Release Date: United States: January 30, 2026
Runtime: 115 minutes (1h 55m)
Rated: : R – strong/bloody violence and language
Production Companies: Raimi Productions
Producers: Sam Raimi & Zainab Azizi
Cinematography: Bill Pope
Editing: Bob Murawski
Music/Composer: Danny Elfman
Send Help (2026)
Director: Sam Raimi
Writers: Damian Shannon & Mark Swift
Cast: Rachel McAdams, Dylan O’Brien, Dennis Haysbert, Edyll Ismail, Xavier Samuel, Chris Pang, Thaneth Warakulnukroh, Emma Raimi
Have you ever had a boss belittle you or condescend you so harshly you just want to… file a complaint? Well, for those whose imagination is limited to such thoughts, this film is NOT for you. Sam Raimi takes themes revolving around a toxic workplace, power dynamics, and privilege, and hurls them onto an isolated island à la Triangle of Sadness, ramping up the gore, satire, and that unmistakable Raimi touch that makes his films so entertainingly violent. Having Rachel McAdams and Dylan O’Brien at the helm doesn’t hurt either.
Sam Raimi’s Send Help utilizes isolation on a stranded island to flip the power held by our arrogant, douchebag, newly appointed boss (we’ve all had one), Bradley Preston (O’Brien), against Linda Liddle (McAdams), a corporate strategist whose value to the company is undeniable yet consistently overlooked. Bradley’s power is quite literally handed to him by his father after his death, while Linda is expecting a long-promised promotion from that same deceased individual (insert Bruce Campbell cameo), who was also her boss. Early on, Linda is framed as reverent, awkward, and deeply unpolished, and the film makes a concerted effort to render McAdams unattractive and unappealing, paired with behavior that reads as “unladylike” and socially undesirable. Bradley is immediately repelled by this. This framing is no accident. Linda’s appearance and lack of palatability become a form of punishment, something Bradley openly weaponizes against her. Cleverly, later on, we see that same competence — once dismissed in favor of charm — turned against him in a setting where his superficial judgments no longer hold weight or meaning.
Gender plays an undeniable role here. Linda isn’t just undervalued; her charm and likability are expected to function as labor, something she must perform in exchange for recognition of her actual competence and skill. (One could argue these should coexist, but that’s a different conversation.) Bradley’s authority relies almost entirely on perception rather than ability, reinforced by bias and nepotism, exemplified when he promotes a friend with less experience over Linda. Once the veneer of performative feminism is stripped away — along with the trappings of corporate masculinity — the goalpost shifts entirely, exposing how fragile and conditional that power always was.
There is plenty of exposition at Linda’s expense to introduce our story: finishing bottles of wine alone, sharing crackers with her bird, failing to connect socially with her coworkers. We learn everything about her through isolation. By contrast, much about Bradley in his introduction is left to interpretation, established in minimal time and with even less dialogue. Raimi uses this to great effect, relying heavily on O’Brien’s facial expressions, body language, and carefully deployed smugness to communicate entitlement without spelling it out.
As Bradley and his executives prepare to head to a business meeting in Bangkok, Linda is offered an invitation — not as recognition, but as an opportunity to make herself more “marketable” at his side. Raimi establishes the imbalance of power early and unflinchingly, culminating in Bradley humiliating Linda on the plane by playing her Survivor audition tape, showcasing her survival skills for the amusement of others. Her competence is reduced to entertainment, framed as a joke, but it also functions as an act of dominance. This moment operates as clear foreshadowing: what is laughed at here soon becomes the difference between life and death, shifting Linda’s skillset from a corporate punchline to a brutal necessity.
For Linda, the horror begins long before the crash. The corporate world itself functions as the film’s first horror setting. While not horror in the traditional sense, Raimi presents the workplace as a suffocating environment where Linda’s labor is invisibilized and her worth constantly negotiated. By relocating this power struggle to a place where hierarchy is meaningless, Raimi exposes how flimsy Bradley’s authority truly is. His inherited power becomes irrelevant and useless, while Linda’s labor — long exploited — is finally made literal once survival replaces performance.
That corporate setting is quickly juxtaposed with the stark beauty of the remote island in the Gulf of Thailand where the plane crashes. With only Linda and Bradley surviving, the precedent is set early: Linda saves Bradley’s life, tends to his injuries, and keeps them both alive long enough for him to regain basic physical independence. The turnaround is swift and grim, leaving little room for sentimentality and nothing left on the table.
While the film may initially appear cookie-cutter — even predictable, to an extent — Raimi soon deploys his style in ways that feel both familiar and reinvigorating, using that predictability as a tool to generate unpredictability. And of course, our favorite gore-loving director does not let up on the bloodletting (there is a particular scene involving a CGI wild boar). Raimi staples abound: the “deadite”-style vision shot makes its appearance, as does his obligatory Bruce Campbell cameo. Raimi doesn’t ask you to merely observe the chaos — he drags you into it.
One of the film’s most effective tools is also one of its simplest: a knife. More than a prop, it becomes a symbol of power, control, trust, and dominance, shifting meaning as alliances fracture and desperation grows. Raimi plays psychological games not only with his audience, but with his characters as well, cultivating an atmosphere of volatility and dread. Some online discourse suggests the film’s trajectory is obvious, but even if one believes they can predict the ending, Raimi makes it work. McAdams makes it work. O’Brien makes it work. The camerawork, cinematography, transitions, backstories, and that ever-present knife all contribute to a journey that is messy, brutal, and absolutely not safe for work — regardless of where it ultimately lands.
Raimi doesn’t lead, guide, or lecture us about these characters or their moral standings. Instead, he amplifies their ugliest, most deeply ingrained traits. His use of satire and exaggeration pushes the film beyond realism and into excess, occasionally veering into caricature, but it works. The system that allows Bradley to thrive collapses in on itself, stripped of the audience and structures that once upheld it. McAdams powerfully conveys the invisible labor and emotional exhaustion imposed on those at the lower rungs of corporate hierarchies, but the question remains: is it Linda who defeats Bradley, or is it the false system that can only function within society — not on a remote island?
Send Help ultimately isn’t about surviving an island so much as surviving under a system that mistakes inheritance for competence and palatability for value. Raimi strips that system of its polish, protections, and performative audience, leaving behind only what people are capable of when power can no longer be staged. What remains is ugly, violent, and often funny — but also revealing. In a world where authority is frequently handed down rather than earned, Raimi suggests that survival belongs not to those who look the part, but to those who were doing the work all along.