Inside the Darkness of Bring Her Back: Danny Philippou on Horror, Grief, and Building a Cult

Danny Philippou, the co-writer of Bring Her Back opens up about turning the trauma of a parent losing a child into supernatural horror film, crafting a death cult, and why the best horror stays with you long after the closing credits roll.

In the golden age of modern horror—where emotionally-driven storytelling meets hair-raising spectacle—few filmmakers are standing out as distinctly as Danny Philippou. Co-writer of Bring Her Back along with writer Bill Hinzman, and one-half of the directing duo behind the breakout hit Talk To Me with his twin brother Michael, Danny is bringing a unique blend of personal storytelling, genre sophistication, and emotional richness to the screen.

For Philippou, horror isn’t just a genre—it’s a vessel. It’s a medium that allows him to explore deep emotional truths and confront the darkest corners of the human psyche.

Writing What You Don’t Say: The Submerged Cult Mythology

One of the most interesting things about Bring Her Back was conceiving the cult behind the story and presenting it in found footage format. You only see snippets, like a sea serpent, but the whole body is always just below the surface. That was by design.

Danny Philippou

The filmmaker highlights the deep satisfaction that comes from constructing an elaborate mythology behind a story—one that exists whether or not the audience ever sees it in full.

In this case, the filmmakers researched the occult, consulted with practitioners, and even wrote out detailed spell books and rituals. Every aspect of the cult’s backstory was meticulously mapped: who they are, what they believe, where a mysterious tape originated, and which angel they aim to summon.

This intricate world-building forms a solid foundation for the film’s events, even though much of it remains off-screen. Instead of delivering bulk exposition, the film introduces viewers to this hidden world through the limited, immediate perspective of its characters—particularly the children, who enter the story after the ritual has already begun.

What they see and understand is what the audience sees and understands, creating a sense of discovery and uncertainty in real time.

This method of storytelling draws inspiration from classic horror films like The Shining, where hints and fragments are dropped throughout without full explanations. For example, the iconic final image of Jack Torrance (Jack Nicholson) in an old photograph is never clarified in the movie itself, but additional layers of meaning are revealed in the novel and script, suggesting reincarnation. The ambiguity leaves room for interpretation and debate, allowing viewers to theorize and engage more actively with the story.

The filmmaker embraces this approach, preferring to let audiences “play catch-up” rather than spoon-feeding answers.

The Horror of Grief: Writing from Real-Life Tragedy

At the emotional center of the film is a raw, universal experience: grief, especially the grief of a parent losing a child. This theme wasn’t chosen lightly—it emerged from personal trauma from the brothers Philippou.

“Our cousin lost her two-year-old child,” Danny recalls. “It was terrifying to see. She didn’t look like she’d ever be okay again.” Rather than shy away from such painful material, the Philippous channeled it into their script.

In horror, fear and grief are often two sides of the same coin. The genre gives writers a chance to externalize internal torment, to turn feelings into metaphors—rituals, monsters, even architecture.

The film’s visual motifs—teeth, metal, broken bodies—reflect personal discomforts and fears. “Even if it’s not spoken in dialogue,” Danny explains, “every image means something. There’s subtext behind it.”

Creating Complicated Characters: Laura as the Emotional Core

The character of Laura, played by Sally Hawkins, is the emotional lynchpin of the story. She is not a classic antagonist. She’s someone twisted by loss and loneliness—a tragic matriarchal caregiver whose methods turn into manipulation.

“She’s supposed to be the one helping these kids,” Danny says. “But she uses therapeutic tools to break them. That’s terrifying.”

This kind of complexity elevates horror. It shifts the tension from what might happen to why. The Philippous were inspired by films like the 1962 classic What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? which focus on broken characters who withdraw from the real
world into a dark warped fantasy of their own creation. When the fantasy is shattered by the world around them, their response is often one of violent withdrawal — there are few things more powerful than a comforting delusion. This describes Laura.

Laura isn’t pure evil—she’s the product of pain

Sally Hawkins, best known for emotionally-nuanced performances in Mike Leigh’s dramas, was drawn to the character’s interiority. She didn’t want to make a horror film, but she connected with Laura’s emotional truth—and that was enough.

Laura (Sally Hawkins) Photo courtesy of A24 Films

Collaborative Writing: Finding the Film Through Friction

The film was co-written by Danny and longtime collaborator Bill Hinzman, whose working styles couldn’t be more different. “I’m chaotic,” Danny laughs. “I write set pieces and character ideas like scribbles. No structure.” Bill, on the other hand, is a “king of structure and theme.”

They pass the script back and forth, tearing each other’s work apart, then refining it again. When they hit a roadblock, they talk it out. And when the script is strong enough, they bring in Danny’s twin brother, Michael, and producer Samantha Jennings—a former script editor with a sharp eye for character.

This collaborative back-and-forth ensures that the story doesn’t settle for good enough. Each person pushes it toward its best version.

Mood and Emotion Over Plot: Drifting with Intention

Early in the film, there are long stretches where not much happening plot-wise. But that’s the point. The story drifts—vertically rather than forward—into atmosphere, tone, and unsettling emotional texture.

“Scenes written to be scary ended up being sad,” Danny explains. A recent death in the filmmakers’ circle during production shifted the emotional tone. “The blueprint changed.”

Screenwriting wisdom often warns against “slow pacing,” but that’s a misconception. A film can be slow, meditative, or drifting, as long as it’s emotionally engaging. Let your audience sit in discomfort. Let them breathe in the unease and process it.

Designing Set Pieces that Mean Something

In horror, the temptation is to write scares for their own sake. But the Philippous insist every horror beat must be tied to character and theme.

“If it’s not expressing something, why is it there?” Danny asks. One set piece may involve bodily transformation or surreal hallucination—but it always speaks to something deeper, like loss, guilt, or fear of powerlessness.

They advocate for  overshooting—getting more footage than you need—so that you can find the right tonal balance during the edit. Sometimes a scare is too much. Sometimes it’s not enough. But in the writing stage, it all begins with why the scare exists in the first place and how it services the story.

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Piper and Andy: Coming of Age Through Fear

The story’s emotional heart lies in the orphan sibling relationship between Piper, a non-sighted teenage girl, and Andy, her protective older brother. Their dynamic was inspired by a real-life experience: a blind girl insisting she needed independence from overprotective parents.

The film asks: How do we shelter those we love without smothering them? After a shared tragedy, Piper (Sora Wong)  and Andy (Billy Barrett) are forced into Laura’s creepy home on a temporary basis until Andy can become her legal guardian.

But the true horror isn’t the cult or the ghosts—it’s the emotional reckoning and deconstruction that follows loss.

At its best, horror is not escapism—it’s catharsis. Their work reflects a broader trend in modern genre filmmaking—one inspired by auteurs like Bong Joon-ho’s Memories Of Murder, who blend horror, humor, and human drama to explore what scares us emotionally, not just viscerally.

We don’t want to be scared of something that’s a horror movie. We want to embrace that it’s a horror film—and be proud of making a horror film – Danny Phillippou

Key Points

1. Build a Fully Fleshed-Out Backstory—Even If It Stays Off-Screen
   Create a detailed mythology or world behind your story. Know the history, rules, and internal logic of your world—even if most of it never appears in the final script.
2. Write from the Character’s Perspective
   Reveal information only as the characters encounter or understand it. Let their point of view determine what the audience sees. This grounds the story emotionally and creates a sense of mystery.
3. Use Suggestion Over Explanation
   Don’t explain everything. Instead, drop clues and fragments that hint at a larger truth. This encourages curiosity and allows the audience to actively participate in piecing the story together.
4. Let the Audience Catch Up
   Trust your audience. Give them room to theorize, interpret, and engage with the material on a deeper level. Holding back answers can create a more immersive and thought-provoking experience.
5. Tie Lore and Horror to Theme
   Even your supernatural or mythological elements should support the emotional and thematic core of the story. Use world-building to reflect or deepen character arcs and the narrative’s emotional stakes.

These techniques can elevate horror—and genre storytelling in general—by making it both intellectually layered and emotionally resonant.

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by Staff Writer

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