In an era where horror films often feel like a revolving door of fleeting trends, Passenger emerges as a cautionary tale of what happens when a genre’s most promising talents chase the wrong kind of excitement. Directed by André Øvredal, the man behind The Autopsy of Jane Doe and Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, this vanlife horror movie promises a thrilling road trip through the supernatural—only to deliver a muddled, underwhelming experience that feels more like a missed opportunity than a horror film. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it embodies the genre’s worst tendencies: relying on jump scares for shock value, crafting flat characters, and prioritizing gimmicks over substance. Personally, I think Passenger is a reminder that horror’s true power lies in its ability to unsettle, not just scare.
The film’s premise—a couple embracing vanlife and encountering a malevolent entity known as The Passenger—sounds like a solid foundation for a supernatural thriller. But the script, written by Zachary Donohue and T.W. Burgess, falls flat almost immediately. The protagonists, Maddie and Tyler, are so uninteresting that I found myself wondering if the filmmakers were intentionally avoiding emotional investment. Why would a viewer care about a couple who seem more like interchangeable placeholders than fleshed-out individuals? This is a big problem for a horror movie that hinges on the audience’s attachment to its leads. The film’s attempt to inject depth through Maddie’s backstory—being shuffled between foster homes and her obsession with Bob Ross—feels forced, as if the writers were trying to pad the narrative with random trivia. What many people don’t realize is that this kind of lazy storytelling can turn a horror film into a forgettable experience, especially when the scares are so shallow.
The Passenger itself is a masterclass in confusion. Described as a ghost, demon, and ancient entity tied to St. Christopher and the Hobo Code, the creature is as enigmatic as it is frustrating. The script never fully explains its motivations or origins, leaving viewers to wonder if the film is more interested in creating dread than delivering a coherent story. I suppose I’m overthinking this, but if your mind starts to wander toward questions like, Why does The Passenger use the Hobo Code? then the film isn’t doing its job. This is a recurring theme in horror: the genre often thrives on ambiguity, but when that ambiguity is poorly executed, it becomes a liability. The Passenger’s lack of clarity is a symptom of a larger issue—Passenger seems to believe that fear can be manufactured through noise and spectacle alone.
What’s most disappointing about Passenger is its reliance on jump scares as a crutch. The film’s climax features a scene where a projector beams the movie Roman Holiday onto an outdoor screen, turning the projection into a weapon of terror. It’s a visually striking moment, but it’s also a reminder of how easily horror can devolve into cheap thrills. The film’s attempts to inject tension—like a slow, rotating camera in a parking lot or a van driving through a field of corpses—feel more like set pieces than meaningful scares. I’m not anti-jump-scare, but there has to be some sort of thought put into the moment beyond, What if we crank up the soundtrack really loud and have someone scream? That’s not scary. That’s startling. And that’s a completely different thing. Passenger gives us a road trip not worth taking, not because it’s bad, but because it’s so unambitious.
From my perspective, Passenger is a cautionary tale for the horror genre. It’s a film that tries to be something it’s not, and in doing so, it fails to deliver on its promises. The film’s marketing may have been solid, but its execution feels like a missed opportunity. If you’re looking for a horror movie that will leave you breathless, Passenger is probably not the one for you. Instead, I’d suggest revisiting Obsession or The Autopsy of Jane Doe—films that understand the delicate balance between fear and storytelling. In the end, Passenger is a reminder that horror’s true power lies in its ability to unsettle, not just scare. And that’s a lesson worth remembering.
