There’s a certain exhaustion that comes with modern horror. Not because the genre is lacking ideas, but because so many films fall back on the same rhythms with familiar scares, recycled imagery, predictable structure. That’s what makes Hokum feel like such a refreshing jolt. It doesn’t reinvent horror from the ground up, but it reshapes what’s already there into something far more immersive, unsettling, and (surprisingly) emotionally resonant.
Directed by Damian McCarthy, Hokum leans heavily into atmosphere over outright spectacle. It’s a slow, deliberate descent into dread, built less on jump scares and more on the creeping sense that something is deeply wrong just beneath the surface. The film takes familiar genre elements like witchcraft, curses and haunted space, but filters them through a distinctly personal and psychological lens. It feels both classic and modern at the same time, which isn’t an easy balance to strike.
The story centers on Ohm Bauman, played by Adam Scott, a novelist grappling with grief, guilt, and a general detachment from the world around him. Scott gives what might honestly be one of his best performances here. There’s a sharp edge to the character who’s cynical, distant, often difficult to like, but beneath that is something much more fragile. As the film progresses and reality begins to blur, Scott grounds everything in a way that keeps the story emotionally anchored, no matter how surreal it becomes. (You aren’t supposed to like this guy.)
A lot of the film unfolds within a single location, but it never feels limited. Instead, it turns that space into a kind of psychological labyrinth. The setting itself becomes part of the horror with tight, shifting, and full of unseen corners where something might be waiting. McCarthy’s direction plays with that uncertainty constantly, using framing, shadow, and editing to suggest more than it shows. It’s the kind of filmmaking that trusts the audience’s imagination, and it pays off.
Visually, Hokum is striking without ever feeling showy. There’s a textured, almost tactile quality to the imagery with dimly lit corridors, flickers of movement, strange visual interruptions that feel like fragments of thought or memory. The editing is especially effective, cutting to brief, unsettling images that build tension without needing explanation. It creates a sense of unease that lingers even in quieter moments.
What really elevates the film, though, is how it handles its themes. Beneath the horror elements is a story about grief, guilt, and the ways people try (and often fail) to process trauma. It doesn’t hit you over the head with it, but it’s always there, woven into the narrative. The supernatural elements start to feel less like external threats and more like manifestations of something internal, which gives the film a deeper emotional weight.
That balance between fear and empathy is where Hokum really stands out. It’s unsettling, sometimes intensely so, but it never feels mean-spirited. There’s a sense of compassion underneath it all, even as the film leans into darker territory. It’s rare to find a horror film that can genuinely disturb you while also feeling thoughtful and human.
If there’s a drawback, it’s that the film’s pacing and ambiguity won’t work for everyone. It asks for patience, and it doesn’t always provide clear answers. But for those willing to meet it on its level, it’s a deeply rewarding experience. Hokum is the kind of horror film that sticks with you, not because of any single scare, but because of the atmosphere it builds and the ideas it leaves you with. It’s eerie, intimate, and quietly affecting in a way that feels increasingly rare for the genre.
A ghost story that doesn’t just aim to frighten, but to linger.
Have you seen it yet? Are you a fan of this movie? Let me know what you think in the comments below.
Cheers,
Matt.
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