Umma

There is a specific, itchy kind of dread that comes from realizing you’ve started using the exact same hand gestures as the parent you swore you’d never be like. Iris K. Shim takes that universal anxiety and stuffs it into a literal box of ashes in her feature debut, Umma. It’s a film that arrived in 2022 with the heavy weight of the "elevated horror" label—a term I mostly find pretentious, but it fits here because the movie is far more interested in the scars on a daughter's psyche than the ghost in the cellar.

I watched this on a Tuesday night while my own mother was blowing up my phone with "Urgant!" texts that turned out to be links to Facebook recipes for slow-cooker lasagna. That digital tether felt particularly ironic while watching Sandra Oh play Amanda, a woman so traumatized by her past that she has quite literally banned electricity from her life. She lives on a remote bee farm with her daughter, Chris (Fivel Stewart), in a self-imposed 19th-century bubble, convinced that even a stray radio wave might trigger the return of the woman who broke her.

Buzzing Bees and Buried Trauma

The setup is brilliantly claustrophobic. Amanda and Chris are a two-woman ecosystem, sustained by honey and isolation. But the ecosystem fractures when Amanda’s estranged uncle pulls up in a car (the very sight of which makes Amanda flinch) to deliver the remains of her mother, or "Umma." The uncle’s arrival is the catalyst for a shift from a quiet family drama to a supernatural haunting, though the film is at its best when it refuses to separate the two.

Sandra Oh is, as expected, the glue holding this together. She portrays Amanda with a jittery, high-wire intensity that makes you believe her "allergy" to electricity is a physical manifestation of her fear. When she stares at the traditional Korean trunk containing her mother’s belongings, she isn't just looking at a prop; she’s looking at a ticking time bomb of repressed identity. The movie is essentially a therapist’s bill with a jump scare budget. I found myself leaning in during the quiet moments of bee-keeping and tension between mother and daughter, only to be slightly annoyed when a predictable "creepy figure in the shadows" beat pulled me back out.

High Concepts on a Low Budget

What’s fascinating about Umma is its DNA as an independent production. Despite being produced by the legendary Sam Raimi (who knows a thing or two about cabin-based horror from his Evil Dead days), the film was shot on a lean $3 million budget. That’s roughly the catering budget for a Marvel movie, and you can see Iris K. Shim working overtime to make every dollar count. Instead of expensive CGI spectacles, she leans into cultural specificity and practical atmosphere.

The use of the Hahoetal (traditional Korean masks) and the Sobok (mourning clothes) provides a visual language that feels fresh in a genre often cluttered with generic Victorian dolls and crucifixes. Apparently, Iris K. Shim spent years developing this as a passion project, drawing on her own background to weave in the concept of Jesa—a ceremony honoring the dead. It’s a film that wouldn't have been made twenty years ago; it’s a product of our current "prestige horror" era where filmmakers are finally allowed to use the genre to talk about the immigrant experience and generational trauma without having to hide it under ten layers of metaphor.

However, the low budget shows in the third act. The film's short 83-minute runtime starts to feel like a sprint toward a finish line it hasn't quite earned. I accidentally knocked over a glass of water when the first major jump scare happened, and the cold wetness on my socks was actually more upsetting than the ghost itself. The horror elements often feel like they were mandated by a studio executive who was worried the family drama was "too smart" for the trailer.

A Modern Haunting

In the context of the 2020s, Umma fits into a growing shelf of films like Hereditary or Relic, where the "monster" is just a stand-in for dementia or abuse. It's a "now" movie—it deals with the tension of second-generation kids trying to balance their heritage with their desire for autonomy. Fivel Stewart is excellent as the daughter who just wants to go to college and see what a lightbulb looks like, serving as the audience's anchor when Amanda starts losing her grip on reality.

The film struggled at the box office, partly because it was released in that awkward post-pandemic window where audiences were only leaving the house for giant lizards or spider-men. But as a streaming discovery, it’s a solid, moody piece of work. It’s not going to redefine the genre, and it’s certainly not "scary" in the way that keeps you up at night checking the locks. Instead, it’s the kind of horror that makes you want to call your mom—or maybe block her number for a few hours.

While it doesn't quite stick the landing, Umma is a noble attempt at blending cultural history with psychological terror. Sandra Oh carries the film through its clunkier moments, making Amanda’s descent into her mother's shadow feel genuinely tragic. It’s a quick, thoughtful watch that proves you don't need a massive budget to create a haunting atmosphere—just a few bees, some old clothes, and a lot of unresolved family issues. If you’re looking for a horror movie that cares more about character than body count, this is a respectable choice for a rainy Tuesday.