Studio 666

There is something inherently "dad-rock" about the Foo Fighters making a feature-length horror movie. It’s the cinematic equivalent of your funniest uncle buying a fog machine for Halloween and going way too hard on the neighborhood kids. Released in early 2022, Studio 666 feels like a strange artifact of the late-pandemic era—a period when one of the world's biggest bands had too much time on their hands and decided that the best use of their multi-platinum charisma was to recreate an 80s splatter-fest in a creepy Encino mansion.

I watched this while sitting on my sofa wearing mismatched socks and eating cold leftover lo mein, and honestly, that’s exactly the kind of low-stakes energy the film demands. It isn't trying to be the next Hereditary (2018); it’s trying to be The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974) if Leatherface really liked "Everlong."

Rock and Roll Requiem

The setup is classic B-movie territory. To overcome a massive bout of creative block while recording their tenth album, the Foo Fighters move into a house with a "grisly history." Dave Grohl—playing a heightened, slightly more egomaniacal version of himself—soon discovers a basement filled with occult symbols and a half-finished demo from a 70s band that met a bloody end. Before you can say "Monkey Wrench," Dave is possessed by a demonic entity that demands a "killer" track, and I mean that quite literally.

The joy of Studio 666 doesn't come from the plot, which has the structural integrity of a wet paper towel. Instead, it’s the voyeuristic thrill of watching a group of guys who have spent thirty years in a van together try to act. Nate Mendel, Pat Smear, Chris Shiflett, and Rami Jaffee are clearly having the time of their lives, even if their line delivery occasionally feels like they’re reading a teleprompter located just off-camera. Pat Smear, in particular, is a comic revelation; his primary acting choice is to look perpetually confused as to why he is in a movie, which is exactly how I would feel if a possessed Dave Grohl started eating raw meat in front of me.

Gore, Guitars, and Grilling

Director BJ McDonnell, who previously gave us the delightfully mean Hatchet III (2013), knows his way around a practical effect. While most modern horror films lean on lackluster CGI to save a buck, Studio 666 leans into the "wet" stuff. We’re talking exploding heads, chainsaw mishaps, and a creative use of a charcoal grill that made me rethink my next barbecue. The makeup work by Tony Gardner—the legend behind the effects in Zombieland (2009) and Seed of Chucky (2004)—is top-tier. There’s a specific kill involving a cymbal that is so over-the-top, I actually shouted at my television.

What’s fascinating about the film in a contemporary context is how it sidesteps the "elevated horror" trend of the 2020s. There are no metaphors for grief or trauma here. The monster isn't "society"; it’s a literal demon that wants Dave to play a never-ending guitar solo. In an era of franchise dominance and IP-driven decisions, Studio 666 is a weird, ego-driven outlier that only exists because the Foo Fighters are powerful enough to say, "Hey, let’s make a movie where we all get murdered." It’s an expensive home movie with a Hollywood budget, and there’s something oddly refreshing about that lack of pretension.

The Ghost in the Machine

Watching the film now, it’s impossible to ignore the presence of Taylor Hawkins. The drummer’s infectious energy was always the heartbeat of the band, and seeing him on screen—poking fun at Dave and leaning into the absurdity of the premise—is bittersweet. He was a natural performer, and his chemistry with the rest of the guys provides the film’s only real emotional weight. It serves as a accidental time capsule of the band’s final chapter with their iconic lineup.

The film did virtually no business at the box office, pulling in just over $3 million. In the streaming era, a niche project like this usually gets dumped onto a platform with zero fanfare. But the Foo Fighters insisted on a theatrical window, a move that felt like a stubborn defense of the "old way" of doing things. While it’s certainly too long at 106 minutes—Dave Grohl’s acting is essentially just him being 'Extra Dave' until he turns into a demonic Gordon Ramsay—the film’s commitment to the bit is admirable. It’s a movie made for fans, by fans of the genre.

If you’re looking for a sophisticated cinematic experience, you’ve wandered into the wrong garage. But if you want to see John Carpenter (who composed the film's theme) make a cameo as a recording engineer or watch a legendary rock band get sliced and diced in the name of a sick riff, Studio 666 is a blast. It’s messy, indulgent, and occasionally amateurish, but it has a heart of pure, distorted gold. Turn it up loud, grab a beer, and don't take it more seriously than the band did.