In my final two years of high school in Montreal, I made a private curriculum of the local repertory circuit—seeing everything that played, determined to absorb as much cinema as possible before heading to college and, eventually, film school in America. One winter afternoon, on the eve of leaving the city, I wandered into a nearly empty theater and discovered Dead of Winter, directed by Arthur Penn. I fell hard. I went back—once, then again—lingering over the sly menace and savoring the performances, especially Mary Steenburgen’s controlled unraveling and Roddy McDowall’s deliciously eccentric menace. Decades later, while idly scrolling through streamers, I stumbled upon a new title bearing the same name—Dead of Winter (2025), this time starring Emma Thompson. Nostalgia did the rest. Curious, a little wary, and more than ready to test memory against reinvention, I pressed play.
Even though I knew Dead of Winter is not a remake, I took the plunge and rented it because I love Emma Thompson—and she was terrific in the thriller Dead Again. Unfortunately, there isn’t much to write home about with Dead of Winter. It’s a tedious, barely passable thriller about an older woman caught in the wrong place at the wrong time during the dead of winter. The constant flashbacks—meant to explain her character and why she’s there—quickly become grating, and the antagonist’s motivation is so mundane that it’s hard to care.
And because I was craving the original Dead of Winter, I went back and watched it on streaming. What makes the 1987 Dead of Winter so compelling as a thriller is the battle of wits between Mary Steenburgen and her tormentors—most memorably played by Roddy McDowall. The final reversal, in which a seemingly helpless actress turns the tables on those who prey on her, is wickedly delightful. I hope you enjoy the 1987 original as much as I did—or still do.
