Talk to Me Makes Contact

By Jennifer Fumiko Cahill jennifer@northcoastjournal.com

TALK TO ME. Australia, home to venomous brown snakes, saltwater crocodiles and a snail that can evidently kill you with a tiny harpoon-like tooth, is scary enough. Perhaps the steady baseline of adrenaline that comes from living in a country where a very large spider might casually drop out of your curtains makes scaring audiences there more challenging. Hence the maternal nightmare of The Babadook (2014). Twin brothers Danny and Michael Philippou, who worked on the crew of Babadook, make their joint directorial debut with Talk to Me, a mold-cracking Australian teen horror that simultaneously feels like an old-school summer scare and something fresh, freed from goofy conventions and distracting e ects.

Talk to Me opens with a party spilling from a suburban home, an injured and nearly catatonic young man and a jolt of violence. In the background are teenagers giggling and filming the spectacle as the tension ratchets up. Elsewhere in Adelaide, smaller dramas are unfolding, as high schooler Mia (Sophie Wilde) distracts herself from the anniversary of her mother’s death by hanging out with her friend Jade (Alexandra Jensen) and her younger brother Riley (Joe Bird). Mia is a perpetual outsider, either among the siblings or Jade and her boyfriend Dan (Otis Dhanji), whom Mia herself used to date. Even at home, she’s not connecting with her grieving father Max (Marcus Johnson), her mother’s absence and unanswered questions about her death looming between them.

The four teens sneak out to a party where the evening’s entertainment emerges from a backpack: a white ceramic forearm covered in writing, its origins murky, the hand open for a shake. Yeah, don’t touch that. But touch it they do, taking turns clasping the hand, seeing the gory dead sitting across from them and, to the cheering (and filming) of previously indi erent acquaintances, inviting spirits to possess them. Those who take the plunge loll their heads, their eyes gone wide and black, as they sing French songs in the style of Edith Piaf, roar and get demon-level freaky. Along with the thrill of occult shenanigans, the connection comes with a physical/metaphysical rush somehow intense enough to lure the kids back after seeing the hideous apparitions. Necromancy’s a hell of a drug. There’s a strict 90-second time limit, lest the spirits hang around and, yes, when that rule is broken, the visions and voices from the other side cross into the teens’ realities with horrific consequences that connect to the film’s opening scene.

The scares in Talk to Me are simple enough but deftly executed. The dead are rendered in varying states of decay, some bruised and gelatinous, droopy-eyed and waterlogged, as the sounds of sloshing water and creaking wood rise and fall. The wounds of the living are as hard to look at, as are their spasms and creepy writhings. (Wilde and Bird may owe me for a little lost sleep.) The pacing is steady and so is the drip of dread as reality becomes more tenuous and the aftere ects of the communing manifest themselves.

Unlike so many throwaway teen horror movies, though, we’re invested in the subtly fleshed out characters and their often fraught relationships. Some of the credit goes to strong performances, especially by Wilde, who carries the emotional weight of the film. Before the craziness starts, we witness the circle of young people grapple with the loneliness, the anxieties of dating, grief and guilt. It may not be enough to break our hearts, but the story and its subplots call us back to the stumblings and frenetic energy of growing up. The teenagers here are not the hyper-sexualized walking tropes we expect to see making bad choices over a Ouija board at a sleepover party — in fact, it may be the first teen horror I’ve ever seen where nobody has sex. There are no stock mean girls, nerds or jocks placed here and there to drive the plot, and the characters’ driving needs are not sex or popularity. Instead, touch, honest conversations, real connection and trust are what’s hardest to come by. The isolation is heightened by the fleeting moments of closeness, as well as the walls, doors and screens between people. Coupled with the recklessness of youth (amped up by dares, a whooping crowd and the high of attention), it’s a heady incentive to reach out to almost anything. R. 95M. BROADWAY, MILL CREEK. ●

Jennifer Fumiko Cahill (she/her) is the arts and features editor at the Journal Reach her at (707) 442-1400, extension 320, or jennifer@northcoastjournal.com. Follow her on Instagram @JFumikoCahill and on Mastodon @jenniferfumikocahill.

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