By Brad Munson (The Dark Multiverse of Stephen King)
Floria Sigismondi’s The Turning is an enigma wrapped in a mystery. The problem is there is no solution to the mystery, no explanation for the wrapping, and barely a decent jump-scare to be had in this beautifully acted, wonderfully photographed, absolutely baffling and ineffective new horror movie.
Most of Sigismondi’s credits are music videos, from David Bowie to Fiona Apple and beyond, and–despite her work on The Runaways a while back–she clearly can’t (or doesn’t want to) actually tell a story; she seems content to set up an almost unconnected string of set-pieces and images that are supposed to chill and thrill and do neither.
Henry James’ short novel, written in 1898, was one of the first true “haunted house” stories and a masterpiece of ambiguity that has continued to be a center of controversy for more than 120 years. Were there really ghosts, or was the governess going mad? Sigismondi seemed to reach for the same kind of spooky ambiguity using the bare bones (really just the premise and character names) that the original story of malevolent ghosts presented, but James’ story had a singular advantage: it made sense as a story. It had a beginning, middle, and end (though a tragic one), and was populated by human characters that acted in believable ways. This particular adaptation of the tale (and there have been plenty, including an opera and a ballet), has none of the above. The logical questions and inconsistent character behavior begins almost with the first beat, long before things get spooky. And it goes downhill–or really out every which-way–from there.
It really is a tremendous waste. The acting work by Finn Wofhard and young Brooklynn Prince as the children Miles and Fiora, are really remarkable; Mackenie Davis, looking entirely different than she did in the new, much-panned Terminator movie, does a stand-up and thankless job as the governess whose state of mind is best indicated by the state of her bob and bangs. And the production design and cinematography is beautiful–far better than the screenplay deserves. It doesn’t really matter if it was written (in some form, sometime) by two veterans of the Conjuring franchise. From the very outset it’s unconvincing, disjointed, and doesn’t make a damn bit of sense. I’d say that was especially true of the ending, if there actually was an ending. It stops, certainly, but…an ending? No.
I’ve rarely attended a screening where the audience left with a single, unanimous opinion of the movie they’d just seen. This time, however, it happened. And the opinion was “…whaaaah?”
Save your money. Or invest it in a copy of James’ novel or Jack Clayton’s 1956 adaptation, The Innocents, starring Deborah Kerr, Michael Redgrave, and Pamela Franklin. You’ll be doing yourself a favor.
What a shame.
