Papaya_Horror

Director Grégory Morin delivers a riotous horror-comedy set entirely inside a Turkish toilet in a nightclub. After a misunderstanding involving a drug deal, Luc (Jonathan Lambert) finds himself trapped in the loo, fighting for his life as two villains close in.

There's no choice but to laugh-the film demands it. The premise is simple, the execution even simpler, yet the characters-including a wickedly endearing white rat-are written with a surprising amount of wit and flair.

"Flush" is a French survival-thriller-comedy with energy to spare and entertainment in abundance.

Lambert's standout performance anchors the chaos, beginning with a snow-dusted nightclub scene before spiralling into real-time madness inside a single, suffocating cubicle.

Remarkably, the film never feels stagnant; Morin wrings every ounce of tension and comedy from the confined setting. The result is clever, often grotesque, and unashamedly absurd-a filthy little gem of genre cinema.

Beneath the toilet humour lies something sharper: an exploration of addiction, relapse, and the collateral damage drugs inflict on families-but also, as Morin stated during the film's Q&A at FrightFest 2025, a love story and a slyly absurd take on violence.

Even with the best intentions, it's frighteningly easy to stumble-or in Luc's case, step straight into it. At just over 70 minutes, "Flush" may not appeal to everyone, but I absolutely loved it.

The sheer fact that I remained engrossed in one man's battle with a toilet bowl for that long is testament to the strength of the acting, story, and direction.

This is a film for fans of dark, outrageous genre cinema and stripped-down, inventive filmmaking.

It proves that you don't need elaborate gore or convoluted plotting to captivate an audience; sometimes all it takes is a single location, a few strong performances, and a brilliantly deranged idea.

A personal highlight came days after the screening, when I had the chance to speak with a friend of Morin's, who offered fascinating insights into the long process behind the film's creation. It made me appreciate the film even more.

Simple in concept yet superbly executed, "Flush" is proof that originality doesn't have to be overblown.

It makes you laugh, squirm, recoil, and grin with disbelief-often all at once. You'll feel unsettled, maybe even embarrassed, but ultimately you'll want more.

I first encountered Body Integrity Dysphoria (BID) in 2005, watching "Nip/Tuck" 's episode BEN WHITE-a morbidly fascinating introduction to a disorder most people have never heard of.

Overshadowed by more familiar conversations about body image, BID-the desire to amputate a healthy limb or pursue disability-is a deeply unsettling reality that taps into my deepest fears.

While some exploit mental health terms for attention, BID is no exaggeration. It exists, and it lives.

My fascination with the subject gives me anxiety, yet I keep digging. For me, it isn't about judgment-it's about comprehension. And that matters with topics that unsettle us, because our instinct as human beings is to preserve health and wholeness at all costs.

This is where my boundaries with horror lie. Gore rarely shakes me. What lingers is psychological terror-the masks people wear, the truths they bury.

Sometimes I even relate too much to the act of pretending everything is fine, hiding the truth to avoid burdening others or escaping judgment. That, more than blood or violence, is what stays with me.

Which brings me to Viljar Boe's latest film. After his eerie 2022 feature "Good Boy," he returns with another story designed to disturb.

Scandinavia seems determined to traumatize us with horrors that feel all too real-like a 1950s family advert masking atrocious realities beneath the perfect smile.

The film opens with Amir (Freddy Singh), and from the first frame we witness both his pain and his obsession. Retreating into his studio home, he finds a strange relief drawing himself wheelchair-bound, with one leg tucked beneath him as if already inhabiting the body he envisions.

It all unfolds under the shadow of a countdown: 25 days until the accident.

Amir becomes transfixed by a television interview with a young woman who longs to be blind and lives as though she already is. While his girlfriend Kim questions the girl's behavior, Amir sees a mirror.

Soon he contacts her, finding someone with whom he can finally share his secret. Meanwhile, he receives a vague job offer from an old friend, Jonas.

Each of these characters reflects a different side of Amir: Kim offers patience but grows weary of his secrecy; Jonas provides endless chances even as Amir becomes more distracted and aggressive; while Rikke-the blind girl-seems to understand him, though she too is not what she pretends to be.

It's here that the film fully confronts the very anxieties I mentioned earlier.

Boe handles the subject with clinical precision. The cinematography is cold, detached, almost surgical. Dialogue is clipped, and interactions are restrained.

The atmosphere mirrors Amir's fractured psyche. There's no sensationalism, no heavy exposition-just the raw turmoil of a man convinced his body does not belong to him.

As viewers, we oscillate between empathy for Amir and unease at his choices. The film ultimately asks: how well do we really feel safe with the people closest to us-our partners, our friends, our colleagues?

For me, it cut even deeper. Living with a chronic illness, I found myself connecting to Amir in an unexpected way. He longs to be disabled; I long to have my body functioning back at its best.

Neither desire is truly attainable without drastic measures. That contrast made the film resonate all the more strongly.

Like "Good Boy," Boe isn't chasing shock value. His aim is confrontation: to force us to look at uncomfortable realities that feel closer to truth than fiction.

"Above the Knee" may not be the definitive exploration of the subject, but it's a compelling and deeply uncomfortable watch.

For me, the horror wasn't in the blood or the shadows-it was in the masks, the secrets, and the quiet, unshakable thought that the body itself can become the greatest prison.

The unique hallmark of the Adams family's filmmaking lies not only in their extraordinary chemistry but in the way they explore detachment within a seemingly united family.

"Mother of Flies" continues this tradition, fusing folkloric witchcraft with an intimate story of illness and survival. The result is not simply a horror film but a meditation on transformation, where personal struggle becomes myth.

At the heart of the film is Toby Poser's commanding performance as the witch Solveig. Her presence is terrifying, seductive, and unforgettable, arguably the finest work of her career so far.

Having met her just before the film's UK premiere at FrightFest 2025, I was struck by the contrast between her genuine warmth in person and the menacing, otherworldly figure she inhabits onscreen. That duality underscores just how remarkable her craft is.

John Adams provides the perfect counterweight. His character, Jake, reacts to the film's supernatural horrors with grim seriousness tempered by wry skepticism, offering moments of comic relief amid the tension.

Without his performance, the narrative would risk suffocation under its own intensity.

Yet beneath the occult trappings, "Mother of Flies" emerges from deeply personal territory.

Both Toby and John have experienced cancer, and instead of turning that experience into something bleak, they channel it into a celebration of life and of the "magic potions" doctors use in treatment.

This intimate subtext shapes the film's emotional spine.

The story unfolds through Mickey (Zelda Adams), who seeks Solveig after exhausting all medical options. Facing a recurrence of cancer likely to be terminal, she and her father travel deep into the Catskills to the witch's eccentric home, its fable-like exterior giving way to surreal interiors that resemble nightmarish installations.

What follows is less a conventional horror story than a richly textured dive into folklore. Solveig is not a stock villain, nor is the film interested in easy scares. Instead, it sidesteps clichés and embraces horror's capacity to be poignant as well as grotesque.

As the story develops, Solveig's own journey is revealed in a series of flashbacks that inform her motivations and provide some of the darkest points yet in the Adams' filmography.

At the post-screening Q&A, John Adams jokingly described one scene as Death Vagina, a phrase that captures the film's strange balancing act of irreverence and darkness. You can tell they had a blast leaning into its gory weirdness, and that sense of fun carries right through to the audience.

The Adamses' deep connection to nature permeates the film. Living surrounded by trees and animals, they infuse their art with eerie swarms of insects, bodily fluids, and organic grotesquery.

Rather than shock-value gore, "Mother of Flies" locates horror in the unsettling closeness of life and death, blurring the boundary between the grotesque and the beautiful.

Visually, the film is intoxicating. The cinematography curated by John and Zelda shifts between naturalism and surrealism, creating a stream of images that feel both enchanting, eerie, and alien.

This is complemented by a largely minimal score, punctuated by bursts of music from the family's own band, H6LLBND6R. These moments of sonic intensity sharpen the impact of the imagery without overwhelming it.

"Mother of Flies" is not mainstream cinema, nor does it aspire to be. It is a daring work of occult drama and body horror, brimming with distinctive aesthetics and tonal surprises.

Horror fans expecting conventional scares may find it too meditative, but adventurous viewers will discover an experience that is unsettling, deeply personal, and unexpectedly life-affirming.

Once again, the Adams family prove themselves among the most distinctive voices in contemporary independent horror.

"Mother of Flies" takes the darkest of subjects and, through craft and audacity, transforms it into something grotesque, haunting, and strangely celebratory.