As long as Amelia has sole control of Patreon review requests, y’all are going to read about early-thirties Donato experiencing the childhood witchy-movie upbringing I never had. Last time it was Practical Magic. Today it’s Halloweentown, directed by Duwayne Dunham of Little Giants fame.
Disney’s made-for-TV children’s tale about not-so-scary monsters is most notable for its festive October charms. Citizens are all horror-friendly characters in rubbery molded costumes, decor favors anything from cawing ravens to stringy fake spiderwebs, and at its core is a family-first narrative about allowing your children to choose what makes them unique. It’s wholesome, goshdarnit—let enchanted little girls get witchy wit’ it!
Debbie Reynolds stars as Aggie Cromwell, a grandmother who dreams of daughter Gwen (Judith Hoag) someday allowing granddaughters Marnie (Kimberly J. Brown) and Sophie (Emily Roeske) to embrace their magical heritage. Gwen protests—desiring a “normal” existence—hiding powers from her kin. That’s until Marnie and Sophie, alongside non-fantasy-loving brother Dylan (Joey Zimmerman), end up in Halloweentown. Aggie finally sees her opportunity to groom Marnie and Sophie’s abilities until Gwen swoops in to spoil any toil and trouble. Too bad the next flying bus back home isn’t for hours, and there’s danger afoot in Halloweentown that might finally unite this feuding bloodline.
Although, hearing “danger” may improperly set your expectations. Halloweentown is assertively a pre-horror-fan title tempered for the youngest audiences as not to scare away teenie-weenie viewers. Today’s genre lacks this type of childhood-slash-introductory horror that’s silly, zany, and spooky on base-bozo levels. That’s not a dig, mind you. Prospective horror fans need a place to start, and Halloweentown introduces the likes of witches brooms, bubbling cauldrons, and statue-maker spells from warlocks who intend to take over entire imaginary creepshow communities.
Halloweentown excels as a grab-bag of monster designs from fearful Frankensteins to sweat lodge spirits to werewolf salon owners. Everything is practically applied no matter if you’re a lagoon creature with fins, flippers, and gills or a gremlin in a bowling shirt who looks like Brainy from Gremlins II but with human arms. Special effects aren’t modern-day dazzling—Aggie’s purse zips in-step like an RC car—and yet that’s the film’s unquantifiable charm. Like a Party City’s Halloween section sprung to life overnight, where the meanest manifestation is a cloaked scarecrow-demon’s face stitched together with straw visible from a few cracks. Vastly more performative than it ever is terrifying (on purpose), but it’s a warm, candy-coated welcome as zombie sales clerks impersonate Elvis or skeleton taxi drivers quip groan-worthy bonehead puns.
At the center of Halloweentown is a certifiably adorable coming-of-covens story about embracing one’s uniqueness. Metaphors and symbolism are easily detectable because creators intend to speak directly to audiences whose cognitive abilities are still in development. Gwen forces conformity onto her very-special daughters (who cares about whiny downer Dylan) while Aggie’s visits are minimal because grandma sneaks in hints about the Crowmwell’s hereditary spellcasting. It’s as sweet and well-intentioned as 90s Disney originals come, down to Sophie’s cute-as-a-button responses, including calling “bad boy” Luke (Phillip Van Dyke) a “weenie.” The kind of movie that saves the day by all Cromwells holding hands, since nothing can defeat togetherness and acceptance.
Does Halloweentown exude dated qualities and cartoon-come-to-life visual leans? Again, prosthetics and makeup look attainable from a simple SFX storefront excursion. That doesn’t snuff an eternal flame fed by the film’s everlasting commitment to not-so-spooky Halloween vibes, all approached with a wink and a grin. Yes, I like it—how could you despise something that embraces like a happy-horror hug from a loved one? Whether or not the conflict between Robin Thomas’ Kalabar and Halloweentown’s faithful is “exciting” is beside the point. You’re here for the vampires who tremble in a dentist’s chair, Sophie turning padlocks into frogs, and the undying message of individuality that hides within this witch-in-training heartwarmer.
As a child I was afraid of everything, unable to watch horror movies without crying and running upstairs for fear of catching an accidental glimpse of something frightful. As age-appropriate panic subsided, two films became my introduction to the genre: Wes Craven’s widely acclaimed Scream, which introduced me (like many) to the mechanics of the genre, and Jacob Gentry’s My Super Psycho Sweet Sixteen. Scream helped me fall in love with horror, but it was the made-for-MTV My Super Psycho Sweet 16 that excited and overjoyed me like no other experience at that time.
What initially seems like a forgettable parody of the popular television show My Super Sweet 16 instead utilizes classic slasher tropes to its advantage and develops a formidable and intriguing final girl. The film follows Skye Rotter (Lauren McKnight), who we first see as a child when she witnesses her father Charlie Rotter’s (Alex Van) brutal murder of two teenagers. Skye, having been the one to call the cops on her dad, is still dealing with the trauma of Charlie’s actions ten years later as a teenager.
The current-day action kicks off at Madison Penrose’s (Julianna Guill) sweet sixteen. Madison demands it be held at the Roller Dome, Charlie’s old place of work where he was known as “Lord Of The Rink.” Tensions rise among our teens when Skye crashes the party to see Brigg (Chris Zylka), Madison’s ex-boyfriend and Skye’s crush.
Super Psycho leaves no question who the killer is as we see Charlie pop up—in a well-earned and tension-filled jump scare—to murder the drunk and skeezy party planner who hit on underage Madison. It’s a well-deserved and mildly brutal kill for an MTV film, and sets up the audience’s bloody expectations. With Charlie officially back, anxiety grows as we wait for the inevitable confrontation between slasher-father and daughter.
The main reason I connected with this movie when it first came out—and why I still defend it today—is the character of Skye. While some of the supporting characters are one-dimensional, slasher-fodder tropes, Skye is defined by her sense of style, snarky comments, and even the art in her room. Skye and Charlie’s connection sets MTV’s teen-driven slasher apart from other similar subgenre comparisons. Though it’s in no way the first horror film to examine a parent/child relationship, Super Psycho successfully explores the idea of nature versus nurture. Throughout the film we are shown subtle indications of the similarities between Skye and her father, setting up the final showdown where Charlie instructs daughter Skye to kill Madison.
This decision Skye faces helps to explore her psyche and how she wants to emerge from this trauma, an experience that we see with other popular final girls in the genre. Similar to Erin in You’re Next, who kills her whiny ex Crispain because “Why the fuck not?” or Sidney controlling her own narrative by killing Billy in Scream, Skye shows no mercy to the bully Madison and leaves her for dead.
My Super Psycho Sweet Sixteen has no right to be as enjoyable as it is considering the conceit is based on a throwaway reality show about spoiled teenagers. However, the film earns its place in the slasher pantheon due to Skye and Charlie’s relationship, well-filmed and creative chase/death scenes, and a self-awareness that leads to a level of creative outrageousness desired in slashers. This absurdity comes to a head (literally) with the decapitation of Olivia (Maia Osman), who continues headlessly rolling on her skates in front of the unsuspecting party-goers before finally crashing into Madison’s cake. As much as Super Psycho should be praised for its unique characterization and fun plot, it should also be remembered for this scene alone. It’s pure slasher camp.
This self-aware tone is much needed for Super Psycho to be successful. Though the filmmakers and actors are giving their all, the film never treats its plot too seriously. The characters and relationships also benefit from lighter tones, specifically Skye and Brigg, who have a sweet and awkward chemistry that remains believable. Many slashers—especially ‘80s era slashers—don’t focus on the characters before killing them off, while Super Psycho surprisingly succeeds in this area. Though we still have generic and one-note characters like alcoholic Lilly (Leandra Terrazzano) or douchey jock Kevin (Joey Nappo), our core crew of Skye, Charlie, Derek, Madison, and Brigg share interesting and layered bonds.
The film sends us off with one of my favorite musical stings in horror, Skye leaving Madison for dead while AFI’s “Miss Murder” plays. We then get to our finale outro, a dream sequence scare reminiscent of classic slashers like Friday the 13th or ANightmare on Elm Street. In it, Brigg wakes up in the hospital before getting stabbed over and over by Skye—a scene that goes on long enough to feel surprisingly brutal. After waking up, Brigg sees a drawing done by Skye that she left for him, a touching gesture after Skye’s ruthless decision of leaving Madison. Such an exit feels like the perfect culmination that summarizes how Super Psycho succeeds as a slasher narrative by focusing on the charming Brigg/Skye dynamic, exploring the nature vs nurture argument, and giving us one last violent scare.
Like most slashers that came out post-Scream, Super Psycho seems to have taken inspiration from Craven’s meta-masterpiece as many of the high points of the film are the same elements that helped Scream become a success. A sympathetic and strong lead with past trauma, difficult parent/child relationships, a nerdy friend who is in love with the final girl, and a dose of humor in between the murder. This also proves true with the two Super Psycho sequels, which mirror the horror trilogy tropes of the original Scream series. The third film was even released only a few months after Scream 4 (and here’s to hoping for a similar sequel ten years later).
My Super Psycho Sweet 16 provides solid kills, a remarkable final girl, and interesting family dynamics, which is impressive for a movie made to profit off a popular reality TV series. Skye’s trauma is handled in a layered and sympathetic way that makes her a relatable and capable survivor. Though never perfect, and something that very much lives in the 2000s—hello body glitter and popped collars—Super Psycho is a noteworthy entry into the slasher subgenre that is unfairly ignored for all the wrong reasons.
What do you get when you cross Fede Álvarez‘s Evil Deadremake with Christopher Nolan‘s Memento? If you’re first time writer-director David Yarovesky, the answer is The Hive, a heady sci-fi and horror hybrid that also manages to turn every summer camp trope on its head. With makeup special effects from Gary Tunnicliffe of Hellraiserfranchise fame, The Hive manages to translate a small budget and some serious music video energy into something unlike anything you’ve ever seen.
in this week’s episode of the Certified Forgotten podcast, Matthew Monagle and Matt Donato are joined by Molly Henery, freelance horror journalist and creator of the Uterus Horror column. In their conversation, Molly discusses her career pivot from archeology to horror and discusses the films and experiences that encouraged her to translate her love of the genre into current status as a Rotten Tomatoes-approved critic.
04:11 – Molly explains how her sister’s indifferent babysitting launched her love of horror. 09:13 – Molly shares what caused her to abandon her original plans to be an archeologist and educator. 24:15 – Molly discusses the origins of Uterus Horror, her series of essays on coming-of-age female horror. 36:13 – Introduction to The Hive and the reason behind its selection. 42:34 – Conversation about Yarovesky’s nonlinear approach – and why it works so much better than you’d expect. 51:15 – Donato and Monagle discuss the “mean” streak of The Hive and how it generates empathy for its characters. 58:44 – Conversation about the special effects in the film and the influence of Tunnicliffe on the special effects. 70:54 – Conversation about the legacy of The Hive and whether this film was undone by its Fathom Events release strategy.
To learn more about Molly’s work as a writer, you can visit her personal website, where she writes under the Blogging Banshee banner. You can also read past entries in her Uterus Horror series right here at Certified Forgotten. Finally, follow Molly on Twitter at @bloggingbanshee for her latest work and insights into the horror industry.
At the height of summer, Adam and Katie find love for the first time. Fellow camp counselors Clark and Jess couldn’t care less about the kids they’re overseeing as long as they can hook up. But, when a plane crashes nearby, their investigation unleashes a mysterious plague, putting all campers in danger. As Camp Yellow Jacket slips into chaos, Adam wakes in a boarded-up cabin with no memory of who or where he is. His only clues are the notes he’s scrawled for himself and memories that aren’t his own. As his friends turn into monsters around him, the key to surviving the apocalypse is locked in one infected counselor’s mind.
The Hive, Google Play
The Hive is now available to stream at no additional cost on Amazon Prime and Tubi TV. You can also rent or purchase the film on most major streaming platforms, including Google Play and Apple TV.
Something about a handheld camera makes men horny. You see it throughout found footage horror, from Paranormal Activityto V/H/S. DIY footage always seems to come with the man trying to coerce his wife or girlfriend to make a sex tape. Micah in Paranormal Activity asks his girlfriend Katie on multiple occasions if they can do some extracurricular activity in front of his new recording device meant to capture demonic activity. In the segment of V/H/S “Amateur Night”, three drunk men try to film their sexual exploits. There is a male-centric fascination with recording sex and the possibility of having a physical reminder of that sex.
But in the 2016 Irish found footage film Crone Wood, director Mark Sheridan wants to subvert those expectations by showing shifting gazes between men and women. Danny (Ed Murphy) and Hailey (Elva Trill) have just met and are having an amazing first date. Danny is recording this magical experience for posterity, a beautiful memory if he never sees her again. Sparks fly and they decide they want to keep the day going with a camping trip into the local woods. They go shopping, buy the gear, and head off on a trek through the gorgeous Irish greenery.
When night falls, sex comes to the front of their minds. Now, at first, Crone Wood does follow that path of a man hiding a camera to film a sexual encounter. Hailey discovers her companion’s intentions and is understandably enraged. Yet, Danny tries to play it off like she should pity him. He tells her that this footage would be evidence that he was able to have sex with such an attractive woman and to take it as a compliment. He has violated her consent, and yet places responsibility square on her shoulders. This scene sets up the expected sexual dynamic of the film’s characters, placing the man and woman at odds over sex and laying the base for resentment.
Then, this narrative quickly flips as the camera changes hands and, by extension, perspective. The couple wanders into the ruins of an old building, making sure no one is stalking them in the middle of the night. Here, Hailey begins to willingly take her clothes off in front of the lens and expresses her explicit consent to being filmed. This is a rare instance in found footage where recorded sexual propositions are met with enthusiastic approval from both parties. While this comes after Danny’s manipulation, in this new scenario Hailey is taking control by making the first move. She then takes the camera from Danny and begins filming—Danny’s body is now being objectified.
The very obvious male gaze is challenged as Hailey—playing cinematographer—tells Danny to strip for her. She zooms in on his hands unbuttoning his jeans and the outline of his penis just under his cotton boxer briefs. It’s a jarring shift as it disrupts those expectations of how female and male-coded bodies are viewed onscreen, particularly in the found footage subgenre. Sheridan makes this shift rather obvious, and while it may just seem like a playful action between lovers, it teases how much further this sexual paradigm is about to be shifted.
When a man in a mask disrupts this sexual encounter, they realize that something strange is going on in these woods. They eventually run across a house that serves as a refuge for young women, led by a kindly older woman. But, nothing is what it seems, and it is revealed this is a coven of witches searching for a virile young man to father a child for them. Even more, Hailey is a member of this coven and had these sinister designs since she met Danny. She has been the predator, seeking out her prey that will serve a specific purpose then be discarded.
As soon as this is revealed, the gaze again shifts from male to female as a young woman now films their rituals, capturing everything for historical record. Women are often the objects of torture in found footage, as male camera operators and their posse torture and assault her as spectacle. But here, women are the villains and Danny is rendered vulnerable both by the coven and the screen.
Then, Crone Wood does something even more unusual: Danny is raped by two women on camera. Sexual assault in genre filmmaking as a whole is almost exclusively enacted on the female body as they’re ravaged and ruined by a group of strange men. Male sexual assault is albeit ignored, therefore alienating an entire group of people who can also experience that violence. Here, Danny is drugged and tied down on a table while Hailey forces him to impregnate her. He groggily protests, and she shushes him. The male body is rendered helpless as it is taken advantage of by a woman in a place of power due to her secret knowledge. Earlier, Danny said he was lucky to have the chance to have sex with such a stunningly beautiful woman and wanted proof. Now, he has that proof but not in the way he had planned. Sheridan turns that desire on its head and creates a complex story that flips gender expectations to create a film with a message about sexual dynamics in horror.
Danny’s rape is filmed by a woman, which adds a fascinating layer to the harrowing scene. At first, while he is being “prepped”—forced into an erection—by another woman, the camera operator is filming in closeup, focusing on his pained face and then the smiling faces of witches watching the ceremony (a set of spectators with which we are meant to identify). They’re excited to be taking advantage of such a strong man and perhaps we feel that same joy. But, what does that joy mean? Why would watching the rape of man not be as harrowing as that of a woman? With Crone Wood, Sheridan is asking those questions, placing the spectator in a deeply uncomfortable position to acknowledge how sexual violence is typically represented on screen.
When Hailey has sex with Danny and the true ritual begins, the shots change from close-ups to viewing the assault from a distance. The camera operator is being blocked from approaching by a circle of women who are facing away from the ritual, but with the same smiles on their faces. Instead of focusing on the pain of Danny’s face and the devilish joy of those involved in his preparation, the viewer is only shown Hailey’s back, establishing a dichotomy between assault as spectacle versus serving a perverse purpose, as if this can be justified by the characters within the film. As Danny ejaculates—something that is possible without his consent—he has been forced to impregnate Hailey and in turn becomes the male version of a vessel. Women are often seen as the vessel to receive the seed of an evil force, but here the man becomes an unwilling source whose seed is harvested as if it is a valuable natural resource.
Sexual assault is never easy to watch, but it’s important to carefully represent the reality of such violence on screen. The stigma around men being assaulted is harmful and further perpetuates ideas of toxic masculinity. In Crone Wood’s shifting perspectives from the male gaze to a sinister female gaze, sexuality in found footage—and horror in general—is interrogated as more than the tortured female body. Crone Wood works to rewrite the phallocentric narratives often seen in the horror genre to provide a crucial perspective on sexual violence against men.
In 2000, Final Destination captivated horror fans by turning the premise of death as a villain into a powerhouse franchise. But long before death crept into ill-fated teenagers’ lives through water leaks and faulty fire escapes, Rachel Talalay‘s Ghost in the Machine existed. An underappreciated 1993 movie where a homicidal maniac uses technology as a weapon, Talalay’s film bears an unmistakable likeness to the Final Destination franchise.
Karl Hopkins (Ted Marcoux) is a computer whiz working at an electronics store. He’s also the “Address Book Killer,” a serial killer who uses the address books of the people he kills to choose his next victim. Shortly after we meet him, Karl is in a fatal car accident. While in an MRI machine during a storm, an electrical outage sends his dead soul into the computer system. Once inside, he continues his killing spree, using the mainframe and its connected systems to satisfy his homicidal tendencies.
Unlike most cinematic serial killers, the origin of Karl’s persona is never made clear. While many are driven by revenge or lust, Karl seems to kill simply because he can. The presence of traditional American symbols in the opening scene—an apple pie and baseball glove sitting in the kitchen—suggests family values drive him.
Perhaps he’s the ’90s answer to Terry O’Quinn’s murderous Jerry Blake in The Stepfather series. Maybe he has no real motive. But rather than undermining the film, Karl’s ambiguous motivations only add to his onscreen menace. Even the randomness of his methods—he always chooses a random name from the address book of his most recent victim—makes him feel like a very modern kind of threat.
Not even death can slow Karl down. Ghost in the Machine goes so far as to hint that this fatal accident was all part of his plan. Karl laughs as he plummets to his would-be death; once he becomes a machine, he’s only too happy to continue his rampage, excited by his new position of power.
And his latest victim. Before the crash, Karl crosses paths with single mother, Terry Munroe (Karen Allen) and her son Josh (Will Horneff). When they come to his store seeking a gift for her boss, they inadvertently capture his attention. And after uploading her address book to their digital system, Terry forgets it there, immediately enticing Karl. Once in the computer, he quickly stalks Terry and her friends by hacking everyday items into killing devices.
The intent behind Karl and Final Destination’s supernatural entity may be different, but there are parallels in the way mundane objects are brought to life. The 2000 horror franchise depicts the mysterious—and sometimes preposterous—ways someone can die ushered in a new kind of slasher. And while Final Destination will always be the most famous depiction of death as a supernatural force, Ghost in the Machine deserves credit for getting to many of these ideas first.
Ghost in the Machine is wholly inventive in the way it orchestrates its death scenes, building suspense through typically overlooked appliances. Microwaves, dishwashers, restroom hand dryers—even traffic lights and pool covers—become weapons in the care of the omnipresent Karl. One notable scene uses crash test dummies and a significant number of red herrings to toy with the viewer’s attention.
We are led to believe death will happen one particular way—during a crash test dummies simulation—only to have it unfold in a direction we couldn’t have expected. This approach is reminiscent of later horror movies that would indulge in this same degree of cinematic sleight of hand. Almost every death in the Final Destination films uses it to a varying degree to draw out each kill’s suspense.
Another way Ghost in the Machine toys with the viewers is by foreshadowing the method of their death. Early in the film, Terry meets Elliott (Jack Laufer) for a date at a local jazz club. Elliott seems oblivious to Terry’s distracted state of mind—and his own wellbeing. While lost in the music, Elliott attempts to light his cigarette, only to watch the lighter ignite and almost blow up in his face.
At first, this seems like a forgettable moment of comic relief. But once Karl turns his attention to Elliott, the subtle foreshadowing of his fate is suddenly more significant. Final Destination would later perfect this approach, but Ghost in the Machine is a glimpse at how future horror films would use seemingly minute details to draw out their story.
Another moment creatively uses a pool cover as Karl tries to kill Josh. Ropes are depicted as tentacles, holding him down as tension mounts through manipulated levers and buttons. Water gets weaponized in a similar feel to Tod’s shower scene in the original Final Destination (one of the most effective deaths in that film).
Later, through a baby’s eyes, we see everyday kitchen items become potential ways to kill. In a sequence that feels inspired by Who Framed Roger Rabbit’s opening scene, screenwriters William Davies and William Osborne again draw on red herrings to build suspense. We wonder which typically uninteresting device will spark the next murder. Eventually, a dishwasher becomes the tool of choice.
And even by the generous standards of early ’90s science fiction, Ghost in the Machine is a film vastly ahead of its time. Much like other internet-focused horror films, Talalay’s film predicts our reliance on technology. Remember, this is a film that predates cell phones and social media; we couldn’t change our house’s temperature from our bed, let alone ask Alexa what the weather is outside.
Karl’s use of connectivity to create chaos has a predictive accuracy with modern culture today and our obsession with being connected to all our devices. The movie is most memorable when telling its story through the use of these electronics. When Karl spies on Terry through an ATM, it feels like an especially devious nod to modern Big Brother voyeurism.
Ultimately, Ghost in the Machine may not be as enduring as the Final Destination franchise, but its supernatural killer does make for a captivating villain. Electricity rules the day; the executions of each murder are more than enough to satisfy any horror fan. The film also offers a take on modern technology that remains evergreen in its paranoia, one that makes us question our reliance on networks in our daily lives. We owe it to Rachel Talalay and Ghost in the Machine to acknowledge the road this film paved for the movies that followed.
There was a time not so long ago when Jeremy Sisto was the James Badge Dale of the horror industry. In the early 2000s, Sisto starred in a wide range of indie classics, including titles like Matthew Leutwyler‘s Dead & Breakfastand Lucky McKee‘s May. But it was Population 436—the Shirley Jackson-esque thriller from future Breaking Badluminary Michelle MacLaren—that stuck in the mind of today’s podcast guest.
In this week’s episode, the Matts are joined by Christine Makepeace, freelance horror critic and contributing editor to Certified Forgotten. During her conversation, Christine shares the history behind Paracinema Magazine—the long-running genre publication that launched the careers of several horror writers—and explains how Population 436 made a young Christine rethink everything she knows about Fred Durst.
03:59 – Christine explains her interest—or lack thereof—in the horror genre growing up. 08:10 – Christine shares the inspiration behind Paracinema Magazine and the community that kept it running behind-the-scenes. 18:37 – Christine explains her love of editing and what drew her to work with Certified Forgotten. 29:54 – Introduction to Population 436 and the choice behind this week’s film selection. 37:27 – Conversation about Jeremy Sisto and the rise of early 2000s direct-to-video horror. 46:12 – Conversation about Michelle MacLaren’s contributions to making Population 436 a dynamic direc-to-video title. 49:58 – Comparing Population 436 to Ari Aster‘s Midsommar and the set pieces we can’t forget. 64:03 – The Big Question: How does Population 436 find its audience in 2021 and beyond?
Want to learn more about Christine’s work as a horror journalist? Follow her on Twitter at @Xtine_makepeace. You can also find her article on Todd Strauss-Schulson‘s Final Girls on the Certified Forgotten website.
Population 436 is now available to stream with limited commercial interruptions on Tubi. You can also check out the rest of our podcast episodes on our Podcasts page.
In the summer of 1999, a small production team led by director Michael Hjorth packed their gear and headed for the vast natural reserves south of Stockholm. Their goal was to shoot a rarity in the Swedish film landscape: The Unknown, one of the very few horror movies released theatrically within the country.
Most Swedes might remember this story about five biologists sent out to examine the grounds in the aftermath of a major forest fire as merely “that Blair Witch rip-off.” In anticipation of its release in October 2000, almost all critics compared The Unknown to The Blair Witch Project that had its Swedish premiere the year before.
Even though The Unknown is not strictly speaking found footage, the handheld camera and relaxed camping trip vibe indeed lure the audience towards such associations. This aesthetic caused many movie websites to list it as found footage incorrectly. In fact, most Swedish film journalists expressed some form of disappointment in what they perceived as a lack of originality.
But these dismissive judgments all overlook how The Unknown managed to navigate the very particular circumstances of the Swedish film industry. The mere existence of The Unknown is an impressive feat considering both the competition and the establishment’s disposition against genre films.
How Swedish feature films are financed
Much of the feature film production in Sweden revolves around the Swedish Film Institute, the national film board. This organization provides financial backing in many forms, ranging from talent development to marketing and technology and everything in between.
Most coveted—now and historically—are the advance grants for feature films. This grant is a sum of money that goes directly towards production and often makes up a significant portion of the film’s entire budget. Unlike typical debt, this so-called “soft” money only has to be paid back once the film’s financial results pass a certain threshold. Soft money systems for a film production like this are prevalent outside the United States.
The approval of an advance grant from the Swedish Film Institute can make or break a production. Maybe slightly less so now than in the early 1960s when the institute was founded, since financing options have diversified. Models for international co-production have evolved, and we’ve seen the introduction of entirely novel concepts such as crowdfunding.
In The Unknown, five biologists visit a remote part of Sweden to investigate a large forest fire.
What hasn’t changed is the arbitrary nature of how the institute assesses grant applications. This process involves no more than two individuals appointed as advisors for three-year terms and whose sole responsibility is to recommend applications to grant or deny. The CEO makes the formal decisions, but it is generally accepted that the two advisors are highly influential in what film productions to award money.
If this system sounds strange, you are not the first one to think so. It was created more or less single-handedly by Harry Schein, the somewhat idiosyncratic founder of the Swedish Film Institute. His central idea was to channel a small amount of money from every movie ticket sold into a large fund from which grants could be distributed.
So far, so good, but there were some self-evident problems in determining whom to grant money. Schein’s solution to this was to formulate certain principles regarding the contentious term “quality” and let supposedly impartial experts decide based on those principles. The controversy around what constitutes quality and how it has guided the Swedish Film Institute’s work is an ever-present dimension of Swedish film history, especially in horror films.
Domestic preconceptions about horror films
It should be reasonably clear that genre films worldwide have been treated with suspicion for most of history. Even today, some film critics make sketchy attempts at separating “elevated” horror movies from the rest in the genre, in line with an often-implicit tradition of keeping “high” and “low” culture apart. In the context of judging grant applications for film production, it makes very much sense that such sentiments are at play, too, whether the advisors realize it or not. This ties into a frustration many genre buffs feel when the latest sci-fi or fantasy movie is handed for review to a writer with no knowledge of the genre.
Horror movies are often misunderstood, and some critics fail to meet them on their own merits. This disconnect might very well have resulted in fewer Swedish horror films getting the necessary funding. In turn, this has potentially led to a vicious circle where there are very few previous examples to hold up in an attempt to dispel any myths about horror as “low” or lacking quality.
Until The Unknown, the entire history of theatrical releases in Sweden had included a mere ten films in the horror genre. During all of the 1970s and ’80s—undoubtedly one of the great golden ages of horror—only three Swedish horror films premiered in theaters. One more saw daylight in the ’90s: the splatter satire Evil Ed, an overt mockery of the censorship practices then still carried out by the Swedish Film Institute. This curious lack of Swedish horror would continue until 2008 when Tomas Alfredson made his universally acclaimed vampire coming-of-age tale Let the Right One In that would completely redraw the map of Swedish genre films.
But in the previous century, the question of whether a proposed Swedish horror movie could work or not—from a production and audience perspective—becomes impossible to answer without workable data. The Unknown was already shot and edited before the filmmakers approached the Swedish Film Institute to ask for funding to finish post-production.
Maybe it couldn’t have happened in any other way than presenting an existing movie. They got more than three times what they had spent themselves so far. Some money went to developing 35mm copies from the original video, albeit using the old-fashioned guerilla method of filming the video with a 35mm camera in a dark basement. The Unknown was now ready for theater exhibition. Following its premiere, it entered that exclusive circle of Swedish horror films with a theatrical release.
Bringing The Unknown to life
Against this backdrop, it is a small miracle that The Unknown even got made. That the movie operated on a microscopic self-supplied production budget was an essential factor. All cast members got a stake in the movie instead of a salary. Behind the scenes was a relatively new production company with fresh ideas. Tre Vänner (“Three Friends”) was founded just a few years prior by Hjorth and two partners, one of them Tomas Tivemark, who also co-wrote the screenplay for The Unknown and played one of the parts. It was shot in a week, in chronological order—since the team could not afford a script supervisor to oversee continuity—at a budget of about $30,000.
To achieve a more “Northern” feel, the filmmakers augmented footage of pine trees and wetlands in their immediate surroundings with B-reel from far up the country, achieved by the cinematographer Anders Jacobsson simply shipping a video camera and some sparse instructions to the “second unit”—his grandmother.
Not all qualities of The Unknown are of the thrifty kind—audiences seeking out the film today will discover it is quite enjoyable. Able to shed the restraints of a large production apparatus, The Unknown gained some additional benefits. There is a long-standing tradition in Sweden of film actors also working extensively in theatre. Because of this, their screen-acting sometimes comes across a bit stilted, what some critics would call the “Bergman effect.”
What they find, however, is more than any of them could’ve bargained for.
The Unknown, on the other hand, has a natural quality in this aspect. With then relatively unknown actors settled in a tiny camp instead of a film studio, our motley crew of biologists believably comes across as a group of friends on an everyday occasion. It’s almost as if the green, serene surroundings peel away the actors’ stage background. This spontaneity, in turn, helps build the tension that grows in the group as personal characteristics get in the way and relationship history uncover.
The more significant concern is not interpersonal issues, of course, but the titular “unknown” they find lurking among the trees. Strange cadavers, unnatural soil samples, and abnormal heat all point towards something foreign and parasitic. With some obvious tribute to classics such as The Thing and Invasion of the Body Snatchers, this primeval woodland mystery serves as an effective horror slow-burner.
This is especially true considering the filmmakers’ admirable—but far too uncommon—decision to keep the elements of dread out of sight and let the viewer build them in their own mind. It might have been a budget necessity, or an artistic decision, or both. In any case, it adds a mysterious nature that is just what a work of forest horror needs.
And even for those who regard The Unknown as nothing more than a Blair Witch rip-off, the success of Hjorth and company proved to Swedish moviegoers that there was an audience for this type of cinema. Micro-budget or not, The Unknown offered something fresh, and that legacy—at least within the borders of Sweden—remains secure to this day.
Conclusion
The Unknown was a unique experiment in Swedish horror with an undeserved reputation as entirely derivative of other more critically acclaimed films. It is currently only available in Sweden on VOD and DVD, but hopefully, chances are not too slim for a modern re-release sometime in the future. Getting on well together with the conservative film industry and challenging the bias against horror in its domestic market, The Unknown managed to provide a creepy piece of Northern lore. One day the distributor might realize they have a milestone on their hands.
In a genre typically considered “for the guys,” it’s time to give a nod to the ladies. Uterus Horror is a subgenre of horror films that focuses on the uniquely female experience of puberty and the act of coming into your sexuality, using horror elements to emphasize and/or act as a metaphor for that experience. These films are often ignored in theaters but quickly develop cult followings. Columnist Molly Henery, who named and defined the subgenre, tackles a new film each month and analyzes how it fits into this bloody new corner of horror.
Last month we looked at Beverly Marsh in the many iterations of IT. With February barely in the rearview, love is still in the air. Uterus Horror films most commonly delve into coming-of-age experiences for young women related to puberty—yet many films also explore first loves. So, this month we are tackling Spring, a movie that deals with the complexities of both young love and battling with your own biology.
This 2014 film was written by Justin Benson (The Endless, Synchronic), who also co-directed the film alongside creative partner Aaron Moorhead. Time and time again this filmmaking duo has proven they can create uniquely beautiful cinematic works, with Spring being one of their earliest feature films. Spring is a movie told from the point of view of Evan (Lou Taylor Pucci), a man who retreats to Italy to mourn the death of his mother. He ends up in a small coastal town where he meets Louise (Nadia Hilker). What begins as a typical romance quickly takes a strange turn when Evan discovers Louise has an unusual biological cycle that makes her immortal.
One of the most fascinating aspects of Spring is Louise’s physiology. She is over 2000 years old, yet she doesn’t age beyond her early 20s. We learn that every 20 years, Louise must get pregnant. In doing so, her body goes through a 5-day process where the embryonic stem cells essentially turn Louise into her own daughter. It is a transfixing cycle that allows her to stay the same age forever, yet her physical appearance alters based on the DNA of whoever impregnates her last. In this way, she can more easily blend in with the world around her.
Unfortunately for Louise, there is a more horrifying side to this process. During those five days, she also changes into different combinations of creatures from our evolutionary line. Oftentimes, these transformations cause her to be violent, lashing out and attacking anything that could be considered food, even other humans. She is able to keep these transformations somewhat at bay using embryonic stem cells from other animals such as rabbits, but it isn’t enough.
Louise’s immortality mirrors that of an abnormal menstrual cycle. While her cycle runs every 20 years instead of ever 28 days, it is still dependent on getting pregnant. While women who menstruate bleed for roughly five days if they don’t get pregnant, Louise has to get pregnant so she can use those cells in a 5-day process to maintain her immortality. While I, for one, envy Louise in how infrequently she has to deal with her cycle, when she does, the side effects are much more severe. I might shed my uterine lining and have some mood swings, but at least I don’t grow tentacles and claws, trying to kill anyone and anything within reach. Spring takes that idea of a woman’s cycle to a truly horrifying place.
While Spring is a movie best described as horror, at its core the film is also a stunning romance. Evan and Louise only know each other during Louise’s five-day cycle, but their relationship quickly blossoms into love. Evan falls head-over-heels, but Louise is much older and therefore more skeptical of such feelings.
After 2000 years, Louise knows she has never found love because of what she calls the “oxytocin theory.” Louise knows her mother had the same genetic disposition and her mother became mortal after falling in love with her father and getting pregnant with Louise. This leads Louise to believe if she were to fall in love, she would produce high levels of oxytocin, the hormone associated with love and childbirth. This would tell her body to keep the embryonic cells instead of reusing them, resulting in Louise being pregnant and losing her immortality. Considering this hasn’t happened once in 2000 years, it’s understandable Louise might not believe in love. Yet Evan is determined to show her how much he loves her and convince Louise that she loves him back. As the sun rises on the equinox at the end of Louise’s cycle, we see her with Evan, unchanged and looking like the woman he fell in love with. She finally found a love that was strong enough for her to give up her immortality.
Spring is a movie quite different from most of the Uterus Horror titles I have covered so far. A majority of the films we see feature young women, mostly in their teens, either experiencing puberty or exploring their sexuality for the first time. Louise is over 2000 years old and therefore has experienced all of this many times before. Her strange and unique cycle, while still quite the biological mystery, is nothing new to her. She also has had countless lovers over the years in order to maintain her immortality. Yet the combination of Louise’s frightening cycle, and her first time truly falling in love, delivers what we have come to know and enjoy from the Uterus Horror subgenre.
When you’re asked to premiere a special video episode for a film festival, you pull out all the stops. So this week on the Certified Forgotten podcast, you’re not only being treated to a conversation about Joachim Hedén’s Breaking Surface – one of the more underrated thrillers of 2020 – you’re also getting to watch the entire episode unfold as a special video podcast. This episode, which originally premiered at the 2021 Reel Love Film Festival, is now the first bonus episode in Certified Forgotten history.
In this special bonus episode of the podcast, the Matts are joined by Haleigh Foutch and Perri Nemiroff, co-hosts of Collider’s Witching Hour. The group is here to discuss Joachim Hedén’s Breaking Surface, a 2020 thriller that explores what happens when a diving getaway for two sisters goes very, very wrong. In their conversation, the dynamic duos discuss their own appreciation for single-location horror films and the value of genre film festivals to horror audiences across the world.
03:36 – Haliegh Foutch discusses her early days as a horror fan. 07:04 – Perri Nemiroff shares the horror film that scared her the most. 11:23 – The Witching Hour team talks about how their love of horror affected their career as a film critic. 17:09– The Witching Hour team also explains what makes genre festivals so special to the horror community. 29:44 – Introduction to Breaking Surface. 32:05 – How does the treatment of animals impact our appreciation of Breaking Surface? 38:52 – How does Breaking Surface turn interpersonal tension into action sequences? 53:09 – What does the future hold for Breaking Surface?
For more information on this week’s guests, be sure to check out Collider’s Witching Hour episode list and follow both writers on social media. In addition to the show, both Haleigh (@HaleighFoutch) and Perri (@PNemiroff) can frequently be found writing and recording some of the best genre (and non-genre) criticism found anywhere online.
Breaking Surface is available on Amazon, Google Play, YouTube Movies, and many more of your favorite video-on-demand platforms. It is also available to stream to any current Spectrum subscribers. Check out the rest of our podcast episodes on our Podcasts page.
In found footage horror films, homes and hotels are often seen as places that must be cleansed. People with video cameras storm into confined spaces – the Abaddon Hotel, the Collingwood Psychiatric Hospital – looking for explanations and solutions for demonic entities seen as parasitic monsters. The first-person perspective of found footage places the cameraperson in the position of “the good guy” unless otherwise stated; they are fighting against the evil of the location.
But what happens if the humans are regarded as the parasites, particularly those that invade building ruins as sites of spectacle and personal gain? What if they are like the termites that gnaw on wooden frames and the bed bugs that find homes in mattresses, infiltrating a space that is not their own to feed their greed?
Such a case can be made for the Abaddon Hotel in Stephen Cognetti‘s Hell House LLC, the first film in the found footage trilogy. The hotel resides in the eerily named Abaddon, New York, a small town in the middle of nowhere. Its former owner Andrew Tully was said to have been a cult leader who committed suicide after several guests mysteriously disappeared. A house or building becomes an amalgamation of personalities, all blending into one. This is not just a hotel but a site of converging memories and emotions. It is a body built from stone and iron that contains pain. These places, while often home to one significant event, become more than murderous owners. While Tully is discussed in tandem with the site, the hotel becomes a looming figure that contained and allowed for horrific murders.
Capitalizing on the hotel’s storied past, the Halloween haunt company Hell House arrives decades after the tragic events to make the deserted hotel into their next hit. But little do they know that they have wandered into the proverbial belly of the beast and are playing with its clown-shaped guts. They are invading the space, setting up their own eyes via security cameras, nestling into dusty nooks and crannies, and pushing aside old furniture into new, more terrifying formations. They are working to change the hotel’s interior into something more aesthetically scary, a new layout that will benefit their business.
One of the most emblematic scenes occurs when the documentary crew visits the hotel’s basement, the future massacre site. As they descend the stairs in the dark, windowless room, everyone is practically vibrating with excitement as they picture the scene that will unfold here. Alex (Danny Bellini), the CEO, excitedly points to where they will place props and actors to deliver the biggest scare of the evening. Old shoes and tattered Bibles discovered on the basement floor are described as “free props” rather than pieces of the hotel’s history. Everything the camera captures is a new money-making opportunity, a part of the hotel that a desperate man and his company can co-opt.
Awakened by these invaders, horrifying clowns and ghostly beings act as horrific white blood cells that attack the human infection seeping through the hotel. The clowns that walk around of their own accord at night try to lure the crew into the basement, the place where the hotel can digest their flesh into something unholy. Just as the humans capitalize on the hotel’s history, it capitalizes on their fear and curiosity. Then come the direct attacks on crew members, such as cameraman Paul (Gore Abrams), which transform humans into more white blood cells to protect and serve the hotel. The parasites are no longer parasites as the host assimilates them into the host’s body. Paul is no longer human but a husk that has been imbued with a new purpose: to serve the hotel.
This infection culminates on opening night when haunted house visitors swarm the hotel for an experience of Halloween frights. But here, as the number of people builds and builds, the hotel finally reveals its true intentions as it subsequently devours those that have wandered into its open jaws.
The “abandoned” Abaddon Hotel is not wasting away. The hotel reveals itself to be like an anglerfish, using its ruined exterior as bait for the mortal creatures it will subsequently devour. The tiny parasites themselves are unknowingly consumed by their host, who lured them in whispers of fame and fortune. The haunted house crew and the visitors entered the hotel of their own volition, thinking of themselves as opportunistic feeders rather than the next meal of souls, acutely misreading this perverse food chain.
These parasitic invasions of decrepit spaces speak to a larger trend in found footage centered around gentrification and profiting off the past for future gains. While the Abaddon Hotel is in a small town in New York State, the Hell House crew are traveling there from the city in an attempt to “strike gold.” Their business has run dry in the town. Now they are reaching out into rural areas to create their new venture, believing they are capitalizing on legends to line their pockets. Such scenarios are also seen in Gonjiam: Haunted Asylum, Grave Encounters, and Night Shot. Characters are trying to feed on the hotel’s innards, but there is still something lurking inside these behemoths, something acutely aware of the parasites it will soon consume.
Haunted houses and locations are often portrayed as empty vessels that have been filled to the brim with evil. But what if these places, like the Abaddon Hotel, have evil steeped into their very infrastructures? They are not just settings but evil entities that lure in their victims with either the hope of restoring domestic comfort or rewriting a colored past. In reading humans as parasites in Hell House LLC, the well-tread haunted house trope becomes something new and even more sinister. These locations are more than just damaged buildings – they are hungry beasts waiting for their unsuspecting prey.
