Out of Brooklyn Horror, Anthony Oberbeck’s Little Doors marches to the disturbing pitter-patter of its own tell-tale heartbeat. There’s something remarkable about a film that can carry its story with two characters talking about life, purpose, and fear. With a stage-like approach, the film takes a minute to fully and properly marinate the brain. The writer/director/actor seems to be working through his own existential crisis through the pulsating numbness of the film that also shockingly feels like putting a fork into an outlet. Akin to Amy Seimetz’s She Dies Tomorrow, Little Doors burrows into the things that scare us the most—death, living a meaningless existence, and the baseball-sized choking hazard of shame and disassociating from the world.
“No one’s scared. Everything’s fine,” woman (Megan Koester) tries to convince herself while the world is literally on fire around her. Woman and man (Oberbeck) climb a nearby knoll for a picnic. It’s their attempt to pretend that the dread pounding behind their ribcage is nothing more than worries over what’s to eat. The glowing sunshine deceptively calms them into a muted state, even though their nerves act like jitter bugs inside. Woman faces an interesting dilemma; she’s discovered a tiny wooden door on the side of her body. She can’t explain it other than it began as a cyst. All her anxieties about the world tie directly into the door’s mysterious appearance. What’s behind the rattling barricade really scares her. She tries not to be, opting to mask her true feelings behind smiles or a nonchalant eye roll.
“I don’t understand” becomes a refrain throughout the film. Woman and man connect and find companionship they’ve never been able to before now. While the world descends into apocalyptic mayhem, their blossoming friendship takes root. But the plague of endless questions, confusion, and a swelling suffocation of depression soon infects them, too. It’s unavoidable. We, as a human race, confront the possibility that we have no reason for existing in the first place… sooner or later. Hopefully, sooner, just to get it out of the way of really living and not just surviving.
Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot is the most obvious influence. Oberbeck takes this groundbreaking piece of work and retools it for a horrifying adaptation. The format (i.e., two people talking about nothing and everything) works well for this sort of character-driven chamber piece. It’s far less than specific action than it is a slow descent into the absurd. Over 77 minutes, man and woman search for answers to life through trying to open the door. Chatter and bangs can be heard through the solid wood, and woman theorizes that maybe she could be the one to open it from the inside. She seeks spiritual cleansing but quickly learns that it isn’t a case of a lack of religious awareness. It’s something much deeper.
Anthony Oberbeck’s Little Doors treats the material with both incredible seriousness and a playful spirit. He wants you to engage with its themes and not take it so seriously. It’s like an acrobat walking a tightrope; it’s all about balance. Situational humor weaves into the heavy moments, because as he says several times, man loves to make people laugh. When the credits roll, you’ll have done plenty of laughing and crying for a lifetime.
