Horror filmmakers often rely on familiar ingredients: an isolated location, a troubled protagonist, a lingering tragedy and the promise that something terrible waits in the shadows. What separates memorable entries from disposable ones is not the setup itself but the imagination applied to it. In “Hokum,” Irish filmmaker Damian McCarthy demonstrates an increasingly confident understanding of that distinction. Rather than merely delivering another haunted-house story, he constructs a film that constantly undermines certainty, inviting viewers into a world where comedy, sorrow and terror coexist so naturally that it becomes impossible to know where one emotion ends and another begins.
McCarthy has developed a reputation for approaching horror from unusual angles. Like several contemporary genre directors who enjoy disrupting audience expectations, he prefers stories that appear straightforward before gradually revealing layers of absurdity, ambiguity and psychological unease. “Hokum,” his third feature and arguably his most accomplished work to date, pushes that approach further than ever. The result is a film that functions simultaneously as a ghost story, a folk-horror tale, a meditation on grief and an examination of creative paralysis.
Set almost entirely within an aging hotel hidden among dense Irish woodland, the film immediately establishes an atmosphere of isolation. The building itself feels suspended outside ordinary time. Its corridors creak, its rooms seem burdened by memories and its surrounding forest appears less like scenery than a living presence. The location becomes far more than a backdrop; it acts as a silent participant in the story, watching events unfold with quiet patience.
At the center of the narrative is Ohm Bauman, played with remarkable precision by Adam Scott. Ohm is a novelist whose life has stalled in nearly every imaginable way. Burdened by depression, struggling with alcoholism and unable to complete the final installment of a historical trilogy about conquistadors, he arrives at the remote hotel carrying emotional baggage that seems heavier than the luggage in his possession.
His reason for visiting initially appears simple. He intends to honor the memory of his deceased parents by scattering their ashes beneath a tree cherished by his mother. Yet from the beginning, it becomes evident that the journey is about more than fulfilling a final wish. Ohm has come to confront something buried deep within himself, even if he does not fully recognize it.
The irony of his name is difficult to miss. Traditionally associated with tranquility, meditation and spiritual balance, “Ohm” suggests a serenity entirely absent from the man who bears it. Scott plays him as perpetually irritated, emotionally exhausted and reluctant to engage with anyone around him. His sharp tongue serves as both defense mechanism and weapon. He is not merely cynical; he is frequently cruel.
Yet Scott understands that unpleasantness alone is not enough to sustain audience interest. Beneath the sarcasm lies vulnerability, and beneath the hostility lies pain. The performance succeeds because it allows glimpses of the wounded individual hidden beneath layers of resentment and disappointment.
The hotel introduces Ohm to a collection of eccentric figures who initially appear almost comic in their oddity. Among them is an overly enthusiastic bellboy and aspiring writer portrayed by Will O’Connell. Desperate for professional guidance, he repeatedly seeks advice from Ohm, only to discover that literary mentorship from a bitter novelist is rarely a pleasant experience.
There is also Jerry, played by David Wilmot, a cheerful eccentric who lives in a van deep in the surrounding forest. Sustained by homemade concoctions involving goat’s milk and psychedelic mushrooms, Jerry initially appears to embody every stereotype associated with harmless rural oddballs. Yet the film repeatedly encourages viewers to question whether he is a source of wisdom, madness or something in between.
Even the hotel handyman contributes to the atmosphere of peculiar unpredictability. Portrayed by Michael Patric, he spends much of his time battling goats that repeatedly leap onto parked vehicles to admire their reflections. His chosen weapon is a crossbow, which he carries with alarming casualness. In another film, such details might feel random. Here they become essential components of an environment where absurdity and menace constantly overlap.
The strangest presence, however, remains unseen for much of the story. Rumors circulate regarding a witch connected to the hotel’s abandoned honeymoon suite, a room sealed off from guests and avoided by staff. The suite gradually emerges as the emotional and supernatural center of the narrative, the place where buried memories and unexplained forces converge.
One of the film’s greatest strengths is its refusal to explain itself too quickly. McCarthy understands that uncertainty often generates more fear than revelation. Through carefully controlled pacing, he allows questions to accumulate while withholding definitive answers. The audience becomes trapped in the same state of confusion as Ohm, uncertain whether events stem from supernatural forces, psychological collapse or some combination of both.
Visually, the film benefits enormously from the work of cinematographer Colm Hogan. His camera glides through dark hallways, peers around corners and lingers in empty spaces with unsettling curiosity. Ordinary architectural features become sources of dread. A narrow service elevator shaft transforms into one of the film’s most frightening locations, not because of what viewers see but because of what they suspect might be waiting beyond the frame.
Production designer Til Frohlich complements that visual strategy by creating an environment that feels simultaneously realistic and dreamlike. Every room appears touched by decay, yet the hotel never loses its peculiar charm. It is a place where nostalgia and nightmare occupy the same space.
As the narrative progresses, Ohm becomes increasingly involved in the disappearance of a hotel employee, portrayed by Florence Ordesh. What begins as a mystery gradually evolves into something more complex. The search forces him deeper into both the physical labyrinth of the hotel and the psychological labyrinth of his own past.
A pivotal event near the end of the first act dramatically alters the audience’s understanding of the story. Without revealing specifics, the development destabilizes assumptions that seemed secure moments earlier. From that point forward, “Hokum” operates on multiple levels simultaneously. Every scene invites competing interpretations.
Is Ohm genuinely encountering supernatural phenomena? Is his fractured mental state generating elaborate hallucinations? Has grief become so overwhelming that it has reshaped his perception of reality? Or is there another explanation entirely?
McCarthy wisely refuses to settle the debate. His screenplay embraces ambiguity not as a gimmick but as a thematic necessity. The uncertainty mirrors Ohm’s emotional condition. Trauma rarely presents itself in neat, easily understood forms. Instead, it distorts memory, reshapes perception and blurs the boundary between past and present.
The screenplay also proves exceptionally well matched to Scott’s performance style. Few contemporary actors are better at portraying bewilderment mixed with irritation. Scott’s natural ability to deliver sarcastic observations without sacrificing emotional authenticity allows him to navigate the film’s shifting tones effortlessly. Whether confronting supernatural terror, personal heartbreak or absurd hotel guests, he remains compelling.
What ultimately distinguishes “Hokum” from many modern horror films is its emotional outlook. Despite its ghosts, witches and psychological torment, the film is not fundamentally cynical. McCarthy seems less interested in punishing his characters than in exploring the possibility of healing. Beneath the scares lies an argument that grief cannot be conquered through avoidance. Burdens become lighter only when they are finally confronted.
That perspective gives the film surprising warmth. Even during its darkest moments, there remains a sense that redemption might be possible. The horror emerges not merely from external threats but from the emotional costs of refusing to let go.
The film’s humor serves a similar purpose. Rather than undermining tension, the comedic moments deepen it by making the world feel more unpredictable. A laugh can quickly become a gasp. An absurd encounter can suddenly reveal hidden tragedy. McCarthy repeatedly exploits that instability, keeping viewers off balance from beginning to end.
By the time “Hokum” reaches its final scenes, the film has transformed from a seemingly conventional horror story into something far more elusive. It remains frightening, certainly, but also reflective, playful and unexpectedly humane. The title itself becomes part of the joke. What initially suggests nonsense or trickery ultimately conceals a story deeply concerned with loss, memory and the possibility of moving forward.
In an era crowded with horror films competing to shock audiences with increasingly elaborate mythology or graphic violence, “Hokum” stands apart through confidence and restraint. It trusts atmosphere over spectacle, character over exposition and ambiguity over easy answers. Most importantly, it understands that the most unsettling ghosts are often the ones people carry within themselves.
