What is fear, really? According to the standard dictionary definition, it's an emotional state triggered by the perception of real or imaginary danger—an instinctive response that prepares us to flee or defend ourselves. Horror cinema, however, has always pursued something far more ambitious: not merely to frighten, but to evoke that irrational sensation that haunts viewers long after the credits roll. Few contemporary filmmakers achieve this goal. In recent months, Ian Tuason succeeded brilliantly with the deeply unsettling Undertone. Damian McCarthy proves he belongs to that same exclusive circle with Hokum, arguably his most mature and terrifying work to date.
Ohm Bauman is a wildly successful author, hard at work on the final installment of the fantasy saga about Conquistadores that made him famous worldwide. Still unable to come to terms with guilt over his mother's death—an event he partly blames himself for—he decides to travel to a remote Irish village to scatter his parents' ashes. It's the same place where his mother and father had spent their honeymoon, a memory they cherished dearly. Ohm books a room at the old Bilberry Woods Hotel, but soon discovers that the top floor has been sealed off following a series of unexplained incidents. The attic's honeymoon suite is supposedly haunted by the spirit of a witch. When circumstances force the writer to spend a night in that very room, legend begins to transform into nightmare.
With Caveat and especially Oddity, Damian McCarthy had already demonstrated extraordinary talent for building atmosphere. With Hokum, backed by American co-production and distribution by Neon, the Irish director takes a significant leap forward, synthesizing everything that worked in his previous films into a surprisingly cohesive and mature horror experience.
The first winning choice is to avoid placing the entire narrative weight on the supernatural presence alone. The emotional core of the film is Ohm Bauman, magnificently played by Adam Scott (Severance) in what may be one of the finest performances of his career. The writer is a brilliant man, sarcastic, often openly insufferable. He treats everyone with contempt, alternating constant jabs with an almost hostile attitude toward the world at large. It's a mask hiding enormous fragility. Guilt over his past, an evident alcohol problem, and depression—portrayed not for effect but with painful honesty—transform the protagonist into a man haunted by himself before any ghosts ever arrive. When the supernatural does intrude, the film deliberately blurs the line between psychological obsession and genuine haunting, amplifying the viewer's discomfort.
From this deeply introspective foundation, McCarthy develops a haunted house story that draws fresh power from Irish folklore. At its center is a Cailleach, an ancient figure from Celtic tradition—a primordial witch associated with winter, mountains, death, and nature's raw power. More than a simple antagonist, the Cailleach embodies a primordial, almost mythological presence, introduced with elegant restraint through a children's story told by the hotel's eccentric owner. It's a simple yet remarkably effective narrative device, allowing folklore to seep gradually into reality without resorting to clumsy exposition.
The true co-star, however, is arguably Bilberry Woods Hotel itself. McCarthy transforms the building into a vast hostile organism, weaponizing its corridors, staircases, elevators, basements, and especially the forbidden attic as elements of a mise-en-scène built on subtraction and absence. The top floor, with its notorious honeymoon suite, mockingly connected to the basement by a service lift, becomes a place from which escape seems impossible—a labyrinth where spatial logic progressively disintegrates. Here, the director crafts one of the most frightening sequences in recent cinema: the first flight from the witch, a crescendo of tension where every sound, every shadow, every detail in the frame generates authentic terror without relying on cheap jump scares.
Equally surprising is the film's tonal balance. While maintaining a deeply ominous atmosphere, Hokum sprinkles in moments of grotesque, surreal irony that briefly ease tension without ever undermining the film's credibility. There's also an underlying mystery-thriller thread that keeps viewers engaged throughout the narrative's development.
Perhaps the film's most fascinating aspect is its ability to bridge two seemingly distant worlds. On one side lies an intimate drama about depression, guilt, and the impossibility of leaving the past behind; on the other, a horror film that fuses haunted house storytelling with Irish folk horror. McCarthy never sacrifices one element for the other: the psychological component lends credibility to the supernatural, and vice versa, achieving a rare balance in contemporary genre cinema.
Hokum is one of those films that reminds us fear doesn't depend on how many creatures appear on screen, but on a filmmaker's ability to burrow into the viewer's mind. Damian McCarthy confirms himself as one of contemporary horror's most compelling voices—an auteur who doesn't chase easy scares but constructs terror with patience, atmosphere, and intelligence. If Caveat and Oddity hinted at his talent, Hokum represents the definitive arrival of a director capable of transforming folklore, human suffering, and enclosed spaces into a deeply satisfying cinematic experience.
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