A mysterious woman repeatedly appears in a family's front yard, often delivering chilling warnings and unsettling messages, leaving them to question her identity, motives and the potential danger s...
Blumhouse has a knack for completely upending my expectations and irritating me to no end; it's become such a frequent occurrence that I've almost become numb to their antics. It's as if I've slipped into a state of apathy, where the quality of their films barely register with me anymore, whether they're gems, complete flops or just disposable dishwater. But then you get to that one film that is so churlish, impertinent and so audacious that it obliterates my cynical barriers, strips away the protective layers of my apathy and leaves me seething.
“Woman In the Yard” may not be everything I hate about horror movies but it’s still a special kind of uncomfortable.
So, this is perhaps the 1,000th horror film out there that strands this story’s events through a home invasion lens and it is perhaps the most pedestrian example yet on how to execute such a classic subgenre. I can understand comparing the supposed crippling uneasy atmosphere to your average Twilight Zone experience but Twilight Zone episodes are normally given more to chew on than this noticeable retread of The Babadook. Bareboned, inert, sparse and heavy-handed in every which way, Sam Stefanak’s script is somehow both straightforward and thinly sketched at the same time. It tells more than it shows, dissipating the entire sense of tension it wants to manifest with a film structure that mirrors that awkwardness and while I do prefer horror films that work on suggestion rather than blunt force explicit hand-waving, that strategy is immediately rendered moot when the plot suffers so much narrative whiplash from every question you answer, it has to tie itself into knots to keep you engaged.
As if delving deeper into the bowels of grief and trauma weren’t overused enough in modern horror, they rarely do anything interesting with those topics and instead flirt with possession, mirror worlds, temporal displacement and leaves the racial dynamics of the story completely unexplored; typical Blumhouse shenanigans thrown in that rarely has anything to do with what the film sets up beforehand. As heartbreaking and devastating the family drama portions of this movie are, it quickly dissolves into darkness induced audience apathy and I’m left mentally checking out regarding the fates of these characters since they’re so underwritten; we’ve seen the struggling mother and checkered duality of separate halves bit before but this movie isn’t smart enough to solidify its own thesis to build off of that.
Its third act however throws all that misplaced confidence into chaos, suddenly pestering you left, right and center with sensory overload, quickly and carelessly blowing up plot holes and switching rules on the fly for the sake of a more ‘tense’ climax. Poltergeisting the proceedings so close to the finish line, it completely gives up trying to make sense of whether The Woman is a monster or a metaphor (which yes, it does matter) or even sticking to the grounded logic it established for the first two acts. It is the very definition of counterproductive.
Speaking of that ending, there are two ways to interpret this and I really had to mull it over for a while ‘cause I can’t help but feel like a hypocrite in bringing this up: on one side of the argument, I understand the intention. Depictions of depression and suicidal ideation are not beyond the pale in this genre, and given how oversaturated and frequently exploitative it is, this movie makes a real effort to engage with them thoughtfully. Diving into Carl Jung’s psychoanalytic theory 101, it tries taking that one step further by presenting our protagonist’s unhealed trauma as a physical manifestation haunting not just her but also her family. Taking this route, I could almost appreciate the film’s broad “face your inner demons” ethos and for what it’s worth, I kinda respect that they actually had the balls to go as far as they did. Still, I absolutely LOATHED the manner in which they executed this. Capping off the final act with this did nothing but muddy an intentionally ambiguous and dark denouement that it doesn’t even earn, made even worse by its indecision to commit to either like it suddenly wants to be a choose-your-own-adventure game. And the execution of that delivery left me feeling gaslit. Not only does it come off irresponsible and dangerous, in a day and age where suicide rates continue to increase and a growing percentage of young people are not happy with life in general, this is the absolute last thing anybody plagued with those thoughts, suffering from chronic depression or worse needs to hear.
For a movie packing such a sensitive topic, it’s not exactly a good look.
The only partially redeeming aspect of all that narrative dross is Jaume Collet-Serra’s directing, one that subtly echoes the Twilight Zone’s kafkaesque surreality. His approach does dwell on the psychological barriers in a hesitant yet cautious manner, being very patient in illustrating the gradual decline of a person’s hope and how that despair tightens its grip and overshadows everything else.
For all the intrinsic benefits that a small scale can bring to a film's creativity, this production design does show both the advantages and inherent drawbacks to that. There’s a very Southern gothic folklore vibe that overtakes the aura and atmosphere of events that transpire, trapping us in this very turgid, boxed-in perspective by design and it does utilize its limited surroundings to make the most out of its environment. And yet, it can only do so much when said artistic sensibilities can’t prevent you from feeling the walls of said limitations still caving in.
Presentation for this one had an uphill battle to climb and needless to say, its technical elements do more of the heavy lifting this time. For someone that’s worked on Hereditary and Midsommar, Pawel Pogorzelski’s cinematography here feels surprisingly muted. There are a couple shots that evoke that oppressive murky haunted house dread over the entire runtime and gives out a more somber quality better than the script but for the most part, both that and the editing are fairly competent and nothing more. Fortunately, the film's lighting and the interplay of shadows are nothing short of extraordinary.
Clocking in at only 88 minutes, the runtime somehow breezes by and lumbers along awkwardly. I appreciate the dedication to making a slow burning feature but the pacing still took a while to get to its chaotic climax, testing my patience. At least the tone is mostly consistent, costumes are uninspired but make decent use of color psychology, Lorne Balfe put in exceptional effort on the musical score for this piece, pairing it with a dynamic sound design and in stark contrast to previous Blumhouse projects, we finally have a cast that massively overshadows the material they were given. It’s a small cast anyways but in contrast to Night Swim, Imaginary, Wolf Man or even FNAF, everyone’s either immensely solid or giving 110% despite being stuck to highlight only one clear characteristic.
Danielle Deadwyler is hauntingly visceral as a mother and widow teetering on the brink, and despite very limited screen presence, Okwui Okpokwasili harnesses her quality with chilling intensity, turning each glance and gesture into a sinister presence.
While the distasteful denouement marred the experience, I must stay impartial. This genre strives to push boundaries, and this movie somewhat succeeds through unconventional methods but despite earnest performances and interesting thematic ambitions, the indecisive metaphorical messaging and a tonally dissonant ending undermine it all.
