The scary, starey child has a long and distinguished history in cinema of the macabre. Those wee feckers have been glaring maliciously through greasy windows since the silent era. In recent years, the paedophobe strand has run parallel with more explicit unease about the pressures of parenthood.
Films such as Hereditary and The Babadook ride on waves of guilt and neurosis. It is frightening when the protagonist distrusts the little devils. It is more unsettling still when he or she – most often she – unconditionally loves them despite their scary staring.
Daina Reed’s fetid Australian chiller, which premiered at Sundance after being picked up by Netflix, plays a little like a compilation of tropes from those interlocking genres. Sarah Snook, shooting on a Succession hiatus, turns up as another Sarah – a character bombarded by reminders of miseries handed through the generations. Her father has recently died. She is estranged from a mother in care (the always welcome Greta Scacchi). Her own daughter Mia (Lily LaTorre) is exhibiting the sort of behaviour that would remind parents of horror films even if they were not themselves in a horror film. Mia wants to be called “Alice”. She claims to miss the grandmother she has never met. She accuses her mother of being inadequate.
When you hear that “Alice” early on acquires a rabbit – you know, like the one in a certain Lewis Carroll story? – you will understand why some critics at Sundance felt the film a little too burdened with influence. The initial build-up is well handled. An apparent attack on Mia from her young half-brother deflects our attention away towards a potential threat that never develops.
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Later on, however, the escalating montage of oddness recalls English-language filmmakers’ failure to process the influence of Japanese horror at the beginning of the century. There is that sense of narrative running dry and attempts being made to fill the arid remains with off-the-peg macabre distractions.
For all those reservations, Run Rabbit Run gets by on sustained atmosphere and first-rate performances from actors of three generations. On the surface, Snook’s character could not seem less like the scheming Siobhán Roy in Succession. But both are struggling to deal with the aftermath of childhood trauma.
As the film progresses, Snook’s open features reveal as much about her inner journey as do flashbacks to an initially obscure tragedy. In this tale of horrors connected via parental tendrils, it is a nice touch to have the character work as a doctor specialising in fertility. The theme is not over-stressed, but one can’t help but wonder if – in such a fictional universe – it is wise to strive so hard at sustaining procreation. Look what happens.
Horror in the Australian wilderness is always boosted by our awareness every pothole houses something that could kill you
It comes as no great surprise to learn that Elisabeth Moss, who worked with Reid on The Handmaid’s Tale, was initially cast in the role. Both specialise in nervous distraction. Both can wind vulnerability in with strength. But Snook is fast developing her own brand of sublimated aggression – a sense that lava runs beneath chilly flesh.
Support is strong. LaTorre does good work in keeping her abrasiveness within everyday parameters. Scacchi doesn’t have a great deal to do, but one gets the sense of a lead actor relishing the opportunity to chew her way through an unglamorous supporting role. She has always been a pro.
In her feature debut, Reid casts a soupy uncertainty over the action that permits suspicions the supernatural elements may be manifestations of Sarah’s unresolved psychological upsets. Horror in the Australian wilderness is always boosted by our awareness every pothole houses something that could kill you. There is always that.
Not everything works here. Too much is overfamiliar. But Run Rabbit Run retains a clammy grip throughout. Definitely worth a stream.
