Shelby Oaks
Riley and her group of friends are passionate about the supernatural. Their favorite pastime is exploring abandoned, haunted places in search of paranormal activity; they document everything and share it on their YouTube channel, Paranormal Paranoids.
One day, while investigating Shelby Oaks, a ghost town, the group uploads one final video before vanishing without a trace. The subsequent investigation leads to the discovery of the three friends’ bodies, while of Riley only faint traces remain — before she is abducted by a man with a covered face. Ten years later, her older sister Mia is still determined to solve the case, even if it means returning to the town where Riley disappeared. She will soon discover that, for both her and Riley, evil is not a new acquaintance but an old friend — a parasite that has always been there, lurking outside the window, waiting for the right moment to reveal itself.
One day, while investigating Shelby Oaks, a ghost town, the group uploads one final video before vanishing without a trace. The subsequent investigation leads to the discovery of the three friends’ bodies, while of Riley only faint traces remain — before she is abducted by a man with a covered face. Ten years later, her older sister Mia is still determined to solve the case, even if it means returning to the town where Riley disappeared. She will soon discover that, for both her and Riley, evil is not a new acquaintance but an old friend — a parasite that has always been there, lurking outside the window, waiting for the right moment to reveal itself.
Shelby Oaks is a supernatural horror film written and directed by an American YouTuber and film critic, making his debut as a filmmaker with this project. Chris Stuckmann, particularly drawn to the horror genre, creates a hybrid born from one of the most celebrated horror trends of recent years.
On one side, we find the archetype of the human succumbing to temptation, inviting evil into the family and allowing it to spread through the branches of the family tree — as in Hereditary, directed by horror master Ari Aster.
On the other, the film borrows from the found footage format, a subgenre that constructs its narrative through degraded video tapes or amateur recordings. On paper, this hybrid might promise innovation, but in practice, it proves overly ambitious and ultimately ineffective.
On one side, we find the archetype of the human succumbing to temptation, inviting evil into the family and allowing it to spread through the branches of the family tree — as in Hereditary, directed by horror master Ari Aster.
On the other, the film borrows from the found footage format, a subgenre that constructs its narrative through degraded video tapes or amateur recordings. On paper, this hybrid might promise innovation, but in practice, it proves overly ambitious and ultimately ineffective.
The way the demon and its “puppets” operate lacks cunning and coherence, failing to follow even the internal logic that a demonic entity would normally adopt to carry out its evil plan, resulting in a narrative that feels implausible even within a supernatural context.
Equally unconvincing is the behavior of Mia, the protagonist — a flat, artificial character whose erratic decisions lead the viewer to wonder whether any trace of logic motivates her actions.
The overuse of a familiar horror trope — the “traumatized heroine who doesn’t realize what she’s doing” — weakens the emotional tension and undermines audience empathy. Instead of evoking anguish or fear for Mia’s safety, the staging provokes the opposite effect: a kind of ironic detachment, even irritation, prompting thoughts like “well, she brought it on herself.” Fear — the core of the genre — dissipates entirely once the viewer stops rooting for the victim and, almost with relief, witnesses her demise at the hands of the killer.
Equally unconvincing is the behavior of Mia, the protagonist — a flat, artificial character whose erratic decisions lead the viewer to wonder whether any trace of logic motivates her actions.
The overuse of a familiar horror trope — the “traumatized heroine who doesn’t realize what she’s doing” — weakens the emotional tension and undermines audience empathy. Instead of evoking anguish or fear for Mia’s safety, the staging provokes the opposite effect: a kind of ironic detachment, even irritation, prompting thoughts like “well, she brought it on herself.” Fear — the core of the genre — dissipates entirely once the viewer stops rooting for the victim and, almost with relief, witnesses her demise at the hands of the killer.
In Hereditary, the bond between family and demon is skillfully crafted, balancing didactic moments with others that are intentionally ambiguous, leaving the audience free to ponder the threshold between the real and the surreal. In Shelby Oaks, both components are missing: ambiguity turns into illogic, absurdity, and the only questions left concern the film’s internal consistency.
The result is a screenplay that seems to unfold not from a coherent narrative structure but from a series of improvised episodes, each a mere consequence of the previous one. The focus appears limited to the construction of effective jump scares which, though technically well executed thanks to a clever use of framing and sound design, only manage to frighten the viewer momentarily. What follows is a steady decline in engagement and a pervasive sense of anticlimax, with tension almost entirely absent for the remainder of the film.