By Rasesh Patell
Founder & Chief Critic, CharotarDaily.com
There is a unique and terrible dread that accompanies the announcement of a sequel to a beloved, self-contained horror film. It’s the fear that lightning, so brilliantly captured in a bottle, will be crudely uncorked in a cynical cash grab, leaving behind nothing but a hollow echo of what once was. When I first walked out of Scott Derrickson’s The Black Phone, I felt I had witnessed something special—a taut, emotionally resonant, and terrifyingly effective story of survival and sibling love, built on the hallowed ground of a Joe Hill short story. It was perfect. It needed no continuation.
So, you can imagine the blend of trepidation and cautious optimism with which I entered the cinema for The Black Phone 2. Derrickson and his creative partner C. Robert Cargill return, as do the phenomenal young leads Mason Thames and Madeleine McGraw, and, most mysteriously, Ethan Hawke. The central question hanging over this project was not if it could be scary, but if it could justify its own existence. Could it expand upon the trauma of Finney and Gwen Blake without cheapening their hard-won victory?
The answer, I am both relieved and thrilled to report, is a resounding, bone-chilling yes. The Black Phone 2 is not the sequel I expected, and it is all the stronger for it. Instead of merely concocting a new boogeyman for a rinse-and-repeat abduction plot, Derrickson and Cargill have crafted a haunting exploration of scar tissue, legacy, and the terrifying notion that some evils don't die—they just wait.
Direction: The Echoes in the Silence
Scott Derrickson’s greatest strength has always been his understanding of atmosphere over cheap jump scares. He proved it in the suffocating dread of Sinister and perfected it in the first Black Phone. Here, he wisely sidesteps the "bigger, louder, more" sequel trap. The horror in The Black Phone 2 is quieter, more insidious. The film is set three years after the events of the first, and Derrickson’s direction masterfully visualizes the invisible wounds carried by the Blake siblings.
Where the first film was steeped in a hazy, 1970s nostalgia that was violently punctured by The Grabber’s crimes, this film’s aesthetic is colder, sharper. The world has moved into the early 1980s, but for Finney, the sun-drenched warmth of suburban Denver is gone, replaced by a permanent, emotional winter. Derrickson communicates this brilliantly in a sequence early in the film. Finney (Thames) is in a high school woodshop class. The high-pitched whine of a table saw triggers a flashback, not to a specific memory, but to a feeling—the oppressive silence of the basement. Derrickson doesn’t use a cheap cut. Instead, he pushes the camera in slowly on Finney’s face as the ambient sound of the classroom fades, replaced by a low, humming dread. The friendly teacher’s voice becomes distorted, guttural, and in the reflection of Finney’s safety goggles, we see the briefest, almost subliminal flicker of The Grabber’s devil mask. It’s a masterful piece of filmmaking, showing us that the prison is no longer made of concrete and soundproofed walls; it’s inside his own head.
Cinematography: The Bruising of Memory
Brett Jutkiewicz, returning as cinematographer, adjusts his visual palette to serve this new thematic focus. The warm, grainy Super 8mm footage that represented Gwen’s psychic visions in the original is gone. Her dreams are now rendered in stark, hyper-realistic 35mm. In one particularly harrowing vision of a new victim, there is no comforting celluloid grain to distance us. The image is crisp, cold, and immediate. The blood is a shocking crimson against pale, sterile tile. This choice signifies that the "magic" of her ability is no longer a strange, almost whimsical gift; it’s a curse, a direct and brutal window into ongoing suffering.
The color palette of the film is deliberately bruised. The hopeful blues and yellows of the first film are replaced with slate grays, muted browns, and a sickly, almost jaundiced green that seems to permeate the walls of the Blake’s new home. It’s a visual language that screams of infection, suggesting that the evil of The Grabber has leached into the very environment these children inhabit.
Screenplay: A Conversation with the Devil
The script, once again from Derrickson and Cargill, is where the film takes its biggest and most successful swing. A new string of abductions has started, bearing a chillingly similar, yet distinct, M.O. to The Grabber. But this new killer is not the central antagonist. The true villain of The Black Phone 2 is the ghost of The Grabber himself, and his weapon is the telephone.
Finney, unable to part with the object that both saved and damned him, has kept the disconnected black phone. One night, it rings. But on the other end is not a helpful victim from the past. It is the calm, inquisitive, and utterly demonic voice of The Grabber (Hawke). The screenplay brilliantly reframes the phone not as a tool of salvation, but as a direct line to Finney’s personal devil. The Grabber, existing in some psychic ether, doesn't offer threats; he offers analysis. He dissects Finney's trauma, he poisons his memories, he tries to convince him that they are one and the same—survivors bound by violence. This psychological chess match is the engine of the film, and it is far more terrifying than any physical confrontation.
The dialogue between Finney and Gwen remains the film’s vibrant, beating heart. Their dynamic has shifted. Gwen is no longer just the foul-mouthed, fiercely loyal little sister; she is a desperate protector, watching her brother slowly recede into the darkness The Grabber is pouring into his ear. An exchange where she finds him listening to the silent phone says it all: "You hang up on him, Finney," she pleads, tears in her eyes. "You hang up on him right now!" He simply replies, his voice a dead monotone, "He says he knows why mom did what she did." It’s a gut punch, showing how the evil has evolved from a physical threat to a spiritual cancer. The only slight wobble in the script is the motivation of the new, physical killer, which feels a shade underdeveloped compared to the profound psychological warfare happening on the phone line.
Performances: A Symphony of Trauma
The film simply would not work without its cast, who elevate an already strong script into something truly special.
Mason Thames as Finney Blake delivers a performance of stunning maturity. The resourceful, reactive boy from the first film is gone. In his place is a withdrawn, haunted young man. Thames internalizes Finney’s PTSD with heartbreaking subtlety. It’s in the slump of his shoulders, his inability to meet anyone’s gaze, the way his hands tremble when he reaches for the phone’s receiver. He sells the immense weight of being the "boy who got away" and the horror of realizing his tormentor never truly left.
Madeleine McGraw as Gwen Blake is, once again, the soul of the movie. If Finney is the internalized trauma, Gwen is the externalized fight. McGraw channels a ferocious, desperate love for her brother that radiates off the screen. She is the audience's anchor, her raw-nerved frustration and terror mirroring our own. The profanity-laced prayers to a Jesus she’s not sure is listening are back, but this time they carry the weight of someone who has seen real evil and knows exactly what is at stake. It’s a powerhouse performance that avoids any precocious child actor tropes.
And then there is Ethan Hawke. How do you bring back a villain whose power was in his physical presence and chillingly unpredictable mask-play? You strip him of everything but his most terrifying weapon: his voice. As a spectral presence on the phone, Hawke is magnetic and horrifying. He modulates his voice from a soothing, almost fatherly whisper to a guttural, demonic rasp. He is the ultimate gaslighter, a serpent whispering poison into Finney's ear. In a standout sequence, he recounts a shared memory—seeing a movie with Finney’s mother—and slowly twists it, injecting details of her sadness, her fragility, concluding with the venomous line, "She was looking for a way out, Finney. Just like you." It's an act of pure psychological violence, and Hawke delivers it with an unnerving glee that will crawl under your skin and stay there.
Final Verdict
The Black Phone 2 achieves the near-impossible. It is a horror sequel that deepens the characters, expands the mythology in a meaningful way, and delivers a different, more cerebral brand of terror that is arguably more disturbing than the original. By focusing on the aftermath of trauma and framing the narrative as a battle for a survivor's soul, Scott Derrickson and his team have avoided the curse of the hollow echo. They have created a resonant, terrifying companion piece that solidifies this burgeoning franchise as one of the most intelligent and compelling in modern horror. It doesn't just ring the bell; it answers the call with a confident, terrifying voice of its own.
★★★★☆ (4/5 Stars)
Who Should Watch This?
Absolutely. Fans of the first film who appreciate its focus on character and atmosphere. This is a direct and worthy continuation of that story.
Yes. Admirers of psychological horror that prioritizes sustained dread and thematic depth over a constant barrage of jump scares.
Approach with caution. If you are looking for a straightforward slasher or a simple monster movie, the slow-burn, internal nature of the conflict might not be for you.
Steer clear. If you found the themes of child abuse and trauma in the first film overwhelmingly intense. This sequel delves even deeper into the psychological fallout.
