After finding an abandoned mannequin, a young man soon realises that something isn’t quite right. Mannequins by nature are entirely eerie, with their intimidating stature and blank expression mimicking the familiar human form, thus embodying a sinister emptiness, unlike any other being. Lee Francis uses the inanimate form to showcase an inventive take on haunted horrors, along with refreshingly sharp editing that knows when to cut quickly and when to let the tension slowly brew.
The Lacuna Virus (Directed by Jude Brownhill)
Clover and its citizens have been invaded by a strange virus, forcing reality to become abandoned. The Lacuna Virus rises above the capacities of human comprehension, slowly unveiling the viewer’s awareness of the situation thanks to the hypnotic-like aura composed of deliberately miserable sounds and terror-filled visuals that force an inescapable sense of unease. Jude Brownhill mitigates dystopian sensibilities that replicate strong emotions of loss all within the short time frame to create a film steeped in a horrifically memorable atmosphere.
No Place Like Home (Directed by Louisa Bablin)
When Jane’s (Louise Millington) over-controlling father suddenly arrives home whilst her boyfriend is visiting, she makes the ultimate decision between confronting her abusive father or keeping her secret. No Place Like Home radiates such high levels of professional production value that Louisa Bablin’s could turn this short into a full feature with ease. The grand setting allows for staggering lighting and cinematography to shine, encapsulating the velocity of the narrative whilst still remaining appropriately and effectively claustrophobic during the intense peaks of the film.
La Boîte (Directed by Tosca Branca)
In a clinical white room, a large box delivers a baby where its eternity is spent within its confinements. La Boîte is possibly one of the most purposefully discombobulating, yet spellbindingly entrancing short films that absorb the audience’s full attention for the entire film. The sheer abandonment of the real world throughout intensifies the horror and hostility. Accompanying the antagonistic landscape is the stop motion technique that serves to increase the surrealist vibe.
Dark Red (Directed by Django Watkins)
The ghost of Sam’s (Beathan Gurr) mother comes back to haunt her. Dark Red retells the tragedies that come with losing a parent, but more importantly, Django Watkins illustrates the horror that dramatically takes over when grief rises to the surface. The essence of Sam’s trauma cathartically fleshes out the film’s unique portrayal of haunted souls, alive or dead, through positioning the terror within an enclosed setting, a focus on close-up cinematography, and unbelievably impressive effects.
Janus (Directed by Priscila Carvalho Vailones)
Janis (Jane Lu) has been hiding a monstrous secret, but it’s not long until it comes back to haunt her. Janus merges a creature-based narrative with a dramatically refined psychological horror essence to exude a tale that flourishes within its own pageant of variety. Priscila Carvalho Vailones exercises the freedoms of independent cinema through the lack of easy jumpscares, instead Janus gradually climbs the ladder of terror, resulting in an impossibly tense climax that will certainly take the viewer on a rollercoaster of emotions.
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Jen (Liliana de la Rosa), is suffering with the aftermath of losing her mother, made worse by her damaged relationship with the only parent left in her life, her father John (Paul Talbot). With her social circle progressing past the humdrum of small town life, Jen is now more alone than ever. However, when John introduces his new girlfriend Florence (Vanessa Madrid), Jen senses that something just isn’t right and her isolation rises to a whole other level.
Jack Dignan wrote, directed, and co-produced After She Died, one of 2022’s most spirited indie features that refuses to quit until you’ve questioned everything you thought you knew about horror. As with many film buffs, Dignan has been infatuated with cinema for nearly the entirety of his life, signing up for every film course he could during the school holidays, before eventually enrolling at the Academy of Information Technology where he received a diploma in interactive media and film. Since then, Digan’s extensive credits has ranged from directing the acclaimed short It Feels Like Spring (2019) to working behind the scenes in the visual effects department for blockbusters such as Thor: Love and Thunder (2022) and Elvis (2022).
Australian horror infamously blossoms in the hardcore sub genres of film, with eco terrors and exploitation flicks making the most out of the classic landscape. However, rather than go with the flow, After She Died dares to go bold with the film’s utterly nerve shredding, yet touching tale of remorse, grief, and the almost out of body experience that comes with severe unfamiliarity. The film’s yearning for a closely knit story that yields to the most fragile elements of adulthood, including the modern tragedy of the coming-of-age narrative is what bonds the viewer so tightly to the script, knowing that at one point the unease of broken down fellowships will become a reality.
The keen expressionism is gripping from the very first frame, but this fruitful execution would not be the same without the visceral visuals and dramatic soundscape that ensure the animated lighting, suspenseful setting, and pronounced character dynamics all remain as significant as Dignan overtly meant them to be. The direction behind After She Died was openly inspired by the unsettling nature of Asian horror classics such as Audition (1999) and Ju On: The Grudge (2002), where the fleshiness of the film equally derives from the ubiquitous plot points and the sinister cinematography. As Jen’s sense of reality succumbs to the horrors that lie ahead, the screen also becomes almost tainted, making use of the entire frame that slowly begins to fill with increasingly ominous symbolism.
Over the years there has been an stern interest in matriarchal horrors diving into the terror within parental relationships, particularly with the likes of Goodnight Mommy (2014) and Hereditary (2018), however, rather than exaggerate upon already released works, After She Died thrives in its originality and exclusive pathos, warranting it to be both highly regarded in its field and as an important contribution to the entire process of independent cinema.
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Searching for Veslemøy chronicles the greedy attempt to bring in fame and fortune by a self absorbed reporter through bringing a cold case back to life in a trick to desperately launch his career. However, when the dice begins to roll and eccentricity takes the stage, events soon turn south.
This upcoming found footage riptide comes from the creative mind of Leo X. Robertson. Robertson has been making an impact in all things media within recent years, with his work ranging from authoring novellas to founding the Stavanger Filmmakers Club all spelling an exciting future for the Scottish native. His previous feature Burnt Portraits (2021) surveyed harsh truths that unearth when the psyche is truly at its most vulnerable, leaving the viewer both unwinding the labyrinth of deep meaning behind the narrative whilst also being mystified over the naturalistic, gritty tone.
Searching for Veslemøy doesn’t fall into the trap of being a spiritual carbon copy of the directors previous work, instead, the innately authentic and perplexing journey that the film takes us on is entirely unique and very much unlike any feature currently on the market. Straight off the bat the film creates a warm welcome, thanks to the faux documentary element, with Robertson fully understanding and using the familiarity of home video style to lull us into a false sense of security. However, a horror is a horror; and like a Jack in the box, we sit sheepishly waiting for the mystery to untangle. As that tightly wound cord of tension that Robertson so carefully forms unravels, the narrative direction both deliberately bewilders and eerily reaches an unprecedented peak.
Permeating the film’s bleak, yet witty tonal complexities is the mockumentary format that by nature performs as if the events were captured as they happened, not only intensely involving the viewer, but also integrating a cold, harsh sense of realism that is bonded even further by Robertson’s off-kiltered script brimming with dark humour. In accompaniment of the bona fide expressionism are the performances that capture the curious and prying capabilities that come to the surface when a small town mystery arises. The range of talents from the likes of Tom Montgomery, Berit Rødsås, Rebekka Irene Skjæveland, Khonia Koushan, Raphaël Meurice, and Filip Haaland all excel in delivering that rarely reached level of legitimacy that sells the entire premise of a true story.
Robertson proves that he is not a one trick pony at all, with his filmography including Burnt Portraits and Searching for Veslemøy all dabbling in alternative themes and filmmaking methods, whilst keeping the dialogue uniquely exciting and the atmosphere tense and engrossing.
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Steeped in righteous social commentary and deeply rooted ordeals is The Lies of Our Confines. Enlisting the alarming fundamentals of horror, along with the genre’s innate platform for distinctive allegories to thrive is Leon Oldstrong’s latest film, merging epic supernatural components, with eye-catching cinematography and a witty narrative that will always leave the viewer guessing what’s going to happen next.
Oldstrong’s filmmaking methods, whether that be the exterior of sound, vision, and setting, or whether that be the interior basking in the film’s moral alignments and narrative compass, he belongs in the canon of the most exciting, indie filmmakers out there. The Lies of Our Confines is a refreshing take on creating authentic stories, made by black people that go against the grain, and oppose the need for creating cyclical urban narratives with contentious negative stereotypes. Films such as The Ritual (2017) and Midsommar (2019) are of course outstanding feats in their own rights, but a key development missing from the ever rising popularity of nature based horror is representation.
Continuously filling the screen with monotonous assemblies only weakens the potential for undiscovered talent to arise. The Lies of Our Confines breathes new life into neo-folk horror through re-envisioning filmic barriers and creating a form of escapism for an audience who are denied an identity within heavy genre cinema.
Oldstrong himself states that “I’ve had enough of watching content told by the same voices and always seeing the same type of people on screen”.
Additionally within the discourse of refreshing cinema is the film’s enigmatic scenery, enthusiastic visuals and polished cinematic value that goes above and beyond and proves that indie horror can be just as enriched and masterful as any widely funded blockbuster. The film understands the power within the woodland-based ambience to both highlight the intrepid advances that the natural earth holds; enhanced by the magnifying performances from the likes of Tobi King Bakare, Chadrack Mbuini, Braulio Chimbembe, Abdul Jaloh, and Enrique Borico. Even in accompaniment of contemporary discourses, the sheer stillness yet eeriness that rural auras hold is truly one of the many components that make The Lies of Our Confines so memorable and a must watch through to the core.
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After a gunman holds a support group under siege, they must all confront their mysterious pasts to fight for survival.
Coming from the cinematically versed Will Higo is The Group, a claustrophobic, intense, and poignantly personal, cautionary tale encompassing the process of forgiveness, transformation, and most importantly deadly consequences. Higo, whose extensive credits include behind the scene work for The Crown (2016) and Spider-Man Homecoming (2017), as well as directing short films such as Nemesis (2010) and NSFL (2014), crafted The Group from the ground up, dedicated to showcasing a fast-paced, testing, and morally ambiguous feat.
What innately comes from indie filmmaking is a unique sense of creativity that utilises any natural constraints and molds them into key plot details that in the right hands can result in effective conclusions that push the film into unrepeatable and influential territories. The setting of The Group being an Addicts Anonymous meeting allows for an intimate narrative to unfold, and ultimately plunges a close-knit, character-defined story into the forefront. As the dynamic becomes more heated with the involvement of the gunman, they are urged to unravel their chaotic past, which is a task for anyone, but when those histories are rife with trauma and pain, a newfound need to escape both figuratively and emotionally comes into motion.
Blasting the vibrant roots of the story even further are the performances. The isolated boundaries that come from a one-room setting force the focus to immediately fall upon the characters and their actions. The pressurized situation acts like a boiling pot where the group waits on the edge of their seat for the torment as they decode and come to terms with their wrongdoings and misfortunes.
While all are important, the titular character of Kara (Evangelina Burton) takes the viewer’s hand in guiding them through one of the most chilling, and pulse-pounding 71 minutes of their lives. Burton’s portrayal of a person on the edge and at the point of defeat projects exactly what The Group is about. Burton positions the anger within as if the torturous meeting is just the tip of the iceberg for her. Alongside Burton is Dylan Baldwin who plays the ubiquitously sinister weapon-wielder, Jack. Baldwin encapsulates a dangerously threatening level of menace that really amps up the fear factor throughout, not at one point does his actions (that take control of the narrative direction) become predictable, making the experience even more action-packed.
The Group requires a tricky mix of personalities from different backgrounds whose varied experiences shaped their identity and why they are placed within the AA setting in the first place. As it stands, their anonymity to one another allows a shield to be cast around their individualised barriers, but when the situation turns ugly and Jack ups the stakes, the group’s commonplace differences come secondary to survival. Their dynamic changes from one of detachment to unity, in return pushing comfort away and instead spearheading vulnerability.
As with any horror that steps outside the box and infuses a delicate topic into the narrative, a keen urge to accommodate the fragile nature of the subject is made. Higo’s introduction of addiction into The Group does not aim to shy away from the harsh truths that are joined with such an illness. The chance to move on, apologise, and seek redemption is one that applies to everyone directly involved in that person’s path; the journey is rarely singular. The Group overtly holds it grip on the viewer through initiating a heightened level of violence and threat, whilst also under the surface permeating a dark level of trauma and personalised grief.
The Group dares to challenge. And more inadvertently, the film openly asks the audience what they would do in this situation on both ends of the firing line. Is Jack simply a man at the end of his tether, or are his actions redeemable? These are just some of the questions that Higo brazenly brings to the table, fleshing out the complexity of betrayal whilst still delivering impactful scares and memorable frights.
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After a tragic incident in her childhood, Anna (Riann Steele) has become distant from her estranged family for years. Due to her grandmother, Lucy (Jane Lowe) suffering from Dementia, Anna travels back home to become her caregiver. However, soon after she arrives strange ordeals begin to happen with increasingly drastic effects, leading to Anna discovering the connection between the sinister occurrences and a disturbing family secret.
The classic ghost story has made a home within horror for decades, seemingly the entire premise of ghoulish apparitions and dark entities have become entirely synonymous with definitive status within genre cinema. Yet, despite the traditional arrangement being so notorious, it is difficult to come across a modern horror film that is a streamlined quintessential ghost tale without unwarranted cheap scares and easy gimmicks. Jamie Hooper’s The Creeping is exactly what audiences have been begging for and precisely the type of cinema that horror has been longing for all these years. It’s that sense of habitats becoming infected with sinister otherness whose threat knows no bounds.
Director Jamie Hooper’s natural talents have graced many award winning short films over the years including Unto Death (2017) and Don’t Peak (2020). Joining Hooper in co-writing this gothic inspired story is Helen Miles, known for sound mixing on films such as The Gentlemen (2019) and His House (2020).
The familiarity seen within The Creeping is immediately a warming surprise, with sheet ghosts and dark hallways purposefully talking the audiences hand and promising a by-the-book haunted house legend where we know exactly what to expect, falsely creating a comfortable environment only for Hooper to brutally pull the rug out from under and deliver intensely frightening jumps and riveting jolts. In a formidable sense, The Creeping knows exactly when to take its sweet time building up ammunition and when to exactly pull the trigger. This push and pull layering method refuses to mimic similar filmmaking techniques seen by the likes of Mike Flanagan’s work in The Haunting of Hill House (2018), or travelling further back in time with Robert Wise’s The Haunting (1963); instead Hooper reinvents principles in a valiant and effective way that ensures The Creeping’s status within independent cinema will not be forgotten any time soon.
The cottage, English countryside setting belongs to an innately intimidating aesthetic where ominous bodies can lurk around every dark corner. Establishing the malevolent force strung over every scene is the deeply seeded character development that takes a keen precedence throughout, and for a very vital reason. A horror film can easily conjure a quick reaction with a scary visual combined with a loud sound, but it takes a lot more grafting for that trembling fear to come from a deeper place that plants its roots early on, meaning that by the final act the audience literally cannot catch their breath. The Creeping elaborates a theme of generational trauma that comes to light within Anna and Lucy’s touching relationship. Lucy’s withering condition pulls at Anna’s heartstrings, but it also unearths a frightening realisation that her place within the family is dwindling as Lucy’s memory diminishes. The performances by both Riann Steele and Jane Lower are not only crucial to the film’s effect, but they are also utterly commendable and richly authentic.
The Creeping is a methodical, wickedly dark, and effective horror that will indefinitely take indie horror to new heights.
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OJ (Daniel Kayuuya) and Emerald Haywood (Keke Palmer) have been making ends meet at their Californian horse ranch ever since their father died in a freak accident. With savings becoming dire and OJ selling the horses to neighbour/former childhood star Jupe (Steven Yeun) to get by, they discover a jackpot hovering over them. With the help of tech installer Angel (Brandon Perea), they venture out on a mission to capture evidence of a UFO.
The contingency of exploitation is an enigma that defeats logical explanations. Humans as a species crave that feed that comes from tragedy, a lustful but apprehensive desire to absorb terror like an uncontrollable need to blemish a chance of achieving a completely placid mental state. Shamelessly forming from the attraction of the spectacle is a myriad of threats, keeping the mind on alert, knowing that danger is just around the corner; Obsession is a blessing and a curse. Jordan Peele’s follow up from the acclaimed Get Out (2017) and equally applauded Us (2019) is Nope (2022), quite possibly the most jaw dropping sci-fi, horror, drama, mystery to enter the mainstream market in the last twenty years.
Just as the world was seemingly crumbling in 2020, many cinema aficionado’s were concerned over the future of film, with Peele belonging to the worried mob. It was at that moment that he knew his next film had to be a total pageant that deliberately dishes out way too much for the audience to handle, spiritually force feeding the masses as much onscreen swindling, distress, and catastrophe as they want.
In all of the tormenting comments made about the trajectory of human behaviour within Nope is the deeply enigmatic setting, performances, cinematography, and stupefying score. The dusty and desolate landscape filmed in IMAX comes straight out of an old fashion western, with monotonous beige dirt tracks absorbing any nearby signs of occupied space, as if the ranch is just a small pinprick in a grand vastness of nothing. OJ, Em, and Angel are made to feel insignificant, especially in comparison to what lies above them. This ignorance to their being doesn’t just open up the screen to stunning exhibition shots captured by cinematographer Hoyte Van Hoytema, but it also embodies the physicality of the situation. The beastly UFO isn’t necessarily a spaceship hoarding wide eyed, green skinned aliens, the saucer is the extraterrestrial product itself that chews people up and spits them out whilst also psychically resembling a biblically accurate angel. The sheer lack of respect Nope dishes towards its characters is just one step in the chaotic ladder Peele climbs in order to tyrannise the hierarchy. Not a single character feels untouchable, they all have an equal share of not making it through to the end, instead, the most innocent of all creatures and somewhat deserving of peace is the UFO.
Through distancing the ranch from common land, and detaching OJ, Em and Angel from others, the ‘being’ further obtains this status as otherness, and more importantly deadliness. Unlike in alternative alien features there are no throngs of weapons held by jacked-up Navy Seals ready to let rip an armour of projectiles. Instead, it treats the ranch like its playground, free to roam like one of Haywood’s horses.
Consequently deriving from the autonomy held by the UFO is the lack thereof shown within the lands occupants. A large factor of Nope’s narrative surrounds an incident that occurred on Jupe’s sitcom in the late 1990s surrounding its main character- a chimpanzee named Gordy. The events leading up to and following on from Gordy’s rampage is horrific to say the least, but what stands out most besides the visual escapades is the reality of the situation. Gordy was a wild animal that was treated like a ‘worker’ made to perform to appease a live audience, and like a ticking time bomb waiting to go off, it was only natural that a sudden change in scenario would cause Gordy to essentially ‘loose it’. Peele purposefully doesn’t show the massacre in graphic detail, in fact he doesn’t show the event (as it happened) in full length without interruptions at all. Somewhat, teasing the viewer knowing that they want to see Gordy go bananas ripping off faces and tearing into whatever flesh he finds. Peele’s dangling of the carrot firmly confirms his suspicions about the viewer, we may want to voyeuristically survey the primate gone mad, but we shouldn’t. Nope both tests the theory of spectacle and the greed for a show, whilst also denoting a sense of dignity back to the spectacle itself.
The same argument could be said towards Jupe, the childhood star who instead of discussing Gordy’s tragedy in a humane way, replays the tale through an SNL sketch that was held in its memoir. Jupe’s glassy reflection discussing the hilarity of the event, combined with the fact that he sits in his theme park profiting off of his childhood stardom is a deeply sad feat. Nope is a horror that shocks and scares, but more importantly it’s an emotional analogy of how fragility and empathy is only to be experienced temporarily, with grief to be fought off in an attempt to get back on the wagon as soon as possible.
Further clawing its way down to the bone is Nope’s unbeatable horrific elements that enforce an inescapable air of claustrophobia, enhanced by unspeakable imagery revolving trapped, bloody spaces and viscera soaked exteriors encased with a suffocating soundscape brimming with echoed screams and Martian-like humming. The internal UFO scene in question is a given for any viewer familiar with Nope, and for those that want a juicy infill before watching the future sci-fi staple, it can be guaranteed that the visual is nearly impossible to forget. Even harder to forget is that horrible sickly sensation that washes over you as you watch unsuspecting people meet the worst demise possible.
Joining the intense brigade of travesty is Peele’s signature mark of satire comedy that is veiled enough to not overpower the film, but still enough to share a chuckle, particularly the darkness of his humour. For instance, when OJ is asked by an actress what his name is, she cannot help but turn a judgemental eye towards his initials; of course, making an ill-informed nod to OJ Simpson, who in its entirety belongs to one of the media’s biggest spectacles in history. Exercising the brutal script to its maximum potential is the talents of Daniel Kaluuya and Keke Palmer, the film’s titular characters. As with many realistic family siblings, they are near complete opposites- a total extrovert vs introvert situation. OJ connects with the ranch’s horses with a sense of expertise because the peace within wrangling holds a devoutly vital equilibrium within his aura. In contrast is Em, who takes no prisoners in every situation she is placed in, lighting up the room and naturally drawing the limelight to her. The texture of having polar opposites join forces is a neat melody that Peele initiates. In a film about division from one another and the monetisation of adversity, perhaps Peele is making a statement showing that dissection and detachment is not the key to survival, but instead unity is.
Ultimately lying at the bottomless gut of Nope is the disgruntled commentary directly spitting back what society has become infatuated with. And in a cruel way, Peele stealthy knows that critics, vloggers, casual movie-goers, and diehard horror fans will all be commenting upon the spectacle and the need for dissection. The irony of digesting Nope’s message as fact, only to then perform exactly what Peele is commenting upon (via blasting the film all over social media) is such a stern example of the decisive layering that goes into his filmmaking.
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Beth Conner (Lyndsey Craine), a vegan-goth student falls in love with her English teacher Miss Campbell (Lala Barlow), and soon develops a forbidden taste for human flesh.
Backed by Troma Entertainment’s Lloyd Kaufman and Michael Herz is Eating Miss Campbell (2022), starring Lyndsey Craine, Lala Barlow, Vito Trigo, James Hamar-Morton, Charlie Bond, Emily Haigh, Annabella Rich, Dani Thompson, and Laurence R. Harvey, with a cameo from Kaufman himself.
The film takes the likes of high school hierarchy flicks such as Heathers (1988) and Tragedy Girls (2017), adds a dose of epic lunacy made notorious by Troma classics, coupled with a whopping punch of cannibalism, adolescent suicide, mass violence, and an infectious sense of daring humour.
The Yorkshire born and bred Liam Regan grabbed the horror world by the horns with his full-length feature debut My Bloody Banjo (2015), chronicling a bullied desk worker on his revenge seeking mission. The film was met with beloved reactions by those brave enough to sit through the bloody spectacle which saw acts of brutality be taken to another level, even garnering enough attention to be shown at the Cannes Film Festival in 2015, as well as having its world premiere at the one and only FrightFest. However, although horror fans take this as a stern compliment, the film was at first rejected by iTunes and Walmart due to its ferocity. This badge of honour only pushed Regan to continue his filmmaking pursuit with the upcoming classic that is Eating Miss Campbell, which has no qualms in pushing the viewer through an intense roller coaster where the maximalist approach is at full blast the entire time.
The kinetically charged feast goes through its leaps and bounds against the backdrop of Beth’s turbulent journey of a more-than-forbidden romance story, all the whilst juggling her rambunctiously vicious parents, the coven-like mean girls at school, and a multitude of perverted ‘associates’. It’s this audacious cacophony of themes and events that truly places Eating Miss Campbell as a mighty force, with no controversial matter too dark to explore. Censorship may seem like a bygone past time, but the current consensus is far from being fully expressive, at times it seems that filmmaking freedom is near impossible. Troma films have always aimed to displease, shock even, and without being a carbon copy or testing for the sake of it, Regan puts up a valiant fight to keep the film down there with the most gnarliest, loathsome, and most importantly compelling horrors that tackles and triggers as much as it can.
As established, the zealous gumption really is a sight for sore eyes, but just as stellar as the fruitful narrative are the performances, setting, and effects that all render together to create a mini universe so out of bounds and unique to the film. Lyndsey Craine sealed her status as an upcoming scream queen through her powerful performances in Book of Monsters (2018) and Zomblogalypse (2021), and with Eating Miss Campbell, it seems that her horror heroine capabilities are only on the rise. The character of Beth Conner is so enriched in meticulous sarcasm and a sense of clever wickedness, especially when it comes to her sharp tongue lashing out the most hilarious insults you’ll ever hear. Craine’s ability to nail the razor edged persona is a standout feat, and joining her on the performance path is every single other character, whether that be the fiery role of Miss Campbell herself (Lala Barlow), or the beyond creepy (and deadly inappropriate) teacher Clyde Toulon, played by Laurence R. Harvey, who many fans will recognise as the barbaric antagonist in The Human Centipede 2 (2011).
Eating Miss Campbell is a stroke of much-needed absurd darkness amidst all the socially conscious films entering the market. Still, Regan’s enigmatic efforts in creating a boisterous display are not without its depth. In fact, underneath the veil of obscurity is a witty subtext that uses a brave and bashful temperament to comment upon the dramaticness seen within educational settings, which ranges from the brave but truthful idolism of school shootings, the influx in assault, and the arising generational divide pitting misaligned toxicity against one another. The sheer audacity of topics is a mouthful, but for hungry audiences with an appetite for contentious dispositions, Eating Miss Campbell is a dream!
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An individual’s predisposition to fear is mainly connected to sound. The sudden appearance of a horror film’s threat, whether it’s a demonic creature or a knife-wielding boogeyman, their presence is always going to stir a reaction. However, it’s the audio cues that first unleash the terror and sheer panic amongst the viewer. Before Freddy Kruger makes an appearance in his victim’s dreams the faint scratching sounds of his bladed fingers arise to our attention, followed by the recurring twisted nursery rhyme of “One, Two, Freddy’s Coming For You”; the basis of reaction can all be traced back to the power of music within the film.
The 1990s were a time when horror films thrived in maximalism, ensuring that no theatrical stone was left unturned. The costumes were always exaggerative of the storyline, the background and setting were beyond dramatic, and the music was crucial in setting the tone, with an emphasis on curating a soundtrack that would be as impactful as the dynamic seen on screen.
The character of Dracula has gone through leaps and bounds of representations. The Count has been parodied and trivialized (e.g. The Monster Squad [1987] and Waxwork [1988]), and he’s also been made darker and almost feral (e.g. Dracula [1931]). Out of the countless adaptions, one film that is timelessly recalled is Francis Ford Coppola’s Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992). Coppola eroticises and sensualises the entire plot by granting a god-like capacity to Dracula where his power transcends beyond blood-sucking, instead his grandness is all-encompassing to the film’s entire environment as if Dracula surpasses the barrier of the screen and has a hold on the viewer. The deliberate hazing is accented by composer Wojciech Kilar’s enigmatic score that fuses large orchestral structures to be both melodically gentle but still ostentatious and lord-like as if the music was formulated by an immortal being, Dracula himself, a character both charming and deadly.
The boastful score takes over the screen and demands nothing but full attention. In what can be considered a bold move by creating a dominating score, a sense of might is pushed towards the horror movie soundtrack, allowing for future films to spiritually feed from Coppola’s and Kilar’s forcefulness in fashioning powerful music for further films to come.
Horror as a subject can be pliable, what works for some might not work for others, however, one factor that runs throughout is the means to jolt a fright, whether that be a playful fright or a deeply souring fear is totally individualised. As the early 1990s were shaping there was an influx in ‘family horror’, films where mature audiences would feel nostalgia for their discovery days of the genre, and younger viewers would be excited to be introduced to the world of horror. Films such as Hocus Pocus (1993) and The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993) saw phenomenal amounts of success across the board that still lasts to this day. Both of these films’ signature relies heavily upon the music featured. Hocus Pocus saw Bette Midler performing the Halloween classic “I Put a Spell on You” (Jalacy “Screamin’ Jay” Hawkins), which remains a spooky season staple for many. Alongside Hocus Pocus was Danny Elfman’s composition for The Nightmare Before Christmas which was awarded a Golden Globe for Best Original Score (1993) and also featured on the US Billboard charts at No. 64.
Skipping back a few years, no matter the genre cinema was thriving on big powerful movie ballads seen in the likes of Dirty Dancing (1986), Mannequin (1987), and The Bodyguard (1992). Amidst all these love songs came a rising popularity for creating movies that revolved around its sound. That isn’t to say that other cinematic elements were being surpassed, it just meant that a strong focus was also placed upon the soundtrack.
Quentin Tarintino is the perfect example of a filmmaker who uses music as a character. And when it came to his and director Robert Rodriguez’s From Dusk Till Dawn (1996), the music played one of the largest roles in the film. The irreverently charged horror is known for its chaotic characters, purposefully sleazy setting, plasmic-coloured green blood and gore, and a killer soundtrack. The dark southern score is laden with rock and blues anthems that keep the film from seeming like a peep show. The range of musical numbers features bands including ZZ Top, Tito & Tarantula, and The Mavericks. But the most quintessential tune that is synonymous with the film is “After Dark” (Tito & Tarantula), also known as the song that plays during Santanico Pandemonium’s (Salma Hayek) dance scene with an Albino Python. After Dark encapsulates the film’s entire ambiance, where the moody tones are spiked with velvety vocals and deadly lyrics that tell the story of forbidden wants and bumps in the night.
From Dusk Till Dawn is so engrained with the idea of music that even the scenes themselves are heavily based on the importance of music as a filmmaking tool. Particularly during the scene where the on-stage band (also played by Tito & Tarantula) start using a human torso as a guitar during a mass brawl at the infamous bar ‘The Titty Twister’.
Mary Harron’s American Psycho (2000) helped redefine and recontextualize the use of music in horror in the early 2000s. The film follows Patrick Bateman (Christian Bale), a murderous city swindler who has an odd penchant for music, especially whilst he is committing his deadly deeds. Artists including David Bowie, The Cure, Phil Collins, and New Order amongst many others appear on the bold and ambitious soundtrack that to this day is still used as a cultural reference. The film toys with the omnipotent power of Bateman who somehow carries out wildly violent acts in an open manner without much of a guise, with the film’s most fluorescent and upbeat songs (including Huey Lewis and the News’s “Hip To Be Square”) playing over his psychopathic killing/monologue scenes. To nicely meld the theme of desensitisation into the plot, the pop and New Wave music is strategically and continuously peppered throughout the film, making the surrealness of his dark actions being committed in a well-lit and mainly open environment seem even more dreamlike.
A couple of years down the line from American Psycho was 28 Days Later (2002), a rattling zombie movie that dials up the bloodcurdling terror to a ten from the very first scene. Director Danny Boyle leaves no room for air as the lightning-fast flesh-eaters are constantly on the hunt, and always capture their prey with ease. To go with such a heart-pounding, exhilarating narrative is the post-rock soundtrack that also combines orchestral swells to fill in the gaps. 28 Days Later’s setting ranges from a desolate London town to empty motorways and army barracks abandoned thanks to the ‘rage virus’ sweeping the country. The silence and stillness of the apocalyptic landscape are filled by the loud and ferocious songs composed by John Murphy consisting of electric guitars and bleak, depressive droning sounds, particularly “In the House, In a Heartbeat” which begins with deadly slow riffs before erupting into a stirring melody.
Although the following trend has been around for a while, it wasn’t until Insidious (2010) that the creepy remix of child-like songs became a popular sensation for horror marketing. Tiny Tim’s cover of the 1929 song “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” features in James Wan’s Insidious as the titular theme, playing during one of the most alarming scenes from the film, showing a mysterious ghost boy dancing to the ominous song before vanishing in thin air. The distorted wave of vocals in an oddly high pitched yet masculine timbre is genuinely haunting, like something that you would hear playing in your worst nightmare. Since social media has become a playground for dance and audio trends to thrive, “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” has seen a ressuragnce in popularity, particularly featuring on abandoned tour videos and paranormal excursion clips. The intense and petrifying song is rather ironically frigthening as it was originally intended to be a family friendly hit with no shadow of darkness intended. However, it just goes to show you that horror cinema really does have a power in deceiving the atmosphere with music alone.
Disasterpiece may not be a name familiar to the masses, but their scoring for David Robert Mitchell’s It Follows (2014) is a tranxfixing feat pushing the boundaries between screen and viewer. The film takes on a figuratively and literal attachment story where a curse is placed upon victims after acts of intimacy, akin to a ghostly STD. Naturally, the horror of the narrative remains closely fixated to the protagonists, keeping the terror close to home at all times, almost suffocating the audience. To meet the deep personable elements, the scoring too brings a sense of erratic tension to the forefront, where the ticking sounds reminiscent of clock chimes, combined with industrialised synth melodies mimic the overtly present themes of entrapment, doom, and unavoidable mortality.
It Follows avoids the traditionalised use of common soundscapes in favour of upsetting any sense of familiarity the viewer may have had. In a similar line to this is Jóhann Jóhannsson’s melodramatic score for Mandy (2018), which delivers a feast for the ears with every fibre of its being. The presentation seen in Mandy is on its own enough to be fully controlling and visually arresting; when the elements of music are incorporated, any means of affect are amplified to the extreme, with the tinny, industrial tones working alongside psychedelic chargings to create a phantasmagorical palette for the senses.
Powerful contemporparty soundtracks do have one goal in common, which is to stay true to classic genre scoring elements whilst employing a new flavour that is foreign to the listener’s personal soundscape. In a way, this consideration has always been the case. Take for example Fabio Frizzi’s work, the Italian composer and frequent collaborator of Lucio Fulci would consistently marry two polar opposite musical genres (band and orchestra) to birth a theme song so enriched in chaos and commotion that its impossible to break away from the horror unfolding on screen. Frizzi’s scoring for City of the Living Dead (1980) and The Beyond (1981) truly immerses cinema as an audiovisual medium, all in an ode to break away from traditionality and opting for refreshingly original scoring.
Within recent years the use of music within horror has reached a new means where the contextualisation of sound itself is a key plotpoint. This element has always been popular, with films such as The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975) thriving in the notion of music. Essentially the subject of sound has always been an integral part of horror.
Additions from modern autuers including Gaspar Noé and Edgar Wright have always relied on the impactfullness of scores to survey the depths of terror, with Noé’s dance studio based extravangaza Climax (2018) using hypnotic numbers playing over extensively long movement shots, and Wright’s nostalgic score for Last Night in Soho (2021) enlisting the help of 1950s-1960s hits to convey a twisted narrative rife with equal amounts of terror and sentimentality.
This idea of reusing hit songs in a new light has been repeated throughout cinema for decades, but when it’s done correctly the effect can be significantly influential over a film’s finished result. One horror that utilises this aspect with flawless execution is Jordan Peele’s Us (2019). Us’s composer Michael Abels remixes the 1995 song “I Got 5 on It” (Luniz), quickly becoming the film’s official theme song. Abels flawlessly highlights the hard-hitting beat and rhythmic structure at the film’s most tense moments, including the heavy home invasion scenes, almost using the beat as a siren or pounding drum that emotively and psychically jolts even the most stern-faced of viewers.
The power of music in horror can be asphyxiating, it can be deliberately troublesome, and it can completely make or break a film. For decades music has been a contraption to manipulate and assemble whatever emotion the film demands.
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Audiences have become rather accustomed to quick-buck, bright and bloody horrors that come about every couple of months from large studios, where nearly every moment of tension is ruined by a falsely acquainted jumpscare, and a lack of believable performances. Honestly, this is exactly how I believed The Black Phone would turn out. Never have I ever been more wrong!
The Black Phone follows Finney (Mason Thames), a middle schooler who along with his sister Gwen (Madeleine McGraw) have become a form of careers to their widowed alcoholic father, Terrence (Jeremy Davies), making sure that he doesn’t cause too much harm once he begins bingeing. Together they fight through the hardships, especially as Terrence has a penchant for berating Gwen over her psychic dreams. Amidst their other daily struggles of school bullies and playground antics Finney is captured by The Grabber (Ethan Hawke), a local masked kidnapper. All alone with no help in sight, it seems that Finney is destined for death, however, a mysterious black phone and Gwen’s visions may hold the key to his survival.
Adapted from Joe Hill’s (son of genre proficianado Stephen King) short story of the same (2004) is Scott Derrickson’s latest feature that calls back to one of his previous horror’s Sinister (2012), in being a shockingly gut wrenching delight that will have you peeking through the gaps of your fingers as you sit on the edge of your seat. The boxes are ticked in all categories, whether it’s the creepy performance from Hawke playing the bloodthirsty local kid-snatcher, or the illustrious whodunit mystery that goes on in the background as the cops race against time to get to the bottom of the killings before it’s too late.
As with most classic auteurs in the making, Derrickson uses his common collaborators Hawke and writer C. Robert Cargill to plunge The Black Phone into a refreshing territory that holds up for the entire film. The film transports us back in time to Colorado circa 1978, where kids would play out on the streets unequipped with no phones in sight, feeling safe amidst the presence of strangers, however, it is this exact uniformed trust that The Black Phone uses as a backbone for terror to ensue, constatnly toying with our knowledge that times are no longer as simple and Finney should definitely not be walking home alone with an unknown boogeyman lurking about. And although we sit waiting for the ‘big surprise’ of The Grabber’s appearance, what we are not prepared for is how petrifyingly wicked the prowler truly is.
Hawke’s career spans across a plethora of films including Dead Poets Society (1989), Reality Bites (1994), and Boyhood (2014); Whilst these works portray his outstanding capabilities, his recital of a maniacal deranged serial killer in The Black Phone is a career-distinguishing extravaganza, exhibiting Hawke’s duality of being a deeply disturbed individual whose depravity also oozes a sense of childlike giddiness. Convoluting the story even further is the dark land that the film doesn’t neescarly assert, but is suggested throughout. Finney’s ghostly conversations with his captive chums allude to The Grabber’s motives as somewhat being connected to a regressive state of adolescence, where he doesn’t see himself as a grown man abducting little boys, but instead a fellow child. Here, Derrickson very much leaves further analogy and the dissection of what The Grabber is ‘capable’ of doing to the viewer’s imagination. Hawke’s performance is more than commendable, but it’s important not to forget all of the other characters that make the film what it is. Spiritually joining Finney in the basement is the titular gang of fellow victims who include a small town bully, a local baseball player, and most importantly Finney’s own friend Robin (Miguel Cazarez Mora), who over the course of the film becomes Finney’s ghostly sidekick, keeping him motivated to escape the cell and tackle his inner fears.
The surveyance of suggestion is another feature that is pushed constantly throughout the film. Gory imagery does not always equate to an overused gimmick to get a visceral reaction, instead it can be used as a rather quintessential and necessary plot device for cinema, especially in the works of zombie features or body-horrors. The Black Phone delicately works with heavy material without becoming too infatuated with the sensory elements. Yes, you will feel a shiver as you come to terms with how The Grabber has anihilated his victims, but the reaction isn’t thanks to a harsh show-and-tell, instead, Derrickson takes his time in unravelling the backstory and fleshing out the grounds to conjure a narrative that employs your own imagination, forcing the misdeeds to stay in your own psyche for long after watching. Through The Black Phone continuously telling not showing, we mould the story around our own fears and worries, making the film memorable and beyond personable.
In keeping in touch with Derrickson’s pathos of personalness is the setting and time that the film uses to force a further level of despair into Finney’s chances of escaping. During the 1970s and early 1980s there was an influx in abductions, raising the now too familiar saying of ‘Stranger Danger’ into public domain. During this time, milk cartons were plastered with missing posters, meaning that the threat and knowledge of alarming events were in the family home, not just a distanced and avoidable event on the news.
As with any major event, cinema took ahold of these panics and manifested the terror into works of media, with recent entries including Prisoners (2013), The Captive (2014), and I See You (2019). Films akin to these mystery dramas with heavy doses of horror have had a slight rehaul over the years, with studios opting to position the ‘missing kids’ narrative during one of the more notable heights of worry– during the 1970s/1980s. Rather than Derrickson using nostalgia and retro framings as an easy trick to hone in on the trend, the vintage aesthetic is used appropriately and to the film’s utmost advantage. In honour of the throwback vibes Finney becomes entirely hopeless, with zero social media to track his location, nor any savvy list to keep track of neighbourhood creeps.
Everything, whether it’s the dim layer where Finney is held, the retro style complete with grainy intercuts of 8mm footage enlightening viewers of Gwen’s visions, or even the foreboding score that knows exactly when to quieten before erupting into a thunderous peak- The Black Phone has it all, making it not only one of 2022’s most standout films so far, but also a strong contender for being one of Blumhouse Productions best releases yet.
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