DON’T SAY ITS NAME (2026) is not interested in cheap scares or nostalgic horror callbacks. From its opening moments, the film makes it clear that this is a story about consequence—about the modern arrogance of believing ancient rules no longer apply just because they were found online. What begins as a casual, ironic ritual spirals into a meticulously crafted psychological descent that feels both intimate and suffocating.
The premise is deceptively simple, and that’s exactly why it works. A summoning ritual reduced to internet folklore feels dangerously plausible, especially in a generation that treats the occult as aesthetic rather than warning. The moment the characters laugh, record, and break the rules, the film quietly shifts gears. There’s no immediate jump scare—only an uneasy sense that something irreversible has already happened.
Anya Taylor-Joy anchors the film with a restrained, intelligent performance. Her Elise isn’t the typical “final girl”; she’s perceptive without being prophetic, frightened without being hysterical. The horror creeps in through her eyes—lingering glances, half-finished thoughts, the growing realization that logic is no longer a shield. Taylor-Joy excels at conveying dread that hasn’t yet found words.
Dylan O’Brien brings surprising depth to Marcus, a character who initially embodies skepticism and humor. His arc is one of the film’s most disturbing elements: watching bravado erode into paranoia as nightmares bleed into daylight. O’Brien sells the terror of losing control over one’s own mind, making his descent feel tragically human rather than sensational.
Jacob Elordi delivers one of his most unsettling performances to date. His character’s insistence that “something is standing behind you” becomes a recurring psychological weapon, turning ordinary spaces into threats. The brilliance lies in uncertainty—sometimes he’s wrong, sometimes he isn’t, and the audience is never allowed the comfort of knowing which is worse.
Florence Pugh’s theology student is the film’s intellectual backbone. Her slow realization that the entity isn’t a demon or spirit—but something pre-human—adds existential weight to the horror. This isn’t a battle of faith versus evil; it’s humanity brushing against something that predates morality entirely. Pugh’s calm delivery makes the revelations feel more terrifying than any scream.
Visually, the film is relentlessly oppressive. Reflections lag, walls subtly expand and contract, and the looping hallway sequence is instant nightmare fuel—an architectural metaphor for guilt and inevitability. The camera often lingers just a beat too long, forcing the audience to search the frame, complicit in the fear of seeing something they shouldn’t.
Sound design deserves special mention. Whispers layered beneath dialogue, clocks freezing at 3:17 AM, and moments of total silence amplify the tension. The film understands that true fear isn’t loud—it’s invasive. Even after scenes end, the unease lingers, as if the movie itself is watching the viewer.
The most chilling twist—that the ritual was never a summoning but an invitation—recontextualizes everything that came before. This entity doesn’t crash into their lives; it waits to be welcomed. The idea that horror is not forced upon us but allowed in feels deeply unsettling, especially in an age of constant digital openness.
The final reveal, where the entity appears wearing a human face—one of their own—is devastating not because it’s grotesque, but because it’s familiar. DON’T SAY ITS NAME ends without catharsis, only realization. This isn’t a ghost story, as the film insists. It’s a punishment for curiosity without respect—and once you’ve watched it, the rule feels impossible to forget.
