Stream It Or Skip It: ‘The Front Room’ on Max, A Horror-Satire Featuring a Historically Deranged Kathryn Hunter Performance

The Front Room (now streaming on Max) boasts an array of intriguing talent: Twin brothers and co-writer-directors Sam Eggers and Max Eggers make their directorial debut after collaborating on their sibling Robert Eggers’ films The Witch and The Lighthouse. Star Brandy Norwood, the pop singer-slash-actress who returns to the horror genre for the first time since 1998’s I Still Know What You Did Last Summer. And raspy-voiced supporting star Kathryn Hunter, a serial scene-stealer (see: Poor Things, The Tragedy of Macbeth) who eats rather well, playing THEE mother-in-law from hell. Whether this odd melange of horror and comedy is more than the sum of these parts is the question, though.

THE FRONT ROOM: STREAM IT OR SKIP IT?

The Gist: The first thing you’ll notice here is that god damned theremin. It’s kinda loud. It warbles and coos on the soundtrack, and the watery blurring of musical notes makes us feel like we’re not on solid ground here. And so it goes for Belinda (Norwood), who’s uncomfortably pregnant, grossly undervalued in her job as an anthropology prof and having weird surreal sleepwalking dreams. Fed up with being treated like a lowly adjunct, she quits, and her hubs Norman’s (Andrew Burnap) gig as a public defender isn’t covering the bills for their nicely creaky old house that’s covered with seriously ugly-ass antique wallpaper. On top of that, she’s traumatized by a past miscarriage, and frets prior to a routine doctor visit: What if there’s no heartbeat?

Belinda’s worry is unfounded, though. Their daughter is OK in there. And perhaps some relief for the burden of the bills is in sight: Norman’s estranged father has died, and they’re in line to collect a goodly inheritance. Problem is, it comes attached to Something Norman Had Failed To Mention Previously: His stepmother. The deal is, if she moves in with them, the entire mortgage is covered. As in, paid off. In full. Norman has misgivings. She’s very religious, he explains to Belinda, and she scarred him. “All she would let me watch was one goddamn tape of Veggie Tales because Nick Jr. was ungodly!” he bemoans. The fact that she’s never come up in conversations with his wife? Red flag, but Belinda shrugs it off. The opportunity is too ripe. Besides, how bad could it be?

And so we meet Solange (Hunter). CLUMP CLUMP. Hampered by arthritis, she walks with two heavy canes. CLUMP CLUMP. She’s about four-and-a-half feet of giant eyeballs, shoeleather skin and a bad wig. Her ideological worldview makes Old Time Religion look like progressive socialism. She treasures a certificate proclaiming her membership in the Daughters of the Confederacy. She coughs up viscous pools of putrid yellow sputum into a handkerchief and stuffs it in her purse. She speaks in tongues at the dinner table. Whenever Norman’s in her presence, he looks like he’s about to barf. Oh, and she’s incontinent. What’s a little poo when you’re about to be debt-free? 

Of course, Norman works long hours because a promotion is on the line, leaving Belinda to lug around her heavy belly, cleaning up after Solange. And it’s not a little poo. It’s a lot. And Solange is loud and garish and over the top and ridiculous, side-eyeing Belinda, adorning her statues of ancient maternity goddesses with Jesus-fish pendants. Her home has been invaded by a grotesque Looney Toon. And we haven’t even mentioned Solange’s visiting church group, or her creepy pastor, or her strange ability to know things she shouldn’t, or how she may be faking her physical ailments and incontinence seemingly to torture Belinda and sow paranoia. This will all end well, I’m sure!

What Movies Will It Remind You Of?: Monster-in-Law, of course! But seriously, sort of: The Front Room is Get Out if it was heavily influenced by Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s Delicatessen. (Which has me wondering if that theremin is actually a musical saw.)

Performance Worth Watching: Turner – frankly screwed out of an Oscar nod for The Tragedy of Macbeth – again proves herself to be a once-in-a-generation physical performer. She’s hunched over, a crazed look in her eye, her voice sounding like 1,000 ancient rusty door hinges with no oil in sight. Her presence is so incredibly strange, you feel uncomfortable, challenged even, every time she’s on screen. 

Memorable Dialogue: Solange shits herself again: “M-E-DOUBLE-S MESS!” she bellows. “I’M A M-E-DOUBLE-S MESS MESS MESS!”

Sex and Skin: Turner’s prosthetic old-lady breasts in the bathtub – and in one of Belinda’s disturbing nightmares.

Our Take: I’m torn. Turner’s obscenely gross performance is either wildly entertaining or, you know, a bit much. I’d say you can’t take your eyes off of her, but that’s a lie, because you’ll inevitably avert your gaze from the film’s far too many gut-churning displays of splattered diarrhea. One senses Turner cranking the dial hard to upstage the literal shit her character spews, so she goes bigger than bigger-than-life, straight into cartoondom. You can’t help but admire her commitment to the bit. 

Turner ends up being the foundation for The Front Room, which builds itself around her for-better-or-worse unforgettable vocal/physical/psychological gymnastics. I think the film’s worth watching – read: enduring the upsetting scatology – just to see her be so hilariously appalling. Norwood and Burnap counteract Turner by underplaying a little, their droll line-readings giving us a reprieve from the madness. I recommend following Norwood’s lead – although she doesn’t nudge-nudge-wink her way through the movie, she clearly never takes the material seriously, whether it’s the screaming text or the thin subtext.

What isn’t so clear is what the Eggers are satirizing here. Thematically, the film can’t decide whether it’s lampooning cultural divides or spoofing one of the growing trends in horror-movie tropes, the Joys and Traumas of Motherhood (Nightbitch was similarly unfocused in its nutty attempt to tackle this material). So we’re left feeling frustrated, chasing go-nowhere subplots: Belinda’s nightmares, Solange’s implied otherworldly supernatural powers, the ideological battle they represent. It’s as if the filmmakers’ overall goal is to be as weird as possible. Mission accomplished, I guess.

Our Call: In spite of its high blecch factor, it’s kinda hard not to like The Front Room for being amusingly deranged. STREAM IT.

John Serba is a freelance writer and film critic based in Grand Rapids, Michigan.