By KEN MICHAELS
Starring Brandy Norwood, Kathryn Hunter and Andrew Burnap
Written and directed by Max Eggers and Sam Eggers
A24
The trailers for THE FRONT ROOM seemed to promise a new camp classic, perhaps on the order of some of the classic “hagsploitation” flicks from which it seems to draw inspiration. The movie itself holds the same promise, though it’s sometimes unclear how much of the goings-on here are supposed to be intentionally funny.
Certainly, A24 seems to be anticipating a lot of callbacks to the screen, releasing an anti-“No talking” PSA in which star Brandy Norwood encourages audiences to “Get Loud”:
And they’re probably not wrong. Writer/directors Max and Sam Eggers have demonstrably stepped away from their brother Robert’s approach to terror with this one, which is as unsubtle and crass as THE WITCH and THE LIGHTHOUSE are studied and deliberate. There are some time-honored genre themes touched on here, but the tonal mismatch between these subjects and the execution is signposted by the opening-credits music, which combines classical scoring with theremin doodlings. THE FRONT ROOM also takes significant liberties with the Susan Hill short story on which it’s based; the tale of an act of Christian charity gone awry here becomes a post-GET OUT study of racial antagonism amped up to horrific dimensions, strewn with bits and pieces of ROSEMARY’S BABY and a whole lot of bodily expulsions.
Norwood, back in the horror genre years after I STILL KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST SUMMER, plays Belinda, a professor dealing with work issues (attempting to meet with the head of her department, she gets a patronizing assistant instead) and doubts about her impending motherhood with husband Norman (Andrew Burnap). Just the use of that name will put genre fans in mind of a guy who had serious mommy problems, and the Eggerses are evidently trying to one-up Mrs. Bates with Solange (Kathryn Hunter), Norman’s stepmother. With her husband just passed on, Solange comes to live with the couple, waving the promise of a substantial inheritance under their noses to get them to agree. Once in their house, she insists on moving into the titular space, which they had earmarked as their baby’s room, and that’s just the beginning of her manipulation and domination of the household.
Hunter won a couple of major awards for playing the witches in THE TRAGEDY OF MACBETH, and while Solange isn’t an actual sorceress (though she is insanely devoted to religion, which in this movie’s view is pretty much the same thing), she’s a wicked and monstrous one, all right. Hunched over, getting around on walking sticks that make amped-up thumps on the floor, she’s an elderly, wizened lady from Southern hell who lords it over weak-willed Norman and subjects Belinda to all sorts of bigoted aggressions. Oh, and lots of urine and fecal matter staining and mucking her clothing and bed, over and over again. Hunter attacks the part for all it’s worth, and her drawling-demonic performance is the best thing about THE FRONT ROOM. It is indeed easy to imagine audiences cheering Belinda on to stop trying to keep the peace and tolerating this incontinent interloper, and to throw her out or bust her head or both.
But it’s also easy to imagine them getting frustrated with Belinda’s inaction, since Solange’s freakshow is pretty much all the movie has to offer, and she’s so obviously deranged early on that the tension doesn’t build. Solange’s behavior becomes increasingly bizarre (from speaking in tongues to making goo-goo “racist baby” noises) without revealing anything new about her, and the gusto with which Hunter plays her isn’t matched by any surprising turns regarding her character. There is an unexpected development toward the end, which does leave one curious as to where the story is going next, and then leads to a conclusion that doesn’t have the cathartic kick it should.
Norwood is earnest and likable enough as the straight woman for Solange’s insanity, and something a little more resonant could have been achieved here if the racial conflict had been allowed to develop in meaningful ways. Instead, it remains on a level of perfunctory outrage as the Eggerses repeatedly go for the scatological gross-outs. Perhaps the incessant excretion was meant to elicit a growing sense of discomfort in the audience, but it quickly becomes the same old shit.
