Late Night with the Devil

I’ve always had a specific, low-level phobia of old television static. It’s that grainy, "snowy" grey void that feels like it’s hiding something—a frequency where things that shouldn't exist might be trying to tune in. I watched Late Night with the Devil on my couch while wearing a pair of itchy wool socks my aunt gave me for Christmas, and the physical discomfort of the fabric actually helped the movie’s mounting sense of "I need to get out of here" immensely. By the time the third act rolled around, I wasn't just worried about the characters; I was worried about the air in my own living room.

Directors Colin Cairnes and Cameron Cairnes have pulled off a minor miracle here. In an era of horror where we are often drowned in $200 million franchise entries or "elevated" metaphors that forget to actually be scary, this Australian indie production is a lean, mean, 93-minute reminder that a great concept and a dedicated lead can do more than a sea of CGI. It’s framed as a "lost" master tape of a 1977 talk show called Night Owls, hosted by Jack Delroy—a man so desperate for a piece of Johnny Carson’s crown that he’s willing to invite the literal abyss onto his set for a sweeps-week stunt.

The Grime of the Golden Age

What immediately struck me was how perfectly the Cairnes brothers captured the aesthetic of late-70s television. This wasn't just putting a filter over a 4K camera; they built a world that feels brown, nicotine-stained, and dangerously analog. David Dastmalchian, an actor I’ve admired for years in supporting roles in films like Oppenheimer and The Suicide Squad, finally steps into the spotlight as Jack Delroy. He is phenomenal. He carries that specific, oily charisma of a man who is smiling for the camera while his soul is clearly fraying at the edges.

The film operates on a "found footage" logic, but it’s much more structured than the shaky-cam era of the early 2000s. We see the broadcast as the 1977 audience would have seen it, interspersed with grainy black-and-white "behind-the-scenes" footage during the commercial breaks. These breaks are where the dread really cooks. Seeing Delroy scramble to keep the show on the rails while his producer, played with a frantic energy by Rhys Auteri, whispers about the mounting chaos, creates a claustrophobia that a standard narrative film would struggle to match. Jack Delroy is what happens when you mix Johnny Carson with a Faustian bargain and too much hairspray.

A Masterclass in Indie Resourcefulness

From a production standpoint, this is a fascinating case study in how to spend a $2 million budget. Most of the money clearly went into the set design and the incredible practical effects. When things inevitably go south during a live "demon demonstration" featuring a young girl named Lilly (Ingrid Torelli), the film leans into practical makeup and clever camera tricks that feel period-appropriate. Torelli is genuinely unsettling; she has a way of looking directly into the lens that makes you feel like she’s seeing you through the screen.

The Cairnes brothers took the "indie hustle" to heart, filming the entire project in Melbourne despite the heavy NYC setting. They spent years researching 70s talk shows—not just the look, but the specific cadence of the jokes and the way guests like the psychic Christou (Fayssal Bazzi) or the skeptic Carmichael Haig (Ian Bliss) would bicker for the sake of entertainment. It’s a movie that understands that television is a medium of manipulation, and horror is just the ultimate form of a ratings grab.

There was a bit of contemporary "social media discourse" regarding the film's use of AI-generated art for three brief interstitial "we’ll be right back" cards. While some fans were frustrated by its inclusion in a film that otherwise champions practical craft, it oddly fits the movie's theme of "the machine" taking over human creativity. It’s a very 2024 controversy for a movie that looks like 1977, proving that even indie gems aren't immune to the technological shifts of our current era.

The Skeptic and the Supernatural

One of my favorite dynamics in the film is the constant tension between the "rational" and the "impossible." Ian Bliss is fantastic as the professional skeptic, a character clearly modeled after James Randi. He’s there to debunk every supernatural occurrence, and his arrogance provides a brilliant foil to the escalating insanity. The skeptics in this movie are more annoying than a YouTube ad you can’t skip, but they serve a vital purpose: they give the audience a reason to keep questioning what they’re seeing until the film finally, brutally, pulls the rug out.

As we move deeper into the "Contemporary Cinema" era, we’re seeing a trend of movies that use nostalgia not as a warm blanket, but as a weapon. Late Night with the Devil doesn't want you to miss the 70s; it wants you to be glad they’re over. It speaks to our current obsession with clout and the "everything for the bit" mentality that dominates streaming and social media today. Jack Delroy is a prototype for the modern influencer—someone who doesn't know when to stop the broadcast, even as the world burns around him.

The film’s ending is a frantic, psychedelic descent that might polarize some who prefer a more linear resolution, but I found it to be a perfect payoff for the buildup. It’s a dark, intense ride that manages to be both a love letter to the era of analog TV and a cautionary tale about the price of attention. The Cairnes brothers have delivered a standout piece of modern horror that proves you don't need a massive franchise to capture a nation’s imagination. Just a camera, a charismatic host, and a very, very bad idea for a guest list.