The Babadook (2014): The Horror of an Unhappy Home
Jennifer Kent’s instant classic redefined the horror genre by heeding story first and frights second
Originally published on Fanfare.
Note: This article contains spoilers for the film The Babadook (2014).
Body horror repulses us; watching a person become sick and decay is positively off-putting (unless you’re one of those types that is morbidly fascinated by it). But what if the body that has become infected is a house? And what if the sickness that has consumed it is undigested trauma?
Jennifer Kent is a director with a keen interest in this subject. Her film The Nightingale (2018) is infused with themes of trauma explored on both the personal and cultural level. However, it is her debut feature, The Babadook (2014), which is most illustrative of her fascination with trauma as a theme. Released ten years ago this month, The Babadook still gives goose bumps, turning our hidden secrets and repressed emotions into a terrifying villain, perhaps better than any other horror film.
In a lot of horror movies, there is a happy family that is torn apart by a demon that already lives in the house. However, in this story, a demon is born through the malaise that exists between a mother and her child. It gradually takes shape through Amelia’s (Essie Davis) grief, her cold treatment of her son Samuel (Noah Wiseman), and the degenerative unhappiness that pervades their home.
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Importantly, the reason why The Babadook succeeds at creating such an unsettling supernatural atmosphere is because Jennifer Kent prioritises the realistic depiction of what grief can do to a family dynamic first. Then, Kent transforms the unhappy home into a waking nightmare by adding just a touch of paranormal horror. By creating a solid foundation of character, theme, and symbolism, The Babadook proves one need not sacrifice story for scares. In fact, Kent shows how one actually complements the other.
Drama First, Horror Second
There are a number of strong openings in the history of horror cinema. There’s the tracking shot in Halloween (1978), the running dog in The Thing (1982), and the first victim in Jaws (1975). The mysterious presence that follows the Torrance family up the mountain to The Overlook Hotel is a close first, as well. However, The Babadook arguably has the best opening out of any horror film.
There is something quietly disturbing about this opening scene. But why? There isn’t a knife-wielding child, nor is there a killer shark. In fact, barely anything happens at all: a distressed child wakes his mother with a nightmare. He then rests beside his sleep-deprived mother, who moves away from him, irritated. For me, the operative word is the fact that this scene is quietly disturbing. The silence is oppressing, stifling, even suffocating.
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Firstly, all of the other films previously mentioned use music to create palpably tense atmospheres. The booming, spine-tingling theme for The Shining (1980) is very unsettling. But in The Babadook, there is the oppressive stillness of a sad, mournful house; a tangible melancholy has spread to every corner. The room that this silence gives to the viewer is unnerving in a totally different way: there is a lack, something missing that has caused the integrity of this household to rot in an insidiously upsetting way. So despite the fact that nothing of note actually happens, we feel on edge.
One need only compare this to the opening of It Follows (2014), released in the same year as The Babadook. David Robert Mitchell employs rhythmic, pounding music that tracks over his opening scene. This creates an intensity, an immediacy, a sense of urgency that must be addressed quickly. While it is absolutely hooking — It Follows is also a favourite of mine — it is not unnervingly poignant like The Babadook is. This brings me to my second point.
In It Follows, Jaws, or A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) it is already revealed that there is an ominous, dangerous presence lurking nearby, be it real or supernatural. In The Babadook however, we are only shown a troubled son and his disinterested mother. There is no requirement for defensive measures to be taken, no need for protective or evasive action. When contrasted against other horror movies, this opening could even be described as dull; you’d be forgiven for thinking The Babadook was actually a drama. And yet, this is the setting of perhaps the best horror film in the last twenty years.
So then, why do I think that this is the strongest opening of any horror film? Because it shows us everything without showing us anything. What I mean by this is both story and plot information are conveyed without something of note being revealed. There’s no monster present, yet we feel a malevolent sickness which has burrowed its way into the very fabric of the house.
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This emotional debilitation is communicated visually: the colour palette is dull, greyish, and insipid. We can tell that all vitality, colour, and happiness has disappeared from this house long ago. The cinematography and mis-en-scene highlight their situation as we realise they are totally alone in this home; director of photography Radek Ładczuk isolates characters, making them appear remote and vulnerable. While none of this is spoken in the opening, it is felt. In this respect, it serves as a solid foundation for the terrifying build-up and the horror to come.
Building Unhappiness
Instead of filling the first half of The Babadook with run-ins with a murderous clown, Kent explores the relationship between a depressed mother and her disturbed son. Several times at the beginning of the story, Amelia creates physical distance between herself and Sam. There is a rift between them and it grows over the course of the story. Though young Samuel just wants love and affection, Amelia cannot even bring herself to say the words.
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Watching the life of a single mother — who has her own issues to sort out — is distressing in its own right. Throw in a child that continues to bring deadly weapons into school, wake you up in the middle of the night, and talk about killing monsters, and it is down-right nerve-wracking. Credit to editor Simon Njoo and Jed Kurzel’s music for amplifying the tension through their stellar work.
However, the majority of the praise should be attributed to Jennifer Kent’s writing and direction: she dedicates a lot of screen time to Amelia’s mental and emotional state. Through Essie Davis’ masterful portrayal, we watch as she begins to spiral, becoming more distrusting, more despairing, and eventually, more aggressive.
As we come closer and closer to the anniversary of her husband’s death, Amelia’s grip of reality starts to loosen, despite her attempts to deny it. This denial can be seen in the film’s symbolism. The door to the basement, the glass in the soup, the termites in the wall. These are symbolic for something being buried, something being hidden, all of which are emblematic for the pain felt when a trauma is touched or unearthed.
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Of course, the thing that reminds Amelia of her trauma the most is Samuel. More than this, part of her, a part which she has buried deep down inside of herself, blames Samuel for her husband’s death. The film becomes an incredibly tense watch, partly because of the supernatural entity, but predominantly because we are deeply invested in the relationship between an unloved problem child and his struggling single-mother. Through Sam, Amelia loses friends, family, and sleep. We see challenging moment after challenging moment. She’s at the end of her rope.
Then, the book arrives on her doorstep…
The Unhappy Home and Horror
Kent spends the first half of the film building an unhappy home, a house that is so filled with grief and sorrow that it feels like there is no escape. Amelia denies the importance of her trauma, stating she is fine and unaffected. But as we learn, denying it only makes it stronger.
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The Babadook character is mentioned before the supernatural horror truly kicks in. His first appearance in the book is disturbing, but he eventually fades into the background as Kent focuses on Amelia’s and Samuel’s relationship. Up until this point, the real tension has been created through their family dynamics.
By the time paranormal things start happening, we have felt uncomfortable and distressed for so long, and we have watched Amelia struggle for so long, that a malevolent spirit possessing her body only feels logical. In this sense, Kent’s construction of the unhappy home is incredibly conducive to creating horror as it grounds it in a gritty realism.
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There are various aspects to Kent’s unhappy home. Firstly, by the time The Babadook makes his physical appearance, Amelia and Samuel are at odds, divided. The first half of the film establishes their fractious relationship as seeds of distrust are planted on both sides. In this sense, they have become more susceptible.
We are also forced to question to what degree all of this happening in Amelia’s head: according to trauma theorist Peter A. Levine, when an emotionally disturbing event is left undigested, it can cause people to go insane. The television footage of the police outside Amelia’s house, a vision of the events that ensue after she has murdered Samuel, firmly places the horror in the realm of reality: infanticide does happen, and psychosis is often to blame.
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As Amelia becomes possessed, breaks her dog’s neck and tries to do the same to Samuel, it all feels terrifyingly real. We forget that there is anything supernatural in the house. The horror in The Babadook derives from what has been buried, as well as the natural day-to-day processes involved in that burying. For this reason, as it is being brutally unearthed, we can believe that someone who had been living in denial would lose their mind, totally and irrevocably.
The Babadook chills because all the horror originates from an unhappy home pushed to its limit; everything stems from Amelia’s pain and mania. The Mother is an archetype of love and affection: the image of Amelia kicking down Samuel’s door to kill him runs completely contrary to this. A home is supposed to be a safe place, yet the unhappy home that Jennifer Kent depicts is filled with dark corners, sharp objects, and doors that are not meant to be opened.
Catharsis: Finding Peace
The resolution in The Babadook does not come from the mother piercing the demon’s heart with a silver bullet. Instead, the monster almost wins. Having infected Amelia, she comes dangerously close to strangling her son to death.
It is only a loving touch that prevents this calamity: as Amelia is tightening her fingers around Samuel’s throat, his small hand reaches out and brushes her cheek. It is not an attempt to fight back, but is merely a loving caress. It is an embrace that says: “I’m sorry you are in pain. I would bear the brunt of this burden for you if I could. I love you. I love you. I love you.” It is a feeling that someone will understand if they have witnessed a family member experience the lingering effects of trauma.
After she expels the evil from her body, Amelia is fiercely protective of her child. Once the toxicity of trauma has been forced out, her motherly instincts return. Screaming at the monster to get back, it shrivels away, only to disintegrate into an impotent pile of clothes. The spirit flees to the basement, where it locks itself inside.
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At the end of the story, it is revealed that the basement is still containing The Babadook. Amelia collects worms and maggots from the garden to feed it. Some have stated that Kent is implying Amelia has not really moved on. But I don’t think that is what is being said here. I think Kent is suggesting that these memories deserve a special place in our lives and, due to their nature, they should be controlled. Otherwise, they could destroy everything that surrounds them, much like it almost did to the relationship between Amelia and Samuel.
When Samuel asks if he can see what lives in the basement, Amelia says: “One day… When you’re big enough.” In this moment, we see Amelia is learning to master her grief. Instead of burdening Sam with her trauma, she recognises that she can communicate the pain of her loss when he is old enough to understand it.
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This is not a sad ending, but a very realistic one. It is not as though these memories or emotions ever completely disappear. This does not mean it is defeat. Much like Amelia’s rose garden, when tended to with care and consideration, something beautiful can grow out of what is buried in the darkness: even if it’s just a boy finally being able to celebrate his birthday and a mother finally being able to hold her son.
