Diabolic (2025)

In cinemas 20 November

Daniel J. Phillips has made a possession film that doesn’t feel like it’s apologising for being a possession film. That alone puts Diabolic ahead of half the genre entries that shuffle through festivals trying desperately to be “elevated horror,” whatever that means these days. Phillips, whose previous film Awoken showed promise in 2019, has spent his time between projects learning what matters: atmosphere, restraint, and the uncomfortable truth that real horror often wears the mask of institutional authority.

So. The story. Elise has blackouts. Bad ones. The kind that upend your life and leave you grasping for any solution that might stop them. Enter the Fundamentalist Latter Day Saints and their healing ceremony, which sounds dubious even before you factor in what happens next. Spoiler: they accidentally unleash a witch’s spirit during the ritual, and this particular witch has scores to settle and a very specific interest in using Elise as her earthly vessel. Not exactly the miracle cure anyone was hoping for.

Elizabeth Cullen does exceptional work here, and I mean that. Possession roles demand a peculiar kind of commitment, the willingness to contort yourself physically and emotionally in ways that don’t always photograph flatteringly. Cullen commits fully, moving between human fragility and something decidedly not human with enough conviction to sell even the film’s more outlandish moments. She’s the anchor. Without her performance, the whole enterprise might have tipped into unintentional comedy. John Kim and Mia Challis are fine in support, though the script treats them more like necessary furniture than fully realised characters. You sense there’s more to mine there, but Phillips and co-writer Mike Harding apparently had other priorities.

Michael Tessari’s cinematography is the other standout element. He shoots fundamentalist spaces the way they feel rather than how they look, if that makes sense. Oppressive. Airless. The kind of rooms where the walls seem closer than they actually are. His lighting choices create pockets of shadow that your brain immediately wants to populate with threats, regardless of whether anything’s actually lurking there. It’s economical filmmaking in the best sense, letting your imagination do half the work. The film was shot in South Australia, but you’d never know it. Everything feels deliberately placeless, which serves the story’s more universal concerns about religious control and bodily autonomy.

The sound design follows similar principles. Silence, then impact. Silence, then something worse. Too many horror films mistake constant noise for tension. This one understands that the moments before the scare often matter more than the scare itself.

Now, what makes Diabolic worth discussing beyond its technical accomplishments is how it threads institutional critique through its supernatural framework. The witch’s curse works on two levels. Yes, it’s a genuine supernatural threat. But it also functions as a kind of historical echo, showing how violence against women, particularly in religious contexts, perpetuates itself across generations. Different methods, same essential dynamic. The film never stops to explain this, never pauses to make sure you’ve got the metaphor. It trusts you to notice. I find that trust increasingly rare.

Phillips clearly spent time thinking about how fundamentalist systems operate, how they position themselves as sources of healing and salvation while actually demanding submission and control. The film’s depiction of the FLDS ceremony feels researched rather than guessed at, which matters when you’re dealing with real institutions that have caused real harm. There’s a responsibility there that Phillips seems to take seriously.

But. The middle section sags. I can’t ignore it. Phillips gets so invested in building tension slowly that he forgets momentum matters too. Slow burn is fine. Glacial isn’t. Several sequences feel like the film is marking time, waiting for narrative permission to proceed to the next beat. The expository stretches suffer similarly. You can feel the filmmakers dutifully checking boxes: explain this, establish that. It’s functional but uninspired, which is a shame given how confident the rest of the film feels.

The ending will bother some people. It bothered me initially, though I’ve made peace with it. Phillips refuses clean resolution, which I respect in principle. Whether the execution matches that ambition is debatable. There’s a version of this film that sticks the landing more decisively, but there’s also a version that ties everything up too neatly and betrays what came before. Phillips chose his path. I think it’s defensible, even if it’s not entirely satisfying.

The practical effects deserve mention. Real blood, real physicality, real consequences. The gore serves character and theme rather than existing as spectacle for its own sake. This sounds obvious, but you’d be surprised. Or maybe you wouldn’t. Either way, Phillips demonstrates admirable restraint, understanding that horror rooted in tangible reality hits harder than digital flourishes. The film wants to unsettle you, not wow you with its effects budget.

Four stars, then. That feels honest. Diabolic isn’t perfect. The pacing wobbles, some characters remain underdeveloped, and the ending might leave you wanting more clarity than Phillips provides. But it succeeds far more than it fails. It works as genre entertainment, delivering legitimate scares and maintaining tension across ninety-five minutes. It also functions as something more considered, examining how institutions weaponise belief and how patterns of control repeat themselves across time, particularly when women’s bodies become contested territory.

Phillips is a filmmaker worth watching. This second feature shows growth, vision, and most importantly, the patience to let ideas breathe without suffocating them in explanation. Diabolic respects its audience. It assumes you can handle complexity, make connections, sit with discomfort. In a genre that often assumes the opposite, that respect counts for something substantial.

You’ll leave unsettled. Days later, the film will still be working on you, which is more than most possession stories manage. Sometimes that lingering disturbance matters more than immediate perfection. Sometimes four stars represents better filmmaking than a flawless five. This is one of those times.