Release Date: World Premiere March 14, 2026 (SXSW); US theatrical release May 1, 2026
Runtime: 107 minutes (1hr 47min)
Rated: R – some violent/disturbing content and language
Production Companies: Image Nation Abu Dhabi, Spooky Pictures, Tailored Films, Cweature Features, Team Thrives
Producers: Roy Lee, Steven Schneider, Derek Dauchy, Ruth Treacy, Julianne Forde, Mairtín de Barra
Cinematography: Colm Hogan
Editing: Brian Phillip Davis
Music/Composer: Joseph Bishara
Hokum (2026)
Director & Writer: Damian McCarthy
Cast: Adam Scott, Peter Coonan, David Wilmot, Florence Ordesh, Will O’Connell, Michael Patric, Brendan Conroy, Austin Amelio, Mallory Adams, Sioux Carroll
May is shaping up to be a strong month for horror, but few titles carried as much intrigue for me as Hokum. Between Adam Scott leading the film and director Damian McCarthy coming off the eerie success of Oddity, expectations were already set high. Fortunately, Hokum doesn’t just meet them—it establishes itself as one of the more thematically pointed horror entries of the year so far.
McCarthy continues to lean into Irish folklore and isolated settings, but where Oddity thrived on emotional symmetry between its twin leads, Hokum feels more singular—more internal. The horror here isn’t shared or observed; it’s carried almost entirely through Ohm’s (Scott) fractured perspective, shaped by childhood trauma that continues to bleed into his present.
The confined setting of the rural motel works heavily in the film’s favor, allowing McCarthy to construct a suffocating atmosphere where every hallway, room, and flicker of light feels deliberate. The so-called haunted honeymoon suite—complete with lingering folklore and rumors of a witch—becomes less of a gimmick and more an extension of Ohm’s mental state: uncertain, unstable, and constantly threatening to unravel.
While grief and trauma have become familiar territory within modern horror, McCarthy’s approach still feels deliberate rather than derivative. With striking cinematography from Colm Hogan, a gallery of suspicious and off-kilter town characters, and a careful balance of jump scares and slow-building dread, Hokum maintains a persistent tension that rarely lets up.
At its core, the film is circling one idea: guilt. And it does so through two men moving in opposite directions—Ohm at the center, and Mal (Peter Coonan), the motel’s front desk clerk, acting as his thematic counterweight.
Ohm is, put plainly, an asshole. Abrasive, dismissive, and emotionally closed off, he immediately establishes himself as someone difficult to root for. The film opens within the bleak ending of his novel, subtly mirroring his current state of mind. It isn’t until he is confronted by the spirit of his mother that something begins to shift, setting him—however reluctantly—on a path toward confrontation and, perhaps, healing.
His behavior suggests a man still entrenched in grief and unresolved trauma. The hostility he carries feels less random than inherited, shaped by something long buried but never fully processed.
The title Hokum—suggesting nonsense, insincerity, or emotional manipulation—becomes increasingly ironic as the film unfolds. What initially reads as superstition or exaggeration gradually reveals itself to be something more grounded. Whether the hauntings are real becomes almost irrelevant; what matters is that Ohm believes them. In that belief, they gain weight, consequence, and inevitability.
That tension is further blurred through the film’s flirtation with altered states—alcohol, mushrooms, and the possibility that what we’re witnessing may be as much psychological as it is supernatural. Ohm, a deeply skeptical man by nature, finds himself caught between dismissal and acceptance when faced with the presence of his mother—someone he is still grieving, and for good reason.
SPOILER ALERT: It is revealed that Ohm accidentally shot and killed his mother as a child, a tragedy that also drove his father into a downward spiral that ultimately led to his death. This revelation reframes everything—the apparitions, Ohm’s self-destructive tendencies, and even the bleakness embedded in his writing, which Fiona (Florence Ordesh), the bartender, calls out directly.
That bleakness, however, is not exclusive to Ohm.
SECOND SPOILER ALERT: Mal, in contrast, commits a deliberate act of violence, murdering Fiona in an attempt to conceal an accidental pregnancy and avoid the consequences of exposure. Where Ohm’s guilt is rooted in accident and regret, Mal’s is born from control and fear.
What McCarthy ultimately constructs is a dual study of guilt—one that internalizes and one that externalizes. Ohm turns inward, his guilt manifesting in self-destruction, while Mal redirects his outward, justifying violence as a means of control. Both are shaped by the same root emotion, yet their responses diverge in ways that make the film all the more unsettling.
Amidst this, McCarthy threads in moments of dark humor, making effective use of Scott’s natural comedic timing without undercutting the tension. It’s a delicate balance, but one that adds texture rather than distraction.
The film’s set design further reinforces its world, leaning into a worn, almost decaying aesthetic that complements its folklore roots. From the motel itself to its more peculiar details, the environment feels lived-in, haunted not just by myth, but by memory.
McCarthy also proves attentive to detail in ways that reward patience—the small saw, the ringing of the honeymoon suite bell, and even the manner of Jerry’s (David Wilmot) death, which mirrors the behavior of the local goats and rams under the same influence. These moments may seem minor in isolation, but collectively they build a film that feels carefully constructed rather than coincidental.
In the end, McCarthy continues to establish himself as a distinct voice in modern horror—one capable of delivering both visceral scares and emotional undercurrents with equal precision. Hokum may flirt with the supernatural, but its true horror lies in something far more human: the inability to escape one’s past.
Because what lingers isn’t whether any of it was real—but the realization that, for Ohm, it never had to be.