The Last Supper

The Last Supper arrives from the Red Owl Films collective with the quiet confidence of a film that has absolutely nothing to prove to the current cultural moment, and proceeds to prove exactly that for its entire runtime. A horror anthology framed around an elegant dinner table and an unseen guest, it concerns itself with hunger, flesh, and survival in the oldest possible sense: the body as prey, the meal as dread, the table as the last place you want to be seated. This is pre-ideological horror. It predates the discourse. It does not care about the discourse.

The cannibalism-as-metaphor scholarly apparatus that critics routinely deploy on films of this type is present in the research surrounding this film, but it is present the way a sommelier's tasting notes are present at a fast food counter: technically applicable, practically irrelevant. The film's body horror is visceral rather than symbolic, elegantly brutal rather than pointedly instructive. No character pauses to reflect on systemic commodification. No dinner guest represents late-stage capitalism. The unseen guest at the table is simply terrifying, which is, in this reviewer's considered opinion, enough.

With a popularity score of 0.0379 and zero recorded votes at time of writing, The Last Supper occupies a cultural position so obscure it practically constitutes a philosophical statement. It has not been received. It has not been debated. It has not been praised or condemned by anyone with a Letterboxd account and a thesis. It simply exists, serving its courses of dread to an empty room, which is, come to think of it, precisely what the framing device depicts. The film and its audience are, in this sense, perfectly matched.