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Surgeons of Horror

~ Dissecting horror films

Surgeons of Horror

Tag Archives: reviews

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

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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Tags

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

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

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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

Underground Horrors: Bagworm

08 Tuesday Sep 2026

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There are few things more immediately relatable than stepping on a rusty nail.

The sudden stab of pain. The instinctive inspection of the offending piece of metal. The brief mental calculation of just how bad this might be.

Then there is Carroll.

When Oliver Bernsen’s Bagworm introduces its protagonist, he is already a man seemingly determined to make his own life as unpleasant as possible. A sexually frustrated hammer salesman, conspiracy-minded malcontent and habitual misanthrope, Carroll has developed an elaborate worldview in which the world is broken, society is collapsing and everyone else seems to be conspiring against him.

Then he steps on a rusty nail.

It is, perhaps, the least surprising turning point in cinema history.

What follows is a grimy, grotesque and frequently darkly funny descent into paranoia, physical deterioration and self-destruction. Carroll’s body begins to break down, but so too does his already precarious grip on reality. The question becomes increasingly difficult to answer: is the world genuinely falling apart around him, or is Carroll simply becoming incapable of seeing anything beyond his own increasingly distorted perspective?

Bagworm is at its most effective when it refuses to provide an easy answer.

There is certainly a straightforward body-horror film lurking underneath all the grime. The rusty nail becomes the gateway to an infection that gradually consumes Carroll, providing Bernsen with ample opportunities for increasingly revolting practical effects. His deteriorating body becomes a physical manifestation of the rot already present in his life.

But the film isn’t really interested in asking whether Carroll is sick.

He’s obviously sick.

The more interesting question is whether the infection is responsible for his behaviour or merely giving physical form to everything that was already there.

Carroll is not an easy protagonist to spend ninety-six minutes with. That seems entirely deliberate.

He is petty, suspicious, angry and convinced of his own righteousness. His relationships with women, friends and strangers become increasingly disastrous, yet he repeatedly interprets the resulting hostility as evidence that there is something wrong with everyone else.

It is a particularly contemporary form of horror.

The world hasn’t necessarily turned against Carroll.

Carroll has simply constructed a worldview in which it must have.

This is where Bagworm finds its sharpest satirical edge. Its protagonist’s paranoia and resentment place him within the orbit of the modern manosphere, where personal failure can be transformed into political grievance and loneliness becomes evidence of a conspiracy rather than an invitation to self-reflection. Critics have similarly read the film as an exploration of toxic masculinity, male isolation and the tendency to externalise personal misery.

Bernsen’s achievement is that he doesn’t make this entirely miserable to watch.

Bagworm is often very funny.

Not necessarily comfortable funny, and certainly not always “laugh with the character” funny. Much of the humour comes from watching Carroll’s increasingly bizarre attempts to navigate ordinary social situations while apparently possessing no ability to recognise how thoroughly he is sabotaging himself.

The comedy works because there is something painfully recognisable beneath the grotesquerie.

We’ve all encountered some version of Carroll.

Perhaps not quite this version.

Hopefully.

Peter Falls gives the film an important centre of gravity. Carroll is repellent without becoming entirely abstract. There are flashes of vulnerability beneath the hostility, moments where the character seems less like a cartoon of internet-age masculinity and more like a desperately unhappy man who has spent so long blaming everyone else that he no longer knows how to examine himself.

That distinction matters.

Because Bagworm isn’t particularly interested in redemption.

It isn’t a story about a troubled man discovering the error of his ways and becoming a better person. Instead, it watches him continue digging, apparently oblivious to the fact that he is holding the shovel.

And then it makes the shovel increasingly disgusting.

The physical deterioration is where Bernsen’s filmmaking becomes particularly effective. The film’s grubby aesthetic gives the horror a distinctly tactile quality, while Carroll’s deteriorating body increasingly resembles the physical embodiment of his internal state. The world around him feels just as diseased as he is.

His house is decaying.

His relationships are decaying.

His body is decaying.

And somehow Carroll remains convinced that the problem is everybody else.

That is the joke.

And the tragedy.

Bagworm isn’t always as controlled as its best moments suggest. Its deliberately abrasive tone can become exhausting, and its third act doesn’t quite sustain the same combination of psychological unease and dark comedy that makes the earlier sections so compelling. Even critics who responded strongly to the film have noted that its various stylistic and thematic ambitions don’t always land with equal force.

But there is something admirable about the sheer unpleasantness of it.

Bernsen isn’t attempting to make Carroll conventionally sympathetic. Instead, he asks us to look at a particularly ugly form of contemporary loneliness and watch what happens when isolation, resentment and paranoia are allowed to feed one another.

The result is body horror with a distinctly social infection.

The rusty nail gets into Carroll’s foot.

The paranoia gets into his head.

And before long, it becomes difficult to tell where the disease ends and the man begins.

That is what makes Bagworm considerably more than another gross-out horror film.

It is a portrait of a man rotting from the inside out — and a world that may not be quite as responsible for the smell as he thinks.

SUFF #20

Bagworm screens as part of Sydney Underground Film Festival #20, celebrating the festival’s 20th anniversary at Factory Theatre, Marrickville.

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

  • Saul Muerte

Underground Horrors: Species

07 Monday Sep 2026

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

There are few expressions more insidious than “the daily grind.”

It suggests something mundane. Something repetitive. A little unpleasant, perhaps, but ultimately survivable. Get up. Go to work. Put in the hours. Do it again tomorrow.

In Species, the daily grind becomes something considerably more literal.

Marion Le Corroller’s electrifying debut takes the familiar anxieties of professional burnout and pushes them through the meat grinder of body horror, imagining a generation so thoroughly consumed by work that exhaustion becomes a physical transformation.

Margot wants to be a doctor.

For an ambitious young intern working in one of France’s most competitive emergency rooms, however, the dream is rapidly becoming a nightmare. The pressure is relentless, the hours punishing and the stream of young patients arriving with mysterious symptoms linked to extreme burnout is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

Then Margot begins experiencing changes of her own.

The harder she works, the more her body begins to betray her.

It is an appropriately grotesque premise for a film about workplace exhaustion. Rather than depicting burnout as a vague psychological malaise, Species gives it flesh, blood and plenty of opportunities for it to tear itself apart.

Le Corroller is clearly interested in the traditions of body horror, but Species isn’t simply an exercise in mutation for mutation’s sake. The transformations are an extension of the film’s social commentary. Margot’s body becomes the ultimate workplace casualty — an organism pushed beyond its limits by a system that expects productivity regardless of the consequences.

The horror is that nobody seems particularly surprised.

There is something darkly comic in the way Species treats this environment. The absurdity of professional expectations gradually becomes indistinguishable from the grotesque. The emergency room is already a pressure cooker before Margot’s physical transformation begins, and the film finds humour in the bureaucratic machinery surrounding people who are quite literally falling apart.

It is social satire with a viscous coating.

Le Corroller also demonstrates a clear affection for practical effects. When Species gets its hands dirty, it doesn’t hold back. Flesh stretches, ruptures and mutates with the kind of tactile unpleasantness that reminds us why practical body horror remains so effective. There is an immediacy to seeing physical matter behave in ways it absolutely shouldn’t.

The influence of contemporary French body horror is certainly apparent. There are echoes of Titane in its collision of identity, flesh and societal expectation, while the workplace anxieties inevitably invite comparison with The Substance. Yet Species is less interested in abstraction than in taking a very recognisable contemporary problem — exhaustion — and asking what it might look like if we could actually see it happening to the human body.

The answer is not pretty.

Nor is it subtle.

But subtlety isn’t necessarily the point.

Species operates at the intersection of visceral horror and social satire, and its best moments understand that the two can amplify one another. The more grotesque Margot’s transformation becomes, the more ridiculous the expectations placed upon her begin to seem.

The film’s central conceit also taps into something particularly recognisable about contemporary working life: the idea that exhaustion is not necessarily regarded as a warning sign, but as evidence of commitment.

You’re tired?

Work harder.

You’re struggling?

Push through.

Your body is changing?

There are patients waiting.

It is here that Species finds its most uncomfortable joke. The system doesn’t necessarily need to destroy you deliberately. It simply needs to keep demanding more until there is nothing left to give.

And Margot is very much a product of that system.

Le Corroller’s direction is energetic and visually confident, particularly for a debut feature. There is an infectious willingness to push the material into increasingly strange territory, and the film’s mixture of blood-soaked practical effects, absurd humour and social commentary gives it an identity of its own.

At times, however, Species can feel as though it is operating at maximum intensity when a little restraint might have made its sharper ideas hit harder. Its satirical targets are rarely difficult to identify, and the film occasionally favours escalation over deeper exploration.

But there is something refreshing about a debut that would rather overreach than play it safe.

And Species certainly overreaches.

Thankfully, it does so with enthusiasm.

The result is an exhilarating piece of contemporary body horror that understands the grotesque potential of modern working life. Its monsters aren’t simply lurking in the shadows. They are sitting in fluorescent-lit offices, hospital corridors and examination rooms, smiling politely while asking you to work another shift.

Because that’s the real horror of the daily grind.

Eventually, something has to give.

In Species, it’s the flesh.

SUFF #20

Species screens Friday 11 September at 9:45pm in Cinema 1 as part of Sydney Underground Film Festival’s 20th anniversary program at Factory Theatre, Marrickville.

For more information and tickets, visit the Sydney Underground Film Festival.

  • Saul Muerte

Underground Horrors: Lucid

07 Monday Sep 2026

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There is something inherently unsettling about a dream.

Not necessarily because of what happens within it, but because of the strange rules governing the experience. Familiar places become alien. People we know acquire unfamiliar faces. Memories surface without invitation. Cause and effect become slippery. And beneath it all is the uncomfortable knowledge that the nightmare is coming from somewhere inside us.

Lucid, the surreal art-punk horror film from Canadian filmmakers Deanna Milligan and Ramsey Fendall, takes that premise and runs headlong into the subconscious.

Set in the 1990s, the film follows Mia Sunshine Jones (Caitlin Acken Taylor), an art student whose creative ambitions are beginning to collapse beneath the weight of a seemingly insurmountable block. With her place at art school under threat, Mia turns to a mysterious lucid-dreaming elixir in the hope that she can unlock the creativity she feels slipping away.

Instead, she opens a door that perhaps should have remained closed.

The resulting descent into dreams, memories and increasingly monstrous manifestations makes Lucid less interested in conventional nightmare mechanics than in the uncomfortable connection between creation and self-examination.

For Mia, the problem isn’t simply that she can’t make art.

It is that she may not yet understand what she is trying to express.

Milligan and Fendall approach this psychological territory with an appropriately handmade aesthetic. Shot on 35mm and Super 8, Lucid has a tactile quality that distinguishes it from the increasingly polished digital language of contemporary genre cinema. The imagery feels deliberately unstable, as though the film itself is slipping between waking reality and the fragmented visual language of a dream.

That is where Lucid becomes most compelling.

Rather than treating lucid dreaming as a convenient supernatural gimmick, the film uses it as a mechanism for peeling away the layers Mia has constructed around herself. The deeper she travels into this increasingly fractured reality, the more difficult it becomes to distinguish between imagination, memory and emotional trauma.

The monsters, consequently, are more than things to be feared.

They are things to be confronted.

One of the film’s most striking ideas is that artistic expression cannot necessarily be separated from the experiences that produce it. Creativity may be liberating, but it can also be invasive. To create something genuinely personal may require confronting the parts of yourself that you would rather leave buried.

That makes Lucid an interesting companion piece to some of the more traditional forms of body and psychological horror appearing at SUFF this year. Where films such as Bagworm externalise transformation through the physical body, Lucid turns inward. Its battleground is the imagination itself.

And imagination proves to be a particularly dangerous place.

There is an undeniable influence of 1990s alternative and underground culture running through the film, but Lucid isn’t simply nostalgic window dressing. Its period setting becomes part of the film’s identity: a world of handmade art, subcultures and analogue imagery that feels particularly appropriate for a story about an artist struggling to discover her own voice. The filmmakers’ use of 35mm and Super 8 reinforces that connection, giving the film an aesthetic that feels deliberately tactile and imperfect.

It is also a film willing to take risks.

At times, those risks work against it. Lucid isn’t particularly interested in holding the audience’s hand, and its narrative can become as fragmented as the dreamscape through which Mia is travelling. There are moments when the symbolism threatens to overwhelm the story itself.

But that is also part of the film’s appeal.

Lucid isn’t particularly interested in behaving itself.

It wants to be strange.

It wants to be messy.

It wants to crawl inside the head of its protagonist and rummage around in the places where memory, fear and creativity become indistinguishable.

And for a film about an artist desperately searching for inspiration, there is something wonderfully appropriate about that approach.

The result is an ambitious piece of independent horror that feels less concerned with delivering a neatly constructed nightmare than with asking what happens when we deliberately surrender control of our own minds.

Sometimes the things we discover there are frightening.

Sometimes they’re grotesque.

And sometimes they are the very things we need to confront before we can create anything worth showing the world.

Lucid may occasionally lose its way inside its own dreamscape, but its willingness to embrace uncertainty is precisely what makes it such an intriguing piece of underground cinema.

SUFF #20

Lucid screens Friday 11 September at 7:45pm in Cinema 3 as part of the Sydney Underground Film Festival’s 20th anniversary program at Factory Theatre, Marrickville.

For more information and tickets, visit Sydney Underground Film Festival.

  • Saul Muerte

Underground Horrors: Boorman and the Devil

07 Monday Sep 2026

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documentary, exorcist, film, horror, horror films, john boorman, movies, reviews, suff, Sydney Underground Film Festival

There is a peculiar pleasure in watching a cinematic disaster being taken seriously. Not excused, exactly, but examined with enough curiosity to discover what might have been buried beneath the wreckage.

Few films arrive with quite the baggage of Exorcist II: The Heretic. John Boorman’s 1977 follow-up to William Friedkin’s The Exorcist has spent decades occupying that strange territory reserved for movies that are discussed almost as much for their failure as for their contents. A notorious sequel. A critical punching bag. A cinematic oddity. A film so frequently invoked as an example of Hollywood hubris that its actual ambitions can become almost incidental.

David Kittredge’s Boorman and the Devil is interested in those ambitions.

Rather than constructing another gleeful autopsy of one of cinema’s most infamous misfires, Kittredge approaches The Heretic with something considerably more valuable: curiosity. The result is a documentary about a much-maligned horror sequel that gradually reveals itself to be less interested in proving that everyone was wrong than in asking why anyone would attempt something so strange in the first place.

On paper, the sequel looked almost impossibly well positioned. Boorman arrived having already established himself as a filmmaker of considerable ambition, while The Exorcist had become a cultural phenomenon. Yet instead of attempting to reproduce Friedkin’s approach, Boorman took the material somewhere considerably more abstract.

And that, perhaps, was the original sin.

The Exorcist II: The Heretic isn’t particularly interested in being The Exorcist II in the conventional sense. It is stranger, more metaphysical and more concerned with ideas than the straightforward continuation audiences might reasonably have expected. The result is a film that can feel less like a conventional horror sequel than a fever dream constructed from fragments of mythology, psychology and spiritual inquiry.

Kittredge understands that contradiction is precisely where the story becomes interesting.

The documentary’s greatest strength is its refusal to reduce The Heretic to either of the two easiest interpretations: misunderstood masterpiece or unmitigated disaster. Instead, Boorman and the Devil allows both possibilities to coexist.

There is plenty here to remind us why the film was so violently rejected. The production was troubled, the tonal shifts were substantial and the distance between what audiences expected and what Boorman attempted was enormous. Yet alongside those failures sits an extraordinary amount of artistic ambition.

That ambition is what Kittredge wants us to reconsider.

The documentary benefits enormously from access to Boorman himself. His presence gives the film an immediacy that no amount of archival reconstruction could quite replicate. Alongside him are recollections from Linda Blair and Louise Fletcher, while contemporary filmmakers including Mike Flanagan and Karyn Kusama offer their own perspectives on the film’s peculiar legacy.

What emerges is less a conventional making-of documentary than a meditation on artistic risk.

That distinction matters.

There is something increasingly unusual about the idea of a major studio giving an established filmmaker the resources to make something genuinely eccentric. Contemporary filmmaking is hardly devoid of experimentation, but the scale at which The Heretic was allowed to pursue its particular vision feels increasingly alien.

Kittredge consequently finds something unexpectedly contemporary in a film that was once dismissed as an embarrassing relic.

Boorman and the Devil asks us to consider whether failure itself has become too threatening to contemporary filmmaking. A film that takes no risks can be competent, polished and entirely forgettable. A film that takes enormous risks can collapse spectacularly — but it can also produce images, ideas and artistic possibilities that would never have existed had everyone involved simply played it safe.

That makes The Heretic a fascinating subject not merely because it failed, but because it failed while attempting something.

And there is a difference.

Kittredge’s documentary is at its most compelling when it recognises that the history of cinema is littered with films whose reputations have changed because the cultural conversation around them changed. Sometimes reassessment reveals a genuine masterpiece. Sometimes it merely makes a fascinating failure more fascinating.

Boorman and the Devil doesn’t necessarily need to convince you that The Exorcist II: The Heretic is secretly a great film.

It only needs to make you curious enough to watch it again.

That is a considerably more interesting proposition.

For horror audiences, there is another reason the documentary resonates. Genre cinema has always been particularly susceptible to critical dismissal when it refuses to behave according to expectation. The horror sequel is expected to deliver familiar pleasures with familiar machinery. Boorman instead delivered something dreamlike, philosophical and formally eccentric.

The question isn’t whether that decision worked.

The question is whether we still value filmmakers enough to allow them to make that decision.

In an era increasingly dominated by intellectual property, established formulas and the gravitational pull of audience expectation, Boorman and the Devil becomes an accidental argument for artistic recklessness. Not recklessness without consequence, but the kind that accepts that failure is occasionally the admission price for originality.

There is something rather fitting about a documentary examining one of Hollywood’s great cinematic disasters arriving at that conclusion.

Perhaps The Heretic wasn’t a failure because John Boorman reached too far.

Perhaps its real failure was that audiences weren’t prepared for where he reached.

Boorman and the Devil doesn’t erase the film’s flaws, nor should it. Instead, it digs through the wreckage and finds something considerably more valuable than a verdict: the evidence of ambition.

And sometimes that is enough reason to look again.

SUFF #20

Boorman and the Devil screens Friday 11 September at 7:45pm as part of the 20th Sydney Underground Film Festival at Factory Theatre.

For tickets and the complete SUFF #20 program, visit the Sydney Underground Film Festival.

  • Saul Muerte

PARASOMNIA: WHEN THE NIGHTMARE WAKES

01 Tuesday Sep 2026

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film, horror, Horror movies, James Ross II, Jasmine Matthews, movies, reviews, shudder, shudder australia

Sleep is supposed to be the great surrender. We close our eyes, relinquish control and allow consciousness to dissolve into whatever strange machinery waits on the other side. Horror has long understood the vulnerability of that state, from the nightmare logic of A Nightmare on Elm Street to the psychological labyrinths of contemporary supernatural cinema. Parasomnia takes that familiar anxiety and gives it a promising contemporary framework: what happens when the thing haunting your dreams stops respecting the border between sleep and waking life?

Directed by James Ross II, the Shudder Original places Jasmine Mathews’ Riley at the centre of a story shaped by night terrors, unresolved trauma and disappearance. When her best friend becomes the latest person to vanish, Riley begins to suspect that the demonic presence stalking her dreams may have found a way into the waking world. It is an immediately attractive premise, one that offers the possibility of psychological horror, supernatural mystery and nightmare imagery existing simultaneously, with Riley’s own fractured perception leaving us uncertain about where one state ends and another begins.

Unfortunately, Parasomnia never quite manages to turn that intriguing foundation into the film it initially promises to be.

There is plenty here to admire. The central concept has genuine potential, particularly in the way it connects Riley’s trauma with the supernatural threat. Rather than simply introducing a demon and allowing it to run amok, the film attempts to make the creature part of a larger psychological landscape. Riley’s night terrors are not merely convenient vehicles for scares; they are connected to grief, memory and the unresolved events that have shaped her life. That gives the supernatural elements an emotional foundation, even if the eventual story struggles to build upon it.

Jasmine Mathews is particularly strong in the lead. Riley could easily have become a conventional horror protagonist — traumatised, frightened and increasingly convinced that nobody believes her — but Mathews gives the character a more complicated interior life. There is a convincing fragility to her performance, but also a determination that prevents Riley from becoming passive. She carries the film through some of its weaker narrative stretches, grounding the more fantastical material in recognisable human emotion.

That becomes increasingly important as the storyline begins to show its limitations.

The problem with a horror film built around dreams is that the possibilities are virtually limitless. Once the audience understands that reality itself may be unreliable, the filmmaker has access to a wonderfully unstable cinematic space. A bedroom can become a trap. A familiar face can become threatening. A mundane location can suddenly acquire the logic of a nightmare. The rules of reality can be stretched, distorted or discarded entirely.

Parasomnia occasionally understands this, but too often it seems reluctant to fully embrace the possibilities of its own premise.

The film’s strongest moments are those in which uncertainty takes precedence over explanation. When Riley is caught between sleep and waking, the question isn’t necessarily whether what she is experiencing is real, but whether reality still provides a useful distinction. Those sequences possess an unnerving ambiguity, allowing the horror to operate somewhere between psychological breakdown and supernatural intrusion.

Yet the more the film attempts to explain its mythology, the less compelling that ambiguity becomes.

This is a recurring problem with supernatural horror. The unknown is often considerably more frightening than the known, particularly when the unknown exists inside something as personal and uncontrollable as a nightmare. Once the film begins establishing the mechanics behind its demonic presence, some of the mystery starts to evaporate. The audience is no longer trapped inside Riley’s uncertainty; we are increasingly being given the answers.

And unfortunately, those answers aren’t always particularly satisfying.

The storyline feels serviceable rather than revelatory. There are ideas here that could have produced something considerably more psychologically intricate, particularly around trauma and the persistence of grief, but the screenplay frequently settles for conventional supernatural-horror machinery. Characters move towards revelations because the narrative requires them to, discoveries arrive with an increasingly familiar rhythm and the mystery ultimately feels less substantial than the concept that initially introduced it.

This is where Parasomnia becomes frustrating rather than outright disappointing.

Because there is clearly a better film lurking inside it.

The concept is strong. The performances are strong. The atmosphere is often effective. There are moments where the film creates precisely the kind of disorientation it needs, leaving Riley — and the audience — uncertain about whether they are experiencing a nightmare or something considerably more tangible.

But those ingredients don’t quite coalesce into a satisfying whole.

The supernatural entity itself is another example of this imbalance. As an idea, a demonic figure capable of moving between dreams and reality is an excellent horror proposition. It weaponises one of humanity’s most universal vulnerabilities: sleep. There is something deeply unsettling about the possibility that closing your eyes doesn’t protect you from the monster, but actually gives it access to you.

Yet the creature ultimately feels more effective as an idea than as a fully realised antagonist.

The film is strongest when the demon remains at the periphery of Riley’s experience, when its presence is suggested through fragments and disturbances rather than presented as something that needs to be completely understood. Once it becomes a more conventional supernatural threat, Parasomnia loses some of the psychological unease that made its premise so attractive.

There is also a noticeable tension between the film’s ambitions and its storytelling. It wants to explore trauma, grief, friendship and the lingering consequences of tragedy while simultaneously delivering supernatural thrills. Those elements are not incompatible — horror has been doing exactly that for decades — but they require a narrative capable of allowing the emotional and genre components to reinforce one another.

Here, they sometimes feel like separate tracks running alongside each other.

Riley’s emotional history gives the horror meaning, but the horror doesn’t always deepen our understanding of Riley.

That distinction matters.

The best psychological horror makes the monster inseparable from the character confronting it. The supernatural threat becomes an external expression of something internal, allowing every encounter with the creature to reveal something about the protagonist. Parasomnia gestures towards that territory without quite committing to it.

As a result, the film’s emotional material can feel somewhat underdeveloped just when it should be reaching its greatest intensity.

That is particularly evident in the final act.

Without venturing into spoilers, the conclusion struggles to deliver the catharsis that the preceding story seems to be building towards. The film has established a compelling relationship between Riley’s trauma and the supernatural threat, but the eventual resolution doesn’t quite capitalise on that connection. Instead of transforming the earlier ideas into something thematically resonant, the ending largely feels like the narrative arriving at its required destination.

It isn’t disastrous.

It simply isn’t enough.

And that distinction is important because Parasomnia is never a bad film. It is an intermittently effective one that repeatedly demonstrates what it could have been. There are enough strong ideas and performances here to make the experience worthwhile, but also enough conventional storytelling to prevent it from becoming the psychologically disquieting nightmare its premise suggests.

Mathews remains the film’s greatest asset. Her performance gives Riley emotional credibility even when the screenplay becomes predictable, and she brings enough vulnerability and resolve to make the character worth following. The supporting performances similarly help maintain the film’s human dimension, preventing the supernatural material from becoming entirely detached from the people experiencing it.

Ultimately, however, Parasomnia is caught between two versions of itself.

One is a strange, unsettling psychological horror about trauma invading dreams and nightmares crossing into reality. That film is genuinely intriguing. It understands that the most frightening aspect of sleep is not necessarily what we dream about, but the surrender of control that makes dreaming possible in the first place.

The other is a more conventional supernatural thriller that needs to explain its mythology, organise its scares and eventually provide answers.

The first film is considerably more interesting than the second.

When Parasomnia embraces uncertainty, it works. When it allows Riley’s perception to become unstable and makes us question whether the nightmare has crossed over or whether Riley is simply losing her grip on reality, the film finds its unsettling centre. But whenever it retreats into familiar supernatural storytelling, the tension dissipates.

There is a good horror movie buried somewhere within Parasomnia. At times, you can almost see it clawing its way to the surface.

What ultimately holds it back is not a lack of ideas, atmosphere or talent. It is that the story doesn’t quite know what to do with all three.

The Prognosis:

Parasomnia is a film with a genuinely strong horror concept and committed performances, particularly from Jasmine Mathews, but its mediocre storyline prevents the material from reaching its full potential. It is worth entering the nightmare for the atmosphere and ideas; just don’t expect the waking world to provide quite the payoff you’re hoping for.

  • Saul Muerte
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