There's a terrible tension that arises between parents and children, as they stare across not only the dinner table but also the possibly insurmountable generation gap. The abyss that lies between is where The Humans wallows.
Stephen Karam writes and directs the film, which is based on his one-act play of the same name. Without knowing its origin story, you'd likely guess that The Humans was born on a stage. The characters speak in the kind of dense conversation that plays well in a theater but might struggle in a cinema. The cramped setting confines them to stay put, even when intense awkwardness screams for someone to exit. However, despite this being Karam's directorial debut, The Humans doesn't buckle under these theatrical trappings. Instead, Karam leans into the claustrophobia and the chattiness to create a tense trap designed to make movie-goers' skin crawl.
If you've seen A24's charming trailer or heard some faint buzz out of the film's Toronto International Film Festival premiere, you might assume The Humans is a Thanksgiving-set dramedy in the vein of Home for the Holidays or Pieces of April. But creeping at the edges of that trailer are hints that there's something more far more unnerving. Make no mistake: this is a horror movie. Imagine Hereditary without the supernatural spectacle and with a more restrained sense of resentment and rage. That is The Humans.
In a squalid pre-war apartment in Manhattan's Chinatown, aspiring musician Brigid (Beanie Feldstein) and her preppie boyfriend (Steven Yuen) invite her family over for Thanksgiving dinner. Older sister Aimee (Amy Schumer) takes a train from Philadelphia, while their parents (Richard Jenkins and Jayne Houdyshell) bring grandma Momo (June Squibb) from Scranton, Pennsylvania, a small town a three hours drive from the city. However, Brigid's is not yet a happy home. The couple hasn't finished moving in; their furniture is MIA in some moving truck in Queens. The lights sputter. The upstairs neighbors sound like they're bowling with elephants. And then there's the paint, which weeps with water damage and festers like a tumor ready to wreak havoc.
Father Eric is a maintenance man at a school, so beyond the intense Dad-Needs-To-Fix-It drive, these flaws in his darling daughter's home feel a personal affront. He eyes them all with a mournful disdain, as if they're his fault, as if he's failed her. Meanwhile, Brigid and Amiee cluck over their mother, mocking the emails she forwards and getting in jibes about her latest hobby.
As the night wears on, these barbs begin a death of a thousand cuts.
At first, these jokes feel familiar, the kind of playful barbs that family can chuck, but that would be a problem if an outsider said them. Yet as the night wears on, these barbs begin a death of a thousand cuts. The family, initially pleased to be reunited, slowly crumbles under the weight of repressions, resentments, and horrid revelations. Like the apartment that growls and sobs and trembles with decay, they are falling apart. They chatter on as if small talk about dreams and day jobs might stave off the darkness. But the night grows long. Everyone has their breaking point. And everyone knows how to push the others' buttons.
The cast sinks their teeth into the script, tearing hard at the meat of it. Feldstein, Jenkins, and Houdyshell prove gutting, channeling raw pain into punching moments big and small. Yeun is their counter, defiantly offering pleasantries and sympathies — because his Richard has not yet been corrupted by this family festering. Sadly Schumer, a skilled comedian, struggles opposite her co-stars. Her grasping for dramatic tension comes out like a tantrum, so the scenes she shoulders wobble.
More alcohol pours into paper cups, and more calamity comes tumbling out of the mouths of so-called loved ones. Karam's acerbic script keenly targets the fears of each of his characters, whether that means being alone, being embarrassed, or being exposed. The conversation veers out of safe spaces, into tricky terrain about mental illness, holistic healing, finances, and religion. Perhaps Karam hopes to make the battle feel balanced, with everyone taking a beating. Yet my heart went out to the parents, who Brigid regards with open scorn and treats like a faulty ATM, cursing them for not doling out cash at the ready.
Where this tips from drama into horror is partially in the intense cringe factor. Karam has mastered constructing conversations that spiral into stomach-churning roller coasters. There's no escaping the ride, no matter how sick it makes you feel. Karam might chase his characters to dark, empty rooms, or a blood-colored hallway, or a suffocatingly small bathroom with a broken toilet seat. But there's no way out, really.
Karam confines his characters in framing that seems like a nightmare Zillow tour.
This night will end, but the abyss growing between this family yawns on. Only Erik seems to realize this, as the climax twists from grounded eeriness to surreal scares. He recognizes the rot, but like the bad paint, faulty light fixtures, and windows so filthy they're practically opaque, he is impotent to fix it.
Karam confines his characters in framing that seems like a nightmare Zillow tour. The edges of doorways, the intrusion of stairs, the cramped spaces are always crowding the family. And we, the audiences, are often left just outside the room, made voyeurs to the horror of a family falling apart. Staging frequently keeps their faces oft out of frame, leaving us to wonder what their expressions might be, leaving us hanging on the rasp and rattle of voices broken in pain.
All of this makes for a film that becomes unrelentingly unsettling. An unflinching portrait of the dark side of the American family, The Humans invites us into a familiar scenario, then exposes the. rot that's eating away at many of us. It's a savagely sophisticated film. But for those debating whether or not to make plans with their family for the upcoming holidays, it might also serve as a scorching warning.
The Humans opens in theaters and on Showtime on November 24.
via Tech News Digest
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