V/H/S/Halloween

There is a specific, Pavlovian response I get when that static-laced Shudder logo pops up on my TV in the middle of October. It’s the digital equivalent of hearing a floorboard creak in an empty house. By the time we hit 2025, the V/H/S franchise has become the "Old Reliable" of the streaming era—a series that survived the mid-2010s found-footage fatigue only to find its second wind as a curated gallery for horror’s most eccentric voices. V/H/S/Halloween feels like the ultimate victory lap for producer Brad Miska, finally leaning into the holiday that serves as the DNA for the entire project.

I watched this during a massive thunderstorm that knocked out my internet for twenty minutes, forcing me to tether my laptop to my phone just to see the final segment. Honestly, the low-res buffering and occasional signal drops actually made the movie scarier; it felt like the ghost in the machine was trying to claw its way out of my data plan.

The Analog itch in a Digital World

What’s fascinating about V/H/S/Halloween is how it navigates the 2025 cultural landscape. We are living in a moment where "Analog Horror" has exploded on YouTube—think The Backrooms or The Mandela Catalogue—and this film clearly knows it. It’s no longer just about recreating the 90s; it’s about weaponizing the specific unbeasiness of low-fidelity media for a generation that grew up on 4K iPhones.

The wraparound segment, which usually feels like a chore in these anthologies, is surprisingly punchy this time around. It centers on a group of "urban explorers" (read: annoying Gen Z influencers) who break into a condemned media storage facility on Halloween night. While the "kids with cameras get killed" trope is well-worn, the direction by Anna Zlokovic gives it a frantic, claustrophobic energy. She captures that specific brand of social media vanity—the need to film the disaster rather than run from it—without making it feel like a "phone bad" lecture.

A Masterclass in Stylistic Whiplash

The real meat, as always, is in the individual tapes. Paco Plaza, the man responsible for the legendary [REC], delivers a segment called "The Procession" that is easily the highlight. Set during a rural Spanish Halloween festival, it’s a chaotic, sun-drenched nightmare that proves you don’t need darkness to create dread. Plaza uses body cams and shaky handhelds to capture a religious ritual gone horribly wrong, and the practical effects here—specifically a disturbing bit involving a ceremonial mask and a staple gun—had me squinting through my fingers.

On the complete opposite end of the spectrum is Casper Kelly, the mind behind the viral Too Many Cooks. His segment, "Diaper Man," is a surrealist descent into suburban hell starring Adam Carr. It’s the kind of segment that will divide audiences; it’s absurdist, borderline goofy, and then suddenly, profoundly upsetting. Kelly has a knack for taking a mundane Halloween setting—a boring cul-de-sac party—and stretching the reality until it snaps. It’s the boldest creative swing the franchise has taken since the "Safe Haven" segment in V/H/S/2.

The acting across the board is surprisingly grounded for a series known for screaming. Samantha Cochran as Lacie in the "The Cheerleader" segment (directed by Alex Ross Perry) brings a frantic, twitchy vulnerability to her role. Perry, known for the high-anxiety drama of Her Smell, translates his "the world is ending" energy perfectly into the horror genre. He treats the found-footage gimmick not as a limitation, but as a way to force the viewer into the personal space of someone losing their mind.

Practical Gore and the Human Touch

In an era where we’re all rightfully terrified that AI is going to suck the soul out of cinema, V/H/S/Halloween feels like a stubborn, blood-soaked protest. The production design by Micheline Pitt-Norman and R.H. Norman leans heavily into practical makeup and "in-camera" tricks. When Elena Musser (playing a character simply credited as "The Mommy") undergoes a transformation in the third act, it’s clearly a person in a suit with buckets of corn syrup and latex. Digital glitches are used as seasoning, not the main course, and that’s why it works.

There’s a tactile quality to the horror here. You can almost smell the old tape plastic and the cheap latex of a store-bought mask. This is a film made by people who clearly spent their childhoods in the "Horror" aisle of a Blockbuster, looking at the back of boxes they weren't allowed to rent. It’s a love letter to the era of physical media, released on a platform that represents its total disappearance.

While not every segment hits—a late-entry short involving a haunted bouncy house feels a bit like filler—the batting average here is incredibly high. V/H/S/Halloween succeeds because it understands that horror is best served with a side of unpredictability. It’s messy, it’s loud, and it’s occasionally gross, but it’s never boring. If you’re looking for a reason to keep your Shudder subscription active this year, this is the one. Grab some fun-size Snickers, turn off the lights, and let the tracking issues take over.