Review: Meet The Mother-In-Law of Your Nightmares in THE FRONT ROOM

What in the name of the father, son, and holy oh-my-lord? The Front Room is an audacious debut for brothers Max and Sam Eggers (yes, like “Robert Eggers”), spiking parent-in-law troubles with a pungent brand of psychological horror. Its evils are geriatric but no less despicable than eerie elderly examples like The Visit or The Taking of Deborah Logan. Religious devotion, bigoted intolerance, and stinky incontinence color this battle of the generations (as dictated by Susan Hill’s original short story). The Eggers duo tell a story rooted in familiar trappings as characters excuse red flags for financial compensation, and while that might seem ordinary, The Front Room boasts a secret weapon — one of the nastiest grannies on screen in a long while.

Musical superstar Brandy Norwood stars as Belinda, a Black anthropology professor with a baby bump. Her caucasian husband Norman (Andrew Burnap) works for a legal firm but is plenty of rungs down on the hierarchical ladder. Together, their finances are dwindling — even before Belinda quits her position. Then, opportunity knocks … er, croaks. Norman’s father passes, leaving his decrepit handful of a churchgoing stepmother in need of care. The withered Solange (Kathryn Hunter) offers Belinda and Norman all her savings if they assume caretaking duties, which is too much money to deny. But, as Norman fears, Solange starts to profess her ignorance about Belinda’s heritage and tries to dominate the household. Unless Belinda fights back, they’re stuck with a tyrannical senior citizen claiming their domain.

British-American actor Kathryn Hunter is the reason you’re watching The Front Room. She molds Solange into a manipulative mastermind whose attributes cannot be duplicated. The way Hunter pounds her akimbo canes like Terry Notary in Planet of the Apes mode or purposely mispronounces “Belind’er” are tiny touches that help develop Solange into this despicable devil of a houseguest. Solange’s froggy, raspy voice grates against your ears, yet Hunter’s ability to entertain audiences with astonishingly inappropriate acts of repulsive toddler-like outbursts is the stuff malevolent geniuses are made from. Her performance as a proud Confederate woman who relies exclusively on prayer for guidance will have audiences howling in shock as Solange wages war against Belinda, faking injuries and feigning innocence with a conniving smirk.

That’s … the whole movie. Belinda and Norman are expecting lovers with no option but the worst one, which they begrudgingly accept, fully aware their domestic bubble is about to be invaded. The Eggers are direct with their storytelling, relying on what the frail, old-school-spiritual woman can control: her bowels, speech, and wallet. It’s a recurring cycle of skidmarks, gross racial stereotyping, and money dumping that keeps Solange around. That might sound repetitive, but The Front Room understands how to escalate with purpose. Solange’s “accidents” are legitimately disgusting, her horrid outbursts against Belinda jaw-dropping — the dinner napkin scene — and her spending astronomical. The film never feels stuck in place, pushing forward toward combustible inevitability as the heat increases like an elevator to Hell.

No downward spiral succeeds without either Norwood or Burnap’s performances. Their chemistry is that of adoration, distress, and desperation — easy targets for predators. Burnap’s suit-and-tie breadwinner is the model husband who can’t be around because he’s getting called to the office, which he plays with a knowing level of unhelpfulness. Norwood’s the standout as Belinda, who’s stuck tending to Solange’s needs both pre-and-post birth — an underappreciated mother trying to control a chaotic household. Belinda’s evolution from compassionate to battle-ready brings the worst out of Norwood (a compliment), piquing when Solange instigates Belinda by attacking her culture, skin color, and worth beyond childbirth. Norwood’s portrayal of a destabilized character screaming for help on deaf ears hints at everything from Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby to Jennifer Lawrence in Mother!; I hope she stays around the horror genre.

Speaking of Mother!, cinematographer Ava Berkofsky and composer Marcelo Zarvos achieve this Aronofskian shine about technical composition. Berkofsky’s camera is aimed so intentionally; every inch of framed space is for a reason. Shots are goregously calculated, and often symmetrical in times of rest, while skewed perspectives beget more chaotic angles. Zarvos’ score remains plucky, with science fiction undertones like Belinda is caught in a Twilight Zone episode. The Eggers’ vision is never outright horror but is genuinely horrifying, more absurdist as Solange’s religious iconography inspires surreal fantasies that are depicted with what one might call “A24 Chic.” There’s artistry as three-way mirrors segregate characters, or production design makes Belinda’s suburban prison feel ten times bigger from the inside. Little details are inspired enough to elevate scripted cyclicality.

The Front Room is a deceptively rich chamber thriller with deep mythologies, tenacious spirits, and an all-time performance from Kathryn Hunter. It’s blunt about its oppressive commentaries, cult-like religious forcefulness, or outright Black hatred, but also wildly unserious in a very mocking demeanor (pointed in the right direction). You should, and you will laugh at what’s occurring on screen — the film’s slippery tone cranks a few notches higher than nervous laughter. That can be a distracting element, and there are moderate lulls as the film pursues its plain-as-day storytelling fates, but there’s a hypnotic quality that overtakes. Newton’s simply too undeniable in her role, coupled with the film’s striking composition. The other Eggers boys aren’t holding back in their breakout — hope you’ve got a strong stomach.

Movie Score: 3.5/5