The Forest (1982), the cinematic equivalent of a kid’s campfire story told by a guy who’s clearly been sniffing too many pine needles and leftover trail mix. Don Jones’ multi-hat-wearing effort—director, writer, editor, producer, and apparently the forest’s HR manager—is a horror film so earnest in its madness that it’s hard not to admire, even as it sends logic packing on the first trail.
Here’s the setup: a cannibalistic hermit, John, lives in a cave with a permanent meat-smoking setup, because why not? He is aided by the ghosts of his children, who are so polite they check in with their father before letting him hunt hikers. Somehow, the father-and-ghosts combo hasn’t figured out that being a murderously psychotic family doesn’t exactly endear you to the locals—or anyone outside of the Sierra Nevada. Meanwhile, couples from Los Angeles wander in, blissfully unaware that scenic hiking is code for “don’t trust your instincts, you’re about to be dinner.”
The plot meanders like a lost hiker, shoving in thunderstorms, impromptu rivers, ghostly morality lectures, and a slice of cannibalism that somehow doesn’t make anyone scream “call the cops.” Characters spend a lot of time being chased, confused, or falling over rocks, which—shockingly—isn’t a great survival strategy. The ghosts are confusingly helpful, the father is confusingly homicidal, and by the end, you’re confusingly wondering why you watched a movie where the only consistent rule is: if you camp in the forest, you might end up on someone’s dinner plate.
In short, The Forest is a horror film that should come with a survival guide: “Avoid caves. Avoid ghosts. Avoid plot coherence.” It’s charmingly incompetent, gruesomely inventive, and the kind of film that makes you laugh, scream, and question your life choices all in one 85-minute stretch.
