You don’t have to fight it.
The earliest lines in Trey Edward Shults’s film are delivered from behind a gas mask, addressing an elder’s unmasked face. The images are striking — centered in the frame, as natural light illuminates a gorgeous wooded backdrop —which amplifies the horrific event that follows, and perfectly sets the tone for the rest of the film. Revisiting it during this particular moment in history — as a global pandemic disrupts all notions of normalcy — only adds to its power.
Schults’s film was released in 2017, on the heels of an ad campaign selling a far more traditional horror offering. This might be the reason general audiences were far less receptive (44%) than the critics (at 87%) over at Rotten Tomatoes. It Comes at Night is certainly a horror movie; however, unlike typical genre fare, it doesn’t work to displace our fear by exorcising it on screen — it asks us to sit with it and let it linger. There is no catharsis in this story.
The thrust of the plot is barebones. Paul (Joel Edgerton), Sarah (Carmen Ejogo) and Travis (Kelvin Harrison Jr.)— the central family and our protagonists (father, mother, and son, respectively)— are living in isolation after societal collapse. Their solitary existence is interrupted when Will (Christopher Abbott), the patriarch of a family sheltering elsewhere, breaks into Paul and Sarah’s house looking for supplies. Our protagonists restrain Will for several days and gradually learn more about his circumstances. Eventually, they decide to let Will and his son, Andrew (Griffin Robert Faulkner), and wife, Kim (Riley Keough), cohabitate in their home. The affinity between families constantly shifts — at times genial, at times suspicious — and Shults expertly mines suspense from this tenuous relationship.
The strange sickness which caused the societal collapse in this film is highly infectious, and its terminal stage is never explicitly shown on screen. Shults relays just enough information for us to know that it sets in quickly, and whoever has it must be just as quickly eliminated. In this reality, infected bodies are cremated as soon as they are rendered lifeless. Offhand, Night of the Living Dead comes to mind as corpses are set ablaze, and the influence of other genre staples is evident: the symmetrical compositions and patience of The Shining; the body horror of Cronenberg; the paranoia of The Thing.
These tropes have been utilized by dozens of filmmakers to varying effect; luckily, Shults finds a perfect anchor in Harrison’s performance as Travis. Small moments of joy, connection, and arousal are amplified by their absence in such a formerly solitary existence. As Travis listens to his new housemates through the walls, his body animates, he laughs through wide smiles, his eyes narrow with concern. We gather it’s probably the first time he’s seen a woman other than his mother from a brief late-night conversation with Kim; his first experience as an older sibling as he walks a sleepy Andrew to bed.
Harrison’s performance makes the ultimate horror of the film visceral. The denouement of It Comes at Night is staggeringly grim, and one could see these elements metastasizing into nihilistic misery porn under different circumstances — grim for grim’s sake. But the film transcends mere edginess through its craftsmanship and honesty.
And something about the film was calling me as the days began their bleeding together; as the reality of our moment begins to settle in. Subjecting oneself to a movie about a believable apocalypse — arbitrary, cruel, and sudden — doesn’t seem like a sane decision when circumstances in the world are removed by a small measure of degrees.
But I wonder: how are we spending our time? Binging on Netflix? Chipping away on a crafting project? Learning a new skill? Laughing at memes? Getting in fights with strangers on the internet? Reconnecting with old friends? Spending time in the garden? Reading through that backlog of books? Resting?
My first experience with It Comes at Night was intense. As the credits rolled, I remained frozen to my seat on the couch, feeling the trickle of each warm tear escaping the corners of my eyes, chest heavy with a rhythmic, meditative sob which made no sound. I was in grief.
Over the years since, the film has managed to make its way into my recommendations. Of course I felt miserable after that first viewing, but I couldn’t deny the powerful storytelling, strong visuals, and effectiveness of its horror. It Comes at Night came and went from the public consciousness with nary a whisper, and to me, that is a shame in need of absolution.
Right now, as extraordinary conditions leave their mark on our collective psyche, we need to function, stay connected, learn, and relate. We also need to grieve. Those of us with a penchant for the macabre and an appreciation of offbeat cinema will find a direct route to that shadowy place in It Comes at Night. Its horror comes from grief. Sit with it for a while.
I promise you’ll feel better when it’s over.
