The eponymous bogeyman of The Babadook is the stuff of childhood nightmares -- a twisted specter, clad in black, ominous and overwhelming, who burrows into your home in the night and refuses to leave. The fact that it’s supposedly born from a children’s pop-up book doesn’t ease any of the dread; it might actually heighten the scares, as if something so innocent could never yield such unflinching terror. Could it?
A confident, stylish debut feature from actress/director Jennifer Kent, The Babadook begins with the death of Amelia’s husband on the night she goes into labor. She loses her husband but gives birth to a son, Samuel, whose birthday is forever intrinsically linked to his father’s death. Now about to turn seven, Samuel has grown increasingly violent and volatile; and Amelia has regressed emotionally. She doesn’t know how to raise Samuel anymore; and the implication we’re left with is a parent who’s slowly admitting she may not like her child. So when Samuel asks her to read a bedtime story called Mister Babadook, a mysterious pop-up book that warns of an impending darkness that will never go away, Amelia’s life is turned upside down.
Horror films are a particular favorite of mine because they are dramatic in an unabashed, shameless way that no other genre can afford. They can bend nearly all the rules of storytelling and still be considered a success. Horror film logic is often incomprehensible but nearly always forgiven; its exhilarance inextricably tied to its overt ridiculousness. Could anyone possibly imagine The Exorcist as a period drama without writing it off as melodramatic and stupid?
Perhaps The Babadook’s simple construction belies its efficacy. The film slowly builds tension in the house like a poisonous gas escaping a valve -- you may not notice its harmful effects until you’re already passed out on the floor. But tension-building is no easy feat; unlike handheld “found footage” thrillers that rely on haphazard disorientation and feigned confusion for shock, Kent molds the idea of dread through precise composition, intricate sound designs, and judicious editing. Amelia begins the story framed centrally -- she’s controlled, solid, and sure -- only to waver further and further off kilter by the film’s third act. There are moments when the camera follows Amelia through dark hallways as she chases noises in the night that seemingly come from nowhere and everywhere; she is constantly one beat to the right or to the left, off center, off balance. There are moments of suffocating silence, as we prepare ourselves for a creak or a knock or a boom that may or may not come. There are unnerving frames of negative space behind characters’ shoulders, dark voids on the screen where something, anything, maybe moved back there. Or did it?
Kent seems to relish all the storytelling tricks up her sleeve. But like any good movie, The Babadook is more than the sum of its parts. This isn’t just a movie with a few good scares in it; it’s an exploration of a mother-son relationship that grants the movie an emotional richness that mimics real life (this central conflict plays as a somewhat less sinister cousin of We Need to Talk About Kevin). The titular monster can be interpreted as many things; but its efficacy as a symbol must be grafted onto Amelia’s journey. Even when she’s doing and saying hideous things to her son, we fundamentally understand Amelia as a lonely, wounded, possibly insane but loving mother. She’s trying to learn and to grow as a parent and as a person. She’s facing her demons, as Kent describes the point of the story:
A confident, stylish debut feature from actress/director Jennifer Kent, The Babadook begins with the death of Amelia’s husband on the night she goes into labor. She loses her husband but gives birth to a son, Samuel, whose birthday is forever intrinsically linked to his father’s death. Now about to turn seven, Samuel has grown increasingly violent and volatile; and Amelia has regressed emotionally. She doesn’t know how to raise Samuel anymore; and the implication we’re left with is a parent who’s slowly admitting she may not like her child. So when Samuel asks her to read a bedtime story called Mister Babadook, a mysterious pop-up book that warns of an impending darkness that will never go away, Amelia’s life is turned upside down.
Horror films are a particular favorite of mine because they are dramatic in an unabashed, shameless way that no other genre can afford. They can bend nearly all the rules of storytelling and still be considered a success. Horror film logic is often incomprehensible but nearly always forgiven; its exhilarance inextricably tied to its overt ridiculousness. Could anyone possibly imagine The Exorcist as a period drama without writing it off as melodramatic and stupid?
Perhaps The Babadook’s simple construction belies its efficacy. The film slowly builds tension in the house like a poisonous gas escaping a valve -- you may not notice its harmful effects until you’re already passed out on the floor. But tension-building is no easy feat; unlike handheld “found footage” thrillers that rely on haphazard disorientation and feigned confusion for shock, Kent molds the idea of dread through precise composition, intricate sound designs, and judicious editing. Amelia begins the story framed centrally -- she’s controlled, solid, and sure -- only to waver further and further off kilter by the film’s third act. There are moments when the camera follows Amelia through dark hallways as she chases noises in the night that seemingly come from nowhere and everywhere; she is constantly one beat to the right or to the left, off center, off balance. There are moments of suffocating silence, as we prepare ourselves for a creak or a knock or a boom that may or may not come. There are unnerving frames of negative space behind characters’ shoulders, dark voids on the screen where something, anything, maybe moved back there. Or did it?
Kent seems to relish all the storytelling tricks up her sleeve. But like any good movie, The Babadook is more than the sum of its parts. This isn’t just a movie with a few good scares in it; it’s an exploration of a mother-son relationship that grants the movie an emotional richness that mimics real life (this central conflict plays as a somewhat less sinister cousin of We Need to Talk About Kevin). The titular monster can be interpreted as many things; but its efficacy as a symbol must be grafted onto Amelia’s journey. Even when she’s doing and saying hideous things to her son, we fundamentally understand Amelia as a lonely, wounded, possibly insane but loving mother. She’s trying to learn and to grow as a parent and as a person. She’s facing her demons, as Kent describes the point of the story:
The idea of facing your shadow-side is my myth, something I think is really important in life. You see people who are really messed-up by not facing stuff, and that’s what all addiction is about. People become alcoholics or drug addicts because they can’t face something inside… You can’t kill the monster, you can only integrate it.
The pop-up book warns that “You can’t get rid of the Babadook.” That book, like this movie, seems to burrow deep into your mind and stay there. It doesn't so easily wash away after the lights come on. It endures.
