A24's New Horror Isn't Scary... But Is Deeply Disturbing
Mia Smith Lamb is a slow-burn suspenseful horror that eschews the genre's typical gore and jump scares, and instead frightens with a nuanced portrait of grief.
There is something undeniably eerie about Lamb. Set on an isolated family sheep farm, the folklore-inspired story follows a couple adopting an unlikely, and uncanny, child. Folk horror is in the midst of a resurgence, and no other distribution company does the genre like A24: following in the footsteps of critical hits like 2015's The Witch and 2019's Midsommar, the 2021 supernatural horror Lamb sets up a peaceful — if unconventional — premise, only to subvert the idyllic setting with a deeply unsettling twist. Lamb is a slow-burn suspenseful horror that eschews the genre's typical gore and jump scares, and instead frightens audiences with a nuanced portrait of grief, punctuated by the unshakable feeling that something is terribly wrong.
Lamb is directed by Valdimar Jóhannsson and is co-written by Jóhannsson and Sjón, the Icelandic poet, novelist and lyricist. The movie is intimate, focusing on just three (human) characters: Maria (Noomi Rapace), her husband Ingvar (Hilmir Snaer Gudnason), and her brother-in-law Pétur (Björn Hlynur Haraldsson). The couple live and work on a secluded sheep farm, and the movie paints an honest picture of what that entails. There's nothing glamorous about this lifestyle: the tractor needs upkeep, the house decor hints at a modest income, and the day-to-day life requires actions that, to an outside perspective, may seem unnecessarily cruel.
Lamb approaches its subject earnestly, opting for realism over special effects. The rural setting looks like a working farm, but the isolation is amplified by shots of vacant hills, grey skies and the almost ever-present fog. By relying on the setting's suffocating atmosphere to create a feeling of oppression, Jóhannsson subtly fosters discomfort among viewers, which in turn colors many of the otherwise innocent sights in the film. The off-putting mood is contrasted by a somber note that reverberates just under the surface in Lamb, which hints (and then later confirms) that Maria and Ingvar are grieving some unspoken familial tragedy. Even as the audience feels that the two may be guilty of some unnatural sin, they remain sympathetic and compelling characters. This is essential to maintaining the movie's tension.
The tragic backstory in Lamb is necessary for understanding the characters' motivation, and helps build up to the movie's first major twist. Everything in the first act should be completely believable (verging on banal) but feels slightly off, which serves to make the action all the more disturbing. Logically, there's nothing wrong with Maria and Ingvar taking in the freshly born lamb, Ada; in fact, everything they do, at least initially, is completely normal in certain circumstances. However, there are clues that something's wrong: the fact that the lamb isn't immediately shown, Maria's hostility to the mother ewe, and the couple's overreaction to Ada's disappearance (not to mention the fact that they don't look for her in the barn). After Ada joins the family, Maria and Ingvar's behavior shifts, and a large portion of the film's early suspense derives from not quite understanding what's going through their minds, but suspecting that some sinister force might be to blame.
There's a dreamy quality in Lamb that makes the film feel both bittersweet and nightmarish. Jóhannsson has a knack for lingering on shots just long enough to impart notes of discomfort, and a skill for subverting traditionally idyllic imagery. The character Ada is the best example, as Jóhannsson renders the sweet creature as menacing simply by virtue of seeming so unnatural. As the trailers and marketing material reveal, Ada is no ordinary lamb, and she becomes a surrogate daughter to appease Maria and Ingvar's grief. When Pétur arrives to inject a third-party view, the unusual situation is exposed for how creepy — and sad — it really is. The new dynamic with the brother-in-law is interesting and adds a much-needed new layer of interpersonal tension. Pétur represents another threat to Maria's newfound maternal role, which sets up another conflict that will inevitably come to a head.
Unfortunately, Lamb struggles to maintain the momentum after Pétur's initial reaction to Ada, and the last half of the film lacks the excitement of the first. Although the stakes are more explicit, the narrative loses focus as the movie goes on, and the final resolution is far from satisfying. Ada gets to be more of a character in the second half, and the exploration of her own identity is welcome; yet, the direction is not quite convincing, and it's unclear how the audience should feel about the events as they transpire. In concept, Lamb feels like a tribute to old folk tales, and there's an element to that in the abrupt (and admittedly shocking) ending. This film may feel too niche and reserved for hardcore horror fans, but still too disturbing and unsettling for the average viewer. Regardless, Lamb is another A24 folk horror that many won't forget any time soon.
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Lamb will be released in theaters in North America on October 8, 2021. It is 106 minutes long and is rated R for some bloody violent images and some nudity/sexuality.
