For Your Consideration: Best First Feature (2023/24 Horror)

For those of you who prefer one-stop shopping, here is a bit of what electrified me about this film. (If you’re not a fan of puns and terribly corny word association, it’s best to avoid my entries henceforth.)

Please correct me if my search wasn’t exhaustive enough, however I think Vicaria—played exquisitely by Laya DeLeon Hayes—is our first young, Black woman “mad scientist” in film. (While a bit outdated, some interesting musings on women scientists in film—generally, not horror-specific—here.)

Did any of you read the comic Moon Girl? I TOTALLY feel some Lunella Lafayette in Vicaria’s energy, intelligence, and resolute commitment to her objective.

The part of me who adores young adult-friendly horror was down for this. Teens can really pack a punch, given that liminal space they tread between child and adult. Strength and vulnerability coexist within inexperience and self-exploration before the expectations of adulthood mar that authenticity. We’ve been seeing a lot of solid teen protagonists lately, and I’m LOVING that many of them are women or female-presenting.

Entries that come immediately to mind are Wednesday, Stranger Things, Paper Girls, and Psycho Goreman; I could easily go on. Add The Angry Black Girl and Her Monster to this list. Please and thank you.

Now, the premise. Shelley’s Frankenstein talks about death AND disease. However, in The Angry Black Girl and Her Monster, to our prodigious protagonist, death IS a disease. We’re all infected. Some succumb to it faster than others due to increased risk factors like intergenerational trauma, gang affiliation, substance use disorder, or simply geographical location.

Story presents a compelling set-up: If death is a disease, can it be cured? Vicaria asserts (and ultimately proves) it is, which leads us to….

Story’s Creature, Vicaria’s brother Chris (….Christ? A nod to resurrection in a name?). A Black man in a dark hoodie. As I’ve mentioned before, I am from St. Louis, Missouri. Mike Brown’s death, the protests and riots that followed in Ferguson, and the rightful spotlight placed on Black Lives Matter efforts and actions in my hometown were and continue to be deeply personal and important to me.

That responsibility for appreciation? Here’s where that comes in.

The story follows two female hospital employees, maternity nurse Celie (Judy Reyes) and mortician technician Rose (Marin Ireland), as they become connected after the death of Celie’s daughter, Lila. Through her life-long mission to cure death, Rose is able to resurrect Lila. Upon learning of Rose’s work, Celie moves in to tend to her newly revived child; the pair become laser-focused on keeping Lila alive, no matter the cost.

The resurrection and experimentation obviously scream Frankenstein, but this is not mad science. There is no stitching of bodies together or hunting new fodder.

Birth/Rebirth is, instead, a very clinical and scientific approach to resurrection and one that, unlike Shelley’s work, proves that women continue to be the only providers of life. The science is interesting to watch, but the true power of Birth/Rebirth lies in the complex and compelling characters of Celie and Rose.

On paper, the two women are very different. In her role as nurse and mother, Celie is warm and caring. She is always thinking of others, often to her own detriment, and will be a character that mothers in the audience will identify with. In contrast, Rose is very cold and detached. The concept of close relationships is foreign to her; everything about her life is ordered and clinical.

The collision of these two opposites sparks real intrigue, and seeing how each woman’s behavior influences the other is utterly fascinating. Together, the two are a beautifully macabre yin and yang, and their alternative family structure works well until the dramatic finale.

Birth/Rebirth is an exceptional exploration of what it means to be a mother. For decades, male storytellers have explained the concept of motherhood. While some of those films are viewed positively, it is those from female voices, and in this case, a non-binary voice, that really captures the maternal experience.

From Celie’s exhaustion and desire for a moment’s peace to agonizing guilt and grief, the gamut of emotions accurately replicates an honest portrayal of motherhood.

By no means an easy watch, Birth/Rebirth becomes suffocating in places. Moss injects maximum tension with minimal effort. It confronts and places the audience into several moral quandaries, with Rose’s methods of acquiring fetal matter being particularly bleak.

We follow Samidha (aka Sam), an American Indian teenager living with her parents in an ideal Suburban community. Like her father, Sam is determined to assimilate and cement a sense of belonging in their predominantly white community. Sam’s mother is much more traditional and prefers preserving their culture and traditions within the home.

The film’s setup really takes off when we are introduced to another Indian girl, Tamira, who we learn used to be close friends with Sam. Tamira, by all appearances, is troubled; her hair is unkempt, and her feral eyes suggest she hasn’t been sleeping. She also carries around a mason jar filled with a mysterious substance that visibly disturbs other students and staff at the High School. During a confrontation between Sam and Tamira, Sam smashes the jar and unleashes an evil force.

The stand out for the film is by far the evil entity. Even in scenes where the entity is not visible, there’s malevolence that can be felt on the screen. The director excels at setting up small reveals of the creature during the first two acts, giving viewers just enough of a glimpse to induce terror and dread before the final reveal in the riveting third act.

The creature’s design was simple, with enough distinguishing characteristics to set it apart from other entities we have seen repeatedly.  One scene in particular that stood out involved a closet, which sounds pretty cliche, but it is unexpected and will be sure to elicit a response, even from seasoned horror viewers.

Think grainy found footage vibe a la Paranormal Activity or The Blair Witch Project.

Toss in a hint of humor by tapping into a common fear: Stepping on LEGO. It’s not entirely clear if the kids have scattered them across the floor in a Kevin McCallister-esque attempt to protect themselves or are just keeping themselves entertained while avoiding their new reality. Either way, that shit is no joke, and I won’t bother feigning surprise if Ball ventures into torture horror next.

Then, layer in the unsettling use of children as an effective vehicle to ratchet up the fear factor a-la Poltergeist, IT, and Evil Dead Rise.

For horror-loving parents who are sensitive to children being in danger, you’ve been warned. Your concern for these two kiddos will hit the stratosphere (maybe even the thermosphere).

What I find most impressive about this cat-and-mouse tension between the kids and the unexplained phenomenon in the house is director Kyle Edward Ball’s approach. He uses the kids’ softest safe spots—their home, their parents—against them in an achingly menacing way. You will become frantic with the strategically long build.