Incantation — A Brief but Brutal Hex

Incantation: full review

Darkness doesn’t always arrive with screams or blood splattered across fake marble floors. Sometimes it seeps through the cracks of the mundane, like a whisper that repeats until it becomes unbearable, like a static shot that feels like an eternity even though it’s only six minutes long. Incantation, Yeo Siew Hua’s cursed short film, is exactly that: a miniature nightmare that refuses to unclench its grip on your neck even after the screen fades to black. This isn’t a movie. It’s a filmed incantation, shot with a camera that looks like it was stolen from a 1970s satanic ritual, wielded by Yeo with the precision of a surgeon who knows exactly where to cut to make it hurt the most.

Yeo Siew Hua isn’t just any director. This Singaporean with a clinical gaze and an obsession with the marginal left us gaping in 2018 with A Land Imagined, an existential thriller that dissected urban alienation through a disappearance mystery. But where that film played with grimy realism and fragmented editing, Incantation dives headfirst into pure terror—no safety net, no explanations, no concessions. It’s as if Yeo decided to distill every ounce of fear he harbored into six minutes of footage, as if he knew the audience couldn’t endure a second longer without bolting for the exit. And the most terrifying part? It works. Not like some run-of-the-mill short film, but as a sensory experience that leaves you wondering what the hell you just witnessed—and, worse, what the hell just witnessed you.

The year 2019 bore witness to its premiere at the Rotterdam Film Festival, where it slipped through the cracks amid the noise of bigger productions. But those of us who saw it in a nearly empty theater, with the projector spewing grainy images and the sound reverberating off the walls like a diseased heartbeat, knew instantly we were in the presence of something special. Incantation isn’t the kind of film advertised on billboards or sold as merch on Amazon. It’s a cult object, one that circulates on pirated USB drives among hardcore horror fans, like a virus only the initiated can comprehend. Its budget is a mystery, but it’s clear there was no money for digital effects or famous actors. It doesn’t need them. Yeo works with what he has: an actress (an unknown who carries the entire weight of the short), a claustrophobic space, and a soundtrack that sounds like it was recorded in hell with a 1950s microphone.

Six minutes. That’s all Incantation lasts, but those six minutes feel like an hour in the dentist’s chair without anesthesia. The plot—if you can even call it that—is simple: a woman (played by an actress whose name doesn’t appear in the credits, as if Yeo wanted to erase every trace of humanity from her) performs a ritual in a dark room. But what starts as a nearly theatrical performance unravels into something far more sinister, as if the camera itself is possessed and decides to show things it shouldn’t. There’s a moment near the end when the woman begins reciting a spell in an invented language, and the sound distorts into something resembling a chorus of demonic voices. That shot, that goddamn shot, is the one that will haunt your dreams. No jump scares, no latex monsters, no cheap thrills. Just the creeping sense that something is terribly wrong—and there’s no escape.

Direction and Mise-en-Scène: The Art of Discomfort

Yeo Siew Hua doesn’t direct like everyone else. He’s not interested in pretty shots or symmetrical compositions that critics will later praise on Twitter. His thing is discomfort, imbalance, the feeling that something has broken within the frame and no one bothered to fix it. In Incantation, every formal decision seems calculated to raise the hairs on the back of your neck. The camera, almost always static, acts as a silent witness observing the ritual with unsettling detachment. But every so often, as if it can’t help itself, it moves slightly, as if something is pushing it from outside the frame. Those almost imperceptible movements are what make the film unbearable. It’s not what you see—it’s what you sense.

Yeo’s use of sound is another masterstroke. There’s no music in the traditional sense, just a mix of ambient noises, whispers, and distortions that create an oppressive atmosphere. At one point, the woman in the ritual begins humming a tune that sounds like a children’s song, but it gradually warps into something grotesque. It’s the kind of sound that makes you glance over your shoulder to make sure you’re alone in the room. And then there’s the silence. Yeo wields it like a weapon, leaving empty spaces that the viewer can’t help but fill with their own fears. It’s an old cinematic trick, but here it takes on a physical dimension, as if the silence could be sliced with a knife.

The production design is minimalist to the point of exhaustion. The room where the entire action takes place is an empty space with peeling walls and a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling like an all-seeing eye. There’s no decor, no personal objects, nothing to distract from the essentials: the woman, her ritual, and the growing certainty that something is about to go horribly wrong. It’s as if Yeo decided to shoot in the most nondescript room in the world, then filled it with meaning through sheer dread. And damn, does he succeed. Every crack in the wall, every elongated shadow, every reflection on the floor seems to hide a secret the film refuses to reveal.

Performances: The Woman Who Doesn’t Blink

There aren’t many actors in Incantation, but those who appear leave a mark. The protagonist, whose name isn’t mentioned in the credits (artistic choice or fear of reprisals?), is a hypnotic presence. She doesn’t speak much, but when she does, every word sounds like it’s being torn from her throat. Her performance is physical, almost animalistic, as if she’s possessed by something she can’t control. There’s a moment when she rubs her hands together with an almost erotic intensity, as if caressing something invisible, and it’s impossible to look away. It’s not an award-winning performance, but it’s exactly what the film needs: an unsettling presence that makes you feel like you’re witnessing something you shouldn’t.

The rest of the cast is practically nonexistent, reinforcing the sense of isolation. There are a couple of blurry figures in the background at times, but they’re never seen clearly. They’re like ghosts, presences that exist but have no substance. Yeo plays with the idea that terror doesn’t need visible monsters to be effective. Sometimes, what you don’t see is far more terrifying than what you do.

Technical Breakdown: When Cheap Becomes Art

The cinematography of Incantation is deliberately ugly. There’s no other way to describe it. The shots are dark, grainy, with a color palette that oscillates between dirty brown and absolute black. It looks like a film shot with a security camera in an abandoned warehouse. But that ugliness is precisely what makes it so effective. There’s no visual escape, no beauty to distract from the horror. Every image is designed to unsettle, to make you feel like you’re seeing something you shouldn’t.

The editing is another strong point. Yeo isn’t afraid of long takes, of letting the camera linger on the protagonist for what feels like hours, even if it’s only seconds. It’s an editing style that breathes, that takes its time to build tension, as if it knows the viewer is teetering on the edge of a cliff and just needs a little push to fall. And then there are the abrupt cuts, the jump scares (of the non-cheap variety), the ellipses that don’t warn you. It’s as if the editor decided to toy with the audience’s expectations, refusing to give them what they want when they want it.

The music—or what passes for music in this film—is the work of composer Teo Wei Yong, a frequent Yeo collaborator. There are no epic scores or memorable themes, just a mix of ambient sounds, distortions, and field recordings that create an oppressive sonic atmosphere. It’s the kind of soundtrack that makes you want to mute the film and watch it in silence, but you know the experience wouldn’t be the same without it. There’s a moment when the protagonist begins reciting a spell, and the sound distorts into a chorus of whispering voices. It’s chilling—not because of what you hear, but because of what you sense.

The best

• The ominous atmosphere: Yeo Siew Hua creates a sense of impending doom with very few elements. No monsters, no blood, no cheap scares. Just an empty room, a woman, and the certainty that something is about to go terribly wrong. It’s the kind of terror that lodges in your mind and won’t let go.
• The protagonist’s performance: Though we don’t know her name, her on-screen presence is hypnotic. It’s not a conventional performance, but something more physical, more instinctive. It’s as if she’s possessed by something she can’t control, and that lack of control is what makes her so terrifying.
• The use of sound: There’s no music in the traditional sense, just a mix of ambient noises, distortions, and field recordings that create an oppressive sonic atmosphere. It’s the kind of sound that makes you glance over your shoulder to make sure you’re alone in the room.
• Yeo Siew Hua’s direction: Yeo isn’t afraid of discomfort, ugliness, or things that don’t fit. He directs as if he knows terror doesn’t need explanations—just a camera and the will to look where others turn away.

The worst

• The brevity: Six minutes might be enough to create an intense experience, but it also leaves you wanting more. It’s as if Yeo found the perfect formula for miniature terror and then decided not to exploit it.
• The lack of context: The film offers no explanations for what’s happening, which might frustrate some viewers. It’s not a problem in itself, but there are moments when you feel like you’re missing something important.
• Excessive abstraction: Incantation demands a lot from its audience. It’s not for everyone, and that’s fine, but sometimes the lack of clarity can feel alienating. It’s not a film that invites you in—it shoves you and then slams the door.
• The absence of character development: The protagonist is fascinating, but we know nothing about her. It’s as if Yeo decided mystery was more important than humanity, and in some moments, that stings.

The Verdict of Claqueta Ácida

Incantation isn’t a perfect film. It’s too short, too abstract, too demanding. But it’s also one of the purest horror experiences I’ve seen in years. Yeo Siew Hua makes no concessions, seeks no easy applause, and doesn’t care if the audience leaves the theater confused or angry. All he cares about is fear—and damn, does he deliver. This isn’t a film you’ll watch with friends on a Saturday night, but it’s one you’ll remember years later when you’re alone in your house and hear a strange noise in the dark. Incantation doesn’t scare you. It infects you. And that, dear readers, is far more dangerous. 💀

Incantation: frequently asked questions

What is the rating of "Incantation" on Claqueta Ácida?

"Incantation" scored 6.8/10 on Claqueta Ácida in the review by Dr. Cinismo.

Is "Incantation" worth watching?

With reservations. We gave it 6.8/10 (Citric Acid), our rating for uneven films with something worth saving.

Who directed "Incantation"?

"Incantation" was directed by Yeo Siew Hua.

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Theater Collateral Damage Report

Psychophysical impact certificate issued by Dr. Cinismo

⚡ Moderate Wear

🥱 Yawn-o-meter

2 amagos en el tramo intermedio; pestañeo pesado en las transiciones más innecesarias.

⏱️ Panic Clock Checks

Alguna consulta furtiva al móvil en el segundo acto. Nada que no se perdone.

😬 Cringe Index 1.3/10

☕ Caffeine Prescription

2 espresso para no dejarse vencer por la mediocridad cómoda.

💥 Derailment Point

"A mitad del segundo acto cuando la subtrama secundaria empezó a pesar más de lo que aportaba."