Megalomaniac

Karim Ouelhaj’s latest film draws inspiration from a chilling real-life crime—the unsolved case of Belgium’s most notorious serial killer, infamously dubbed The Butcher of Mons.

To this day, the killer’s identity remains a mystery, casting a long shadow over the country’s true crime history.

"Megalomaniac" taps into the raw, visceral energy of the French New Extremity movement, blending it with intense psychological horror. Ouelhaj doesn’t merely tell a story—he immerses us in the monstrous legacy left behind, guiding the audience into the decaying home of the now-deceased killer.

Still living within those haunted walls are his two children, carrying the lingering echoes of their father’s atrocities.

The son, shaped by a cycle of inherited violence, becomes a murderer himself. Meanwhile, the daughter—Martha—is a deeply traumatized woman, tormented daily at her job. Her fragile psyche is pushed to the brink after enduring the most harrowing form of violence a woman can suffer.

From that moment on, her already unsteady mind descends into a vortex of madness, dissociation, and destructive delirium.

This is a story born from the ghosts of the past—where abuse and violence sow the seeds of psychological monstrosities, impossible to vanquish. It’s a descent into inevitable psychosis, where horror breeds horror, and the only form of catharsis is found through blood-soaked revenge.

Ouelhaj, known for his unflinching and artful approach to extreme subject matter (Megalomaniac, L’Oeil Silencieux), crafts a suffocating, slow-burn narrative that favors mood and mental fragmentation over traditional plotting.

His command of tone and atmosphere places him in conversation with filmmakers like Pascal Laugier "Martyrs" and Fabrice Du Welz "Calvaire," both of whom explore the intersection of trauma, identity, and violence within the aesthetics of European horror.

At its core, the film presents a searing commentary on societal indifference toward personal tragedy—the silent suffering of those who feel inadequate, invisible, and too ashamed or disillusioned to seek help.

It also serves as a brutal critique of patriarchal cruelty—a world where women are reduced to objects of sadistic gratification. In this darkness, Martha ironically finds a sense of belonging, a bitter metaphor for the resigned roles we inherit from birth and feel powerless to escape.

Visually, the film evokes the richness and decay of Baroque painting, with stark contrasts of light and shadow that heighten the unease.

This aesthetic choice amplifies the suffocating loneliness that envelops Martha and her brother Félix, drawing the viewer deeper into their deranged, desolate world.