Writer-director Harry Aspinwall’s feature film debut, The House Was Not Hungry Then, is an exercise in self-indulgence that mistakes stagnation for suspense. From its opening stark, static shots of an eerily empty house, the horror exercise establishes its detached, almost clinical perspective, placing viewers as silent, passive onlookers. While this approach may have been intended to create tension, it instead results in a tedious experience that tests patience more than it instills fear.
The single-location setting is stretched thin. With only six distinct areas — the foyer, living room, first-floor corridor, stairs, second-floor hallway, and main room — the house itself is meant to be a character, but instead, it feels like a lifeless backdrop to a sluggish and repetitive narrative. The camera never moves, reinforcing an impersonal, monotonous aesthetic that seems more inspired by the Canadian indie horror misfire Skinamarink than by any true innovation. Unlike the successful experiments in static horror seen in films like Steven Soderbergh’s Presence or even Robert Zemeckis’ flawed but ambitious Here, Aspinwall’s approach feels derivative and underwhelming, looking more like a real estate video or advert for renovations.
At the heart of the horror of The House Was Not Hungry Then is a simplistic premise: an old house, seemingly abandoned, lures in unsuspecting visitors with the help of its coldly indifferent proprietor (Clive Russell). Once inside, potential tenants become prey as the house feeds on them. The eerie soundscape — a slow-building, stomach-growling rumble — signals the inevitable disappearances and the house’s cycle of consumption. While this setup has the potential for chilling terror, it’s squandered by removing all sense of urgency or human connection, reducing its victims to little more than vague figures swallowed by an indifferent void.
“…potential tenants become prey as the house feeds on them.”
The arrival of a young woman (Bobby Rainsbury) searching for her estranged father introduces what should be an emotional purpose. Yet, the story remains too detached to allow any actual investment. Thematically, this seems to gesture at ideas of emotional emptiness, societal decay, or passive complicity but refuses to engage with them. It merely presents an aesthetic of emptiness without depth, leaving viewers to grasp at interpretations that feel more like compensations for lack of actual substance.
Stephen D. Grant’s cinematography, with its locked-off compositions and refusal to provide traditional close-ups or reaction shots, is a miscalculation. This framing is pleasing and asks the audience to look at the entire frame, especially the corners. But, instead of fostering tension, it reinforces the cold distance from the narrative. Some sequences lead to nothing, and the deliberate pacing becomes a chore rather than an exercise in suspense. The repetitious nature of the visual language, combined with constant fades to black, only serves to further disrupt what little momentum that manages to build.
The House Was Not Hungry Then ultimately feels like an empty exercise in style over substance. Interesting framing and a female victim make for some visual fun. Rather than pushing the boundaries of horror in any meaningful way, it settles for an aloof, overly academic approach that saps the genre. For those who found Skinamarink insufferably pretentious, this will likely evoke a similar reaction. Horror should unsettle, engage, and evoke fear, not lull its audience into indifference. Aspinwall’s debut, unfortunately, does the latter.
"…horror should unsettle, engage, and evoke fear..."
