It’s kind of nuts that Universal was able to pull anything salvageable out of that “Dark Universe” idea. And they did so by turning one of those iconic intellectual properties into something barely resembling either the original source novel or the classic monster movie interpretation. But make no mistake, The Invisible Man, a Blumhouse production (sold to them and distributed by Universal) written and directed by Leigh Whannell, is a monster movie. It’s just one about a more conventional and frighteningly realistic kind of monster. The Griffin of this film (Adrian Griffin, re-styled a tech entrepreneur played with appropriate bubbling violence and faux charm by Oliver Jackson-Cohen) is not a dapper Claude Rains; he’s much more akin to Alan Moore’s amoral psychopath of The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, but given a much greater possessiveness and obsession with controlling women; making the film so much more socially relevant than any other version of the story.
Of course it’s a version only in the loosest sense, most adaptation points going to minor details and references, such as Griffins’ scientific brilliance in the field of optics, the role of a character called “Tom”, and even a brief visual allusion to the famous floating trench coat and hat imagery associated with the character. The film borrows little of the original storys’ plot outside of a couple significant beats, opting instead to be something of a competent update of the 1991 Julia Roberts thriller Sleeping with the Enemy; a stalker film, but one where the abusive ex-partner can torment our protagonist without being seen.
But then, they don’t have to be invisible to do that, and the films’ understanding of this is what sets it a step above the average horror movie about unknown enigmas haunting women. The real terror of The Invisible Man doesn’t so much come from the scenes of suspenseful mood-building or the vicious attacks from an unseen force (although they are excellently done and tremendously creepy), as from the tangible powerlessness of Elisabeth Moss’ Cecilia and the ease with which Griffin is able to ruin her life. It’s in the way he psychologically terrorizes her through little things (burning a meal, hiding her paperwork, just sitting in a chair) as much as the more invasive, malevolent cruelties that really cement a horrifying pattern of manipulation that is all too familiar for many women who’ve been victims of domestic abuse. “He makes you think that you’re the crazy one” Cecilia explains in a desperate attempt to convey the methods and lengths of his gaslighting, but to no avail. As in our reality, there are few willing to believe her.
The power of this metaphor can’t be understated, not only in shining a light on relationship abuse but conveying it from a subjective lens that forces you into Cecilia’s shoes. Another film wanting to play with the Invisible Man premise from his victims’ point of view might have left it ambiguous whether or not he is real and dangerous. But this film makes sure you’re aware that he is, and you share in Cecilia’s frustrations when she keeps being punished for his actions only for authorities and those close to her not to take her seriously. And so people who have not suffered through toxic controlling relationships are given a window into that world and it’s terrifying.
Cecilia is put through some truly harrowing circumstances (one scene at a restaurant is going to be with me for a while), and Elisabeth Moss is astounding through it all in her vivid and constantly shifting portrait of the psychological ramifications of each building torture, though always with a confidence in the source of her misfortune and a resolute spirit unwilling to let Griffin win. And this becomes especially powerful when a third act reveal gives her leverage over her abuser and her fight gains greater stakes. As broken as she may be, she will defend her autonomy, and even at her lowest, will condemn the men who would facilitate Griffins’ evil behaviour -making her certainly one of the most empowering horror protagonists in recent years. For a frighteningly tenuous support network, she relies on a police officer friend played by a fresh-off-of-Clemency Aldis Hodge and his daughter (Storm Reid), as well as her skeptical sister Emily (Harriet Dyer). But they remain mostly powerless to stave off Griffins’ advances or to understand Cecilia’s situation and the exact nature of her emotional distress. She has to overcome him alone.
The Invisible Man, as in every incarnation of his story, is not permitted to get away with his crimes, and the catharsis delivered here puts the similarly themed Birds of Prey to shame with its vehement brutality and emphatic emotional build-up. Wells’ Invisible Man is granted a modest sympathy, at the very least a pity in the end. But Whannell knows his version isn’t deserving of any. The Invisible Man is a harsh film, perhaps triggering to some with first-hand experience of its violence, allusions and language. However it is also an important one, chilling in its honesty and bitterness, yet in so doing giving voice without compromise to survivors in a time when their need to be heard is at last being given an ear. Horror has always reflected the anxieties and fears of the time and place it was made in. Right now, Cecilia’s are still legitimate, and we need to all work to do something about it.
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