Let’s be honest, our collective fascination with the 1980s shows no sign of slowing down. Whether it’s the fashion, the music, or the pop culture touchstones, the decade continues to cast a long, neon-lit shadow over contemporary media. While much of this enduring appeal is clearly filtered through rose-tinted glasses, there’s no denying that the '80s evoke a strong sense of nostalgia for many modern audiences. Even those who didn’t live through the pre-millennium years have embraced the era with open arms! Vinyl records are once again a staple of music lovers' collections, neon hues dominate design trends, and power suits are strutting their way back into fashion week lineups.

Television and film have played a key role in fuelling this cultural throwback. Series like Stranger Things have not only revived stylistic elements of the period but have helped usher in a wave of '80s-inspired content that leans heavily into sentimentality and wistful longing for a “simpler” time. In the past decade alone, we’ve seen a slew of titles tap into this nostalgic vein: Summer of 84 (2018), IT (2017), Censor (2021), Lisa Frankenstein (2024), Totally Killer (2023), and My Best Friend’s Exorcism (2022), to name a few.

Yet, many of these works tend to present a glossy, stylised version of the decade - one steeped in bold colours and synth-heavy soundtracks. But anyone who actually lived through the era can tell you that this portrayal only scratches the surface. Beneath the pop sheen, there was also a grittier, more subdued reality - one marked by economic downturns, urban decay, and the creeping sense of unease that often pervaded everyday life.

​

So where are the films that reflect that side of the '80s experience? Enter Dead Mail, from directors Joe DeBoer and Kyle McConaghy, which promises to dig into the darker, dustier corners of the decade’s cultural landscape.

​

Dead Mail opens in suitably grungy fashion, as a man wrapped in chains bursts out of an otherwise unremarkable house. Clutching a torn scrap of paper, he crawls determinedly toward a nearby mail collection box. Hot on his heels, however, another figure emerges from the house and quickly apprehends him - though not before the man manages to slip the paper into the mailbox.

​

We then cut to the postal branch of a sleepy Midwestern town, where we’re introduced to Jasper, a quiet, unassuming man in his mid 50s. While he might appear ordinary at first glance, Jasper is something of a local legend within his workplace. As a seasoned dead letter investigator, he earns the quiet admiration of his co-workers Ann and Bess (Micki Jackson and Susan Priver), thanks to his meticulous nature and knack for solving postal puzzles.

​

Jasper spends most of his time tucked away in a cluttered back room, methodically tracing the paths of undeliverable items in hopes of returning lost valuables to their rightful owners. But when a bloodstained scrap of paper lands on his desk, he hesitates. “They don’t pay me to be a crime detective,” he mutters. Still, his deep-seated curiosity and love of a good mystery soon get the better of him - and Jasper finds himself drawn into a more sinister investigation than he could have anticipated.

​

While Dead Mail sounds like it could be another potentially chilling crime thriller in the vein of Longlegs (2024) or The Silence of the Lambs (1990), it quickly reveals itself to be something altogether different: a subdued, slow-burning study of obsession rather than a tightly wound, suspenseful procedural. Largely bloodless - save for the unsettling presence of the titular note - any actual violence occurs off-screen, with tension often taking a backseat to atmosphere.

​

The absence of traditional suspense is, in part, due to the narrative decision to introduce Trent, the antagonist, early in the film and then place him firmly at the centre of the story. This is not a whodunit but a whydunit; the film’s intrigue lies in uncovering Trent’s motivations and questioning whether he will ultimately be caught. The structure leans heavily on a retrospective framework, with much of the plot acting as a reconstruction of events leading to the opening scene. As a result, a sense of narrative inevitability sets in, diminishing the tension a little in the process.

​

It becomes clear pretty quickly that co-directors DeBoer and McConaghy are not particularly interested in crafting a conventional thriller. Even when the story reaches its resolution, there’s little in the way of genuine surprise or narrative innovation, aside from the offbeat detail of Trent and his captive’s mutual appreciation for synth music. The film’s protagonists offer minimal narrative propulsion until the final act, which may disappoint some viewers who crave a more dynamic or emotionally resonant throughline.

What Dead Mail does deliver, however, is an intimate and textured - if occasionally drowsy - portrait of pathological infatuation. In many ways, it prioritises style over substance; the characters and plot seem intentionally subdued in favour of emphasising presentation. And to that end, the film excels. Its grainy, cinéma vérité aesthetic is executed with impressive authenticity. From the voluminous hair and period-accurate wardrobe to the warm, mustard-hued interiors, Dead Mail evokes the late 1970s/early 1980s with uncanny precision. If one were to stumble upon it mid-broadcast, it would be easy to mistake it for a genuine product of that era, which is no small feat.

​

The performances are uniformly solid, with John Fleck standing out as Trent, a man who becomes increasingly desperate and unhinged as the narrative progresses. Still, for those enticed by the film’s premise or trailer in hopes of gripping suspense, the low-key tension and meditative pacing may feel like a bit unsatisfying. By shifting focus from the pursuers to the pursued and from mystery to motive, Dead Mail often feels like it’s circling itself - compelling in mood but somewhat underwhelming in momentum. For viewers not fully captivated by its atmospheric spell, the film may ultimately feel like a missed opportunity.