Welcome to Purgatory — Population: Regret
There’s a special kind of irony in watching a film about being stuck in limbo and realizing you, the viewer, are living the exact same nightmare. AfterDeath (2015), directed by Gez Medinger and Robin Schmidt, is a horror movie that feels like punishment for crimes you don’t remember committing. Clocking in at 88 minutes but somehow defying the laws of time to feel like six eternal hours, it’s the story of five dead twenty-somethings trapped in a seaside cabin where nothing happens — and then it happens again, only slower.
The concept has promise: what if you wake up in the afterlife and it’s just a really annoying Airbnb with bad lighting and worse company? Unfortunately, the execution makes purgatory seem less like a moral test and more like a low-budget escape room no one ever escapes from.
Plot? Sort Of.
The film opens with Robyn (Miranda Raison), who wakes up on a beach that looks like it was borrowed from a Doctor Who location shoot and promptly runs into a cabin full of people who are both naked and confused — much like the audience. There’s Seb (Sam Keeley), who’s introduced mid-threesome, proving that even in death, men’s priorities are admirably consistent. Patricia (Elarica Johnson) and Livvy (Lorna Nickson Brown) round out his post-mortem harem, while Onie (Daniella Kertesz) wanders in later, delivering cryptic lines like “I don’t think we’re supposed to be here,” which, to be fair, applies equally to her and the viewer.
Soon, they realize they’re all dead — victims of a nightclub collapse. Instead of introspection, they bicker, flirt, and throw theological tantrums while an ominous black smoke floats around like it’s auditioning for a reboot of Lost. Every time someone tries to leave the area, they end up back at the cabin, presumably because the special effects budget couldn’t stretch to a second location.
This should be chilling, but it feels like the movie itself is just buffering.
The Cabin in the Yawn
The cabin is meant to be symbolic — a metaphysical testing ground, a spiritual labyrinth, a cosmic IKEA showroom of sin. Instead, it feels like purgatory’s least inspired waiting room. There are paintings that “mean something,” rooms that morph into memories, and a blanket that somehow controls demons. Yes, a blanket. The Devil, it seems, has a thing for soft furnishings.
The rules of this afterlife are explained in hushed tones and long monologues that sound like someone’s reading The Book of Revelation from a Wetherspoons bathroom stall. The group discovers that the cabin is part of an endless series of “tests,” and no one has ever passed. Heaven is empty, Hell is overcrowded, and the afterlife’s HR department is clearly understaffed.
It’s the kind of metaphysical reveal that should shake you to your soul — but instead, it just makes you wish Hell had popcorn.
The Cast: Method Acting From Beyond the Grave
Miranda Raison (Spooks, My patience) gives it her all as Robyn, the de facto leader who slowly realizes she was responsible for the nightclub collapse that killed everyone. Her arc — from denial to guilt to reluctant demon host — should be emotional, but the dialogue is so stiff you could iron shirts on it.
Sam Keeley (Monsters: Dark Continent) plays Seb with the energy of a man who realized halfway through filming that he signed up for the wrong movie. His character is meant to represent lust and moral decay but comes off more like a frat boy who accidentally wandered into theology class.
Elarica Johnson and Lorna Nickson Brown bring some attitude as Patricia and Livvy, but their constant bickering makes eternity feel even longer. Daniella Kertesz (World War Z) fares slightly better as Onie, the sensitive soul who tries to find meaning in their cosmic predicament, but even she can’t make lines like “I can’t die again because I’m already dead” sound profound.
The chemistry between the group is about as natural as taxidermy. Their attempts at philosophical debate often sound like a group of drama students who just discovered Existentialism for Dummies.
The Smoke Monster: Satan’s Vape Cloud
Every horror movie needs a monster, and AfterDeath gives us… a smoke effect. Not even a scary one — more like the kind of mist that wafts across the stage at a third-rate rock concert. This demonic cloud possesses people at random, forcing them to make funny voices and do slow-motion convulsions that might be terrifying if they didn’t look like rejected TikTok dances.
It’s hard to feel threatened by a villain that could be defeated by an air purifier.
The Theological Gymnastics
If Dante’s Inferno was written by a screenwriter with a head cold, it would look like AfterDeath. The film’s central conceit — that the afterlife is a moral test where no one has ever succeeded — could be interesting, but instead, it’s buried under layers of exposition thicker than a cathedral wall.
Characters argue about sin, redemption, and divine bureaucracy in conversations that sound like late-night dorm debates after three bottles of cheap wine. “Heaven is empty because no one passes the test,” someone says solemnly, as if revealing a universal truth. “Hell is everyone else.”
That might sound deep until you realize it’s basically The Good Place without jokes, charm, or any sense of direction.
The Pacing: Eternal Damnation in Real Time
It’s not that AfterDeath is slow — it’s that it exists in a kind of cinematic molasses where nothing moves unless the script remembers it’s supposed to. Every attempt at tension (like a character walking toward the lighthouse, or the smoke cloud attacking someone) is undercut by endless dialogue scenes where people whisper “What if this is Hell?” for the twentieth time.
Even the film’s climax — in which Robyn merges with the demon and Livvy sacrifices herself to maybe, possibly destroy Heaven — lands with the impact of a soggy hymnbook. The final “twist,” which leaves everything ambiguous, feels less like profound mystery and more like the filmmakers just ran out of budget and decided to call it a day.
Cinematography: Bleak Chic
To give credit where it’s due, the film looks decent. The washed-out seaside palette gives everything a desolate vibe, like The Seventh Seal if it were shot on a GoPro. The isolation of the beach and cabin is genuinely eerie — for about ten minutes. Then it just becomes a reminder that you, too, are trapped here with them, waiting for something meaningful to happen.
It’s the cinematic equivalent of being locked in an art installation that smells faintly of despair.
The Ending: Ambiguity, or Just Abandonment?
By the finale, we’ve learned that Robyn caused the deaths of everyone, Livvy thinks breaking Heaven will save the world, and the rest are just kind of… there. The screen fades out as the “bubble” collapses, leaving their fate — and ours — frustratingly unresolved.
Normally, ambiguity can be powerful. Here, it feels like the film simply ghosted its own audience.
Final Verdict: AfterDeath, Before Regret
⭐☆☆☆☆ (1 out of 5 Smoke Monsters)
AfterDeath wants to be a thought-provoking exploration of morality, mortality, and the human soul. Instead, it’s an existential group therapy session hosted by the world’s dullest poltergeist.
There’s ambition here — a few moments of atmosphere, a decent premise — but it’s buried under so much pretentious dialogue and half-baked theology that not even divine intervention could save it.
If Hell is other people, then AfterDeath is the screening room where they show this on repeat. Bring popcorn, a philosophy degree, and a strong will to live — because by the 45-minute mark, you’ll be praying for reincarnation.
