Movie Review: Until Dawn is a haunting descent into silence, insanity and memory

The film marks a chilling return to form for Peter Stormare, who anchors the story with a performance that is both terrifying and paradoxically tragic

There are films that rely on jump scares, and there are films that haunt quietly, refusing to leave long after the credits roll.

Until Dawn, the latest psychological horror thriller from director Jennifer Graves, belongs to the latter. A steady, atmospheric descent into insanity, the film marks a chilling return to form for Peter Stormare, who anchors the story with a performance that is both terrifying and paradoxically tragic.

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Set in an isolated Nordic sanatorium-turned-research outpost, Until Dawn follows the story of Dr Viktor Enström (Peter Stormare), a once-celebrated psychiatrist who now lives alone among fading echoes and suppressed histories. As winter engulfs the facility in near-perpetual darkness, a team of young researchers arrives to investigate long-abandoned case files and rumoured paranormal incidents linked to a series of patient deaths decades earlier.

From the very beginning, the film makes no attempt to hold the viewer’s hand. There is a slow and deliberate build-up, drawing heavily on dread and atmosphere rather than exposition. Stormare’s Enström is a man of few words. His silences reveal more than his sentences. Haunted by his own past, he is both caretaker and captive of the building’s disturbing legacy.

Joining him is Dr Leah Brant (Riley Keough) as a curious and ambitious psychologist whose motivations are revealed layer by layer. Keough plays the role with calm intensity, never allowing the character’s empathy to slip into naivety. Her interactions with Enström drive the story forward, often shifting between uneasy collaboration and quiet confrontation. The dynamics between the two, experienced isolation versus youthful idealism, is one of the film’s subtle strengths.

The supporting cast include Alex Wolff as Theo, a data analyst with a personal connection to the asylum’s dark history, and Fionnula Flanagan as Sister Meret, a former nurse with a memory that falters just when it’s most needed.

Until Dawn is striking in its restraint. Cinematographer Erik Messerschmidt embraces the Scandinavian landscape’s starkness – mutedtones, long shadows, and decaying interiors are all used to full effect. The sanatorium is as much a character as the people within it. There’s a pervasive sense of time slowed down, of spaces echoing not just with sound, but with memory.

What sets Until Dawn apart from typical horror fare is its thematic focus. The film quietly explores the relationship between trauma and memory, between guilt and forgiveness. Enström’s own ethical failures as a doctor are not revealed through melodramatic flashbacks, but through soft, almost whispered monologues and fragmented visuals. It is this deliberate ambiguity that allows the film to linger.

The sound design is another quiet triumph. There is no traditional score, just a low, persistent hum of wind, creaking wood, and distant voices that may or may not be real. When music is finally introduced in the final act, it does so with emotional force, underscoring the tragedy without sentimentality.

There are, however, moments where the film’s minimalism borders on indulgence. The third act lingers a little too long in metaphor, and certain reveals, though conceptually potent, may frustrate viewers expecting resolution over reflection. But such are the risks when a film aims for depth over digestibility.

Peter Stormare, now well into the later phase of his career, delivers what may be one of his most memorable performances. His portrayal of a man unraveling without noise, dignity disintegrating under the weight of silence, is unforgettable.

Until Dawn is not horror in the traditional sense. It is a psychological lament, an exploration of fear not as a reaction, but as a condition. For those who seek horror that is more philosophical than physical, this film will satisfy and disturb in equal measure.