I Am the Pretty Thing That Lives in the House

An atmospheric take on the haunted house flick that works more with dread and the looming specter of death than the traditional tropes that often define the genre.

Can a horror movie get by on nothing but atmosphere, on the the je ne sais quoi of its unsettling mood? I Am The Pretty Thing That Lives In The House suggests that maybe it can.

A lightly gothic murder ballad made with great finesse and a fine cast.

Wilson delivers a hardworking performance that nonetheless can't render a familiar character type fascinating enough in a vacuum, with so little support in the writing.

So chilling, so purely artistic that I found myself scribbling four full pages of notes to remember my thoughts in the darkened theater.

The tedious images and whispers that flood the film are not enough to keep the public's interest. [Full review in Spanish]

A boring and pretentious movie -something that when you do it well helps you to go further, but when you fail it makes everything negative stand out even more. [Full review in Spanish]

It's a difficult film to love then, but it is beautifully made and boasts a superb central performance. There are wonderful chills to be found in the chilliness.

... even if the narrative doesn't break any boundaries in its rather serviceable story, it still ultimately makes for an interesting enough late night Netflix escape.

I Am the Pretty Thing That Lives in the House is, at times, as laborious as its title implies, filled with long, sustained silences and ponderous pontifications with opaque implications. What props the film up is Perkins' masterful command of atmosphere.

It's uncompromising. And it cements Perkins as one of the most exciting architects of intelligent, artful genre films working today.

I Am The Pretty Thing That Lives In The House is a slow-burn with a wonky structure, working backwards in a way that unfortunately mars any possible tension.