No food. No shelter. No help. Just a mother, her baby, and the cold closing in
Frost (2022), directed by Brandon Slagle, is a survival horror film that strips the genre to its bone-chilling essentials: one woman, one infant, one frozen wilderness, and no way out. Set against a stark, merciless backdrop of snow and silence, the film doesn’t rely on supernatural terrors or elaborate plot twists—instead, it grips you with primal dread and the horrific isolation of nature at its most indifferent.
The story follows Abby (played by Devanny Pinn), a pregnant woman who journeys to a remote mountain cabin with her estranged father, intending to reconnect before the birth of her child. What starts as a fragile attempt to heal old wounds turns into a living nightmare when a sudden storm cuts them off from the outside world. After a devastating accident leaves Abby injured and alone, she must survive the brutal cold, deliver her baby, and protect both herself and her newborn from the unforgiving elements—and something even worse lurking nearby.
What Frost excels at is building tension through simplicity. There are no monsters with claws or jump-scares lurking behind trees. The real enemies are frostbite, hunger, and time. Every choice Abby makes feels like a desperate gamble, every second a fight against not just death, but the gnawing madness of extreme solitude. The film forces the viewer to sit in that suffocating silence, to feel the cold creeping into the bones—both hers and ours.
Devanny Pinn’s performance is central to the film’s success. With minimal dialogue and long stretches of isolation, she conveys terror, determination, and raw maternal instinct almost entirely through physicality and expression. It’s a harrowing, physical performance that carries the emotional weight of the story while plunging headfirst into the physical horror of childbirth under unimaginable conditions.
Visually, the film embraces the bleakness of its environment. The snow-covered landscape is both beautiful and deadly, with wide shots emphasizing how small and helpless Abby is against nature. The cinematography captures the harsh beauty of the cold—sunlight reflecting off white expanses, ice crackling beneath bare feet, breath visible in the freezing air. There’s no comfort here. Only survival.
Frost is ultimately a story of willpower. It’s about what we’re capable of when we have nothing left, and what lines we’ll cross when the world abandons us. While it may not be for everyone—especially those sensitive to themes of childbirth trauma and body horror—it’s a raw, unnerving tale that proves sometimes, the coldest horror comes from within.
