Night Swim (2024)

Score: 1.5 / 5

What an unfortunate start to 2024. January, jokingly known as the graveyard or dump of horror films, gets a bad rap because of films like this, coming on the tails of awards season and reminding people why sometimes it's better to stay at home in the winter. And this particular title -- one that frankly seemed out of place in this snowy season but suggested intriguing originality -- heralded the first theatrical release of the newly merged horror superstudios (Jason Blum's) Blumhouse and (James Wan's) Atomic Monster. We all deserved better.

You go into a film like this expecting shlock, at least to some extent. An inanimate object or place that eats people? It's B-movie material at best, either in the form of a murderous doll or carnivorous car or a sentient hungry house, and that's partly what makes it fun. What clever kills can we expect? What harebrained nonsense can the writers string together to make a mildly compelling plot? After all, if it's an inanimate object, you can always get rid of it, right? If it's a location, you can just leave. Sometimes these films will surprise us with arthouse ventures like In Fabric, and reach for more lofty, heady ideas layered in symbolism and parable. But those are rare exceptions. Evidently.

Night Swim is indeed a horror film about a haunted suburban pool. SPOILER ALERT (not that it matters, really) because this paragraph will briefly summarize the plot. A typical Americana family moves into a house that features a backyard pool that is, notably, spring fed; it seems ideal for them, as the father recently had to retire from baseball due to illness. Using the pool for his physical therapy, the father grows healthier, but his cat and children are attacked by something in the pool, not to mention the ghostly apparitions that stalk the family by day and night. They eventually learn the spring was originally a healing spring that required sacrifices, and this time, to satisfy the father's wish for healing, it attempts to claim the life of one of his children.

That's about it for plot, as well as character, which leaves a lot of time and energy for... what, exactly? Certainly not character, and the reasonably likable actors all seem disheartened to be in such a mess of a movie. Presumably atmosphere, effects, and thrills are the focus, then. Spectacle is the name of the game in flicks like this, and actually I didn't hate everything the filmmakers brought to the table in this regard. Charlie Sarroff's cinematography is sometimes really wonderful here, finding visually entrancing moments of terror in a pristine backyard lit from below by a cool blue light only to have the light flicker out. Annoying as they can be, shots from the camera bobbing in and out of the pool at water level -- accompanied by solid sound mixing -- serve to concurrently immerse the viewer and bewilder the viewer; anyone who has ever swum knows that particularly vulnerable position of not being able to see both under and above water while you're in it.

Truth be told, the concept of a natural wishing well is pretty cool, and I would have liked the film to lean into that mystique more. Not in the Stephen King Pet Sematary way of making it an old Native American burial ground, although multiple times during this screening my friend and I wondered aloud if it would go in that direction, a la Poltergeist. Not even really in a "Monkey's Paw" manner. But, in retrospect, there was room for a lot of fascinating ideas around water, baptism, rebirth, therapy, and submersion that could have come into play. Hell, even M. Night Shyamalan's popularly unpopular Lady in the Water (which should be critically reappraised because it's a beautiful dark fantasy years ahead of its time) had more tricks up its sleeve regarding the nature and magic of a swimming pool. 

Instead, we got a film in which the water does nothing except occasionally "swallow" people into a void that visually rips off the "sunken place" in Get Out, slow motion and bright floating rectangle included. That's it for water features. Everything else is blurry bluish ghosts prowling around the pool and house, looking like waterlogged ghosts of J-horror fame as they'd appear in a Pirates of the Caribbean knockoff. The jump scares are mostly predictable and ineffective, though a few potentially fearsome moments had me bracing for the worst, which never really came. Writer and director Bryce McGuire, in his directorial debut, tries to follow formula at every turn, hamstringing his own efforts at realizing what could have been a cool idea of ancient evil, water's revenge, the insatiable nature of, well, nature against modern man.

Alternatively, this could have been equally satisfying if the pool remained a malevolent mystery. What if a suburban pool just ate people? No ghosts, no magic, no wishes. Just occasionally vanished someone from the midst of a pool party. Maybe you'd find a few teeth or jewelry or bone shards in the gurgling filter now and again. I'd have watched that, too. Anything other than what we got.

The Banshees of Inisherin (2022)

Score: 4.5 / 5

I don't think anyone expected Martin McDonagh, amidst his successful films, to craft a new work that is essentially a filmed play. The Banshees of Inisherin would fit perfectly on stage, preferably in cycle with his earlier plays; even its title reminds us of most of those (The Beauty Queen of Leenane, A Skull in Connemara, The Cripple of Inishmaan, and The Lieutenant of Inishmore). In various ways and to differing degrees, each highlights the lives of rural, eccentric Irish characters around the Galway region; each also thematically deals with desperation, concerns over personal authenticity and coping with a bleak life, and the universality and inevitability of horrific violence. They are, as in all of McDonagh's work, formally challenging to theatre norms, vicious in their attempts to upset their audience, and wickedly hilarious if you're willing to tap into his particular brand of absurd black comedy. In these ways, The Banshees of Inisherin feels like the most purely McDonagh of McDonagh's films, and that's pretty surprising to see these days from an auteur so far into his career.

We knew Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson were among the best performers of McDonagh's delicious writing style -- and have terrific chemistry to boot -- from their roles in In Bruges in 2008. This time, however, they play lifetime best friends well at ease in their idyllic home, the titular (and fictional) island where it's sunny by day and only rainy by night. Pádraic (Farrell) is a milk farmer who lives with his sister Siobhán (Kerry Condon) in a comfortable life, in which his only real entertainment is going out drinking at the local pub with his longtime friend Colm (Gleeson). Apparently they've done the same routine for many years. One wonders exactly what is going on internally here, as neither show much interest in anything else. At least, until the inciting incident of this particular story.

Suddenly -- without warning or clear reason -- Colm starts to ignore Pádraic. He declares he no longer wants to be friends, which is tough enough, but he actively begins to ignore Pádraic's presence socially. Pádraic can't quite deal with it, and so he aggressively tries to clarify what's going on. Over the course of a couple stilted, deeply uncomfortable confrontations, we learn that Colm simply finds Pádraic dull and distracting; to be fair, Pádraic isn't a particularly insightful or engaging conversationalist, but he is mostly contented and genuinely sweet. Colm has decided he has better things to do with his time than sit and drink and talk about the same old things. He wants to compose folk songs on his fiddle, something he can be remembered for. We learn eventually why he wants to be remembered, as he tells his parish priest about his despair; he's also suffering medically, as it turns out.

Interestingly, and despite Farrell's bankable and reliable likeability, the first part of the film seems intent to make us sympathize with Colm. Though Pádraic is arguably the protagonist, he's a bit obnoxious in his understandable desperation to reclaim his best friend. Colm's peaceful stoicism and increased age prompts us to question more than once, "Why can't Pádraic just leave him alone?" It doesn't help that, during his grieving process, Pádraic befriends Dominic (Barry Keoghan), a shockingly rude and deeply troubled local boy who is the son of an abusive policeman. Dominic only really seems into the situation for personal gain, whether it's for entertainment value regarding the conflict or to get closer to Pádraic's sister, who rejects his advances. We can tell Dominic isn't good for Pádraic, but what else is the bereaved man to do?

Especially when, and this is the crux of the matter, Colm declares that if Pádraic continues to accost him and disrespect his wishes for isolation, Colm will begin to remove his own fingers with sheep shears. Remember that he's a fiddle player, and so this is a bizarre and indeed absurd reaction, gruesome and self-sabotaging in the worst way. I don't want to spoil too much about this development, because it becomes the primary source of tension and, oddly, humor, as the tragicomedy progresses. It's McDonagh's signature style, and it forces us into an absorbing horrific fascination as we ask just how far this story will go, and to what end.

In true McDonagh fashion, the film's eccentricities and absurdism belie deep and dark thematic truths. Namely, it's important here that the film takes place in 1923 as the Irish Civil War comes to a close; more than once characters mention hearing guns on the mainland. I suppose the relationship between Colm and Pádraic is meant to allegorize or symbolize the broken brotherhood of Ireland at the time, though I confess not knowing enough about the conflict to theorize much beyond that. But it's clear it means specific things to the writer-director, who is much more comfortable in this territory than he was in trying to dramatize police corruption and sexual crimes in rural America in his previous film. And, for anyone unfamiliar with his work, McDonagh is an extraordinarily talented master of difficult tone while allowing for surprisingly sensitive, tender moments. He empowers the actors to embrace silences, and then gives them some of the juiciest dialogue from any working screenwriter today.

Bad Samaritan (2018)

Score: 1 / 5

I knew going in it wouldn't be a favorite, but nothing prepared me for this trashy, ugly, and downright stupid mess of a movie.

In a Frankenstein conglomeration of (better) movie references, Bad Samaritan sets off as the story of Sean and Derek who work as valets and, while their clients are eating, burgle houses. Unfortunately, they break into one that belongs to a serial killer and come across a kidnapped girl. Panicking, they do several more stupid things and get the serial killer hunting them too.

The two boys (played by Robert Sheehan and Carlito Olivero) may be pretty, but no amount of big round eyes or spicy accents can save them from themselves. Unbearably stupid, they put the blonde girls of '70s slasher movies to shame, and by the halfway point of the film -- which lasts almost two torturous hours -- I was rooting for them to die already.

Which is saying a lot, because the serial killer was also a total waste. Apparently tormented by a memory of killing prized horses (because that's such a compelling backstory?), he has turned his attentions to "breaking" young women. Well, and possibly men, but the movie seems to take delight in sadistically torturing the women. Too harsh? Try the camera that lingers on the body of our protagonist's girlfriend, or the repeated shots ad nauseam of the kidnapped girl strapped to a chair with a severely bruised face. David Tennant plays the killer (whose real name is irrelevant by the time we actually learn it) with bizarre mood swings and a few moments of psychotic rage that made me snort out loud in the theater. I will never understand why people think he's such a great actor.

The movie isn't bad just because of him, though. The story, while maybe a little interesting, is an irritating blend of plot points from other things, and feels like it was written to be a fanfic corruption of Don't Breathe with a few extra scenes from Disturbia and a rich version of Buffalo Bill from The Silence of the Lambs. The plot plods along slowly with sudden revelations and contrivances that are more groan-inducing than anything. A single screenshot of the killer's face and suddenly the FBI knows his identity, his criminal history, and his entire psychological profile? I think not, honey. Characters are flat and outrageously stupid until random moments when their ineptitude pays off; yeah, I'm thinking of that Chekhov bolt cutter under the seat.

The only thing I liked about this movie -- except Robert Sheehan's voice, eyes, hair, and outfits -- are the sets of the killer's house (gorgeous) and the hero's flat (comfy). But when you hate all the characters and the camerawork is rudimentary and uninspired and the score sounds like it was lifted out of someone else's equally poor movie, a couple nice sets are not enough to distract you from how much time you're wasting watching this garbage.

By the by, this movie was even less enjoyable than The Snowman. At least that one was pretty. Have we reached an age where serial killers have to live on television to be interesting? God, I hope not.

IMDb: Bad Samaritan