A Salem Story That Deserves to Stay Buried

MOVIE REVIEW
The Salem Chronicles
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Genre: Horror, Thriller, Supernatural
Year Released: 2025
Runtime: 1h 33m
Director(s): Thomas J. Churchill
Writer(s): Thomas J. Churchill
Cast: Gina Vitori, Grant George, Nathan Kehn, David Castro, Marie Broderick, Michael Cervantes, Krisha Fairchild, Scott King, William Guirola, Rocio Ibarra
Where to Watch: arriving On Demand and Digital, October 28, 2025

RAVING REVIEW: It’s almost impressive how The Salem Chronicles manages to take a premise that should write itself—a detective uncovering his family’s cursed bloodline in the most haunted town in America—and yet makes it feel like punishment. Not the “fun” kind of punishment. The cinematic equivalent of being stuck in traffic while someone lectures you about the power of cinema. Thomas J. Churchill once again proves that quantity does not equal quality. The man pumps out films faster than most people change their underwear.

To be fair to the cast—and they deserve fairness—they’re clearly doing their best to make sense of the nonsense. Gina Vitori commits, trying to find gravity in dialogue that sounds like it was translated from a bad podcast summary of a better movie. Grant George gives the role more dignity than it deserves, as if sheer sincerity might will the film into competence. It doesn’t, but it’s an admirable effort. Even the supporting players, some of whom are industry veterans, show glimmers of real presence. None of that matters when the direction makes everything feel like a dress rehearsal filmed by accident.

Churchill’s idea of atmosphere seems to begin and end with fog machines and dim lighting. Every frame feels borrowed from a dozen other low-budget horror films that at least tried to hide their seams. The camera work has no sense of composition—just aim, record, and hope something happens. It rarely does. The editing doesn’t build tension; it dismantles it. Scenes fade out mid-thought, transitions feel like YouTube wipes, and entire storylines vanish like someone misplaced the rest of the footage. You could excuse some of this if the film felt raw or experimental, but this is just careless. It looks like content made to check off a box, not a creative vision realized.

And that’s the real issue here: THE SALEM CHRONICLES doesn’t feel like a film made to be watched; it feels like a product made to exist. Churchill’s approach to filmmaking is all output, no insight. He floods the market with titles that blur together—same fonts, same lighting, same sets, same empty promises of “horror.” (see a director who has made three cash-grab Amityville sequels, three of the 70+ out there). If there’s a unifying theme to his work, it’s indifference. Scenes that should build dread instead feel like filler for an episode of a show that doesn’t exist.

Even the lore, which should be the heartbeat of a Salem-based supernatural story, lands with all the depth of a cardboard haunted house. We’re told about curses, witches, family bloodlines, and revenge, but none of it connects to anything human or interesting. The movie introduces mythology like it’s reading the back of a cereal box—loudly, confidently, and without understanding what any of it means. There’s no tension, no escalation, no payoff. By the halfway mark, it’s just a loop of bad lighting and worse dialogue pretending to be profound.

It’s worth mentioning that the film looks cheap—not in the charming, shoestring way that great indie horror can. This is cheap in spirit. The lighting flattens every space, turning potentially eerie locations into lifeless backdrops. The sound mix oscillates between whisper-quiet and eardrum-shattering, like no one listened to the final cut before hitting export. The score tries to fill every silence with generic dread, which only makes the silences that do happen feel like relief.

If there’s one saving grace here, it’s that THE SALEM CHRONICLES doesn’t pretend to be better than it is. It fully commits to its mediocrity, plowing forward without shame. But that’s not charm—it’s resignation. This is horror without pulse or patience, a list of cliches masquerading as a movie. The runtime might say ninety-three minutes, but it feels every bit of three hours.

Watching it, you get the sense that the crew tried, the actors tried, and even the set decorators probably tried. What you don’t feel is direction. There’s no singular voice shaping tone or pace, just the echo of someone who’s made so much they’ve forgotten what it’s supposed to feel like to make something worth watching. The film’s lack of cohesion doesn’t come from ambition outpacing ability—it comes from indifference outpacing care.

For a film that takes place in Salem, a town rich with myth and historical tragedy, there’s shockingly little sense of place or atmosphere. It could’ve been filmed in an empty warehouse for all we know, and sometimes it looks like it was. Instead of letting the setting breathe, every scene suffocates under flat lighting and empty dialogue. The witches, curses, and lineage drama should’ve been the spine of a decent low-budget horror flick. Here, they’re just props in a production line.

To call THE SALEM CHRONICLES a horror film feels generous. It’s more like a reminder that horror deserves better than this. There’s no risk, no imagination, and no respect for the genre’s potential. Just a tired churn of images meant to fill digital shelves and disappear as quickly as they arrive. If this is what passes for storytelling in Churchill’s corner of the industry, then his true legacy isn’t quantity—it’s erosion.

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