The Black Phone (dir. Scott Derrickson)
Scott Derrickson’s reemergence onto the scene after abandoning his Doctor Strange sequel, The Black Phone is a sturdy, emotionally resonant horror film. It operates in constant contrasts, with its vivid, idyllic suburban atmosphere disrupted by sudden, visceral acts of violence, its subterranean prison surrounded by towering mountains, its pair of central siblings flowing with interior fury and manic action. And, true to its roots in a piece of short horror fiction by Joe Hill, son of Stephen King, its most crucial dichotomy is between the real and the unreal, the pure brute physical violence of something all-too-human and the supernatural elements that rise to meet it.
Derrickson strikes a tonal balance much-missed in a lot of contemporary horror, aligning itself with the kind of King adaptations that flourished in the 80s and 90s. Unafraid of menace, but unexpectedly tender in its depiction of childhood, family, and the traumas and cycles of violence that emerge in close-knit communities, it lives in a kooky middleground between worlds characterized best in films like Pet Sematary or Misery, with prickly, ambiguous dynamics and a seriocomic suspense mode. His adult leads — Jeremy Davies, Ethan Hawke, James Ransone — are perfect for maintaining this register, imbuing their characters with feeling while easily embodying their respective cliches. Davies in particular is a delight to see in a mainstream movie like this, and he makes a meal out of the minimal work he has to do.
The power, and pathos, is all in the child performances. Mason Thames and Madeleine McGraw are terrific as a kidnapped boy and his sister who makes it her mission to find him; the chemistry they establish early in the film emanates in every scene they appear in alone, and their twinned, interconnecting metaphysical journeys form a perfect narrative balance between the claustrophobia of Thames’ imprisonment and McGraw’s stylish, captivating forays into her maybe-supernatural dreamscapes.
Most impressive is how Derrickson handles the central horror; what might play out solely as convenient, capricious suspense setpieces — powerful in their own right, but less sticky or emotionally compelling — come together to convey something unexpectedly powerful. Death, trauma, and violence, a morass of metaphysical devastation, is reoriented toward liberation; a cycle of violence, one hopes, is expunged as two opposing forces synthesize. There’s a stunning simplicity to it all, from the clear, geometric compositions of Derrickson’s images to the brute force of its ensuing action. The result is stunningly cathartic, and even with its transparent flaws — rooted, as its virtues are, in its Kingian archetypes — it emerges as one of the most roundly enjoyable blockbuster horror experiences in recent memory.
