The Lighthouse (2019) — Riley Cross Reviews

Directed by Robert Eggers

I remember pushing a moldy Tupperware container back in the creepy corner of the store when a dude came up and asked if I had *The Lighthouse*. Look, I worked the counter at that last Blockbuster for six years, so I’ve seen everything. I saw grandmas renting soft-core porn out of sheer boredom and teenagers trying to rent hard-banned classics because they think it makes them edgy. When they bring home a movie like this, I feel like a dad sending his tween off to sleepaway camp alone. I like the mood, but it’s not for the faint of heart.

Robert Eggers cast Willem Dafoe and Robert Pattinson and stripped them down to the waist to play two lighthouse keepers in 1892. It’s basically what happens if *Moby Dick* went on a bender and decided to forget how to write a plot. There is no plot; there is only the ocean, the noise of the foghorn, and the slow unraveling of two guys who are absolutely losing their minds. I think about the scene where Willem Dafoe is huffing a dead bird to determine if it killed his apprentice; the way it looks—this final, desperate manipulation of nature for comfort—that will stay with you longer than any jump scare.

This is strictly a "run the bath, pile every comforter on, turn off the porch light" recommendation. It’s dark, sweaty, and heavy. It turns the mundane act of staying in on a Tuesday into a survival situation. It’s best for when you’re done with your own family drama and you want to watch two grown men have a breakdown over a brick of tar and the existential dread of God.

Bottom line: It’s a slimy, atmospheric psychological tour de force that will stick to your ribs long after the credits roll.