[Movie Review] Dead Mail (2024)

Earlier this week, as part of Shudder’s “Halfway to Halloween” annual celebration, the streaming platform debuted Dead Mail, the latest feature from writer-director duo Joe DeBoer and Kyle McConaghy. Arriving five years after their atmospheric 1950s-set drama BAB (2020), Dead Mail pivots sharply into new territory—a lo-fi, '80s-inspired Midwest thriller wrapped in horror aesthetics. The film follows Jasper (Tomas Boykin), a meticulous “dead letter” investigator who stumbles upon a blood-streaked plea for help.

Within the film’s first 20 minutes, it becomes apparent that Jasper takes pride in his work. Sitting under sepia-toned lights in a windowless, pale-painted room in the basement of the post office, Jasper seems to find solace behind locked doors in tracing belongings back to the people who lost them. While this job gives him purpose, Jasper seems kind of lost in his own life. With no notable family, each night he stays in a hostel-type hotel for men where he patiently paints models and engages in short small talk with his bunkmate. Though we don’t get to learn much about him, Jasper’s character speaks to the unsung hero, returning people’s precious belongings one lost letter at a time.

With the recent discovery of the plea, however, the viewer can tell that Jasper is conflicted. Is it legit or just a hoax? Could this be his most important find yet—a real case to solve? Unfortunately, we never get to see him go down a full-blown investigation like in the film’s opening when he seemingly found the owner of a necklace in just hours, thanks to notes found in the written letter, location, and other small, unique details. No, Jasper’s story—so clearly set up to be the film’s spine—is suddenly sidelined. The film instead falls headlong into the psyche of Trent (John Fleck), a man so painfully attuned to sonic beauty that he becomes monstrous in his pursuit of it. His relationship with synthesizer savant Josh (Sterling Macer Jr.) unfolds like a distorted romance scored entirely on analog keyboards: longing, controlling, euphoric, and ultimately destructive.

Before we can get the full backstory of Trent and his relationship with Josh, the viewer must first playback the opening scenes from their shared, current perspective. I really loved this abrupt shift in the storyline, as it was both unexpected and revealed answers to early questions I had, while simultaneously creating new ones. Although one might think that the decision would overplay the setting and ruin what we’d already learned, I found it instead to speak to each director’s own attention to detail. Much like Jasper in his dead mail investigations, the viewer is able to get additional glances at the scene, filled with props that look like they were hand-picked from a thrift store. Every frame seems composed by someone who loves the awkward textures of reality—the worn plastic buttons, the yellowed tape labels, the sagging couch cushions of furniture that’s outlived its expected lifetime.

As we watch Trent descend into delusion, the film nods, not only to the theme of obsession, but the quiet terror of being misunderstood and the even greater terror of being completely alone. It’s a horror story, sure—but not the kind you expect. The monster is not hiding under the bed; it’s sitting beside you, offering to play you a song it’s been working on for 15 years. The slow build, coupled with the opening replay, really hooks the viewer—especially if you’re into true crime. As we witness something horrible unfold, repeated, in order, and out of sequence, it’s a whirlwind. This further solidifies those themes while also making a tie to what got Trent and Josh here in the first place: synthesized music. Which, in and of itself, lends an uncomfortable and interesting score for the film. Paired with the muted colors and graininess on the screen, the aesthetic is far from kitschy, yet it feels natural for the period.

By the time Dead Mail circles back to its opening act and allows Jasper’s co-workers to unexpectedly rise into narrative prominence, the film has fully bloomed into something much stranger: a story about inheritance, emotional residue, and the strange dignity in finishing someone else’s work. The ending is absurd and poignant, and the epilogue—which plays like the credits of a fake biopic—adds a final wink. It’s a reminder that no matter how weird things get, there’s still room for a laugh. Or at least a smirk.

In short: Dead Mail is less a horror film than it is a haunted mixtape, filled with love songs to people who will never hear them. It’s odd, it’s patchy in places, but it’s also unlike anything else I’ve ever seen. You don’t stream Dead Mail to be scared. You stream it to remember what it feels like to be totally, irrationally obsessed with something—and to be terrified of what that obsession might take from you.

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Article by Destiny King

Destiny is a supporting member of the Horror Writers Association who’s been working in B2B publishing for nearly a decade. Her favorite horror subgenres are true crime, found footage, and psychological thrillers. Find her on Letterboxd.

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