There are horror films that rely on monsters. Then there are films like Backrooms, which rely on something far more familiar, discomfort.

After watching the advance screening at SM Megamall, what lingers is not just the jump scares or the strange visuals, but the feeling of being lost in a place where no one can hear you, and no one is coming to help. 

Backrooms uses confusion as its main weapon. The film does not always explain where its characters are or what is happening next. Instead, it puts viewers in the same emotional space as the characters: unsure, unsteady, and constantly alert. That uncertainty becomes the source of fear.

And then, just when the mind starts to adjust to the silence, the film interrupts it.

The jump scares in Backrooms are not excessive, but they are deliberately timed to break the sense of control. They often arrive when things feel “almost safe,” which makes them more unsettling. It is not just about something appearing,it is about the feeling that nowhere is truly safe to begin with. 

What makes the film more disturbing is how it mirrors real human vulnerability, especially in moments of isolation. The idea of being alone in unfamiliar spaces is something many people can relate to on different levels. For women in particular, there is an added layer of awareness that often comes with being in public or unfamiliar environments, always checking surroundings, staying alert, and sensing small changes in atmosphere that others might overlook.

Backrooms taps into that same instinct. It exaggerates it into a surreal nightmare, but the emotional root feels familiar. The fear is not always about what is seen. Sometimes it is about what might be there, just outside the frame, or just behind the next corner.

The film also plays heavily on disorientation. Rooms feel identical but wrong. Hallways seem endless. Directions stop making sense. That confusion builds a kind of psychological pressure where even simple movement feels uncertain. Viewers are not just watching the characters get lost, they begin to feel it themselves. 

There is a particular discomfort in not knowing whether to move forward or stay still. The film uses that hesitation well. It turns hesitation into tension, and tension into fear.

Unlike many modern horror films that rely on heavy visual effects or loud shock moments, Backrooms keeps things relatively restrained. The scares feel grounded. When something finally breaks the silence, it does not feel like a spectacle, it feels like an intrusion. That makes the experience more personal, almost like the film is reacting directly to the viewer’s own attention. 

What stays effective throughout is the sense of exposure. The characters are never fully safe, and neither is the audience. There is no real comfort zone once the story begins. Even quiet moments feel temporary, as if something could disrupt them at any second.

At its core, Backrooms is not just about a strange place. It is about what it feels like to be unguarded, emotionally and physically. It takes that everyday vulnerability, the kind people feel when walking alone, waiting in silence, or stepping into unfamiliar spaces, and stretches it into something surreal and endless.

The result is a film that does not just aim to scare. It unsettles.

It makes viewers aware of how quickly familiarity can disappear, and how fragile a sense of safety can be when you are alone and unsure of what is real. 

Backrooms premieres on June 3. It is not just a horror film built on jump scares. It is a reminder of how fear often begins in the quiet moments, when you are alone, unguarded, and suddenly aware of everything around you.