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Buried Deep: Hokum (2026)

08 Friday May 2026

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With Hokum, writer-director Damian McCarthy continues his ascent as one of contemporary horror’s most distinctive voices — a storyteller deeply attuned to atmosphere, folklore, and the psychological wounds that fester beneath grief.

Following the unnerving precision of his earlier work, McCarthy delivers perhaps his most accessible feature to date, but crucially, accessibility does not come at the expense of identity. Hokum still bears all the hallmarks of his cinema: oppressive mood, fractured psyches, dark humour, and mythology that feels less invented than unearthed.

This is horror that creeps rather than lunges.
A ghost story told through rot, memory, and rebirth.

The Inn as Psychological Mausoleum

The premise is deceptively intimate. Novelist Ohm Bauman retreats to a remote inn to scatter his parents’ ashes, only to become entangled in whispers surrounding a witch tied to the building’s infamous honeymoon suite.

But McCarthy understands that isolated settings are never merely locations. They are psychological extensions of the characters trapped within them.

The inn in Hokum becomes a liminal space suspended between mourning and transformation — a decaying threshold where unresolved trauma manifests through folklore and hallucination alike. Every creaking corridor and dimly lit room feels infected by memory.

The one-location approach works beautifully here, amplifying the claustrophobia while forcing the audience into the same suffocating emotional space as Ohm himself.

Folklore as Emotional Architecture

What separates McCarthy’s work from more conventional supernatural horror is the way he embeds folklore into the emotional core of his narratives.

The mythology in Hokum never feels expositional or over-explained. Instead, it exists like oral tradition — fragmented stories passed down, distorted through fear and repetition. The witch haunting the inn becomes less a singular entity and more a manifestation of communal grief and inherited guilt.

McCarthy understands an essential truth about folklore:
its power lies not in certainty, but in ambiguity.

The horror emerges from what cannot be fully understood.

Grief, Decay, and Rebirth

Beneath its supernatural framework, Hokum is fundamentally a film about grief — specifically the way grief reshapes identity.

Ohm’s journey is not simply about uncovering the inn’s secrets, but confronting the emotional debris left behind by loss. McCarthy explores mourning as something cyclical and transformative, where death inevitably gives rise to reinvention, however painful.

This theme of rebirth surfaces repeatedly through the film’s recurring rabbit iconography — creatures traditionally associated with fertility, resurrection, and transition between worlds. Here, the rabbit imagery becomes deeply uncanny, suggesting both vulnerability and metamorphosis.

It is one of the film’s most effective symbolic threads, quietly reinforcing the idea that trauma changes us into something new… whether we wish it to or not.

Humour in the Darkness

What makes Hokum particularly compelling is its willingness to puncture its own dread with moments of dry, almost uncomfortable black humour.

McCarthy has become increasingly adept at balancing tonal shifts without collapsing the atmosphere entirely. The humour here does not undercut the horror; it humanises it. It reminds us that absurdity often accompanies grief, that fear and laughter are not opposites but uneasy companions.

This tonal elasticity gives the film texture, preventing it from disappearing entirely into self-seriousness.

Damian McCarthy’s Rising Voice

With Hokum, McCarthy further establishes himself as part of a modern wave of horror filmmakers reclaiming atmosphere and folklore as vehicles for deeply personal storytelling.

There are traces of classic ghost stories here, certainly, but also something distinctly contemporary in the film’s focus on emotional inheritance and psychological fragmentation.

More importantly, McCarthy continues to trust the audience — resisting over-explanation in favour of mood, suggestion, and symbolism. In an era where many horror films feel compelled to spell out their mythology, Hokum allows mystery to remain unsettlingly intact.

The Prognosis:

Hokum is another strong entry in Damian McCarthy’s growing body of work — a haunting, folkloric meditation on grief, identity, and transformation wrapped inside an eerie one-location nightmare.

Atmospheric, psychologically rich horror that finds beauty in decay and terror in rebirth.

  • Saul Muerte

Faith in the Fire: Heresy (2026)

29 Wednesday Apr 2026

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There is a quiet severity to Heresy, a film that understands that true horror rarely announces itself with spectacle. Instead, it festers — in doctrine, in fear, in the fragile structures of belief that govern isolated communities. Premiering as a Shudder exclusive, this medieval folk horror leans into atmosphere and allegory, delivering a compact yet thematically dense meditation on faith, repression, and the unseen forces that thrive in both.

The Weight of Belief

Set within a remote Dutch village, Heresy wastes little time establishing its suffocating world. This is a society bound not just by geography, but by rigid religious doctrine — where faith is less a comfort and more a mechanism of control.

At the centre is a young woman caught in the crossfire between personal conviction and communal expectation, portrayed with quiet intensity by Anneke Sluiters. Her performance anchors the film, embodying both vulnerability and a simmering resistance that threatens to rupture the oppressive order around her.

Supporting turns from Len Leo Vincent and Reinout Bussemaker reinforce the film’s central tension — figures who oscillate between protectors of faith and enforcers of fear.

Folklore as Fear Language

Where Heresy distinguishes itself is in its use of folklore as both texture and threat.

The woods that loom on the outskirts of the village are more than a setting — they are a repository of whispered myths, ancestral warnings, and half-forgotten truths. The film draws on the traditions of European folk horror, where superstition and reality blur into something indistinguishable.

Witchcraft here is not simply an external evil, but a projection of collective anxiety. It is the language through which the village explains its suffering — failed crops, illness, unrest — and, more disturbingly, justifies its cruelty.

In this sense, Heresy aligns itself with the lineage of folk horror that sees mythology not as fantasy, but as a mirror of societal fear.

Compression and Constraint

At a brisk runtime, the film packs an impressive amount into its frame: hardship, religious suppression, gendered control, and the ever-present spectre of the supernatural.

Yet this compression is both its strength and its limitation.

There is an urgency to the storytelling — a sense that the narrative is racing to articulate its ideas before time runs out. While this lends the film a certain intensity, it occasionally comes at the expense of deeper exploration. Themes are introduced with potency, but not always given the space to fully resonate.

Aesthetic of Austerity

Visually, Heresy embraces restraint. The palette is muted, the compositions stark, reinforcing a world stripped of comfort. Interiors feel claustrophobic, exteriors indifferent. Light is scarce, and when it appears, it feels less like hope and more like exposure.

The sound design complements this austerity, favouring silence and ambient unease over overt musical cues. It is a film that understands the power of absence — of what is suggested rather than shown.

The Horror Within

What lingers most is not the presence of dark forces in the woods, but the behaviour of those within the village walls.

Heresy suggests that fanaticism is its own form of possession — that belief, when weaponised, can be as destructive as any supernatural entity. The true terror lies in how quickly fear transforms into persecution, how readily communities turn inward to purge what they do not understand.

The Prognosis:

Heresy is a thoughtful, if slightly constrained, entry into the folk horror canon — one that balances atmosphere and allegory with a commendable sense of purpose.

A compact and compelling meditation on faith, folklore, and fear, where the line between the supernatural and the societal is unsettlingly thin.

  • Saul Muerte

Heresy Premieres Exclusively on Shudder and AMC+ Friday 1 May

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

25 Saturday Apr 2026

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

Innocence itself.

The Horror of the Unthinkable

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

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

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

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

Sunlight as Terror

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

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

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

Morality as the True Battleground

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

It becomes immediate. Personal. Inescapable.

Who can kill a child?

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

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

A Measured, Relentless Descent

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

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

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

Legacy of Unease

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

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

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

The Prognosis:

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

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

  • Saul Muerte

Playtime Turns Predatory: Dolly

23 Thursday Apr 2026

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

A Familiar Game of Survival

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

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

Flashes Beneath the Surface

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

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

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

Violence as Punctuation

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

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

The Weight of Simplicity

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

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

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

The Prognosis:

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

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

  • Saul Muerte

Dolly streams on Shudder from Fri 24th April.

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

14 Tuesday Apr 2026

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There’s a growing divide within modern horror.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is about confrontation.

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

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

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

Because those are often the films that matter most.

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

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

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

  • Saul Muerte

Dark Nights Film Fest – V.3

The Reservoir Cinema, Sydney – October 10

Submissions via FilmFreeway.com/DarkNightsFilmFest

Deadlines:

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

For festival info and submission guidelines, visit darknightsfilmfest.com

The Sound of Silence: Undertone (2026)

13 Monday Apr 2026

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

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

Less as Language

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

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

This approach is undeniably immersive… but also demanding.

The Power of Sound

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

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

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

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

The Slow Burn of Suppression

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

This is horror as internalised pressure.

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

Minimalism as Double-Edged Sword

And here lies the film’s central tension.

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

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

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

The Prognosis:

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

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

  • Saul Muerte

Undertone is currently screening in cinemas nationwide

Ready or Not… It’s Hunting Season Again

07 Tuesday Apr 2026

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

A sequel to 2019’s Ready or Not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Prognosis:

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

Ready or Not… this finds you.

  • Antony Yee 06/04/26

Bad Taste as Baptism: Fuck My Son! (2026)

04 Saturday Apr 2026

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There are films that provoke… and then there are films that weaponise provocation as their entire identity.
Fuck My Son!, directed by Todd Rohal, firmly belongs in the latter camp — a grotesque, confrontational descent into taboo that feels less like storytelling and more like an endurance test.

Adapted from the underground comic by Johnny Ryan, the film embraces its origins with unapologetic aggression. Narrative coherence is secondary. Characterisation is almost incidental. What matters here is impact — how far it can push, how hard it can hit, and how long an audience can withstand the onslaught before recoiling.

The Aesthetics of Offence

Rohal’s approach is not without craft. In fact, what makes Fuck My Son! so confronting is how deliberately constructed it is. This is not chaos by accident — it is chaos curated.

The practical creature effects, in particular, demand attention. There is a tactile, squirm-inducing quality to the film’s physical grotesqueries that places it in lineage with boundary-pushing auteurs who understand that revulsion is most effective when it feels real. Flesh stretches. Fluids flow. The body becomes both canvas and battleground.

In an age of digital sanitisation, this commitment to the physical image is perversely admirable.

Taboo as Currency

But provocation, when used as currency, quickly devalues itself.

The film’s central conceit — deliberately offensive, aggressively transgressive — initially shocks, then unsettles, and eventually… numbs. Without thematic grounding or emotional counterpoint, the transgression begins to feel repetitive rather than revelatory.

This is where Fuck My Son! falters.

The most effective works of extreme cinema often use taboo as a gateway to deeper commentary — on society, morality, repression. Here, the suggestion of meaning is fleeting at best. The film gestures toward satire, but rarely commits to it.

Know Your Audience

And yet, to dismiss the film outright would be to misunderstand its purpose.

There is an audience for this. A dedicated, discerning subset of genre fans who seek out the extreme not for narrative satisfaction, but for experiential confrontation. For them, Fuck My Son! is not a failure — it is a badge of honour. A film to be survived, debated, and worn like a scar.

It is cinema as dare.

The Prognosis:

Fuck My Son! is not interested in pleasing you. It barely cares if you understand it. It exists to provoke, to repel, and to challenge the limits of what can be put on screen.

A technically committed but narratively hollow exercise in taboo, elevated by its practical effects and sustained only by the endurance of its audience.

  • Saul Muerte

Fuck My Son will be screening at select cinemas from Apr 9 for a limited time.

Filth, Flesh and Freedom: A Brief History of Trash Cinema

Love, Blood and the Loss of Shadow: Dracula (2025)

02 Thursday Apr 2026

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There is something perversely fitting about Luc Besson tackling the story of Dracula — a filmmaker long enamoured with heightened emotion, operatic visuals, and characters driven by obsession. With Dracula, Besson does not so much adapt the myth as he attempts to drown it in longing, reframing the Prince of Darkness as a tragic romantic caught in an eternal spiral of grief, rage, and devotion.

It’s a bold swing.

But one that doesn’t always draw blood.

A Vampire in Love with Loss

Besson’s Dracula leans heavily into the oft-explored notion that monstrosity is born not of evil, but of heartbreak. The film traces Vlad’s transformation from mortal prince to cursed immortal, driven by the brutal loss of his bride and his subsequent renunciation of faith.

It’s familiar terrain — territory previously carved out with gothic grandeur in Bram Stoker’s Dracula — yet Besson strips away much of the baroque sensuality that defined that iteration, replacing it with something colder, more abstract.

The result is a film that feels emotionally intense, yet curiously distant.

Where the gothic tradition thrives on atmosphere — on shadows, candlelight, decay — Besson opts for a cleaner, more stylised visual language. His Dracula exists in a world that is visually striking, but rarely suffocating. The rot beneath the surface is implied, not felt.

And in a story like this, that absence matters.

Performances That Bleed Through the Fog

What anchors the film — what almost saves it from its own indulgence — are its performances.

Caleb Landry Jones delivers a portrayal of Vlad that is as fragile as it is feral. There’s a volatility to his performance, a sense that beneath the stillness lies something constantly threatening to fracture. His Dracula is not a figure of dominance, but of disintegration — a man hollowed out by grief and sustained only by obsession.

Opposite him, Christoph Waltz brings his trademark precision, injecting the film with moments of clarity and control. Where Jones spirals, Waltz steadies. It’s a dynamic that gives the film its most compelling exchanges — brief flashes where character overtakes spectacle.

And yet, even these performances struggle against the film’s broader uncertainty.

Style Over Myth

Besson has always been a visual storyteller first, and Dracula is no exception. The film is filled with striking imagery — battlefields soaked in blood, vast landscapes frozen in time, bodies moving through space with an almost dreamlike detachment.

But style, here, becomes a double-edged sword.

In prioritising visual expression over narrative clarity, the film allows its mythology to drift. The rules of this world — its logic, its structure — become increasingly opaque, leaving the audience to navigate a story that feels more like a sequence of emotional impressions than a cohesive arc.

This is where the film falters most.

Because Dracula, as a figure, thrives on myth. On clearly defined boundaries between life and death, sacred and profane, desire and damnation. When those boundaries blur too far, the character risks losing his shape.

And here, he occasionally does.

The Missing Gothic Pulse

Perhaps the film’s most surprising omission is its lack of true gothic weight.

For all its talk of damnation and eternal suffering, Dracula rarely feels haunted. The atmosphere — that essential ingredient of any great vampire tale — is present in fragments, but never fully realised.

In stepping away from the heavy shadows and oppressive dread that have long defined the character, Besson creates something more ethereal… but also less impactful.

It’s a Dracula without fangs.

The Prognosis:

Dracula (2025) is a film caught between impulses — romance and horror, spectacle and substance, myth and mood. It reaches for operatic tragedy but often finds itself lost in its own aesthetic.

And yet, there is enough here — in its performances, in its ambition — to keep it from collapsing entirely.

A visually striking, emotionally charged reimagining that gets lost in the romance, leaving its mythology and gothic soul just out of reach.

A vampire story that longs for eternity… but struggles to leave a lasting bite.

  • Saul Muerte

Steel, Sorcery and Splattercraft: Deathstalker (2026)

29 Sunday Mar 2026

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In an era where digital spectacle often overwhelms texture and tactility, Deathstalker arrives like a relic unearthed from a more visceral cinematic past. Directed by Steven Kostanski, this Shudder-exclusive fantasy-horror hybrid leans unapologetically into the aesthetics of sword-and-sorcery pulp, resurrecting a subgenre that thrives on excess, grime, and the physicality of handcrafted effects.

Kostanski, whose reputation has steadily grown through cult favourites such as The Void and Psycho Goreman, has long been recognised as a modern custodian of practical effects artistry. With Deathstalker, he reasserts that position with confidence, delivering a film that feels less like a reinvention and more like a reclamation — a reminder that horror-fantasy can still breathe, bleed and rupture in tangible ways.

A Return to Practical Alchemy

The narrative itself is deliberately archetypal. When a battle-hardened warrior, played by Daniel Bernhardt, retrieves a cursed amulet from a battlefield littered with corpses, he becomes entangled in a web of dark magick, pursued by assassins and shadowed by an encroaching evil. It is a familiar framework — one that echoes the mythic simplicity of Conan-era storytelling — but Kostanski is less interested in narrative innovation than in experiential immersion.

Where Deathstalker distinguishes itself is in its commitment to the physical image. The creatures, transformations and grotesqueries that populate this world are rendered with a devotion to prosthetics, animatronics and practical ingenuity that feels increasingly rare. Flesh tears, bodies distort, and the supernatural manifests not as weightless pixels but as textured, often repulsive forms that occupy space with convincing presence.

There is a tactile pleasure in this approach — a sense that the horror exists within the frame rather than being layered atop it.

Kostanski’s Controlled Chaos

Kostanski’s direction walks a delicate line between reverence and reinvention. His work here feels informed by the splatter traditions of filmmakers like Stuart Gordon and Sam Raimi, yet it avoids slipping into mere pastiche. Instead, he channels those influences through a contemporary lens, maintaining a playful awareness of genre conventions without undermining their impact.

There is, crucially, a sense that Kostanski is enjoying himself.

That enjoyment becomes infectious. The film’s more excessive moments — of which there are many — are staged with a gleeful confidence that invites the audience to revel in the absurdity. Limbs are dispatched, creatures emerge from unlikely places, and the boundaries of taste are tested with a wink rather than a nudge.

Yet beneath the chaos lies a disciplined craftsman. Kostanski understands rhythm, allowing sequences of visceral intensity to breathe before plunging back into the grotesque. It is this balance that prevents the film from collapsing under the weight of its own indulgence.

Form Over Function

If Deathstalker falters, it does so in its narrative ambitions. The story, while serviceable, rarely transcends its archetypal foundations. Characterisation remains broad, motivations are often sketched rather than explored, and the emotional stakes never quite reach the same level of engagement as the film’s visual spectacle.

But this feels, to some extent, intentional.

Kostanski appears less concerned with crafting a deeply layered narrative than with constructing a world — one defined by its textures, its grotesqueries, and its commitment to physical effects. The result is a film that prioritises sensation over introspection, experience over exposition.

A Leader in His Field

In many ways, Deathstalker serves as a reaffirmation of Kostanski’s position within contemporary genre filmmaking. At a time when practical effects are often relegated to novelty status, he continues to push their boundaries, exploring what can be achieved through ingenuity, craftsmanship, and a willingness to embrace imperfection.

The film may not fully transcend its pulp origins, but it doesn’t need to. Its value lies in its execution — in the sheer commitment to a mode of filmmaking that refuses to disappear quietly.

The Prognosis:

Deathstalker is not a film that seeks to redefine fantasy horror. Instead, it embraces its lineage, revels in its excesses, and delivers a tactile, visceral experience that stands in stark contrast to the polished artificiality of much contemporary genre cinema.

A rough-edged but invigorating return to practical effects-driven storytelling, with Steven Kostanski once again proving himself a vital and playful force in modern horror.

  • Saul Muerte

Deathstalker will stream on Shudder from Fri 3rd April