In every cinephile's life, there comes a time when you just have to accept that a certain director's work isn't for you. It's not always easy- after all, you might want to keep giving them a chance. But sometimes, acceptance is the best option. I wasn't impressed by Lenny Abrahamson's Frank or even the Oscar-winning Room, so I can't say I was necessarily looking forward to The Little Stranger, his first project since that 2015 breakout. Focus Features dumped this Gothic drama at the end of the month with little fanfare, but I heard enough interesting things from respected critics that I figured I needed to see this one for myself.
I should have trusted my instincts.
The Little Stranger is a horror movie of sorts, in that there are undeniably spooky things happening from time to time. Oddly enough, it's a ghost story about class and psychology, intent on examining how it feels to exist in a society where you simply don't belong. Abrahamson and writer Lucinda Coxon (adapting a novel by Sarah Walters) delve into concepts of the repressed subconscious and interpersonal control, weaving a web of unsettling incidents that click together in surprising ways. It's a good story, told in the most drab, self-serious way imaginable. The Little Stranger is morose and spare, containing visual and narrative shades of Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo without an ounce of that film's intrigue or tension. Repetitive from a filmmaking perspective and hopelessly sluggish from a storytelling one, Abrahamson's latest re-affirms his distinct sensibilities in a wholly unappealing package.
Our story begins with a phone call. Dr. Faraday (Domhnall Gleeson) receives a request to tend to a young maid (played by Liv Hill) at the Hundreds, an old mansion where his working-class mother also served as a maid. Under the guidance of matriarch Mrs. Ayres (Charlotte Rampling), the Hundreds has long been a beacon of decadence and bourgeois style, but in the aftermath of World War II, the great hall is now crumbling. Things are barely held together by injured war veteran Roderick Ayres (Will Poulter) and his sister Caroline (Ruth Wilson), who abandoned her hopes and dreams to return to the place where she grew up.
Faraday has his own memories of the Hundreds; he once attended a party there as a boy and plucked an acorn off the ornate walls. It's an incident that remains etched into his memory, maybe even haunting him in a way he didn't realize. Faraday finds himself drawn to the Hundreds again and again, developing a relationship with Roderick (he uses him as a subject for a new kind of electrotherapy) and becoming increasingly smitten with Caroline. But something terrible is happening in the Hundreds. Violence disrupts the flow of life on a frequent basis, often leaving destruction or death in its wake. Roderick claims the existence of a malevolent spirit that hates the Ayres family, but is he mentally sound? Or is there really a sinister force lurking behind these decrepit walls?
There's no dearth of rich material here for Abrahamson and Coxon to explore. The film questions and challenges notions of upward mobility in high society- in other words, can we ever really change where we came from? There's a palpable awkwardness to many of Faraday's elegant exploits, an awkwardness that comes into focus as the story reveals itself. In the quest to push that question to its natural conclusion, The Little Stranger filters working-class resentment through the lens of a chilling ghost story, shedding light on a spirit that seems to have something specific in mind for the wealthy residents of the Hundreds. That's something of a spectacular concept, and it's even more compelling in the context of the film's unexpected turn towards psychoanalysis.
In addition, there are fine performances across the board, especially from Domhnall Gleeson and Ruth Wilson. Gleeson's Faraday is mostly a blank slate, but there's a creeping sense of manipulative malevolence to the good doctor, a character defect that becomes more apparent as the story progresses. On the opposite end of things, Wilson is quite strong as a woman whose life has never fully been in her hands. The characters grow and shift simultaneously, with each one's curious traits coming into conflict with one another.
It's particularly disheartening for a film with this much to say to be quite so dull. Watching The Little Stranger is a chore of the highest order, the kind of experience that opts for relentless seriousness over even a slight hint of energy or panache. If you strip away the old-fashioned sets and British accents, this is a movie about a ghost taking revenge on the rich. Maybe I'm alone on this island, but that's sort of a hilarious concept. So where is the humor, that creeping, Phantom Thread-like sense of delicious irony? Where are the pointed insults and extravagant twists? Everyone in The Little Stranger is sad and miserable, with each scene further reinforcing their cold despair.
There's a way to make this kind of pervasive anguish work, but Abrahamson adopts a style of narrative and cinematic repetition that renders the story even more lethargic. The film alternates between hazy close-ups and chilly wide shots, a combination that grows tiresome rather quickly. The visual staleness is compounded by the inspired touches that arise at random occasions; a conflict in the final act is set in a room with a green-ish hue, seemingly a clear and clever allusion to Hitchcock's Vertigo. But the allusion is quickly forgotten, as the story returns to its established framework of dullness. Abrahamson exhausts his reliance on such a sullen mood; the film simply can no longer sustain this molasses-like pace. Eventually, the classical ghost story wears out its welcome, sinking in a sea of gloomy dreariness.
There's much to admire, but time to accept that Abrahamson's work just isn't for me.
THE FINAL GRADE: C- (4.6/10)
Images courtesy of Focus Features
I should have trusted my instincts.
The Little Stranger is a horror movie of sorts, in that there are undeniably spooky things happening from time to time. Oddly enough, it's a ghost story about class and psychology, intent on examining how it feels to exist in a society where you simply don't belong. Abrahamson and writer Lucinda Coxon (adapting a novel by Sarah Walters) delve into concepts of the repressed subconscious and interpersonal control, weaving a web of unsettling incidents that click together in surprising ways. It's a good story, told in the most drab, self-serious way imaginable. The Little Stranger is morose and spare, containing visual and narrative shades of Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo without an ounce of that film's intrigue or tension. Repetitive from a filmmaking perspective and hopelessly sluggish from a storytelling one, Abrahamson's latest re-affirms his distinct sensibilities in a wholly unappealing package.
Our story begins with a phone call. Dr. Faraday (Domhnall Gleeson) receives a request to tend to a young maid (played by Liv Hill) at the Hundreds, an old mansion where his working-class mother also served as a maid. Under the guidance of matriarch Mrs. Ayres (Charlotte Rampling), the Hundreds has long been a beacon of decadence and bourgeois style, but in the aftermath of World War II, the great hall is now crumbling. Things are barely held together by injured war veteran Roderick Ayres (Will Poulter) and his sister Caroline (Ruth Wilson), who abandoned her hopes and dreams to return to the place where she grew up.
Faraday has his own memories of the Hundreds; he once attended a party there as a boy and plucked an acorn off the ornate walls. It's an incident that remains etched into his memory, maybe even haunting him in a way he didn't realize. Faraday finds himself drawn to the Hundreds again and again, developing a relationship with Roderick (he uses him as a subject for a new kind of electrotherapy) and becoming increasingly smitten with Caroline. But something terrible is happening in the Hundreds. Violence disrupts the flow of life on a frequent basis, often leaving destruction or death in its wake. Roderick claims the existence of a malevolent spirit that hates the Ayres family, but is he mentally sound? Or is there really a sinister force lurking behind these decrepit walls?
There's no dearth of rich material here for Abrahamson and Coxon to explore. The film questions and challenges notions of upward mobility in high society- in other words, can we ever really change where we came from? There's a palpable awkwardness to many of Faraday's elegant exploits, an awkwardness that comes into focus as the story reveals itself. In the quest to push that question to its natural conclusion, The Little Stranger filters working-class resentment through the lens of a chilling ghost story, shedding light on a spirit that seems to have something specific in mind for the wealthy residents of the Hundreds. That's something of a spectacular concept, and it's even more compelling in the context of the film's unexpected turn towards psychoanalysis.
In addition, there are fine performances across the board, especially from Domhnall Gleeson and Ruth Wilson. Gleeson's Faraday is mostly a blank slate, but there's a creeping sense of manipulative malevolence to the good doctor, a character defect that becomes more apparent as the story progresses. On the opposite end of things, Wilson is quite strong as a woman whose life has never fully been in her hands. The characters grow and shift simultaneously, with each one's curious traits coming into conflict with one another.
It's particularly disheartening for a film with this much to say to be quite so dull. Watching The Little Stranger is a chore of the highest order, the kind of experience that opts for relentless seriousness over even a slight hint of energy or panache. If you strip away the old-fashioned sets and British accents, this is a movie about a ghost taking revenge on the rich. Maybe I'm alone on this island, but that's sort of a hilarious concept. So where is the humor, that creeping, Phantom Thread-like sense of delicious irony? Where are the pointed insults and extravagant twists? Everyone in The Little Stranger is sad and miserable, with each scene further reinforcing their cold despair.
There's a way to make this kind of pervasive anguish work, but Abrahamson adopts a style of narrative and cinematic repetition that renders the story even more lethargic. The film alternates between hazy close-ups and chilly wide shots, a combination that grows tiresome rather quickly. The visual staleness is compounded by the inspired touches that arise at random occasions; a conflict in the final act is set in a room with a green-ish hue, seemingly a clear and clever allusion to Hitchcock's Vertigo. But the allusion is quickly forgotten, as the story returns to its established framework of dullness. Abrahamson exhausts his reliance on such a sullen mood; the film simply can no longer sustain this molasses-like pace. Eventually, the classical ghost story wears out its welcome, sinking in a sea of gloomy dreariness.
There's much to admire, but time to accept that Abrahamson's work just isn't for me.
THE FINAL GRADE: C- (4.6/10)
Images courtesy of Focus Features
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