Best twist yet? That a sneaky franchise-grab should be so concussively good (man)

Rating: 8/10 (18 March 2016)

There's been a lot already said about 10 Cloverfield Lane, most to the effect of "It came out of nowhere!" and "Whatever you do, don't spoil this movie!" Yes, it did, and okay, fine - I won't. In the age of rampant spoilers, moviegoers could use more mystery in their lives (though the 'Cloverfield' tag is enough of a hint already). And 'mystery' is an appropriate word in more ways than one for the 'blood relative' of the 2008 found footage smash-up (thankfully, all the shaky-cam has bled out since). But, spoilers aside (I promised!), the real twist: the franchise-hungry title retrofit of the film formerly known as 'The Cellar' and 'Valencia' will lure in audiences coming for giant monster pyrotechnics, only to subject them to a lean, agonizingly tense, old-fashioned psychological thriller. It's unexpected, stripped-down, and rests firmly on the strength of its performers and writing. And it's far more satisfying and memorable than any monster mayhem it may or may not contain (teehee).
Cloverfield The First was an entirely sensorial experience, groundbreaking for immersing its audience into the fray of a monsterpocalypse. 10 Cloverfield Lane is even more claustrophobic, both due to its apocalyptic bunker setting, but also how much debut director Dan Trachtenberg can wring out of it. We're trapped, not in a sci-fi horror flick, but in a vintage mystery thriller - more 'whatdunnit' than 'whodunnit', or perhaps 'whatdidhedo', as the film rations out tidbits without any superfluous exposition or action to distract from the meaty interpersonal drama at play. Trachtenberg is coy with his Hitchcock influences, as the opening wordless sequence, with Mary Elizabeth Winstead's Michelle on the run, and Bear McCreary's thunderously melodramatic score, a spectacular hat tip to the great Bernard Herrmann, set the tone perfectly, situating us in Psycho territory. Scrupulously policed by the terrifyingly confusing Howard (John Goodman), we, alongside Michelle, and fellow refugee Emmett, scrabble for the tiniest clues as Trachtenberg steadily cranks up the tension like a vice. Is Howard telling the truth about their quarantine, and, if so, how much (and, regardless, is he more dangerous than the world outside)? As survival, fastidious social politics, and aspirations of escape consume Michelle, our MacGuffin, "what's really out there?" looms overhead (literally) like a sickening spectre, with only fleeting blips (recalling, but far more cathartic than the similarly minimalist Paranormal Activity) reinforcing how serious Howard could be about their predicament.
But Trachtenberg is mindful of preventing the popcorn crowds from yawning amidst the tightly wound confinement drama. The labyrinthine script kneads out every inch of potential subterfuge with a bold showiness slyly conveying the flamboyant urgency of a monster mash, keeping the proceedings dynamic, as audiences gasp for hints like fish out of water. Despite the stagnant setting, McCreary's domineering, bass drum locomotive of a score works tirelessly to keep the film stampeding along at a grimly resolute pace, while the frenzied sound editing exacerbates each screech of a door hinge and thumping on the floor (both internal and external) to jaw-clenching extremes, as Howard's volcanic mood swings guarantee no certainty or security at any point. And when we finally do snowball into 'That Ending'... well, I promised I wouldn't tell, didn't I? Suffice to say it's buckets of fun, but the real takeaway is the hour and a half potboiler proceeding it.
Winstead is excellent and surprisingly nuanced as the perennially put-upon Michelle, with her tenacious, indefatigable innovation and tenderly expressive eyes making her infinitely more engaging than the average 'final girl'. But if the film has one takeaway moral, it's that the incomparable John Goodman has been criminally underused as a villain throughout his impressive career, and does some of his strongest work yet here. Goodman is ferociously captivating, his massive frame and booming voice filling the bunker with more dread than any giant monster. But it's how ingeniously ambiguous Goodman builds Howard that makes him truly terrifying, allowing notes of warmth, humour, and the deepest sorrow to dance across his permanent scowl, and leaving us constantly guessing: is Howard as sinister and predatorial as we're inclined to believe, or is he actually just a seismically particular conspiracy nut and control freak, who actually has everyone's best interests in mind? It takes a truly seasoned performer to inhabit a character with such engrossing certainty. Finally, John Gallagher Jr. confidently rounds out the bunker with necessary levity and a distinctly Chris Pratt brand of laid back comedy charisma.
10 Cloverfield Lane doesn't reinvent the wheel, but it does give it a hefty coat of polish, thrusting a delightfully old-fashioned slab of psychological tension into the heightened urgency of a contemporary B-movie popcorn romp. A key example of a simple, solid idea done hugely justice to, thanks to rock solid work by all involved, particularly the titanic, terrifying Goodman. It's also tons of fun, and distinctly worth seeing. Just don't overhype it for yourself. Or spoil that ending. John Goodman will be watching you.
-8.5/10