Conservatory Drama, but Make It Cursed
Nocturne is what happens when you take a cutthroat arts academy movie, smash it into a supernatural pact-with-the-devil story, and then film the whole thing like a melancholy breakup with reality. Zu Quirke’s feature debut is stylish, moody, and petty in exactly the right ways. It’s not just about talent or demons; it’s about the particular horror of being “the less special twin” in a world where being special is literally the only thing that matters.
If you’ve ever looked at someone else’s success and thought, “I would sell at least one organ to be that good,” this movie gently replies: “Cool. Let’s see how far you really want to go.”
Twin Peaks: Practice Room Edition
Juliet (Sydney Sweeney) and Vivian (Madison Iseman) are twin sisters at a high-end performing arts boarding school, both classical pianists, both rigorously trained… but only one of them is the prodigy. Spoiler: it’s not Juliet.
Vivian has already secured her ticket to Juilliard. She’s the star, the one teachers brag about, the one whose fingers seem to just know what to do. Juliet is technically excellent, but overshadowed, overlooked, and quietly rotting from the inside with resentment and insecurity.
When a star violinist, Moira, throws herself off a balcony after the ominous chime of a clock, her death leaves a vacancy in the prestigious senior showcase. Both sisters audition for the spot. Juliet, in a moment that is 60% courage and 40% “girl, no,” switches to Vivian’s concerto at the last minute.
Then she finds Moira’s notebook filled with strange drawings and symbols, starts playing “The Devil’s Trill,” and discovers that with the right occult help, maybe she doesn’t have to be second best forever. What could go wrong, aside from everything?
Sydney Sweeney as Juliet: Patron Saint of Bitter Overachievers
Sydney Sweeney absolutely nails Juliet. This is not a character who’s “a little insecure.” This is someone whose entire sense of self-worth is hooked into her art—only to look up and realize she’s the supporting character in someone else’s story.
Sweeney’s performance is wonderfully layered:
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On the surface, Juliet is quiet, polite, obedient.
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Underneath, she’s seething with jealousy and desperation.
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Deeper still, she’s terrified that everyone’s right about her being mediocre.
As she leans deeper into Moira’s notebook and the creepy coincidences start lining up—her rival mentor gets slapped out of the way, her sister is conveniently injured in a freak fall, opportunities tumble into her lap—you see her shift. She’s horrified, but she’s also… pleased. It’s the horror of seeing the universe finally treat you like the main character, and realizing the price tag is written in very small, bloody print.
Sweeney plays that moral drift beautifully. Juliet doesn’t wake up evil one day; she just keeps making slightly worse decisions in the name of “finally being seen.”
Sibling Rivalry, Now With Extra Doom
The relationship between Juliet and Vivian is the acidic heart of the film. Vivian isn’t a cartoon villain; she’s talented, confident, and occasionally thoughtless in the way people are when the world always tells them yes. She loves Juliet—but she also exists as a constant reminder that Juliet is the “other twin.”
Their dynamic is painfully believable:
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Shared teachers, shared birthday, shared house… but vastly different futures.
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Microaggressions dressed up as sisterly advice.
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Moments of genuine affection that curdle when competition intrudes.
When Vivian injures her arm and Juliet gets offered the showcase, the movie hits its cruel stride. Juliet wants to be horrified her sister might lose everything. Instead, she’s horrified by how relieved she feels. That tension—between love and envy—is where Nocturne really sings.
There’s dark humor in how petty some of it is too. Bloody tampons hidden in a shelf, mocking comments about mediocrity, jealous glances at boyfriends and mentors. The devil may be involved, but so is the very human joy of finally having the upper hand.
The Notebook from Hell (Art School Edition)
Moira’s notebook is basically the Necronomicon for depressed music students. It’s filled with strange diagrams, occult symbols, and drawings that uncannily line up with Juliet’s life as events unfold: the slapping incident with her old mentor, the fall that injures Vivian, the escalation of Juliet’s own obsession.
What’s fun is that Nocturne never pauses to deliver a 10-minute lore dump about where the notebook came from, which demon runs the help desk, or what specific ritual rules apply. The occult stuff works on dream logic: you read, you play, you obsess, and reality gently starts to misbehave.
The film keeps it ambiguous:
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Is Juliet cursed, or is she simply losing her mind under pressure?
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Is the notebook genuinely predicting events, or is she retrofitting meaning into them?
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Is this supernatural punishment, or just the cost of grinding your soul down for applause?
It’s like a Faustian bargain written by someone who spent too much time in practice rooms and not enough with a therapist.
Music, Mood, and That Slow Spiral
Stylistically, Nocturne is closer to an artsy psychological drama than a cheap scare-fest. The horror here is more:
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suffocating practice rooms,
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sterile dorms,
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the constant pressure of perfection,
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and the slow erosion of Juliet’s sense of reality.
There are a few startling moments, but the film mostly goes for creeping dread. Sound design plays a huge role: the chime of the clock, the intensity of the piano rehearsals, the silence before imagined ovations. Music isn’t just background; it’s Juliet’s oxygen. So when her relationship to it twists, it feels like watching someone slowly poison their own air supply.
The dreamlike sequences—Juliet envisioning herself nailing the performance, roses in hand, basking in adoration—are especially sharp. They’re aggressively normal fantasies for an ambitious musician, which makes their eventual contrast with her actual fate brutally effective.
Teachers, Boys, and Other Poor Life Choices
Supporting characters orbit Juliet in ways that are equal parts realistic and depressing.
Her mentor Roger underestimates her and ends up slapped and suspended after a blowout argument, conveniently clearing the way for her to be assigned to Dr. Cask—a more prestigious teacher who also happens to be entangled in a wildly inappropriate affair.
Dr. Cask is the perfect mix of inspiring and gross: encouraging just enough to pull Juliet in, distant enough to keep her chasing his approval. When she finally tries to seduce him and he rejects her, her emotional implosion feels like the culmination of every “you’re almost good enough” she’s ever heard.
Max, Vivian’s boyfriend, is less important as a love interest and more as a symbol: one more piece of her sister’s life that Juliet can try to steal. Their hookup feels less like romance and more like petty spiritual vandalism. It’s messy, small, and exactly the sort of thing a person on the edge might do while the supernatural looms in the background, taking notes.
That Ending: Standing Ovation from the Void
The finale is as bleak as it is fitting. On the night of the showcase—Juliet’s big moment—Vivian confronts her and drops the nuclear line: she will always be mediocre. For someone who’s built her entire identity around disproving that, it’s the final shove.
Onstage, Juliet freezes, panics, and flees to the roof. There, she sees her “other self” finish the performance to thunderous applause, basking in the attention and approval she’s always wanted—including Vivian’s. In that vision, she finally made it.
In reality, she jumps.
Her bloody body ends up draped on a statue, smiling. Down below, students mill about, completely unaware. The fantasy of being adored is literally separated from her by a fatal drop. The ultimate horror isn’t the demon in the notebook—it’s that she was never going to feel like enough, even if she’d played flawlessly.
It’s a viciously dark punchline: she dies chasing a version of herself that only exists in her head, cheered on by people who never knew she needed to hear them.
Final Verdict: A Beautiful, Petty Little Tragedy
Nocturne (2020) is not interested in being a jump-scare machine. It’s a slow, elegant, slightly mean-spirited character study wrapped in supernatural suggestion. The horror is as much about artistic insecurity and toxic comparison as it is about cursed symbols and violin suicides.
Sydney Sweeney gives a fantastic lead performance, the twin dynamic is sharp enough to cut, and the film’s commitment to existing right at the edge of reality makes it linger longer than louder, bloodier fare.
If you’ve ever wondered whether your ambition is eating you alive—or if you’ve ever mentally rewritten someone else’s applause as your own—this movie is a beautifully devastating mirror. Just, you know… maybe don’t watch it right before a recital.
