Reviews

In the end, there isn't much said about José Prendes's movie "The Haunting of Whaley House" (alongside his other works such as "Haunting of Winchester House" 2009, "Hansel & Gretel" 2013, "The Divine Tragedies" 2015, "The Exorcists" 2021), where he's demonstrated his directorial prowess. What emerges, however, is a colorful pastiche, marked by grotesque clichés, much like a "Fawlty Towers" episode-though not as exaggerated-and filled with ghosts, screams, and frantic scrambling, including police suddenly believing in ghosts. Ultimately, it's chaos, sheer chaos, and disorder in the final minutes, contrasting with a tedious journey through the bland and shallow lives of its characters.

Perhaps Prendes's intentions-with a modest budget of $115,000-and the final outcome align more with the light-hearted, comedic side of horror, much like Sam Raimi's "Evil Dead" series, or even the playful mischievousness of "Gremlins," where the audience is more likely to laugh than scream. The movie evidently adheres to a blueprint of light, superficially crafted narrative and creativity, but the execution of this odd mixture of spaghetti and jam ends up like a teenager's mismatched sock: the fusion of humor and horror is far from seamless.

With Prendes's emphasis on mocking American-style horror, the film fails to find its rhythm. The aioli separates, necessitating a blender to finish off what turns into a sort of garlicky mayonnaise. The genres do not emulsify, and the viewer is jolted between jest and a pretense of gravity. This fragmentation and imbalance affect not only the perception of the plot but also the narrative arc and various dependent elements.

The opening scene is typical of many films. It starts with a comedic bang as ruffians throw a stone at a haunted house. Yes, a ghost appears, but we're already immersed in comedy until one of them, walking into the street, is hit by a vehicle. This is the first hint that things might be serious... but within the context of the farce, one can only laugh and think, "they had it coming," sympathizing with the ghosts' right to peace.

However, this scene leads nowhere; we learn nothing more about these kids, nor does it impact the story further. The film simply moves on to the anticipated breaking of house rules.

This dynamic is the backbone of the entire film: characters (friends of the protagonist) parade through the house, spending the night to satisfy their morbid curiosities. Their humorous demeanor, mixed with moments of fear, culminates in a hastily shot finale.

This story, built on a simplistic plot with elements typical of folk tales (warnings to obey the rules, characters who break them and face the consequences...), should have been easy to craft, even if just to entertain. Yet, it turns into a mess. More than poorly resolved, it's poorly executed for lack of conviction, reflected in the team's uninspiring approach to the task.

The "light tone" degenerates into negligence. Rather than "Whaley House," it resembles "The Nut House," where cinematographer Alex Vendler struggles to keep us entertained, moving us from one spot to another in a display of frames, shots, compositions, and textures (some interesting), barely serving as a visual language where the lack of creativity in the script (and practically non-existent in the dialogue, mostly clichéd, absurd, and sometimes vulgar) fails to touch us. Prendes, it seems, would burn his fingers on the keyboard, hiding behind the camera to veil his inability and/or disinterest in crafting something more complex and comprehensible.

The set design doesn't help much either. The production team doesn't rack their brains, using a rather bland set, turning everything into a nineteenth-century house-museum, set up to attract tourists to a small American town where Christ might have lost a sandal.

I've read about the house's reputation as the "most haunted" in the USA, but what can I say? Our very own Belchite, with its psychophonies and "ghosts stamped" on the crumbling walls of this village post-Civil War (the real horror), has nothing to envy these mansions.

No need to recall the film literature spawned by "Amityville," or, in a more modest and more compelling format than the one at hand, that which featured the Villisca murders. By the "biography" of the house, as painted by the Asylum decorators, we have here a stage set for a continuation of "Falcon Crest" or "

"The Colbys", with just a touch more. The symphonic music at the opening already warns us, with its color, theme, and tone, that this will not exactly dive into horror, terror, or fear. We will be kept within the filter of acerbic humor. The same goes for the final credits, but this time with a rampant pop theme. In between, with mostly electronic music, an original soundtrack that's quite neutral and reminiscent of the 80s and 90s. It seems not designed to enhance the ambiance of unease, but rather to bolster the added burlesque character.

Composer Graham Denman joins in this facade style. The initial credits evoke "The Addams Family," and the final theme mimics other "gore" or "slasher" productions, saving this musical wink for the spark of dark humor. A piano theme on a subtle harmonic background makes us doubt in moments where the story, deceptively, might pretend to turn dramatically serious. It's merely an evocative mirage.

The actors are mostly unknown. Apart from Lynn Lowry, in her role as Bettany Romero, the house administrator, and the protagonist, Stephanie Greco (Penny Abbot, the medical student who agrees to work as a tour guide at the house to make some hard cash). Both are very out of place from the general tone of the movie. Like little lights in the darkness of the night, they bring the little credibility in the middle of a festival of screams, possessions, measured doses of hemoglobin, mutant arms, and severed heads that the "pajama party" of friends using the main character to create havoc becomes.

Jon Bridell, playing Agent Downs, who gets trapped with his unlucky partner while on patrol, still gives a hint of authenticity. Along with another male secondary character, the handsome Alex Arleo, who with his beautiful face and pretty eyes, tries to make the jump from the comic barrier to the arena of terror, but too late for him: his flow in the plot, and his cruel end, end up giving him a pathetic and grotesque air.

Undoubtedly, the Greco-Lowry duo, unsuccessfully, has the mission to give a hint of veracity to a recipe that does not integrate its ingredients properly, and ends up exploding all over the place. They seem to have a clear understanding of their respective roles and status, alongside a collection of caricatures that serve no other purpose than to be fodder for the ghosts' wrath.

The appearance of Lowry at both the beginning and end, as the subtle presence of a discreet narrator, leaving Stephanie Greco alone in her tightrope walking exercise in the main direction of the plot, is nothing more than a cameo that remains a promise of something more powerful. But it clearly states the message that ghosts should be taken seriously, and this is reflected in the contrasting tragic character of the ending. No one would say that the resolution a la "Sixth Sense" is part of this story, because of the somber tone so far removed from the turmoil we have been shaken by.

The editing is not unrelated, participating in the arrangements of Prendes, by the hand of Bobby K. Richardson. Between an introduction and an epilogue that, respectively, give rise to expectations on one hand, and a closure that, in dramatic terms, introduces a gravity that has nothing to do with the previous revelry, the editing aligns itself in this prosthetic function that distracts and alienates us that the camera offers, in an orbit of surreal hallucination. Acting as engines of this centrifuge that pretends to give the illusion of assembling the joke of the comedy, and the creepiness of the terror. But it turns out to be disappointing to the public's eye. This, which is not foolish at all, once recovered from the cheekiness, realizes that they have been duped (at least in an attempt).

The devil needs no excuses to wreak havoc, and his mischief in "Demonic" (2015), directed by Will Canon, is nothing to scoff at, nor the chaos it causes. Even the police rush to the old house where it all happens, to nab and charge him with multiple murders. Poor devil! How is it his fault that some spiritists, or amateur demonologists, come snooping in a place where he was peacefully snoozing until they woke him... and got him very cross?

Our band of "demon hunters" is led by Bryan (Scott Mechlowitz), a chap who seems to know as much about scruples as he does about what they're poking their noses into, hoping to score the "documentary hit" of the year and make a bob or two at the expense of some of the spirits inhabiting the supposedly haunted house they're visiting as supernatural tourists.

Bryan's brilliant idea is to ask his "ex", Michelle (Cody Horn), to get her current boyfriend, John (Dustin Milligan), to guide them, as it appears that John's mother once lived in the house and had a rather nasty brush with a demon, which didn't end well. Logically, you'd think John would tell Bryan to bugger off, but he decides to join them to keep his "bird" company, confront his guilt for leaving his mother in the clutches of that despicable infernal being who ended her, and, by the way, settle the score.

Will Canon has the starting point to develop, typing "with six hands" along with Doug Simon and Max la Bella, the story that the latter created with James Wan. Canon, who will try to not let anything slip by, especially the mischievous demon, leaves us with a background arc as flat as a flounder, without any depth, serving merely as the hook to tell and showcase the ruckus that will unfold on stage.

The characters stage their "mise en scene" without any minimal background elaboration of their lives or motivations, appearing before the audience as somewhat cardboard and one-dimensional, except for John by Dustin Milligan, who makes an effort to bring a bit of authenticity to his dramatic persona through his somewhat artificial acting.

Apart from Mechlowitz, Milligan, and Cody Horn (who remains the object of the still-pending dispute for the alpha male position, between the two lads and the demon himself), the rest of the cast is essentially included to play the role of cannon fodder (in this case, demon fodder). Frank Grillo (Detective Mark Lewis) and Maria Bello (Dr. Elisabeth Klein), reminding us of the legendary duo from "The X Files", Mulder and Scully, provide a significant counterbalance, adding a more serious and adult touch to the proceedings: those who will investigate the tragic events; those who will mimic a baffled mum and dad after the predator has jumped into the nest, or the pen.

Milligan and Mechlowitz possess an attractiveness and a beauty as seldom seen in one or more protagonists of a film, and they certainly pull it off in their effort to imprint character and drama to their respective roles.

Some may criticise the mismatch of ages between the two blocks of protagonists. As if the presence of Grillo and Bello were out of place in the film's environment or context, but the incidence of intergenerational interactions, beyond a lack of cohesion in the configuration of the lead cast, can encompass a broader spectrum of the complexity of these relationships. Additionally, in commercial terms, it may also be due to the producers' interest in reaching a larger section of the broad spectrum of audience profiles.

Except for the initial daytime scenes, in which the "expedition" to the house is prepared (following an interview with John), the camera composes spaces dominated by darkness, where certain isolated points of condensed light stand out (the diegetic light from torches and spotlights, both from the lads and the police; and the extradiegetic composition of the luminous space). Thus, it intends to convey the constant and spine-chilling perception of a malignant presence, lurking all the time, even when it does not make explicit appearances.

In the construction of light and shadow plays, Michael Fimognari establishes the background of the frenetic canvas. Upon it, the movements and shots, the fleeting nature of which is increased by the editing in the action scenes within the claustrophobic space of the house. This conveys a sense of disorientation, chaos... and death, that traps Bryan's entire team. This contrasts with the earlier and more static shots of the detective and the doctor's conversations with John in the shed, which has been improvised into an interrogation room; a suffocating minimal space, no less inspiring than

the interior of the house.

Fimognari's work results in the creation of a thoroughly unnerving set. Where no corner, except for the also shrouded in shadows "campaign office" that the police have set up next to the house to analyse the recording material of Bryan's team, seems safe for anyone. Even the location of Dr. Klein's tête-à-tête with John (the stable) seems potentially dangerous at an intuitive level, even before the surprising finale bursts forth.

A functional yet highly effective soundtrack by Dan Marocco, which is a pity we can't enjoy in a separate audition from the film, combines with a sense of pacing, very well matched to the escalating evolution of the narrative events, both instrumentally and thematically (although without delving into developing clear leitmotifs that would make it memorable). The dark tonality of the orchestral elements converges with the electronic sound effects, in the descriptive intentionality of the score. This contributes to the emotional and dramatic amplification, even beyond the curtain, during the final credits, as if wanting to persist as an extrapolating echo in the minds of the viewers.

This technical ensemble saves and turns out more authentic than the maximalist wastage of effects, both analogue and digital, here modest condiments that do not kill the original flavour of the dish: both the doses of haemoglobin and the "malign" birds created in CGI, can afford to be as basic as possible without being out of tune.

Will Canon employs a narrative technique that divides the plot into two simultaneous perspectives. On one hand, it shows the present with Detective Lewis leaving a romantic encounter to investigate supernatural crimes, providing the viewer a sense of security as he explores the crime scene. On the other hand, it narrates the preparation and progress of Bryan's investigation team, using a combination of "found footage" and hand-held camera techniques to add realism. These two narratives converge towards a surprising climax, typical of this genre of stories.

The "found footage" fragments serve as a nexus or "limbo" between two dimensions: the real and the fictional. Between these two dual poles that we have previously mentioned (both at the actor level, as well as the set, and their respective interrelations), to imprint tension. A very relevant detail is the camera with which Dr. Klein has recorded her interrogation of John: the window that helps understand the difference between what have been her perceptions and the authentic reality.

Canon messes it up a bit with his film. Critics have given him stick for not getting his hands dirty with his characters. The adults, like the detective and the psychologist, seem to be just passing through, which takes the edge off the theme of demons and possessions. Of the youngsters, he doesn't delve into their motives or their past, and their romantic entanglements barely surface, leaving all the juicy bits hidden behind the scenes, except for a few crumbs in the initial interview with John and some newspaper clippings during the opening credits.

A better context could have been provided and a bit more work on the interactions, their deconstruction, in a more gradual and slow process of awakening our sleeping demon. Canon forgets the saying "More haste, less speed," and perhaps that's why the being they awaken gets up on the wrong side of the bed and very bad-tempered.

To scrimp on dalliances, we are even deprived of a sex scene between Bryan or John and Michelle, which with the good-looking lads these two are, would have been cool to have some nudity of theirs having a fling, even if it were as a last grace before what awaits them.

However, there is no lack of raw violence for further dismay of the crowd. Although without much gore involved. In fact, it's as if all the explicit sex and violence were kept contained, until the scene in which poor Bryan, bloodstained and under the effects of a completely deranged mind, is riddled with bullets at the petrol station.

By a smidgen of "tipp-ex" in the script, it is hinted that the demon hesitates in choosing his blonde to escape disguised. In the muddle, it seemed that Dr. Klein would be the new host, upping the level of terror, while Michelle would die-too controversial to kill off a pregnant woman. In the end, everything is resolved in a more amusing and twisted way: the fallen angel escapes in an ambulance, nestled inside Michelle, in the style of "Alien", taking the disputed damsel and the souls of the two dispatched suitors with him.

A product that is more than interesting, entertaining, and undeniably captivating, but just as the cops' entire apparatus does not suffice to capture the "real" culprit of all the mess, our filmmaker loses total or absolute control of the full satisfaction of the audience.

Christian Tafdrup masterfully ensnares us in his web, effectively infusing us with the toxic atmosphere he creates, leading to a climax that might have some thinking of popping a tranquillizer (no exaggeration). The script of this narrative digs deep and claws at the surface, exquisitely woven; it's crafted to linger in our prefrontal lobes long after the viewing.

The director, also a co-writer with his brother Mads Tafdrup, eschews nonsense and pastiches, and in his case, it's hard to say whether the absence of striking (both sound and visual) effects is a demerit or, on the contrary, a masterclass in cinematic efficiency. The Danish filmmaker treads the line of the most basic minimalism in terms of conventional horror "artifacts", using the everyday, simple, and human to generate the intuitive delirium that leads us to the horrifying finale.

Photographic chromatism, the non-verbal language of the actors (excellent in expressing emotions and generally subtextual elements), spaces, and, of course, a sound that harmonizes with the soundtrack by Sune Kølster are utilized. In this minimalist vein (there are no major leitmotifs, no great timbral variety of instruments - basically the somber and dissonant rumble of metals), these are the natural and basic ingredients squeezed to the last moment to turn a peaceful weekend stay into a lethal and suffocating hell, where the crudest and most explicit violence emerges in the last moment, as shockingly as a magician pulling a rabbit (aptly said) out of a hat.

Tafdrup is inventively restrained in this sought minimalism, both thematically and in execution. He notably distances himself from clichés and tropes, at least in terms of style since few elements of originality can still be salvaged from the plot. Stories of horror within families or groups thereof, converging in a particular context, are not new.

Artistic design is no exception, introducing us to an idyllic vacation space in Italy, which, in the introductory scene, sketches what would be, for any human being, the ideal of tranquillity, comfort, and beauty. A true feast for the senses: gastronomy, art (music), and a daytime space on a sunny summer day, with rest under the shade, with the freshness of a swimming pool in which the little ones enjoy the pleasures that the rural ancestral environment has bequeathed to a world that has transformed a setting of labour and survival, in which large families united by necessity were wrapped, now replaced by others seeking disconnection and relaxation, no less important for the human life cycle.

The success is in gradually, constantly, slowly but steadily, degrading and claustrophobizing the atmosphere in which the action unfolds, with the climax reaching its peak inside the old (but well-maintained) car of the character Patrick (Fedja van Huêt). Here converges the heartrending, grotesque, and the elements of foreshadowing, but only as a prelude to the final coup de grâce, the finishing blow that, in the last frame, reveals something as Dantean as it is potentially annihilating.

This subtle and patient path, also adept in achieving it in just 97 minutes of runtime, may be criticized for its apparent slowness. But do not be misled. The pace of events in physical coordinates (space and time) is quite relative. And irrelevant in absolute terms. Beneath the empirical crust of these measures, the psychic processes that move the relationships between the characters, and the progressively and relentlessly retroactive degeneration of these, mark a very different beat: the one that really advances and makes us lose track of time if we accept, like the unfortunate Danes, the invitation to enter this open door. Therefore, it would be a mistake to judge this piece in conventional terms of pacing.

The role of each and every one of the protagonists in Speak No Evil involves a demanding requirement for presence on camera, non-verbal language, implementation of dialogues... in which the core of the understanding and connection necessary to enter the world of the story proposed by Christian Tafdrup is focused.

Verbal expression - through dialogues, basically -, greatly devalued in contemporary cinematic productions in favor of a ubiquitous and omnipotent visual and sound language, is very effectively exploited with the load of subtexts that the speeches between the characters of the story entail. Even the children convey astounding eloquence.

To achieve this effectiveness in the actors, which per se is undeniable, and cannot be called into question their savoir-faire in front of the camera in terms of bodily presence and vocal expressiveness, Tafdrup exploits the processes of identification with the characters, in their support of values and countervalues (there already the moral schemes of each one) that they embody, and the indisputable power, in these processes of identification, of the candid innocence and purity of the children that appear in this narrative.

Here function, as a lure or bait for the required identification, both premonitory moments from Bjørn's gaze, even in the first scene; the constant discomfort of the suffering mother, Louise (Sidsel Siem Koch), in the face of the gradually more surprising whims of her guests' behaviour; Patrick's personality, as gloomy as it is acidic and incomprehensible; the sociopathic affection of Karin (Karina Smulders) from almost the beginning; and, above all, the pure innocence of the children, which they convey through the objects within their reach. In the foreground, the very young Liva Forsberg (Agnes), through her stuffed rabbit (Ninus), the reference object of foreshadowing. A transitional object, as Donald Winnicott would define it, not only for the girl but also for Bjørn. What is interesting here is how important the non-resolution of socio-affective aspects is, such that, despite the behaviours of their guests, he is able to reverse course to retrieve his daughter's stuffed toy. The ironic and grotesque part is that, once back in the jaws of the wolf, Louise and Agnes find the stuffed toy under the front seat, which could have saved them from re-entering the danger.

Patrick continually reminds me of Robert Mitchum in The Night of the Hunter (1955) by Charles Laughton, or Edward G. Robinson in The Red House (1947) by Delmer Daves.

The former is memorable for his portrayal of a false preacher who uses his superficial charm and religious authority to deceive and manipulate an innocent family. Like Patrick, Mitchum's character is a masked predator, whose true nature is only revealed through his perverse and manipulative acts.

Edward G. Robinson in The Red House also embodies a character with dark secrets and an ability to maintain a facade that conceals much darker truths. The manipulation and secrecy to control others and protect their own dark interests resonate with Patrick's role in terms of character psychology and power dynamics.

There is, no doubt, in all the load of symbols of Speak No Evil, an enactment of the scheme of violence. The search by the aggressor for the point of weakness, and the subtle, progressive, and captivating perpetration of the subjugation of the victim, whose resilience capacity is completely nullified and is sacrificed by the overwhelming brutality of the executioner.

In this sense, the last exchange of words between Bjørn and Patrick, in which the latter, along with his wife, about to undress and descend to the place where they will be killed by blows from a rock (stoning, curious symbolism), tells him: "Why are you doing this to us?", to which Patrick responds: "You let me do it".

What happens can well be extrapolated to the functioning of society on larger scales, from ancient times. The irruption of Patrick and Karin into the "garden of comfort", in the bubble of happiness, the establishment of those who have sought their haven of peace, is the silent, imperceptible entry of the stressor element, of that trigger that is introduced into the bosom of repressions hidden under the cloak of norms that define inhibition, political correctness... the postmodern happy flowers that pretends to amend everything with the famous assertiveness, as if it wanted contemporary man to tame a pack of wolves with a feather.

We could draw quite a few parallels, on a symbolic level, with the biblical figure of Eden: the naked expulsion of Adam and Eve; or the diabolical insistence of Patrick for Louise (who confesses to being a piscivorous vegetarian) to eat the forbidden fruit, namely, meat. Indeed, it would not be difficult to attribute to Patrick's appearance and manner a certain Mephistophelian air, and to Karin that of a repulsive, cold, and calculating snake. Like the biblical characters, Bjørn and his family are expelled from a place of comfort and safety, facing the brutal reality of their situation. This highlights the extreme vulnerability and loss of innocence. And when they are aware of what is happening, when they see themselves completely naked, it is already too late.

In sum, we have a piece that I would recommend only to lovers of slow burn, hardly suitable for fast food gobblers, which will leave many (if not all) speechless (without the need, however, for their tongues to be cut with scissors).

We're looking at a Canadian production here, with a team that isn't battle-weary from too many cinematic skirmishes, hence they don't quite steal the spotlight in front of the camera. We barely get a glimpse of Lynn Shaye or Alan Dale amongst the ensemble, and John Bishara, typically known for his score compositions in franchises like "The Conjuring", "Annabelle", and "Insidious", is at the helm of a soundtrack that not only fails to kill it but also detracts from the film due to its lack of relevance and thematic coherence. In this film, the flames of the well-known barely serve to cast a stable glow upon themselves, let alone spread any light to the rest.

"Grace: The Possession" boasts a powerful asset in its narrative perspective, placing us in the first-person viewpoint of the protagonist, even adopting the visual language of the camera. Early on, one might question if we've stumbled into yet another "found footage" flick, a genre quite worn at the heels, yet still at the height of its popularity from the early 2000s to our current day.

And if in films like "The Blair Witch Project" we had to endure the often-tiresome subjective point of view of a domestic camera or a cell phone, in "Grace: The Possession" we soon realize that the erratic and sometimes bothersome pan that's presented is not from a home video recorder, but from the protagonist's very perception.

Although the starting point is a technique that once caused a stir of novelty in the industry and saw the audience's enthusiasm wane as it became overplayed, Jeff Chan takes a gamble by reinventing the whole concept and putting himself in the shoes of the protagonist (or antagonist, depending on how you look at it), to justify the more or less successful visual design that this film offers.

The result is as surreal as it is ineffective. Norm Li squanders the possibilities that reimagining and reinventing the handheld camera offers, resorting instead to a series of homemade tricks provided by a slew of effects that don't measure up to the film's aspirations. On the narrative level, we have a very promising idea that falls just short of fully flowering. Li, rather than exploiting both artistically and technically the diegetic position afforded by the script, keeps the viewer in the agonizing predicament of being "trapped" in Grace's skin, but not as if we were seeing through her eyes, but as if the young lady was filming in Super 8 at times, especially at the beginning, in the university scene, with criteria that are unclear and chaotic, in terms of both textures and chromatic compositions.

Joseph Bishara's music is not what it used to be for his work on the Warren universe sagas. The habitual composer for the Wan's films, in this instance, whose contribution would have been essential for the creation of an enveloping atmosphere to keep the audience engaged, compensating for the visual department's faux pas, doesn't bring much to the table, staying in a very discreet background, and somewhat leaving to chance some key scenes that could have contributed moments charged with drama.

One of the aspects in which the movie makes its mark is in the set construction. The action unfolds over different times and places, perfectly defined, separated, and so contrasting with each other, that we can get a sense of the dissonance produced by the intersection of both in Grace's mind. We witness a terrible struggle on a dual plane: on one hand, the atmosphere of the university, representing everything it means for Grace to discover, to fully develop, and to build her own autonomy and personality, and on the other hand, the dark, gloomy, and staid world, suffocated by religious fanaticism... the world she was born into and had barely left, always under the eccentric care of a grandmother. Motherless, and with an unknown father (perhaps the bastard child of anyone in town?). That struggle for a process of individuation that threatens to be permanently and relentlessly castrative for Grace is but the analogy of the struggle she wages to rid herself of the demon that will torment her.

The university represents an environment Grace is eager to break out of, leaving behind a state of emotional and personal dependence. The campus, along with the rest of the environments associated with her milieu (including parties), represent everything Grace needs to undergo her complicated process of transformation, as well as a stark contrast to everything that has kept her anchored until now (and in some ways still does, remember the calls to and from the grandmother, Lynn Shaye), who, even from a distance, will seek to keep Grace (as an "unconscious superegoic voice") tethered to her repressive world of rules and suffocating beliefs, whose nullifying power doesn't become fully conscious and real in our journey with the protagonist until she is forced to leave the university following an unfortunate alcoholic episode at a celebration she was invited to (she had never tasted alcohol before).

The effectiveness of the art department in creating these two diametrically opposed worlds-the darker and more menacing of which will end up devouring Grace's mind-is one of the triumphs of this film. It reminds us of the legendary "Carrie" (in its various versions), a nod to the horror derived from a terrifying spiritual experience (in this case, Christian Catholicism), that can be even more frightening than the actual demon supposed to possess Grace.

This duality of settings, whose contrast generates a significant source of tension, is reflected not only in the environmental and decorative elements but also in the characteristics, behaviors, and personalities of the respective characters of each realm, which, in their bid to highlight this duality, end up seeming quite cardboard-like, likely to underscore their dominant peculiarities.

And in each of these two poles, what each claims to represent to the world is precisely the inverse: the university environment, which would be "associated" with wild youth, disorder, the "dangers" for teenagers, full of "seductions" of evil, is precisely what the narrative-without words-shows to be Grace's source of salvation. Conversely, the portrait of Grace's grandmother's religious community, to which she is brought back, and which should represent a haven of spiritual peace, tranquility, and support in the face of the fears and dangers that lurk, is just the opposite.

This perversion of roles and stereotypes, upon which one's own fiction of reality may be constructed, is what contributes to adding angst and terror, thereby sustaining the plot of what is otherwise a very basic storyline (as we have already witnessed archetypical narrative structures), without too many complications.

To get the "pacing" going, once Grace is returned against her will to her grandmother's house, she takes the initiative to investigate the cause or origin of what is happening among the spaces and belongings of her mother. Here we have both a motive for identification with her desperation to find out the truth of what is happening to her, as well as a vehicle that will guide us, without much mental unraveling on our part, towards the resolution process.

When it comes to discussing religion and Catholicism, the one who should cause us the most horror is the one who presents themselves as if they were a messenger (an angel, redundancy intended, since demons are none other than fallen angels), here to fulfill that which is explained somewhere in the Gospel about those who had been entrusted with the care of the sheep and have dedicated themselves to abandoning, frightening, and even killing them, will be stripped of everything, dead, and cast out in turn, for their wickedness.

So... the demon that possessed Grace... is it a demon or a "justicier angel" or "exterminator" there to settle scores with the "real villain" revealed during Grace's inquiries about what happened to her mother?

If Father Luke, at all times, despite overcoming the temptation to which he is subjected by the demon when it tries to seduce him; who tries to genuinely understand what is happening, has to pay the price of being the one possessed, for Grace to be freed? It's a nod to Father Damien Karras from "The Exorcist" (1973) by William Friedkin, who also sacrifices himself by throwing himself out the window after telling the demon to enter him.

However, this reflection is too grand for the film; the nod mentioned is not enough to cover a resolution that is leaky at best. A priest possessed by a demon, reciting Mass, consecrating...? That's not believable, and even in the most fictitious fiction, it will provoke more than a few laughs.

Nonetheless, irrespective of how the audience might interpret it, this "cliff hanger" does nothing but, in its irony, make us reconsider the fact that far from an antagonistic role, the function of the demon possessing Grace might be precisely the protagonistic one, and that, in this narrative innovation proposed by Chan, we're not really in the skin of Grace, but in that of the demon itself.

This hypothesis is confirmed because the very first shot that guides us with the camera, after the prelude of Grace's traumatic birth, is on a blurry and discolored journey, to the sound of a roar (which could not be emitted by anyone but the demon), weaving through the bare legs of young men and women strolling through the campus, until it arrives at the person of its "chosen victim."

In a film that undoubtedly sees Malcolm McDowell, one of the last greats of his generation, actor before star; performer before clown of the masses; person before media phenomenon; hailing from British stages and famously known for his remarkable performances in "Caligula" and "Time After Time" (1979) by Nicholas Meyer, it is he who carries the weight of this movie.

He brings an unexpected freshness to the film. A rare and even charming portrayal of a "refined" serial killer, who will do everything in his power to get away with his crimes unscathed, yet with a very subtle hint of remorse that becomes self-evident from the narrator's perspective, who is his character. In this sense, it might remind us of other roles he has played, like in "A Clockwork Orange" directed by the legendary Kubrick, where many shades and nuances of personality are interwoven into one character, coloured by a rich chromatism of emotions and moral contradictions.

We're not dealing with the classic, bone-chilling figure of the killer, born from pure terror, as we might see in the tormented and tragic figure of Norman Bates by Anthony Perkins. McDowell endows his character with a sharp, mocking edge... intentionally seeking (as the narrator of his own story) the empathy of the viewer's more "mischievous" side. Something masterfully achieved in his role as "Caligula," a figure quite unpopular at certain points in history. The "murderous" emperor, who, however, paradoxically becomes an icon of sexual freedom. An actor who always, or almost always, has managed to imprint this multifaceted character. His powerful magnetism, charisma, and distinctive physiognomy, marked by his popping, mocking, and whimsical gaze, do not constitute a monopolising emergence, nor do they rise with the spurious divisms seen in some performances by other actors, such as Joaquin Phoenix, who border on bizarre histrionics. McDowell remains steadfast, on his own level; and if other elements of the production do not shine brighter, it is not because he overshadows them; they are simply incapable of matching his stature.

For a work that could perfectly be executed in a theatrical format, the art direction by Shelley Bolton recreates a set in Alaska, as cold and dark as the soul of the protagonist. The ambiance that envelops the events, gloomy, harsh, and relentless, is a metaphor for the interior psyche of Dexter Miles, but from the perspective of inner comfort.

Relative, since one feels less safe imagining oneself next to the barber, in his house or in his own business, than in the actual frozen outdoors. This suggests and invites the intuition of more darkness, coldness, and harshness than the exterior scenes themselves.

The climatic conditions of the season in which the action unfolds are essential, along with the always confined spaces defined by cinematographer Adam Sliwinski in his framing, marking in his colour palette that sharp contrast resulting from the ambiance. Placing the characters and the events they experience practically beside danger. As if a few people were left locked in a room with a hungry lion among them.

While this definition of coordinates diffuses the characters' experience to the position of the viewer, it is one of the main elements that condition, define, and justify the direction of the events that will take place there. A sort of rat maze, whose functionality and relatively good design are evident from the moment an external element to this corrupted ecosystem, federal agent Crawley (Garwin Sanford), who comes to investigate the murders, gets trapped within the structure, transforming and evolving according to those suffocating parameters set by the set.

The Christmas season adds the finishing touch, to heighten to the extreme the perception of the homicidal antisocial coldness; not even the celebration of such endearing holidays can mitigate the merciless reality of the crimes. Nor can the abundant winter snow conceal them.

The climax, the peak of the tragedy is that the depicted atmosphere justifies the unleashing of the miseries that occur in the remote and isolated wilderness of Revelstoke.

What's innovative, different, creative, unique, idiosyncratic... is that in this melting pot, evil is woven, not through effects or displays of gothic aesthetics. The horror of the crime is not explicit in the character, style, or content; on the contrary, it remains slyly hidden like a greedy predator, under a layer of kindness, sympathy, and simplicity which inevitably, and against the actor's wishes (not just the main one; make no mistake, all will end up being victims of themselves), drives the engine of these dynamics.

Peter Allen bets everything on a single narrative card: to envelop this sickly essence of the protagonist, he uses "excerpts" from classical pieces. A portrait of the "refined psychopath," reminiscent of those scenes where Dr. Lecter is literally grilling pieces of a victim's brain on the "grill" while listening to piano music. As well as carols, arranged by Allen himself, to accentuate the contradiction between the Christmas spirit and what is happening.

The original extradiegetic music could have greatly enhanced the emotional impact of the narrative experience and its thesis, but it is reduced to almost nothing.

Due to overconfidence in McDowell's talent and resume, or simply because there was a lack of coffee on the film set, Michael Bafaro appears behind the camera as a sort of lethargic sluggard, who even seems too lazy to say "cut"... It's understandable that McDowell's presence and professionalism would amaze, captivate, and even intimidate... but it's hard to believe to the point of the inane direction. Likewise, just as actors like Garwin Sanford perform well, others like Jeremy Ratchford, not only appearing overshadowed in a more secondary role but also doomed by the fate reserved for them by the script, underestimate the need for their equally essential participation. Not to mention that the role of actress Brenda James (Sally) becomes, not just a cliché, but a grotesque caricature, in every sense, of a female figure.

The film is rich in values: the image of a fox sneaking into the coop of a handful of naive chickens that trust their necks to a barber who is constantly embroiled in a debate similar (though much simplified) to the reflective debate we might distil from Dostoevsky's "Crime and Punishment." The scheme Dexter Miles sets up in a peaceful village in Alaska is about to become his own deadly trap. With this, he must work to find a way to divert all attention (he could easily be pointed out as the "outsider"), and manipulate events, objects, and people to focus the collective gaze and desires for retribution, to make matters worse, on the figure of the town sheriff.

The fact that we intuit or know from the start who the "bad guy" is, is in itself the premise. It doesn't matter, because what's interesting is how he manages to dazzle us with his slippery skills.

The coup de grâce is not the intention to maintain doubt about the identity and/or motivations of the killer. In that case, we would be talking about a simple "slasher"; if there is terror, or at least something that sends shivers down the spine or gives goosebumps, it is witnessing, in the first person, from practically the same perspective as the main character, his ability to know, master, and pull the strings to sow panic and then get away scot-free. And not on tiptoe, but elegantly, using cunning to remain unnoticed, eliminate any trace of his past misdeeds, even at the cost of more corpses, right up until the curtain falls, and leave opportunistically without leaving footprints in the snow (quite a feat, by the way). Not without concluding his "work," by pinning the deaths on his scapegoat, making use of the distrust and ambition of some, and the ignorance of others. This is very well symbolized in the introductory scene, where two village fools shoot down a lynx. The image of this animal falling at the beginning, innocent otherwise, whose only fault is being prey to the human predator, is unmistakably anticipatory of that at the opposite end of the film, the lifeless and naked body of Sheriff Corgan on the cold, metallic table of the coroner.

"The Barber" is an exercise in suspense. A diabolical game in which even the viewer might crack a smile seeing the colleague get away with it; mission accomplished, one of the main objectives of the narrative arc. And seeing that it leaves everyone flabbergasted, provoking an unhealthy satisfaction.

"The Barber" seems to question and subvert the traditional system of moral values. The narrative creates a space where the lines between good and evil blur, and where the villain, more charismatic and cunning than the characters representing law and order, attracts as much or more interest and empathy than the traditional heroes.

The character of Dexter makes the viewer, through empathy and identification, brazenly cross the lines in a fantastical exercise of breaking the taboo.

And it's not so much a victory or triumph of the film itself, but of McDowell himself. Not only in "The Barber" but in most of the films he has been involved in.

"The Eigth Night" (2021), by Kim Tae-hyung, is another one of those peculiar South Korean dishes, mislabeled. The supposed horror genre it's attributed to is significantly diluted into what is merely "fantasy cinema", and its epic tone, not to mention the "comic book", specifically "manga", format in which this exotic salad is served. Let's not forget, of course, that all products like this on Netflix shelves are like vegetables in a supermarket: no matter how cool and exotic they seem, just like the local ones, they all taste like cucumber.

The film can't help but adopt the anatomy and physiology of "Dragon Ball"; a hybrid of Japanese anime with those endless Chinese epic dramas (not dragons), the shortest of which doesn't drop below two and a half hours. The scheme is pretty simple to understand: the Japanese come up with the idea, the Chinese manufacture it, and the Korean... (the one from the south, because those from the north are in their own Pleistocene communist oblivion) ... just copies.

The influence of platforms like Netflix on the distribution and production of global content has been notable, offering productions from different countries a wider audience but also introducing some pressure towards accessibility and appeal to a diverse audience. This can lead to a neutralization of specific content, trying to make it more digestible for global audiences, which distorts unique or peculiar narrative or style elements.

Indeed, these platforms, under the guise of diversity and other assorted nonsense typical of postmodern goodness (which involve garnishing every "course" with interraciality, sexual "variety" and "empowered" women), only seek a one-size-fits-all mold, the "coffee for everyone", that can be launched like hotcakes at a minimal cost for a herd-like and servile audience on these matters. As arbiters of the entertainment market (to line their pockets, like everyone else), they do a damn good job in this respect; but their sense of art and cinema is what a cat might have of its shadow.

Despite all the naive and over-imposed diatribe on interculturality and such politically correct nonsense, the truth is that the "Koreans", cunning and tough (pardon the redundancy), take whatever they want (not indiscriminately, but knowing very well what they're doing) from one world and another, style or kind, to shove it down our throats (like a cucumber where it hurts most) with the due dose of Vaseline, their "sugary" product that, like "candies", is full of color and sugar, but is nothing more than that... for severe decay of the world of cinema as entertainment and as art.

To make it clear to you, my dear, suffering, and intelligent readers, don't trust a Greek restaurant run by Turks.

My farmer friends and family know better than I do that what now succeeds in the market are those creations (even sometimes genetically manipulated), that have the strengths of environmental versatility (and therefore adaptability), theoretically, therefore, lower production costs, ideal for that "large bag" of consumers intolerant to various things (I've always thought that whoever is lactose intolerant, simply shouldn't drink milk, damn it, instead of resorting to "light" substitutes of dubious efficacy, and potentially carcinogenic due to manipulation in the nebulous and viscous chain of food production and preservation). And so, we have these dwarf grapefruits on platforms, that neither make a mark nor cut it, suitable then for "all audiences", a mix of "mandarins" from the continent, and lemons (or limes), spiced up with sushi ginger, from the Nippon archipelago (let's not forget that, after all, the Koreans, the children of Manchuria, are themselves a hybrid in which the globalizing experiment of current neoliberalism, based on wild production and consumption, has splendidly taken hold).

In short, since the authentic and genuine "spicy" doesn't sit well with everyone, and eating "pufferfish" is a risk for some, our guys have concocted a recipe that, starting already by the effects, loses all that authenticity that they had in the past, the elaborate, artistic, suggestive, and extraordinary makeup used by the actors of the Far East theater to say in their silent (or almost silent) plays, everything in which the spoken word had nothing to say; on the contrary, we have that pretentious production of digital effects (made by supposed CGI artisans who imagine the viewer in their seat, in diapers and with a pacifier), that are nothing out of this world (the analogy from decades past would be much more authentic in comparison), and sold at a gold price by its creators.

This reaffirms me in the hypothesis that it is expected for the audience to surrender to those displays of showiness, referring again to the aforementioned productions of anime "manga". Watching them was more akin to a hypnosis session based on light and chromatic effects in the supposed fight scenes and display of superpowers by the heroes, or to an unbearable night in a "techno disco", than to the authentic development of a story with head and feet.

In the brothy stew of Kim Tae-hyung, under the failed pretense of makeup (never better found the redundancy) with digital exhibitionism, the cliched and worn-out content and form of Asian cinema (without even giving it the moniker of horror), we'll find the classic ingredients of the recipe: symbolic, legendary, and folkloric elements in the contextualizing substrate (as poorly posed and/or explained as executed, in a script most similar to a roller coaster); Oriental mythological syncretism; and a "performance" of fireworks after a tedious attempt to develop a convoluted plot, for which no few turns of footage are used.

Spoiler: The most fascinating thing is that such a display in invoice (effects, photography, and soundtrack) is nothing more than the wrapping of the narrative mess, which simplified or reduced has no more meat or substance than the simple tale of Tom Thumb (another metaphor, "for" you to understand).

The strategy of curling the loop on the plot, with the clear interest of maintaining tension and the audience's attention, is understandable, but not to the point that the film seems like a damn endive.

This makes even the protagonists lack credibility, especially in the case of our young Buddhist monk (on the other hand, as handsome as can be...) who has voluntarily taken a vow of silence, turned in the end into a simple vessel of the Apocalyptic Evil that threatens to thwart the World, by fulfilling the prophecy with which the no less tangled appetizer of the presentation is served, with the "little train" of possessions.

The elongated script (stretched like one of those sausages we call "wiener"), while pointing to some interesting foci of development of the "personae dramaticae", neglects their complete evolution, so that they may seem incredibly unrecognizable to us, shortly before the curtain falls.

The experiential or living sensation can be like that of being before a conductor who steps up to the podium without having properly studied the symphonic piece to be directed, who alters tempos and adds rubatos to hide or conceal his clumsiness and ends with a big "ta-da", so that, at least he, believes he has managed to dodge the bullet.

In this sense, the editing of the few things that can be salvaged from this "flick" for its, at least, attempt to mend the tears of a suit that, despite being too big for the entire production team, ends up quite frayed in the end.

The values and counter values, as in every story based on elements of popular imagery, stay in a series of morals that, while they cannot be missing in the subliminal (more or less worked) of any film of these characteristics, are completely diluted in acrobatics of moral relativism, territory to which it seems we will be dragged.

Another positive element that could be highlighted in the assembly of this mess is the fact that, on not a few occasions, dialogues wisely give way to looks and silence, sarcastically and perfectly figured in that vow of silence that the young "frater" Buddhist, protagonist alongside the veteran exorcist monk, voluntarily submitted to, which gives the matter a curious spiced touch of a "buddy film".

The mime and affection that the monk expresses with the boy, buying him clothes (the sneakers) and food, which contrasts with the old man's gruff nature, adds a level of multidimensionality to the relationship between them; that master-pupil, father-son relationship.... while adding a touch of dramatic realism to a film that dangerously navigates between horror, fantasy, and suspiciously abundant points of black humor.

This touch of dramatic realism not only serves to develop the characters and their relationships more fully but also provides a counterbalance to the more fantastic or supernatural elements of the plot. By anchoring the story in recognizable emotions and experiences, the film can explore its boldest or most extravagant themes without losing its connection with the viewer.

In conclusion, a pastiche that fails to emulsify, to which Korean cinema has already quite accustomed us, "thank God" quite diluted by the imposed neutrality of "Netflix", but that cannot hide that "mix" of smells, between deodorant and the stench of fart or armpit.

Fans of that "Son Goku" (heartfelt R. I. P. To its recently deceased author), may find this proposal palatable... the rest have been warned: they may turn "yellow", not because they are being possessed by a "spirit" Chinese, Korean, or Japanese, but from jaundice.

One question I find myself pondering is whether the barrage of criticism would have been as intense if someone else had been behind the camera. Similarly, I wonder if Blumhouse's "sure bet" strategy (shelling out five million bucks for nearly seventy million in profits) would have been such a flawless play if it hadn't been for the Indian guy who "sees dead people" at the helm of this unique project.

Without making any definitive statement on the matter, to what extent do the artistic and commercial ups and downs attributed to the late 20th and early 21st century's suspense revelation as the sole and ultimate responsible, part of the marketing and commercial intricacies of the production companies behind all his directed films?

In this situation, we must acknowledge the "get famous and hit the hay" effect. As in any other context where the "fan" phenomenon occurs, though it may seem that critics, "followers" of Shyamalan's career, and the general public might have the upper hand, showbiz folks know how to steer these constellated communities towards achieving their interests: the entire production machinery aims to profit from what's said about a "talent" or "star." At the end of the day, money talks. After all, Shyamalan is a human being who, at the end of the month, awaits his checks to pay bills and fill the shopping cart. It's no coincidence that in the case of "The Visit" (2015), the Blum folks have been able to "turn stones into bread." In the "turkeys" of the cinema ticket, not only goes the entry, but also the fact that we can rip apart or praise the product (often in terms of the fetishism professed to the scapegoat, here Shyamalan), in conversations or writings, thus also "voluntarily" contributing to the promotion required by the film to continue its process of "easy fattening," like a farm chicken, a method now even employed in the entertainment industry.

Shyamalan, a master at blending humor and horror, takes us beyond conventional entertainment, playing with our perception like a cat with its prey. His cinema, a perfect balance between narrative spices and unusual characters, resembles the cooking of his roots, where familiarity and art fuse into dishes that are simple yet profoundly complex. He evokes laughter and chills, reminding us that true art transcends easy labels like "horror comedy." He challenges our expectations, inviting us to appreciate the uniqueness of his work. His ability to intertwine the everyday with the surreal reflects a social critique and an exploration of familial alienation, proving that even in horror, there is room for reflection.

Avoiding the cliché of "found footage," he immerses viewers in the experience of two children visiting their unknown grandparents, creating an intense connection without resorting to shaky cameras or excessive darkness. This approach makes us part of a narrative that builds in tension towards a climax without exaggerations, maintaining immersion even though we know it's fiction. By moving away from disorienting techniques, he offers us a clear window into his world, masterfully mixing mystery and family drama, inviting us to savor his narrative stew, reminding us that true art surpasses mere expectation. He allows the use of "subjective camera" to a level as acceptable for the viewer's immersion as it is minimally believable and credible from the technology handling by the kids.

One of the virtues we must highlight is the constant pace towards the accelerated resolution scene. The breathing spaces granted to us are becoming less frequent, first more extended, in the process of alternation in which not only the action but also the composition of the atmospheres participate: a diurnal one, with pale lighting in snowy landscapes, but with some occasional "false alarm" scare (except in the "hide and seek" sequence). Compared to the construction of the night spaces inside the house, where the germ of the expected intuitive delirium develops. Perfectly delimited episodes from 9:30 pm (we'll see if this isn't an allegory of the time all the "kiddos" worldwide should be in bed at their homes, and that Shyamalan reminds the parents who allow them to stay up till all hours, in an acidic critique of the current way of raising kids).

This contrast in atmosphere not only aims to immerse us more deeply in the plane of reality from the first person perspective of the kids but also makes us participants in the construction of their world. Moreover, this emphasis on contrasts also constitutes in itself a psychic expression (and artistically metaphorical) of the subjective reality of a psychotic mind, as if he also wanted to immerse us in the deranged experience of the grandparents.

Thus, all those "parishioners" calling for the return of "The Sixth Sense" (1999) can see that what the filmmaker achieved in that now distant film is only a dab of butter on a slice, compared to what he can do in a "laboratory" more controlled by himself, creating overwhelming spaces and stories that, even if not directed by him, stand on their own; here I'm talking about "Devil" (2010), directed by John Dowdle, with a script by Brian Nelson, based on a story written by Shyamalan himself, where he shows us how sinister in essence and well-constructed a story from the Indian can be.

N "The Visit," set against the backdrop of a straightforward yet meticulously crafted plot, akin to a watchmaker's precision and a goldsmith's affection, Shyamalan navigates the actors' performances with such effortless naturalism on camera, pushing the boundaries into surreal or grotesque territories regarding their behaviors, solely to underscore the contrasts. As the climax unfolds, much like in a symphonic piece, to signify the conclusion-and, if one really pushes me to exaggerate, to intensify the biting critique subtly woven in terms of social values.

The performances by Olivia DeJonge and the Australian Ed Oxenbould (who has been making a name for himself with some interesting titles to date), along with the veterans Deana Dunagan (grandmother) and Peter McRobbie (grandfather), are so effective that they render their respective roles natural and believable.

Then there's Kathyrin Kahn. In her brief appearance, she's the true narrator of this tale, which still retains the format of a fable with a moral. She introduces the story by sending the "puppets" to their grandparents' house and tops it off with a dramatic flourish, sweetening the deal and cleansing our palates from the spicy "Madras chicken" that Shyamalan has cooked up for us.

It has a structure reminiscent of "Poltergeist" (1982), but instead of focusing on the despairing plight of parents trying to retrieve their daughter from the "beyond," this story reverses the roles... We're placed alongside the kids until they "wake up." It's a nightmare where everything is distorted: obviously, no one expects to have psychopathic grandparents who are killers by night and charming by day. This nightmare serves to reconcile with the emotional traumas caused by family breakups and disputes. This is the "moral of the story," advocating for the family and its social role in the face of our current situation (as relevant then, in 2015, as it is now).

The climax, which might seem like a total mind-bender (especially with the soiled diaper bit on Tyler's face), along with all elements of irony, sarcasm, and dry humor, are meant to snap us back to reality, focusing on this social critique that laments the disintegration of the family unit, and how we're fostering a society of alienated beings who fail to recognize "otherness" (symbolized by Becca's mirror phobia), even in our closest family members, the primary agents of our socialization. Thus, it's no surprise Tyler seeks to see himself "reflected" in whatever he finds on the screen, on a "YouTube" channel... an influencer rapper, no less.

There are aspects that jar. Shyamalan takes his time wanting to shake the audience and take them beyond a mere terror experience, which means he runs out of runway, and when it's time to lift off in the climax, he lacks power, and the moment feels a bit overcooked. He walks a razor's edge that demands very precise balance. And he errs on the side of being too frugal with resources, aiming for the blockbuster hit that Blumhouse is after. He tries so hard to maintain this balance of contrasts that, amidst the shaking, emotional impact is lost. And some gaps in the script, like not sufficiently explaining why the kids had a photo of their grandparents, or somehow not conveying the sense that their mother sending them to stay with these grandparents was as casual as passing gas.

Likely, this film won't make a mark in the annals of horror, but at least it serves to distract us from our own nightmares and to learn that filmmakers are human, and we can't demand they clone what we consider their original "hits." If we choose to follow them in their careers as "fans," we should do so with understanding and respect. Those who wish to revisit "The Sixth Sense" or "Unbreakable" and its sequel can simply rewatch them as much as they like. It's never been easier.

For a potential teenage target audience, the narrative technique of "found footage" and the first-person storytelling from someone recording the scenes with a camera (or their phone) extends to a wider market of viewers who live to immortalize what they believe to be existential milestones. This technique, seemingly gasping like a freshly caught fish and considered overdone since its inception with "The Blair Witch Project" (1999), through the tedious sequels of "Rec" (2007 - 2014) and "Paranormal Activity" (2007 - 2021), is far from obsolete, raging more relevant than ever, at least nine years ago when this "flick" was produced.

The "found footage" offers a sense of immediacy and realism that other narrative techniques struggle to achieve. Seeing the events from the first-person perspective, viewers dive deeper into the experience, feeling like part of the story. This can make the scares and tension more impactful, as the audience feels like an active participant. In this movie, specifically, the technique is one of the few things that contribute to creating the required atmosphere of terror. It opens windows to the spaces created by cinematographer Andrew Davis's visual language. Plus, it smartly shifts from one passive observer to another. It doesn't focus on a single carrier. Thus, the narrative is assumed by different characters, who record from their devices. This approach multiplies the possibilities of surprise. Not being limited to a single character's perspective, moments of suspense can emerge from different angles and at unexpected times, leveraging the change in narrator to play with the audience's anticipation and anxiety. The uncertainty about who will hold the camera next and what new horrors their lens will reveal adds an additional layer of intrigue and mystery.

However, it fails to fully capitalize on the opportunity presented by this variety of perspectives, with the different friends gathering in the woods to mess around at night with their little flashlights. We spend most of the time engulfed in a dizzying whirl of figures in the shadows when we're not being dazzled by the lights from the characters running back and forth. The chaotic and erratic proposal from Davis adds to the already confusing execution of a script that, while based on a solid plot, by its simple structure, gets tangled in surrealism. By perhaps wanting to be too innovative, or simply trying to maintain the viewer's attention, it dissolves into nonsense that we find little clarity or satisfactory answers to. Facing a resolution as dark or more than the images in which we've been swimming for an 85-minute runtime, which feels like it could be double or more. A dark or ambiguous resolution in a horror movie is not a flaw in itself; it can be a powerful tool to leave a lasting impression and invite reflection. But the path needs to be constructed with clarity and purpose. Even amid ambiguity, the viewer must be able to find a sense of closure or understand the underlying themes and motivations.

The creators, Scott Beck and Bryan Woods, hit the keys together to birth a script that wanders lost like a sardine in the Sahara Desert, crumbling like a house of cards from the get-go due to a clear laziness in creating a "script" with some "head" but no "legs," because it goes nowhere. Atmosphere, tension, mystery... it brings us to the edge of primal horror... but that's all. The generated tension, with all its potential, fades with any cat-like scare, and after much leading us on, it culminates in a bunch of scenes with main actresses' hysterical screams, akin to a soprano solo in contemporary experimental music.

What works best is the setting in the woods: the darkness, the perception in a degree of intuitive delirium of what might happen to the protagonists if they venture into the dark jaws of that North American forest, aiming to have a blast in their nighttime game... this sense of anticipation and fear captures the imagination and establishes a state of psychological tension, essential for terror. The forest, in this context, becomes an entity full of mysteries and dangers that challenge rationality and feed the most primitive fears. The protagonists' goal to have a good time with their nighttime game in such a threatening environment introduces a biting irony; their search for fun leads them to confront their own limits and fears, as well as the dark secrets lying at the heart of the forest. This contrast between their innocent intentions and the malice of the environment underscores the recklessness of challenging the unknown and uncontrollable. Yet, such an attractive package is devalued, diminished, empty, against the inaction and sluggishness with which Beck and Woods handle the narrative.

The practical absence of additional extradiegetic music, understandable since we are immersed in the diegetic space (the "handheld camera" removes any distance or barrier between the observer's position and the dramatic development scene), also contributes to the insubstantial and feeble, artificial state of tension generated dissipating even more quickly.

The actors don't stand out in the narrative background of the plot, so they all seem to be part of the decor. They are treated more like passive objects than active subjects. Shelby Young and Chloe Bridges still manage to give some movement to the performance, albeit practically only through flailing and screaming, like a couple of females in a clan of deranged chimpanzees. Perhaps Robin's dog is the least animal of them all, whose barking adds some interest to the sparse dialogues. These, in their scarce share, don't serve in some scenes even as filler. At times, the movie manages to generate more interest or tension through secondary or even non-human elements than through the interaction between its main characters. A missed opportunity to further explore group dynamics, internal conflicts, or personal motivations in a context as rich in dramatic potential as the one presented.

The stunningly handsome actors Mitch Hewer and Carter Jenkins could have, along with the other protagonists (including the dog), given a more profound account of these values, instead of the outrageous superficiality with which, both stereotypically and already trite in legendary teenage terror productions, the themes, conflicts, and dilemmas facing the "personae dramaticae" are treated. Thus, in the male acting camp, the two mentioned are reduced to mere sexualized and "typified" objects. This not only squanders the actors' talent but also perpetuates stereotypes and superficial approaches in the representation of male characters, limiting their contribution to the narrative to their physical appearance or attractiveness, rather than their development as complex and multidimensional characters.

Thus, we reach heights of lazy indolence that can bring the viewer to the brink of drowsiness (after disconnecting from what the movie intends to transmit or communicate). Both because of the lack of development of story and characters, and because it's so empty in the central stretches, that when it finally seems to want to pick up the thread, the audience has no clue what's happening. Beck and Woods want to immerse us so much in the world of characters that paradoxically don't develop at all, and their wanderings, and themselves, so deep into the forest, that we all end up lost. This irony reflects a fundamental disconnect in the construction of the movie that affects its cohesion and its ability to engage. Ultimately, regarding the editing, the editing decisions, possibly attempting to provide coherence or intensify the atmosphere, fail to compensate for the deficiencies in the plot and character development.

Morals, few. Only the recurring and subliminal message that one should not anger the wild nature, especially at night, and where on top of that, we have "evil spirits" that if awakened, well, we've got a whole mess on our hands. Therefore, we must be careful where we go to celebrate lantern festivals and kill the weekend nighttime boredom. A common theme in the terror genre that explores the thin line between the human world and unknown or supernatural domains. This subliminal message serves not only as a warning about respect for forces beyond our understanding but also plays with the human fascination for challenging the limits of our existence and exploring the unknown, often without considering the possible consequences.

This potential background is veiled behind the ineffectiveness and inability to make the movie a worthy representation of a message that keeps the viewer on tenterhooks for a good while before deflating like a balloon whose content is only air, and, by the way, very poorly compressed.

The expectations generated by the premise of the story and the moral dilemmas it raises do not find an echo in a cohesive narrative or convincing character development. Although ambitious in its goals, it fails to deliver the emotional impact or intellectual stimulus that its plot suggests.

The folks have been buzzing about the "plandemic," which had us all puckered up tighter than a goalie during a shootout and turned out to be one of the most blatant health scams in recent history. But that's no excuse for the disappointing outcome that might've been attributed to the disconcerted expectations of the audience towards Neill Blomkamp, a director with roots in South Africa and Canada. He's pretty savvy with sci-fi, best known for his work on "District 9" in 2009.

Starting off, it's clear that Canadian cinema doesn't really get a fair shake from the general public, seen as a sort of off-brand version of the big-league Hollywood productions, especially when it comes to indie horror flicks. Though, on the flip side, this means a greater level of autonomy from the mainstream industry's strings.

Truth be told, during those months when folks were cooped up with movement restrictions and a whole lot of infringement on fundamental rights and freedoms, it didn't exactly make for smooth sailing for the artistic creators behind this film. The oven wasn't exactly set for baking, and with a looming economic tsunami, we're all wondering how we'll put the brakes on this downhill ride.

Let's give a shoutout to the indie bravehearts. Logically, with a hefty pile of loonies and toonies, any director with a bit of gumption and skill can whip up something drinkable, though having the dough isn't always enough, nor necessarily required by the big guns like Carpenter, to give us a shiver through the standard 90 minutes of runtime.

Given the circumstances, Blomkamp manages to pull off something intriguing, following the blueprint laid out by heavyweights like "The Thing" (1982) and "Aliens" (1979), just to name a couple of the big ones. The mix of spine-chilling horror (here, demonic possessions) with science fiction, especially in the realm of digitally created realities, proves to be quite the draw. These virtual experiences bring us closer to those dream worlds, imagined or fantasized, products of our mind's creative endeavors. Or, as some theories and interpretations suggest, gateways to parallel and unknown dimensions that are believed to be connected to our most empirical experiences. With a tight budget, Blomkamp crafts a story with significant potential.

Yet, with visible and irksome limitations that water down the content that could have shone brighter in this film. Even though it's on the poorer and more minimalistic side, the set defining the "physical" reality of the narrative is preferable to the crude and rudimentary design of the virtual spaces that recreate the characters' mental landscapes.

As we delve into the nightmarish universe of the protagonist and her mother, the experiences in the terror territories presented lack the power to evoke the deep-seated terror and horrific vision that a dark and macabre fantasy like the one being told should elicit, both dramatically and emotionally. There's a lack of oomph in inducing an atmosphere of fear and panic in the viewer. And I'm not talking about cheap jump scares, but rather the graphic design level in the computer-generated reality scenes; what we see is the reading or interpretation of the scientists and doctors studying the comatose patient with a supposed demonic presence in her mind. We find ourselves in a kind of "Minecraft" with a resolution reminiscent of animations and illustrations, with renders that take us back to computer or video games from the 80s and 90s.

I'm left wondering if this high level of cheesiness, of course, wasn't intentionally done to contrast directly with the level of realism achieved in this dreamy diagnostic sublayer when we're in the characters' point of view. A sort of diegesis within another, like in other films where two existential planes operate and, at a certain point, an osmosis and even a spill between them occurs. In "Demonic," it's no different; as the narrative develops, that door opens, and "Minecraft" turns into a sort of "Fortnite" in that real foreground, which ultimately becomes as surreal, if not more, than the sub-desertic backdrop of the dream world where the protagonist connects with her mother. This opened door allows the evil entity or demon to take physical form, and that's when, supposedly to the viewer's horror, it becomes a tangible threat that must be confronted at this point in the script. Blomkamp, without hesitating or being lazy, not only brings us back from the comic/video game format we were immersed in (which already clues us into the potential target audience) but also ramps it up with a squad of "priest soldiers" heading into the exorcism like Chuck Norris in the "Missing in Action" series, on their mission. And yes, we'll witness a fireworks show (albeit a more modest one, since the budget is what it is). Instead of a swarm of Viet Cong with their AK-47s, we have the "Father Rambos" making their foray into the territory of a monstrous demon embodied in a bird. Not bad at all, an interesting bug: the association of the demon with the recurrent figure of the crow, a classic in the portrayals of the evil one, but the effects used to construct the "little critter" leave much to be desired.

Cinematographer Byron Koopman has some good shots. Occasionally, he manages to construct chilling frames where the light, texture, and composition speak highly of him, making even the possessed mom require only a minimal amount of makeup to be truly unsettling. But overall, Koopman's work seems a bit adrift, lacking a clear defined style, shifting from cold and bluish tones to a confusing dimness that blends into the chaos of a frenzied narrative pace, starting a bit past the midway point of the film.

The "main character" turns into a sort of Lara Croft (Tomb Raider) through a rushed "express" empowerment. Seeing that the iconic "males" of the house (rather, of the tale): the priest, the scientist, and the conspiracy theorist (actor Chris William Martin, shoehorned in there because the protag needed a narrative support backup that was "better" than those who got her into the experiment) haven't managed to take down the bad guy (here, the demon), our "dame" has no choice but to pull up her pants, lace up her boots, and go dispatch the one possessing Angela.

The outcome of these vectors in the acting department is a more or less decent performance by Carly Pope, not widely known in the trade, among others even less known who we're not even talking about in supporting roles, but rather luxury vases placed there as fodder for the monster. Pope shines in her own right in this context, within the limits allowed by the bland development of a script that could have offered much more. And unexpectedly, the one who truly acts as a supporting character, Nathalie Boltt, whether due to a higher degree of experience or because her character is the most complex and interesting (a shame that, like the others, she isn't developed further), or for both reasons, is the one capable of giving us a bit of a tickle in the gut. The effort of the actors, which isn't much as a whole, and which lacks a good dose, not of paint, but of planned direction, doesn't help with the enhancement.

A soundtrack by Ola Strandh that, with a synth hit in its ephemeral and discreet appearances, no matter how ominous it aims to be, does nothing but reinforce this feeling of being located in a video game. In this sense, while it aligns with the film's tone, it dilutes any pretension to create an effective atmosphere of terror.

The initial uncertainty or ambiguity between the scientific treatment of mental illness and what ends up being a clear manifestation of demonic possession is a thematic axis that "Demonic" explores. It reminds us of the approach of William Friedkin's masterpiece, "The Exorcist" (1973), a narrative flow where the scientific gradually gives way to the supernatural. Initially, the film plays with the idea that what afflicts the protagonist and her surroundings could have a logical explanation, anchored in psychiatry or neuroscience. As the plot progresses, the demonic asserts itself with irrefutable force.

In this context, the symbolism of the mother-daughter relationship takes on special relevance. The protagonist, a daughter who had distanced herself from her mother after a tragic incident involving a fire with fatal victims, is forced to confront her past and "literally" delve into her mother's mind. This journey not only seeks to "free" her mother from the demonic presence but also represents a profound process of individuation for the daughter. The film attempts to weave this complex relationship, where reconciliation and understanding come through confronting demons, both literal and metaphorical.

There are original and innovative ideas, but Neill Blomkamp bit off more than he could chew due to a lack of resources and support. It wasn't the right time to undertake a proposal that had more to offer. Moreover, the guy needs to read a few elementary manuals on editing, montage, and directing actors, at least for the horror genre. Perhaps he thought his success in sci-fi granted him a free pass to tackle this hybrid with demonic horror, but you shouldn't bulk up the meatball for the stew with so much breadcrumbs and instead, add more minced meat.

Ridley Scott's latest movie, which deconstructs and mocks Napoleon Bonaparte, ropes in the entire production team, not just the director, though he's the main man. At 86, it's surprising he alone tackles the mess of portraying such a widely debated figure in history, politics, military academies, and the arts, including cinema.

Whether Scott is aware or not, he's becoming, if he hasn't already in his recent string of productions, that clumsy, coarse, stiff, and arrogant character he's tried to depict in Napoleon. It's like he's projecting big time. And isn't cinema all about projections? Maybe he's bought into his own portrayal. He wouldn't be the first to think he's Napoleon reincarnate (or without the "reincarnate" part!).

From the Ridley Scott of "The Duellists" (1975), "Alien" (1979), "Blade Runner" (1982), "White Squall" (1996), there's little to nothing left. A meticulous, impeccable storyteller with a clean visual language and clear ideas, he lost his way with the turn-of-the-millennium mirage called "Gladiator" (2000), a rehash of "Spartacus" (1960) and "The Fall of the Roman Empire" (1964). While it may have sparked renewed interest in "Roman" cinema, it was a flop as monumental as what we're seeing with "Napoleon," due to the shameful selling out of artistic cinematic values for greed and unchecked ambition.

"Napoleon" (2023) reveals itself not as a work of art but another cog in the marketing and slot machine that cinema has become lately: a misleading trailer to snag the audience's attention; a director and lead actor turned demi-gods, ready to face a storm of criticism for a near-parodic take on a pivotal historical figure. Add to that Scott, in his dotage, shushing critics like our "everyman king" Juan Carlos did at an Ibero-American summit ("Why don't you shut up?"). They dangle a "director's cut" carrot on "Apple Plus," promising to patch up this flick's holes, including Napoleon's hat... The result? We're all sheep following Ridley Scott, who, between resting on his laurels and maybe not reading enough (or was it too much reading and not enough sleeping?), seems to have fried his brain. The big question: Is this Scott's magnum opus in his twilight years, or did Apple Plus and its cronies prop up the aging filmmaker as the perfect storefront mannequin for their latest scheme? Likely, it's a bit of both.

The film's a pyramid scheme right off the bat, and worse, like skim milk. Yes, we went to see "Napoleon," but it was a version stripped of all its essence (i.e., milk), only to be stuffed with all sorts of fillers that, if they don't fatten, they kill.

Choosing an intimate view of Napoleon is artistically valid and necessary to unpack his complex story in a digestible format. But the focus on sensationalism and sexuality should've been flagged from the get-go, setting audience expectations straight. At least we wouldn't have been sold a bill of goods.

Scott, through Dariusz Wolski, captures some visually striking scenes, notably the final ones at Josephine's residence. Yet, this quality is overshadowed by subpar digital effects that, especially during military campaigns, detract from authenticity and feel more akin to a "Total War" video game. The Moscow on fire scene is a scandal, especially when recalling the iconic scenes from "War and Peace" (1956) by King Vidor, where Napoleon was portrayed brilliantly by Herbert Lom, the best Napoleon I've seen in all productions about this character and his wars.

Martin Phipps, focusing on the diegetic plane and zeroing in on Napoleon, fails to narratively enrich the story, creating a fragmented feel through a series of disjointed scenes. His partial capture of the epic essence, with bizarre sound and melodic experiments, doesn't make up for the lack of cohesion and depth. The music, tinged with a pseudo-satirical tone, unsuccessfully attempts to lift the plot, particularly in the romantic and key life moments of Napoleon, diminishing its potential impact and leaving battle scenes and historically significant moments lacking the deserved grandeur.

The most successful aspect of this "Napoleon" has been its settings, particularly regarding palatial contexts and some campaign scenes (costumes, props, period weaponry recreations...).

Joaquin Phoenix, turning drama into farce and back again, pushes his portrayal of Napoleon into realms of incredulity, especially in battles and the tiresome romantic scenes, fitting more a teen soap opera. Despite his talent, his performance borders on megalomania, distorting the historical character. Vanessa Kirby shines genuinely, yet her role in the toxic dynamic with Napoleon feels overloaded and distant from any authenticity claim. Their performances might as well serve as a primer on rabbit reproduction for advanced elementary students or as a lecture for a tacky pre-marital course in some small town.

It's a real shame that standout supporting actors like Rupert Everett (Wellington) and Edouard Philipponnat (Alexander of Russia), the sole French supporting actor, are reduced to nearly extras due to their brief screen presence. The excessive focus on Phoenix and Kirby deprives us of immersing in the characters that shape Napoleon's social context and, thus, outline parts of his personality. Essential figures like his field marshals are mostly omitted or barely mentioned, and his adversaries, like Francis of Austria (Miles Jupp) and Alexander of Russia, are squandered. What a waste, particularly the charm and looks of Edouard Philipponnat. At his 25, is smoking hot, absolutely stealing the show with his looks and charm on screen, making both Kirby and Phoenix pale in comparison. His screen presence is electrifying, easily outshining the combined allure of his co-stars.

Scarpia's work is the most lacking, opting for a narrative concentrated on Napoleon and Josephine's volatile relationship and selecting only military milestones, without delving into the historical context or the sociopolitical ramifications of his reign. This approach results in an uneven narrative rhythm and reveals a glaring lack of innovation in the script. While combat scenes offer some respite, the plot feels rushed and shallow, failing to capture the characters' temporal evolution, rendering a simplistic depiction of Napoleon and his era.

In Phoenix's case, we see the same fifty-something with bags under his eyes, physically declining, psychologically immature, and existentially spent, from his first appearance in the bizarre execution of Marie Antoinette, to his defeat at Waterloo and final exile to Saint Helena. Where they rush him to his death, echoing the demise of Michael Corleone at the end of "The Godfather Part III" (1990).

So, we're left running circles like donkeys around a mill. Or wandering the desert without a compass. All just to shove down our throats the latest fashionable value of female empowerment, at the cost of denigrating the male figure, and if it's a myth or legend, all the better (to get under your skin!).

Well, if that was the case, why not make a movie about the Siege of Zaragoza? A glorious chapter from our War of Independence centered around the heroic Agustina of Aragon. Now there's an empowered woman, and Mr. Scott wouldn't have lacked for cannon fire and a memorable battlefield. But then again, perhaps it's for the best they didn't touch the topic of Spain, despite it being the real starting point of Napoleon's military downfall. The Battle of Bailén was the first of the great battles where his armies faced significant defeat in open field. The Spanish affair would have been a can of worms for the producers, director, and the entire team: the matter of Trafalgar, the constant alliance shifts, the dreadful siege, and massacre the French committed in Tarragona... There, the Brits would have been too exposed, since a British fleet could have intervened and saved Tarragona from destruction.

The narrative on Napoleon, focusing on the Spanish episode among others, would need several seasons to be fair and detailed. Yet, the film opts for a viewpoint akin to British propaganda, reflecting a lasting disdain for Europe by the United States and the United Kingdom. This distortion, from my perspective, highlights how the French Revolutionary ideals clash with current imperialism and globalism, preferring a manageable society.

In this film, Scott's voice represents contemporary forces rejecting the principles of liberty, equality, and fraternity in favor of concentrating power. The propaganda message: the decline of old, senile Europe, which resembles a brothel more than anything else. Unfortunately, they're partly right. However, I'm thankful to these neo-imperialist Anglo-Saxons for making this bittersweet film, historical accuracy aside, which prompted me to dust off the books on our millennia-rich history from my shelves. The first one, "The Campaigns of Napoleon" by David G. Chandler, which I had devoured by age 10.

In "Don't Knock Twice," it's blatantly clear that Caradog W. James was overflowing with intentions to merge his work, or rather the commission from Seymour Films and Red & Black Films, with the imaginations of the teenage collective. His aim was to educate them on the syncretism of popular horror tales bubbling in his stew pot, along with the fantasies, fears, insecurities, and other baggage typical in the backpacks of parents with kids of these ages. Thus, we have two pinpointed target audiences, who could identify with either of the two blondes leading the protagonist duo: Katee Sackhoff, portraying mum Jess, a recovered sculptor who's piecing her life back together by holding onto, well, the coattails of a banker named Ben, played by Richard Mylan. She goes with him to the foster centre where her teenage daughter Chloe (Lucy Boynton), also a blonde actress, is, with the aim of taking her back after having given up her guardianship when the lass was just nine years old. Just like that, because the lady decides, all by herself, that she's now capable of winning her over and making her hers, precisely now, in the throes of adolescence, after so much time has passed. Well, let nothing happen to them both.

The banker bloke gets wiped from the footage. Not for being a bad actor, but as a dispensable male secondary character, with the diegetic excuse of a business trip. On the other hand, the typical role of the father, or stepfather in this case, wealthy or distant, whom we won't see again after just a scene with a few dialogue clangers reserved for him by the script.

It's hence crystal clear that today we blokes don't count for much, whether we're from the adult generation (who seem to always succumb in this genre to the clichéd prejudice of misunderstanding the problems); or the peers of the young lady, the only one being her supposed boyfriend Danny (Jordan Bolger), who right after playing the role of the prankster for Chloe, and having met the racial quota in cinematic and administrative mandate, also disappears. Rather, he's made to disappear by the witch. Whom they will awaken by knocking twice on the knocker of the notable house where, according to urban legends, her spirit resides.

There we have the first infusion of popular horror imagery, introducing the figure of Baba Yaga, rooted in Slavic folklore and child customs/games/pranks of a more modern heritage, such as ringing doorbells of houses and, consequently, the neighbours' patience, and legging it. Something I myself partook in my community as a nipper. Except that, at most, we got a telling-off, swear words, or the odd bucket of cold water even if it was winter, unlike poor Danny, in our film, who will be dragged off by the terrifying ghost of the witch. She will then go after the two "golden girls."

If at first Chloe turns up her nose at mum and makes it abundantly clear she wants nothing to do with her, when she has to face the inhabitant of the house where the knocker prank took place, the girl runs back to her mother's embrace, conveniently forgetting the abandonment she was subjected to years ago. Thus, to a certain extent, this lost bond that was once broken and marked by maternal negligence is restarted. And now we see it resumed to confront the "pack" of toxicities that will come into play in the narrative fray.

I'm inclined to think it's symbolized in Baba Yaga, who as the turn's supernatural element, ends up being, or representing, a graphic projection in the diegetic space of the insecurities, fears, open wounds, and other such loads both protagonists are carrying on their shoulders. And it seems now they have decided to mutually assist each other to endure and manage, to both achieve that status of emotional independence which should characterise or distinguish their healed minds from the state of confusion and tribulation they will immerse into until breaking the witch's curse.

The age difference between Chloe and her mother, played by actresses with barely 14 years between them, leaves a synthetic tone their respective characterisations fail to conceal. Moreover, both are blondes, with very marked personality traits or profiles. Possibly, Caradog W. James was interested in highlighting this significant degree of indistinction on screen, also representing the mirror nature of their respective behaviours and psychic profiles in terms of evolution, maturity, conduct, and feelings. This can be perfectly extrapolated to their roles: Chloe runs to seek refuge at her mother's house, but in the end, who is it that, for being more mature and having grown psychologically, has to protect the other from the curse?

The symbolism of this unity or indistinction of the individual concerning their reference, facing an external and in this case supernatural element, on which the darkest and sickest aspects are projected, is a resource that contributes to giving a tainted and suffocating nuance to the already sinister and dark gothic air with which the film's art designers envelop it. It's topped off with cinematography by Adam Frisch, who carefully ensures that the empire of light does not take over or gain complete dominance, even in daytime scenes, so that even these are invaded by the ominous atmosphere. An effect reinforced by a no less disturbing soundtrack by James Edward Barker and Steve Moore, which at all times avoids loudness to cause startles, without falling, except in rare exceptions, into dramatic excess.

The rest of the technical bill components wrap and accompany that mother-daughter relationship that constitutes the backbone of "Don't Knock Twice's" plot. They dress with the trappings of the most ghostly and supernatural narrative condiments, a bit over the top, yes, but necessarily magnified to enhance the relief between planes of plots and subplots that converge in its narrative path.

Like a lasagna, Caradog W. James simultaneously handles the threads of relationships between characters, basically between Jess and Chloe, to which other layers are superimposed: the fantastical line, with the witch's curse; the mystery touch headed by Detective Boardman, played by Nick Moran (another male cast member wasted). We'll see him at the forefront of the subplot of the missing children, which is neither developed nor clearly resolved. Even the mystical aspect we see in the figure of Tira, played by Pooneh Hajimohammadi, the model for the maternity sculpture Jess is working on throughout the film, in an old and dilapidated chapel, icon and representation of the also deranged spiritual system reflected in this story.

A film that, without wanting to resort to clichés, can be distinguished by its English hallmark from afar and stands out from "other" monster and ghost movies coming from the horror movie mills for having this multidimensionality.

As one of its main weaknesses, screenwriters Mark Huckerby and Nick Ostler fail to find the right fit between plots and subplots, lack refinement in dialogues, and place too much focal emphasis on mother-daughter ties, to a level some might call a Sunday afternoon melodrama. Like wasps buzzing crazily and confusedly around their nest, the secondary narrative vectors don't have their place clearly defined in the overall fabric, which perhaps revolves too much around Jess and Chloe's leitmotif. They remain too peripheral and at the same time disconnected from each other, with such a fragile interrelation that when the resolution attempts to braid them into the coherence of the overall structure, everything becomes too tangled and dulled in a conclusion that seems more the beginning of the knot than anything else. With a result to the final aesthetic of the film, which seems to leave several loose ends, trying to amend with a kind of circular inconclusion to the theme of the "Baba Yaga" curse. In this sense, some might argue the intention to leave doors open for a possible sequel (but it forgets that Jess has burned them all). Unfortunately, it's not about this. Just like in the case of the missing children, the identity of those darkly related to them, as well as a deeper substrate of the character of the Polish woman who once committed suicide, falsely accused of these abductions, will remain there, for posterity, quite frayed.

It's mainly in these aspects where things slip, and it's saved both by the presence of the two female protagonists and the aesthetics of an environment and well-designed technical resources, including the making and composition of the creature embodied by the Catalan Javier Botet, a figure that by its characteristics has long since become a staple of this kind of delivery.

Personally, I would recommend the suffering viewer not just one, but two viewings, ignoring its title, because certainly, as with many things in life, one must insist and knock at least twice to get into the heart of the unknown and have the guts to learn something from it.

With just one viewing, more or less relaxed and laid back of the tape, probably won't go beyond the superficial, and won't be able to grasp what it conveys. Just like with the figure Jess tries to sculpt, one has to dig deep to face our ghosts and knock more than once if necessary, not wait for them to do it when it's too late.

"Pay the Ghost" isn't just some throwaway flick, contrary to the popular narrative. Nicolas Cage has shown remarkable adaptability over the years. More accurately, it's a variety of themes and scripts that have adapted to him, given his somewhat monothematic acting approach. From "The Rock" (1996) and "Snake Eyes" (1998), to "8mm" (1999), "Captain Corelli's Mandolin" (2001), "Windtalkers" (2002), "National Treasure" (2004)-an American thematic reinterpretation less European than "The Da Vinci Code"-"Lord of War" (2005), "Ghost Rider" (2007), and "Knowing" (2009)... The only frontier left unexplored is a Roman epic, should Hollywood dare to venture there.

Cage's inherent "tragic heroism" unmistakably shines through, reinforcing this nuance: it's not that Cage conforms to roles; it's the roles, genres, and scripts that bend to accommodate his monolithic presence. His casting, possibly motivated by financial necessity, signals a degree of marketing ambition, alongside the engagement of seasoned talents like director Uli Edel and composer Joseph LoDuca.

Sarah Wayne, celebrated for her roles in "The Walking Dead" and "Prison Break", ensures the film's appeal with her portrayal of a complex, politically incorrect character-a resentful mother and wife in an era dominated by aggressive and politically charged feminism. She blames her husband for their son Charlie's disappearance, struggling to process her grief and the abduction's reality. This element of separation intensifies the protagonist's isolation and despair, as demanded by the script to deepen the emotional stakes. Ironically, Wayne's character largely vanishes post-disappearance, reemerging only when convinced of the "wicked witch's" reality who took their son. It's a challenging role, to say the least.

The characters' actions and motivations align well with the script. Suddenly, the protagonist is thrust into a nightmare, grappling with his son's abduction, his own guilt over failing to spend adequate time due to his job commitments, Sarah's abandonment, and the police's inefficacy, epitomized by Officer Lyriq Bent.

The soundtrack, with its symphonic base, deserves praise in an era where such compositions are rare, especially in horror. Translating terror into music requires a unique talent, which LoDuca demonstrates by blending electronic elements with atonal, rhythmic patterns for the film's darker scenes. Yet, it's the fleeting moments of melancholy, tenderness, and paternal love that resonate the most, crafting a piece that, while not memorable for its leitmotifs, successfully underscores the narrative without overshadowing it.

Sharon Meir's cinematography, albeit outshone by less imaginative special effects, masterfully captures the essence of twilight, even in broad daylight, creating a visual depth that adds layers of meaning. The ambiance design brilliantly encapsulates New York City's vibrant life, transforming it into a backdrop of despair, loneliness, sadness, and terror. The lackluster CGI vultures and the witch's ghost, especially during the climax, detract from the overall quality, yet the film still manages to paint a compelling portrait of the city, particularly during a Halloween parade, imbuing it with a mystique reminiscent of Louisiana's folklore.

Like countless productions, "Pay the Ghost" draws from a rich cultural tapestry: vengeful spirits from ancient horrors, children ensnared by a lingering curse, and a hero's battle against the abandonment by loved ones and the ineffectiveness of "earthly justice." This narrative core is as ancient as storytelling itself.

The screenplay is robust, clearly segmenting into three acts: the initial portrayal of the family, a middle section where horror melds into Cage's dramatic performance, and a finale that shifts into a fantastical action extravaganza, more befitting a theme park ride than a coherent narrative, diluted by CGI overindulgence.

Edel's attempt to blend a commercially palatable narrative with broad, audience-friendly elements might have misfired, overshadowed by the very CGI vultures intended to allure. This thematic detour from indie sensibilities to box-office tactics represents a gamble that didn't quite pay off, risking the film's integrity for wider appeal.

Cage's portrayal, burdened with unnecessary aging prosthetics, detracts from his character's authenticity. At 61, embodying a father to a young child could have been approached with dignity; instead, the film opts for an unrealistic depiction that undermines his performance.

In essence, the abrupt thematic shift in the finale and the artificiality imbued in Cage's character mar what could have been a fine addition to the horror genre.

Edel's ambition to capture a broad audience spectrum, reminiscent of the adage about "biting off more than you can chew," suggests a missed opportunity for a more focused narrative. A thriller involving a serial killer or a satanic cult as backdrop elements might have offered a compelling alternative, maintaining the emotional pull especially when dealing with child victimization.

Ultimately, Uli Edel, aspiring to emulate industry titans like James Wan, finds himself akin to a CGI vulture, perched high with ambition yet unable to soar, burdened by the spectacle he sought to create. And so, Edel pays the price, with interest.

Even though critics have given this production a cold shoulder, director Eytan Rockaway rolls up his sleeves and pulls an ace out of his sleeve, showcasing the script's main strength by Ido Fluk ("The Ticket", 2013; "A Crime to Remember", 2013). Some might see it as pulling a rabbit out of a hat, yet there's room for free will in how we take in the story. But it could also be seen as a deep dive, opening up the floor for a slew of interpretations. It's totally on the table that this narrative arc, which might come off as draggy and yawn-inducing to some, contrasts starkly with the twist that hits us like a ton of bricks, leaving us as gobsmacked as if we were being wheeled out in the same wheelchair Cooper's been rolling around in throughout the movie. This twist is bound to be what sticks with you, leaving an unforgettable mark.

Right from the jump, the audience's view is boxed into a deceptively serene daytime scene. I say deceptive because our lead, Louisa Krause (Streak), is seen in a taxi cruising through what seems like a ghost town, save for a run-in with a vagabond... setting up a dreamlike, almost post-apocalyptic vibe. This gives us a whiff of foreshadowing of what's to come if we were paying close attention, but it's likely to catch most off guard.

This first setting can feel just as desolate, suffocating, and claustrophobic as what follows in the eerie yet luxurious building where Streak is set to work the night shift alongside her new partner Cooper (Jason Patric)... a seasoned security guard who, at first glance, seems jaded, prickly, bitter (perhaps due to his paralysis keeping him in a wheelchair)... giving off a vibe that he couldn't care less, or that he's seen it all, giving him an air of overconfidence despite his wheelchair.

The ambiance is split into three distinct acts, all marked by this oppressive air (with the final twist being the most hair-raising), serving as a common thread but also, with their own unique flavors, as we've noted between the first and the second, syncing perfectly with the three stages of traditional narrative development: introduction, unfolding, and resolution.

Zack Galler's cinematography plays a key role, nailing the essence of each setting, and, with that, painting, texturing, and framing the shots in a way that's nothing short of stunning. And adjusting his camera work to this seemingly unhurried pace of the unfolding, but also "without pause", even though it might feel like we're not moving from the story's epicenter - the massive "hall" of the building. It manages to flip our perception of the building's interior on its head because if initially we see it as a menacing place we might get trapped in (putting us in the protagonists' shoes), at a certain point (when the vagabond shows up asking to be let in), it becomes a safe haven from the pitch-black and bone-chilling outside, which could kill anyone spending the night out there. And there's another twist when the characters, in their own ways, decide (or are forced to), delve into the bowels of the building, to unearth its chilling secrets. Secrets that could trap them there forever.

All this brews during the development, taking up the meaty middle of the footage, but turning out to be crucial to the script's weight. If we look closely, it could be split in half. One, where we see the evolution, exploration, and character reveal of Krause and Patric; where they get to know each other, feel each other out, getting into a series of challenges and dares. Meaning, the script allows them time to bond. This is key in a movie that essentially revolves around this duo, making it unfold like a sort of "buddy film"... and a second half where each of the two makes their own call regarding the exploration of the darkest corners, and what it could mean for their own redemption.

The trio of protagonists delivers a standout performance, effectively taking center stage. But among them, both the elder and Cooper's character (Patric, especially), showcase their dramatic chops, and Krause, while solid, still seems to lack a bit of gravitas, which gets a bit muddled by whether it's her acting style or because she's precisely portraying a rookie in the security game. But above all, Cooper's transformation is the real deal; from a guy who couldn't care less to someone who starts to reflect and change after bumping heads with Streak. How she, and later the elder, act as catalysts for his shift, leading him to his ultimate salvation.

The vagabond character, along with his dog, brings a slice of social realism against the backdrop of the building, highlighting themes of inequality and survival. His insistence on entering and his subsequent demise in the basement serve as a harbinger of the lurking dangers, symbolizing the inevitable clash with the hidden mysteries and the place's hostility. The vagabond's curiosity and tragic fate mirror human vulnerability in the face of the unknown, while his presence adds layers to the plot and deepens the mystery ambiance, stirring empathy and emotionally resonating with the audience.

These character arcs and evolutions are precisely what drive the movie's narrative rhythm. It's clear that, more akin to drama than horror, this may justify or explain some critics feeling put off by a slow pace, where "nothing really happens" until the late middle part. And truth be told, that's the case. The elements described as terrifying in this movie, after a tension held ostensibly in the air, waiting for "something" to happen, may come too late for some. The emergence of the "ghost children" in the building's underground labyrinth, behind that heavy and bolted metal door that hadn't been crossed in decades, is merely the contextual trigger for the climax. And the underlying presence of these "lost souls", the story of a sadistic doctor who had them locked away there (without also being too clarified and justified, causes and conditions, is perhaps what (partly also due to a misunderstanding of the role of what essentially is a "subplot"), is explained quite quickly and fleetingly. And the viewer might have expected a deeper dive and more mileage out of this thread.

The soundtrack, filling up just about a quarter of an hour, feels as brief as it is sublime. Max Aruj's symphonic score subtly colors, without overdoing it or resorting to cheap "jump scares", focusing instead on highlighting the moments of greatest drama, over those that could strictly be labeled as terrifying, or anticipation of fright or terror. Indeed, in the resolution, when the composer's motifs become more plentiful and intense, tender melancholy, hope for redemption, the essence of life prevail, and, without a doubt, on a second watch, the ominous tone heralding a theme that unequivocally evokes the funereal, and by which we can anticipate, if we're keen to pick up on it and ponder its meaning, what might be resolved, won't slip by us.

The movie is a treasure trove of symbols and metaphors. Once finished, the viewer can piece together its meanings. Thus, this surprising final twist we've discussed, executed with finesse, albeit possibly benefiting from a smoother transition, comes packed with all the necessary "planting" elements, from "set" design to character development and prop placement, ruling out any sloppy improvisation on Rockaway's part. On the contrary, the filmmaker knows what he's cooking up, and the resolution results in a narrative fabric with (or with very few) loose ends. In doing so, Rockaway not only took cues from the likes of Night Shyamalan or Amenábar but has also proven to adeptly apply them, even though he may have had to make do with fewer financial and/or artistic resources.

Thus, we're left with either the notion that procrastination and/or lack of tact backfired on Rockaway and his screenwriter, or that they themselves chose to deliberately delay their "coup d'effect", to amp up the "knockout" sensation for the viewer, in the "final checkmate". In any case, we're taken on a lengthy journey where we're kept in suspense, only to arrive at an abrupt climax of terror, a very brief moment of upheaval, to then smoothly transition, without further ado, to a highly revealing epilogue, to a dramatic tableau without exaggeration or fuss. Leaving us flabbergasted, yet from there, it allows us to perceive an odd sense of peace. The same peace that seems to guide all characters that have appeared, towards their respective destinies.

"I think, therefore I am." This maxim, coined in the 17th century, presupposes that the consciousness of being is something we can infer as a result of using or employing reason. Yet, the development of thought goes through language, that is, to think and to speak. Ergo, to be conscious: to exist.

On one hand, that seems to be what occurs in the film by the late Stacy Title (1964 - 2021), where "thinking" and "speaking" give rise to an "existence," that of a supernatural being whose origin the movie does not explain (a flaw in the script, or perhaps it was deemed irrelevant by the filmmaker), and, oh the irony, its appearance in our existential plane implies death, that is, the "non-existence" of those who have "thought" and "spoken," by virtue of their condition as conscious beings. Quite the contradiction, right? But let's leave it there, as there's enough meat here for a lengthy discussion, and we risk going mad.

With only a handful of preceding titles as her presentation card, Title dives into the jungle of urban legends and picks up a narrative from Robert Damon Schneck ("The Bridge to Body Island"), which the director's husband, Jonathan Penner, would turn into a script for his wife's project. He did her no favors, as "The Bye Bye Man," despite its background and its multifaceted potential for developing the plot, script, characters, and their execution, appear lazy, bland, and even negligent.

The plot, as the structure or skeleton for everything else, is too simplistic for a film with more pretensions than the evident efficacy of the final product. The argument is spared. It stems from something already written, which in turn comes from a story based on a very primitive topic: the journey within our minds as a projection of what we dislike about ourselves and thus aim to cast out. If we can, onto our neighbor, and not always constructively. Often, not infrequently, represented in external imaginary figures, personified or expressed through a multitude of metaphors and symbols that draw from that common intercultural well from which we all end up drinking, whether we fancy it or not.

"The Bye-Bye Man," the "Boogeyman," Slenderman, Mr. Sandman, "The Babadook," Michael Myers, Freddy Krueger... the list could go on indefinitely, of various bogeymen that have always tried to scare people of all ages, since before cinema existed, they were spoken of by parents, grandparents, serving as regulators of the youngsters' behavior, under serious threat of being taken to the underworld, perhaps to death, at the very least, by such monstrous beings. Therefore, any title, label, or even advertising claim that ends in "-man," in a horror movie, should already smell to us like the iconic reflection of the worst in each of us.

The "don't think it, don't say it," is not a present-day urban invention but dates back to the Middle Ages. In relation to "the one with the horns," whom we always paint red and make reek of burning sulfur. It was strictly forbidden to think or say his name without the danger that invoking him could eventually imply, entail his actual appearance. Despite the craving for novel and original things, garlic soup has long been invented.

The inanity of the plot and the lack of rhythm injected into the narrative infect other areas of the film, such as the cinematography by James Kniest, which casts an air so dark, dense, and sinister, as mortally monotonous in color, lighting, and camera movements. Except when it comes to the introductory scene of the massacre ending in suicide. This macabre overture, pun intended, by its contrast with the rest, any hint of terror, intrigue, or suspense, due to its premonitory nature.

And, as if that weren't enough, even the prologue is diluted by that infamous 13-year rating that makes the product suitable for consumption by "puppets" who swear more than prescribed and, surely by virtue of which, the audience is deprived of the splurge of violence, blood, and brains that the scene required. Once again, commercialism takes precedence over art.

From there, we enter a phase of flat encephalogram that not even the actors and actresses summoned for this production manage to mitigate with their uneven performances, leaving the terrain dangerously rugged, with potholes, holes, and an untended garden, unwatered, with its plants wilting.

Douglas Smith and Cressida Bonas are the only members of the cast who put in some effort; the actor's striking eyes and his beautiful blond hair left loose seem enough to grant him a significant presence on camera. With a touch of melancholic elegance seen in his half-smiles, a genuine and serene beauty, that of his face. However, it lacks drive on the part of the direction, which allows an overacted "mise en scène" that turns the characters of Elliot and Kim into something extravagant and, on not a few occasions, bordering on hilarity.

The other two young protagonists, Lucien Laviscount (John) and Cressida Bonas (Sasha), clearly lag behind, with roles that verge on being mere ornaments. Nonetheless, it's clear that Smith holds the leadership of the entire cast, in whose bench of secondary characters we have solid contributions from Michael Trucco (Virgil, Elliot's brother), and little Erica Tremblay (Alice, Virgil's daughter and the protagonist's niece).

Given how little the script offers them, both in terms of time and the development of their characters, the cameo duo of veteran women was a very pleasant surprise for me, especially the brief but provocative intervention of Faye Dunaway, which brought back childhood memories. Among them, how captivated I was by her prowess in the first movie I saw her in, alongside Paul Newman in "The Towering Inferno" (John Guillermin, 1974). Now, that was good cinema. And, completely forgotten by me, was Carrie-Anne Moss ("The Matrix", 1999). I suppose because she no longer impressed me there, and in "The Bye-Bye Man" she plays a very unbelievable role as a detective. The feeling is she puts as much enthusiasm into her character as I do doing laundry on a Sunday morning. Overall, a cast from which we can't exactly discern whether they don't show genuine interest in the execution of their respective tasks, or if they wander around like headless chickens, lacking effective direction, including there the namesake professional Catalan, Javier Botet, a specialist in embodying monsters and terrifying puppets whose favorite pastime is to scare and serially off idiotic teenagers. Another blight of the film, and a colossal failure, by its director, is showing the face of the "Bye Bye Man" so explicitly and so soon. But of course, the makeup team had to exert themselves to justify their salary, even though it wasn't much; from what is said, the budget was low for this celluloid. And boy, did the makeup team shine, when I saw the supernatural being in question I thought I had mistaken the film and was watching Emperor Palpatine in one of the "Star Wars" saga. But no, it was Doug Jones. Even the villain of George Lucas, within his context, was scarier than this imitation.

The music by The Newton Brothers, based almost entirely on electronic tones and murky but uninspiring motifs, follows that apathetic line.

What remains in the end, better cooked but not very well presented, is the process of drifting into the psychotic experienced by the main quartet of young people, especially in the socio-affective circuit of the love triangle formed by Elliot, Sasha, and John, where there still might be something genuinely interesting to explore and exploit. Although it could have been done from the perspective of drama, thriller, or even comedy, starting from the same premise. For this, there was no need to bring in the "Goodbye Man," let alone invoke his name.

So, we have on the table a flick that is most akin to a pale corpse from the morgue that was intended to be dressed up and embalmed with analogies, winks, and parallels with other horror themes, some even classic, but in the end, it's as if the salt in the food could be thrown on the plate, but if it hasn't been done at the right point during cooking, the stew no longer acquires the necessary flavor to be properly enjoyed. I gave it a 6, interesting (but not a pass, because for me, below 6.50, a movie is a fail), because at least I enjoyed the handsome Douglas Smith (and Lucien isn't bad looking, quite attractive, he is), and the veteran Dunaway, as well as I obtained the elementary ingredients to muse on what the "don't think it, don't say it" represents, in terms of the "Johannine theory" of "the Word became flesh," namely, the idea that thought and word (without stopping to debate which comes first), turned into act can always end up materializing (and not only in terms of monsters and fears).

On the other hand, and, though incredible, the "don't think it, don't say it," seems to be the maxim of the factual powers of our current society, which precisely intend to keep us in a state of larval idiotization: that we do not think, that we do not say, ergo that we do not exist, following the corollary of the great philosopher. Poor Descartes, if he lived in our times. Anyway, I will neither recommend nor refrain from recommending; I never do because of the responsibility it entails, but those who decide to watch it know that, as insipid as it can turn out, it ceases to be suitable for those with low blood pressure and for those who suffer from sleep apnea.

Xavi Giménez's cinematography in "The Abandoned" (2006) captures beauty in desolate, remote environments. His mastery of light and shadow crafts an aesthetic both alluring and disquieting, directly appealing to the viewer. This duality, between visual aesthetics and the theme of isolation, intensifies the solitude and unease in the film. Abandoned landscapes and structures become characters themselves, reflecting the themes of the narrative. Russia, with its vast and unexplored nature, serves as an ideal backdrop for isolation and abandonment. The deserted villages and farms add realism and melancholy, symbolizing transience and oblivion. The concept of 'erratic nomadism' mirrors the transitoriness of memories and spirits. The film's use of a 'timeless limbo', blurring past, present, and future, creates uncertainty and mirrors the protagonist's internal struggles. The river, as a metaphor for life and transition, represents the journey through her psyche, in a world where reality intermingles with memory and fantasy, highlighting her disconnection from the tangible and her emotional experience.

Alfons Conde's soundtrack stands out for its focus on pure symphonic scoring, avoiding electronic gimmicks or showiness. This artistic choice adds depth and richness. Conde has a unique way of evoking complex and subtle emotions, and in the context of this film, serves to intensify the sense of mystery, desolation, and tension. His musical language, centered on simplicity, shows an understanding of how music can serve the story. Rather than dominating or distracting, his music seamlessly integrates with the visual and narrative elements, creating a synergistic experience for the viewer.

After "The Abandoned," Nacho Cerdá shifted to terror documentaries instead of fiction, suggesting an interest in analyzing the genre from a different perspective, perhaps avoiding the demands of feature-length productions. This transition might reflect a desire to delve into the roots and effects of terror in culture, rather than just creating within the genre. Although cinema involves various complications like criticism and financing, the absence of more terror films from Cerdá may be due to market factors and opportunities as a filmmaker. His trajectory illustrates the unpredictable and complex nature of cinema, where artists' paths are marked by both personal and professional influences.

The performances of Anastasia Hille (Marie) and Karel Roden (Nikolai) are central. Hille, in her lead role, delivers an interpretation full of intensity and emotion, spanning a range from fear to determination. Roden adds mystery and depth to the plot. His enigmatic presence complements Hille's performance. The film evokes "Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back" (1980), where Luke faces a ghostly version of himself, symbolizing internal struggles and fears. This confrontation with a 'double' is a metaphor for internal conflicts and traumas, akin to Luke's battle against an image of Darth Vader that represents his fear of becoming what he despises. These duels symbolize moments of self-discovery and confrontation with hidden truths. They are effective techniques for exploring identity, destiny, and morality. However, in "The Abandoned," this revelation occurs perhaps too soon, affecting the narrative development.

In "The Abandoned," Nicolai and Marie face a fate sealed by the 'paternal spirit', exemplifying the fatalism typical in horror and tragedy stories. This predestination, stemming from ancestral mistakes, resonates with Greek tragedies where endings are inexorable. The 'spirit', bridging past and present, shows how past actions affect descendants. Trapped in a mortal snare, the siblings illustrate their unavoidable tragedy, intensifying the somber atmosphere. The film generates suspense and fear, reflecting on the impossibility of escaping our legacy and the consequences of ancient acts.

Critics obsessed with novelty often dismiss classic themes in cinema, especially in horror. They forget that cinema, rooted in ancient narrative traditions, thrives on myths and universal archetypes, in the sense proposed by Swiss psychiatrist Carl Gustav Jung. Greek tragedies, tackling fate and the struggle against the inevitable, continue to fascinate. Drama has reinterpreted these themes throughout the ages, maintaining their essence. "The Abandoned," with elements like the 'eternal return', aligns with this tradition. Some see it as outdated, others appreciate its deep connection with the viewer. Originality is not just inventing, but also resonantly reimagining the old. The obsession with novelty sometimes overlooks the collective unconscious, filled with patterns and ancestral memories. In horror, timeless themes are explored in ways that impact the modern audience. Creativity includes knowing how to reinterpret and revitalize classic stories, essential in our understanding of the world.

In "The Abandoned," ancestral myths and legends are interwoven, essential in its plot and symbolism. It highlights the Germanic Doppelgänger Myth, symbolizing internal confrontation through a ghostly 'double'. It adds tales of haunted houses and spirits of ancestors, showing spaces imbued with a family's tragic past. These themes connect with the idea of a journey to the underworld, a symbolic descent that reveals hidden truths and fears, and the concept of life, death, and rebirth cycles, reflecting repetitive patterns and inescapable fates.

"The Abandoned" combines narrative cultures, creating a universal resonance. It includes Latin influences of legends and ghosts, aligns with Anglo-Saxon horror and Slavic fatalism, achieving a unique atmosphere. This fusion allows the film to transcend cultural barriers and connect with global audiences.

Sociologically, it examines the Roman 'pater familias' figure, symbolizing entrenched power structures and violence, reflecting how the film comments on oppressive dynamics in contemporary society. In globalization, "The Abandoned" stands as an artistic manifesto on the universality of human experiences and emotions, beyond commercial appeal.

"The Abandoned" faces the challenge of balancing mystery and clarity in its script. Tension and suspense are key in horror, but if prolonged too much, they can cause fatigue. It is essential to dose information to maintain interest without confusing the viewer. With writers like Hussain, Stanley, and Cerdà, the diversity of ideas adds richness but can compromise cohesion. The plot, based on ancestral myths, needs precise execution and a unified vision.

The dynamics between the characters of Anastasia Hille and Karel Roden, marked by their constant appearances and disappearances, subtract opportunities to develop their relationship and the story coherently. This approach weakens character development and dramatic tension. Additionally, the poetic but ambiguous dialogues hinder understanding of the plot, which can make the climax surprising but not fully satisfying.

Nicolai, verbalizing a theory about the 'zombified doubles', shows an attempt by Cerdá to clarify the plot. However, this may be excessive and limit the viewer's experience of discovering the plot for themselves. For example, at one point, the viewer might think that the events could be part of a military or governmental experiment. Thus, the film invites speculation, although it does not fully exploit this potential in the development of the plot and characters. The challenge lies in maintaining a balance between revealing and hiding information, something crucial in horror.

The film, with its overwhelming technical and aesthetic foundation, shows Nacho Cerdá's ability to create an unsettling and visually impactful atmosphere. But the film stumbles in its narrative aspect.

The lack of a 'firm hand' in script development leads to a disconnected and inconsistent narrative. The difficulty of Cerdá in achieving this balance results in viewers feeling less immersed in the story.

It nods to others, an interesting strategy to add depth and resonance. "The Abandoned" by Nacho Cerdá aligns with products of Spanish terror (with reminiscences to the most traditional of Ibáñez Serrador), like "Darkness" (2003) by Jaume Balagueró, or other proposals of this fatalistic and dark style, distancing itself from the farcical satires of Spanish neighborhood cinema that Alex de la Iglesia accustomed us to with grotesque works like "The Day of the Beast" (1995), which insisted on pigeonholing the Spaniard (and his cinema) in the profile of being unable to take some genres, like the one at hand, seriously.

The creation of "The Abandoned" can be considered a true master exercise in art. Every element of this film - from Nacho Cerdá's direction, Xavi Giménez's cinematography, the symbolic location in Russian landscapes, to Alfons Conde's evocative soundtrack - merges to create a work that is much more than the sum of its parts.

What makes it particularly notable is how these artistic elements intertwine to evoke deep emotions and reflections in the viewer. It immerses us in a world where terror, beauty, and melancholy coexist. It offers an experience that is rewarding for those who seek in cinema a form of art that not only entertains but also inspires and provokes.

In "Backtrack" (2015), the film's tension pivots on the dilemma between a psychotic disorder and supernatural occurrences, keeping the audience in a constant state of suspense. This central narrative challenge - distinguishing reality from illusion - is adeptly woven throughout the storyline. The script skillfully intertwines psychological elements with the paranormal, perpetuating a sense of uncertainty. This ambiguity, reminiscent of other films in the genre, prompts us to question whether the protagonist's visions are mere manifestations of a disturbed mind or something beyond ordinary understanding. This continuous oscillation keeps viewers engaged throughout the film, promising a plot development where dramatic elements overshadow the supernatural, though both remain intertwined. In this context, the supernatural appears as tangible as psychosis, setting a balanced stage for explanations. This uncertainty, fueling the tension, plays with fears and expectations. The audience, uncertain of reality, constantly questions what they see and hear, driving the narrative forward and keeping viewers committed to unraveling the mystery alongside the protagonist.

Stefan Duscio's cinematography sets the tone and atmosphere for the supernatural suspense in "Backtrack". The interiors, often bathed in dim or shadowy light, mirror the characters' turbulent states of mind, contrasting with the more natural and open exteriors. Duscio's use of camera angles and framing intensifies the sense of mystery and disorientation, key in such genre films. His color palette, favoring cool and desaturated tones, evokes a sense of alienation, while occasional bursts of warmer, vivid colors provide a fleeting visual respite from the prevailing sense of unreality. His work serves not only as an aesthetic tool but also amplifies the psychological processes and supernatural perceptions of the protagonist, reflecting and heightening his inner turmoil.

The interplay between the supernatural and psychological disorders as a central plot theme is common in many films. In "What Lies Beneath" (2000), starring Michelle Pfeiffer and Harrison Ford, the supernatural reveals dark secrets from the past, acting as a mechanism for confronting and resolving old traumas. In M. Night Shyamalan's iconic "The Sixth Sense" (1999), a child's ability to see ghosts becomes a means to explore deep themes like loss, grief, and acceptance, culminating in a revelation that redefines the film's entire narrative. In "The Others" (2001), starring Nicole Kidman, paranormal phenomena lead the main character to confront painful truths about her family and her own reality. "Shutter Island" (2010), directed by Martin Scorsese and starring Leonardo DiCaprio, though not focusing on the supernatural, masterfully plays with the perception of reality. Lastly, in "The Orphanage" (2007), directed by J. A. Bayona, horror elements intertwine with deep emotional drama, where the main character (Belén Rueda) faces supernatural events linked to her past and the orphanage where she grew up.

These examples utilize the ambiguity between the supernatural and psychological not just to create suspense and intrigue, but also to guide characters on a journey of confronting and resolving their traumas and secrets, offering a viewing experience that leads to catharsis or redemption.

In contrast, "Affliction" (1997), directed by Paul Schrader and starring Nick Nolte and James Coburn, lacks supernatural elements but shares a similar narrative framework with "Backtrack" in exploring past traumas and their impact on the present. In "Affliction", the story focuses on the life of a man, played by Nick Nolte, struggling with the ghosts of a turbulent past marked by paternal abuse and violence. Throughout the film, this past plagues the protagonist, profoundly affecting his adult life and relationships. Like in "Backtrack", the main character in "Affliction" is compelled to confront and unravel the mysteries and traumas of his past to find some form of resolution or redemption. While "Backtrack" employs supernatural elements as a vehicle to explore and reveal traumas, "Affliction" remains firmly in the realm of realism.

Both films exhibit an insecure or anxious attachment, as theorized by John Bowlby, leading to difficulties in emotional regulation, distrust in relationships, and a negative self-image, clearly reflected in the characters: the traumatic loss, separation anxiety... manifesting in avoidant behaviors or in the search for symbolic replacements for the lost figure.

The reference to Carl Gustav Jung through Sam Neill's character is pivotal. Jung's concept of the "shadow", representing repressed aspects like guilt or traumas, is central to Brody's character, who faces events that could be interpreted as manifestations of his hidden psyche. Jung's idea of "synchronicity" also comes into play, with a series of coincidences and encounters guiding Brody towards a greater understanding of himself and his torment. These Jungian concepts aid in exploring the complexity of his character and his journey towards personal integrity.

"Backtrack" prematurely reveals key elements of its mystery, lessening the impact of suspense and horror towards the end. Unveiling early hints about Peter's trauma diminishes the element of surprise, potentially leading the audience to feel they have solved the mystery before the climax. The film shifts focus more towards psychological drama than horror, moving away from typical conventions and, although offering a rich and nuanced narrative in terms of character development and themes, may not satisfy those expecting a more traditional approach. Petroni compensates for this with a final action scene, reinvigorating the plot and maintaining interest. This tactic of injecting action serves to reenergize the story and keep the viewer engaged. Petroni's ability to manage these tonal shifts is noteworthy, balancing drama, action, and suspense to create a coherent and engaging narrative. His approach demonstrates a sophisticated understanding of how to adapt the narrative to meet or even exceed viewer expectations.

Adrien Brody's performance in "Backtrack," as well as that of his teenage counterpart (the handsome Jesse Hyde), stands out for conveying intense emotions, compensating for script limitations. His ability to evoke sadness and pain without relying on explicit narratives shows his talent. However, this creates an imbalance with secondary characters, portrayed by actors like Sam Neill, who do not achieve full development, remaining underutilized in the plot and limiting the story's complexity.

"Backtrack" opts for a sober and minimalist design, focusing on the story and performances. This visual simplicity, reflecting the film's internal and psychological nature, avoids overwhelming with complex details, centering attention on the characters. As seen in Australian and New Zealand cinema, where human narrative and relationships are prioritized, it demonstrates how a simplified design enhances the plot and performances. The film's visual and narrative austerity, a distinct feature, significantly contributes to its atmosphere, showing that less can be more in cinema, especially when seeking depth and authenticity in storytelling.

Dale Cornelius' orchestral soundtrack intensifies the drama and exploration of Peter's psyche. It complements and sometimes even surpasses other expressive elements, including the performances. It reinforces and amplifies the emotional and psychological states. The lyricism and intensity of his composition add layers of meaning and emotion that extend beyond what is visually seen or spoken in dialogue. A parallel narrative flows throughout the film, taking the viewer through the protagonist's inner revelations and conflicts, to the core of his unconscious.

The moderation in special effects reflects a focus on story and characters, but the train scene, where a patrol car is run over, marks an out-of-place dramatic peak. This high-tension moment and poetic justice, where the vengeful spirit of the girl ensures the villainous father does not escape, provides an intense emotional and visual climax, though it might seem forced. Peter's rescue of the police officer adds drama, showcasing his heroism and commitment to justice. This scene, though striking, contrasts with the film's overall subtlety and appears as an excessive dramatic device, although it fulfills closing the vengeance arc and contributes to Peter's personal development.

The tragic fate of Peter's friend contrasts with the villain's death. While the father faces narrative justice, the friend's suicide, burdened with guilt and remorse, adds a layer of human tragedy and highlights the consequences of silence and complicity. This juxtaposition underscores the different ways characters deal with their actions, creating a complex balance between punishment and suffering. The ambiguity of Barry's fate raises questions: was it suicide or manipulation? This could indicate a narrative flaw or a deepening of the antagonist's evil. The film, by not fully developing Barry's arc, leaves a gap, in contrast to other more elaborate aspects. The lack of clear clues about his death, contrasting with the detailed treatment of other aspects, raises questions about why this particular thread of the story was left hanging (pun intended). Without sufficient context, it seems an incongruent element within a plot that is otherwise meticulous in its development.

Peter "retraces his steps" as his character's main challenge. He embarks on a journey where progress paradoxically is a return, a sort of pilgrimage backward in his own history and psyche. This journey, though seemingly contrary to the process of individuation, is actually an exploration of the fundamental aspects of being. Like "Tom Thumb," who leaves breadcrumbs to find his way back home.

Before watching Daniel de la Vega's "Ataúd Blanco: El Juego Diabólico" (2016), my only glimpses were a fleeting trailer and a smattering of comments and critiques across various platforms and media outlets. Rather than anticipation, these snippets left me with a healthy dose of prejudice against the film. This stemmed from several mentions of 'Tarantino-esque' influences and nods to renowned directors like Sam Raimi, woven into the fresh premise of this hidden gem from the 'lands of silver.'

For some reason, I envisioned a kind of horror-comedy, a genre blend I typically steer clear of due to the dissonance it stirs in me (call me a puritan, if you will). It's not that I dismiss such creative endeavors - to me, they usually feel like spaghetti served with jam, an odd combination, though taste is subjective. However, I must admit enjoying titles like Sam Raimi's "The Evil Dead" (1982), Howard Storm's "Once Bitten" (1985), or Álex de la Iglesia's "The Day of the Beast" (1995), to name a few.

So, setting aside my preconceived notions, I decided to invest some time in a film I initially pegged as comedic, expecting something akin to a 'gincana', with protagonists racing a hearse Formula 1 style, reminiscent of Blake Edwards' "The Great Race" (1965) with its humorous touches.

Yet, the film takes a serious turn, and de la Vega crafts something as refreshing as it is ingenious, not so much for its thematic originality but for his ability to seamlessly blend a tapestry of influences.

The film imbibes and incorporates a plethora of tropes: 'road movie', 'slasher', satanic cults and rituals, gothic tales from beyond the grave - all adding a uniquely gothic seasoning, innovative in the Argentine landscape. The director skillfully recreates a narrative that not only entertains but also, to some extent, excites the viewer (and I'm speaking broadly here, not just to horror aficionados) in a genre showcase brimming with creative possibilities, yet so often underutilized due to either apathy, imposed interests, social demands, or budget and market constraints.

Featured at the 2016 Fantasia Festival in Montreal, "Ataúd Blanco: El Juego Diabólico" lives up to its subtitle in at least two ways. First, the seemingly convoluted plot woven by the García Bogliano brothers revolves around a mother fleeing from a suffocating, oppressive past (inevitably, a tyrannical husband from whom she escapes with her daughter in tow). She finds herself in a race against time, facing the daunting task of rescuing her child from a fate as relentless as it is merciless, concocted by a cult (pagan, malevolent, satanic - the exact nature of the sect remains unclear despite implications).

Herein lies a contextual shortfall, as well as in the underdevelopment of other vital aspects of the protagonists. We meet two other ladies entangled in this complex scheme. The film, just shy of 80 minutes, feels undercooked, its narrative setup briskly unfolding into a fast-paced, anxiety-inducing sequence of macabre scenes (without, mind you, overindulging in bloodshed). It demands the viewer's undivided attention, captivating not just the eyes and ears but all senses (best not to watch while dining), yet leaves certain aspects begging for deeper explanation or reflection.

Another dimension where the film mirrors a true 'diabolical game' is in its inversion or perversion of personal and social values of the 'contestants', along with the dilemmas they face while committing actions that, under normal circumstances, would contradict these values. Hence, there's a noticeable lack of a more thorough narrative development of the characters portrayed by Julieta Cardinali (Virginia) and her competitors: another mother played by Eleonora Wexler and a teacher brought to life by Verónica Intile. Interestingly, all three women, embodying archetypal images of protective motherhood deeply rooted in our collective consciousness (particularly Mediterranean, Latin, and Hispanic-American cultures), are tasked with fighting for the minors under their care.

This venture brings out the worst in each as a human being, and depending on our interpretation, might even cast a satirical or scornful light on the role of women as maternal guardians. Indeed, there's a transfer process at play, as Virginia finds her guardian angel in Rafael Ferro's character (Masón). The gender perspective here is tricky - beneath the 'heroic mom' facade lurks the portrayal of a being capable of ruthless determination. From early dialogues, we infer that the protagonist absconds with her daughter despite the father's legal custody.

Thus, we witness a macabre show akin to reality series like "Survivor," where multiple contestants (in this case, the women) vie for victory, showcasing their skills. Predictability sets in, given that Alejandro Giuliani's camera (masterfully executing shots, sequences, and framing with a chillingly mortuary color palette) adopts the subjective viewpoints of Virginia and her daughter Rebeca (Fiorela Duranda), the latter showing promise but still green in her craft. Perhaps a narrative structure featuring intersecting stories and a longer runtime could have amped up the tension for the audience and elucidated the plot more clearly and less cryptically.

The film's brief duration and frenetic script pacing, accelerated by Lucciano Onetti's score, hinder the absorption of its rich symbolism (the map on the priest's skull, the titular white coffin...) and clues (like the missing girl poster vanishing along with the truck that abducts Rebeca, prompting 'mommy Fitipaldi' to give chase). Consequently, the audience may struggle to grasp the process of Verónica's death and subsequent revival, which grants her eight hours to rescue her daughter. But who grants this, and why? The meaning of this eschatological metaphor, tied to the mysteries of intergenerational bonds and essential life cycle events (from incarnation and birth to death and beyond), remains enigmatic, intensifying the anxious uncertainty about what horrors might lurk in the afterlife, possibly worse than biological extinction.

This is the essence of terror that De la Vega seems keen on guiding us through, alongside the dramatic plight of Virginia. The film induces stress and palpitations, perhaps too much for a story whose journey, ambiance, and effects we would have preferred to savor more fully. The conclusion is as perplexing in content and form as in its rationale. Whether De la Vega was uncertain where to hit the brakes and how to resolve, or whether he had a clear vision but left us scant clues to fully buy into the finale's fit within the overall narrative, remains debatable. But then, in the Pampas, aside from the occasional irate llama, one hardly expects to find many signposts while navigating its tracks and roads.

In this context, it's illustrative to compare "Ataúd Blanco: El Juego Diabólico" with Mark Tonderai's "Panic (Hush)" (2009), as they present two distinct visions in the realm of horror cinema.

Both, through their 'road movie' format, share the theme of a protagonist on a desperate quest to rescue a loved one abducted on the highway. This core narrative propels the main characters to confront a series of intense and dangerous obstacles, testing not just their physical courage but their emotional and moral fortitude as well. The road becomes a stage for transformation and revelation. It's not just a place of physical danger but also a space highlighting solitude and despair as the battle for survival and freedom unfolds.

While De la Vega delves into gothic styles and supernatural elements to weave a dense, enigmatic narrative, Tonderai opts for a more linear approach to the terror thriller. De la Vega explores the psychological and cultural depths of his characters, using horror as a means to address deeper, existential themes, whereas Tonderai leans towards crafting an intense, visceral experience, focused more on direct action and immediate suspense. These differences not only reflect each director's unique style but also their personal interpretations of how a horror story should be told, whether as an exploration of internal fears and symbolism, or as a direct and tangible representation of danger and fear.

If ever one of the few I consider my friends were to rope me into a project akin to that of our film's protagonist, the irresistibly handsome, blue-eyed, and charmingly smiling actor and singer Chris Minor, I'd be utterly lost for words. Faced with such folly, I'd likely propose one of these options: A) If single, suggest finding a partner; B) refer them to a colleague in psychology or psychiatry; C) tell them to wait until I had completed an exorcism and liberation course at the Vatican, D) driven by the conscience of not leaving my bewildered companion in the lurch, I'd join them in the venture, but only after securing insurance that covers possessions, and packing several clean pairs of underwear.

Jokes aside, any director like Scott B. Hansen, whose only prior directorial experience was an 8-minute short featuring Danny Trejo, not only dares to delve into horror, but also dives headfirst into the complex realm of possessions. Among the plethora of films on the subject, none, to my knowledge, can yet stand toe-to-toe with Friedkin. Thus, Hansen's courage and humility in avoiding overambition cannot be denied. In the vast sea of variants, tropes, and clichés that have been explored in possession films, Hansen skillfully imparts, or at least makes us believe, a touch of originality in his approach.

An unconventional yet dedicated theology student named Brandon (Chris Minor), more invested in his thesis on the existence of demons and the debate over good and evil than even I am, decides against the advice of his social ecosystem (professors, family, etc.) to demonstrate the reality of possession firsthand. This decision alone creates an unhealthy intrigue, piquing the viewer's curiosity. The audience may find some semblance of grounding reality through the eyes of Brandon's companions, who, despite maintaining a safe operational distance, accompany him to the very end. Take, for instance, the medical student acting as the medical assistant in the experiment (Leda), or Clay (portrayed by Jake Brinn), who handles the camera. These individuals are not just purportedly paid collaborators - embarking on a crowdfunding venture on social media to not only finance the experiment but also make it viral, needing to gather the necessary $10,000 - but also evolve into, or present themselves as, loyal friends who would go to great lengths for Brandon should things go awry.

This initial approach, seemingly innovative and appealing, is fundamentally flawed and inconsistent for two main reasons. First, who in their right mind, assuming it were actually feasible and truthful, would willingly subject themselves to possession by one or several particularly malevolent demons, just to prove a thesis? If only my high school students were that committed to their research projects.

The second fundamental flaw is the notion that matters involving God or the devil are subject to laboratory experimentation. As far as I am aware, theology, a branch of philosophy, does not employ the scientific method in its hermeneutics nor in its approach to reality as a subject of study.

Another oversight by Hansen, considering the delicate nature of possessions, was his attempt to demonstrate multitasking prowess at all costs: dabbling in directing, cinematography, scriptwriting (shared with Mary J. Dixon), and even venturing into editing. There's a saying, "Jack of all trades, master of none." Hansen might as well have played the demon himself.

Unsurprisingly, juggling so many roles led to some aspects getting burned: the editing, actor direction, and a script that spirals out of control, not to mention dialogues that, despite the golden opportunity presented by a theological college setting and a failed exorcism from two decades ago, miss the crucial need for a more profound and interesting debate on religious aspects, which would have greatly enhanced the film's quality.

I'm ambivalent about subscribing to the low-budget thesis; there are signs that support and oppose it. On one hand, Hansen's multitasking and lesser-known actors suggest a tight budget. Yet, the brief presence of renowned actor Bill Moseley, a high-quality and well-crafted soundtrack by Dirk Ehlert with the orchestra, and the involvement of multiple producers, don't quite align with a shoestring budget scenario.

The crowdfunding within the film might metaphorically and diegetically mirror Hansen's own production process. A curious parallel between the movie's narrative and the real-world challenges of funding an independent feature film, where resources are often scarce and creators must be ingenious and multifaceted. However, if that were the case, the shortcomings cannot be solely attributed to financial constraints. Failures often result from a multifactorial combination of budgetary restrictions and creative and artistic decisions.

Despite blatant and glaring errors, the final product is more worthy and useful than other recent productions like "The Pope's Exorcist" (2022) or "The Believer Exorcist" (2023), which fall into pretension and sensationalism. Despite their evident higher investments, even to the point of extravagance, they are not as terrifying as Hansen's work and his team.

Hansen gives the impression of "experimenting" with the clapperboard in his first feature-length foray. In his quest for success, he tries to be involved in everything and overmanages to the extent that the result is a work that is irregular, inconsistent, and at times, incoherent, getting lost in the shadows of digressions. This is most noticeable in the script development. The progress is sometimes ponderous and erratic, and at other times rash and precipitated, leaving us no time to process or digest what is happening.

The basic elements of the plot are well-conceived, but both its introduction and progression are executed haphazardly, with gaps in some parts and crammed in others, like a chaotic ending involving SWAT, resulting in a loss of control, leading to a forced landing where half of the narrative and cargo is lost. On the other hand, it has well-executed points, albeit somewhat unbelievable, yet acceptable in the spirit of creative freedom. One such point is our protagonist, a fairly typical theology student characterized as a scruffy rebel fond of leather jackets, who challenges the demon, defies his professor, and tests himself, achieving what he set out to do but leaving a trail of deaths, including his own.

In a final runaway display, both in staging and in some makeup effects that are ludicrously poor when representing Brandon's complete infestation, the story ends with a bleak future for Leda, who was Brandon's girlfriend and now carries his child. To top off the folly, it seems to herald a sequel.

Brandon could be seen as the hollow echo of the experiment, considered by some as just one among many and cinematically valueless. Both Hansen and Brandon, like the sorcerer's apprentice Ravel so beautifully depicts in his musical piece, lose control after uttering a spell, unable to reverse the situation. But what slips through their fingers is not exactly a broom; a laboratory is no place for a demon.

Among the film's shining points is the introductory scene of the failed exorcism, with thrilling action and a terrifyingly well-crafted basement setting, a dramatic episode that ends in a massacre. This is just the prelude that remains until the end of the film, allowing the audience to link all the elements that appear in the development and close the circle at the end with the final events. Thus, the plot design is also accurate, and what fails, therefore, is the staging and execution. Another interesting point is the victim of the possession, unlike other films where it is usually a woman or a child, is a young man or a man, which is less common and reminiscent of "The Possession of Michael King" (2014) directed by David Jung. It's also an independent, low-budget production that details the possession process more extensively and deeply over its 83-minute duration. We have a man who, contrary to what Brandon in "The Possession Experiment" seeks, aims to demonstrate the opposite. While "The Possession of Michael King" has a balanced development and follows a clear line, Hansen's is irregular and to a certain extent chaotic and unpredictable. However, this unpredictability that emerges from chaos can even be an attractive point for the curious viewer without prejudices who wants to give Hansen's film a chance.

The narrative approach of Irish horror cinema is remarkably effective due to its skill in intertwining reality with folklore, allowing audiences to experience terror in both literal and metaphorical senses. This blend of reality and fantasy transforms mental illness from a mere clinical phenomenon into something potentially mystical or supernatural. The ensuing ambiguity keeps viewers in a state of constant uncertainty over what is real and what is imagined, thereby intensifying the experience of fear and anxiety. Simultaneously, these films leverage folklore and local mythology to explore deep and often taboo subjects within Irish society, such as mental health, in an accessible and emotionally resonant manner. This approach not only steers clear of clichés but also adds a new dimension to the horror genre, offering a richer, more nuanced experience and prompting reflection on complex and often disconcerting themes. A prime example of this is Liam Gavin's "A Dark Song" (2018).

In Ireland, the perception of mental disorders has historically been a taboo, influenced by cultural, religious, and social factors, including the significant influence of the Catholic Church (RTE, 2022). Stigmas and misunderstandings have relegated these issues to the private sphere, marked by shame. However, recent efforts have fostered a significant shift in this perception, with awareness campaigns and reforms in the mental health system (St Patrick's Mental Health Services, 2020; 2022; Epidemiology and Psychiatric Sciences, 2021). "You Are Not My Mother" reflects this change, intertwining mental health with Irish myths. It explores school bullying and its impact on mental health, the hereditary transmission of disorders like bipolarity, and Capgras Syndrome, where an individual believes a loved one has been replaced by an impostor. These portrayals enrich the public understanding of mental health, using the collective imagination to symbolize internal struggles and providing a unique cultural context.

"You Are Not My Mother" (2021) shares themes with "The Hole In the Ground" (2019) and "The Hollow Child" (2017), focusing on the supplanting or replacement of loved ones. The film delves into the mother-daughter relationship within a context of psychological terror. Char, the protagonist, confronts an alarming change in her mother following her mysterious disappearance, evoking Capgras Syndrome. This transformation creates tension and mystery, challenging the viewer to discern between reality and the supernatural. It employs horror to explore human fears, identity, and perception of reality, demonstrating cinema's power in probing deep psychological aspects.

In "You Are Not My Mother", "The Hole In the Ground", and "The Hollow Child", Jungian concepts such as the collective unconscious and archetypes are reflected. The transformed figure of the mother symbolizes the archetype of the Great Mother and the Shadow, representing nurturing and terrifying aspects, as well as repressed fears and insecurities. These films also explore individuation, showing internal and external struggles that characters face with supernatural elements, vital in the collective unconscious. The dream sequences and symbolic imagery underscore Jungian dream analysis as communications from the unconscious. These narratives are seen as explorations of psychic processes, highlighting the internal transformations of the characters.

Director and writer Kate Nolan addresses her narrative with sensitivity, comparable to Ari Aster's "Hereditary" (2018), attracting a wide audience by blending family drama and mental health with myths and legends. Nolan uses the collective unconscious to connect with audiences, inviting them to reflect on fear, consciousness, and cultural heritage, achieving a scope that encompasses drama and terror.

Nolan opts to focus on Ireland's pagan and Celtic heritage, contrasting with the dominant Catholic influence in the country's culture. By delving into Celtic traditions, she explores aspects of the "self" and its relationship with the social or community environment. This immersion in paganism comments on the tension between modernity and tradition, showing how the ancient continues to resonate in contemporary life.

Nolan's choice to utilize pagan and Celtic symbolism, instead of Christian elements, highlights Ireland's ancestral roots, creating a connection with a less explored past and a significant cultural contrast. This not only intensifies the film's atmosphere of mystery and terror by utilizing less familiar symbolism but also offers a new perspective on Irish cultural identity and its complexities. Nolan suggests that understanding the present and its challenges, like mental illness, requires recognizing all layers of the past, including pre-Christian ones, providing a rich and profound narrative that reflects the complexity of society and its history.

The treatment of water and fire in the film subverts their traditional symbolism. Water, typically associated with purification, becomes a medium for deception and confusion, reflecting the mother's disturbed nature. Conversely, fire, often linked to destruction, acts as a purifying agent, suggesting unconventional methods of healing and conflict resolution. This symbolic inversion highlights the complexity of the characters' emotional and psychological journey, where the feared and destructive become salvific and curative.

The cinematography of Narayan

Van Maele deepens the narrative. Van Maele captures details that reflect social depression and poverty in the characters' lives, like Char's house and neighborhood, adding authenticity. The irony of the Afro teacher's unawareness, captured on camera, comments on social blindness in matters like bullying. The palette of cold colors, low luminosity, and high sharpness create a melancholic and realistic atmosphere. This cinematographic work not only accompanies but also expands Nolan's narrative, adding depth and emotion, showcasing the power of cinematic imagery in storytelling.

The soundtrack by Die Hexen illustrates an experimental approach in film music, blending the orchestral with the electronic to reflect the mix of the supernatural with the characters' realities. This technique, evident in the sonic representation of Char with sounds evoking pianos and bells against a chaotic harmonic background, subtly integrates with the psychology of the characters and the film's atmosphere.

This style, popular in concerts under the guise of innovation, is common among "naive" contemporary composers seeking to present themselves as avant-garde. However, their authenticity and artistic value are questionable. Mocking this, Miklós Rózsa in his score for "King of Kings" (1961) used dodecaphonism ironically to represent the devil's temptations to Jesus, an implicit critique of this style. Rózsa used this technique to highlight how cinema can give a deeper meaning to atonal music.

In "You Are Not My Mother", Hazel Doupe as Char impresses with her ability to convey deep emotional complexity, resonating strongly with the audience. Her performance, far from relying on appearance, emphasizes the viewer's identification with the character's emotions and experiences. Jordanne Jones, playing Suzanne, shows a notable evolution from bully to friend, revealing the volatility and depth of adolescent relationships. Carolyn Bracken, as Angela, the conflicted mother, brings a mix of vulnerability and bewilderment that adds key emotional intensity to the plot. Ingrid Craigie, as grandmother Rita, emerges as an unexpected pillar, a strong and protective matriarch, crucial to the story.

Paul Reid, although in a more secondary role, is indispensable in maintaining a sense of reality within the film. His performance provides an essential anchor in the real world, balancing the supernatural and psychological elements.

Kate Nolan's direction integrates these roles, emphasizing how the characters' evolutions not only add layers to the plot but are essential to the narrative twists, contributing a distinctive originality to the film. This integration of character development and narrative makes "You Are Not My Mother" a work that stands out for its focus on personal transformation as the central axis of the story.

In "You Are Not My Mother", a raw depiction of realities such as school bullying and parental alienation is presented, where evils like materialism and neglect manifest. The film reflects the family dynamics and social pressures affecting adolescents. This narrative offers an opportunity to explore understanding and conflict resolution.

Kate Nolan's proposal is a breath of fresh air (never better said coming from the lands of Hibernia) for European cinema, and the horror genre in general, whose authenticity and craftsmanship are too often overshadowed by commercial interests. However, it would be prudent not to overuse certain tropes, as similarities with other Irish films in this vein have been noted, since, in the end, like everything, the veins of resources are not inexhaustible. Especially considering that other industries, like the North American one, act like the seven-headed dragon of the Apocalypse of John, waiting for someone to give birth to something good to devour it.

Ross Richardson, as the director of photography, creates a captivating and meaningful atmosphere by utilizing the setting of the Victorian house. His approach focuses on immersing the viewer in a dark environment of isolation and solitude, reflecting not only the physical space but also the mental state of the protagonist, Alice. The way he plays with lighting-creating deep shadows and dark corners-establishes a tone of mystery and potential danger, fueling expectation.

The darkness becomes a metaphor for Alice's internal struggle and fears, keeping the audience on high alert. Moreover, he achieves a deeper immersion into the story by allowing the audience to accompany Alice in her exploration of the house.

This technique of "showing" the environment effectively builds suspense and familiarizes us with the space. Through the camera, we gradually discover the scope and details of the mansion, serving not only to establish the setting but also providing a clearer understanding of where and how events unfold.

The strategic placement of elements in the visual narrative is particularly skillful. As the camera explores, objects and spaces are introduced that later reveal their essential nature.

Comparing Alice in "Deadline" to Jack Torrance in "The Shining" (1980), we see that both characters find themselves in similar situations of extreme isolation and mental fragility, exacerbated by their surroundings. In "Deadline", just as in "The Shining", the isolation and the pressure to complete a creative task under challenging circumstances play a crucial role in the psychological disintegration of the main character. In Alice's case, her internal struggle is intensified by the abuse she has suffered, reflected in her reliance on medication and her emotional vulnerability. This situation resonates with Jack Torrance, whose psyche crumbles under the malign influence of the Overlook Hotel. In both cases, the characters face an environment that seems to amplify their worst fears and tendencies, leading them to a state of mental imbalance.

The duality of Alice's experience is a fascinating representation of the struggle between sanity and madness, and between reality and illusion. Throughout the film, we see Alice balancing her desire to stay anchored in reality through her work with the growing impulse to explore the mysteries and strange manifestations that arise in the house. On one hand, Alice tries to cling to sanity and normality by focusing on her writing task. This concentration on work is a way to stay connected to the outside world and her sense of identity and purpose. However, the constant presence of inexplicable phenomena in the house acts as a magnet, drawing her into a journey of self-discovery and confrontation with her past and deepest fears. The environment of the Victorian house, with its dark corners and oppressive atmosphere, symbolizes the "jaws of her mind," a labyrinth of memories and traumas that Alice must navigate. The search for the source of the strange manifestations becomes a metaphor for her struggle to understand and confront her internal demons.

The topic where the protagonist faces the dilemma of whether or not to take psychiatric medication is indeed a recurring element in many films that explore themes of mental health, reality versus illusion, and the confrontation of internal fears. This symbolic moment, often represented by the protagonist contemplating a bottle of pills, encapsulates a critical crossroads for both the character and the plot. This moment represents more than just the decision to take a pill. It's an internal struggle between staying grounded in accepted reality and risking immersion in an experience that, although potentially disturbing and disorienting, could reveal hidden truths or allow necessary confrontations with traumas or fears. Medication, in this context, symbolizes safety and stability but can also be seen as a barrier preventing the character from fully confronting and processing their internal experiences and emotions.

Carlos José Álvarez's original orchestral soundtrack becomes the representation of Alice's mental balance, supporting her struggle to maintain sanity in the face of ghostly manifestations. Each tone and melody reflects her changing emotional states and internal conflict, adding a deep emotional layer to her journey. The music not only sets the mood and tone but also acts as a silent narrator, guiding the viewer through the story and emphasizing pivotal moments. The use of the piano, in particular, brings a sense of intimacy and vulnerability, resonating with Alice's emotional and mental fragility. These melodies, softly flowing over the film's underlying tension, serve to emphasize the character's mood and internal conflicts.

The symbolic use of water, particularly in bathtubs, in horror and suspense films that deal with messenger ghosts or justice vindicators is a rich source of interpretation from psychoanalytic and psychological perspectives. Water, especially in the context of a bathtub, often symbolizes the exploration of the subconscious, a return to the maternal womb, or a form of purification and transformation. From a Freudian perspective, water could be interpreted as a symbol of repressed desires and hidden emotions. The bathtub, in this context, becomes a space where these underlying aspects can surface. In the cinematic realm, this often manifests in scenes where characters experience revelations, repressed memories, or encounters with ghosts that force them to confront hidden truths. On the other hand, from the perspective of Carl Jung's deep psychology, the water in bathtubs can symbolize the collective unconscious, a realm where archetypes and universal narratives reside.

In "Deadline", Alice (portrayed by Brittany Murphy) finds her anchor in reality through her friend, a character played by Tammy Blanchard ("Rabbit Hole" and "The Good Shepherd"). In contrast, the spectral figure that torments Alice is played by Thora Birch ("American Beauty" and "Ghost World"). Both characters, as well as the male character of David portrayed by Marc Blucas ("Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Knight and Day"), are relegated to supporting dramatic roles. They do not receive the depth of development they might have had. Particularly in the dynamics insinuated but not fully explored, such as the relationship between Murphy and Birch's characters, which is suggested to have a lesbian nature, and Blucas's antagonistic role. This is a missed opportunity.

Despite these limitations, the script effectively maintains tension throughout the film. This ability to sustain viewer interest is noteworthy, especially considering that many of the events unfolding can seem predictable even before reaching the film's midpoint. McConville demonstrates a cunning skill in playing with the viewer's sense of anticipation. He uses this predictability not as a weakness, but as a resource, keeping them expectant. This technique of placing "the carrot in front of the audience" effectively maintains tension; we are constantly waiting for the final revelation, keeping us attentive and engaged with the plot. The climax is where McConville showcases his ability to surprise. Although some elements and messages presented in the film's conclusion may seem confusing, this ambiguity becomes a narrative tool. It requires paying attention to details and subtleties, encouraging greater participation and reflection. McConville finds serious difficulties in tying up all the loose ends in the climax. During the development of the narrative arc, he shows a notable ability to create various simultaneous planes that function as mirrors to each other, significantly contributing to the film's somber and shadowy atmosphere.

The final twist, resolving the fate of David, Lucy's husband and murderer, and his attempt to also end Alice, is a narrative element seen in several other film productions. This type of revelation dramatically changes the viewer's perception of the preceding events. This twist plays with the idea of something ominous that has been present all along, influencing events from the shadows.

The coincidence between Brittany Murphy's fate and the events of "Deadline" is, in fact, eerily premonitory and adds a layer of sadness and melancholy to the film. Murphy, known for her talent and charisma on screen, died tragically shortly after completing the filming of a movie that, ironically, deals with encounters with the supernatural and the resolution of past injustices. The fact that her death occurred at her home, initially believed to be related to a bathtub accident, creates a dark parallel with the film, where water and bathroom spaces have significant symbolic meaning. Although it was later revealed that Murphy suffered from more serious health conditions, which also fatally affected her husband months later, the coincidence remains disturbing. Murphy's character faces ghosts from the past and seeks justice for them, allowing them, in the narrative of the film, to rest in peace.

The Germans have always known how to add a touch of grace and originality to the most clichéd themes, even in the saturated market of "found footage" films. "Heilstätten" (2018), by German director Michael David Pate, exemplifies this, emerging as one of the worst nightmares of its recent collective memory, infused with a highly concentrated gothic essence, akin to an essential oil. This is a testament to Europe's age-old culture.

This approach sweetens and enhances a film molded from the tired and overused subgenre of mockumentaries, adding a distinct, old-world European luster. This film marks Pate's earnest foray into feature filmmaking and, to further complicate matters, into the horror genre. With two comedies under his belt, and let's be honest, not particularly well-received ones, Pate dives into the quagmire of a mockumentary, interspersing it with external narrative perspectives.

It's evident that Pate was aiming for an easy win with a once-popular format, but by 2015, it was already gasping for air. And by the time he got around to it in 2018, it reeked of staleness. However, Pate's primary misstep was overestimating his and his art team's ability, including cinematographer Pascal Schmit, to create an effective set. The dilapidated asylum, both inside and out, establishes a scene that quickly immerses the audience. At least that was my experience: a space that, through its aesthetics and the imagery attributed to it in the narrative, manages to keep us glued to our seats. Every element of the set, without exception, creates not just discomfort but a true context that, with its enveloping authenticity and the onset of night, reaches a point of suffocation and claustrophobia. This recreation was so cool that the Koreans, almost simultaneously in the same year, under the direction of Jeong Beom-sik, released "Gonjiam: Haunted Asylum," practically under identical artistic, technical, and narrative premises. It's hard to say who copied whom.

Nowadays, information travels so fast through media and networks that, despite what might be documented, it's unclear whether the Korean copied the German or vice versa. This piece stands as an example of technical proficiency. "Heilstätten" also features a generic but effective score by Andrew Ryan, which at least fits well and serves its purpose during climactic moments. The special effects are decent and restrained, avoiding an overindulgence in blood and gore, thus preventing a narratively weak film from becoming an easy target for ridicule and satire.

The cast is a mix of genuine YouTubers, seasoned film actors, and even some with significant theater experience, all displaying their skills on screen.

The issue with the cast lies not so much in their talent, which shines through at times, but in what a clumsy script, co-written by Pate and Ecki Ziedrich, allows them. The film starts with two potentially strong axes: a simple yet potentially rich plot and a system of possible relationships between characters. Additionally, there's an underlying critique of current generations obsessed with broadcasting every detail of their lives on social media for a handful of "likes." Instead of capitalizing on these powerful elements and the beautifully crafted setting, the script suffers from rhythmic imbalance, lack of direction, and ultimately, underdeveloped narrative arcs, including the dimensional construction of its characters.

Pate seems to be more focused on (and I'd like to think this is intentional rather than a lack of talent) a biting critique of his contemporaries, keeping them chasing their tails with challenges, tricks, vacuous conversations, boasts, "likes," and other nonsense for over two-thirds of the film. This prevents any semblance of character depth from emerging.

With all the narcissistic posturing, dark shots, confusion in the shadows, and shaky hand-held camera work, the audience is even deprived of the pleasure of seeing the beautiful faces and bodies of these young men and women. Their true communicative facet only reveals itself when the fireworks of frenzied action in the last part begin. This does little to help us understand who is who, let alone identify with any of them. Only at the end do we connect with Marnie (Sonia Gerhardt), the sole survivor of the madness (pun intended), who will likely think twice before venturing onto a YouTube channel again.

Moreover, it's impossible to overlook how most characters in "Heilstätten" see their existence in the script reduced to mere pawns in a macabre game, like sheep on their way to shearing or, worse, to slaughter. This oversimplification not only strips them of depth and relevance but also misses the chance to delve into intriguing subplots. A glaring example is the so-called patient 106, euthanized within the sanatorium. The story of this character, whose ghost is rumored to haunt the asylum, could have added an extra layer of mystery and psychological terror to the plot. However, this subplot is only superficially explored, squandering a golden opportunity to enrich the narrative and immerse the viewer in a more complex and nuanced experience.

Pate tries to salvage a chaotic and absurd script that continually tests, and ultimately exhausts, the audience's patience, with a twist that aims to be the height of mockery, culminating in a scene that's cruel, horrific, and surprising. All this, in a futile "tour de force" in the last 25 minutes, comes too late to regain credibility with an audience that has stoically waited for something to happen or be revealed. While Pate's attempt to inject pace and momentum in the final crescendo is appreciated, as well as a "masterclass" in surgical anatomy, it backfires, including the twist upon twist in the final shot, suggesting that behind every "bad guy" there's an even "badder" one. Everything from the revelation of Tim Oliver Schulz's character (Theo) to his final, ghastly act of shooting himself on camera (a sardonic visual representation of the critique of how far one can go to create a viral product on social media, bordering on comedy) adds fuel to the fire, mocking the neuroses of today's young adults to an extreme.

The script reaches a critical point when Theo, after cutting off Betty's nose live, begins to dissect Finn (Timmi Trinks) to remove his heart. This moment of extreme horror is abruptly interrupted when Theo leaves Finn in agony to chase after Marnie, who has managed to escape. And Charly (Emilio Sakraya) is left awaiting his torture tied to the operating table (Theo had proposed hanging him by his vocal cords), in a scene that promised to be a grotesque display of violence but remains unfinished. This sudden shift, abandoning Theo's bloody work to chase Marnie, deprives the audience of a visceral terror climax. Although effective in maintaining tension, it results in a missed opportunity to explore the depths of barbarity, leaving a sense of an incomplete horror narrative.

In conclusion, the film fails to crest the wave and is instead capsized by it, ending not with our jaws dropped in awe but in laughter. Culinary speaking, Pate burns the sauce, and it might be something he sought, consciously or not.

In the end, I feel a certain degree of second-hand embarrassment for a German audience that expected a resurgence of national horror after years of self-flagellation with historical memory quotas from ultra-conservative political correctness. We witness the schizophrenic dance of a young filmmaker torn between the most caustic caricature and the exploitation of ideas and opportunities served to him on a silver platter. And, as it should be, this mad and macabre dance takes place in the context of an asylum (albeit abandoned, it's still an asylum). At least in this, there lies some coherence.

Eric Walter's "My Amityville Horror" (2012) ventures into the renowned and contentious paranormal case of the Lutz family in Amityville, New York. It stands out for its focus on Daniel Lutz's perspective, who experienced these events in his childhood. This intimate and personal approach diverges from traditional Amityville analyses, centering on Daniel's trauma and emotional aftermath. Through interviews with him and others involved, the documentary presents a multifaceted view of the events' impact on his life.

The film emerges as a character study and an exploration of subjective truth. Walter's direction follows an adult Daniel wrestling with conflicting memories and emotions, not aiming to confirm or debunk Amityville's supernatural events. Instead, it illustrates how these experiences have shaped Daniel, using archival footage and current interviews to weave a retrospective and immediate narrative.

It introduces a new dimension to the Amityville story, focusing on the long-term impact on an individual. Daniel's raw honesty and vulnerability on screen are compelling, though the focus on his perspective might seem one-sided to those seeking a more balanced exploration of various viewpoints. In terms of production, the documentary is proficient, yet it doesn't employ particularly innovative visual or narrative techniques.

From a journalistic perspective, it excels in its narrative approach but is limited by the lack of a thorough and balanced analysis of the different versions and testimonies related to the case. The film stands as a valid personal and subjective account but doesn't offer a definitive confirmation or refutation of the Amityville facts. The documentary's credibility heavily relies on Daniel's credibility as the primary witness, and while the inclusion of experts lends some credibility, it doesn't offset the lack of objective evidence and comprehensive analysis.

It's a study that offers a unique and personal perspective, challenging viewers to consider the human stories behind paranormal myths. However, it faces significant challenges in terms of journalistic quality when evaluated against criteria of objectivity, depth of investigation, and balance. Its validity as a historical document is limited, and its credibility largely depends on the viewer's perception of Daniel Lutz as the main narrator.

Eric Walter, known for his focus on the paranormal and mysterious, has garnered both interest and criticism in his documentary filmmaking career. His work in "My Amityville Horror" (2012) reflects this duality, attracting an audience intrigued by the supernatural, while facing questions about objectivity and source verification. Walter has been commended for his innovation in the documentary genre and his ability to engage audiences. His interest in the human impact of paranormal stories is evident in his focus on the emotional and psychological aftermath experienced by Daniel Lutz.

Walter's documentary on the Amityville story, addressing the accounts of George and Kathy Lutz, achieves a notable balance by contextualizing the events without excessively veering towards the massacre committed by Ronald DeFeo Jr. This approach aids in understanding the environment the Lutzes encountered and how it might have influenced their experience at 112 Oceans Avenue (now 108).

Walter provides essential background on the DeFeo family, setting the stage for subsequent events. In doing so, he helps viewers better grasp the atmosphere surrounding the house before the Lutzes' arrival. This includes the DeFeo family dynamics and the property's history. Although the primary focus is not on the massacre by Ronald DeFeo Jr., the documentary mentions it as a crucial preceding event. This mention is important for establishing the tone and perception of the house but is managed in a way that doesn't overshadow the Lutzes' experience.

The documentary adeptly links the house's background with the Lutzes' experiences. This connection is crucial for understanding why the house was perceived as haunted and how previous events might have influenced the family's perceptions.

The documentary on the Amityville story, while intriguing in its content, exhibits certain deficiencies in terms of structural clarity, manifesting in several key aspects of its execution.

Firstly, the narrative of the documentary focuses almost exclusively on Daniel Lutz's first-person perspective as the main subject of the narrated experiences. This stylistic choice, while providing an intimate and detailed view of the events from his viewpoint, limits the perspective to a single narrative. The presence of other subjects, such as the woman interviewing Lutz and some additional witnesses, is minimal and does not compensate for this lack of diversity. The participation of Daniel Lutz's siblings or neighbors and residents of the area at that time could have offered additional and possibly more objective perspectives on the events. These testimonies could have provided a broader context and helped viewers better understand the family and community dynamics surrounding the events.

In a quality documentary, a reporter or narrator is expected to act as a guiding thread, introducing the piece, guiding the viewer through the narrative, and offering clear conclusions at the end. These conclusions could include affirmations or denials, hypothesis formulation, questions, or dilemmas that invite viewer reflection. However, the absence of a narrator with these functions leaves a gap in terms of critical analysis.

The structure lacks clear differentiation into sections or blocks that divide the content into coherent units. It is presented in a continuous line without clear transitions, making it difficult for the viewer to distinguish between different parts or themes within the documentary. This lack of segmented structure results in a confusing viewing experience, where the constant flow of information and narrative intertwines without a defined demarcation.

The excessive focus on Lutz during interviews, without providing sufficient visual context of the surroundings, detracts from authenticity. In the interviews with the psychotherapist, not adequately showing the consultation environment makes the scene less credible or professional. Including elements of the environment, such as diplomas, books, or the general layout of the office, could have provided a stronger sense of place and professionalism.

Regarding the use of archival images and research materials, instead of being integrated to provide additional context or evidence, they are often presented without adequate explanation of their content or relevance in relation to what is being explained at the moment, in a somewhat disorganized and "bulk" manner. This presentation leaves the viewer confused about their importance or significance, rather than clarifying or deepening the points being discussed.

Access to the Amityville house in real-time during the documentary, while Daniel Lutz recounts his experience, would have been a powerful and significant element for several reasons. This approach could have enriched the documentary's narrative and offered a more immersive and convincing experience for the viewer.

The inconsistency in the narrative line of the documentary on the Amityville story is evident in how the documentary addresses the veracity of the narrated events. For most of the documentary, the story is presented from Lutz's subjective first-person perspective. This narrative choice limits the perspective. It seems to implicitly support the veracity of the events as told by Lutz, without significantly questioning or contrasting them with other perspectives or evidence.

However, towards the end, a crucial dilemma is introduced: the possibility that Lutz's narration is a fabrication or the product of a mental imbalance. This sudden introduction of skepticism contrasts sharply with the previously unquestioned presentation of his accounts. If the documentary's intention is to place the viewer in a position of doubt or questioning about the veracity of the events, it would be more coherent and effective to introduce this perspective from the beginning, with a more balanced approach.

From a commercial standpoint, this strategy may be effective. By not taking a definitive stance, the documentary has the potential to appeal to a broad spectrum with different beliefs and opinions about the case. Believers in the paranormal and skeptics alike can find elements in the documentary that support their pre-existing views, which can increase interest and discussion. However, from a journalistic rigor perspective, the lack of commitment to a clear and substantiated narrative can lead to questions about the seriousness and credibility of the production. Daniel Lutz's participation adds a dimension of authenticity, but it is not a guarantee of objectivity or absolute truth. It is important to maintain a critical view; even in documentaries, the narrative can be influenced by various factors and not always reflect an indisputable truth. Although the documentary may have informational value, especially for offering a direct perspective of a witness to the Amityville events, it cannot be discounted that it also serves promotional purposes. It contributes to keeping the Amityville narrative alive and, potentially, to promoting interest in the entire content ecosystem related to this story and the Warren universe.

Max Kalmanowicz's "The Children" (1980) exudes a cinematic quality that might be deemed a throwback to the mid-70s. Despite the celluloid undergoing a transformation by the late 20th century, it wasn't as uniform as we see today. Moreover, this is a production constrained by budget, publicity, and distribution.

We encounter a somewhat original portrayal of malevolent children. The film can be described as a mix of toxic, demonic zombies with an overt malevolence and a notable peculiarity: they possess the ability to scorch anyone who pauses to accept their seemingly earnest embrace. The script wastes no time on pleasantries and, after setting the stage with a toxic cloud from a chemical plant engulfing a school bus, it unleashes its miniature monsters to wreak havoc on any adult in their path.

Technically, the film aligns with the B-movie aesthetics of its time, with stark contrasts in quality and professional commitment across different areas.

The cinematography, showcasing Barry Adams' narrative skill behind the camera, and the apt soundtrack by Harry Manfredini, which channels the essence of horror classics, stand out as strengths. These well-executed elements are paired with special effects and set designs that, despite the era's technological constraints, could have been more polished. Yet, the production design manages to create convincing spaces that immerse the viewer and effectively contribute to the straightforward plot.

The narrative unfolds modestly, penned by Carlton J. Albright and Edward Terry. Although the climax presents some confusion, the script manages to shape and satisfactorily conclude the basic premise.

The relatively unknown adult actors display a competence that dignifies a film which could easily have slipped into the more vulgar and slapstick realms of its genre. Their involvement and charisma lend credibility to the final product, contrasting with the more clumsy aspects, such as the toxic children's movements, their makeup, and the rather peculiar methods devised for their elimination. The absurdity of having to sever their hands for extermination is never clarified, and it's debatable whether we should take this seriously. Yet, the film compels us to do just that.

It's possible that this was a deliberate choice to inject a touch of humor and distance from the core horror elements.

According to a "Var News" article from October 15, 1980, since its release on September 26 of the same year, the domestic gross had climbed to 7 million dollars.

The film itself is a social and familial critique woven into its narrative. "The Children" underscores the transformation of childhood innocence into objects of horror and calamity. Among the plethora of titles in this subgenre, "The Children" stands out for its underlying theme of children as instruments of adult atonement for sins.

The embedded notion that "children will wash away their parents' sins with their blood" establishes a cultural status where the young pay for their elders' transgressions. This theme is reminiscent of the Pied Piper of Hamelin, whose essence has been inherited by many films featuring terrifying children. In one version, the liberated children exact revenge on their town's adults for their deceit and greed.

In "The Children," the adults' sin is their negligence in handling chemical substances, toxic to people, animals, and Mother Nature alike. This theme was already well-trodden when "The Children" was filmed, and today, it's been handled so much that it slips through our greased consciousness.

The children assume the role of harbingers or prophets. The message is clear: "This is what you've done to the planet. You will not only lose your offspring, but they will also become your executioners." Like other films of the era addressing similar topics, regardless of the narrative agent-be it children, zombies, or irate mutant bugs-humanity must ultimately account for its environmental mismanagement.

In comparing this apocalyptic vision with Tom Shankland's "The Children" (2008), we find a contemporary reimagining of this narrative, prompting reflection on the persistence and transformation of fears. Thus, we delve into a comparison that highlights thematic similarities and executional differences, offering deeper insight into the genre's evolution. Both films share a common thread in horror: children transformed into threats to adults. This theme, differently explored in each film, is rooted in the disturbing transformation of childlike innocence into a source of horror, creating a dissonance that strikes at the very heart of psychological terror.

Both films utilize isolation and claustrophobia to heighten narrative tension. Kalmanowicz's version stems from a rural setting and chemical disaster, while Shankland opts for a family gathering in a secluded house to craft his claustrophobic scenario. Despite differences in context and era, both films reflect a "home terror" aesthetic, where the safe and familiar space becomes a place of fear and unease; more endogenous, indeed, in Shankland's case.

Beyond terror, both versions offer social and environmental commentary. The 1980 film focuses on explicit environmental criticism, while the 2008 film can be seen as a reflection on the pressures of modern family life and social expectations. These underlying themes enrich the plot and resonate beyond superficial fear. The portrayal of children as not only victims but also agents of terror is significant. This suggests a thematic influence where the loss of control over the next generation becomes a deep and disturbing source of fear.

In "The Children" (1980), adults confront "zombified" children head-on, reflecting an era where evil was met with resolve, even if it meant extreme decisions. This contrasts with the 2008 film, where parents hesitate to acknowledge the evil in their children, symbolizing a contemporary society that shies away from confronting evil if it stems from the intimate and familiar. This difference underscores a cultural shift towards greater protection of childlike innocence and a reluctance to accept that evil can manifest in our most cherished figures, thus challenging our notions of morality and parental responsibility. The different approaches to child antagonists in both films reflect a significant shift in sociocultural values and parental attitudes over nearly three decades. This evolution may be influenced by shifts in parenting psychology and philosophy, moving from a more authoritarian view to one that is more understanding and child-centered. In cinema, this translates to a narrative that resists simplifying good and evil in absolute terms, presenting instead a more nuanced and psychologically complex reality.

So, if you want your offspring to remain adorable, do things right, especially regarding waste recycling. Otherwise, just ask the "gremlins".

"The Children of the Fall" weaves elements of horror and thriller against a backdrop of social and political critique. The setting in 1973 is deliberate, marking the year of the Yom Kippur War, an event that deeply scarred Israeli society.

As the director of photography and producer, Tom Goldwasser brings a cohesive vision, capturing the essence of Israel and kibbutz life with natural lighting that reflects both the utopian promise and the underlying tension. Yet, the film lacks expansive shots that provide a sense of scale and location. The bright daylight scenes starkly contrast with the nocturnal ones, where practical lighting casts intense shadows, playing on viewer anxiety and unveiling hidden dangers. This visual dichotomy symbolizes the dualities of appearance versus reality, and community versus individual, mirroring shifts in the narrative and the characters' fates.

Goldwasser employs light and shadow to support the story, albeit not with the finesse of larger productions. The 70s setting offers visual and thematic opportunities that could have been further exploited to give the film a distinctive identity, such as reflecting the era's aesthetic and the region's unique visual texture.

The cinematography serves its purpose but doesn't maximize the visual and narrative potential of the context and script, possibly reflecting budgetary restrictions or creative choices. In independent cinema, balancing artistic vision with financial feasibility is often a significant challenge.

Sharon Farber's score is generic and fails to significantly enhance the viewing experience or integrate effectively into the narrative. Its lack of standout moments represents a weakness in composition, failing to leave a memorable imprint or contribute meaningfully to the atmosphere.

The protagonists, portrayed by Noa Maiman and Aki Avni, share a rich and nuanced dynamic that evolves throughout the film, encompassing various layers of personal, social, and even sexual connection. Michael Ironside's brief appearance seems to lend a moment of dramatic gravitas, possibly due to his ability to project an intense, charismatic presence on screen, which can be particularly effective in a "Gran Torino" (2008)-type role, where an older character displays a mix of toughness and emotional depth.

The supporting characters come across as monolithic, indicating they are written and presented to fulfill specific plot functions without deviating from a predictable set of traits or behaviors. The acting structure follows a recognizable formula, particularly in slasher films, where a group of characters, often young and naive, are introduced only to be systematically eliminated by the antagonist. In this case, the international volunteers serve as sacrificial lambs in a narrative that intertwines literal violence with symbolic, reflecting both the historical conflict of the 1973 Yom Kippur and the internal conflict between the two protagonists.

Using a real historical event as a backdrop adds a layer of meaning, especially for audiences familiar with Israel's history and the Yom Kippur War. Setting a fictitious bloodshed on this sacred day of atonement and fasting in Judaism loads the film with heavy, potentially controversial symbolism. The connection between the ancient Yom Kippur sacrificial rituals and the murders seems to be a deliberate choice by the creators to infuse the film with additional layers of meaning and symbolism. In Jewish tradition, Yom Kippur is a day of judgment, redemption, and forgiveness, where sacrifices and rituals were meant to purify the community of its sins.

The narrative follows this dual structure: on one hand, it has a seemingly straightforward plot that aligns with the conventions of the slasher genre, where characters are pursued and eliminated by a killer. This structure serves as a vehicle for tension and suspense and is accessible to audiences expecting the typical thrills of a horror movie.

On the other hand, complexity arises as the film delves into the tandem of protagonists, whose personal stories and interpersonal dynamics add layers of meaning to the plot. Through these two characters, it explores deeper themes such as guilt, redemption, identity, and morality, resonating with the symbolism and metaphors of the Yom Kippur context.

Their development and relationship offer a counterpoint to the violence and simplicity of the slasher premise.

The film makes a deliberate narrative choice to dedicate the first half to a slow introduction of characters and their circumstances. This is valid for establishing the film's world and giving an understanding of the characters, but it also risks losing momentum. By not giving many characters enough prominence, the film fails to engage the viewer, as no emotional connection is established with those characters before the action begins to escalate.

Yaron Weinstein's evolution is an example of how body language and non-verbal cues can be used to communicate an internal transformation. Through Aki Avni's performance, his character gradually unfolds, revealing layers that were initially hidden.

Initially, Yaron presents as a welcoming and affable character, even with a touch of eccentricity symbolized by his cowboy hat. It might be an attempt to connect with Rachel on common ground or simply a facet of his charismatic personality. His assertion of "believing in her" establishes a trust and mentorship relationship.

The dining hall scene, where Yaron adheres to a patriotic speech, may reflect his commitment to his community, which initially seems like a positive quality. But this patriotism is also an early hint of more extreme nationalism.

Finally, dressed in a uniform and armed, it's a dramatic turn that starkly contrasts with the initial image we were presented with. The use of the kippah and the submachine gun is symbolic, representing a fusion of religious fervor and militarism. Yaron's transformation could be the result of a pre-existing personality disorder, exacerbated by the pre-war climate and possibly by a radical ideology.

What makes this transformation effective is its subtlety. It's not a sudden revelation, but a series of small clues and changes in Yaron's behavior that culminate in a full revelation of his true nature.

Yaron's progression from a paternal, welcoming figure to an embodiment of violence and extremism reflects a broader narrative about the duality of human nature and the dangers of radicalism. It serves not only for character development but can also be seen as a commentary on the broader conflicts facing Israeli society, especially in times of war.

The dialogues with Rachel are rich and revealing, not only advancing the plot but also deepening the themes and values the film seeks to explore. For example, in the girl's first encounter with Ironside's character, themes of morality, survival, history, and conflict are touched upon.

The landscape of Israel, especially that of a kibbutz, is itself a potent metaphor. It's a place of stark beauty, with a rich and complex history, akin to the film: a terrain that could harbor hidden "treasures" if dug into deeply enough. To achieve this, the viewer would need to be guided beyond the surface, perhaps through a bolder narrative or direction willing to delve into the more critical aspects of the story. A film that accomplishes this can leave a lasting impression and foster meaningful discussions long after the final credits have rolled.

The director seems to want to play at "self-critique," and in a way, it's appreciated as an intention that, even if only due to social pressure, and especially now in the times that Palestinians and Jews are experiencing socially and geopolitically, is commendable. It remains a biting critique of the eternal Middle East conflict.

For "self-critique" to be effective and not lost in interpretation, the script must be clear in its intention without being didactic. The film must balance entertainment narrative with moments of reflection that invite questioning and reasoning.

Finally, it poses a narrative enigma that blurs the line between intentional ambiguity and unsatisfactory resolution, challenging the viewer to discern between thematic complexity and potential script deficiencies. The uncertainty about the protagonist's redemption and the true identity of the killer, along with the treatment of the volunteers, reflects social tensions and human nature but can leave the audience confused. While it can enrich the cinematic experience, the lack of context or clear closure runs the risk of the piece seeming incomplete, especially in a genre that relies on the resolution of central mysteries.