Movie Review: ‘Hokum’

By Vincent Volcano, retired Hellwood fire-starter and scarf enthusiast

Flames Fade, but Classics Burn Forever!

Neon has uncorked a chilly little tincture called Hokum, and for once the label isn’t false advertising. Don’t clutch your rosary beads yet—this isn’t bad hokum. This is precision-brewed, mildew-scented, peat-smoked hokum, the sort that creeps under the fingernails and makes your popcorn taste like grave dirt. Damian McCarthy, that Irish purveyor of drafty corridors and contractual darkness, has assembled a ghost story so moody even the exit signs look haunted. I screened it in the Fifth Circle multiplex, and the demons behind me stopped crunching skulls during the last reel, which qualifies as rapture down here.

The premise: Adam Scott plays Ohm Bauman, a novelist who writes endings so parched they start in a desert. He schleps his parental cremains to a remote hotel where the honeymoon suite is closed because—film school gasp—a witch is trapped inside. Naturally the staff are eccentrics who speak in ominous italics, and the local hermit microdoses goat’s milk like it’s Sundance buzz. It’s The Shining by way of a damp folklore pamphlet, with a side of you-were-awful-to-people-and-now-the-walls-remember.

McCarthy runs three reels at once: tortured-writer character study, vanished-someone mystery, and folk curse with enough moss to tile the Overlook’s bathrooms. That braid frays now and then—the narrative slips a stitch, mutters “it’s dream logic” and walks off—but the mise-en-scène papers over the holes with mold. Production designer Til Frohlich and cinematographer Colm Hogan render the Bilberry Hotel as a museum of rot: lacquered gloom, sallow lamps that look like they’ve been smoking inside, and little statues that watch you like you owe them rent. The honeymoon suite itself? Put it in the pantheon with Hill House and Bly, then fumigate the pantheon.

As someone who built entire careers on practical effects and real fog, I salute the restraint. The jump scares are fair trades—no musical air horns stapled to cats. The camera drifts, the frame pricks, the corners curdle. McCarthy understands negative space, that thrilling old craft where the dread is offscreen and the audience directs the horror for free. Imagine that—confidence in composition instead of four editors and a leaf blower.

Scott, last seen in Corporate Purgatory: The Series, conjures a credible bastard. He burns the bellhop’s hand—method writing, darling—and wears guilt like a bespoke hair shirt. It’s an actorly turn made of micro-flinches and swallowed lines, a reminder that terror works best when the protagonist isn’t auditioning for a Funko Pop. David Wilmot’s woodland philosopher Jerry is the film’s human tremor: his eyes say, “there are rules” while his diet says, “there are no rules, only fermented lactose.” The rest of the ensemble files in with the exacted precision of local legends: useful, unnerving, under-explained. Blessed be.

To my eternal charring, I must praise the sound design. The silences arrive with the confidence of a hitman; the creaks are practically unionized. No “BRAAAM”s, no Dolby cattle prods. Just air, wood, and the steady clink of a narrative tightening its own cuffs. When the film crescendos—down in a basement the management forgot to tell anyone about—it doesn’t footnote its mythology. It trusts the old compact: the more you know, the less you feel. I’ve fried directors alive for less indulgence, but this is the right kind.

Now, a hell-hot poke for balance. Hokum slightly overpacks the suitcase. Guilt-drama, witch-lore, missing-person whodunnit—all jostle at the door and not everyone gets a clean entrance. A motif or two feels sewn on with funeral thread. And the circular ending, tender as it is, taps the brakes so softly that a few viewers might wonder if the witch got the last word or simply the last invoice. But in an age where horror is factory-pressed, quip-lubed, and test-screened into baby food, I’ll take ambition that scuffs the parquet.

McCarthy’s third feature cements him as a specialist in humid dread—less carnival ride, more invasive species. If studios had any courage left (stop laughing), they’d give him a real budget and a promise not to staple a franchise bible to his spleen. Until then, this is the year’s rare horror that remembers characters are the haunted house, and the house is just their echo.

Viewer advisory for the modern audience:
– There is no legacy IP cameo. You will survive.
– The ghost is not explained by a TED Talk.
– The climax contains no drone shots of a CGI sky portal.
– Practical atmosphere detected; Marvel inhalers may malfunction.

Verdict: Hokum is the good kind of lie that tells an ugly truth. Bring a coat; the chill isn’t leaving with you. 9 sulfuric sparks out of 10, and a complimentary bucket of lye for the multiplex carpet.

Flames Fade, but Classics Burn Forever! Now somebody wheel me to the honeymoon suite—I’ve got notes for the witch on third-act escalation.

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Vincent Volcano

Retired Hellwood Director & Film Critic at The Inferno Report

Once the mastermind behind Hellwood's most fiery epics, Vincent Volcano now lends his critical eye and seasoned perspective to the modern cinematic landscape. Renowned for his groundbreaking work in classics like "Inferno's Gate" and "Ashen Ascendancy," Vincent has seen the evolution of film from the golden age of Hellwood to today's digital era. In his retirement, he's turned his directorial passion into sharp commentary, dissecting current movies with a blend of nostalgia, humor, and a touch of cynicism. His articles are a journey through film history, filled with insights only a veteran of the industry could offer, and seasoned with a flair that only Vincent could deliver. Remember, in Vincent's words, "Flames Fade, but Classics Burn Forever!"

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