In January 2012, two people literally fainted
in a theater at the Sundance Film Festival. That's
an incredible way to introduce a film. Right.
And they weren't watching some, you know, massive,
big budget Hollywood horror spectacle engineered
by focus groups or studio executives. They were
watching a raw, just chaotic, stitched together
experiment called VHS. And that completely shattered
the conventional rules of how movies were actually
being made at the time. Like when you look at
the cinematic landscape of that era, everything
was trending toward highly polished serialized
franchise. Yeah, everything. very safe exactly
and then this project comes along and essentially
throws a hand grenade into that established development
process okay let's unpack this because our mission
today is to dig into the sources on this 2012
horror anthology VHS and figure out how this
this ragtag trust fall experiment by a group
of indie filmmakers managed to traumatize festival
audiences deeply divided critics and then somehow
spawn a massive decade -spanning franchise with
a wild trajectory It really is. And to grasp
what happened here, you really have to understand
the behind -the -scenes economics of this thing.
I kind of view it like a creepy cinematic potluck.
A potluck? I like that. Yeah, where a group of
eccentric directors each just brought their own
twisted dish to the table? Well, the genesis
of the project is entirely rooted in a specific
community. It started with producer Brad Miscavaya
and the horror website Bloody Disgusting. And
instead of writing a script and, you know, shopping
it around to directors, Ms. Gawai essentially
operated on the currency of relationships. He
just went to his friends. Pretty much. He went
to a group of trusted rising filmmakers. We're
talking people like Adam Wingard, T .R. West,
David Bruckner, Joe Swanberg, Glenn McQuade,
and the collect is known as Radio Silence. All
heavy hitters now, but back then. Right, back
then they were really just making a name for
themselves. And the pitch was essentially, give
us your wildest ideas and if we green light the
treatment, you have total creative freedom to
go shoot it. And the way they structured that
production is just wild. They completely reverse
engineered the entire movie. They didn't start
with a cohesive beginning, middle, and end. No,
not at all. They started with an overarching
frame narrative and then told these independent
directors to just fill in the hole with their
individual short films. It's like, well, it's
like building a house by having five different
architects design random rooms in complete isolation
without ever talking to each other and only then
building the hallway. is to connect them all
together. What's fascinating here is that the
disjointed nature you'd expect from that process
isn't a bug. It's actually the defining feature
of the film. It makes it feel more real. Yeah,
giving directors absolute autonomy could have
resulted in a totally incoherent mess. But they
were bound together by one incredibly strong
thematic glue, and that's the concept of voyeurism.
Which you see immediately. Right, you see it's
established immediately in that connecting hallway
you mentioned, the frame narrative. It's titled
Tape 56, written by Simon Barrett and directed
by Adam Wingard. And Tape 56 sets a distinctly
grimy tone right out of the gate. Yeah. We're
following this criminal gang, Brad. Rox, Zach,
and Gary. And our sources make it very clear
that these are not, you know, lovable rogues
or misunderstood anti -heroes. No, they're truly
awful people. Extremely awful. They film their
own acts of depravity, ranging from vandalizing
empty houses to a recorded sexual assault in
a parking garage. They are completely obsessed
with documenting their own violence. And because
of this reputation, an anonymous third party
hires them to break into an abandoned house to
steal one specific rare VHS tape. And the moment
they break into that house, the atmosphere just
shifts. It goes from this chaotic crime thriller
to pure dread. They find the corpse of an old
man slumped in a chair, surrounded by multiple
CRT televisions broadcasting dead static. It's
such a visually arresting image. It really is.
And because they don't know which tape they're
supposed to steal, the gang realizes they have
to physically sit down, slot these unmarked tapes
into the VCR, and watch them. Which is, I mean,
it's the brilliant mechanical excuse for how
we, the audience, end up watching the anthology
segments. Exactly. But the frame narrative doesn't
just hit pause. While the gang members are forced
to watch these tapes, they slowly start to vanish
or die off one by one in this dark house. And
inevitably that old man's corpse begins to reanimate.
Because the house operates as a trap for the
predatory voyeur. These criminals have spent
their lives wielding cameras to exploit others,
creating this sort of one way mirror where they
hold all the power. Right. But the frame narrative
forces them to consume media they aren't prepared
for. It's punishing them for their innate desire
to watch things they shouldn't. The predation
is turned directly back onto them. And that theme
of the camera turning on the Predator flows perfectly
into the actual shorts they watch. Like, let's
look at Amateur Night and Second Honeymoon. Both
of these segments center on intimate encounters
that devolve into deadly traps. But they handle
the found footage gimmick in totally different
ways. They really do. So Amateur Night, which
was directed by David Bruckner, introduces us
to three guys. Shane, Patrick, and Clint. They
rent a motel room with the express intent of
bringing women back and filming an amateur porn
video without the women knowing. And to pull
this off, Clint is wearing a pair of hidden camera
glasses. It is the ultimate manifestation of
the male gaze in a literal technological sense.
Literally built into his face. Exactly. The entire
visual perspective of the short is locked into
Clint's point of view. They go bar hopping, pick
up a highly intoxicated woman named Lisa and
another woman named Lily. And Lily is such an
incredibly unnerving character. She's completely
silent for most of the night, exceptionally shy,
and her entire vocabulary seems limited to just
staring at Clint and saying, I like you. Which
is creepy enough on its own. Oh, absolutely.
But once they get back to the motel, the hidden
camera reveals details the oblivious men are
missing. Clint looks down and notices Lily's
feet are distinctly scaly and clawed. Like bird
talons. Yeah. And when the other men try to force
themselves into the situation, Lily just snaps.
She violently rejects them, sprouts fangs, and
the short pivots from this sleazy college guy
comedy into an absolute bloodbath. She rips one
man's genitalia off, slaughters two of them,
and transforms into a winged demonic creature.
And here, the hidden camera glass has become
a tool of dramatic irony. The men think they
are the directors of this scenario. They believe
they're exploiting these women. But they are
entirely unaware that they've essentially walked
into a spider's web. The power dynamic is completely
inverted. Exactly. The succubus, who actually
proves so popular she spawned her own feature
-length spin -off film, Siren. She turns their
predatory documentation into a record of their
own slaughter. Okay, but contrast that full -blown
monster movie approach with the second segment,
Second Honeymoon, directed by Tia West. We follow
a married couple, Sam and Stephanie, on a Route
66 road trip. They're using a standard camcorder
to document the vacation. And nothing supernatural
happens here. No monsters. None. While they're
asleep in their motel room, an intruder sneaks
in, picks up their own camcorder, and films themselves
performing these deeply invasive acts over their
sleeping bodies. It's so unsettling. The intruder
strokes Stephanie's face with a switchblade.
They steal money. And then they dip Sam's toothbrush
in the toilet. And I honestly think that bizarre
petty violation of personal space like the toothbrush
in the toilet is somehow more visceral and memorable
than the actual murders that happen later. So
I have to ask you and everyone listening, what
is actually scarier, a succubus ripping you apart
or the idea of someone standing over your bed
messing with your hygiene products? Because the
toothbrush thing is just terrifyingly grounded.
I mean, I definitely understand the appeal of
the grounded reality, but focusing entirely on
the toothbrush risks underselling the profound
psychological twist Ty West pulls off. Bad point?
Yes, the invasion of space is disturbing. But
the true horror of Second Honeymoon relies on
the subversion of trust. The next night, the
intruder returns and repeatedly stabs Sam in
the neck, filming him choking on his own blood.
It's brutal. Hard to watch. But then the camcorder
shifts. The intruder removes a plastic mask and
reveals herself. It's a woman who had asked the
couple for a ride earlier in the trip. But more
importantly, the footage reveals she is Stephanie's
secret lover. The ultimate betrayal. Right. The
two women casually pack up and drive away together,
with Stephanie just asking if she remembered
to erase the tape. It's incredibly cold -blooded.
That is. But look at the thematic throughline
here. Just like in Amateur Night, the man holding
the camera believes he is in control of the narrative.
Sam thinks he's documenting a happy marriage
and a fun road trip. Meanwhile, the very person
sleeping next to him is orchestrating his demise.
The camera, again, completely fails to protect
the person wielding it and instead merely serves
as a passive witness to their destruction. Here's
where it gets really interesting, though, because
as the anthology progresses, the nature of the
threat completely evolves. We move away from
hidden monsters and treacherous spouses, and
the actual medium itself becomes the monster.
We see this in the third segment, Tuesday the
17th, directed by Glenn McQuade. Oh, that segment
operates as a brilliant deconstruction of the
slasher genre. A girl named Wendy takes her friends
out to a lake in the woods. She claims it's just
a fun getaway, but she is actually the sole survivor
of a massacre that happened at this very lake.
So she has an ulterior motive. Completely. She
has purposefully lured her new friends out there
to act as human bait so she can trap the killer.
But the killer she's hunting defies all the established
rules of a slasher villain. It's not a hulking
guy in a mask wielding a machete. It's an entity
known only as The Glitch. When you look at it
through the camera lens, it is completely obscured
by severe video tracking errors and static distortion.
Just a blur of static. Yeah, and it moves erratically,
slaughters her friends, effortlessly escapes
the physical traps Wendy set for it, and then
beats Wendy to death with her own camera. The
visual distortion of a ruined VHS tape isn't
just an aesthetic choice here. The aesthetic
itself is weaponized. And if we connect this
to the bigger picture of the found footage genre...
The glitch is the ultimate expression of analog
paranoia. The fear isn't just of what is captured
on the tape, but the physical degradation of
the tape itself. The hardware malfunction becomes
a tangible physical threat to the characters.
I completely agree with that, which is why the
fourth tape feels like such a massive curveball.
It's titled The Sick Thing That Happened to Emily
When She Was Younger, directed by Joe Swanberg.
And it completely abandons the camcorder aesthetic.
It really does. It's presented almost entirely
in a screen life format, meaning the visual perspective
is restricted to video chats and Skype calls
between a girl named Emily and her boyfriend
James. Doesn't utilizing modern digital video
chats entirely break the fundamental rule of
a movie literally titled VHS? This raises an
important question about how horror reflects
societal anxieties. I wouldn't call it breaking
a rule. I'd call it an essential evolution. The
film is tracking the transition from analog decay
to digital isolation. Swanberg's segment is arguably
the most psychologically complex piece of the
entire project because it forces the audience
to confront the inherent untrustworthiness of
a digital screen. And the setup definitely leans
heavily into psychological horror. Emily's convinced
her apartment is haunted by the ghosts of children.
She continuously shows James these shadowy, childlike
figures appearing on her webcam. And James plays
the skeptic. Right. James, who is an aspiring
doctor, plays the role of the grounded, supportive
partner. He insists she's suffering from a psychological
episode. After she sustained some bizarre physical
injuries, he even manages to convince her that
she is schizo -effective. He weaponizes his medical
authority to completely gaslight her. And the
twist reveals that the ghosts aren't supernatural
at all. They are aliens. Which is such a crazy
pivot. It really is. And James isn't a supportive
boyfriend. He is an active collaborator. He's
using Emily as a human incubator for alien -human
hybrids. There is a sequence in the segment that
is just profoundly disturbing. James physically
enters her apartment while she is unconscious.
He surgically removes a fetus from her torso
while these alien figures just passively watch
him work. It's chilling. And then, to cover his
tracks, he purposefully breaks her arm so she'll
think her injuries were the result of a clumsy
accident caused by her supposed mental illness.
The betrayal is absolute. And the next time they
are on a video call, he is feigning deep concern
for a broken arm, entirely maintaining the facade.
But the truly terrifying moment is the final
shot. After he disconnects with Emily, the screen
shows he is already on a video chat with a completely
different woman. Oh, wow. And this new woman
has the exact same strange unexplained bump on
her arm. He is tracking, manipulating, and harvesting
multiple women through the safety and distance
of a digital interface. Critics rightly praise
this segment because it highlights how modern
technology creates a false sense of intimacy.
Right, because she feels safe with him. Exactly.
Emily feels connected to James because she sees
his face on a monitor, but that digital barrier
makes her uniquely vulnerable to his manipulation.
It is an incredibly bleak note to hit, which
is why the final tape before the credits roll
provides such a necessary chaotic tonal shift.
We move from the cold, calculated, digital manipulation
of the Skype. falls into a sheer blast of haunted
house adrenaline. The segment is 103198, directed
by the filmmaking collective Radio Silence. And
it is pure kinetic energy. The premise is simple,
you know. Four friends are out on Halloween night
in 1998 dressed in somewhat ridiculous costumes.
A nanny cam, the unabomber, a pirate, and a marine.
They're wandering around trying to find a specific
Halloween party, but they confidently walk into
the wrong house. And because it's Halloween,
they assume all the creaky decorations and strange
noises are just part of an elaborate haunted
house attraction. They wander upstairs to the
attic and stumble directly into a legitimate
cult exorcism. Talk about walking into the wrong
room. Right. There's a group of men chanting
ominously around a terrified woman who is suspended
from the rafters. The guys quickly realize this
isn't a prank, and they make a brave, albeit
reckless decision to rescue her. But the moment
they pull her down, the entire house goes berserk.
Poltergeist activity tears the house apart. Walls
are shattering. Invisible forces are hurling
the men across the room. It is a frantic, disorienting
escape sequence. He feels like you're on a roller
coaster. Totally. They barely manage to drag
the rescued girl out to their car and speed away
into the night. But of course, no good deed goes
unpunished in this universe. They are driving
away, catching their breath, and suddenly the
car inexplicably dies right in the middle of
a set of train tracks. The girl they risked their
lives to save simply vanishes from the backseat.
She reappears standing in the street outside
and then vanishes again. The supernatural just
breaks all the rules. Yeah. And then the car
doors inexplicably lock themselves, the engine
is dead, and the footage abruptly cuts out the
exact millisecond a train collides with their
vehicle. It's a deeply fatalistic ending to an
incredibly high energy sequence. It is, but we
absolutely have to talk about the alternate joke
ending that radio silence shot for this segment
because it tells you everything you need to know
about the creative environment of this production.
Oh, this is a great detail. They shot an alternate
take where the car dies on the tracks, but instead
of panicking, the guy just casually unlock the
doors, step out into the cool night air, and
walk away. They are just strolling down the street
casually reminiscing about what a fun, crazy
night they just had, completely ignoring the
fact that a massive train obliterates their car
in a fiery explosion right behind them in the
background. That is hilarious. The sheer audacity
to spend the time and resources to film a one
-take joke ending like that is amazing. And it
perfectly encapsulates the uninhibited experimental
spirit of the entire VHS project. The filmmakers
were allowed to take massive swings, knowing
that not everything had to perfectly align with
a rigid studio mandate. What does this all mean
for the legacy of the film? Because when you
look at the reception, we are presented with
a massive paradox. The movie premiered at Sundance,
people fainted, and Magnolia Pictures immediately
bought the North American rights for over a million
dollars. That's a massive indie success story.
Oh, for sure. But when it hit the wider critical
circuit, the response was heavily divided. The
critical metrics are actually fascinating to
look back on. Right now it's sitting at a 56
% on Rotten Tomatoes. On Metacritic, it holds
a 54. which is the literal definition of mixed
or average. You had legendary critics like Roger
Ebert giving it one star, complaining heavily
about the 116 -minute runtime, calling the shaky
cam work unwatchable, and describing the whole
affair as way too much of a muchness. Which is
such an Ebert phrase. Classic Ebert. The Washington
Post slammed the acting as rough and amateurish.
But on the other end of the spectrum, Empire
magazine gave it four out of five stars, specifically
praising the anything -goes mentality. polarized
numerically average critical reception, this
2012 indie experiment birthed an unstoppable
juggernaut. It spawned VHS2, viral 94, 99, 85,
Beyond, Halloween, and even a Snapchat miniseries.
So I have to ask, how does a movie with a 54
Metacritic score become the foundation for eight
feature films? Well, if we connect this to the
broader landscape of the film industry, it perfectly
demonstrates the unique resilience of the horror
anthology format. Think of a traditional single
narrative horror film. If the pacing drags in
the second act or if the lead actor's performance
is rough, the entire illusion breaks and the
movie fails. The audience checks out. You're
stuck with it for two hours. Exactly. But an
anthology operates more like a venture capital
portfolio. Oh, that's a great way to put it.
It really is. It doesn't matter if the film as
a whole is uneven or if two out of the five segments
fall flat for a particular viewer. The Anything
Goes format mathematically guarantees that at
least one segment is going to deeply resonate,
terrify, or surprise a horror fan. You endure
the rough patches because you know a completely
new vision is only 10 minutes away. It's constantly
refreshing. Right. It is definitive proof that
in the horror genre, raw, chaotic creativity
and unpredictability will often win out over
sterile polished perfection. The format allows
up -and -coming directors to take wild experimental
swings without the crushing pressure of sustaining
a concept for a full feature runtime. One massive
hit -like amateur night spawning the Siren franchise
just justifies the entire experiment. We've covered
a massive amount of ground today. We've tracked
the journey of VHS from a relationship -based
trust fall among indie filmmakers at Bloody Disgusting
to a chaotic Sundance sensation to an enduring
franchise that completely revitalized the found
-footage genre. It really is a testament to what
happens when you throw out the traditional blueprint
and just allow creative people to build in the
dark. And for you listening, whether you're interested
in filmmaking, business, or just creative problem
-solving, the success of VHS offers a highly
practical takeaway. What's that? It is a stark
reminder that leaning into your constraints can
be your greatest asset. Whether you are dealing
with cheap consumer cameras, restricted budgets,
or unpolished ideas, those limitations often
force the kind of groundbreaking innovation that
endless resources simply cannot buy. Perfection
is often forgettable. The messy, the raw, and
the unpolished. That is what sticks in the mind.
Before we wrap up this deep dive, there is one
specific detail from the source text that I haven't
been able to shake, and I want to leave you with
it to mull over. Think back to that initial frame
narrative, tape 56. Zach and Gary are wandering
around the basement of that abandoned house,
and they find hundreds of unmarked VHS tapes
stacked on the shelves, hundreds of them. So
many tapes. Yeah. If we accept the premise that
every single tape on those shelves is a literal
portal to another recorded nightmare, another
monster, another murder, another alien abduction,
what does the sheer overwhelming volume of those
tapes say about humanity's dark obsession with
documenting our own worst moments? And perhaps
more chillingly, who exactly is taking the time
to curate all those nightmares into one single
library? Think about that the next time you casually
hit record on your phone.