The War Is Over, but the Dialogue Marches On
Ah, Brooklyn 45. A film that bravely asks the question: What if ghosts weren’t the scariest part of a horror movie—what if it was the pacing? Directed and written by Ted Geoghegan, this supernatural “thriller” takes place in real time, which apparently means “a very long time where nothing interesting happens.” It’s like 12 Angry Men if everyone was slightly drunk, extremely guilty, and also haunted by a ghost that refuses to respect time management.
Set in post–World War II Brooklyn, the film traps a handful of military buddies in a brownstone for a séance that spirals into violence, paranoia, and moral reckoning. Sounds great, right? Well, hold your Ouija board—because this séance is less The Conjuring and more The Con-verging Interest Rates on My Patience.
The Setup: Spirits, PTSD, and Bad Lighting
The story begins in December 1945, where a group of military veterans reunite at the home of their commanding officer, Lt. Col. Clive “Hock” Hockstatter (Larry Fessenden), a man who looks like he’s seen the war and also the bottom of a whiskey bottle. Hock has invited his old war pals—Archie (Jeremy Holm), Paul (Ezra Buzzington), and Marla (Anne Ramsay)—for drinks, guilt, and light necromancy. Marla’s husband Bob (Ron E. Rains), a Pentagon pencil-pusher, tags along as the designated human wet blanket.
Hock, mourning his wife’s recent suicide, has gone full séance-core and wants his friends to help him talk to her spirit. This, of course, goes about as well as anyone who’s ever said “I swear it’ll just be a quick ritual.” Candles flicker, the radio plays “Is You Is or Is You Ain’t My Baby,” and everyone realizes that yes—this is going to be one of those movies that thinks subtlety is a weakness.
When the ghostly arm of Hock’s wife Susan bursts from the table like a discount Halloween prop, Hock freaks out and immediately shoots himself in the face. You’d think that would be the climax—but no, that’s just the first 20 minutes. Strap in. We’ve got another hour of moral debates, whiskey shots, and people yelling about Nazis to get through.
The Horror: More Talk, Less Terror
For a movie about ghosts, Brooklyn 45 is surprisingly allergic to actual scares. Instead, it’s a claustrophobic chamber piece where every character takes turns giving monologues about trauma, guilt, and whether or not it’s morally okay to kill someone who might be a Nazi. If that sounds thrilling, congratulations—you’re probably an ethics professor.
The film mistakes volume for tension. Everyone yells. Constantly. It’s like watching a haunted episode of Dr. Phil. Hock’s friends argue about patriotism, religion, and war crimes while the ghost just sort of… waits politely in the background, probably checking her ghost watch.
There’s a locked door that won’t open (classic), a mysterious German woman tied up in a closet (awkward), and a séance that never seems to end (torturous). But the real horror isn’t the supernatural—it’s the dialogue. These veterans don’t so much speak as lecture. Every line sounds like it was pulled from a rejected history thesis titled “Post-War Paranoia and the Case of Who Cares.”
The Cast: Strong Actors, Weak Script
The cast gives it their all, but they’re basically soldiers fighting the real enemy: exposition.
Larry Fessenden, as Hock, chews scenery like it’s his last meal on Earth. He’s a great actor, but his character is written like a man auditioning for Ghostbusters: The Existential Edition. His performance peaks early when he shoots himself, and honestly, you can’t blame him.
Anne Ramsay’s Marla is the film’s one bright spot—she brings grit and gravitas, playing a hardened soldier who can waterboard guilt itself. But even she can’t save a movie where her main co-star is her husband Bob, a man whose personality could be described as “human beige.”
Ezra Buzzington’s Paul spends most of the runtime looking constipated with moral conflict, while Jeremy Holm’s Archie delivers his lines with all the emotional range of a damp trench coat. There’s also Hildegard (Kristina Klebe), the kidnapped German neighbor who might be a Nazi spy—or might just be the only person in the film who didn’t deserve to be invited to this séance.
The Ghosts Deserved Better
The séance sequences should be eerie. They should thrum with tension, the air thick with dread. Instead, they feel like an improv class gone wrong. The candles flicker, the radio plays again, and everyone stares meaningfully into space. The ghost of Hock’s wife Susan occasionally pops in to make accusations, but mostly she’s reduced to “ethereal plot device #3.”
Even when things get violent—Hock smashing his own face, Paul losing fingers, Bob shooting everyone who moves—it’s all strangely sterile. You never feel the fear, only the fatigue. The blood looks fake, the lighting looks theatrical, and the pacing looks like it’s been trapped in molasses since 1945.
The biggest jump scare is realizing how much time you have left on the runtime.
Haunted by Themes (and Not Much Else)
The film really wants to say something about post-war trauma, the moral ambiguity of killing, and America’s growing paranoia toward “the enemy within.” Unfortunately, it says all of that out loud, over and over again, until you wish the ghost would haunt the script editor.
Each character represents a different moral viewpoint:
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Archie, the war criminal who regrets nothing.
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Paul, the xenophobe who regrets everything.
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Marla, the soldier who hides her cruelty behind conviction.
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Bob, the civilian who realizes he married a war crime.
It’s less like a haunting and more like a group therapy session hosted by Satan’s HR department.
The Climax: Ghosts, Guns, and Guilt Trips
Eventually, the group realizes they’re trapped in the parlor by supernatural forces—probably because even the ghosts are tired of listening. Hock’s corpse reanimates, screaming at them to kill the German woman to “appease the spirits.” You can tell the director thinks this is profound—a meditation on how war turns everyone into monsters. But really, it’s just an excuse to have a puppet corpse bash its face into a table like it’s auditioning for The Evil Dead: Dinner Party Edition.
Bob, the mild-mannered bureaucrat, snaps and starts blasting everyone like it’s the world’s worst karaoke night. The movie ends with survivors stumbling into the daylight, sobbing and traumatized, which, coincidentally, is exactly how the audience feels.
The Real-Time Gimmick: Real-Time Regret
Geoghegan decided to film Brooklyn 45 in “real time,” meaning the story unfolds minute by minute without time skips. In theory, that should heighten the tension. In practice, it means we get to experience every awkward silence, every meaningless tangent, every “Wait, what if she is a Nazi?” conversation in full, uninterrupted detail.
It’s the cinematic equivalent of being locked in a room with five drunk uncles arguing about politics on Christmas Eve while a ghost bangs on the walls for attention.
Beautifully Shot, But Emotionally Dead
To give credit where it’s due, the set design and cinematography are stellar. The brownstone feels claustrophobic, the shadows deep and deliberate, the color palette rich with sepia nostalgia. It’s a shame that all this atmosphere goes to waste on a script that moves slower than postwar bureaucracy.
The camera lingers lovingly on characters’ faces as they wrestle with guilt, grief, and bad lighting choices. But you can’t help thinking: this would’ve made a killer 30-minute short film. Instead, it’s a 90-minute séance that somehow manages to resurrect no one—not even the audience’s interest.
Final Verdict: Brooklyn 45? More Like Brooklyn 4/10
Brooklyn 45 wants to be The Haunting of Hill House meets Inglourious Basterds, but it lands closer to My Dinner with André: The Ghost Edition. It’s talky when it should be tense, flat when it should be frightening, and pretentious when it should be powerful.
There’s an interesting story buried under all the monologues, but like the ghosts it conjures, it never quite materializes. Instead, you’re left with a slow, self-serious séance that mistakes existential despair for entertainment.
Rating: 4/10 — A haunted house full of good intentions and bad pacing. If you’re looking for spirits, grab a drink instead. At least that ghost will disappear in 90 minutes.
