Review by
Eric Hillis
Directed by: Devereux Milburn
Starring: Malin Barr, Sawyer Spielberg, Barbara Kingsley, Jamie
Bradley
A brief look at the plot summary of writer/director
Devereux Milburn's feature debut Honeydew may cause
you to dismiss it as the sort of generic grindhouse thriller you've sat
through a hundred times already. A couple of city slickers find
themselves stuck in a creepy corner of rural America – what more can be
done with this tired trope? Well on the evidence here it's a premise
that still has legs, as Milburn has managed to deliver a horror movie
that is paradoxically familiar and unpredictable.
The city slickers in question here are botanist Rylie (Malin Barr) and her struggling actor boyfriend Sam (Sawyer Spielberg; yep,
he is indeed Steven's boy). While most of these movies tend to take
place in the Deep South, Rylie and Sam are in rural New England, where
the former hopes to study a rare contamination of corn that has
devastated the region's farming community.
After pitching a tent in a field, the pair are rudely awakened late at
night by a farmer who informs them they're trespassing on his property.
Rylie and Sam agree to leave, only to find their car refuses to start.
Wandering the area in search of a phone to call the AAA, they stumble
across the secluded home of dotty pensioner Karen (Barbara Kingsley) and her hulking brain dead son Gunni (Jamie Bradley), who is
left in a near zombified state after apparently being kicked in the head
by a bull a year ago. With help unable to arrive that night, Rylie and
Sam reluctantly accept Karen's offer to stay the night in Gunni's
basement bedroom. I won’t spoil the rest, but needless to say, Rylie and
Sam should have kept walking.
Milburn has a lot of fun exploiting our familiarity with backwoods
slashers, and he mines a rich vein of black humour from the awkwardness
between Rylie and Sam and their seemingly senile host. Rylie and Sam
make for two of the more relatable horror protagonists we've seen
lately. They're the sort of couple we all know, who seem constantly on
the edge of breaking up but whose relationship outlasts those of all
their friends. There's something very real in how cruel and snide they
are to one another, displaying a level of bickering that only comes in a
relationship that is secure and comfortable. This manifests itself when
Karen offers a meal of juicy steak followed by cupcakes, a meal Rylie
has forbidden Sam from enjoying, having recently converted him to
veganism. Sam tucks in, experiencing almost orgasmic delight while Rylie
looks on in disgust.
Barr and Spielberg have a great goofy chemistry together, with much of
their communication coming in knowing looks as they become increasingly
baffled by the scenario they've stumbled across. Kingsley is a hoot as
Karen, keeping us guessing as to whether she really is as doddery as she
appears or if it's simply an act to disguise some sinister
intentions.
Behind the camera, Milburn makes a striking debut. He moves the camera
in unsettling, off-kilter ways to add to the growing unease. He'll often
pan across to reveal empty space, subverting our expectations of a jump
scare reveal. Sometimes the camera moves in a manner that suggests it
hasn't tracked or panned, but rather the image itself is being dragged
across the screen, like a horny poltergeist pulling a bedsheet off a
sleeping cheerleader. Add in a deeply weird score by composer John Mehrmann
that sounds like a werewolf having a wank, a bizarre dream sequence
and a supporting cast of hillbilly oddballs, and you have a movie that
keeps you on your toes despite its familiar ingredients. If the final
act appears to be running out of steam, stick around for an ending
that serves as a wicked punchline to what has been a cruel joke on
Milburn's part.
