The Ghosts Are Northern, and So Is the Humor
If ghosts could talk, you’d imagine them sounding posh—moaning about “unfinished business” in Oxford accents while rattling teacups. But in When the Lights Went Out, director Pat Holden gives us something better: a haunting drenched in working-class Yorkshire grit, polyester curtains, and the kind of family arguments that make the undead look polite. It’s a supernatural horror film that’s less The Conjuring and more Coronation Street Goes to Hell. And honestly? It’s glorious.
Set in 1974, the movie takes us back to a world where flared trousers ruled, electricity strikes were common, and apparently, so were demonic monks. Based loosely on the infamous “Black Monk of Pontefract” haunting (because of course Yorkshire has a ghost with a union card), the film blends real horror with domestic comedy in a way that’s as unsettling as it is weirdly comforting.
Home Is Where the Haunt Is
Len and Jenny Maynard (Steven Waddington and Kate Ashfield) are your classic Northern couple: hardworking, exhausted, and completely unprepared for the paranormal mortgage that comes with their new house. Their teenage daughter Sally (Tasha Connor) is the first to notice things going bump in the night—and by “things,” I mean full-bodied apparitions with the personality of a bad landlord.
At first, it’s subtle: lights flicker, toys move, doors slam. Then, like all good ghosts, this one gets ambitious. Pretty soon, the Maynards’ quaint Yorkshire semi-detached is hosting floating furniture, demonic scratches, and a general vibe of “someone definitely died here.”
But Holden grounds the chaos in an environment so human it’s almost sweet. These are people who face the paranormal the same way they’d face a broken boiler—by swearing at it and trying to fix it themselves before calling for help.
The Exorcist, But With Tea Breaks
What makes When the Lights Went Out so endearing is how British it all feels. The horror doesn’t come wrapped in Hollywood gloss—it’s all peeling wallpaper, dodgy lighting, and the constant background hum of a family trying not to fall apart.
Len, played with working-man charm by Steven Waddington, handles ghosts the way most dads handle flat tires: with equal parts denial and frustration. Kate Ashfield, fresh off Shaun of the Dead fame, gives Jenny a perfect mix of toughness and panic. She’s the kind of mum who will scream at a ghost, then immediately apologize for the language.
And then there’s Father Clifton (Gary Lewis), the most reluctant exorcist in cinema. He’s blackmailed into performing the ritual after being caught in an affair with his housekeeper—a scandal so perfectly British it deserves its own BBC miniseries. His eventual showdown with the evil monk spirit feels like a pub fight that accidentally turned spiritual.
When he finally performs the exorcism, the scene manages to be tense and funny all at once. The lights flicker, furniture flies, and everyone yells over the chaos. It’s like The Exorcist if the priest had to pause halfway through to complain about the heating bill.
The Monk, The Myth, The Menace
The villain of the story—a tongue-cutting, girl-hunting monk—is both terrifying and satisfyingly grotesque. There’s something truly disturbing about a holy man gone bad, especially one buried in secret to protect the church’s reputation. It’s a classic British horror touch: not an external evil, but one festering inside the system.
But Holden doesn’t let the story drown in its darkness. The ghost monk might be horrifying, but he’s also a commentary on the sins society prefers to forget—religious hypocrisy, class divides, and the things people bury (sometimes literally) to save face. The film’s best trick is making you laugh one minute and feel deeply uncomfortable the next.
A Poltergeist with Personality
Cinematically, When the Lights Went Out punches above its modest budget. The production design nails the ‘70s aesthetic without making it look like a parody. The wallpaper looks authentically depressing, the furniture squeaks with regret, and the soundtrack is a mix of glam rock and supernatural groaning.
The supernatural effects are simple but effective. When the lights flicker or a door creaks open, it doesn’t feel like CGI—it feels like something genuinely wrong with the house. Holden’s camera lingers just long enough on the shadows to make you wonder if you saw something—or if you’re just paranoid after too many cups of Yorkshire tea.
And that’s the film’s secret weapon: atmosphere. This isn’t loud, jump-scare horror. It’s slow dread—the kind that creeps up on you while you’re folding laundry. It’s the horror of feeling watched, of hearing something shuffle upstairs when you’re alone. It’s the fear of realizing the ghost might be more reliable than your local electrician.
The Family That Screams Together
What really sells the movie is the family dynamic. There’s genuine warmth between the Maynards, which makes their ordeal feel both tragic and hilarious. Len and Jenny’s constant bickering feels real—two people who love each other but would happily blame the supernatural on one another if it meant winning an argument.
Tasha Connor as Sally is a revelation. She’s not your typical “screaming teen victim.” She’s curious, resilient, and smart enough to realize the ghost isn’t going anywhere without a fight. Her encounters with the young murdered girl’s spirit add an eerie tenderness to the film—because beneath all the chaos, there’s a story of injustice and revenge that’s haunting in more ways than one.
Humor in the Haunting
There’s something delightfully cheeky about how Holden handles horror. He’s not afraid to undercut tension with humor—sometimes subtle, sometimes broad. A ghostly attack might be followed by a character complaining about the mess it made. A priest might mutter a prayer while side-eyeing his own moral failures.
It’s that gallows humor—the British ability to laugh while terrified—that makes the film so watchable. You don’t just jump; you smirk, wince, and occasionally mutter, “Well, that’s grim.”
Yorkshire Gothic Done Right
Holden’s direction walks a fine line between supernatural thriller and social realism. The haunting feels as much about 1970s life as it does about ghosts. The strikes, the church politics, the community gossip—it’s all part of the haunting fabric. The Maynards aren’t just battling a ghost; they’re battling an entire era of repression and denial.
The result is something uniquely British: a horror movie that’s scary not just because of its ghosts, but because of its familiarity. You could imagine these people existing. You could imagine this house existing. And, if you’ve ever lived in an old UK terrace, you could definitely imagine the drafty horror of that wallpaper.
The Light at the End of the Tunnel
By the end, when the ghost monk gets his fiery comeuppance and the family decides to stay put (because apparently moving is for cowards), you can’t help but admire them. The Maynards survive the haunting with humor intact, and Sally earns her stripes as one of horror’s most underrated teenage heroines.
Sure, the movie doesn’t reinvent the genre, but it doesn’t have to. It’s gritty, funny, and atmospheric—a ghost story with real soul, even if that soul occasionally throws furniture.
Final Judgment
When the Lights Went Out proves that horror doesn’t need Hollywood shine to give you chills. It’s a haunted house story wrapped in British cynicism, spiked with working-class humor, and powered by equal parts fear and stubbornness.
Final Score: ★★★★☆
A wonderfully grim, grimly funny ghost story. Proof that even when the lights go out, Yorkshire keeps calm, swears a bit, and carries on haunting.
