P.O.V. A Cursed Film

In this film, the entire experience unfolds through the eyes of a camera operator, turning the story into a raw, live-feeling found-footage ride. From the very first frame, the screen warns that what you’re about to see is presented with a very personal motive: a message that hints at a guardian, a watcher, and a line not to be crossed. The setup centers on a teen host, Mirai—the character’s name linked here for the first appearance—and her teenage guest, Haruna. The tone is intimate, the mood uneasy, and the on-set chaos quick to reveal itself: a crew wrestling with budget cuts, a director who can be sharp as a whip, and a stagehand who becomes a point of friction as the team tries to push through a day of filming for Mirai’s show.

What follows is a meticulous backstage arc that bleeds into the on-air segment. We watch as the stage is dressed, hair styled, and a producer hovers over a phone with his own anxieties. The tension between keeping a show going and chasing something real simmering beneath the glossy surface becomes a running thread, especially as the crew shifts toward an audience-submitted ghost video concept. Haruna stays buoyant and eager, while Mirai grows visibly unsettled, their dynamic framed against the sterile glow of studio lights and the hum of production gear.

The show’s premise is simple on the surface: viewers send in ghost videos; Mirai hesitates, Haruna dives in. The first clip thrusts them into a quiet, empty girls’ bathroom in a high school. The energy in the room tightens as the video begins with nothing but wind, then a stall door that creaks open on its own. The camera inches closer, circles the door, and emerges to reveal nothing but a lone toilet. The moment feels like a prank that refuses to stay a prank, and the director’s irritation with the stagehand grows as he accuses her of not sticking to the DVD’s script. Yet the clip doesn’t lie; the door opens again, the camera grinds forward, and the audience is left with a chilling sense of something unseen watching back.

The odd, creeping unease continues to build as Mirai, still on edge, admits a shiver while Haruna stays enthusiastic about chasing a genuine ghost story. When a second clip rolls, the mood shifts toward something more alarming: a school shower that seems poised to turn on by itself and a hallway shot that slides into Haruna’s old junior high. Pareidolia—the idea that a vague pattern on a window forms a pale face—adds to the unease, as the crew questions whether the footage has been altered or if something more spectral is at play. The room grows tense; the stagehand’s competence is questioned; and then, as if to prove that this is no mere trick, another tape starts on its own, showing a rooftop drop that ends in a silent, ghostly landing.

The mystery deepens when a psychic is brought in. The psychic claims Haruna is not haunted in a traditional sense but that a spirit is attempting to possess her. The team agrees to escalate their efforts and travel to the source—the very school that is at the heart of these eerie videos. The sequence shifts from the studio to a much larger, more imposing setting: long halls, locked doors, and a teacher who becomes a gatekeeper of history. The teacher’s identity is obfuscated (bleeped in the subtitles), a stylistic choice that teases secrets hidden in the school’s corridors, while the team tours a repository of past footage that seems to be rewriting itself as they watch.

Inside the school, the team encounters a different kind of spectacle: a pool scene captured by a student news crew, a man who looks out of place in the background, and a series of visual puzzles—the smudged window that looks like a face, the shower that turns on again, the room’s lighting that hovers between on and off in tandem with the crew’s nerves. The director pushes the crew to test the possibilities, using the lens to map out whether the “man on water” from the pool scene could be a ruse—a theory that the infamous stagehand seems to own, as her positioning is used to explain away the eerie footage. Still, the sense of something more haunting lingers, and Haruna remains the one who asks for more, pushing Mirai to confront what they’re seeing rather than retreating.

When the exploration turns toward the disclosure of a deeper, human horror, the group unearths a painful confession. The roster of club members at Haruna’s old school becomes the key to a heart-wrenching truth: a girl named Yuko, who once connected with the producer over shared love of cinema, killed herself years earlier, and the producer had carried that ache in silence for two decades. The tape that reveals Yuko’s last moments—a girl who filmed herself on the school roof after a doomed romance—lands like a second blow. The producer’s confession follows, exposing a painful motive: he drove away Yuko to escape her obsession with ghosts, a decision that haunted him and, in turn, the footage that never truly left him. The film shifts from a mystery about spectral activity to a raw look at guilt and unresolved grief.

As the truth emerges, the atmosphere thickens with personal stakes. Haruna’s presence—once a source of curiosity and bravado—begins to resemble something more dangerous, and a tangible possession seems to take hold. The two girls retreat to the rooftop as the supernatural pressure peaks. A struggle ensues, and a fall changes everything: the producer goes over the edge, landing with a sickening crash that leaves the group scrambling in shock, while Haruna and Mirai stumble through a fog of fear and relief as the lights flicker back on.

But the story does not end there. What feels like a conclusive battle against a single haunting dissolves into a layered twist: the “ending” you just watched is revealed to be a fake ending, part of a prescreening of the footage for someone else’s benefit. We learn that the old producer—partly responsible for the haunting in the first place—has vanished, and the stagehand and the psychic remain hospitalized. A new manager takes over Mirai and Haruna’s project, determined to push forward with distribution plans and marketing stunts, including filming the two girls as they watch the very footage that unsettled them. The decision to show the movie publicly has been made, contracts signed, and the old ghost remains at least a rumor, if not a waking nightmare.

Back in the theater, the prescreening resumes with the same warning at the start, but the mood shifts as the audience and the viewers themselves become entwined with the story. The girls sit in the front row, whispering about cold drafts and the eerie sense that memories and realities are crossing lines. A new production team watches the reaction of Mirai and Haruna from a separate room, opinions split between whether this is too soon and whether the audience will accept it. Then the film dives into more uncanny material: a second appearance of the woman in red from the bathroom, an editing ruse that suddenly doesn’t feel like a ruse at all, and footage of the shower, now altered, with a hand clearly turning the knob. The new manager warns against showing the material, but the plan proceeds, and the two girls realize that something is stalking them not only in the film but in the theater itself.

As the stage is set for a final, horrific confrontation, the perspective of the movie shifts once more—from the theater’s screens to the eyes of Yuko, the girl at the center of the original haunting who now seems to stalk Haruna and Mirai with an unsettling certainty. The footage moves into the realm of a nightmare: a ghostly pursuit through the theater, the lights failing, a projector room turned dangerous, and a desperate struggle to shut everything down before the ghost—now a roaming presence—takes hold of the live screen and the two girls themselves. The nearly supernatural chase culminates in a powerfully personal moment in which Mirai and Haruna confront not just a ghost, but the specters of their own fears.

The credits roll, but this time the film’s true afterlife emerges: the night-vision feed from the theater reveals a chilling postscript. The theater, the film’s own audience, and the two girls become part of the story’s next chapter as the night-vision feed captures an ominous figure in the seats—someone who might be the same red-clad presence seen earlier. The final beat is both an ending and a doorway: the girls escape with each other, but the evidence lingers, and the line between fiction and reality blurs, with a lingering sense that the film’s true horrors have only begun to reveal themselves.

Key moments are tied together by a consistent thread: the camera’s point of view is not just a style but a character in itself. The viewer is pulled into production dynamics, the weight of secrets, and the unsettling truth that some stories aren’t merely watched—they want to be seen. The film lingers on the moral of witness and memory, on how guilt, tragedy, and obsession can echo through time, and on how the act of storytelling—whether for a TV show, a student club, or a prescreening audience—can unleash forces that refuse to stay confined to reels and scripts.

Your movie ends here!

In the end, the production’s twist and the theater’s revelations imply that the haunting persists beyond any single cut or frame. The characters endure, but the consequences of their discoveries—and the past they thought they’d buried—return with a quiet, relentless persistence. The story’s last note is a reminder: some truths, once filmed, refuse to disappear, and some specters feed on the very act of being watched.

Last Updated: October 01, 2025 at 10:21