The Cellar is a stripped-down psychological horror that uses minimalism as a weapon. Written and directed by Jamie David Langlands, the film traps us underground with a single character and no clear answers, letting claustrophobia and confusion fester until it becomes nearly unbearable in the best way.
We open with Abigail (Meghan Adara) waking in a dank, concrete room. She does not know how she got there, who she is, or why she is being watched. There is no dramatic setup or exposition dump, just cold, immediate disorientation. It is an effective hook, and Langlands wisely chooses to keep us in the dark right alongside her.
The majority of the film takes place in a single space: the titular cellar. But thanks to eerie production design and clever camerawork, it never feels visually static. As Abigail tries to piece together her past and survive whatever psychological test she is trapped in, the environment itself starts to feel unstable. Shadows stretch unnaturally. Familiar objects seem to shift. There is an almost dreamlike quality to the space that suggests this prison may be more mental than physical.
Meghan Adara’s performance carries the film. With no one to play off and barely any dialogue at times, she manages to hold the screen with subtle expressions of fear, suspicion, and resolve. She does not overact. She lets the silence speak. It is a smart, grounded approach that keeps the character sympathetic even as her grip on reality loosens.
“…[Abigail] does not know how she got there, who she is, or why she is being watched.”
The horror here is mostly internal. There are no cheap jump scares or over-the-top gore. Instead, The Cellar leans into existential dread: Who are we without our memories? What sins have we forgotten or chosen to forget? And if redemption is possible, what does it cost? These questions linger just under the surface, woven into the film’s sparse dialogue and creeping pacing.
There are moments where the ambiguity threatens to become frustrating. The script withholds answers for a long time, and some viewers may grow impatient with the slow burn. But Langlands is playing the long game, and by the third act, enough pieces start to fall into place to justify the earlier restraint. The payoff is not explosive, but it is emotionally satisfying and tonally consistent.
Visually, the film punches above its budget. The lighting design deserves particular praise: dim, moody, and purposeful, it heightens both the dread and the dream logic. The sound design is equally strong, using subtle mechanical whirs and distant thuds to suggest a world just outside the frame that we are not meant to see.
For those who are drawn to the kind of horror that gets under your skin, The Cellar delivers. It feels spiritually aligned with films like Cube or Exam, but trades their puzzle box logic for a more emotional, introspective descent.
The Cellar is a confident, minimalist debut that values mood over mayhem. It is a character study wrapped in a mystery, built on atmosphere, and anchored by a strong central performance. It might not be for everyone, but for fans of intimate, slow-burning psychological horror, it is a haunting little gem worth discovering.
"…values mood over mayhem."
