'Longlegs' briefing

3 (out of 4)

            “I don’t give a shit about the Bible” — Writer/Director Osgood Perkins

Though it may nip from the same stupid horror-mystery-thriller serial-killer-police-procedural playbook, this ain’t The Snowman — Oz Perkins, son of Anthony Perkins, has been quietly cultivating some serious sensory skills as the ‘other’ indie arthouse horror guy just recently made mainstream, I guess apart from Mike Flanagan or Robert Eggers or Ari Aster or whoever comes to mind quickest. Longlegs could be called an ode to much greater movies of the same warm, eerie, investigative ilk, namely Michael Mann’s Manhunter, Jonathan Demme’s The Silence of the Lambs, David Fincher’s Seven and Zodiac, Bong Joon-Ho’s Memories of Murder, Denis Villeneuve’s Prisoners and most immediately Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s chilling 1997 masterpiece Cure, in which our killer seemingly bewitches his victims into performing horrible acts on our hands-free psycho’s behalf. 

Whatever pastiche Longlegs is liable for, ’tis a certain turnaround and more comfortable way to try out the spotlight than whatever idiotic imprint in pop consciousness was left by his last, 2019’s Gretel & Hansel, a feeble dark fantasy interminably stretched. Perkins fourth film is a technically exquisite horror flick, with arrangements so indelibly predisposed, guerrilla marketing so sharp, its cult flavor basically built-in before the divided audience reactions — within the inviting, autumnal palette, there’s a tasteful balance of extreme wides in an otherwise claustrophobic concoction of enigmatic summer counter-programming, not to mention a sparing, bewildering Nicolas Cage performance for more memorable color. Oz’s typically opaque, ethereal, grimly gorgeous affairs range from the narratively leisurely (or glacial in Gretel’s case), borderline translucent gothic ghost tales of Netflix’s I Am the Pretty Thing that Lives in the House to his drab debut The Blackcoat’s Daughter and it’s own teenage shade of devil-dabbling murder mania. Even the most primitive example of Perkins’ distanced, aurally spacious and psychologically obscured proclivities are recognizable as part of a brand of freaky, story-light, old-fashioned instinct and restraint.

But Longlegs, with its more focused, fleshed out screenwriting and marvelous imagery, quickly dissolves from proper police work to an inscrutable cinematic “reality” built around the creepiest uncle you forgot about — but another ride on Ozzy’s crazy train actually leaves you APPROPRIATELY, INTENTIONALLY vexed this time! It might just be a mini-classic simply based on the painstaking composition of its meditative, nostalgic style and the help of an it-girl anchor like Maika Monroe front and center as the near-psychic, indeterminately autistic young detective/birthday girl. With The Guest, It Follows (plus it’s due sequel They Follow, soon, hopefully) and Watcher in her pocket, Ms. Monroe has already become a coveted RBF scream queen fit for the modern age, even more than Sophia Lillis (where’s she been?) seemed to become thanks to Gretel, rearing her work in 2017’s It. Apart from a mess of Cage meme-moments to rest along 20 others (in a rare villainous role, it’s pretty much Face/Off otherwise), there’s Alicia Witt as the naggy religious mom (with more skeletons in her closet than magic murder dolls), Blair Underwood as the cool, black, comic relief Police Chief for that true late 20th century feel, plus a bonus creepy Kiernan Shipka, who may as well be reprising her grown-up bad-seed role from Blackcoat’s Daughter.

I wish Oz was tactile with more than sheer atmosphere, since the inevitable upfront aversion to this film’s story is because playing things straight here in our fucked up world is more acceptable than bringing Satan into the picture — for obsessives, apparently there are 15(!) appearances by “the man downstairs” himself hidden in some shadowy Easter egg form. But even with early psychic setups (as well as the impossibility of the murders) we're foolish for expecting an episodic, easy answer, like how it always pan out. “Ah, of course there’s no ghosts, no God, fucking idiot!” That’s all before Oz’s mystifying marionette misdirections but, for breaking the mold, the hand he plays is hard to be mad at. The preternatural element is an Achilles heel, but it doesn’t hold Longlegs back exactly — like Blackcoat’s Daughter, you’re not in trouble just for introducing extrasensory evil and there’s no film of his so far that doesn’t. At least it takes that impressively dumb twist from The Black Phone (what if the crazy psycho I’m tryna catch actually lived in the basement?) and almost makes it work.

His curious, esoteric trimmings include corny, outdated orchestral flair to juxtapose its 70s rock backdrop of T Rex and Lou Reed (sorta like the other Cage insta-cult-classic Mandy, with loosely tied-in metal/rock ’n’ roll for tone, including lyrics as opening quotes and all), 8mm/16mm montages of nonsensical, abstract subconscious flashes and just myriad aesthetic artistry so thank the Lord (OF DARKNESS) that Longlegs’ script has just enough meat on its bones to resist accusing of style over substance. I can’t believe it roughly adds up in spite of supernatural shenanigans and its deflating parting — Oz makes you wish it were much longer by climaxing with no comedown, so if he hasn’t lost you with the actual satanic witchcraft, special effects right from Lynch’s latest, you may be taken aback by such a blueballed cut-to-credits for somehow this guy’s least frustrating feature yet. Regardless of an almost possessed need to weave the unreal into the mundane, Longlegs indeed delivers on the promise of Perkins’ so far predominantly unrealized gifts.

Even at its toughest to swallow, it’s still one of the year’s best so far, if not exactly a new horror classic then a near-great one. Perkins may be too precious with having you feel like you’re watching a 30-year old movie, but his gauge on calming creepiness is exacting. The first half is as arresting as I’ve seen in some time, and in sum we’ll have to settle for one of the best dressed spookers of the last decade ’n' change, and just wait to see how its reputation waxes or wanes — for scary movies that radically redirect partway through, like Barbarian it might become a curiosity rather than a genre touchstone. No points can be given for originality considering its laundry list of influences, but for once Perkins didn’t need any short-film-premise padding, no instead this movie has distinct acts and a few shocking moments. I couldn’t care less about CG blood, oh no where are my gosh darn squibs! Sorry I don’t have THAT much devotion to the 90s .

As someone with a birthday on the 14th, I was spooped. Longlegs is too engrossing to be upset by the stubbornly strange unveiled mystery — cult films this cryptic and calculated are as uncommon as a movie character quoting the Bible outside the horror genre (or mainstream Christian cinema, I’ll get you one day Angel Studios!), and Perkins' best yet is as singular as a Peter Strickland rabbit hole and as ideal a picture as someone like Ti West could ever make. Sure, it’s a little more Amityville Horror and less The Shining, though his outlandishness is operating on familiar levels of Stephen King crazy and, wouldn’t you know it, his speedy follow-up is a King adaptation The Monkey due in February, not to mention another horror project Keeper scheduled a few months later in Fall 2025. I'd prefer overly-influenced originality, but I'll be more than interested how his stone-faced senselessness bounces off a legacy lunatic — with Longlegs it's like he's already well on his way to cuckoo town.