Review: ‘The Beach House’ dabbles with genres to admirable effect

(Shudder)

Some of the best horror films are often those which you can’t quite pin down or define in plain genre terms. You’ll have to beware, though, as mixing in numerous pots doesn’t always work. A jolting blend of slow-crackling tension, body horror, and apocalyptic mayhem, Jeffrey A. Brown’s The Beach House, his directorial debut, feels beholden to those single genres while its final production erupts into something else altogether. The film’s initial roots are buried deep within a short film called Sulfuric, which only borrows hints and teases of what would soon become a complete feature, and years in the making, Brown’s ocean-side mutation chills with unexpected swerves and dips.

A young woman Emily (Liana Liberato) and her aimless, over-obsessive boyfriend Randall (Noah Le Gros) drive out to Randall’s estranged father’s beach house to reconnect during the off-season. Even upon arriving, things don’t quite feel calm or serene as they should be; dishes are left scattered, unattended, in the kitchen, and Emily uncovers a cabinet flowing with pill bottles. A troubling unease blankets the estate, seemingly left cold and desolate. Soon, they realize they aren’t alone. Friends of Randall’s father, an older couple Mitch (Jake Weber) and Jane (Maryanne Nagel) appear to have shacked up for the duration of their own vacation getaway. The mood appears to settle, and the four bask in conversation, wine, and some newly-caught oysters.

When the booze runs out, Randall offers some edibles he snatched at a vendor before meeting up with Emily. Against their better judgements, and as we quickly learn, being high only ratchets up the stakes, Mitch and Jane partake. The evening devolves in dripping increments, and each member begins to experience a psychedelic trip, which all assume stems from the cannabis. What ensues, however, is something no one could have predicted: a contagion so merciless that Emily’s astute knowledge (she’s a chemistry major with ambitions to study astrobiology in grad school) can not save them. It was already too late once they set foot upon the beach house’s otherwise pristine coastline.

The Beach House squirms along with plenty of deflating cliches and dumbfounding, frustrating character beats, but those fleeting instances are never enough to derail Brown’s vision. In collaboration with cinematographer Owen Levelle, Brown crafts such beautiful, cinematic shots ⏤ including the static, faraway composition when Mitch (or a possessed Mitch) walks directly out into the ocean, and the iconic moment Emily peers over the exterior stairwell ⏤ that are undeniably high-caliber. The cast, particularly Liberato, layers the film with an honest urgency. Liberato handles the fallout with emotional command, from dealing with Randall, who finds her higher education pursuits “bullshit,” to the ungodly creatures themselves, and when things get so dire it’s obvious there’s no way out, your heart crumbles for her. TBH is a low-budget sci-fi fantasy suitably fit for the big screen, situating alongside other mind-melters like Annihilation, with enough style to stand on its own.

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