Pascal Plante’s Red Rooms is a chilling exploration of obsession, voyeurism, and the twisted nature of our fascination with true crime. Set against the backdrop of a high-profile trial for a series of horrific dark web murders, the film lures us into an unsettling psychological thriller where the lines between curiosity and complicity blur, and where the focus is less on the killer and more on the disturbingly calm figure who watches from the sidelines.
At the heart of the story is Kelly-Anne (Juliette Gariépy), a young woman who seems disturbingly detached from the real world. While society dissects the gruesome crimes of Ludovic Chevalier, the so-called “Demon of Rosemont,” Kelly-Anne’s obsession with the case becomes a focal point of the film. Unlike the frenzied media or hysterical courtroom, Kelly-Anne’s cold, deliberate nature stands in stark contrast, making her all the more intriguing—and unnerving. From the moment she steps into the courtroom, it’s clear that she’s not there to simply observe; she has a deeper connection to the case, one that slowly unravels throughout the film’s tight, tense narrative.
Gariépy delivers an icy performance that pulls you into Kelly-Anne’s eerie world of detachment. Her life is a carefully curated existence of high-stakes online poker and modeling gigs, with her true self seemingly hidden behind the anonymity of cyberspace. The dark web—where Chevalier’s victims were tortured and murdered for paying audiences—serves as a mirror for Kelly-Anne’s own detached, voyeuristic lifestyle. But unlike most courtroom dramas, Red Rooms isn’t about justice or guilt. It’s about the characters on the periphery, those like Kelly-Anne who are inexplicably drawn to the horror without flinching. What does her obsession say about her—and by extension, about us?
Plante’s direction expertly creates a mood of quiet dread. The courtroom is a sterile, fluorescent-lit space, but Vincent Biron’s cold, steely cinematography drenches Kelly-Anne’s world in alienating blues, heightening the sense that we are seeing things from her distorted perspective. The film is less interested in the grotesque details of the murders, leaving much of the violence off-screen, but instead focuses on the psychological impact—on how someone like Kelly-Anne can so calmly consume and, perhaps, internalize such brutality.
The pacing of Red Rooms is slow but deliberate, echoing Kelly-Anne’s own methodical nature. As she forms a strange bond with Clémentine (Laurie Babin), a fellow trial attendee with a bizarre affection for Chevalier, the film peels back layers of Kelly-Anne’s motivations. Is she simply an intrigued bystander, or is there something far darker lurking beneath her placid surface? The more the film unfolds, the more it refuses to offer easy answers. Instead, it leaves the audience questioning where the line between fascination and participation lies.
While the narrative may leave some frustrated with its ambiguity, that uncertainty is also one of the film’s greatest strengths. In a world where true crime is devoured as entertainment, Red Rooms forces us to confront the darker implications of our curiosity. The film doesn’t provide a clear resolution—either for Chevalier’s guilt or Kelly-Anne’s motives—but it’s that very ambiguity that lingers long after the credits roll.
In its eerie exploration of human obsession and the dark side of online voyeurism, Red Rooms stands out as a disturbing, thought-provoking entry in the psychological horror genre. It’s not the grotesque details of the crimes that haunt you, but the unsettling calm with which Kelly-Anne and, by extension, we as viewers, observe them. Plante has crafted a haunting, deeply unsettling film that questions what it means to watch—and what it means to be complicit.
