Ah, Mr. Jones. The 2013 found-footage horror film that asked the brave question: What if making a pretentious nature documentary accidentally unleashed a cosmic nightmare, and your boyfriend just kept filming anyway? Written and directed by Karl Mueller in his feature debut, it’s the kind of film that begins with two hipsters trying to “find themselves in nature” and ends with the possible birth of an interdimensional scarecrow god.
In other words: The Blair Witch Project meets Eternal Sunshine—if both had been made on a shoestring budget and a fever dream.
Two Filmmakers, One Existential Breakdown
Scott (Jon Foster) and Penny (Sarah Jones) are your typical documentary couple. They quit their jobs, flee civilization, and move into a remote cabin to “make art” and “reconnect with the natural world.” Translation: they’re burnt-out city kids who think Wi-Fi is oppression.
Within weeks, the cracks begin to show. Scott realizes that shooting footage of trees isn’t exactly groundbreaking cinema, and Penny starts to suspect her boyfriend’s “creative vision” might just be untreated anxiety with a GoPro.
But then—plot twist!—Scott’s backpack gets stolen. Normally, that’s just a bad camping trip. Here, it’s divine intervention. Tracking the thief leads them to a cabin surrounded by creepy twig sculptures, like if Pinterest boards were curated by Satan. Turns out, this is the home of the elusive outsider artist Mr. Jones.
So naturally, they decide to make a documentary about him. Because if horror movies have taught us anything, it’s that when you find a cabin filled with occult art and bone dolls, your first instinct should be: Let’s monetize this trauma.
Mr. Jones: The Forest’s Worst Airbnb Host
Mr. Jones doesn’t talk. He doesn’t smile. He just lurks—like a Druid who lost his Wi-Fi connection in 1972 and never recovered. His home is filled with bizarre totems, stick figures, and possibly corpses, though Scott, the world’s most determined idiot, calls it “installation art.”
When Penny finally encounters Mr. Jones in person, it’s a masterclass in horror minimalism: a slow, silent approach, a lantern in the dark, and a face that looks like it lost a fight with a bonfire. Any sane person would move back to New York, get therapy, and never say the words “woods” or “documentary” again. But not Penny—she says she felt safe. Which is either a profound spiritual awakening or the first sign of demonic Stockholm syndrome.
The Art World, but Make It Terrifying
Scott leaves Penny alone in the woods (because what’s the worst that could happen?) and goes to New York to research Mr. Jones. What he finds is an art-world fever dream: collectors who receive Jones’ work at random and promptly lose their minds.
Every story he hears sounds like a Yelp review from Hell:
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“The doll made my husband hear voices!”
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“The scarecrow moved at night, 2 stars!”
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“Would not recommend, cursed our bloodline!”
It’s absurd, it’s chilling, and it’s a sly dig at the pretentiousness of modern art. Mr. Jones doesn’t do interviews, doesn’t sell his pieces, and still manages to get more attention than every MFA graduate combined.
Honestly, it’s hard not to admire the guy. He’s the Banksy of demonic folk art.
Penny’s Big “Oh No” Moment
While Scott’s off playing journalist, Penny decides to do what every horror heroine does at least once—investigate the haunted area alone at night.
She ventures into the woods to photograph Mr. Jones’ totems, only to realize the forest is alive with movement and growls. When she sees a twisted face peering from the dark, she runs in circles until Mr. Jones appears with his lantern like some kind of backwoods Obi-Wan Kenobi. He wordlessly guides her home—proving that even eldritch forest spirits understand basic hospitality better than most men in found-footage films.
Penny later tells Scott that “Mr. Jones made me feel safe,” which is concerning. Especially when the definition of “safe” involves blood sacrifices and shadow growling.
Descent Into Madness: Brought to You by Documentary Filmmaking
Once Scott returns, the couple decides—of course—to break into Mr. Jones’ house. Because nothing screams healthy relationship communication like “Hey, babe, let’s invade the hermit’s creepy underground shrine.”
What they find is both awe-inspiring and horrifying: a labyrinth of tunnels, candle-eyed dolls, and wooden effigies that look like they were carved by a blind god with mommy issues.
Scott pockets one of the dolls, because obviously stealing cursed objects always ends well. Penny warns him, the audience screams “No!”, and Scott replies with the kind of calm hubris only possessed by documentary directors and men who refuse to ask for directions.
Reality Melts Like Cheap Wax
From there, Mr. Jones slips off the rails in the best way possible. Time starts to fold in on itself. The couple’s cameras capture things they never filmed. Night lasts forever. A duplicate Scott starts banging on the door. It’s like Paranormal Activity and Inception had a baby, and that baby was possessed by Salvador Dalí.
At one point, Penny says, “I think we’re dreaming,” which might be the understatement of the decade. By the time a hooded figure (presumably Mr. Jones, or maybe just a very determined trick-or-treater) sucks Scott into the night sky, the film has gone full cosmic horror.
Is he dead? Transcendent? Becoming one with the mulch? Who knows.
The Big Reveal: From Filmmaker to Forest Shaman
By the end, Scott realizes the only way to stop the madness is to return the doll and relight its candle eyes. Because nothing solves existential horror like arts and crafts.
When he puts on the sack mask and hood, he looks… right at home. The implication is clear: Mr. Jones wasn’t a man, but a role—an eternal guardian standing between the waking world and the dream world. And now, Scott is next in line.
The film closes with a quiet, eerie tenderness: he kisses Penny goodbye, as if he’s clocking in for his new cosmic shift. It’s absurdly romantic in a “till death and beyond” kind of way.
Why It Works (Even When It Shouldn’t)
Let’s be honest—Mr. Jones shouldn’t work as well as it does. The found-footage format is overplayed, the characters make terrible decisions, and the rules of its mythology are as clear as a mud puddle. But somehow, it does work.
The film feels handmade, earnest, and uncomfortably intimate. It’s about creation—both artistic and supernatural—and the toll it takes on those who chase the unknowable.
It’s also kind of funny. Scott’s descent into madness feels like every burnt-out creative who thought, “I’ll go live in the woods to find inspiration,” and came back with a beard and a restraining order from nature itself.
Final Verdict: Say Yes to the Stick Figures
Mr. Jones is found-footage horror done right: creepy, weirdly profound, and just self-aware enough to wink at its own absurdity. It’s less about jump scares and more about existential dread—the kind that makes you question whether your art is saving the world or summoning something that will eat it.
The pacing wobbles, the editing goes full fever dream, and the last act feels like falling down a metaphorical staircase—but that’s part of the charm. It’s the kind of horror film that grows in your brain like moss.
So grab a camera, light a few candles, and maybe—just maybe—don’t steal dolls from mysterious artists in the woods.
Final Rating: 4 out of 5 cursed scarecrows.
It’s haunting, beautiful, and darkly hilarious proof that art really does consume you.
