A married couple moves from London to a remote cabin in the Welsh forest to finish their album, only to record an eerie sound that will expose the darkness inside them.
A cinematic allegory of pain.
This one got me thinking immediately: sound people will adore it. Not because the sound supports the narrative – but because, here, sound is the narrative. Consider this a companion piece to another review you’ll see immediately after; for now, Rabbit Trap stands as a demanding exercise in listening rather than watching.
Early on, Darcy explains the importance of sound to the child that mysteriously appears – a pivotal moment that reframes everything that follows. It is not exposition in the traditional sense, but a thematic key. From that point forward, whispers, hums, distant cries, and the oppressive weight of silence in between become the film’s true language. Dialogue is secondary; what we hear – or don’t hear – does the heavy lifting.
Set against the eerie isolation of rural Britain (filmed in Yorkshire, though steeped in Welsh folklore), the landscape feels appropriately detached from civilisation. This is the kind of place where cinema tells us something must exist beyond the visible. And, of course, something does. Bryn Chainey’s film dances around the idea of crossing a veil – between worlds, between states of being – without ever fully explaining it.
What it evokes emotionally is… complicated. It is not quite scary, but it is dramatic. Not overwhelmingly dramatic, though, because it sustains suspense. And yet, not entirely suspenseful either, since you sense what is happening, just not why. That tension between partial understanding and complete ambiguity is where the film finds its intrigue. You are watching, listening, questioning: Am I seeing this correctly? Am I hearing this correctly? But, does it matter?
Because what Rabbit Trap undeniably is, is esoteric. There is a fascinating collision here between folklore and trauma. Darcy and Daphne’s inner fractures bleed into the mythological fabric of the forest, where something ancient seems to echo human pain back at itself. As emotional disconnection deepens, human relationships recede, replaced by an unsettling communion with the unseen. The forest listens. The forest responds. But is it haunted? Is it evil?
This is where the film is at its most compelling – and, admittedly, its most challenging. The (dis)connection between sound and silence becomes central, almost philosophical. Silence is not absence; it is pressure. Sound is not clarity; it is distortion. Even the title invites personal interpretation: the rabbit as vulnerability, instinct, or innocence – and the trap as whatever seeks to capture it, whether external forces or internal wounds.
At times, the film risks overwhelming its audience. Not knowing the rules of the spirits is effective. Not fully understanding the trauma is intriguing. But being asked to decipher everything can feel disorienting. Still, this is not pretension – it is intention. Pain, grief, and whatever we perceive as the paranormal are, after all, deeply subjective experiences.
And Rabbit Trap embraces that subjectivity fully – through its dark, suffocating cinematography, its committed performances by Dev Patel, Rosy McEwen, and Jade Croot, and above all, its haunting sonic landscape.
If you’re willing to listen without needing answers, it might just speak to you.
P.S. Always a pleasure seeing Elijah Wood wearing the producer’s hat behind such films.
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