Thanksgiving

The sound of a glass door shattering under the weight of a caffeine-deprived mob is a specific kind of modern American field recording. We’ve all seen the viral footage of Black Friday—shoving matches over air fryers, suburban warfare for a discounted flat-screen. Eli Roth takes this ugly reality and turns it into a blood-soaked overture in Thanksgiving, a film that understands exactly why we’re all a little bit terrified of our own consumerist impulses. I watched this while nursing a lukewarm cup of peppermint tea that I’d forgotten about for forty minutes, and honestly, the cold, slightly bitter taste was the perfect accompaniment to the film’s mean-spirited opening.

From Fake Trailer to Festive Fright

For those of us who spent 2007 obsessing over the high-concept experiment that was Grindhouse, the Thanksgiving trailer was the crown jewel of the faux-previews. It was grainy, sleazy, and featured a cheerleader on a trampoline in a way that defied physics and decency. For sixteen years, it felt like a "what if" that would never actually materialize. But Eli Roth, re-teaming with his childhood friend and screenwriter Jeff Rendell, finally decided to give the fans what they’d been clamoring for.

The transition from a two-minute spoof to a 106-minute feature is surprisingly graceful. Instead of sticking to the 70s-style aesthetic of the original short, Roth opts for a sleek, contemporary look that fits right into the post-Scream (2022) landscape. It’s set in Plymouth, Massachusetts, where the holiday is a brand as much as a tradition. The film centers on a group of teens—led by Nell Verlaque as Jessica—who were present during a deadly Black Friday riot at a "Right Mart" store owned by Jessica's father. A year later, a killer wearing a John Carver mask begins picking off the survivors in increasingly elaborate, holiday-themed ways.

Practical Effects and Poultry Punishments

If you’re coming to an Eli Roth movie, you aren't looking for subtle psychological metaphors about inherited trauma (looking at you, Hereditary). You’re here for the "Splat Pack" sensibilities, and in that regard, Thanksgiving over-delivers. The practical effects are gnarly, creative, and frequently hilarious in their audacity. There is a sequence involving a human-sized oven that is destined to become a staple of horror-watch-party lore. I’ll go on record saying this is the most fun I've had with a slasher’s kill-sheet since the heyday of the Final Destination franchise.

What makes the violence work isn't just the gore; it’s the timing. Roth has sharpened his directorial teeth over the years (even if Borderlands suggests a momentary lapse in judgment), and he handles the suspense with a seasoned hand. He knows when to hold the shot and when to cut away to maximize the "ew" factor. The mystery of who is under the John Carver mask is handled well enough, though horror veterans will likely spot the culprit long before the third-act reveal. But honestly, the "who" matters far less than the "how" when the "how" involves a corn cob holder.

The New Face of the Slasher

The casting is a fascinating snapshot of 2023's entertainment ecosystem. You’ve got the legacy appeal of Patrick Dempsey, playing the local sheriff with a "McDreamy-gone-gray" charm that adds a layer of unexpected legitimacy to the proceedings. Then you have Addison Rae, a casting choice that initially set the internet on fire with skepticism. In a move that reflects our current era of "stunt casting" actually working out, she’s surprisingly solid. She plays the role with exactly the right amount of "social media darling" energy, making her character’s plight feel relevant to a generation that documents their lives in fifteen-second clips.

The film’s biggest strength is its refusal to take itself too seriously while still taking its craft very seriously. It mocks the absurdity of influencer culture and corporate greed without feeling like a preachy lecture. It’s a slasher that remembers horror can be a riot. While it lacks the historical weight of Halloween or the meta-commentary of Scream, it carves out (pun intended) its own identity as a seasonal staple. It’s a movie designed for a crowded theater where everyone screams and then laughs at the audacity of the screenwriters.

Thanksgiving is a reminder that sometimes, the best cinematic experiences aren't the ones that change your life, but the ones that lean into the glorious, bloody fun of a well-executed trope. It’s a love letter to the slashers of the 80s, polished with a 2020s sheen and served with a side of cynical humor. If you can stomach the opening riot and a few questionable decisions by the teenage protagonists, you’ll find a new holiday tradition to revisit every November. Just maybe skip the leftovers for a day or two after watching.