The debut feature from Ian Tuason revels in it’s aural effects but feels all too rote elsewhere
Sound is an often underappreciated element of the cinematic experience. While audiences readily respond to volume, the more intricate nuances of sound design can go unnoticed. No genre mines the potency of this sense better than horror, where a faint crackle, creak, or whisper, can prove far more unsettling than any visual spectacle. This sits at the heart of Undertone, the debut feature from filmmaker Ian Tuason. Working with an impressively modest budget, reportedly around half a million dollars, and shooting primarily inside his own home, Tuason crafts a lo-fi horror experiment that leans heavily on atmosphere and sound.
The story follows Evy (a compelling and attuned performance from Nina Kiri), a co-host of a paranormal podcast called The Undertone. An X-Files-style pairing with her as the skeptic, alongside her collaborator Justin (Adam DiMarco), who is more open to the strange and supernatural. Their show, which focuses on tales of the unusual, mythological curiosities, and religious lore. Their latest episode to record unfolds in dark surrounds, as Evy has returned to her childhood home to care for her comatose mother (Michèle Duquet), as she succumbs to a terminal illness. Even in a comatose state, her presence looms large, in the now and in the hints of a conflicted past shared with her daughter, and the looming presence of religion in their relationship. The toll on Evy is evident, from this as well as other burdens, notably her ongoing battle with alcoholism, contemplation of her own romantic relationship, and the compounding discovery that she is pregnant (maybe we should limit scripts to laboring their protagonist with one massive personal issue here on out?).
Evy is already on the precipice, and then Justin calls in with their latest project. An unusual email containing ten audio files, which he proposes as the subject for their next episode. Over several late-night recording sessions, often around 3:00 a.m., with Justin dialing in from London, they begin playing and analyzing the recordings. What starts with something relatively mundane soon grows stranger, whispers, haunting melodies, children’s nursery rhymes, and references to a demonic figure from ancient mythology said to kill children after losing her own.
From there, the film unfolds as an aural take on the found-footage format. As Evy and Justin dissect the recordings, hunting for hidden clues through digital analysis and Wikipedia-level research (really?), the sounds seem to seep beyond the files themselves. Evy’s sleepless nights blur into unsettling dream sequences. Camera pans circle her as she records. Flickering bulbs, the tick of a clock, and the creak of the old house fill the silence. Sometimes there are fleeting glimpses of something in the frame, at other times the film leans on jump cuts and nightmarish imagery that appear as Evy manages only brief moments of sleep.
The sound design (headed by David Gertsman) is a standout. The potency and precision is undeniable, and underscores both the emotion of Evy’s journey and intent of the narrative. Visually, cinematographer Graham Beasley gives the limited setting surprising dynamism through contrasts of light and shadow. Negative space becomes a recurring visual motif, at times subtle, but other times see lingering voids you could drive a tank through. The effect reinforces Evy’s isolation as a woman cut adrift in a house that feels too large and too quiet. Yet that same approach also exposes the film’s weaknesses. Much of the structure repeats, recording sessions, strange audio, escalating unease. The pattern grows familiar, and while the final act finally goes all out with its supernatural elements, the build-up can feel fundamentally repetitive. Moments of tension, noises in the night, taps turning on, bulbs flickering, even Evy’s mother falling from bed, often resolve as false alarms or psychological misdirection. The result is a constant tease with relatively little payoff.
There are also narrative threads that never fully develop. Occult research leads to tenuous connections. The podcast setup itself sometimes strains logic, particularly in how casually the characters approach recording and analyzing material that is clearly becoming more disturbing by the minute. When the film eventually unleashes its demonic presence, tied to tragic folklore about a grieving mother who targets children, the shift feels abrupt. The subtle unease that defines much of the film gives way to more overt horror tactics, a tonal shift akin to moving from a carefully arranged symphony straight into thrash metal.
Still, Undertone is far from without merit. Kiri’s immersive performance anchors the film, carrying what is essentially a one-woman showcase for long stretches. If this kind of core idea resonates with you, I’d suggest you check out Matt Vesely’s Monolith. In Undertone, the sense of isolation, the sleepless nights, the comatose mother in the next room, the mounting emotional pressure, often proves more compelling than the supernatural mechanics driving the plot. Had Tuason focused even more on Evy’s psychological unraveling and her complicated relationship with her mother, rather than escalating toward more conventional horror payoffs, the result might have left a deeper mark.
Through conversation with those who saw the original cut at Fantasia Fest, it sounds like much of the A24 backed reshoots introduced many of the elements that this reviewer takes umbrage with in the film. Even so, as a debut feature crafted on limited resources, the film stands as a testament to Ian Tuason’s potential. With a little more focus on and faith in his original intent he may yet craft remarkable.
