V/H/S/99

The transition from 1899 to 1900 gave us "The War of the Worlds" and a mounting sense of industrial dread, but the jump from 1999 to 2000 gave us something far more chaotic: the death of the analog dream. There is a specific, crunchy texture to a VHS tape that has been played too many times—a tracking-line jitter that feels like a ghost trying to manifest through magnetic particles. V/H/S/99 leans into that glitchy rot with the enthusiasm of a teenager who just discovered their parents’ "forbidden" cabinet.

I watched this while sitting on a slightly damp patio chair because my living room was being painted, and the occasional mosquito buzz against my neck actually added a layer of "outdoor theater" tension that the film’s grainy aesthetic practically demands. It’s the fifth entry in a franchise that has become the flagship of the Shudder era, proving that while theatrical horror often feels polished to a dull shine, streaming-first anthologies can still afford to be aggressively, delightfully ugly.

The Static of the Fin de Siècle

What makes V/H/S/99 stand out in the current landscape of "elevated horror" is its refusal to be respectable. While other modern films are busy being metaphors for grief or generational trauma, this movie is busy being a metaphor for dropping a camcorder into a vat of radioactive waste. It captures that specific 1999 energy—the Jackass stunts, the pop-punk arrogance, and the looming, unspoken fear that the Y2K bug might actually reset reality.

The anthology kicks off with "Shredding," directed by Maggie Levin. It’s a classic "kids go where they shouldn't" setup involving a punk band breaking into a burned-out venue. While the characters are designed to be annoying, the way the segment uses the bratty energy of the era works. However, the real meat of the film starts with Johannes Roberts (who did the surprisingly effective 47 Meters Down) and his segment "Suicide Bid." Jesse LaTourette plays a sorority pledge who agrees to be buried alive as a prank. It’s a masterclass in claustrophobic dread, utilizing the limited perspective of a hand-held camera to make the audience feel the weight of the dirt above. It’s simple, cruel, and reminded me why I never joined a club that required a secret handshake.

Gameshows from the Gutters of Hell

The middle of the film is a bit of a mixed bag, which is the cross every anthology must bear. Flying Lotus brings a neon-soaked, GWAR-adjacent nightmare with "Ozzy’s Dungeon." It’s a parody of those hyper-intense 90s kids’ game shows like Legends of the Hidden Temple, but infused with a level of body horror that feels like a fever dream. Verona Blue is great here, though the segment feels a bit more like a music video experiment than a cohesive story.

Then there’s "The Gawkers," directed by Tyler MacIntyre, featuring Dashiell Derrickson and Jackson Kelly. It starts as a typical teen peeping-tom comedy—a trope that has aged like milk—but the twist at the end is so sudden and mythological that it almost redeems the obnoxious setup. It’s a reminder that found footage works best when the characters are people you’d actively avoid at a party, making their inevitable demise feel like a form of cosmic justice.

To Hell and Back (Literally)

The undisputed heavyweight champion of V/H/S/99 is the final segment, "To Hell and Back," from Vanessa Winter and Joseph Winter. If you’ve seen their film Deadstream, you know they have a gift for blending high-octane creature effects with a frantic, Three Stooges-esque energy. Two videographers (Keanush Tafreshi and Tybee Diskin) get accidentally sucked into a ritual and transported to a literal underworld.

The creature design here is phenomenal. In an era where CGI often flattens the terror into a gray mush, the Winters use practical effects, puppets, and clever lighting to create a version of Hell that feels tangible and stinky. It’s imaginative, funny, and genuinely frightening, proving that the V/H/S franchise is at its best when it stops trying to be "creepy" and starts trying to be an amusement park ride through a slaughterhouse.

V/H/S/99 is a rowdy, uneven, and occasionally brilliant entry into the modern horror canon. It lacks the cohesive "wraparound" story that gave the earlier films a sense of mounting doom, but it compensates with a specific, nostalgic nastiness. It’s a film that understands that the scariest part of 1999 wasn't the end of the world—it was the fact that we were all recording our own descent into the new millennium on plastic tapes that were destined to rot. If you’re looking for a polished cinematic experience, look elsewhere; if you want to feel like you’ve found a cursed tape in the back of a defunct Blockbuster, this is your fix.

The Winters' segment alone is worth the price of admission, or at least the cost of a Shudder subscription for a month. Just make sure you check your tracking settings before you hit play.