V H S 85 2023 -

★★★★½ (4.5/5) Best watched with the lights off and your hand hovering over the eject button.

The genius of V/H/S/85 is its understanding of the year itself. 1985 was a hinge point: Reagan-era optimism colliding with the Satanic Panic, the rise of home video (and the “video nasty” moral crusade), and the creeping awareness that technology could betray you. The characters in these segments are not jaded; they trust the camera. They believe recording something makes it real, containable, evidence. The film’s ultimate cruelty is showing that the camera does not protect you. It simply ensures someone will watch you die. Later. In a basement. On a cracked 19-inch screen. V H S 85 2023

V/H/S/85 (2023) is not a fun haunted house ride. It’s a slow, cold crawl through a dead medium, asking uncomfortable questions: What if the past wasn’t simpler? What if it was just better at hiding its horrors? And what happens when we rewind the tape, only to find something rewinds back? ★★★★½ (4

Where previous entries leaned into camp or nostalgia, 85 weaponizes the very limitations of its format. The year is, of course, 1985—the peak of the home camcorder boom, when families recorded birthdays and serial killers recorded basements. Director David Bruckner (returning to the franchise he helped launch with 2012’s Amateur Night ) and his cohort of filmmakers—Scott Derrickson, Gigi Saul Guerrero, Natasha Kermani, and Mike P. Nelson—treat the VHS artifact not as a gimmick but as a ghost. The tracking errors, the blown-out highlights, the haunting moment when the tape runs out and snow fills the screen: all of it becomes a language of dread. The characters in these segments are not jaded;

The final wraparound reveal—that every tape we’ve watched was a snuff collection belonging to the documentary’s “scientist,” who has been broadcasting his “research” into empty airwaves—lands with a quiet, sickening thud. There is no final girl. No police raid. Just the hum of a VCR in an empty room, waiting for the next viewer.

Standout segment “God of the Gaps” (Derrickson) reimagines a church youth-group retreat gone wrong, not through demonic possession, but through a technologically transmitted “miracle” that broadcasts a deity’s painful, silent scream directly into the brains of anyone near a cathode-ray tube. It’s a brilliant metaphor: in 1985, God wasn’t dead—He was trapped in the static between channels.