what has been taken from her, and her death denies the possibility that the catastrophe might become the beginning of a new life.

Flanagan changes the equation. Carrie survives the destruction and is taken away by Emaline, while Margaret also survives the collapse of the White household. Margaret is subsequently killed by Adelaide and the mysterious organisation surrounding her. The decisive act that ends the mother-daughter relationship is therefore removed from Carrie and transferred to an external force, while Carrie herself is allowed to escape the world that has tormented her.

I understand the narrative logic behind this decision. Flanagan is developing a larger supernatural mythology, and Carrie’s survival allows the series to move into that territory. The outsiders and their connection to the Shine become more than an intriguing subplot; they offer a possible future for the character and the fictional universe surrounding her. Carrie’s abilities become the beginning of a new journey rather than the force that ultimately consumes her.

There is also an evident desire to preserve Carrie as a person capable of moving beyond the circumstances that have defined her life. After the suffering she has endured, the possibility of escape can seem like an act of mercy. The series invites us to imagine that Carrie might finally discover a world in which she is understood rather than persecuted.

But this is where my admiration for Flanagan’s storytelling collides with my disappointment in his interpretation.

By allowing Carrie to survive, the series does more than change the ending. It changes the meaning of the story.

Carrie’s tragedy has never rested solely on the fact that she is bullied, abused or misunderstood. It lies in the terrible convergence of those experiences, the way they shape her emerging identity and the catastrophic point at which her suffering becomes inseparable from her capacity for destruction. Her death is not simply a punishment for her actions, nor is it an assertion that the world has defeated her. It is the final expression of a narrative in which the possibility of escape has been systematically destroyed.

The death of Margaret at Carrie’s own hands is equally important. Their relationship is the domestic heart of the nightmare, a bond in which love has been corrupted by fear, religious fanaticism and control. When Carrie kills her mother, the act becomes the ultimate rupture of that relationship. The daughter who has spent her life subjected to Margaret’s authority finally possesses the power to end it, but the liberation comes at an appalling cost. Carrie cannot simply step outside the system that has formed her. By the time she confronts Margaret, the violence that has shaped their relationship has become the language through which it is concluded.

Flanagan removes that finality. By transferring Margaret’s death to the outsiders, the series relocates the decisive act of destruction from the intimate relationship between mother and daughter to the machinery of its expanded mythology. Carrie no longer bears the same direct responsibility for the end of that relationship, while Emaline offers her a route out of the world that has defined her.

The effect is to fracture the narrative at precisely the moment when its accumulated tensions should converge.

This is not simply a question of fidelity to King’s plot. It concerns the relationship between cause and consequence that makes Carrie so disturbing. The series has spent eight episodes demonstrating how the people around Carrie contribute to her destruction, only to offer her an escape from the final consequences of that destruction. The narrative wants us to understand the horror of what has happened without requiring Carrie to remain inside it.

In doing so, the adaptation appears to preserve Carrie’s innocence at the expense of her agency. Her suffering is explained, her rage contextualised and her destructive potential increasingly mediated through the intervention of others. The final catastrophe becomes less a culmination of Carrie’s own tragic trajectory than a conflict in which she is caught between competing supernatural forces.

The irony is that Flanagan has already done the difficult work of making us understand her. Summer H. Howell gives Carrie a vulnerability and emotional sincerity that make her suffering immediate. The contemporary setting lends that suffering renewed relevance. The expanded cast and supernatural mythology provide intriguing possibilities. None of these elements requires Carrie to survive.

Indeed, her death might have made those elements more powerful. The wider world could remain, the outsiders could continue their work, and the existence of other gifted individuals could still be established. But Carrie herself would remain the centre of the tragedy, a young woman whose extraordinary abilities cannot save her from the consequences of the world that has formed her.

Instead, the series turns her survival into a promise. The nightmare becomes a beginning.

For some viewers, that may be an appealing act of reclamation. For me, it is the point at which the adaptation loses faith in its own tragedy. Carrie does not need to be condemned, and her suffering does not need to be treated as deserved. But neither does she need to be rescued from the ending that gives her story its devastating force.

Empathy should allow us to confront Carrie’s fate, not require the narrative to spare her from it.

The Flanagan Question

It is important to distinguish this criticism from a rejection of Flanagan’s wider approach to horror. I remain an admirer of his work, particularly his ability to combine emotionally intelligent characterisation with strong direction and a collaborative understanding of the medium. His best stories recognise that the supernatural is most compelling when it exposes the damage people inflict upon one another and the histories they carry into their relationships.

His Carrie is frequently successful because of that sensibility. It recognises the cruelty of online humiliation, the destructive power of religious repression and the ways in which a community can participate in violence while denying its own responsibility. It gives the familiar story a contemporary framework without losing sight of its central anxieties.

The difficulty is that empathy and tragedy are not opposing forces, and one does not require the elimination of the other. Understanding why someone becomes destructive does not mean that their actions cease to matter. Recognising the social conditions that produce violence does not absolve individuals of responsibility. Nor does a character’s suffering automatically entitle them to escape the consequences of their own story.

Flanagan’s instinct is to search for the humanity beneath monstrosity, and that instinct has produced some of modern horror’s most affecting work. But Carrie requires a particularly uncomfortable form of empathy. We must understand the girl without being protected from the monster; recognise the cruelty that creates her rage without losing sight of what that rage can become.

The story’s power lies in the absence of a single explanation that can contain it. Margaret’s abuse matters. The schoolchildren’s cruelty matters. The community’s indifference matters. Carrie’s own actions matter. The horror emerges from their convergence, not from the discovery of one definitive cause that allows every other factor to be arranged around it.

By offering Carrie a future, Flanagan introduces a possibility that is emotionally appealing but thematically disruptive. The series seems to suggest that if the circumstances surrounding Carrie can be understood, she might be removed from the tragic consequences those circumstances have produced. Yet the original story’s devastating force depends on the recognition that understanding arrives too late to undo the damage.

This is where a love of Flanagan’s work makes the criticism more meaningful, not less. The series demonstrates how much he understands about Carrie’s world, but its ending suggests a reluctance to accept what that understanding demands. He has created a compelling modern portrait of a girl whose identity is shaped by the facades, expectations and cruelties of others. He has shown us how those structures collapse, and how the people who helped build them attempt to escape responsibility.

What he ultimately seems unwilling to accept is that understanding Carrie does not require saving her.

The Prognosis: A Strong Reimagining, a Fractured Tragedy

Mike Flanagan’s Carrie is an ambitious and often intelligent reimagining of Stephen King’s debut novel. Its contemporary treatment of social media, public humiliation and the fragile facades through which we negotiate our identities gives the story renewed relevance. Summer H. Howell provides a compelling emotional centre, Samantha Sloyan makes Margaret a formidable presence, and the wider ensemble helps illuminate the social machinery that contributes to Carrie’s destruction.

The expanded supernatural mythology is intriguing, too. The outsiders and their connection to the Shine suggest a wider world of extraordinary abilities and hidden agendas, while the eight-episode structure gives Flanagan room to explore relationships and themes that a feature film could only imply. These are not insignificant achievements, and they demonstrate why he remains one of the most interesting storytellers working in horror.

My disappointment lies in the point where those ambitions begin to overwhelm the intimate tragedy at the centre of the material. By allowing Carrie to survive and transferring Margaret’s death to an external force, Flanagan changes the emotional contract of the story. The ending offers Carrie a future, but it weakens the terrible relationship between repression, revenge and consequence that has driven the narrative towards its conclusion.

I do not object to Flanagan reinterpreting King, nor do I believe that an adaptation must reproduce every event in its source material. The strongest adaptations discover something new within a familiar story. This series does precisely that in its examination of social media, public identity and the violence of collective judgement. But creative reinvention must still reckon with the meaning of the story being reinvented. Here, the determination to preserve Carrie’s innocence ultimately fractures the tragedy that should have brought her story to its most devastating conclusion.

The blood on the prom dress has never been the whole story. It is the visible consequence of years of shame, repression and cruelty, the moment when private suffering becomes public catastrophe. Flanagan understands the girl beneath the blood, and his series gives us compelling reasons to care about her. Yet the final act asks us to accept a future for Carrie at the expense of the very finality that makes her story so haunting.

I remain an admirer of Flanagan’s work, and this adaptation provides further evidence of his ability to reinterpret familiar material through a distinctly modern lens. But admiration does not require uncritical acceptance. Sometimes the most productive criticism comes from recognising the distance between what an artist does exceptionally well and the point at which a particular choice undermines those strengths.

The tragedy of Carrie is not simply that a monster must die. It is that a young woman is pushed towards becoming something monstrous, and that by the time the world recognises what it has done, the possibility of redemption has already been lost.

The girl deserves our sympathy. The monster deserves our fear. The tragedy requires us to hold both truths at once.

Flanagan has given us a compelling new Carrie, one that understands the world that creates her. But by refusing to let that tragedy finish, he leaves us with a less devastating conclusion.

The blood is familiar. The question is whether we still have the courage to look at the girl who spills it.

  • Saul Muerte

JEFFREY DOLLMER: THE DOLL, THE DAHMER AND THE DEATH OF GOOD TASTE

04 Sunday Oct 2026

Posted by surgeons of horror in MonsterFest, Movie review

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cinema, film, horror, movies, reviews

When the killer-doll movie crawls out of the video-store bargain bin

There are films that arrive at a festival demanding to be taken seriously.

There are films that arrive hoping to be discovered.

And then there are films like Jeffrey Dollmer, which seem to arrive carrying a petrol can, a fake moustache and absolutely no intention of apologising for themselves.

A possessed doll.

The spirit of Jeffrey Dahmer.

A remote photo shoot.

A collection of models.

Murder, exploitation and a title that sounds like somebody ran a serial killer’s name through a children’s toy catalogue.

You could spend an enormous amount of time asking whether Jeffrey Dollmer is in good taste.

The film would probably prefer you didn’t.

Monster Fest’s own program copy essentially throws the gauntlet down before the screening even begins, describing the film as “cheap, nasty, ridiculous” and openly celebrating its capacity to offend. That is not an accidental side effect of the film’s identity. It is the sales pitch.

And perhaps that is the most interesting thing about Jeffrey Dollmer.

It feels like a movie from a parallel universe in which the video store never died.

WELCOME TO THE WRONG SHELF

There is a particular kind of horror movie that used to be everywhere.

You would walk into a video shop and find it lurking beneath the more respectable releases. The artwork promised something outrageous. The title promised something worse. The synopsis seemed to have been written by somebody who had been dared to make it sound as filthy and violent as possible.

You picked it up.

You read the back.

You knew absolutely nothing about it.

And that was precisely the point.

Jeffrey Dollmer feels like it belongs in that ecosystem.

Not because it resembles a lost 1980s film in any literal sense, but because it understands the ancient exploitation-movie equation that a sufficiently outrageous premise is itself an invitation.

This is not “a film about a possessed doll.”

It is Jeffrey Dollmer.

The title is already the trailer.

THE FULL MOON CONNECTION

The obvious comparison is Charles Band’s Full Moon Pictures.

That comparison is not intended as an insult.

Quite the opposite.

Full Moon built an entire cottage industry around the idea that horror did not have to be respectable to be entertaining. The company understood the peculiar alchemy of killer toys, demonic objects, mad scientists, miniature monsters, erotic nightmares and concepts that would probably sound insane if explained outside the context of a video-store shelf.

Puppet Master is perhaps the obvious reference point, but the larger Full Moon tradition is what matters here.

The concept comes first.

The spectacle follows.

Logic can take the evening off.

The viewer is not necessarily being promised prestige.

They are being promised something.

A hook.

A monster.

A ridiculous premise.

A reason to press play.

Jeffrey Dollmer appears to understand that tradition instinctively.

It does not seem interested in asking how a possessed serial killer doll could function within a rigorously constructed supernatural mythology.

It asks a much more important exploitation question:

Wouldn’t it be insane if this happened?

And then it goes ahead and makes the movie.

MARK SAVAGE’S HOUSE OF BAD TASTE

At the centre of this particular descent is Australian filmmaker Mark Savage, a director whose career has never suggested an overwhelming interest in staying safely inside the boundaries of good taste.

Monster Fest describes Savage as a fiercely independent filmmaker responsible for titles including Marauders, Sensitive New Age Killer and The Masturbating Gunman.

Those titles alone should tell you something about the cinematic neighbourhood in which Jeffrey Dollmer has chosen to build its house.

Savage is not approaching the material as though somebody has accidentally handed an arthouse director the wrong script.

The premise is the destination.

The bad taste is part of the architecture.

And that places Jeffrey Dollmer in an increasingly interesting corner of contemporary genre filmmaking: movies made with the awareness that there is still an audience for horror that does not need to justify its existence through seriousness.

THE KILLER DOLL THAT SHOULD NOT EXIST

The killer doll is one of horror’s most enduring ideas because the concept itself contains a contradiction.

A doll is supposed to be an object of childhood affection.

It is small.

It is harmless.

It sits where you leave it.

Until it doesn’t.

From The Twilight Zone to Child’s Play and beyond, the killer doll works because it turns an object designed to be controlled into something that controls the room instead.

Jeffrey Dollmer takes that familiar mechanism and pours something considerably uglier into it.

Jeffrey Dahmer.

The historical Dahmer was a real serial killer whose crimes involved the murder and dismemberment of seventeen males between 1978 and 1991. Turning his identity into a killer-doll premise is therefore considerably more provocative than simply inventing another fictional psychopath.

The film’s outrageousness depends upon that collision between the recognisable and the absurd.

The name carries real-world horror.

The doll carries fantasy.

The film slams them together.

And the result is deliberately uncomfortable.

EXPLOITATION KNOWS IT IS EXPLOITATION

This is where the film’s relationship with exploitation cinema becomes particularly useful.

Exploitation has always understood that controversy can function as currency.

The title gets you to stop.

The poster gets you to look.

The premise gets you to wonder whether the filmmakers can possibly pull it off.

And then the movie has to deliver enough of the promised excess to justify the journey.

Jeffrey Dollmer is practically engineered around that principle.

The Monster Fest program doesn’t disguise the film’s intentions. It practically shouts them through a megaphone. A group of models arrive at a photo shoot and encounter a doll possessed by the spirit of Dahmer. The language itself becomes part of the experience.

There is no elaborate mystery box.

No twelve-minute prologue designed to establish an expansive mythology.

No solemn announcement that this is “a meditation on trauma.”

There is a doll.

There is Dahmer.

Things go badly.

Sometimes horror knows exactly how much explanation it needs.

THE PHOTO SHOOT FROM HELL

The choice of a photo shoot is also perfectly suited to this kind of cinema.

The setting already contains an element of artificiality.

Models.

Cameras.

Posing.

Performance.

Bodies being arranged for consumption.

Everyone is already participating in a manufactured spectacle before the supernatural horror arrives.

That creates an interesting secondary layer beneath the exploitation.

The characters are being photographed.

The audience is watching them.

The doll is watching them.

And the film itself is turning the whole situation into entertainment.

It is a hall of mirrors made out of bodies, cameras and voyeurism.

That is not necessarily a reason to suddenly transform Jeffrey Dollmer into a dissertation on the gaze.

Sometimes a killer doll is just a killer doll.

But exploitation cinema has always understood that looking is part of the bargain.

The audience comes to see something they probably shouldn’t.

The movie knows it.

CHEAP ISN’T ALWAYS A CRITICISM

There is a tendency to use words such as “cheap” and “low-budget” as though they automatically represent failures.

They don’t.

Sometimes they represent freedom.

A large studio production has committees.

Insurance requirements.

Brand concerns.

Marketing departments.

Executives asking whether the premise is appropriate for the company’s image.

A film like Jeffrey Dollmer does not appear to have suffered from an excess of corporate supervision.

And thank God for that.

The result may be rough around the edges. It may occasionally feel like it was constructed with whatever was available. It may possess the visual fingerprints of independent exploitation rather than polished studio horror.

But that can be part of the pleasure.

There is something perversely liberating about a film that looks as though somebody simply decided:

We can make a movie about a serial killer doll.

And then did.

THE RETURN OF THE VIDEO-STORE MOVIE

This is where the Full Moon comparison becomes more than a convenient reference.

There was a time when the direct-to-video market provided a vast parallel cinema.

Films could be strange.

Films could be cheap.

Films could be derivative.

Films could be glorious.

Films could be terrible.

Sometimes they could be all five simultaneously.

But they existed.

The video store gave these films a physical geography.

You could wander through the horror section and discover something you had never heard of.

You could judge a movie by its cover.

You could rent it because the title made you laugh.

You could rent it because the artwork frightened you.

You could rent it because your friends dared you.

Streaming has made enormous amounts of cinema available, but it has also changed the nature of discovery. The algorithm wants to know what you already like.

The video store wanted to know what you were willing to risk.

Jeffrey Dollmer feels like a film made for that older form of cinematic gambling.

THE PROBLEM WITH TASTE

Good taste has its uses.

It stops us from making terrible decisions.

It also stops people from making interesting ones.

Horror has always benefited from filmmakers willing to step outside respectable boundaries. Some of the genre’s most memorable films emerged precisely because somebody thought an idea was too ridiculous, too grotesque or too tasteless to work.

Sometimes they were right.

Sometimes they were gloriously wrong.

The important thing is that somebody tried.

Monster Fest has always understood this part of genre culture. Its program is deliberately broad enough to accommodate serious genre filmmaking alongside movies that appear to have been assembled from the contents of a deranged filmmaker’s garage.

That is why Jeffrey Dollmer makes sense here.

It is not an interruption.

It is part of the ecosystem.

THE ELEPHANT IN THE TITLE

Of course, there is one unavoidable problem with the film.

Jeffrey Dahmer was real.

There is an ethical difference between a fictional serial killer and a real person whose crimes destroyed actual lives.

That makes the film’s premise more complicated than something like Puppet Master or Child’s Play.

The exploitation of notorious killers has become a familiar part of contemporary horror and true-crime culture, but familiarity does not make the ethical question disappear.

What does it mean to turn a real killer into entertainment?

Where is the line between grotesque fantasy and commercial exploitation?

And when the killer is transformed into a ridiculous object like a doll, does that distance us from the reality of the crimes—or simply make the spectacle easier to consume?

Those questions sit uncomfortably underneath the film.

Perhaps that discomfort is unavoidable.

Perhaps it is part of what happens when horror takes real-world evil and turns it into genre material.

Either way, Jeffrey Dollmer is not something that can be discussed entirely outside that context.

BUT THEN THERE’S THE TITLE AGAIN

And yet.

There is also the sheer absurdity of the concept.

This is a film called Jeffrey Dollmer.

That name alone tells you that the filmmakers are not trying to disguise the exploitation.

The title is a punchline.

It is a dare.

It is the sort of title that exists specifically to make somebody say:

“Wait. What is that?”

And if your response to that question is to immediately want to see it, then the film has already done its job.

THE ART OF THE RIDICULOUS

The best exploitation cinema has always understood one simple truth:

Ridiculous does not necessarily mean worthless.

Sometimes ridiculous is a legitimate aesthetic.

It allows filmmakers to take ideas that would collapse under the weight of seriousness and turn them into something energetic, strange and entertaining.

Jeffrey Dollmer appears to belong to that tradition.

The film is not asking to be mistaken for The Silence of the Lambs.

It is not competing with prestige psychological horror.

It is not trying to make you forget that you are watching a movie about a serial killer’s spirit inhabiting a doll.

It is making sure you never forget.

And perhaps that is exactly the point.

THE FULL MOON OF IT ALL

Imagine finding this on a video-store shelf thirty years ago.

You have already watched Puppet Master.

You’ve exhausted the obvious Ghoulies.

You’ve seen Demonic Toys.

You’ve wandered through the Full Moon catalogue far enough that the phrase “possessed object” no longer sounds like a warning.

Then you see Jeffrey Dollmer.

You pick it up.

You read the back.

You laugh.

You grimace.

You wonder whether the film can possibly be as outrageous as the title suggests.

Then you rent it.

That is the cinematic experience Jeffrey Dollmer seems determined to resurrect.

Not prestige.

Not cultural respectability.

Not awards-season seriousness.

Discovery.

The glorious possibility that somebody, somewhere, has made a movie so completely bonkers that you simply have to see what happens.

THE MONSTER FEST FACTOR

That is why Jeffrey Dollmer feels particularly well placed at Monster Fest.

The 2026 festival is already presenting films ranging from Australian premieres and world premieres to retrospectives and documentaries about genre filmmakers, including Full Moon Rising: The Charles Band Story.

That makes the Full Moon comparison almost impossible to ignore.

There is something beautifully appropriate about having a film that appears to belong to the same extended cinematic bloodline sitting within a festival program that is also examining Charles Band’s career and the machinery of cult filmmaking.

One film looks back at the man who helped make low-budget genre excess into an international cottage industry.

The other seems determined to remind us that the disease is still alive.

The video store may have disappeared.

The spirit remains.

And apparently it has possessed a doll.

SO, WHAT DO WE DO WITH JEFFREY DOLLMER?

The answer may depend entirely on what you want from horror.

If you want subtlety, this probably isn’t the address.

If you want restrained psychological terror, there are other doors.

If you want a meticulously constructed meditation on the nature of evil, perhaps keep walking.

But if you want a film that looks you directly in the eye and says, “You know what would be funny? A Jeffrey Dahmer killer doll,” then congratulations.

You’ve found your movie.

And there is something oddly refreshing about that.

Horror does not always need to be tasteful.

It does not always need to be important.

It does not always need to justify itself.

Sometimes it can simply be outrageous.

Sometimes the title really is the premise.

Sometimes the premise really is the movie.

And sometimes the best thing you can do with a film this ridiculous is stop asking whether it should exist and start asking the far more important question:

Did they have the guts to actually make it?

Mark Savage did.

The Prognosis:

Jeffrey Dollmer looks like the kind of movie that might have been discovered on a battered VHS cassette after midnight, somewhere between the killer dolls and the films whose titles you were embarrassed to admit you’d rented.

And that may be its greatest virtue.

In an era increasingly dominated by polished horror, elevated horror, franchise horror and algorithmically assembled horror, there is still something gloriously defiant about a film that simply embraces the exploitation impulse.

A serial killer.

A doll.

A photo shoot.

A terrible idea.

A feature-length commitment to that terrible idea.

Maybe that’s not the death of good taste.

Maybe it’s a reminder that horror has always needed a place where good taste can be left outside.

Jeffrey Dollmer is playing at Monster Fest 2026 as a World Premiere, with Mark Savage behind the camera. The Melbourne screening is at Cinema Nova on Tuesday 6 October at 8:45pm.

Bring your sense of humour.

Leave your dignity at the door.

The doll is waiting.

  • Saul Muerte

I LOVE PARIS: Everybody Wants a Piece of You

01 Thursday Oct 2026

Posted by surgeons of horror in MonsterFest, Movie review

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books, horror, MonsterFest, movies, nicky murphy, vampire, vampires, writing

Vampires, vanity and the blood-soaked economics of becoming famous

The music industry has always been a vampire story.

Everybody wants something from you. Your voice. Your image. Your time. Your body. Your attention. Your followers. Your soul, if the contract is right.

Nicky Murphy’s I Love Paris simply has the good sense to stop pretending that metaphor is enough.

Shot through the deliberately grubby and voyeuristic lens of a mockumentary, I Love Paris follows Paris, an aspiring singer hustling through the Parisian music scene while chasing the increasingly elusive promise of fame. When a vampire attack unexpectedly interrupts her already precarious career trajectory, becoming undead proves to be less of a career-ending catastrophe than you might expect. In fact, immortality, nocturnal working hours and an endless appetite for blood may simply be another set of obstacles to negotiate on the road to stardom.

It is an inspired premise because Murphy understands that the vampire and the aspiring artist have considerably more in common than either might initially admit. Both are creatures of appetite. Both require an audience. Both survive by taking something from other people. Both can become objects of fascination while remaining fundamentally parasitic. And both eventually discover that the machinery which promises to elevate them can just as easily consume them.

The genius of I Love Paris is that it doesn’t hammer this metaphor into submission. Instead, it lets the absurdity of vampirism coexist with the mundane humiliations of trying to make it in the music business. Paris still needs recognition. She still needs contacts. She still needs someone to take her seriously. She still needs social media engagement. Becoming a blood-drinking immortal doesn’t magically make the gatekeepers disappear.

If anything, it gives her another fucking problem.

Murphy’s mockumentary approach is crucial to the film’s success. There is an immediate intimacy to the footage, as though we have stumbled into somebody else’s chaotic documentary about artistic ambition and simply forgotten to leave. The camera doesn’t stand outside Paris and judge her. It follows her. It watches her. It records the good, the bad, the embarrassing and the increasingly bloody.

That creates an uncomfortable relationship between subject and spectator.

At times, I Love Paris reminded me of Man Bites Dog, not because Murphy is attempting to replicate Rémy Belvaux, André Bonzel and Benoît Poelvoorde’s particular brand of cinematic provocation, but because the camera develops the same unsettling complicity with what it observes. We aren’t merely watching a dangerous situation unfold. We are watching people watch it unfold. And the longer the camera remains present, the more difficult it becomes to determine where documentation ends and exploitation begins.

That is where the film’s real fangs emerge.

Because how much are we willing to let go by in the name of entertainment?

How much cruelty becomes acceptable once there is a camera pointed at it?

How much exploitation are we prepared to forgive if the resulting footage is funny, shocking, fashionable or simply good art?

These aren’t abstract questions in I Love Paris. They are embedded in the very construction of the film. The camera is hungry. Paris is hungry. The music industry is hungry. The vampires are hungry.

Everybody wants a piece.

And somebody is going to get drained.

Aminata Thiboult is magnificent at the centre of this ecosystem. Paris is not constructed as some conventional tragic vampire figure, nor is she simply the naïve young artist who stumbles into darkness. She is ambitious, flawed, funny, occasionally infuriating and recognisably human. That humanity becomes particularly important once the supernatural enters the equation. Thiboult’s performance allows Paris to remain a person rather than becoming merely a vessel for the vampire gag. Her ambition survives the transformation. So does her ego. So does her desire to be seen.

Perhaps that is the real horror.

She hasn’t changed as much as she thinks she has.

Leonor Oberson is equally effective as Lutèce, the vampire responsible for bringing Paris into this nocturnal existence. Their relationship becomes one of the film’s richest sources of comedy and tension, because Lutèce is not simply an undead mentor handing down the sacred laws of vampirism. She is another complicated human being trapped inside a supernatural existence, and the relationship between the two women has the messy, affectionate and occasionally toxic quality of a friendship that has become impossible to categorise. An interview with Murphy, Thiboult and Oberson reveals that much of the film’s dialogue was developed through a mixture of scripted material and improvisation, with the performers translating and reshaping Murphy’s English-language scripts into something more naturally their own.

That authenticity is one of the film’s great assets.

Murphy allows Paris to feel inhabited rather than performed.

The streets feel lived in. The conversations have the looseness of people who know each other. The comedy doesn’t always announce itself as comedy. Sometimes it simply emerges from the collision between the utterly ridiculous and the completely ordinary.

And then there is the blood.

The vampire mythology is deliberately less interested in elaborate rules than in the practical inconvenience of being a creature that needs to feed. Murphy’s vampires don’t exist as some impossibly elegant aristocratic species floating above humanity. They are humans with an additional biological requirement.

They need blood.

Lots of it.

And if that sounds straightforward, try building a music career around it.

The result is a strange tonal balancing act. I Love Paris is funny without allowing its comedy to completely defang the horror. There are moments when the absurdity provokes laughter and moments when the laughter becomes slightly uncomfortable because the thing being laughed at is, objectively, horrible. That instability is important. The film understands that laughter and horror often occupy the same psychological space.

Sometimes we laugh because something is funny.

Sometimes we laugh because we don’t quite know what else to do.

And sometimes we laugh because the alternative is acknowledging that what we’re watching is genuinely disturbing.

Murphy’s direction allows these contradictions to breathe. The guerrilla-style production, shot on the streets of Paris with an extremely small footprint, could have produced something visually disposable. Instead, the limitations become part of the film’s aesthetic identity. The city doesn’t feel like a backdrop constructed for a vampire movie. It feels like Paris continuing to exist while these increasingly deranged people attempt to pursue their ambitions inside it.

That grounded reality is particularly important to Thiboult and Oberson’s performances. Their characters aren’t floating through some artificial vampire universe. They are negotiating relationships, artistic ambition, money, fame and survival within recognisable social spaces. The supernatural is therefore not an escape from reality. It becomes an exaggeration of it.

The vampire simply makes the exploitation harder to ignore.

This is where the film’s tension between greed and culture becomes particularly potent. Art is supposed to represent something beyond commerce, yet the music industry is an ecosystem built around selling identity. Paris wants to create. Other people want to package her. She wants to be heard. Other people want numbers. She wants artistic recognition. Other people want engagement.

And eventually the question becomes brutally simple:

Who is feeding on whom?

The answer, of course, is complicated.

The vampire feeds on the living.

The industry feeds on the artist.

The audience feeds on the spectacle.

And the filmmaker feeds the audience.

Suddenly that little mockumentary camera becomes considerably more sinister.

This is where I Love Paris earns its comparison with the voyeuristic discomfort of Man Bites Dog. The camera doesn’t merely record exploitation; its very presence raises the possibility that exploitation is the entertainment. We are watching Paris struggle, fail, scheme, bleed and feed because the film has invited us to watch.

We are not innocent observers.

We bought the ticket.

We pressed play.

We stayed.

And that makes the film’s questions about art considerably more interesting than a straightforward satire of the music industry. I Love Paris asks whether the audience itself is part of the ecosystem that creates these hungry creatures of celebrity.

Are we guilty of propelling the hungry hounds towards their glory, only to condemn them when they begin behaving like hungry hounds?

We want authenticity, but we also want spectacle.

We want artists to be vulnerable, but only in ways that entertain us.

We want to see behind the curtain, but rarely stop to ask whether the person standing behind it wanted the curtain removed.

And perhaps this is why the vampire is such a perfect metaphor for celebrity culture. The vampire is immortal because the audience refuses to let the image die. The celebrity survives through attention. Attention becomes currency. Currency becomes power. Power becomes appetite.

The cycle continues.

I Love Paris doesn’t need to lecture us about any of this. It simply puts the blood on the table and lets us decide whether we’re still hungry.

The film’s greatest achievement may ultimately be its ability to make Paris simultaneously ridiculous and sympathetic. She can be selfish. She can be vain. She can be frustrating. But she is also recognisable. Her hunger for success isn’t supernatural. It’s painfully human.

The vampire simply gives that hunger teeth.

Murphy’s film therefore becomes something considerably more interesting than a vampire comedy set against the music industry. It is a film about the performance of identity, the commodification of creativity and the uncomfortable relationship between artist and audience. It understands that the modern celebrity machine doesn’t necessarily need to destroy people outright.

Sometimes it simply keeps feeding.

And the people being fed upon keep smiling for the camera.

The Prognosis:

I Love Paris is a wonderfully strange hybrid: vampire movie, mockumentary, music-industry satire and uncomfortable exercise in cinematic voyeurism. Nicky Murphy’s direction finds considerable strength in allowing the natural elements of Paris, the performances and the improvised rhythms of everyday interaction to remain visible rather than burying them beneath excessive genre machinery.

Aminata Thiboult and Leonor Oberson give the film its grounded human pulse, creating characters whose relationships remain compelling even when the world around them becomes increasingly absurd. Their performances help ensure that the vampire mythology never overwhelms the film’s more interesting concerns: ambition, exploitation, artistic identity and the desperate hunger to be seen.

But perhaps the sharpest blade is directed back at us.

Because I Love Paris doesn’t simply ask what happens when a vampire enters the music industry.

It asks what happens when we keep watching.

When does fascination become voyeurism?

When does art become exploitation?

And how much blood are we prepared to overlook if the show is good enough?

The vampires may be hungry.

The industry may be hungry.

But the audience has been feeding them all along.

I LOVE PARIS screens at Monster Fest 2026 on Sunday 4 October at 5:00pm at Cinema Nova, Melbourne, following its Australian Premiere run after winning the Gold Audience Award for Best International Feature at Fantasia.

Come for the vampires.

Stay for the uncomfortable realisation that perhaps we’ve always been part of the feeding frenzy.

  • Saul Muerte

INFIRMARY: When the Found Footage Becomes the Familiar

01 Thursday Oct 2026

Posted by surgeons of horror in Movie review

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horror, shudder, shudder australia

A haunted hospital, a bodycam and the problem with knowing exactly where the scare is coming from

There are few locations more obliging to the horror filmmaker than the abandoned psychiatric hospital. Its corridors arrive preloaded with cinematic history: peeling paint, institutional lighting, empty rooms, distant noises and the suggestion that whatever happened here was sufficiently terrible that nobody bothered to clean up afterwards. Add a bodycam, a security guard working the night shift and a mysterious disappearance, and the machinery of contemporary found-footage horror appears to assemble itself almost automatically.

Infirmary knows this machinery intimately.

Perhaps a little too intimately.

Nicholas Pineda’s feature debut takes us into the Wilshire Infirmary, a decaying psychiatric facility whose history is considerably less dormant than the building itself. Edward (Paul Syre Lee) arrives for his first night as a security guard and is partnered with Lester (Mark Anthony Williams), a veteran guard whose abrasive personality suggests that workplace induction has taken a particularly unfortunate turn. Before long, the routine patrol becomes something else entirely, and the footage recovered from Edward’s body camera offers investigators a record of a night that apparently cannot be reconciled with ordinary reality.

It is a perfectly serviceable premise for found footage, and Infirmary immediately demonstrates that it understands the form. The bodycam perspective is complemented by fixed surveillance cameras, giving Pineda multiple visual grammars with which to explore the hospital. We move from the intimate, unstable perspective of the guards to the impersonal geometry of security footage, where corridors become lines disappearing into darkness and rooms become observation chambers in which something may or may not have moved.

The surveillance camera is, after all, one of modern horror’s most useful inventions. It promises knowledge while delivering uncertainty. It tells us that somebody is watching, but never guarantees that the person watching understands what they are seeing.

Infirmary understands that contradiction.

What it struggles to overcome is familiarity.

The film is littered with the conventions that have become almost inseparable from found-footage horror: the institutional setting, unexplained noises, strange figures glimpsed at the edge of the frame, malfunctioning equipment, characters wandering into places they probably shouldn’t and the inevitable suggestion that the camera has captured something the human eye missed.

None of these devices is inherently problematic. Horror is built from recurring forms. The issue is that Infirmary rarely gives them quite enough additional pressure to make them feel newly dangerous.

The film can be atmospheric without necessarily becoming frightening.

That distinction matters.

There is a certain elegance to the visual conception of the hospital. The corridors are oppressive precisely because they are so ordinary. Rather than filling every available corner with grotesquerie, Pineda allows the architecture to do some of the work. The empty institutional spaces become a kind of visual purgatory, their very emptiness creating the expectation that something ought to be there.

And occasionally something is.

But Infirmary repeatedly approaches the threshold of genuine unease only to retreat into the familiar language of the found-footage scare. A noise becomes an event. A shadow becomes a revelation. An empty corridor becomes a runway for anticipation. The film knows precisely how to prepare the audience for a disturbance, but preparation is not the same thing as terror.

The result is a curious paradox: Infirmary can be technically unsettling while remaining emotionally underpowered.

This is particularly noticeable because the central performers give the film more character than its narrative sometimes affords them. Paul Syre Lee’s Edward is positioned as the audience’s principal conduit into this nightmare, while Mark Anthony Williams gives Lester an abrasive, unpredictable energy that complicates the conventional rookie/veteran relationship. Danielle Kennedy’s Ms. Downey adds another layer to the institutional mystery, reinforcing the sense that Edward has entered a workplace where nobody is particularly interested in explaining the rules.

That characterisation is important because the hospital itself is not the only thing being watched.

Edward is being watched too.

The bodycam creates an unusual relationship between character and audience. We are not simply observing Edward’s experience; we are effectively receiving his evidence. The footage is supposed to tell us what happened. Yet the further the film progresses, the less useful that evidence becomes as an explanatory instrument.

That is potentially rich territory.

Found footage works best when the recording device becomes more than a gimmick. The camera should alter our relationship with events. It should make us question whether seeing something actually means understanding it, whether recording violence transforms us into spectators, or whether the supposedly objective camera is simply another unreliable witness.

Infirmary gestures towards these possibilities but doesn’t always push them far enough.

Instead, it sometimes feels like a film walking through the museum of found-footage horror, admiring the exhibits and occasionally switching on the lights.

The psychiatric hospital itself is another familiar piece of genre architecture. From Session 9 to Grave Encounters, abandoned institutions have become almost a subgenre within the haunted-location movie. Infirmary doesn’t radically reinvent that geography. What it does achieve is a certain institutional bleakness: the building feels less like a conventional haunted house than a place whose purpose has become corrupted. It is a workplace, a ruin and a repository for unpleasant memories simultaneously.

That is arguably where the film’s strongest horror lies.

Not necessarily in what haunts the building, but in the idea of institutions retaining the psychological residue of what happened inside them.

The film’s mythology involving patients, experimentation and the possibility of something being transferred from human beings into artificial forms gives the narrative a potentially fascinating thematic dimension. There is an intriguing idea lurking underneath the scares: that madness might not disappear simply because the people who experienced it are gone. It might migrate. It might become embedded in objects, spaces or memories.

That is considerably more disturbing than another shadow disappearing around a corridor.

Unfortunately, Infirmary is not always able to convert that conceptual material into sustained dramatic momentum. The film keeps returning to the familiar rhythms of exploration, discovery and reaction, and eventually the audience can begin to feel the mechanism operating beneath the floorboards.

This is the central weakness of Infirmary: the film rarely surprises us at the level of form.

It is competent at being a found-footage horror film. It understands what the form requires. It knows how to frame an empty corridor, when to hold a shot, how to use surveillance footage and how to create the expectation that something will appear just outside the visible frame.

But horror isn’t merely the art of making an audience expect something frightening.

It is the art of making them uncertain about what frightens them.

And Infirmary too often allows that uncertainty to collapse into anticipation.

The sound design is another significant component of the experience. Electronic textures and sudden sonic disruptions create an appropriately oppressive atmosphere, although the film occasionally leans so heavily on audio cues that the sound begins doing the emotional work the imagery hasn’t quite managed to accomplish. The effect can be less a tightening of the nerves than a reminder that the film would very much like us to be frightened right now.

There are moments when it works.

There are moments when the hospital becomes genuinely uncanny.

And there are stretches where the sheer emptiness of the frame is more effective than any conventional scare could be.

But these moments arrive intermittently rather than accumulating into the sustained psychological assault the premise promises.

That makes Infirmary an interesting example of the current state of found-footage horror. The form has become so established that simply employing its conventions is no longer enough. The audience knows the language. We know the bodycam is going to capture something. We know the surveillance monitor will eventually reveal something that wasn’t there a moment earlier. We know the character will walk towards the noise.

The question is no longer whether the film understands the grammar.

The question is whether it has something new to say with it.

Pineda clearly has an eye for the physical spaces of horror, and there is enough atmosphere and character work here to suggest a filmmaker worth watching. Infirmary is not incompetent filmmaking; quite the opposite. Its problem is almost more frustrating because of that competence. You can see the film that it wants to become flickering within the one that is actually on screen.

A more radical approach to its mythology, a greater willingness to abandon familiar scare rhythms or a deeper interrogation of its surveillance conceit might have transformed its unease into something genuinely destabilising.

Instead, Infirmary walks a well-trodden corridor.

It is just unfortunate that we can usually see where the corridor is going.

The Prognosis:

Infirmary is a technically assured piece of found-footage horror that understands atmosphere, location and the visual grammar of surveillance. Nicholas Pineda makes good use of the decaying hospital environment, while Paul Syre Lee and Mark Anthony Williams give the film a stronger human dimension than its increasingly familiar narrative mechanisms always allow.

But familiarity is the spectre that ultimately haunts Infirmary. The film moves through the conventions of bodycams, surveillance footage, abandoned institutions and unexplained phenomena with relative ease, yet too rarely finds the moment that makes those conventions feel dangerous again.

There is a good horror film buried somewhere inside the Wilshire Infirmary.

The problem is that, for much of the night, Infirmary seems content to patrol the corridors around it.

INFIRMARY premieres exclusively on Shudder and AMC+ on Friday, October 2, 2026.

  • Saul Muerte

BLOODLUST: The Australian Revenge Western at the End of the World

30 Wednesday Sep 2026

Posted by surgeons of horror in MonsterFest, Movie review

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cinema, film, horror, Jocelyn Lambourne, Liam Maloney, Matt Michalik, monster fest, movies, reviews, Ronald MacKinnon, Rupert Evans

The Western has always been a genre about what happens when civilisation runs out of road. Take away the courthouse, the sheriff, the town square and the comforting fiction that justice can be administered by somebody wearing a badge, and you are left with a man, a gun and a very personal understanding of what constitutes a reckoning. Bloodlust takes that ancient machinery of revenge and drives it into the wreckage of a post-apocalyptic Australia, where the world has already ended but the oldest human impulse apparently missed the memo.

Keith and Becca are survivors in more ways than one. They have managed to carve out something resembling companionship in the remains of a world where almost everything else has disappeared. Their existence is stripped back to the essentials: movement, survival and each other. Then a chance encounter with four other survivors turns violently catastrophic. Becca is murdered, Keith is left for dead, and the few possessions they possess are taken from them. Six months later, Keith emerges from the wreckage with a singular purpose. He has found the men responsible, and whatever remains of the man they once encountered on the road is about to be buried beneath something considerably colder.

This is where Bloodlust finds its most compelling territory. Revenge stories traditionally begin with a moral equation: someone has been wronged, therefore somebody must pay. It is the cinematic equivalent of an eye for an eye, except that cinema has always been fascinated by what happens when the eye is finally collected. The closer the avenger gets to his target, the more complicated that original equation becomes. Bloodlust understands this tension and allows Keith’s pursuit to become something more unsettling than a straightforward exercise in settling scores.

Because what exactly is Keith trying to restore?

Becca cannot be brought back. The old world cannot be reconstructed. There is no functioning justice system waiting for Keith to deliver the perpetrators into its hands. There isn’t even much of a civilisation left to protect. His revenge therefore exists in a moral vacuum. He is not restoring order so much as creating his own version of it, one corpse at a time.

That makes Bloodlust feel like an Australian Western that has somehow wandered through the apocalypse and forgotten to change its clothes.

There is the lone figure moving across hostile terrain. There is the murdered woman whose death becomes the catalyst for violence. There is the hunt. There are the men who have done the wronging and the man who intends to make them answer for it. Yet instead of Monument Valley or the dusty frontier towns of classical Western mythology, Michalik and Evans give us the decaying remains of Australia. The frontier has not merely been pushed further west. The entire country has become the frontier.

And that gives the film a wonderfully strange identity.

The post-apocalyptic setting could easily have become an excuse for generic wasteland imagery, but Bloodlust uses its limited resources to create something much more intimate. This isn’t a world populated by armies of mutants, elaborate settlements or armies of marauding survivors. It is a reduced landscape in which the absence of civilisation becomes part of the horror. The emptiness matters. The spaces between people matter. Every encounter carries the possibility of violence because there are so few structures left to prevent it.

In that respect, Bloodlust belongs to a long tradition of Australian cinema that understands landscape as something more psychologically complicated than scenery. The Australian bush has frequently been represented as a place where familiar rules become unreliable, where isolation can turn ordinary human behaviour into something primal. Here, the landscape has been stripped even further. The civilisation that once gave the environment context has disappeared, leaving only the terrain and the people who remain trapped inside it.

And Keith is very much a product of that landscape.

His transformation is central to the film’s power. Revenge cinema has always loved the metamorphosis of the victim into the avenger, but Bloodlust isn’t interested in pretending that this transformation is clean. Violence changes the person who administers it. Every act of vengeance carries the possibility that the distinction between justice and brutality will become increasingly academic.

The film’s title consequently becomes more revealing the further we travel into Keith’s story. Bloodlust isn’t simply describing the violence surrounding him. It suggests something more fundamental: that revenge can become an appetite.

Once the first blood has been spilled, how much is enough?

That is the question hanging over Keith’s journey.

Matt Michalik and Rupert Evans approach this material with a remarkable degree of economy. The pair wrote, directed, shot and edited the film themselves, while also appearing in front of the camera, expanding what began as a ten-minute action short made during their university years into a 70-minute feature. The film was shot over four months with a crew of just four people.

That context is worth knowing, not because Bloodlust needs excuses made for it, but because it explains something important about the film’s physicality. There is a stripped-down quality to the filmmaking that suits the material. The movie doesn’t feel like an enormous production pretending to be small. It feels like a group of filmmakers who understood the resources available to them and built the film around movement, landscape, bodies and violence.

And when Bloodlust gets violent, it doesn’t treat brutality as decorative seasoning.

The violence has consequence. It is ugly, physical and deliberately uncomfortable, which gives the revenge sequences an interesting tension. We understand why Keith wants vengeance. We understand the enormity of what has been taken from him. But understanding the motivation doesn’t necessarily mean we can comfortably inhabit the morality of what follows.

That distinction is crucial.

The easiest revenge films allow us to cheer because the villains are so thoroughly monstrous that their destruction becomes a form of audience wish fulfilment. Bloodlust operates in murkier territory. Its central figure has been wronged beyond comprehension, yet his response increasingly forces us to question whether vengeance is capable of remaining proportional once there is nobody left to enforce the boundaries.

It is the old Western problem dressed in post-apocalyptic clothing.

Who watches the watcher when there is nobody left?

And perhaps more importantly: who judges the man who has decided that he alone is qualified to deliver justice?

There is something almost primitive about Bloodlust in this regard. Beneath its post-apocalyptic surface lies an ancient story. A loved one is taken. A survivor swears vengeance. The road stretches ahead. The enemies wait somewhere beyond the horizon. The avenger walks towards them carrying grief that gradually hardens into purpose.

The difference is that this particular frontier has already burned down.

That collision between old and new is where the film derives much of its character. The Western is one of cinema’s oldest mythologies, while post-apocalyptic fiction is one of its most persistent modern anxieties. Put the two together and you get a strange hybrid in which the past and future appear to have crashed into each other somewhere in the Australian wilderness.

The result is lean, brutal and occasionally twisted in ways that feel distinctly its own.

Bloodlust isn’t interested in building an elaborate mythology around the apocalypse. It doesn’t need to tell us every detail of what happened to the world. The absence of information becomes part of the atmosphere. What matters is what remains: a handful of people, a hostile environment, old grievances and the increasingly fragile boundary between being the victim and becoming the monster.

That makes it a particularly fitting addition to Monster Fest’s Homegrown Horrors program. The festival describes it as a stripped-back piece of independent Australian filmmaking that punches above its weight, and there is something satisfying about watching a film whose production circumstances seem almost perversely appropriate to its story: a tiny crew creating a film about people trying to survive in a world where almost everything has already been stripped away.

There is no cavalry coming for Keith.

No sheriff.

No courtroom.

No final appeal.

Just the road.

And somewhere at the end of it, somebody is going to pay.

The Prognosis:

Bloodlust takes the familiar anatomy of the revenge film and performs an interesting autopsy on it. By transplanting the Western’s moral landscape into a post-apocalyptic Australia, Matt Michalik and Rupert Evans create a film that is simultaneously familiar and strangely alien. Its brutality is considerable, but its more interesting wounds are psychological: what happens when grief becomes vengeance, vengeance becomes purpose, and purpose begins to consume the person pursuing it?

This is Australian genre filmmaking stripped to the bone, but the skeleton underneath is an old one.

The frontier.

The outlaw.

The wronged man.

The reckoning.

Only this time, there isn’t a civilisation waiting on the other side of the dust.

BLOODLUST screens as an Australian Premiere at Monster Fest 2026 on Saturday 3 October at 7:30pm at Cinema Nova, Melbourne, with a Q&A following the screening.

If revenge is an eye for an eye, Bloodlust asks a much nastier question:

What happens when there is nobody left to close their eyes?

  • Saul Muerte

GODMOTHER: Welcome to the Desert, Where the Family Values Get Weird

30 Wednesday Sep 2026

Posted by surgeons of horror in MonsterFest, Movie review

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alanah pearce, books, bruce davison, Cameron Cuffe, Dee Wallace, film, horror, john vernon, MonsterFest, movies, Paige Evans, reviews

There are few things more suspicious in a horror film than the phrase “romantic getaway.” It is cinema’s way of placing a flashing neon sign above the protagonists and quietly informing the audience that somebody, somewhere, has made a terrible booking decision. In Godmother, that decision begins innocently enough: a couple head into the New Mexico desert hoping to escape the machinery of everyday life, only for their retreat to become considerably less intimate when Theo invites her heartbroken sister Katie along for the ride. Then the house itself starts introducing complications, and suddenly the idea of a relaxing weekend away begins to resemble the sort of holiday brochure that should come with a psychiatric warning.

Directed by John Veron in his feature debut and co-written with Alanah Pearce, Godmother initially plays its cards with a certain restraint. There is an appealingly awkward quality to the interpersonal dynamics, with relationships already carrying enough baggage before the supernatural—or whatever lurks at the edges of the story—has had an opportunity to unpack its own. That gives the film an important foundation. The horror doesn’t simply arrive from somewhere outside the characters; it grows out of the increasingly uncomfortable social space they have entered.

And then the temperature begins to rise.

This is where Godmother becomes considerably more interesting. Rather than detonating its entire arsenal at once, the film gradually turns the screws, allowing the atmosphere to curdle. What initially resembles an offbeat desert drama starts acquiring the peculiar logic of a nightmare in which every attempt to maintain normality only makes the situation stranger. The New Mexico landscape becomes more than picturesque backdrop. It is a pressure cooker—wide open, sun-blasted and seemingly offering nowhere useful to hide.

That gradual escalation is one of the film’s strengths. Godmother understands that horror can benefit from letting the audience sit in the wrong room for a little too long. There is something distinctly off about the experience: the sense that we have taken a perfectly ordinary road trip, missed the appropriate exit somewhere outside civilisation and are now following a road sign pointing towards a destination nobody remembers agreeing to visit.

The film is also blessed with the presence of two actors who bring considerable genre history into this increasingly strange equation. Dee Wallace has spent decades inhabiting the emotional architecture of horror, from The Howling and Cujo through E.T. and beyond, and she possesses the rare ability to make warmth and unease coexist within the same performance. Bruce Davison, meanwhile, carries his own formidable genre pedigree, having moved through everything from Willard to X-Men and The Lords of Salem. Their presence gives Godmother an intriguing generational dimension: this is a film featuring performers who know precisely how much menace can hide behind a seemingly ordinary smile.

Their roles work particularly well because the film doesn’t treat veteran genre performers as museum pieces. They aren’t simply here to give horror fans a knowing wink. Instead, Wallace and Davison become part of the machinery that allows Godmother to transition from uncomfortable social encounter into something considerably more sinister.

And that transition is where Alanah Pearce and John Veron’s collaboration becomes particularly noticeable. There is a creative curiosity running through the film—a willingness to let the premise become increasingly peculiar rather than constantly steering it back towards familiar genre territory. Pearce brings a background steeped in games, storytelling and popular culture, while Veron approaches the material as a filmmaker making his feature debut. The result is a film that feels interested in the possibilities of its own premise rather than simply ticking boxes on a horror checklist.

It also helps that Godmother understands the value of not immediately explaining everything. Horror is often at its most effective when the audience has enough information to become suspicious but not enough to feel entirely comfortable. The film plays with that uncertainty, allowing its characters to keep making decisions that seem reasonable right up until the moment they very clearly aren’t.

The desert is particularly useful territory for this kind of horror. It is the landscape of American mythology stripped of its reassuring edges: enormous distances, isolated properties, strange encounters and the persistent possibility that civilisation is considerably further away than you initially thought. It is also a perfect setting because the environment itself seems to encourage bad decisions. You can almost imagine the road disappearing behind you while some unseen voice in the passenger seat whispers, Keep driving. It’ll be fine.

It won’t be fine.

But Godmother doesn’t need to pretend that it is reinventing horror to be worthwhile. Its pleasures are found in the way it builds, the peculiarities it introduces along the way and the performances that give its increasingly bizarre circumstances a human centre. The film has an infectious willingness to push its premise further, and when it finally begins letting the horror properly off the leash, the earlier restraint pays dividends.

There is also something pleasingly old-fashioned about its construction. The film is interested in characters first, atmosphere second and outright mayhem somewhere further down the road. That makes the eventual escalation feel earned rather than simply inserted because the runtime has reached the point where somebody needs to start screaming.

For Monster Fest audiences, Godmother offers precisely the kind of festival experience that works best when you know as little as possible beforehand. It is an Australian Premiere with a strong creative partnership at its centre, a couple of veteran genre performers lurking within the cast, and a premise that becomes increasingly difficult to classify the further it travels from the romantic getaway advertised on the itinerary.

So pack the sunscreen, fill the tank and leave your better judgement at home.

The Prognosis:

Godmother is a steadily escalating horror film that finds its personality in the collision between uncomfortable domestic dynamics, desert isolation and increasingly strange genre territory. John Veron and Alanah Pearce have fashioned something that is happy to take the scenic route before driving directly into darker territory, while Dee Wallace and Bruce Davison provide welcome genre gravitas to a cast of characters whose weekend is about to become considerably less relaxing.

GODMOTHER screens as an Australian Premiere at Monster Fest 2026 on Saturday 3 October at Cinema Nova, Melbourne.

Monster Fest runs from 2–10 October, with the festival’s 2026 program presenting the film among its international and Australian genre premieres.

If you’re heading to Monster Fest, this is one desert getaway where I’d recommend checking the return journey before you leave.

  • Saul Muerte

Under the Scalpel: Interview with John Veron

To accompany our exploration of Godmother, Surgeons of Horror’s Under the Scalpel goes directly to the source. Saul Muerte speaks with director John Veron about the film’s journey from screenplay to screen, the challenges of independent horror production, the decision to place this particular nightmare against an isolated desert landscape, and the creative influences that helped shape its uneasy blend of occult menace and psychological tension. It’s a spoiler-free conversation that offers a glimpse behind the curtain without dismantling the mysteries that make Godmother work — an opportunity to hear the filmmaker himself discuss the anatomy of the film before the scalpel goes in.

RESIDENT EVIL (2026): The Man Who Couldn’t Decide

19 Saturday Sep 2026

Posted by surgeons of horror in Movie review

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austin abrams, horror, movies, resident evil, reviews, umbrella corporation, zach cregger

Zach Cregger’s Resident Evil begins with a man who does not want his life to change. Bryan is a medical courier, a man whose existence is defined by movement without necessarily having any direction. He drives things from one place to another. He delivers what other people need. He takes another job because it pays double. He is useful, but largely interchangeable. Then his girlfriend tells him she is pregnant, and suddenly the future has arrived without asking his permission. Cregger’s ingenious move is to turn that emotional paralysis into a survival-horror movie. By the time Bryan enters the nightmare of Raccoon City, he is already living inside a horror story of his own making. The monsters simply make it literal.

There is a tendency to discuss video-game adaptations according to how faithfully they reproduce characters, locations, mythology and iconography. Resident Evil takes a more interesting route. Cregger does not attempt to reproduce one particular game so much as reconstruct the experience of playing one. The film is an original story running parallel to the events of Resident Evil 2, but its architecture is unmistakably that of the games: locked doors, scarce resources, improvised weapons, bizarre obstacles, escalating objectives, seemingly useless objects, sudden encounters and the persistent feeling that somewhere just beyond the next corridor is something considerably worse. Cregger understands that Resident Evil is not necessarily about watching an action hero defeat monsters. It is about being the person who has to decide whether opening the next door is worth the risk.

The Rise of Zach Cregger

There is an intriguing progression through Zach Cregger’s work to this point. His emergence as a horror filmmaker was already something of a surprise given his background in sketch comedy with The Whitest Kids U’ Know, but Barbarian announced a filmmaker fascinated by destabilisation: the sudden reconfiguration of audience assumptions, the willingness to abandon one story for another and the conviction that horror becomes more effective when the viewer cannot quite predict what the film is going to do next. Weapons expanded that impulse. Its fractured perspectives and shifting character emphasis demonstrated a filmmaker increasingly interested in how information changes our understanding of horror. Cregger’s movies have consistently asked the audience to reassess what it thinks it is watching.

Resident Evil is different. It is arguably his most straightforward film, but that does not make it less considered. In some respects, the constraints of the franchise force Cregger to become more precise. There is no need to manufacture the sort of narrative rug-pulls that powered Barbarian or the structural complexity of Weapons. Instead, Cregger takes an existing piece of popular culture and asks a deceptively difficult question: what would it actually feel like to be trapped inside a Resident Evil game? The answer is Bryan. Cregger has spoken about wanting to recreate the soul and pacing of the games rather than construct a scene-for-scene adaptation, and that distinction is crucial. The film does not require Leon Kennedy, Claire Redfield or any of the franchise’s established heroes because Bryan is not supposed to be one of them. He is supposed to be us.

The Loser as Player

Bryan is spectacularly ill-equipped for the apocalypse. He is not a police officer, soldier or special agent. He does not have years of survival training and he does not suddenly discover a hidden reservoir of action-hero competence when the monsters arrive. When he encounters the weapons that would traditionally transform a horror protagonist into an action hero, Cregger instead makes them extensions of Bryan’s incompetence. That is where Austin Abrams becomes indispensable.

Abrams does not play Bryan as a secretly capable action hero waiting to emerge. He plays him as a man who is frightened, confused, frustrated and frequently overwhelmed. His body becomes part of the film’s comedy: running, stumbling, panting, screaming, improvising and occasionally looking at the nightmare unfolding around him with the exhausted disbelief of someone who has absolutely no idea why this has become his problem. Bryan is funny because he is human. His reactions are often the reactions that a normal person might actually have if confronted with a mutated creature, a zombie or a grotesque biological impossibility. He does not become cool under pressure. He does not suddenly acquire the vocabulary of the action movie. He swears, panics, runs and makes mistakes.

Because Cregger largely isolates him, Abrams has to carry an enormous amount of the film almost by himself. This is not simply a performance of dialogue. It is a performance of reaction. The camera watches Bryan experience the game. At various points, he effectively becomes the audience’s controller. He searches rooms, tries objects, discovers weapons, encounters locked doors, learns what works and makes mistakes. He gradually becomes better at the game because he is learning how to play it. That progression gives the film a genuine gamification that extends beyond Easter eggs. Bryan is almost an NPC who has accidentally become the player character: a man who does not understand the rules, does not know what he is carrying, does not know how to use the weapons he finds and survives largely because the game keeps presenting him with another objective.

A Green Herb and a World of Rules

For longtime players, Cregger scatters the film with recognisable pieces of Resident Evil iconography. The green healing items. The locked gates. The weapons. The resource management. The increasingly grotesque mutations. The movement through seemingly disconnected environments. The hospital. Raccoon City. The sense that every apparently innocuous room might contain either salvation or something waiting to tear you apart.

These details could easily have become the cinematic equivalent of a merchandise catalogue. Instead, they are integrated into the mechanics of Bryan’s journey. The objects become punctuation marks. Cregger understands that fans do not necessarily need to be shown their favourite characters standing in a doorway. They need to feel that the rules of Resident Evil have suddenly become real. That is a much more sophisticated form of fan service.

The film is therefore remarkably restrained in its mythology. It does not spend its runtime explaining the entire history of Umbrella Corporation or stopping to introduce every recognisable name in the franchise. Instead, it places an ordinary man inside the outbreak and allows the familiar architecture to emerge around him. The result feels less like a remake of a particular Resident Evil game and more like a lost campaign running alongside one.

Cregger’s Hues: Light Inside the Dark

Visually, Cregger also understands the value of contrast. Resident Evil is a film of darkness, but it is not visually monotonous. The cold blue-black of the night, the sickly illumination of abandoned spaces, the sterile artificiality of hospital interiors and the violent eruptions of colour within the gore create a visual language that repeatedly moves between safety and danger. That contrast matters because Resident Evil has always understood light as conditional. A lit room does not necessarily mean a safe room. A familiar corridor can conceal something monstrous. A fluorescent hospital can be considerably more frightening than a dark forest.

Cregger has spoken about growing technically through Weapons, particularly in his understanding of lenses, editing and considering light sources during storyboarding. That development is evident here. The film’s visual choices are not simply about making Raccoon City look appropriately grim. They continually manipulate the relationship between visibility and vulnerability. The darkest spaces are frightening because we cannot see. The brightest spaces can be frightening because we can.

The Joke Is the Pressure Valve

Yet for all the discussion of horror, gore and game mechanics, humour may be the element that keeps Resident Evil moving. Cregger’s comedy background has always been part of his horror vocabulary. Horror and comedy share a similar anatomy: timing, tone, expectation and surprise. The joke often arrives precisely when the film could otherwise become oppressive, with Bryan’s reactions puncturing the grandeur of the apocalypse. His incompetence deflates the macho posturing that has traditionally accompanied video-game protagonists, while the absurdity of the situations becomes part of their entertainment value.

This is also where Resident Evil brushes against what I have come to think of as Gallows Horror: the point at which the joke does not relieve the horror so much as expose how grotesque the situation has become. There is a particular cruelty to laughing at Bryan because the circumstances surrounding him are genuinely appalling. He is frightened, exhausted, increasingly desperate and surrounded by things that should be utterly terrifying, yet his very inability to behave like a conventional horror protagonist becomes funny. The laughter comes not because the danger has disappeared, but because the alternative is to stare directly into the absurdity of it.

That distinction matters. Gallows humour traditionally allows us to laugh in the face of death, but Cregger pushes that instinct into the mechanics of the Resident Evil universe. The game has always contained an inherent absurdity: a character can encounter an impossible biological abomination and then spend several minutes searching a room for a key, solving a puzzle or examining an oddly specific object. Cregger understands that this ridiculousness is part of the franchise’s identity. Rather than smoothing it away in the transition from game to cinema, he allows it to become part of the film’s texture.

Importantly, the humour does not entirely dissolve the horror. It gives the audience somewhere to breathe, but it also makes the next descent into darkness sharper. The laugh becomes a pressure valve, and once that valve closes, the horror rushes back in. This creates a rhythm that keeps the film moving without allowing either tone to completely dominate the other. Cregger reportedly removed some jokes after test audiences found an earlier version too funny, making what remains particularly revealing. The surviving humour is largely embedded in character and circumstance rather than simply being added as comic relief.

And that makes Abrams’ performance even more important. For long stretches, he is effectively performing a solo comedy-horror routine against creatures, environments and visual effects. He has to make the audience laugh without making Bryan ridiculous, frightened without making him pathetic and sympathetic without turning him into a conventional hero. Abrams finds that balance, and in doing so turns Bryan’s predicament into something approaching tragicomedy. We laugh at him because we recognise him, and we recognise him because his instinct to keep running, keep joking and keep moving is also an instinct to avoid confronting what is waiting for him.

The Fear of Becoming Someone Else

The film becomes more interesting when the delivery itself begins to acquire symbolic weight. Bryan spends the entire film carrying something. He does not initially know exactly what it is. He simply knows that it is important and that someone needs it delivered. At the same time, his girlfriend Michelle is carrying something too: a child. The two forms of carrying gradually begin to echo one another.

Bryan’s job is to transport a future that he does not understand. His personal life is confronting him with another future he does not understand. In both cases, the thing being carried represents responsibility. In both cases, Bryan’s instinct is not necessarily to embrace it but to keep moving. Movement becomes his substitute for decision. He drives, runs, delivers, escapes, doubles back and keeps going. What he rarely does is stop and decide what he actually wants.

This is where the film’s apparent simplicity begins to reveal something darker. Bryan is afraid of fatherhood because fatherhood represents irreversible change. His relationship with Michelle has reached a point at which the future can no longer be postponed, and his instinct is to defer the conversation. He is caught between fight and flight, but neither quite describes him. He chooses movement without commitment.

That is his defining state. And it is why the monsters are so effective as extensions of the story. The infected are bodies that have changed without consent. Bryan is terrified of changing by choice.

The Horror of Stagnation

This makes Resident Evil unexpectedly interested in stagnation. At first glance, it is one of the fastest-moving films Cregger has made. Bryan is constantly travelling through new environments, encountering new monsters and receiving new objectives. But psychologically, he is stuck. He has been stuck before the film begins. The outbreak simply gives physical form to that condition.

Every new objective provides Bryan with an excuse not to confront the larger question waiting at home. Deliver the package. Find the weapon. Get through the gate. Reach the hospital. Find the scientists. Get the cure. There is always another task, another immediate problem and another reason not to think about tomorrow. This is precisely what makes the video-game structure so appropriate. Games are built around objectives. The player is constantly told what to do next. Bryan’s life becomes easier when he has an objective because an objective means he does not have to make a decision for himself.

The tragedy is that the game eventually runs out of objectives.

SPOILERS: The Thing He Carries

The ending makes this explicit. Bryan has spent the entire film carrying the thing that might save him. The package he initially believes to be an organ is ultimately revealed to contain a crucial component required to create the antidote. He has been carrying the answer without understanding its significance. But by the time the cure is created, Bryan’s infection has progressed too far.

The irony is devastating. He has done exactly what he was supposed to do. He delivered the package. He completed the mission. He reached the destination. And it still is not enough. The scientists cannot save him before his transformation overwhelms him, and Bryan emerges at the end no longer as the frightened courier we have spent the film following, but as another creature within the world he has been desperately trying to escape.

This is where the film’s fatherhood metaphor becomes particularly bleak. Bryan spends the movie afraid of what becoming a father will do to him. He worries about losing himself. He worries about change. He wants to return to the life he understands. And when he finally confronts the possibility of accepting that responsibility, it is already too late. His body changes without his permission. The thing he feared most happens anyway. He becomes something else.

The film therefore turns his indecision into horror. Bryan has spent the entire night oscillating between fight and flight, between accepting responsibility and escaping it, between confronting the future and postponing it. Eventually there is no decision left to make. The infection makes it for him.

The Answer Was in His Hands

There is a cruel elegance to the fact that Bryan’s salvation is with him for almost the entire film. He does not need to discover the answer. He needs to recognise what he is carrying. That distinction is central to the character.

Bryan is constantly searching for something outside himself: a weapon, an escape route, another person, a safe place, a solution. Yet the most important object in the film is literally attached to him. The cure is in the bag. The future is in the phone. The decision is waiting at home. He simply cannot bring himself to confront it.

This is why his transformation feels more thematically complete than a straightforward “hero gets infected” ending might suggest. The film does not punish Bryan because he is cowardly. It punishes him because he cannot decide what he is willing to become. And perhaps that is the real horror of Resident Evil. Not mutation. Not infection. Not even death. Change without choice.

A Resident Evil About Being the Wrong Person

Cregger’s film ultimately succeeds because it finds a way to make the Resident Evil franchise’s mechanics serve its character rather than the other way around. The game references are fun. The weapons, keys and locked doors reward familiarity. The creatures provide increasingly grotesque obstacles. The first-person sequences place us directly inside Bryan’s panic. But beneath all that is a surprisingly coherent character study.

Bryan is a loser. He is unlucky. He is underprepared. He is perpetually one bad decision away from disaster. And yet we desperately want him to make it. That sympathy is the film’s secret weapon. Because when the inevitable happens, we are not watching a franchise protagonist fall. We are watching an ordinary man who has spent the entire night trying to get home. And he never does.

That is why Austin Abrams matters so much. Without his ability to make Bryan funny, frightened, irritating, vulnerable and ultimately tragic, the film’s elaborate game mechanics would remain mechanics. Abrams gives them a human pulse. Cregger, meanwhile, has reached an intriguing point in his development. Barbarian demonstrated his ability to destroy audience expectations. Weapons showed a filmmaker increasingly interested in structure, perspective and the emotional consequences of horror. Resident Evil demonstrates something slightly different: that Cregger can take an enormous piece of existing popular culture and impose a coherent authorial sensibility upon it without needing to dominate it.

He understands that the franchise’s real appeal has never been simply zombies and monsters. It is the feeling of being trapped in a place where every decision matters. Every bullet matters. Every door matters. Every object matters. And eventually, every choice matters.

Bryan spends the entire film trying not to choose. By the end, the choice has been taken from him. The courier finally stops moving. The game is over. And the man who could never decide what he wanted to become becomes something else entirely.

  • Saul Muerte

BACKROOMS: LOST IN THE ARCHITECTURE OF FEAR

14 Monday Sep 2026

Posted by surgeons of horror in Movie review

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horror, backrooms, kane parsons, Chiwetel Ejiofor, Renate Reinsve

Kane Parsons has built Backrooms around a wonderfully simple cinematic proposition: what if you could walk through the wrong wall and discover that the world behind it was infinitely larger than the world you thought you knew? It is the kind of premise that sounds almost childish when reduced to a sentence yet becomes profoundly unsettling once given physical space. A doorway appears where no doorway should exist. A basement gives way to an impossible architecture. Rooms lead to rooms, corridors fold into corridors and the familiar becomes subtly, irrevocably wrong.

For a filmmaker barely out of his teens, Parsons demonstrates an extraordinary understanding of why such spaces disturb us. His feature debut, adapted from the online phenomenon he helped develop through his Kane Pixels YouTube series, does not treat the Backrooms simply as a monster’s playground. Instead, it approaches them as a psychological landscape, a physical manifestation of memory, regret, failure and the human need to impose meaning upon spaces that refuse to provide it. The result is an ambitious piece of conceptual horror that absolutely lived up to the enormous expectations surrounding its transition from internet phenomenon to feature film — and yet, somewhat paradoxically, not always in the ways one might expect.

The mythology of the Backrooms began with an image rather than a narrative: an apparently empty, yellow-walled interior illuminated by fluorescent lighting, a space that seemed both completely mundane and profoundly unnatural. Parsons understood the potential of that image early, transforming it into a series of increasingly elaborate short films before expanding the concept into this feature. The achievement of Backrooms is that it retains the essential strangeness of the original idea while giving it human beings to inhabit.

That distinction is crucial.

Because an empty room can be unsettling, but an empty room inhabited by someone carrying the weight of a broken life becomes something else entirely.

At the centre of the film is Clark, played by Chiwetel Ejiofor, a failed architect whose professional and personal lives have both collapsed into a kind of stagnant middle age. Separated from his wife, drinking heavily and working in a furniture showroom that feels almost comically disconnected from the life he once imagined for himself, Clark is already living in a psychological backroom before he ever discovers the literal one.

That is one of Parsons’ smartest ideas.

Clark is an architect who has failed to construct the life he wanted, and he subsequently finds himself trapped inside an impossible architecture. The metaphor could easily have been unbearably obvious, but Parsons and screenwriter Will Soodik understand that the Backrooms do not need to function as a simple allegory. Their power comes from existing simultaneously as a physical impossibility and a psychological possibility.

Clark’s first encounter with the Backrooms therefore carries an unusual mixture of fear and fascination. The space is terrifying, but it is also liberating. Its infinite corridors offer something that the world above cannot: possibility. Here is a place without conventional boundaries, a space where the rules of reality have become negotiable. For a man whose existence has narrowed into disappointment, the infinite can initially look like freedom.

That makes Chiwetel Ejiofor such an inspired choice.

Ejiofor has always possessed an ability to communicate enormous amounts of emotional information without appearing to perform it. Here, that quality becomes essential. Clark is not simply frightened by the Backrooms. He is fascinated by them, frustrated by them, angry with them and, at times, almost seduced by them. Ejiofor allows those contradictory responses to coexist.

There is a weariness to his performance that makes Clark’s predicament feel much larger than the mechanics of the horror story. He is a man who has already become trapped before the film begins. The Backrooms merely give that condition architectural form.

It is one of the film’s most impressive pieces of psychological construction.

Renate Reinsve is equally effective as Dr Mary Kline, Clark’s therapist, and her presence gives the film another layer of psychological inquiry. If Clark represents someone trapped inside his own resentments, Mary represents someone who has built a professional life around helping other people navigate theirs. Her decision to enter the Backrooms after Clark therefore becomes more than a conventional rescue mission.

The therapist enters the patient’s nightmare.

And once she does, the distinction between observer and participant begins to collapse.

This is where Backrooms becomes particularly inventive. The film repeatedly toys with the idea that the environment may not simply be an external supernatural space but something connected to the characters’ memories and emotional histories. The rooms appear to contain fragments of lived experience, distorted approximations of reality that resemble memories reconstructed by someone who cannot quite remember them correctly.

The result is architecture behaving like trauma.

A corridor does not necessarily lead somewhere.

A room does not necessarily contain anything.

A familiar object may have no explanation.

And the deeper the characters travel, the less useful conventional geography becomes.

Parsons is exceptionally good at this kind of spatial uncertainty. He understands that horror does not always require darkness. In fact, Backrooms demonstrates how effectively a filmmaker can make fluorescent lighting frightening. The sickly yellow interiors and endless artificial illumination create a world that is permanently exposed and yet somehow impossible to see clearly.

There is nowhere to hide because there is nowhere that feels safe.

The cinematography and production design deserve enormous credit for creating this sensation. Parsons and cinematographer Jeremy Cox transform the supposedly mundane language of commercial interiors into something oppressive and almost cosmic. Walls, carpets, ceiling panels and furniture become components of an endlessly repeating visual vocabulary. The repetition is essential because it gradually erodes the audience’s confidence in their own spatial memory.

We have seen this room before.

Haven’t we?

That corridor looks familiar.

Or perhaps it doesn’t.

The film understands that the human brain is constantly trying to map its surroundings, and Backrooms weaponises that instinct against us.

This is where the film’s connection to liminal-space horror becomes more than a fashionable aesthetic. The liminal space is frightening because it is a location without a clear purpose. It is the hotel corridor after everyone has gone home. The office after the workers have disappeared. The shopping centre before opening. The school after the final bell.

These spaces are recognisable but stripped of their social function.

Backrooms takes that idea and removes the endpoint entirely.

There is no closing time.

There is no final corridor.

There is no obvious outside.

There is simply more.

And more.

And more.

That is conceptually brilliant.

It is also where the film begins to reveal its greatest weakness.

Because once the audience understands the central conceit, the question becomes what Parsons can actually do with it for almost two hours.

The answer is frequently impressive.

But not always frightening.

Backrooms is an exceptionally inventive film, yet its inventiveness does not consistently translate into shock appeal. Parsons is more interested in unease than conventional scares, and that decision is understandable given the material. The original Backrooms concept was never particularly dependent upon jump scares. Its power came from suggestion, emptiness and the sense that something might be waiting just outside the limits of the frame.

The problem is that a feature-length film eventually has to provide some escalation.

And the middle section occasionally feels as though it is wandering through the very architecture it has created.

The endless rooms are fascinating to explore, but fascination and fear are not identical emotions. The film’s central conceit is sufficiently compelling that simply moving through the Backrooms can remain interesting for quite some time. Yet there comes a point where the viewer begins to anticipate the rhythm: another corridor, another room, another strange object, another distant sound.

The film starts to experience its own version of spatial fatigue.

This is not a failure of imagination. Quite the opposite.

There is almost too much imagination and not quite enough dramatic propulsion.

The film’s psychological ideas are considerably more successful. The Backrooms become a kind of externalised interiority, a landscape in which characters confront versions of themselves that have been distorted by memory and regret. Parsons is interested in the way people become trapped inside narratives about their own lives, particularly the stories they tell themselves about why they failed.

Clark is an especially compelling example because his professional identity has collapsed alongside his personal one. He was supposed to design spaces. Instead, he finds himself working in a furniture showroom, surrounded by representations of homes that he no longer possesses.

The irony is beautifully constructed.

He sells people the fantasy of domestic stability while sleeping in the store himself.

Then he discovers an infinite series of spaces that seem to exist behind reality.

The Backrooms therefore become both escape and punishment.

That duality gives the film its emotional weight.

And it is why Ejiofor’s performance matters so much. Without him, Backrooms could easily become an elaborate exercise in production design. With him, the corridors acquire emotional significance.

He makes the film human.

There is something particularly impressive about watching an actor of Ejiofor’s calibre respond to a premise that could so easily have remained trapped within internet horror. He doesn’t treat the Backrooms as an excuse to perform fear. He treats them as a psychological event.

That difference elevates the material.

The supporting performances contribute to the same effect, particularly as the film moves away from Clark’s solitary exploration and begins introducing other characters into the labyrinth. The Backrooms become more threatening when they are shared because their presence introduces conflicting interpretations of what the space actually represents.

Is it a supernatural dimension?

A psychological projection?

A manifestation of memory?

A place that exists outside conventional reality?

Parsons wisely refuses to provide a completely comfortable answer.

That ambiguity is one of the film’s strengths.

Yet it also contributes to the sense that the horror never quite lands with the force it could.

There are certainly disturbing images. Parsons has an excellent eye for grotesque shapes and unnatural movement, and when the film finally reveals some of the entities inhabiting the Backrooms, they are strikingly designed. But there is something almost academic about the horror. We observe it. We analyse it. We wonder what it means.

We don’t necessarily recoil from it.

And that distinction is perhaps the key to my response to the film.

Did Backrooms live up to expectations?

Yes and no.

It absolutely lives up to the expectation that Kane Parsons would bring something inventive and visually distinctive to the big screen. It demonstrates a remarkable understanding of atmosphere, spatial design and psychological horror. The performances are considerably stronger than one might expect from a film originating in internet creepypasta culture, with Ejiofor providing the emotional centre and Reinsve offering an equally compelling counterpoint.

But it does not always live up to the expectation of being genuinely frightening.

There are moments of terror, but the film is ultimately more interested in the uncanny than the shocking.

That is not necessarily a criticism.

In fact, some audiences will consider it the film’s greatest virtue.

But for a horror film built around such an inherently disturbing concept, there is a nagging feeling that Parsons could have pushed the material further into genuine nightmare territory.

The middle section in particular could have benefited from greater narrative urgency. The Backrooms are fascinating, but the film occasionally mistakes movement through an interesting environment for dramatic progression. The characters continue exploring, the mythology expands and the psychological dimensions deepen, but the narrative momentum periodically stalls.

When the film finally accelerates towards its conclusion, it becomes considerably more effective. The space suddenly feels smaller, despite remaining physically enormous. The threat becomes more immediate. The characters’ movement through the environment gains urgency.

And for a brief period, the film achieves the perfect marriage between its conceptual and visceral qualities.

This is what makes Backrooms so frustratingly close to greatness.

You can see what Parsons is capable of.

There are sequences where the film stops feeling like an adaptation of an internet horror phenomenon and starts feeling like the emergence of a genuinely distinctive cinematic voice. The imagery, sound, performances and psychological ideas converge into something that feels strange and original.

Kane Parsons has clearly spent years thinking about how spaces can frighten us.

Now he has to learn how to make stories frighten us just as effectively.

That is an exciting prospect.

Because Backrooms may ultimately be less significant as a fully realised horror movie than as a statement of intent from an extraordinarily promising filmmaker. At just twenty, Parsons has taken an idea born from internet folklore and translated it into a feature that possesses a visual and conceptual identity of its own. That achievement alone is considerable.

The film’s greatest success is perhaps that it makes the Backrooms feel cinematic rather than merely viral.

The internet created the mythology.

Parsons has created a world.

And it is a world worth getting lost in.

Even if, occasionally, the journey takes a little too long.

The Prognosis:

Backrooms is an inventive, psychologically rich and beautifully performed piece of liminal horror that proves Kane Parsons has far more to offer than an expansion of his viral YouTube phenomenon. Its middle section occasionally loses momentum, and its strange, unsettling imagery rarely delivers the visceral shock one might expect from its premise. But the intelligence of its ideas, the extraordinary production design and Chiwetel Ejiofor’s superb central performance make it an intriguing and often hypnotic debut. It may not always frighten as much as it fascinates, but there is no question that Kane Parsons is a filmmaker worth watching.

  • Saul Muerte

Underground Horrors: Geisha War

09 Wednesday Sep 2026

Posted by surgeons of horror in Sydney Underground Film Festival

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cinema, film, horror, movies, reviews, suff, Sydney Underground Film Festival

There are filmmakers who make films, and then there are filmmakers who seem to have wandered into a film laboratory, knocked over several shelves of chemicals and decided to see what happened.

Yoshihiro Nishimura was very much the latter.

With Geisha War, the Japanese cult filmmaker delivers one final eruption of blood, absurdity, political provocation and gloriously impractical visual effects. It is a film that frequently appears less interested in whether its story makes sense than in whether the next image can possibly be more outrageous than the last.

The answer, more often than not, is yes.

Set in the historic pleasure district of Yoshiwara, Geisha War pits an American gangster and his associates against the local community, led by Kiki, a ramen vendor who finds herself caught up in the struggle to protect the district from outside control. The basic premise provides Nishimura with an excuse to stage a collision between American gangster mythology, Japanese popular culture and his own particular brand of cinematic insanity.

And insanity is certainly the operative word.

Nishimura’s cinema has never been particularly interested in restraint. From Tokyo Gore Police to Helldriver, his films transform bodies into weapons, flesh into sculpture and practical effects into a kind of gleeful visual assault. Geisha War carries that tradition forward with an arsenal of bizarre weaponry, outrageous transformations and fountains of artificial blood. FilmInk describes the film’s visual approach as a combination of solid practical gore and cartoonish digital effects, with everything from chainsaw weaponry to giant scissors entering the fray.

It is less a film than a fever dream with a production budget.

Yet beneath the carnage is something considerably more pointed.

The conflict between Carmine and the residents of Yoshiwara is essentially a battle over cultural ownership. The American gangster sees the district as something to acquire, exploit and reshape for his own purposes. Nishimura responds by turning that clash into an exaggerated piece of exploitation spectacle, where cultural imperialism is answered with severed limbs, weaponised geisha and enough blood to repaint the streets.

Subtle it isn’t.

But subtlety was never particularly high on Nishimura’s list of priorities.

The film’s greatest strength is its willingness to embrace the ridiculous. A conventional action film might introduce a weapon and expect us to accept it as part of the world. Nishimura introduces something completely absurd and then seems determined to make it even more absurd. The result is a cinematic universe in which rickshaws become vehicles of lunacy, weapons emerge from unexpected places and characters can transform into things that would be difficult to describe without sounding like the result of a particularly feverish drinking session.

This is Gallows Horror stripped of the gallows and given a flamethrower.

There is also something strangely poignant about watching Geisha War as Nishimura’s final film. The director died in May 2026, making this an unintentional farewell from one of Japanese genre cinema’s great visual anarchists.

It is certainly an appropriate final statement.

Nishimura never seemed particularly interested in behaving himself. His cinema was messy, confrontational, juvenile, political, horny, grotesque and frequently hilarious. He understood that practical effects could be more than technical achievements: they could be jokes, provocations and punctuation marks. A severed limb wasn’t merely a piece of gore. It was a punchline.

Geisha War occasionally struggles beneath the weight of its own excess. The narrative is skeletal, characterisation is largely functional and the film’s relentless barrage of ideas can become exhausting. For all the visual invention, there are moments when it feels as though Nishimura has several films fighting for space inside the same one.

But perhaps that is part of its charm.

This isn’t polished underground cinema. It isn’t attempting to disguise its seams or convince us that its world is realistic. It is handmade, excessive and proudly artificial. The practical effects have weight; the digital effects deliberately flirt with cartoonishness; the action seems designed around the question of what could possibly make an audience yell what the hell was that?

And then, just when the film seems incapable of slowing down, it finds an unexpectedly reflective note beneath all the bloodshed.

That contradiction is what makes Geisha War work.

For all its ridiculousness, there is a genuine sense of resistance running through the film. Its grotesque spectacle becomes a weapon against the forces attempting to commodify and control its world. Nishimura takes the familiar machinery of exploitation cinema and turns it back upon itself, producing something that is simultaneously crude, playful and politically mischievous.

It is not his most accomplished film.

It may not even be his most outrageous.

But it is unmistakably his.

And as the final film from a director who spent decades proving that there was still room for strange, handmade, bloody and completely unclassifiable cinema, Geisha War makes for one hell of a final curtain call.

Underground Horrors is a series of reviews exploring the strange, confrontational and boundary-pushing films emerging from the underground of contemporary horror cinema.

  • Saul Muerte

Underground Horrors: Jump Scare

09 Wednesday Sep 2026

Posted by surgeons of horror in Sydney Underground Film Festival

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film, horror, Horror film, Horror movies, movies, reviews, suff, Sydney Underground Film Festival

There is something wonderfully rebellious about a film that seems to have been assembled from equal parts heavy metal, grindhouse cinema, 1990s music videos and a complete disregard for good taste.

Donnie Hobbie’s Jump Scare is that film.

The feature debut from Hobbie follows the all-female metal band Jump Scare as they retreat to a remote cabin to work on their new album. It’s supposed to be an opportunity to escape the pressures of everyday life and find some creative inspiration.

Unfortunately, their neighbours are cannibals.

It is, admittedly, a familiar horror premise.

But Jump Scare has absolutely no interest in behaving like a familiar horror film.

Instead, Hobbie takes the cabin-in-the-woods template and runs it through a neon-soaked, blood-splattered analogue nightmare. The result is a deliberately scrappy collision of comedy, gore, animation, psychedelia and heavy metal attitude.

It looks like a horror movie that escaped from a late-night music-video block.

And that’s a compliment.

There is a tremendous amount of visual personality here. Grainy imagery, saturated colours, stylised lighting, graphic overlays, practical effects and bursts of animation give Jump Scare the feeling of something excavated from a particularly deranged corner of the VHS era.

The film wears its influences proudly.

There are obvious echoes of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, grindhouse cinema and the splatter-comedy tradition, but Hobbie isn’t particularly interested in disguising those influences. Jump Scare is closer to a mixtape than a traditional horror film: take something from here, something from there, turn the volume up and see what happens.

And, for considerable stretches, it is a hell of a lot of fun.

The band themselves are one of the film’s strongest assets. Their camaraderie gives the early sections a loose, lived-in quality, and the chemistry between the performers provides a welcome sense that these characters actually enjoy being around one another.

That matters.

Because once the cannibals arrive, the film could easily have become another disposable exercise in slaughterhouse horror.

Instead, the personalities keep it moving.

Hobbie also demonstrates an obvious affection for practical filmmaking. There is a joyous physicality to the violence, with blood, guts, creatures and assorted bodily misfortune given an appropriately handmade quality. Some of the effects are deliberately rough around the edges, but that imperfection is part of the film’s aesthetic.

Jump Scare isn’t trying to convince us that we’re watching reality.

It wants us to enjoy the artifice.

That gives the film a particularly punk-rock quality. It is less concerned with polish than with energy.

The problem is that energy can only carry a film so far.

At 102 minutes, Jump Scare occasionally feels as though it has run out of ideas before it has run out of runtime. The same jokes, stylistic flourishes and conversations can begin to repeat themselves, while the middle section lacks some of the momentum generated by the film’s opening.

There are moments when you can almost see the more tightly edited version of Jump Scare hiding inside the finished film.

And that’s frustrating because there is so much here to admire.

Hobbie clearly has an eye.

There are sequences that burst with invention, and the film’s visual confidence is remarkable for a feature debut. It understands that horror doesn’t always need to be dark, grim or self-serious. Sometimes it can be loud, colourful, stupid, funny and covered in blood.

In that sense, Jump Scare feels like something of a corrective to the more restrained tendencies of contemporary horror.

It wants to have fun.

Even when that fun becomes excessive.

The film also gets something right about its metal-band protagonists. Their world isn’t simply used as an excuse for a soundtrack. Music is woven into the film’s identity, with the aesthetic of heavy metal becoming part of its visual and comic language.

The result is less Texas Chain Saw filtered through a conventional horror-comedy structure than Texas Chain Saw dropped into a particularly unhinged music video.

And then somebody added puppets.

And animation.

And considerably more blood.

For all its rough edges, there is something admirable about a filmmaker arriving with this much personality. Jump Scare isn’t afraid to be ugly, ridiculous or excessive. It isn’t interested in sanding down its eccentricities in the pursuit of conventional genre polish.

Sometimes that works beautifully.

Sometimes it doesn’t.

But I’d take an occasionally overstuffed film with this much personality over something technically accomplished and completely anonymous.

Jump Scare doesn’t reinvent the cabin-in-the-woods horror movie.

It throws the old model into a blender, adds a metal soundtrack, pours in a bucket of fake blood and hits the switch.

The result is messy.

Loud.

Occasionally exhausting.

But undeniably alive.

SUFF #20

Jump Scare screens at 9:45pm on Friday 11 September in Cinema 2, with a second screening at 8:00pm on Saturday 12 September in Cinema 4, as part of Sydney Underground Film Festival #20 at Factory Theatre, Marrickville.

For the full program and ticket information, visit the Sydney Underground Film Festival.

  • Saul Muerte

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