Can you watch a found footage horror film and not be constantly asking yourself, who edited this footage together? Who pulled from one camera, then another, spliced in security cam stuff? Who looked at all the footage from all the different cameras and decided what we would see when? And how did they get it all? And where did they go?
If it does not bother you, then it’s possible that you will enjoy writer/director Kris Collins’s House on Eden more than I did.
This found footage horror clings close to real life. Spooky content creators “KallMeKris” Collins, “celinaspookyboo” Celina Myers, and filmmaker Jason-Christopher Mayer play versions of themselves, social media handles and all. The trio is out to make a great video, not one of those boring videos everyone makes. So instead of going to the cemetery Celina has researched, Kris diverts the road trip to a house she found online that she’s sure no one has ever been to.
Sure. Because totally anonymous houses post themselves online.
And what’s the draw? Why is it spooky? Because maybe a girl went missing somewhere in the vicinity 60 years ago.
For context, wherever you are standing at this very second, some girl has gone missing from that spot in the last sixty years.
So, three youngsters break and enter into a beautiful, well-maintained home, not a speck of dust anywhere. But it’s really, really far away from everything else so surely, it must be abandoned.
That is to say, three people break into a well cared for, isolated home to unravel no mystery they know of in one of the more tedious, uninspired, lazily written found footage horror films in recent memory.
It’s not as if found footage can’t be done well, even the ghosthunter variety. Deadstream is epically watchable, funny and scary at the same time, and it maintains the integrity of found footage pretty well. My advice to you is to watch that instead.
Thanks in part to the success of Dan Trachtenberg’s 2022 Prey, period piece creature features have come into vogue. Nice!
Writer/director Mike Wiluan’s Monster Island (originally titled Orang Ikan) is the latest. In a case of “the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” two men—a Japanese traitor (Dean Fujioka) and a British POW (Callum Woodhouse)—are shipwrecked on an island in the Pacific. That chain that binds them together at the ankle is not the biggest obstacle to their survival. Certainly not the toothiest.
Neither man speaks the other’s language, which is another hurdle Wiluan uses wisely. Thanks to subtitles, we know what each man says, and the moments when they don’t understand each other offer more about the story Monster Island is telling than the action ever could.
That’s not to disrespect the action. This is a nicely edited b-movie, cut to create the most tumult and action possible given the circumstance (meaning, the budget and the big rubber suit).
And while some of the early shipboard explosion footage is clearly (and not very convincingly) created digitally, the monster is not. That’s a benefit and a curse. It’s not to say Orang Ikan, the name given to the big island beastie by an unlucky castaway, looks bad. It just looks a little bit borrowed, sort of Predator meets Rawhead Rex (that underbite!) meets Creature from the Black Lagoon. In terms of screentime, less would probably have been more.
But both Fujioka and Woodhouse are so fully committed to their characters—an introvert haunted by his decisions and a punch-first-think-later Englishman—that the blossoming bromance makes up for whatever originality Orang Ikan lacks.
We spend 75% of the films brisk run time with just those three characters. In lesser hands, that could become tedious. But Wiluan and his dedicated trio deliver action and fun.
There are very few contemporary filmmakers better able to pick scabs, to generate discomfort for an entire running time, than Ari Aster.
Eddington, his latest, is an inverted Western set in late May of 2020—you remember spring of 2020, don’t you? The lunacy. The terror. The relentless need to move from one day to the next as if we were not actively sniffing the apocalypse. Well, Aster sure remembers it.
In a lot of ways, Eddington, New Mexico resembles just about any place in the spring of 2020. An awful lot of people wanted to ignore the pandemic because it hadn’t touched their town (yet, that they knew of). Others wanted to follow the rules as closely as was convenient, hoping that business as usual would find a way. Others spiraled, whether from terror or boredom or lack of structure, often turning to the internet, many to finally realize that police brutality was a real thing.
Aster captures it all, depicting the way the façade of normalcy had protected us from ourselves and each other, and reminds us that nothing healthy grows on stolen land.
Sheriff Joe Cross (Joaquin Phoenix) just wants things to go back to the way they were. He sees the disdain, fear, maybe even hate people like him—white, unmasked men—are facing. It is disconcerting—Aster’s hint that the underlying cause of all the harm, hatred, violence, and mayhem that came from the pandemic might have less to do with Covid 19 and more with white men feeling their true vulnerability.
Phoenix is characteristically flawless—flummoxed and human in a way that engenders more empathy than Joe likely deserves. Joe’s counterpoint, the smooth, opportunistic mayor, Ted Garcia (Pedro Pascal), doesn’t get off any easier, and Pascal’s slightly brittle performance is enlightening.
Aster populates Eddington with a collection of the exact types of people forged by the pandemic, though many are boiled down to defining lines of dialogue (“I am a privileged white male, and I’m here to listen! And I’ll do that as soon as I’m done with this speech.”) Still, with supporting performers as strong as Emma Stone, Austin Butler, Michael Ward, and Dierdre O’Connell, even the most faintly drawn character is fascinating.
Aster’s film blames humanity, not right or left, for the cultural rot we’re left with. That may be the most honest and aggravating choice he makes, but Eddington offers very little in the way of fabrication. The town may be fictional, but I think we all remember the place.
The idea of a changeling—a baby that’s not really yours, and who knows where your dear sweet little one really is?!—is so primal a fear that it’s existed in folktales for centuries. Ireland really picks this scab well in their horror movies, but they are not alone. It’s an idea that can’t help but unsettle. Here are our five favorite “that’s not your baby!” horror movies.
Director Ted Post (Hang ’em High, Magnum Force) gets a little unseemly with this story of welfare fraud, Greek tragedy, fear of emasculation, and more. Freud would have a time with The Baby!
Mrs. Wadsworth (Ruth Roman) does not want nosey new social services wench Ann Gentry (Anjanette Comer) sniffing around. Why does she and her two perfectly normal, not at all criminal, grown daughters have to prove that their fully grown son/brother still thinks he’s a baby? The grown man in the crib and onesie upstairs.
If that’s not upsetting enough, Ann Gentry’s not all she’s cracked up to be, either. What was the deal with the Seventies?
4. The Hallow (2015)
Visual showman Corin Hardy has a bit of trickery up his sleeve. His directorial debut The Hallow, for all its superficiality and its recycled horror tropes, offers a tightly wound bit of terror in the ancient Irish wood.
Adam (Joseph Mawle) and Clare Hitchens (Bojana Novakovic) move, infant Finn in tow, from London to the isolated woods of Ireland so Adam can study a tract of forest the government hopes to sell off to privatization. But the woods don’t take kindly to the encroachment and the interloper Hitchens will pay dearly.
Hardy has a real knack for visual storytelling. His inky forests are both suffocating and isolating, with a darkness that seeps into every space. He’s created an atmosphere of malevolence, but the film does not rely on atmosphere alone.
Though all the cliché elements are there – a young couple relocates to an isolated wood to be warned off by angry locals with tales of boogeymen – the curve balls Hardy throws will keep you unnerved and guessing.
3. Hole in the Ground (2019)
Sara (Seána Kerslake), along with her bib overalls and young son Chris (James Quinn Markey), are finding it a little tough to settle into their new home in a very rural town. Chris misses his dad. Sara is having some life-at-the-crossroads anxiety.
Then a creepy neighbor, a massive sink hole (looks a bit like the sarlacc pit) and Ireland’s incredibly creepy folk music get inside her head and things really fall apart.
Writer/director Lee Cronin’s subtext never threatens his story, but instead informs the dread and guilt that pervade every scene. You look at your child one day and don’t recognize him or her. It’s a natural internal tension and a scab horror movies like to pick. Kids go through phases, your anxiety is reflected in their behavior, and suddenly you don’t really like what you see. You miss the cuter, littler version. Or in this case, you fear that inside your beautiful, sweet son lurks the same abusive monster as his father.
2. Border (2018)
Sometimes knowing yourself means embracing the beast within. Sometimes it means making peace with the beast without. For Tina—well, let’s just say Tina’s got a lot going on right now.
Border director/co-writer Ali Abbasi has more in mind than your typical Ugly Duckling tale, though. He mines John Ajvide Lindqvist’s (Let the Right One In) short story of outsider love and Nordic folklore for ideas of radicalization, empowerment, gender fluidity and feminine rage.
It would hardly feel like a horror movie at all were it not for that whole, horrifying baby thing.
The result is a film quite unlike anything else, one offering layer upon provocative, messy layer and Abbasi feels no compulsion to tidy up. Instead, he leaves you with a lot to think through thanks to one unyieldingly original film.
1. Lamb (2021)
Among the many remarkable elements buoying the horror fable Lamb is filmmaker ValdimarJóhannsson’s ability to tell a complete and riveting tale without a single word of exposition.
Not one. So, pay attention.
Rather than devoting dialog to explaining to us what it is we are seeing, Jóhannsson relies on impressive visual storytelling instincts, answering questions as they come up with a gravesite, a crib coming out of storage, a glance, a bleat.
His cast of three – well, four, I guess — sells the fairy tale. A childless couple working a sheep farm in Iceland find an unusual newborn lamb and take her in as their own child. As is always the way in old school fables, though, there is much magical happiness but a dire recompense soon to come.
The problem with crafting a feature length film from a short story is that, often, the story’s too short. Filmmakers need to pad, and that can be tough because if the story needed more, likely the writer—certainly a writer as strong as Joe Hill—would have realized that.
But it can be done. Hill’s The Black Phone—an incredibly creepy short—benefitted from a number of changes as it leapt from page to screen. Director Scott Dickerson, who co-wrote the screenplay with regular collaborator C. Robert Cargill, added complexity and a strong B-story to enrich Hill’s original tale.
In adapting Hill’s short Abraham’s Boys, filmmaker Natasha Kermani (Lucky) keeps the core ideas intact but alters everything in the orbit of our three main characters: Dr. Abraham Van Helsing (Titus Welliver, solid), his oldest son Max (Brady Hepner), and young Rudy (Judah Mackey). The family lives, along with delicate mother Mina (Jocelin Donahue, Last Stop in Yuma County), in the as-yet isolated California desert.
Mina is but a distant memory in Hill’s writing, so her presence allows the film to round out the family dynamic. Kermani also adds railroad builders, which deepens the pool of potential victims, but also hints at Van Helsing’s paranoia when he and his family are not isolated from the rest of the world.
Why so paranoid? Like the short story, the film raises suspicions concerning Abraham’s reasoning and behavior.
Kermani’s film delivers on horror, bloody and emotional, in a way the short does not. Dreamy sequences bring depth to the inner conflict haunting Max, the film’s main focus. And none of Kermani’s additions subtract from the prickly family dynamic that was the soul of Hill’s tale.
Hepner, who had a small part in The Black Phone, struggles to carry Abraham’s Boys. It’s his arc that defines the story, but the performance is little more than a stiff spine and a pout.
The balance of the cast fares better, but bringing Mina into the story complicates what, in Hill’s tale, was a very simple premise. Her talk of having seen Dracula, of having his voice in her head, muddies the plot in ways Kermani never clarifies. The mixed message weakens the climax a bit, but thanks to the slow-boil atmosphere and Welliver’s brooding turn, all is not lost.
From the moment Push holds on the “for sale” sign in front of an isolated Michigan mansion, co-writers/co-directors David Charbonier and Justin Douglas Powell proclaim their inspirations. The Craven Road property, for sale by Hitch & Wan Real Estate, is probably not the house you want.
Will the mansion be haunted outright, a la James Wan’s The Conjuring? Or will its ghosts be all in realtor Natalie’s (Alicia Sanz) mind, like Hitchcock’s Rebecca? Or is there something more corporeal to fear, a la Wes Craven’s Last House on the Left?
The filmmakers have set a high bar, and though their film doesn’t entirely clear it, Push does deliver an often effective little thriller.
The year is 1993 and Natalie, a very pregnant, recently widowed Mexican transplant peddling real estate in Michigan, finds herself trapped in the mansion she’s trying to sell. The sprawling, remote property is on the market because of the murder of its previous owners. Maybe that’s why only one guy (Raúl Castillo) shows up for the open house.
Cinematographer Daniel Katz’s floating camera is like a ghost warning you to pay attention. Both filmmakers and both leads amplify the atmospheric tension. One character is the picture of vulnerability, the other, a silent and brutal menace.
Push offers next to nothing in terms of motivation or location backstory. We know enough about Natalie to understand her arc, but the situation and how it came to be is forever a mystery. That can work—people step into unexplained horrors every day. That moment when you realize you’ve willingly put yourself in a perilous situation can deliver revelatory thrills.
Both Sanz and Castillo are up to that challenge, but the script sometimes is not. The conveniences and cliches pile up, and suspension of disbelief is strained to breaking.
It’s interesting to circle back to that for sale sign because in choosing not to clearly commit to a path—psychological, supernatural, or brutal—Push limits its impact.
James Gunn’s brand of humor is so sincere—never snarky, never brooding and mysterious—that he seemed a good fit for Superman, the most sincere of all the superheroes. Still, we were skeptical. Can something as wholesome as Superman be relevant in a time more rife with corruption and swampy with cynicism than any in modern history? And he has a dog?!
Yes, it turns out Superman (David Corenswet) and Gunn’s brand of sincerity is exactly what we need in the face of all this ugliness. And honest to God, by Act 3, we even loved Crypto the dog.
Gunn ‘s script wisely skips the origin story, quickly catching us up via onscreen text and dropping us in the snow with a superhero already battling his toughest opponent. That foe may look like a supervillain, but really Superman’s enemy is every human being’s enemy: greed.
Carving out yet another fine performance in a career littered with them, Nicholas Hoult delivers a searing, self-aware turn as Lex Luthor, the billionaire tech blowhard and would-be king. Though the character is clearly patterned after some real-life supervillainy, Hoult’s performance is all the more unnerving for its believability. And even when Gunn saddles him with some overwritten speeches, Hoult’s talent elevates the moment beyond cartoon theatrics.
Corenswet is a delightfully earnest Big Blue, offset nicely by a more cynical and wonderfully physical Lois Lane (Rachel Brosnahan) and a trio of metahuman helpers, the Justice Gang: Guy Gardner (Nathan Fillion), Hawkgirl (Cleveland’s own Isabela Merced), and Mr. Terrific (a scene stealing Edi Gathegi and his statement-making jacket).
Act 1 takes a little while to find its groove, but the slow start is easy to forget once the story elements begin to gel. The social commentary is in your face, pointed and matter-of-fact relatable, but doesn’t sink to preachiness or finger wagging. And while it is consistently funny, the film never makes humor as much of a focus as Gunn’s Guardians of the Galaxy series, opting instead for smaller, more organic asides.
Of course, there’s an added bonus for those of us here in Ohio, as Cleveland makes a pretty spectacular Metropolis, even when it’s taking a beating. Filming specifically for IMAX, Gunn and cinematographer Henry Braham make the upgrade a worthy and welcome piece of the immersive world-building.
The biggest weakness here – other than kryptonite – is Gunn’s comfort with some unnatural dialog and overly detailed speeches of exposition. And ironically, it’s the level of entertainment that surrounds these moments that causes them to land as unnecessary and curious.
But more often than not, Gunn’s storytelling choices pay off. We know the character pretty well by now, but this Superman/Clark Kent is unlike any we’ve seen before. Gunn and Corenswet make him more vulnerable and more human than ever, sometimes doubting himself but never doubting his mission to do good.
Remember the hero’s motto of “truth, justice and the American way?” Superman does. And even though those words are never spoken, the film finds a cinematic joy in reminding us how those ideals can be twisted until they’re barely recognizable.
Lord knows humanity needs a win right now. Thanks to a man and his dog, we get one.
