The Great Gay Escape That Could’ve Been
Pat Mills’ The Retreat arrives with a mission nobler than most horror flicks — to subvert the “bury your gays” trope and give queer characters a fighting chance in a genre that usually treats them like expired milk in a haunted fridge. Admirable goal. Problem is, the execution feels like the cinematic equivalent of a mosquito bite: brief, irritating, and mostly leaves you scratching your head wondering if that’s all there was.
This is supposed to be a fierce, empowering survival story. Instead, it’s like someone threw The Strangers, Saw, and a half-written Tumblr post about representation into a blender and forgot to screw on the lid. The result? Blood everywhere, and none of it makes sense.
Meet the Victims, Sorry—Heroines
We’ve got Renee (Tommie-Amber Pirie) and Valerie (Sarah Allen), a lesbian couple heading out to a cabin in the woods for what’s supposed to be a romantic getaway. You know the drill: nature, intimacy, Wi-Fi problems, and probably an ominous sound in the distance that they’ll ignore until it’s far too late.
Their relationship is painted with all the depth of a Hallmark commercial—awkward silences, vague emotional tension, and a sense that both women would rather be anywhere else. Maybe that’s the real horror: commitment.
Before long, the pair discovers they’re not alone. Because of course they aren’t. A bunch of backwoods psychos have decided that the best way to spend a weekend is livestreaming the torture of gay people for money. Somewhere out there, someone watched this and thought, Yeah, that tracks.
A Slasher Without Slash
Here’s the twist: The Retreat doesn’t even deliver as a proper slasher. There’s gore, sure—but it’s like the film is rationing it, as if afraid of running out before the runtime’s up. For a movie about streaming murder, most of the horror happens offscreen, leaving us with reaction shots and some budget-friendly sound effects.
Even worse, the tension evaporates faster than the Wi-Fi in that cabin. Every “scary” moment feels telegraphed. Every jump scare lands with the grace of a PowerPoint transition. The killers, clad in tactical gear, stalk their prey with all the menace of dudes rehearsing for a low-rent paintball tournament.
The Horror of Flat Dialogue
You can tell the film wants to say something profound about violence, voyeurism, and how marginalized people are commodified by the media. But instead of biting social commentary, we get dialogue that sounds like it was written by ChatGPT’s goth cousin:
“You can’t kill love.”
That’s not a line. That’s a slogan on a discount Pride T-shirt.
Renee and Valerie alternate between whispering emotional confessions and screaming into the void, and somehow both modes feel equally lifeless. They’re trapped in a movie that thinks grimaces are character development.
Representation Without Pulse
Let’s give credit where it’s due: the intention is solid. Queer characters should survive horror movies. But if survival means crawling through ninety minutes of uninspired cinematography and editing that looks like it was done by someone allergic to pacing, maybe death would’ve been the merciful option.
You can’t just put gay characters in a horror film and call it representation if you forget to make the horror part interesting. That’s like serving a cake made of sand and insisting it’s still dessert because the frosting’s inclusive.
A Livestream of Disappointment
The central concept—killers broadcasting their crimes for profit—could’ve been an indictment of digital voyeurism, the algorithmic addiction to blood and outrage. Instead, it’s treated like a minor plot device. We see flashes of screens and shaky footage, but it never amounts to much. There’s no exploration, no commentary—just a convenient excuse to throw some cameras into the woods.
It’s Hostel for people who think GoPros are edgy.
Even when the protagonists finally turn the tables, the revenge feels hollow. They fight back, sure—but the film doesn’t seem to know what to do with that. The catharsis lands with a thud. You don’t cheer; you just check how much runtime’s left.
The Visuals: Dull by Design
Cinematography-wise, The Retreat looks like it was shot through a potato filter. Every scene is soaked in cold blues and grays, which is fine for atmosphere, but here it just feels like someone forgot to pay the electric bill. There’s no visual rhythm, no striking imagery—just endless shaky shots of trees, headlights, and people breathing heavily.
The editing doesn’t help either. It’s as if the film was cut by someone with a personal vendetta against suspense. Key moments are clipped short, reactions come too late, and scenes that should build momentum instead deflate like a punctured air mattress.
The Acting: Running on Fumes
Tommie-Amber Pirie and Sarah Allen deserve a medal for endurance. They’re giving this material more energy than it deserves, but even their commitment can’t save dialogue that belongs in a parody trailer. Their chemistry feels manufactured—like two people pretending to be in love because the script says so, not because they’ve ever met before.
Rossif Sutherland shows up, looks confused, and disappears before we can decide whether he was a villain, a red herring, or just lost on set. The rest of the cast blurs together in tactical gear and bad lighting. You could tell me any of them were robots and I’d believe it.
The Final Girl’s Fatigue
When the credits roll, you’re supposed to feel a sense of triumph—the marginalized outsmarting the monsters. Instead, you just feel tired. Not emotionally exhausted, not moved—just plain weary. It’s the fatigue that comes from watching something that could have mattered but chose to be mediocre instead.
There’s an irony in a movie about streaming violence that itself feels like a stream—constant, forgettable, and gone the moment it buffers.
The Gospel of Missed Opportunities
The Retreat had all the ingredients for something clever: social relevance, a subversive premise, and a chance to rewrite horror’s ugly history with queer characters. But it squanders all of it in favor of clichés, flat tension, and the cinematic pacing of a bad dream.
It’s a film that mistakes grimness for depth and survival for storytelling. You don’t walk away empowered—you walk away wondering if you should’ve watched Cabin Fever instead.
Final Eulogy
Pat Mills wanted to create a film that fought back against harmful tropes. Instead, he accidentally built a shrine to another one: the well-meaning indie horror that dies of boredom halfway through its own runtime.
If you’re looking for representation, The Retreat has it. If you’re looking for actual horror, suspense, or entertainment, better retreat somewhere else.
Rating: 3 out of 10.
A well-intentioned mess of clichés and cold lighting—proof that sometimes survival isn’t victory, it’s just another scene that won’t end.
