H.P. Lovecraft famously hated three things: seafood, small towns, and basically anyone who wasn’t him. So it’s oddly poetic that Cthulhu (2007), a loose adaptation of The Shadow Over Innsmouth, throws all of those anxieties into a blender, adds some Pacific Northwest rain, a dash of New Age cult yoga, and one very gay protagonist. The result is a film that is equal parts eerie, earnest, and delightfully unhinged. It’s a Lovecraftian horror that doesn’t just wink at the cosmic dread of ancient gods—it also smirks at the all-too-human horror of awkward family reunions.
A Homecoming Dripping with Dread
Our unlucky hero is Russ (Jason Cottle), a history professor with more baggage than SeaTac airport. He returns to his hometown for his late mother’s estate, only to discover that his dad (Dennis Kleinsmith) has gone full Reverend Marsh, running a cult with all the charisma of a televangelist who discovered squid cosplay. Russ also reconnects with his boyhood friend Mike (Scott Green), who conveniently still looks like a Pacific Northwest REI model.
But before you get too comfortable thinking this will be a sweet homecoming story, the film immediately dunks Russ into Lovecraft’s favorite theme: “This town smells like fish and everyone is in on something.” He wanders warehouses where people’s names are carved into walls like it’s a very morbid roll call, dreams of cudgels with “Dagon” scribbled on them, and wakes up to find culty souvenirs in his motel room. Which, to be fair, is still a better experience than most Airbnbs.
The Queer Subtext Finally Gets Textual
One of the most interesting—and gutsy—things about Cthulhu is making Russ openly gay. Lovecraft never would’ve written this; he was too busy wringing his hands about Italians. But the filmmakers lean in hard, and the metaphor is as sharp as a sacrificial dagger: coming home to a small town where everyone expects you to conform, marry the town cheerleader, and join the “family business.” Except the family business here isn’t a hardware store—it’s summoning fish gods from the sea to destroy humanity.
Russ isn’t just facing cosmic horror; he’s facing that uniquely personal horror of, “Hi son, we need you to inherit the mantle of eldritch priesthood, and also please kill the man you love, thanks.” It’s almost touching, in a “this family barbecue went to hell” kind of way.
Tentacles, Trauma, and Tori Spelling
Yes, you read that right. Cthulhu features none other than Tori Spelling as Susan, a seductress who… well, let’s just say her attempt to entangle Russ in the cult’s plans is about as subtle as a reality TV pitch. Does she fit into a Lovecraft adaptation? No. Does she belong here anyway? Absolutely. Watching Donna from 90210 pop up in a film about ancient sea gods is the kind of curveball casting that feels appropriately insane.
And then there’s the violence. This is not a film for the faint of heart. We’ve got dreams bleeding into reality, a liquor store clerk begging Russ to find her brother (spoiler: he doesn’t make it), and a climax that involves Russ being shown his children in a bathtub like a bad “Shark Week” promo. Yet, instead of coming off as purely bleak, there’s a sardonic undercurrent—an understanding that cosmic horror is ridiculous in its sheer scope. The film leans into that absurdity without losing its sincerity.
The Cult Next Door
The cult in Cthulhu is less hooded-robe nonsense and more “your aunt who got really into crystals but also casually sacrifices teenagers.” Led by Russ’s father, they embody Lovecraft’s obsession with hereditary doom. Except here, it’s not just about inbreeding and gills—it’s about generational trauma, queerness, and whether you really want to carry on the family tradition when that tradition involves mass sacrifice and interspecies dating.
The Reverend Marsh character is played with such calm menace that you half expect him to start a TED Talk: “Why Serving Dagon is the Best Side Hustle You’ll Ever Have.” He doesn’t scream, he doesn’t rant. He just convinces everyone that yes, standing ankle-deep in seawater chanting to a tentacled deity is the future. And somehow, that’s scarier than any rubber monster suit.
The Ending: Love in the Time of Tentacles
The final act cranks everything up to “Lovecraft meets Lifetime.” Russ is captured by the cult, reunited with Mike, and then given an ultimatum: sacrifice the man you love or be devoured by the fish-god future. It’s an ending that refuses to give you clean answers—does Russ strike? Does he resist? Does he finally embrace his role as cult heir? All we know is that cosmic horror doesn’t care about happy endings. And yet, in its ambiguity, the film manages something Lovecraft never could: it injects queerness and intimacy into the narrative of doom.
Instead of just “man goes mad in face of god,” it’s “man must choose between humanity, love, and destiny.” That’s not just horror—it’s high drama, with added scales and tentacles.
The Style: Grit, Grain, and Pacific Northwest Gloom
Visually, Cthulhu doesn’t have blockbuster money, but it makes the most of its rainy, moss-drenched setting. The Pacific Northwest is already halfway to being a Lovecraftian hellscape—it’s gray, wet, and every forest looks like it’s hiding a corpse. The film embraces that atmosphere, giving us scenes that feel simultaneously grounded and dreamlike.
Sure, the budget shows in places. Some sequences feel like they were lit with a single Ikea lamp, and the creature effects rely heavily on implication rather than CGI. But honestly, that restraint works in its favor. Cosmic horror is always scarier in the imagination, and the film knows it.
The Dark Humor of Dread
For a film about cults and sea gods, Cthulhu has moments of bleak comedy. A town drunk warning Russ about sacrificial cudgels like he’s just giving directions to the nearest gas station. A cop shrugging off Russ’s claims because “it’s just small-town business.” Tori Spelling sashaying through like she’s in a different movie entirely. These absurdities are what keep the film from collapsing under its own existential weight.
Dark humor is baked into the Lovecraftian experience. After all, how else do you cope with the knowledge that your family reunion may end with you as the entrée at a seafood feast for ancient gods?
Final Verdict: A Queer Lovecraftian Gem
Cthulhu is far from perfect—it’s slow in places, its budget peeks through the cracks, and the ending leaves you more confused than comforted. But that’s the point. Cosmic horror isn’t about neat resolutions. It’s about dread, ambiguity, and asking yourself why the walls are damp when it hasn’t rained in weeks.
By centering a gay protagonist, the film drags Lovecraft kicking and screaming into the 21st century, turning inherited horror into a metaphor for identity, repression, and the terror of going home. It’s bold, messy, strange, and—ironically enough—human.
Final Score: 8 sacrificial cudgels out of 10.
Because sometimes the scariest thing isn’t Cthulhu rising from the deep—it’s your dad asking if you’ve considered taking over the family cult.
