Graphic by Gabby Ganon ‘24.
Woodlief McCabe ’23
Staff Writer
Horror movie enthusiasts seem to be polarized by Kyle Edward Ball’s new film, “Skinamarink,” released in theaters on Jan. 13, 2023. For some, it’s the most afraid they have been in a theater since “Poltergeist” in 1982. For others, it’s laughable to even be scared. With curiosity, I visited Amherst Cinema for a nighttime showing.
“Skinamarink” starts extremely slowly. A long portion is spent on completely nondescript angles of a home, especially the edges and corners of walls and furniture. It appears familiar — it could be anyone’s house, even yours — and yet it’s completely disconnected from how we navigate our living spaces. Through the perspective of the two young children in the home, Kevin and Kaylee, the doors, windows and toilet go missing, one after another, trapping the family.
For a while, this is the extent of the “horror.” It is simply unsettling, as we wait to know more, powerless to reach out and pan the camera just a few feet. The film dwells in this space of discomfort and anticipation. I was beginning to think that I would be one of those unaffected viewers, that I had conditioned myself too well against the tricks of the genre. Sure, chairs on the ceiling and dolls stuck to the walls are spooky, but no sweat. I was proud of myself, but a little disappointed.
And then something switched. The suspense reaches greater intensity, and the slowness starts to pay off. This moment for me came during an eerie scene about forty minutes into the film, when Kaylee goes to her parents’ bedroom and finds them sitting on opposite sides of the bed, facing away from her. This is the most interaction we have with the parents. Kaylee hears a voice speaking to her from the darkness and soon, Kevin finds himself completely alone. There is something tangible to be afraid of now. Though it barely speaks, the entity’s power is palpable. Once it appears, the film’s tone is much more sinister.
“Skinamarink” is an analog horror. Borrowing from the “found footage” style of horror popularized by “The Blair Witch Project”, analog is an experimental genre. Its themes and motives are cryptic and unsettling, and it opts for low-quality images and sound. In “Skinamarink,” childhood nostalgia, especially of the ‘90s and early ‘00s, is contorted into potential conduits for torment.
The camera returns to shots of the television playing 1930s cartoons, playing scenes with eerie similarities to the children’s predicament. The entity that is controlling the home manipulates these images too. A disappearing rabbit plays on a loop over and over again. The repeated image and its corresponding music become overwhelming, almost nauseating. The symbolism can be fairly heavy-handed at times, which is perhaps why the television is a site for conveying information rather than fear. It is a reminder that there is something or someone else in control. The looping television screen is just one way that the film manipulates time. We realize that the children have been trapped in the home for weeks, even months. The horror in the helplessness builds up the anxiety, even when things on screen are tame out of context.
Though the dialogue is sparse, we hear a mix of eerie unidentifiable noises, sounds of crying and objects breaking in another room. Much like the visual elements that exist just offscreen, the sound is begging its viewers to strain our ears so it can give us another atonal shriek, hum or cut to total silence.
“Skinamarink” constructs horror from what is not seen. It terrifies by hinting at the unknown rather than explicitly showing, like household items in the corner of the screen, and faces turned away from the camera. That being said, it takes a long time to pay off. Suspenseful as it is, “Skinamarink” is a test of patience. I could not fault a viewer for frustration, annoyance and even boredom, at least for the first half hour.
If you are hoping for a monster movie or a killer lurking in the shadows, this isn’t that. It is not full of jumpscares or extensive gore, though, for those who might be sensitive to those things, there is implied violence and scenes containing blood splattering. “Skinamarink” plays on the primal fears and anxieties of childhood, especially of the dark and being left alone. The dim light and grainy quality of the image play tricks on us, akin to how when we were children, the shadows of chairs and coats in our dark bedrooms stretched to appear like human figures.
The film withholds information. The camera avoids the action, keeping it out of frame. It limits dialogue and chooses not to explain anything. It feels like being a child and knowing something is wrong, but as much as you ask, the adults in your life just won’t tell you. Or worse, they ignore the question. Kevin asks, “where did it go?” about the doors. He never gets an answer.
There are only one or two genuine jumpscares, and I think that’s to the film’s benefit. It requires us to constantly think of what might happen. With an antagonist with no defined physical form and potentially limitless abilities, there is no formula to the fear. I expect that detractors heard it was scary and expected wall-to-wall violence and grotesquery. Niche sub-genre films often experience greater scrutiny, and “Skinamarink” is no exception.
This film proves that fear can be brought about by tapping into the simplest elements of emotion. We develop a sense of fear in childhood to keep ourselves safe, but what about when we are afraid of something we cannot even name?
I don’t think making every second of the film nail-bitingly terrifying is necessary. Otherwise, we become desensitized, requiring outlandish methods to elicit a reaction. When “Skinamarink”lets us pause, or even expect nothing to happen, the filmmakers have the upper hand.