Adam Scott has spent years perfecting the art of the anxious everyman. Whether he's navigating the corporate surrealism of Severance or the dry comedy of Parks and Recreation, he knows how to look like a man who’s one bad day away from a total breakdown. In Hokum, he finally gets to let that breakdown happen in a drafty, terrifying hotel. Most horror movies today try too hard to be "elevated" or "prestige." They focus so much on trauma metaphors that they forget to actually be scary. Hokum doesn’t have that problem. It’s a mean, lean ghost story that understands exactly why we’re afraid of the dark.
The film follows Scott as a disgraced journalist who retreats to a remote, historically cursed hotel to write a career-saving exposé. It sounds like a setup you’ve seen a thousand times. You’re thinking The Shining. You’re thinking 1408. But director Sarah Miller twists the knife by making the haunting intensely personal. This isn't just about bleeding walls or creepy twins. It’s about the way a space can reflect your worst failures back at you until you can’t tell the difference between a ghost and a memory.
Why Adam Scott is the perfect lead for this nightmare
Scott doesn't play a hero. He plays a guy who is deeply, fundamentally tired. That exhaustion makes the horror feel more grounded. When he hears a scratch behind the wallpaper at 3:00 AM, he doesn’t immediately grab a shotgun. He sighs, rubs his eyes, and tries to convince himself it’s just the plumbing. We've all been there. Maybe not with ghosts, but definitely with that feeling of dread that comes from being alone in a place that feels far too big for you.
The chemistry—or lack thereof—between Scott and the hotel itself is the movie's strongest asset. The building, a sprawling Victorian structure in the Pacific Northwest, feels like a character. It has moods. It has secrets. Miller uses wide shots to make Scott look tiny and insignificant against the backdrop of rotting wood and velvet curtains. It’s effective because it taps into a primal fear. It’s the fear of being swallowed by history.
Breaking down the scares that actually work
Most modern horror relies on jump scares that feel cheap. You know the drill: the music cuts out, there’s a long silence, and then a loud bang happens. Hokum avoids this trap. Instead, it builds tension through what I call "peripheral dread." You see something move in the corner of the frame, but when Scott turns his head, nothing is there. The camera doesn't zoom in to show you what you missed. It just stays there, forcing you to wonder if your eyes are playing tricks on you.
Sound design as a weapon
The audio in this film is oppressive. It’s not just the wind or the creaking floorboards. There’s a low-frequency hum that runs through many of the scenes, something that mimics the sound of a panic attack. It’s subtle enough that you might not notice it consciously, but your body does. You’ll find yourself gripping your armrests without knowing why.
Visual storytelling over CGI
Thankfully, the movie relies heavily on practical effects. There’s a weight to the ghosts in Hokum. They aren’t wispy digital blurs. They look like people who have been left to rot. When one of them finally corners Scott in the hotel’s basement, the scene feels tactile and dangerous. You can almost smell the damp earth and old dust. It’s a reminder that real sets and real makeup will always beat a green screen.
What Hokum gets right about psychological isolation
Isolation is a trope for a reason. It works. But Hokum adds a layer of modern anxiety. Scott’s character is constantly checking his phone, looking for a signal that never comes. He’s desperate for a connection to the outside world because he knows he can’t survive his own thoughts. The movie argues that we aren't just afraid of ghosts; we're afraid of being alone with our own mistakes.
The script, written by newcomer Eli Vance, doesn't overexplain. It trusts the audience to keep up. We don't get a long monologue about the hotel's "dark origin story" from a local librarian. We get fragments. We get old photographs, half-burned letters, and the terrifying realization that some things are better left buried.
A refreshing change from the usual horror tropes
I’m tired of movies where the protagonist makes the dumbest possible choice at every turn. In Hokum, Scott’s character actually tries to leave. He tries to be rational. The horror comes from the fact that he can’t escape, no matter how smart he is. The hotel isn't just a building; it’s a trap that was set long before he arrived.
The pacing is also worth noting. It’s a slow burn for the first forty minutes, but once it picks up, it doesn't let go. It builds to a fever pitch that makes the final act feel genuinely chaotic. You feel as disoriented as the protagonist. By the time the credits roll, you’re left feeling exhausted in the best way possible.
How to watch it for the best experience
If you’re going to see Hokum, don't watch it on your laptop with the lights on. This is a movie designed for a dark room and a good sound system. The nuances of the cinematography and the layering of the audio will be lost otherwise.
Search for the nearest theater with a decent sound setup or, at the very least, wait until nightfall to stream it. Pay attention to the background of the shots, especially in the second act. There are things hidden in the shadows that the movie never explicitly points out, but they’re there. Once you see them, you can’t unsee them. Go into it expecting a character study that happens to be haunted, and you won't be disappointed. It’s a standout performance from Adam Scott and a reminder that ghost stories still have plenty of life left in them. Get your tickets, turn off your phone, and prepare to feel very uncomfortable the next time you stay in a hotel.
