There’s something profoundly unsettling about evil that refuses to stay buried. I finished watching Black Phone 2 with that chill still crawling up my spine—not just from the jump scares or Ethan Hawke’s grotesque resurrection as the Grabber, but from something far more insidious. This sequel dares to ask a question most horror films avoid: What happens after you’ve survived the monster?
Scott Derrickson’s follow-up to his 2021 hit doesn’t just rehash the formula that made the original work. Instead, it transforms the claustrophobic terror of a basement abduction into something infinitely more expansive and psychologically devastating—a frozen nightmare where trauma stalks you through your dreams, and the phone never stops ringing.
The Evolution of Evil: From Basement to Dreamscape
When The Black Phone ended with thirteen-year-old Finney Blake bludgeoning the Grabber to death, audiences thought they’d witnessed closure. I certainly did. The bad guy was dead, the hero survived, and justice—however brutal—had been served. But Derrickson and co-writer C. Robert Cargill understood something crucial: killing your abuser doesn’t kill what they did to you.
Set in October 1982, four years after Finney’s escape, Black Phone 2 finds our protagonist at seventeen, hollowed out by unprocessed trauma. Mason Thames delivers a heartbreaking performance as a young man who’s traded his childhood terror for teenage rage. He’s smoking weed to numb the pain, getting into brutal fistfights at school, and hearing phantom phone rings that no one else can detect. This isn’t the confident survivor we left behind—this is someone drowning in PTSD while the world expects him to simply move on.
The genius of this sequel lies in its Freddy Krueger-esque reimagining of the Grabber. Death hasn’t stopped him; it’s only made him more powerful. Like Wes Craven’s iconic dream demon, the Grabber now operates in the liminal space between sleep and waking, where your worst nightmares can leave actual scars. It’s a bold narrative choice that transforms the franchise from grounded thriller into supernatural horror, and remarkably, it works.
Gwen Blake: From Supporting Character to Reluctant Savior
If the first film belonged to Finney, this one is unequivocally Gwen’s story. Madeleine McGraw, who stole scenes in the original with her foul-mouthed ferocity and psychic visions, steps into the protagonist role with remarkable depth. Now fifteen, Gwen has inherited more than just her late mother’s clairvoyance—she’s inherited the fear that these abilities will drive her to the same tragic end.
Her nightmares are the film’s visceral centerpiece. Shot on grainy Super 8 film that looks like corrupted home movies from hell, these sequences show Gwen witnessing the murders of three boys at Alpine Lake Camp in 1957. The visual texture is deliberately unsettling—scratchy, jittery, almost unwatchable in their intensity. One particularly disturbing image of a child’s face split by window glass, still moving and contorted in agony, stayed with me for days.
What makes Gwen’s journey so compelling is her agency. She’s not waiting to be saved; she’s determined to solve the mystery of these visions and free both herself and her brother from the Grabber’s posthumous grip. When she discovers that their mother Hope was having similar dreams about Alpine Lake decades earlier—and mysteriously died there—Gwen convinces Finney and her boyfriend Ernesto (Miguel Mora, brother of the Grabber’s victim Robin from the first film) to travel to the camp during a winter storm.
McGraw reportedly cried between takes during filming of the more disturbing sequences, so deeply had she immersed herself in Gwen’s psychological torment. That raw commitment shows in every frame. This isn’t just a girl with psychic powers; this is a teenager terrified she’s going crazy, terrified she’ll end up like her mother, yet refusing to let fear paralyze her.
Alpine Lake: Where Horror Traditions Collide
The shift from the original’s claustrophobic basement to the wide-open, snow-blanketed expanse of Alpine Lake Camp is more than just a change of scenery—it’s a complete subgenre pivot. Derrickson leans heavily into ’80s horror iconography here, creating what amounts to Friday the 13th meets The Shining meets A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors.
The camp itself becomes a character. Shot by cinematographer Pär M. Ekberg, the frozen landscape is simultaneously beautiful and menacing. Endless white snow, a lake frozen solid enough to walk on, mountains looming in the distance—it’s the perfect setting for isolation and dread. Horror doesn’t use snow nearly enough as a backdrop, and Derrickson exploits every advantage: the muffling silence it creates, the way it makes you visible from any direction, the claustrophobia of being trapped by a blizzard despite being outdoors.
At the camp, our protagonists encounter Armando (Demián Bichir in an excellent supporting turn), the camp supervisor with secrets of his own, his niece Mustang (Arianna Rivas), and two overzealous Christian camp workers. As Gwen’s dreams intensify, she uncovers a devastating connection: the Grabber, her mother Hope, and Armando all knew each other at this camp in 1957. The murders Gwen has been seeing weren’t random—they’re the origin story of how the Grabber became the Grabber.
The revelation that shakes the foundation is even more personal: Hope didn’t commit suicide as everyone believed. The Grabber murdered her and staged it, another victim claimed by the monster who’s been terrorizing this family for generations.
The Grabber Unleashed: Ethan Hawke’s Monstrous Return
Ethan Hawke’s return to the role is nothing short of phenomenal. Where the first film’s Grabber was unsettling in his mundane creepiness—a serial killer who could be any middle-aged man—this version is pure nightmare fuel. The makeup team deserves serious recognition: he’s rotted, corpse-like, monstrous in ways that make him almost unrecognizable. This is what happens when evil refuses to die; it literally decays but doesn’t disappear.
Hawke embraces the Freddy Krueger parallels while making the character his own. He’s talkative, eloquent in his menace, and delights in the torment he inflicts. But unlike Freddy’s quipping humor, the Grabber’s words drip with genuine malevolence. He blames Finney for forcing him to kill his own brother Max (even though the Grabber killed him himself), and he’s determined to exact revenge by destroying Gwen—making Finney watch his sister suffer the way the Grabber’s victims suffered.
The dream attacks on Gwen follow Elm Street logic with a twist: because of her psychic abilities, she’s the only one who can be physically harmed by him in the dream world. When the Grabber slashes her in her nightmares, she wakes with real wounds. It’s a terrifying escalation that gives the supernatural threat genuine stakes.
Two sequences stand out as instant horror classics. The first is a kitchen confrontation where the Grabber manifests in the real world, making his Freddy Krueger connection explicit for everyone present. The second is a phone booth attack in the frozen tundra where the Grabber assaults Gwen while lost souls from his past victims materialize in the snow-covered landscape behind them, revealed as the camera spins 360 degrees. It’s virtuoso filmmaking that makes the audience feel like active participants in the horror.
Faith, Trauma, and the Messy Business of Healing
What surprised me most about Black Phone 2 is its earnestness. This is a horror film deeply interested in questions of faith, spirituality, and healing—themes Derrickson has explored throughout his career (The Exorcism of Emily Rose, Deliver Us from Evil) but never quite this intimately.
The Christian youth camp setting could have been mere window dressing, but Derrickson, drawing from his own complicated history with teenage religious experiences, uses it to explore different facets of belief. There’s the restrictive, fear-based, moralistic Christianity represented by the camp workers Barbara and Kenneth, who see demons everywhere and sin in everything. Then there’s Armando’s redemption narrative—a former drug dealer who found genuine transformation through faith and now runs a camp trying to help troubled youth.
But the heart of the film’s spiritual exploration is Gwen herself. Her psychic abilities aren’t tied to any denomination or religious tradition; they’re deeply personal, something that belongs to her alone. When she talks to Jesus, it’s not performative—it’s an intimate conversation born from genuine need. Gwen’s journey is about accepting her powers not as a curse but as a gift, something that connects her to her mother and gives her the strength to fight back.
The film explicitly grapples with concepts of Heaven and Hell, good and evil, sacrifice and salvation. Some critics found this heavy-handed, and I’ll admit the religious framing doesn’t always land perfectly. There’s a lengthy scene set against a large crucifix that telegraphs its symbolism a bit too obviously. But I appreciated the risk Derrickson took in engaging with these themes seriously rather than cynically. This is a horror film that believes love and faith can be weapons against darkness—not in a sanitized, Hallmark way, but in a messy, complicated, deeply human way.
The emotional core remains the sibling bond between Finney and Gwen. Their relationship, forged in shared trauma and protective love, is what grounds all the supernatural chaos. Even when their father Terrence (Jeremy Davies) arrives at the camp—now sober but still carrying the weight of years of abusive alcoholism—the family confrontation that unfolds is about facing pain rather than running from it. Gwen’s brutal honesty with both Finney and Terrence about their self-destructive coping mechanisms (weed and alcohol respectively) is one of the film’s most powerful non-horror moments.
A Sequel That Divides: Technical Brilliance vs. Narrative Clutter
Reading critical reactions to Black Phone 2, I’m struck by how divisive it is. The film currently holds a 72% on Rotten Tomatoes with a Metacritic score of 61—”generally favorable” but hardly universal acclaim. After grossing $120 million worldwide against a $30 million budget, it’s clearly connected with audiences, but there’s no consensus on whether it surpasses the original or falls short.
The technical achievements are undeniable. Derrickson’s direction is confident and inventive, using camera movements and visual framing in ways that make you feel the horror viscerally. The Super 8 dream sequences are a masterstroke—grainy, jittery, almost hypnotic in their wrongness. Atticus Derrickson’s electronic score thrums with dread, particularly in the nightmare sequences where it becomes almost meditative in its menace.
The film’s willingness to go dark—showing genuinely disturbing images of children traumatized by violence—is brave for a studio horror film. As Roger Ebert’s reviewer noted, “Black Phone 2 is messed up in ways that big-budget movies from major studios are rarely allowed to be.” That commitment to not sanitizing the horror for broader audiences is admirable.
But the film isn’t without significant flaws. At 114 minutes, it feels overstuffed, particularly in the middle section where Derrickson and Cargill seem determined to explain every mystery from the first film. There are flashbacks within flashbacks, retcons of established lore, and even a time-displaced phone call between Gwen and her mother that, while emotionally effective, adds another layer of confusion to already complicated narrative mechanics.
The script struggles with tonal consistency. Moments of genuine terror are sometimes undercut by clunky dialogue heavy with ’80s slang that feels forced rather than natural. Some of the supporting characters—particularly the new additions like Kenneth, Barbara, and Mustang—feel underdeveloped, their arcs serving plot mechanics rather than character development.
Ernesto, despite Miguel Mora’s likable presence, doesn’t have much to do beyond being Gwen’s supportive boyfriend. For a character connected to one of the Grabber’s victims from the first film, his journey feels surprisingly thin.
The pacing falters in the second act when the film becomes overly expository, stopping to explain connections and backstory when it works best leaning into surreal nightmare logic. The climactic confrontation on the frozen lake is spectacular—the Grabber literally skating across the ice with an axe in a sequence that’s both absurd and genuinely frightening—but getting there requires wading through more plot than the story can comfortably carry.
Mason Thames and Madeleine McGraw: Shouldering Adult Trauma
Despite the script’s occasional stumbles, Thames and McGraw deliver performances that elevate the material. Thames captures Finney’s survivor’s rage with heartbreaking authenticity—the way trauma can curdle into anger, the numbness that comes from trying not to feel anything at all. His scenes confronting the Grabber carry real emotional weight because we understand what this young man has already endured.
But this is McGraw’s movie, and she absolutely delivers. At just 15 during filming, she’s carrying the emotional and physical demands of a lead role in a demanding horror film. She gets to be funny (her foul mouth remains intact, including the now-iconic line “Fuck you with a dinosaur dick!”), vulnerable, terrified, and ultimately empowered. The physicality required—she did most of her own stunts, including getting SCUBA certified for underwater sequences—is impressive, but it’s the emotional depth that really sells it.
McGraw talked in interviews about how certain scenes left her crying all day between takes, unable to shake Gwen’s headspace. That level of commitment from such a young performer is remarkable. When Gwen finally takes control in the dream world, using her powers not as a curse but as a weapon to fight back against the Grabber, it’s cathartic precisely because McGraw has made us feel every ounce of her character’s fear and determination.
The film’s most powerful moments belong to these siblings simply being together—Finney trying to protect Gwen, Gwen refusing to let Finney self-destruct, both of them learning that healing from trauma isn’t something you do alone.
The Elm Street Homage: Imitation or Innovation?
The A Nightmare on Elm Street influences are impossible to ignore, and they’re clearly intentional. Derrickson and Cargill aren’t hiding their love for Wes Craven’s masterpiece—they’re paying tribute while trying to find their own voice within that framework.
The parallels are everywhere: a killer who attacks through dreams, injuries sustained in nightmares manifesting in reality, a teenage girl who becomes the primary target, the killer’s connection to the protagonist’s family history, even visual references like Gwen’s Nancy Thompson-style pajamas. There’s a kitchen sequence that directly echoes Elm Street scenes, and the frozen lake climax channels Dream Warriors.
Some critics see this as derivative, the film borrowing too heavily from established horror mythology rather than carving its own path. Others (including me, to an extent) appreciate it as knowing homage—Derrickson understanding what made those films work and adapting those principles to his own creation rather than just copying them.
The key difference is that the Grabber lacks Freddy’s constant presence. He lurks more than he attacks for most of the runtime, which reduces the sense of immediate danger. Freddy could appear at any moment; you were never safe. The Grabber feels more contained, his appearances more predictable, which somewhat diminishes the threat despite the increased supernatural powers.
Still, Derrickson injects enough of his own visual language—particularly the Super 8 aesthetic he’s used throughout his career—that it never feels like a straight ripoff. The frozen wilderness setting is wholly his own, creating a uniquely claustrophobic yet expansive atmosphere that distinguishes this from typical Elm Street imitators.
What Lingers: A Film About Refusing to Let Go
As I reflect on Black Phone 2, what stays with me isn’t the jump scares or even the impressive set pieces. It’s the film’s central thesis: that true evil doesn’t need to be alive to continue destroying lives, and that healing requires facing the nightmare rather than running from it.
The Grabber’s posthumous attacks on Finney and Gwen are a literalization of how trauma stalks survivors long after the initial wound. He’s dead, but he’s not gone—a perfect metaphor for PTSD, for the way abuse echoes through generations, for the phone that keeps ringing in your head years after the actual danger has passed.
The film’s tagline—”Dead is just a word. Fear is just the beginning”—captures this perfectly. Killing your abuser might end the immediate threat, but it doesn’t automatically heal the damage. That requires a different kind of bravery: the courage to remember, to feel the pain you’ve been avoiding, and to choose to keep living anyway.
Gwen’s arc embodies this journey. She goes from seeing her psychic abilities as a curse that will drive her mad (like her mother) to understanding them as a gift that connects her to those who came before and gives her the power to protect those she loves. It’s not about defeating the Grabber once and for all—evil like that never fully dies. It’s about refusing to let that evil define you.
The film ends not with total victory but with hard-won resilience. The siblings have faced their trauma together, uncovered painful family secrets, and survived another encounter with the monster who’s haunted them for years. There’s a suggestion that the Grabber might not be completely gone (because trauma never completely disappears), but Finney and Gwen are stronger, more connected, and better equipped to face whatever darkness comes next.
The Verdict: Ambitious, Flawed, Unforgettable
Is Black Phone 2 better than the original? That depends on what you value in horror. The first film was tighter, more focused, grounded in recognizable fears. This sequel is messier, more ambitious, willing to risk bold swings that don’t always connect. It’s not as cohesive, but it’s more daring.
What I appreciate most is that Derrickson and Cargill refused to simply recreate what worked the first time. They could have given us another basement abduction, another claustrophobic thriller. Instead, they took genuine risks—expanding the mythology, shifting genres, diving deeper into supernatural horror while maintaining emotional authenticity.
The film is imperfect. It’s too long, sometimes too convoluted, occasionally heavy-handed in its symbolism. Some performances land better than others, and the supporting characters could use more depth. But it’s also genuinely frightening, emotionally resonant, technically accomplished, and willing to engage with difficult themes about trauma, faith, and family.
For every misstep, there’s a moment of brilliance: the rotating phone booth sequence, the Super 8 nightmare imagery, McGraw’s raw performance, the frozen lake climax, the sibling confrontations about facing pain together. These moments aren’t just scary—they’re meaningful, adding up to a film that’s about more than just monster thrills.
I don’t think Black Phone 2 will achieve the kind of widespread acclaim that would cement it as an instant classic. It’s too divisive, too messy for that. But I suspect it will find its audience—horror fans who appreciate ambition even when execution falters, those who value emotional depth alongside supernatural terror, viewers willing to engage with a film that asks hard questions about how we survive the unsurvivable.
The phone is ringing. Will you answer?
For me, the answer is yes. Despite its flaws, Black Phone 2 is the kind of horror sequel we need more of: bold, emotionally complex, unafraid to go dark, and ultimately about something larger than itself. It’s a film about trauma that doesn’t exploit trauma, a supernatural thriller grounded in human pain and resilience.
Scott Derrickson has crafted a sequel that honors the original while expanding its scope in unexpected directions. Whether you love it or find it frustrating will depend on your tolerance for narrative complexity and your willingness to follow a film that prioritizes emotional truth over clean plotting. But you won’t forget it quickly—and in horror, being unforgettable is worth more than being perfect.
The Grabber may be dead, but the fear is just beginning. And sometimes, facing that fear head-on—with your family beside you, refusing to let the darkness win—is the only way forward.
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