Black Phone 2 – Film Review

Scott Derrickson’s Black Phone 2 is not just a sequel—it’s a resurrection. Four years after the chilling original became one of Blumhouse’s most celebrated supernatural thrillers, this follow-up delivers something far rarer: a continuation that feels both inevitable and transformative. The film deepens the mythology of the first while expanding its emotional range into something far more operatic and tragic. It’s a stunning work of horror craftsmanship—brimming with raw emotion, unforgettable imagery, and a career-defining performance from Madeleine McGraw.

Set in 1982, the film picks up with Gwen Blake (McGraw) as she begins to experience vivid, terrifying dreams tied to a series of murders that took place at Alpine Lake Camp decades earlier. These aren’t just nightmares—they’re psychic transmissions from her late mother, whose own spiritual connection shaped the events of the first film. Together with her brother Finney (Mason Thames) and Robin Arellano’s brother Ernesto (Miguel Mora), Gwen sets out to uncover the truth buried in the snow-covered remnants of the camp.

What follows is a brilliantly woven supernatural mystery that shifts effortlessly between grounded emotional drama and pure nightmarish terror. Derrickson and co-writer C. Robert Cargill smartly avoid repetition; Black Phone 2 isn’t about another kidnapping or another killer. Instead, it’s about legacy—how evil lingers and how trauma echoes across generations. The story’s structure, balancing Gwen’s dream sequences with the claustrophobic dread of being trapped in a blizzard, lends the film an unsettling rhythm that feels like slipping between sleep and waking life.

The screenplay builds a tension that’s not just about who will survive, but what it means to confront the ghosts of your family’s past. Every twist feels emotionally motivated, and every revelation strengthens the film’s emotional spine. This is the rare horror sequel that dares to feel, and because of that, it resonates more powerfully than the original.

If the first Black Phone announced Mason Thames as a breakout, its sequel belongs entirely to Madeleine McGraw. As Gwen, she commands the screen with a depth and intensity that’s nothing short of staggering. Her performance is the emotional and spiritual engine of the film—she’s no longer the precocious little sister but a young woman grappling with inherited trauma and supernatural responsibility.

McGraw’s acting here feels almost supernatural itself; she moves between ferocity and fragility with seamless precision. Her portrayal of fear is not wide-eyed or theatrical—it’s internalized, coiled, ready to explode. When she’s channeling her dreams or facing forces beyond comprehension, McGraw radiates authenticity. You believe every tear, every shiver, every defiant moment of strength.

There’s one extended sequence—a dialogue between Gwen and her mother within a surreal dream—that is simply extraordinary. Without delving into spoilers, it’s a moment that transcends genre, tapping into pure emotional catharsis. If there’s any justice, McGraw should be mentioned in the same breath as Toni Collette in Hereditary or Florence Pugh in Midsommar. It’s an Oscar-worthy performance that turns a supernatural thriller into something profoundly human.

Visually, Black Phone 2 is an astonishing piece of work. Pär M. Ekberg’s cinematography envelops the film in a haunting, dreamlike haze that blurs the line between reality and nightmare. The snowy isolation of Alpine Lake Camp becomes both setting and metaphor—a frozen purgatory where the past refuses to stay buried. Ekberg plays with color temperature and texture to brilliant effect: the flickering warmth of candlelight in the chapel scenes feels almost sacred, while the washed-out blues and grays of the blizzard give the film a sense of creeping suffocation.

The dream sequences are where Ekberg’s artistry truly soars. Shadows stretch unnaturally long, movements stutter like old film reels, and light flares bloom in surreal patterns. It’s visually reminiscent of Bergman’s Hour of the Wolf and The Shining, but filtered through Derrickson’s distinctly modern lens. This is the kind of cinematography that doesn’t just decorate a horror film—it defines it.

Complementing this is Atticus Derrickson’s score, a sonic nightmare that weaves dread and melancholy together. Atticus, the director’s own son, infuses his compositions with emotional specificity—haunting strings give way to pulsating synths, echoing phone rings morph into heartbeats, and silence becomes as potent as sound. His work gives Black Phone 2 its heartbeat, amplifying the tension and giving voice to the film’s spiritual unease.

Scott Derrickson has always understood that great horror doesn’t just make you scream—it makes you care. The scares in Black Phone 2 are brutal and deeply personal, each one carrying emotional weight. When the supernatural manifests, it’s never for spectacle; it’s an extension of grief, guilt, and unhealed wounds.

The sequences involving the Grabber (Ethan Hawke, once again terrifying) are both chilling and strangely tragic. Derrickson wisely avoids turning him into a typical ghostly villain. Instead, the Grabber becomes an echo of human evil—his presence felt in flickering shadows and distorted voices rather than constant appearances. Hawke’s performance is restrained yet unsettling, his voice dripping with venom and sorrow.

The film’s horror set pieces are among the most impressive of any Blumhouse production to date. One extended sequence inside the chapel, where reality begins to fracture under Gwen’s psychic strain, is a masterclass in sustained tension. The camera prowls with deliberate slowness, sound drops to near silence, and the faint creak of a payphone cord sends shivers down the spine. Derrickson understands the potency of atmosphere over jump scares; his horror seeps into you, lingers long after the credits roll.

Beneath its spectral surface, Black Phone 2 is a film about confronting generational pain. The Blake family’s arc—from brokenness to reconciliation—forms the film’s emotional foundation. Terrence (Jeremy Davies) returns not as a caricature of the abusive father from the first film, but as a man trying to make amends, haunted in his own way. His interactions with Gwen and Finney are fraught but tender, revealing that survival isn’t the end of trauma—it’s the beginning of healing.

The introduction of Armando Reyes, played by Demián Bichir with soulful gravity, adds another emotional layer. His quiet, compassionate performance provides the film’s moral center—a man who knows the cost of keeping secrets. Bichir grounds the supernatural with humanity, and his connection to the camp’s dark history makes the story feel vast yet intimate.

Black Phone 2 is a remarkable achievement—a sequel that surpasses its predecessor not through excess, but through depth. Derrickson and Cargill craft a film that is simultaneously terrifying, mystical, and profoundly moving. Every element—from McGraw’s transcendent performance to Ekberg’s poetic visuals and Atticus Derrickson’s hypnotic score—works in harmony to create a complete emotional experience.

Few horror films dare to reach this level of beauty and pain. Black Phone 2 doesn’t just frighten—it resonates, exploring how the ghosts of our past can destroy us or set us free. This is what modern horror should aspire to be: soulful, haunting, and unforgettable.