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A Welsh horror film that will leave you ravenous for more

The concept of a horror film set on one night, with one group of people, in one location, always carries an allure. A simple contained premise that could veer into anything, a test of creativity and originality. The Feast (Gwledd in its native Welsh) continues this tradition, but in a way is not just about one isolated night, it is about the cumulation of a wrath and retribution that has been brewing for decades, if not hundreds of years.

Glenda (Nia Roberts) is starting preparations for a dinner party with her husband, and local politician, Gwyn (Julian Lewis Jones). Their sons Guto (Steffan Cennydd) and Gweirydd (Siôn Alun Davies) make up the family unit, all residing in a a stark and beautiful home, nestled amidst the mountains and valleys of Wales. Their guest of honor is businessman Euros (Rhodri Meilir), a man who has facilitated mining exploits on their land for years, who is now looking to extend his services to the other guests, their neighbors. To help things run smoothly, Glenda has enlisted Cadi (Annes Elwy), a girl from the local pub. She arrives looking rather dazed and in a near mute status, something that the family are oblivious to, as well as the news of her recent bereavement. Ever in their midst, a disorientated Cadi remains quiet. Absorbing stories, observing their self-serving behavior. Once the guests are in place and dinner is served, the uneasy quiet shifts into something far more perturbing.

The Feast deftly sketches out the unsavory quirks that define the members of this family. Glenda’s self-absorbed nature, Gwyn’s problems with anxiety, arrogance and alcohol, Guto’s addiction problems, and Gweirydd whose fitness obsession also alludes to some kinky predilections. There is a toxic, inward looking nature within them, something that explains how Cadi is able to quietly move amongst them. Pouring their irritations and conflict into this near-mute vessel is something that informs their eventual fates. The Feast mines that for a period of time, before adding in more unhinged elements, channeled through the character of Cadi. We see spikes of warning in her behavior, moments she connects with objects in the house or shows a visceral reaction to their activities. Throwing up at seeing slaughtered rabbits allude to her connection to the land. The cast, most notably the enigmatic Annes Elwy, give focused, authentic performances, fueling the slow burn horror that builds.

The Feast is deceptively simplistic but with fascinating depths. The script from Roger Williams is steeped in its surroundings and symbolism, tackling ideas of man pushing into the earth and the earth pushing back. This outsider venturing into the weird dynamics of this family results in this eco-fable colliding with folk horror. Director Lee Haven Jones delivers a film with remarkable precision and potent tone. Even something as simple as breaking down a pomegranate is given unnerving intensity. So delicately poised that it feels as if the film could teeter in any direction at any moment. What’s also impressive is that despite being so composed for the majority of the runtime, The Feast somehow manages to run the gamut of horror. Possession, body horror, ghost story, a straight-up “eat the rich” moment, and let’s not even get into the horrors of a dangerously placed piece of glass from a broken wine bottle.

Having grown up in Wales, it’s wonderful to hear the poetic language on screen. Melodic cadences that add to the buildup and rhythm, lulling you into a false sense of ease, despite the events on screen hinting at something untoward on the horizon. The other regional resource the film takes great advantage of is the vibrant Welsh countryside, showcased in stunning cinematography from Bjørn Ståle Bratberg. Equally impressive is the cool sense of unease built within the interior of this family home, a stark construct contrasting with the natural beauty outside. Samuel Sim’s uneasy score, and meticulous sound design caps off a truly immersive and unsettling work.

The Feast starts as a fracturing psychological horror that plunges into a supernatural fury, all rooted in the realms of folk horror. A tightly controlled buildup that descends into something karmic and primal — warning against environmental exploitation and a reminder to respect the Earth’s offerings to us. Utterly engrossing from start to finish, The Feast is a Welsh horror film that will leave you ravenous for more.

Prejudice and persecution in a modern day witching world

Whether whipped up by a political party, or stemming from ingrained racism, there is always a swath of the country that seems to need a target. A group or minority to vilify and blame for their own misfortune or simply for inevitable change. Writer/director Elle Callahan (Head Count) neatly draws an example from the past and plants it in modern times, reminding us that times have changed in some ways, yet others, not so much.

Witch Hunt is set in a modern United States where witches exist and are feared by the general populace; and find themselves firmly in the sights of the US government. On a remote farmhouse in Southern California, high schooler Claire (Gideon Adlon) lives with her widowed mother Martha (Elizabeth Mitchell) and twin brothers (Cameron and Nicolas Crovetti). Peer pressure, media, and school assignments have permeated her thinking, and started to deprive her of sympathy for the witches’ plight, something complicated by her mother’s role in a underground railroad, helping smuggle witches across the border to the safe harbor of Mexico. Claire’s views are soon challenged by the arrival of two young witches, Fiona (Abigail Cowen) and Shae (Echo Campbell). Bonding with the older sister, she starts to better understand the nature of these outcasts, and also her own connection to them.

Many will cite The Handmaid’s Tale, the X-Men series, or the Trump administration as points of comparison, but the use of witches as an allegory for persecution, and putting a demographic in their place has been used for hundreds of years. Callahan piggybacks off this age old tale of prejudice and merges it with a current one, looking to our friends south of the border and the wall between us. The film barely scratches the surface of what is hinted to be a fascinating world. An 11th amendment stating “no person may practice witchcraft in the United States of America”. A Bureau of Witchcraft Investigation (BWI) putting out “blacklists” to warn the populace about potential witches, and rounding them up on buses once confirmed. Schools measuring moles and deploying classic witch tests in a school swimming pool. The climate of fear created is largely explored within the confines of Claire’s schools, where “magic in the blood” is used as a derogatory slur. Rather than expanding upon this unnerving situation, Witch Hunt follows a more intimate path, that of Claire’s conflict, born out of her fear of witches (fueled by her friends and government), anger at her mother placing their family in danger, and her sympathy for these people. The burgeoning friendship between her and Fiona is deftly handled and clearly the most well considered and constructed aspect of the film.

While one can appreciate the intentions of Callahan in focusing in on this authentic and intimate relationship, we remain armed with the knowledge of these persecutions swirling around them. Emotional weight is often lacking, anger at these injustices feels underdeveloped, and as a result the film struggles to maintain impetus. The potency glimpsed in a brilliantly constructed opening, depicting a modern day burning at the stake, is never truly felt again. Some of the actions depicted also strain credulity. The casualness at which giant human-sized boxes are wheeled around the region, refugees being allowed to not just eat dinner with the family, but abscond to local bars. Claire’s anger at her mother is frankly justified given her rather reckless actions that endanger her family’s safety. What also feels strange is how generally accepted all of this is. No real push-back, despite the clear violation of human rights. Again, the wider world is a mystery that casts its shadow over proceedings.

While some of the creative choices may better position the tale to connect with younger audiences, there remains a lot to appreciate in Witch Hunt. A stark rustic aesthetic makes good use of a low budget. A delicate score from composer Blitz//Berlin marries well with some evocative dream sequences. Above all the friendship between Claire and Fiona is beautifully rendered. While the focus of Witch Hunt may feel off, there is a unmistakable vision on show from Elle Callahan.

A sonic slasher that fizzles more than it sizzles

The issue with Sound of Violence, as I see it, is that the film is simultaneously hindered and enhanced by its self-serious tone. The premise itself is silly, yet the kind of thing that will undoubtedly pique the interest of the midnight movie crowd. Writer-director Alex Noyer (adapting his short film Conductor) tries to walk a fine line, servicing his story’s darker instincts while working through its ideas about art, creation, and following one’s dreams. The film exists somewhere in the milieu between Berberian Sound Studio and The Perfection, to put you in the ballpark. Sound of Violence is undone a bit by its higher-brow aspirations and only hits the right notes when it indulges the nastier implications of the title.

It’s about a young woman, Alexis (Jasmin Savoy Brown), whose impaired hearing appears to have be restored due to the grisly sounds of a brutal murder. The noises of a body being bludgeoned, stabbed, and destroyed hit Alexis at a frequency that is restorative and healing. Fast forward to college, and Alexis is on the verge of losing her hearing again. With time running out on her hearing and her dreams of teaching and creating music, Alexis seeks out the squishy, splattery, wretched sounds of people suffering immense pain in order to create her masterpiece. It’s a funny spin on the idea of someone chasing their dream to destructive ends. Instead of going down the Whiplash path of sacrificing herself for her art, Alexis finds people she can sacrifice instead.

The only time Sound of Violence comes to life is in the kill scenes. I don’t want to spoil the movie’s most creative moments, so you’ll have to take my word that they are the movie’s highlights. One kill, in particular, stands out so much that I won’t be surprised if it eventually pops up on lists of Best Movie Kills. That said, Sound of Violence badly needed to up the body count to avoid the tedious stretches of watching Alexis’ day to day life. Along for the ride with Alexis is her friend Marie (Lili Simmons), who seems to be Alexis’ only friend as well as chief enabler. Early in the film the two recruit a couple to record their sounds of their BDSM activities. It’s a moment that should give the game away to Marie, as Alexis demands more pain to be inflicted on one of the participants with all the luster of a vampire barely restraining herself amidst the overwhelming scent of blood.

As the film progresses and Alexis isolates herself, the film becomes more of a showcase for Brown, and this is where the threads start to come undone. Brown’s best moments come when the character is at her most unhinged, casting off euphoric looks and movements as the sounds of someone’s death unleashes her creative juices. Noyer compliments these scenes with colorful soundwaves that play across Alexis’ face. It’s a nice visual flourish in a film that is otherwise stale in that regard. The film’s sincere moments all ring flat, with nothing in the performances, writing, or directing working in that key. Alexis’ hearing loss, in particular, seems like a creative misstep. Rather than something inherent to the story, it feels like a tacked on character quirk. If that part of the character is gone, the story isn’t affected much. It made me think of Natalia Leite’s M.F.A., another movie that takes a serious topic and builds a bloody thriller off of it. The difference is that Leite’s use of sexual assault is important and inherent to her film’s success whereas Alexis’ hearing loss feels incidental to Noyer’s story, and the result feels disingenuous. Sound of Violence is best in its trashier moments and frustrating outside of those bits.

Mickey Keating delivers a well-crafted slice of Floridian folk horror

From the opening shot, Offseason crafts an evocative atmosphere. A fragment of the Carnival of the Animals playing over a moody shot of a seafront, imagery broken by the broken words of a dying mother to her daughter. While coming to terms with her loss, Marie (Jocelin Donahue, The House of the Devil, Doctor Sleep)receives a letter informing her that her mother’s grave has been vandalized, and her presence is urgently needed. Heading south, to the coastal town of Lone Palm with her partner George (Joe Swanberg, Drinking Buddies, The Sacrament) in tow, they arrive at the island community on the eve of its closure. The tourists have left, and seasonal storms are about to arrive. It’s immediately apparent that something is off about this place, and the people in it. They find no cooperation from the locals, beyond some vague warnings and weird remarks, and when they try to depart they find their way off the island blocked. The pair are separated and Jocelyn finds herself alone, trying to escape, as the community around her becomes all the more twisted and dark.

Offseason feels steeped in Folk Horror, The Wicker Man is the first thing that springs to mind. As Sergeant Howie was drawn to Summerisle by an ominous letter, as is Marie to Lone Palms. A thriller vibe, an outsider piecing together a mystery, along with tropes such as the hush that falls when they enter the local bar, a man who tries to warn them away but fails, and glimpses in the background of figures maneuvering plot and people into position. The setting on the Floridian coast puts a unique spin on the tone and aesthetics, a Southern Gothic feel with desolate beaches, grey skies, rickety interiors, gnarled and bent forests, with glimpses of palm trees and agave, all bathed in fog. Standout moments as an intense experiential sequence within a History museum or the horrifyingly beautiful Lovecraftian imagery showcased in the films finale linger in the mind .The whole thing feels like an oppressive and haunting postcard from a seaside resort or an homage to the Silent Hill series.

The cast too is replete with faces that lend themselves to the uneasy atmosphere most notably with a brief but potent turn from Richard Brake (31, Three from Hell, Mandy). But it’s Donahue that carries much of the weight of the film, ably conveying how cut adrift her character is in this confusing nightmare. Marie struggles to reckon with events at Lone Pines, but also with the relationship she had with her estranged mother, something explored through a series of flashbacks. Beyond chronicling their conflict, and their professional and personal relationship, they add to the intrigue of Lone Pines, revealing her wishes to not be interred there upon her death, and a stark warning about something dark at its core.

After earlier works such as Darling, Carnage Park, and Ritual, writer/director Mickey Keating delivers a continuation of his style, and a solidifying his approach. Aside from some of the jump scares and sound being a little heavy handed at times, there’s a real sense of precision to the piece as it moves Marie towards something dreadful and inevitable. It all comes together to deliver a well crafted slice of Floridian folk horror.

Farce, flair and fatalities, in a humorous and heartfelt tale of loss

Paul Dood works in a thrift store, but his aspirations go beyond second-hand retail. As a dancer, singer, and all-around entertainer–or so he believes–he hones his craft under the watchful eye of his biggest fan, his mum. After years of aspiration, he’s finally secured a chance at the big time with a spot on Trend Ladder, an online based national talent competition aimed to launch people into the limelight. A mix-up of dates leads to Paul and his mother scrambling to make the audition, their plans are further hampered by the egotistical actions and inactions of a series of people they encounter along the way. Arriving late, he is allowed to perform, but his act is cut short. A brutal rejection by presenter Jack Tapp and ensuing heartbreak is compounded by a tragic incident that occurs soon after. Something snaps in Paul, and in the days that follow he concocts a plan to mete out justice to those who ruined his chance, five selfish souls who need to meet their end. Donning his sparkly jumpsuit, armed with a harness mounted phone streaming his antics to his escalating fanbase, he crisscrosses his sleepy little town to enact his plan, he just had to try and fit his scheme into his lunch break.

After a cute and quirky introduction to this mother/son dynamic, and their shared delusions of grandeur, the film moves into a comedy of errors, with obstacles, frustrating and farcical in nature, hindering their pursuit of stardom. Eventually Paul Dood firmly plants itself into a blackly comedic affair as a growing online audience cheer on Paul’s efforts while the police watch aghast as they try to intervene. The humorous elements are balanced well against the emotional journey Paul undertakes and a lot of what works is due to the early investment in the nurturing relationship between a mother and son. This is not a revenge movie per se, despite some wonderful pops (literally) of gruesome fare. Instead, it’s a processing of grief for Paul, as he haplessly tries to enact his plans, with some unexpected results.

About half-way through Paul Dood’s Deadly Lunch Break, we glimpse a sign in a playground that tells people to “report anti-social behavior.” Intervene if you witness actions that that harm or lack consideration for the well-being of others. That’s the film in a nutshell. A crucial call for kindness in this increasingly connected and yet detached digital age. Our social and political environments have become more polarized, and little thought is given by some to the consequence of casual cruelty. For Paul, an endearing optimist and, one fateful afternoon strips away his dreams and support network, brutally exposes his failures, and makes him aware of the disparagement to which he has been, and continues to be subjected. The film does a great job of highlighting social media and its power to break someone down or embolden them, the latter feeding into a finale that feels celebratory and uplifting in its affirmation.

It’s a heartfelt and sympathetic performance from Tom Meeten, one that the sets the timbre for the whole film. Other standouts include Steve Oram (Sightseers) as a dickish railway platform assistant, Johnny Vegas (Early Man) as a Japanese tea room proprietor (and cultural appropriator), and Kevin Bishop as the acerbic American Jack Tapp. They’re admirably supported by a host of familiar faces from British/Irish comedy, including Katherine Parkinson (The IT Crowd), Mandeep Dhillon (After Life), Kris Marshall (Love Actually), and Alice Lowe (Prevenge). It’s a cast that helps develop the comedic tone of the film, one set by director Nick Gillespie (Tank 432). A black comedic vibe undoubtedly informed by his previous work with Ben Wheatley on A Field In England, Sightseers, and High-Rise. He crafts a film that feels intimate and small scale, but with a bigger message that resonates, one that leans into schmaltzy without losing sincerity, staying honest to the truth behind this man’s pain. The “One lunch break, five spectacular murders!” tagline will draw in a lot of people, and while the film certainly delivers on that humorous and quirky concept; combining farce, flair and fatalities, it’s wrapped around a heartfelt tale of loss. At its core, Paul Dood’s Deadly Lunch Break is a call to be a little kinder, after all, you never know whose path you will cross and life you will impact.