Liminal spaces have become the flavor of the month for horror aficionados. Sure, zombies — which became popular in the 1970s and had a strong renaissance in the early 2000s — claw their way back out of their graves every so often, luring their adoring fans into the surviving brick-and-mortar theaters, many of which seem as gloomy and somber as funeral parlors these days. Folk horror also has a strong following, but many of these films are low-budget affairs that are screened mainly at festivals before being picked up for VOD and streaming rights.
This has been a weird year for horror: a good year, a year of innovation and a year that has witnessed a stylistic and generational changing of the guard. Kane Parsons gave us “Backrooms.” Genki Kawamura gave us “Exit 8.” Both films evoke an uncanny sense of existential dread by utilizing surreal, transitional spaces and constructed environments that are inexplicably untenanted.
In an article in “Psychology Today,” Meredith Banasiak, director of research for Boulder Associates, explains that liminal spaces exploit the brain’s sensitivity to uncertainty during transitions.
“These spaces unsettle us because they highlight our brain’s sensitivity to processing ambiguity and transition,” Banasiak writes. “Our brain is highly sensitive to liminal spaces because memory is organized around change — in space, time, and events.”
Along comes Harry Aspinwall with his directorial feature debut, “The House Was Not Hungry Then.” Unlike “Backrooms,” Aspinwall’s film didn’t generate much build-up buzz. It hasn’t benefited from high-profile publicity campaigns, viral chatter or celebratory blurbing. It had its world premiere in March 2025 at the Cinequest Film & Creativity Festival. It was also a selection at the 2025 Rhode Island International Film Festival. The film recently popped up on Prime Video.
As a minimalist arthouse effort playing with the sentient haunted house motif, “The House Was Not Hungry Then” falls far outside the boundaries of traditional horror. Its pacing can feel excruciatingly slow, and its use of locked-off wide camera angle shots keeps the viewer uncomfortably distant from the characters and the action. If you can push beyond its intentional sluggishness and its artistic flourishes, Aspinwall’s film gradually transforms into an allegory for alienation and our yearning for connection.
Film distributor Chroma — a company that prides itself on “championing bold, visionary voices in science fiction and horror” — offers a synopsis of the plot: While searching for her estranged father, a young woman breaks into an empty house in the Scottish countryside where visitors disappear. She must avoid a man posing as a real estate agent who lures victims inside the house. While this may be an honest summation of “The House Was Not Hungry Then,” the setup sounds like a conventional thriller. Trust me: It is definitely not that kind of film.
Bobby Rainsbury stars as Caroline, the young woman. Caroline is an architecture student who has fallen on hard times. The narrative doesn’t go into any specifics, but it is clear she is in a bad place. The viewer gradually deduces that she is homeless and depressed. Knowing her father’s health is rapidly declining, she wants to try to reconnect with him and reconcile their differences. Bill Paterson provides the voice of Caroline’s father, a character the viewer never sees on screen. Aspinwall limits our glimpse at their relationship to a handful of phone conversations.
The phony real estate agent is portrayed by Clive Russell. From the very beginning, the viewer knows he is a destructive force. What remains unclear is whether his misconduct is driven by internal or external motivation.
The house is haunted, but not in the traditional sense. Its predominantly unfurnished rooms are not crowded with disembodied spirits of former occupants. The house contains — or embodies — a distinct conscious. It is lonely, and it is ailing. It is almost like an elemental force that predates the structure, and it has become a repository of memories for those who formerly called it home.
Surely you have heard the expression “if these walls could talk.” In this film, the walls do talk. The house communicates with Caroline. Its utterances are conveyed to the audience via text that appears on the screen.
The viewer experiences everything from the perspective of the house. Aspinwall deliberately maintains distance and rigorous thinness. Throughout the film, each room is allowed one single locked off wide camera angle. There are no close-ups, no reaction shots, and no assurance that the premeditated disconnection won’t generate vagueness and ambiguity. This was the director’s goal: stark objectivity. He wanted to explore what life is like from a detached, static point of view.
“The answer came gradually, as I explored the idea of what would happen in this dispassionate space, and how the unseen presence would behave,” Aspinwall says on his website. “A subtle but growing alienation, an omnipresent gaze; we are distant, objective to humans, but very close to something else.”
The two stories eventually merge, driven by the shared loneliness of Caroline and the house. The extent of their kinship becomes evident when Caroline’s life is threatened. There is something overwhelmingly poetic about the film’s ruminations on grief, time, physical space, and rebirth. Viewers who don’t give up on “The House Was Not Hungry Then” will find this fascinating, meditative film a rewarding experience.
Lee Clark Zumpe is entertainment editor at Tampa Bay Newspapers, a Tomatometer-Approved Critic, and an author of short fiction. He can be reached by email at lzumpe@TBNweekly.com.