Nous Sommes Toujours Là

I love horror that takes place around houses, conjures presence and unleashes energy. It's the gust of motion I'm after, the familiar geography thrown asunder by metaphysical winds that lift walls. Blood can be there or not, for me it's inhabiting something that is changed in the course, shown to be no thing, illusory, a prank of our investment in the idea of solid reality.

And this is horror that moves fast, dwells and conjures with some purity. Oh the parts are all familiar; old house with a presence in the basement, a bereaved couple moving in, small New England town harboring a secret. Some have likened it to a b-movie of old as if that were a bad thing, in fact that's part of the whole appeal. Not that it pays homage to movies of old as if they should be enshrined in our estimation but that it taps into a kind of energy we've forgotten.

You wouldn't be amiss of thinking of it with Fulci in mind, in those brief years when he could cut portals through his own murk. It's that type of lumbering energy that assuredly emanates from below, stands outside doors and makes floors creak before washing with blood. It knowingly mines that legacy but short of forcing it to be a certain type of film.