Score: 2 / 5
Ten years into their relationship, Hank's girlfriend Abby disappears. She left a note with a sort of "I'm sorry" vague explanation, but no forwarding address or number. Hank is left alone in a rural house, slipping into drunken melancholy. His weird friend Wade is less than helpful in supporting him, and Abby's cop brother checks in on him, but even they have trouble taking the pathetic Hank seriously. Because Hank is convinced a monster has been visiting his house at night since Amy left. That's why he's sleeping on a sofa barricading the front door with a shot gun in his hand. That's why he's blown holes through the walls, door, and windows. He seems more upset about Abby's departure than about the monster, so what's really going on here?
We never really know, for what it's worth. The movie, written and directed by Jeremy Gardner (who also plays Hank), is so proud of its blatant central metaphor that it never really explores it. Anxiety over failed relationships -- and the haunting recognition of toxic relationship behaviors -- manifests in an almost unseen monster. The monster becomes more visible to us, the audience, as the film takes us through Hank's recollections of his romance and where it went wrong. Beginning with brighter memories, he recalls Abby as loving and sweet, the two of them comfortable and humorous in their early scenes together. Other than learning about their past and establishing the main theme, the first half of the movie is almost unbearably dull.
But then (spoiler alert!) Abby materializes again, out of nowhere, and Hank doesn't quite know what to do with her. Or himself. The movie's best scene comes shortly thereafter, as the two of them sit in the hallway, awkwardly spaced apart, drinking and waiting for the monster to appear. She's clearly uneasy (Hank is drinking heavily and wielding a shotgun), but as it's her birthday she seems intent on having a tough discussion. In the 13-ish-minute scene, filmed as a single take, the two people dialogue their way through the rough stuff in their past; his microaggressions and control, her uncommunicated longing for more. In many ways, the brilliant writing and effective performances in this riveting scene feel like a short film that better dramatizes and explains everything up to this point and could exist fully on its own without the hullabaloo that comes after.
It's a cruel sort of some-to-Jesus scene that encapsulates their character, their emotional baggage, their exposition, their conflict, and their aim toward resolution. Sort of. Hank still has trouble looking Abby in the eye, but it's hard to feel pity so much as disdain for him as he swigs his drink and manhandles his gun. In my opinion, this scene is the only reality of these characters we can trust. It is unedited, unscored, and unembellished by effects; it is not memory, nor is it the possible insanity of an isolated, aggrieved man. But it's also left unresolved at the end of the scene, which moved forward to act two with renewed interest from this viewer.
Unfortunately, the film doesn't go much further into interesting areas. Abby, for her dubious integrity in returning, isn't treated like much of a dynamic character; indeed, the camera often views her as a subject of Hank's gaze (probably because the guy playing Hank is also the guy who wrote and directed everything). While we might hope she can encourage the sudden maturity of Hank, who is truly insufferable to witness as he mopes and whines and complains and indulges himself, we begin to realize that he is as monstrous as anything he faces. Almost. Wait for the end and decide for yourself.
Or don't, because it's really not that interesting.
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