Editorials
“Once Upon a Time We Were Falling in Love”: Why Time Will Be Kind to ‘The Strangers: Prey at Night’
The Strangers has become well regarded as one of the best horror movies of the 2000s. Its reputation seems to only grow stronger every year, and deservedly so, as it is one of the most unbelievably tense films of the century so far. 2018’s The Strangers: Prey at Night, however, does not have anywhere near the same kind of recognition as its predecessor.
In some ways, it makes a lot of sense. Talk of a sequel began not long after the original was released, but the sequel didn’t actually come out for another ten years. That is a long time for a movie to build up in people’s minds. There was even periodic talk right up until Prey at Night went into development that Liv Tyler would return, either in a cameo or as a returning protagonist, but that obviously did not happen. The fact that it was released ten years later also no doubt made the sequel much tougher to market. It’s not like a 40th anniversary Halloween movie, where the franchise is immediately recognizable all over the world. This was the sequel to a movie that was successful, fondly remembered, but nonetheless no longer part of the public consciousness. In some ways, it feels like it was probably never going to be successful at the time.
But I think the main reason, above all else, that The Strangers: Prey at Night is not as celebrated as the first film is because it is an incredibly different movie. That is, without a doubt, the criticism I see lobbed at it the most, every single time the movie is brought up. It’s a different film, a different type of film, it doesn’t feel like the first. People who condemn it often point out that it feels like a different genre. And that is always the most baffling to me because all I can think is, “Yes, that’s the point.” As many criticisms as people may have toward the movie itself, it still seems that the thing it is most often condemned for also happens to be the thing that every other great sequel is praised for. Aliens feels like a different genre than the first, as do Exorcist III, Gremlins 2, Bride of Chucky, The Devil’s Rejects, even Hellbound: Hellraiser II. Sure, there’s absolutely something to be said for sequels like Friday the 13th Part 2 that refine and improve upon the original formula, but for the most part, the best sequels take a step to the left rather continuing down the same exact path, to push things in a new direction.
The Strangers might feature masked killers, but it is not a slasher movie, whereas the sequel very much is. That’s a sore spot, I think, for a lot of people, because they think by being a different type of movie it is betraying the first. Or worse, that Johannes Roberts didn’t get what made the original work. To me, that’s essentially saying “Oh, the sequel’s a slasher because they didn’t get that the original was a home invasion movie, or they didn’t understand why that worked.” Which is silly, because I think they very clearly did. I think many of the strengths of The Strangers: Prey at Night lie in subverting people’s expectations from the first film.
In fact, at the beginning, it’s almost the same movie, which is one of the things I love most about it. There’s an unexpected hallmark of the Strangers features in that they both drop the audience into the middle of an already strained relationship. In the original, we are introduced to our main characters as they return to their rented cabin immediately after she has turned down his marriage proposal. In the second, we’re meeting a family just as they’re heading out to drop their teenage daughter off at private school after one too many fuck ups. They’re different, of course, but the feeling of immediate unease and the way the backstory is explained bit by bit as it goes, is largely the same.
This especially works with the ritualistic nature of the killers. They’re doing the exact same thing they did the first time. Dollface goes to the door without her mask, asks for Tamara, waits, comes to the door, asks again, and things escalate from there. It’s exactly what they do, with the only difference being that now we know what’s going to happen as soon as that first knock comes, which generates a totally different kind of tension. The characters and setting might be different, but the set up is almost identical, even if things start happening sooner. And that’s smart, because it pulls the rug out from under the audience when things take a huge turn and it becomes—clearly—something very different from what people expected it to be. Not only is there the fact that a bigger group of characters means a bigger body count, but these characters also fight back in a way that neither the viewers nor the killers are entirely prepared for.
Even people who enjoy The Strangers: Prey at Night tend to label it more as a style over substance movie, which I think is a bit of a disservice to how smart the film actually is and why some of these stylistic changes are made. Scrolling through Facebook and Twitter comments, you’ll see no shortage of people complaining that it felt like they were watching a music video. The song choices are, admittedly, many. But they are also absolutely crucial, because they embody the one thing that the film is fundamentally about: control.
For our main group of characters, they are each attempting to hold onto a family dynamic that is spiraling. For Kinsey and Luke, in particular, it is about reclaiming their relationship with one another while also taking hold of their own lives. With that in mind, it makes sense that Kinsey is our protagonist, because at the beginning, she has no control over her situation. Her parents are directing the course of her life in the insistence that what they are doing is for her own good, whether she can see it now or not. Her attempts to lash out and rebel against this are incredibly minor; things like refusing to eat dinner, ignoring them when they talk to her, or storming out of the trailer mid-conversation. These things are small and definitely pathetic, because Kinsey already knows there’s nothing she can do; they’ve already left home and private school is on the horizon. This is happening whether she wants to admit it or not. It’s great to see her go from someone who, at the beginning, has zero control over the situation that she’s in, whose life is being fundamentally redirected by her parents because they do not trust her to guide it on her own, to eventually having to depend entirely on herself to survive.
The best thing about The Strangers: Prey at Night, however, is that this sense of control is even more explicitly embodied by the killers. More than maybe any other killers in horror, you can feel the intense amount of prep work that these unnamed masked murderers put into what they’re doing. They clearly laid out the entire area, they know the ins and outs, and they do absolutely everything they can to manipulate every situation and maintain the upper hand at any given time. That’s where the music comes into play. The music embodies this sense of control more than anything else in the movie and that’s made clear from literally the first second. Even Kim Wilde’s “Kids in America” over the opening credits turns out to be coming from the killers’ truck radio. It manipulates the audience, because what feels like a normal opening credits song turns out to be chosen by the killers as much as the filmmakers, as if the Man in the Mask is playing it just for us. Soundtrack choices in movies and TV are always about manipulating how we are supposed to feel as an audience. The Strangers: Prey at Night simply takes that idea and entrenches it in the actual narrative itself. In the context of the story, the song is playing not only as an opening credits selection for the audience, but as the first step in a murder plot being orchestrated by our killers.
There’s something inherently terrifying about that. Not only do we not know who these people are or what kind of lives they might lead when they’re not wearing the masks (I’ve always embraced the chilling idea that they lead perfectly normal lives until they get together for these homicidal sprees every so often) but we don’t know how they know that the family are coming to the trailer park, let alone how they know them at all. There’s too much prep work for them to be chosen at random, which is a very scary thought. They take out Aunt Sheryl and Uncle Marv right out of the gate, the song accompanying them as they do so, as a way of getting the environment exactly how they want it, so that they are already in complete control of the situation before Kinsey and her family even know that they are there.
Through most of the first act, everything seems completely calculated. Even when Cindy, their mom, is killed, horrific as it is, it conveys the same sense of control as depicted in the opening. Even though Kinsey escapes, that scene clearly depicts a murder that is going according to plan. But the scene that most explicitly conveys how the killers use music in their manipulation of the environment comes when they kill Mike, set again to Kim Wilde, this time “Cambodia.” This was the scene that really made me look at the way music was used in the film because it is such an interesting, clearly deliberate choice. The Man in the Mask has the dad right where he wants him and can do whatever he wants, take as much time as he wants, without any risk of escape. The poor guy is literally pinned behind the wheel, and he’s not going anywhere. This allows the Man in the Mask to almost take a breather for a moment. He sits in the car doing absolutely nothing, only searching the radio while Mike begs for his life. And he does not kill him until he finds the right song, which I think is an absolutely crucial detail to understanding these killers and how they operate. It’s not just about setting the mood, it’s about dictating exactly what happens in this environment.
Unlike the original film, the killers lose the upper hand and even meet their eventual comeuppance. But what Prey at Night does so brilliantly is that when this loss of control happens, the soundtrack reflects that, too. This happens most explicitly when Luke takes on the killers by himself, in what is without a doubt the film’s most celebrated sequence: the showdown at the swimming pool. Set to “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” this is the scene that even people who hate the movie tend to commend, while others have said that the music choice takes the viewer out of what would otherwise be a very tense moment. But as I’ve probably made clear, I think the music is vital to the core of this movie, from beginning to end, and perhaps in this scene most of all.
This is the moment when the whole movie shifts, because this is the moment when—no matter how they try to regain it—the killers fundamentally lose the sense of control they have had from the beginning. It happens when Luke kills the Pin Up Girl. The Man in the Mask, whose persona in both movies had been entirely dispassionate up to this point, starts lashing out wildly. With “Total Eclipse of the Heart” blaring throughout the entire sequence, the pool showdown is unbelievably tense and it’s easy to see why it is so fondly remembered as the highlight of the entire movie. I’ve seen a couple of people argue that it would be better without the music, which makes it too showy and stylistic, but I think that sells the film short. Every song is included for a reason and means something specific to where in the movie it is placed, and “Total Eclipse of the Heart” is no different. As the scene shifts, as the killers lose the upper hand, the music reflects that. In the most obvious and un-subtle sense, there’s the fact that this song, preaching about loss and a heart turning to stone, plays over both the death of the Pin Up Girl, Luke taking a life, and what we’re at first led to believe is Luke’s death.
But it’s not the lyrics or the song itself that signal this transitional moment in the film and the overall loss of control, it’s the way the song gets distorted. As Luke and the Man in the Mask fight from the poolside down into the water, they periodically sink beneath the surface, where the song drifts away and only the rumbling bass can be heard. If I’m reading too into it, I’m more than happy to, because I think this is great. I think the distortion of the song absolutely showcases the moment the killers lose control, with every thing that happens after this scene being about their increasingly aggressive attempts to regain it. This is when everything slips out of their hands. When the Man in the Mask’s persona crumbles, even if he doesn’t take his mask off. This is the moment when the song they have chosen to ironically accompany their murder spree fails them, for the first time, when they sink beneath the water to discover that down there, there’s no clever soundtrack, and the song only sounds like thunder.
When Kinsey takes her stand against the Man in the Mask, he’s still committed to having a soundtrack, blasting Air Supply’s “Making Love Out of Nothing at All” from his truck’s radio, but by this point the illusion has been stripped away and his intimidation tactics only come off as acts of desperation. Everything at this point is about holding on to the illusion of control and maintaining his persona, both of which he has already lost to some degree. What I think The Strangers: Prey at Night ultimately shows is that no matter how much both families, as it were, struggle for control, no one ever really achieves it by the end, because it kind of doesn’t exist. At every turn, the upper hand, no matter how much planning went into it, is seized only by opportunity. It’s all left up to chance. Luke only happens to catch the Pin Up Girl off guard and here, in the final showdown, Kinsey happens to see the gas leaking out of the Man in the Mask’s truck and recognizes the opportunity it presents. Once again, the film seems to stop for a second as she throws down the lighter, and it’s another transitional point. Now, the song continues to play, louder than ever, but it’s a soundtrack that’s playing in her favor, not the killer’s.
All in all, it seems like The Strangers: Prey at Night was almost tailor-made to not be a movie that people would respond to at the time. Like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2, it was a tonally different sequel that came a little too late. On that level, I do entirely get why it didn’t exactly take the horror world by storm. But I think it is, without a doubt, one of the best slashers of its era. The things that make it stand apart from the original are things that I think will come to be recognized as its strengths over time, just like so many re-evaluated sequels before it. It’s entertaining in a way the first wasn’t meant to be. Instead, it’s much more of a roller coaster ride than an assault on the senses, but it’s also a whole lot smarter than it is given credit for.
And that, I would like to hope, will be the key to its eventual success.
After fifty years of continuous writing, Stephen King has become a genre unto himself.
The unrivaled Master of Horror made a splash in 1974 with his debut novel Carrie and has been terrifying readers ever since. Two years later, Brian De Palma brought this shocking story to the screen with an equally electrifying horror film that remains a genre classic and a prototypical example of “Good For Her” horror. This dual debut seemed to open the floodgates, unleashing endless waves of Stephen King films.
From the highs of Misery, Cujo, and The Shawshank Redemption to the schlocky fun of Cat’s Eye, Creepshow, and Children of the Corn, the last five decades have seen just about every notable horror creator take a stab at the author’s massive collection.
In recent years, this singular subgenre has begun to burst at the seams, expanding to include Stephen King-esque fare. In 2016, brothers Matt and Ross Duffer debuted Stranger Things, a sci-fi series heavily inspired by two of King’s most famous books. The Netflix series remixes Firestarter and It by following a little girl with psychic powers and an intrepid group of kids on bikes who must battle an otherworldly foe and a sinister government agency. With its clever blend of modern effects and comforting nostalgia, this gateway horror series paved the way for Andy Muschietti’s It adaptation which remains the highest grossing horror film of all time.
Four years later, Mike Flanagan would create Midnight Mass, a spiritual adaptation of King’s second novel Salem’s Lot. Published in 1975, the book sees a tiny New England town torn apart by a centuries-old vampire. Though Flanagan’s story is perhaps more tender, both iterations of the classic horror tale follow close-knit communities shaken to their core by the presence of an ancient evil.
In addition to these recent hits, 2025 was a banner year for the Master of Horror. Audiences delighted in six mainstream adaptations, including the massively popular It: Welcome to Derry which chronicles earlier cycles of the titular clown’s reign. With this boost to King’s cultural cache, it’s no surprise that we’ve begun to see more unofficial adaptations of the author’s work and horror creators who build their own unique castles in King’s creative sandbox.
So what defines a Stephen King-esque story?
For the past fifty years, the prolific author has dipped his toes in nearly every subgenre from supernatural stories and grisly gore to western fantasy and science fiction. Including his vast catalogue of short fiction, King has tackled ghosts, demons, werewolves, zombies, aliens, mutants, and self-driving cars, not to mention bizarre monsters of his own creation. But what truly unites this vast array of horror is King’s focus on relatable characters. In his 2000 memoir/instructional text On Writing, the prolific author describes the amusement he finds in writing disparate characters, placing them in horrific scenarios, then exploring the ways they try to survive.
An unofficial Stephen King adaptation may take place in the author’s native New England — bonus points if it’s set in Maine — and reference his well-known heroes and villains. But what makes the King connection unbreakable is a character-driven story about average people who band together in the face of abject terror.
Weapons Captures Small Town Stephen King
Following his 2022 shocker Barbarian, Zach Cregger returned with Weapons, a sprawling story that begins in a doomed elementary school. On an otherwise ordinary day, Justine (Julia Garner) arrives at her desk to find that all but one of her students have disappeared. As the mystery grows increasingly violent, Justine and Archer (Josh Brolin), the father of a missing boy, find their way to the home of Alex (Cary Christopher), the class’ only surviving student. In some ways reminiscent of Salem’s Lot, Weapons swings wildly through the unfortunate town, introducing us to its flawed inhabitants as we watch their lives fall apart.
Cregger’s setup nods to a pair of King short stories. Both “Suffer the Little Children” and “Here There Be Tygers” tackle monstrous presences in elementary schools, but as Weapons reaches its final act, Constant Readers may remember another Stephen King tale. Featured in his 1985 collection Skeleton Crew, “Gramma” introduces us to George, a little boy tormented by an aging witch. On an afternoon alone with his sickly grandmother, the frightened child gradually realizes that the imposing old woman has been waiting for an opportunity to cast a spell that will extend her own life by possessing his body.
Alex finds himself similarly tortured by his aunt Gladys (Amy Madigan), a garish witch who orchestrates a desperate plot to sustain her own strength. Transforming humans into mindless weapons, Gladys has taken over Alex’s family home and lured his classmates to the basement. Holding them in a comatose state, she syphons off their energy to extend her own supernatural life.
Vastly different in many ways, both “Gramma” and Weapons hinge on a sinister witch who uses horrific magical spells to sacrifice the bodies of her vulnerable prey.
Hokum Echoes The Shining and 1408
It’s nearly impossible to watch a film about a haunted hotel without thinking of King’s third novel, The Shining. This icy story follows Jack Torrance, an angry writer struggling with his sobriety and a shameful incident haunting his past. Accompanied by his wife and young son, Jack has taken a job as the winter caretaker for the Overlook, a haunted hotel situated high in the Rocky Mountains. Snowed in, Jack finds himself tormented by dangerous ghosts who amplify his greatest fears.
Damian McCarthy’s Hokum follows a similarly troubled figure. Ohm Bauman (Adam Scott) is a surly writer who travels to the Bilberry Woods Hotel in rural Ireland to spread his parents’ ashes. Haunted by his own tragic past, Ohm finds himself trapped in the honeymoon suite, a decaying room that’s been permanently closed to protect visitors from a dangerous witch trapped within its walls. Visual nods to King’s text abound with woodcut figurines and an animated clock, mirroring ominous descriptions found in King’s text.
Another terrifying sequence sees Ohm staring with horror at a closed door, the only thing separating him from the approaching witch. As the door knob slowly turns, Constant Readers remember Jack’s narrow escape from the ghostly woman in room 217. And Ohm’s popular Conquistador books directly reference King’s long-running fantasy series The Dark Tower which follows a gunslinger named Roland Deschain tasked with protecting the nexus of the universe.
In addition to these thematic comparisons, Hokum bears striking resemblance to King’s terrifying short story “1408.” Collected in 2002’s Everything’s Eventual, the terrifying story follows Mike Enslin, a dejected writer who’s risen to fame penning essays about his adventures in haunted locations. Mike arrives at the Hotel Dolphin and bullies his way into the titular room, despite the manager’s dire warnings. McCarthy nods to this story with an ominously misplaced hotel room door, reminiscent of King’s entry to 1408, an unsuspecting portal that appears to move each time Mike looks away.
However, McCarthy’s most direct reference lies in a minicorder Ohm uses to capture notes. Trapped inside the dreaded honeymoon suite, this device offers well-timed messages while sitting next to a decomposing corpse. Mike records his time in 1408 with his own trusty minicorder. Described for the reader, his tape has captured the man’s slow descent into madness as the room prepares to swallow him whole. With conclusions that differ wildly in tone, both Ohm and Mike find their lives irrevocably changed by encounters with the supernatural realm.
Widow’s Bay Builds Its Own Version of Castle Rock
Katie Dippold’s Widow’s Bay has taken the idea of an unofficial King adaptation and turned it into an art form. The Apple TV series sees the residents of the titular island plagued by a curse that dates back centuries. Not only does the picturesque hamlet not accommodate wifi connections, those born on the island face certain death should they ever try to leave. Desperate to modernize the tiny town, Mayor Tom Loftis (Matthew Rhys) draws in waves of tourists just as a new cycle of terror begins.
Blending horror with deft comedy, Dippold makes cheeky references to King’s body of work. Tom warns that, “there’s something in the fog,” reminding readers of King’s 1980 novella The Mist. And Loftis’ own stay in the town’s haunted hotel sees him tormented by the ghost of a murderous clown. We even spy a vintage King hardback peeking out of a local book trade box.
In many ways Widow’s Bay feels like a new iteration of the author’s Little Tall Island, a tiny village off the coast of Maine. In addition to the 1992 novel Dolores Claiborne and a handful of harrowing short stories, this quaint fishing village is also the setting for King’s 1999 teleplay Storm of the Century. Premiering on ABC primetime, this tragic tale follows a terrified group of islanders who batten down the hatches for a dangerous Nor’easter only to find a more sinister threat lurking within.
Constant Readers may also be reminded of Castle Rock, the author’s favorite fictional town.
First introduced in the 1981 novel Cujo, the charming village becomes the star of Needful Things, King’s satire about consumerism. After several Castle Rock stories, we’re reintroduced to its residents as they gossip about the arrival of Leland Gaunt and the grand opening of his curio shop. Anything their hearts desire can be found in his varied inventory, so long as they’re willing to pay the price. Pitting cantankerous neighbors against each other, Gaunt ignites a wave of grisly violence by exploiting long-held resentments and feuds.
The town’s only defense against this supernatural threat is beleaguered sheriff Alan Pangborn. Still grieving the deaths of his wife and younger son, Alan struggles to connect with his older child and pick up the pieces of his shattered life. Also a widower, Loftis struggles to raise his own restless son and explain the strange details of his wife’s tragic death. Attempting to unravel the island’s dark secrets, Tom is aided by quirky residents including a surly fisherman named Wyck (Stephen Root) and Patricia (Kate O’Flynn), an earnest Town Hall employee. King’s own novels feature many of these proactive alliances with disparate characters combining their strengths to overcome insurmountable odds.
With Widow’s Bay renewed for a second season and Mike Flanagan’s Carrie series on the horizon, the future seems bright for new King adaptations, both spiritual and directly pulled from his catalogue. The prolific author also shows no signs of slowing down with two publications nearing release. His upcoming novel, Other Worlds Than These, is the long-awaited third Talisman book which teases direct ties to his Dark Tower world. Holly Forever will be a new installment of his crime series, offering a different kind of genre fare.
This embarrassment of riches spawning multiple worlds seems ripe for spiritual adaptation and will likely inspire horror creators for decades to come.
Kate O’Flynn, Stephen Root and Matthew Rhys in “Widow’s Bay,” now streaming on Apple TV.
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