A Remake That Refuses to Flatline
Horror remakes are a lot like the undead—they just keep coming, whether we ask for them or not. But every so often, one claws its way out of the cinematic morgue, wipes off the dust, and announces, “Surprise! I’m actually alive.” Patrick (2013), Mark Hartley’s sleek, deliriously gothic reimagining of the 1978 Australian cult classic, is exactly that kind of resurrection.
Instead of reanimating a corpse, Patrick electrifies it. It’s a stylish, sharply acted, and darkly funny blend of vintage shock and modern menace. In a genre where remakes usually drain the life from their source material, this one plugs the electrodes straight back in—and the result is gloriously unhinged.
Meet Patrick: The Handsomest Vegetable in Horror
The premise sounds like something out of a medical malpractice lawsuit: Patrick (Jackson Gallagher), a comatose patient in a decaying psychiatric hospital, develops psychic powers that allow him to manipulate the world—and the women—around him. He can’t walk, talk, or blink, but he can fling furniture across rooms and invade your love life like an obsessive poltergeist with a crush.
It’s like Carrie meets Sleeping Beauty, except the prince never wakes up, and everyone else ends up screaming. Gallagher’s performance is impressively eerie, considering his job description is essentially “lie perfectly still and look dangerously handsome.” He does it with commitment and cheekbones sharp enough to slice through his hospital sheet.
Patrick doesn’t speak, but his presence is thunderous. His telekinetic tantrums make him the world’s most passive-aggressive hospital patient, and every flicker of psychic rage feels like the universe itself is rolling its eyes on his behalf.
Sharni Vinson: The Final Nurse
If Patrick is the supernatural heart of the film, Sharni Vinson is its pulse. Fresh off her fierce performance in You’re Next, Vinson brings a rare intelligence and empathy to Kathy, the nurse who unwittingly becomes the object of Patrick’s undying (and undead) affection.
Kathy’s arc—from idealistic caregiver to telekinetic chew toy—is both compelling and darkly hilarious. You can’t help but root for her as she endures romantic sabotage, scientific sadism, and a boss who thinks ethics are just a rumor. Vinson sells every beat with sincerity, even when the movie goes full mad-scientist melodrama.
By the time she’s battling psychic forces and dodging Charles Dance’s maniacal experiments, you’re half-expecting her to start billing by the hour. It’s a testament to Vinson’s performance that she makes you believe both in Patrick’s obsession and her own increasingly unhinged survival instincts.
Charles Dance: The Doctor Will Scare You Now
And speaking of unhinged—let’s talk about Charles Dance. The man could read the Yellow Pages and make it sound like a threat to civilization, so putting him in a decaying asylum as Dr. Roget is basically cheating. His Roget is the kind of doctor who believes in “pushing the boundaries of science” in the same way Dr. Frankenstein believed in “minor electrical adjustments.”
Dance delivers every line with deliciously venomous restraint, alternating between charm and psychosis like a man ordering afternoon tea with a side of torture. He’s joined by Rachel Griffiths as Matron Cassidy, a woman who seems to have replaced compassion with formaldehyde. Together, they form the hospital’s most terrifying tag team since Nurse Ratched met Hannibal Lecter.
The Asylum: Where Good Taste Goes to Die
The hospital setting deserves its own billing. It’s not just a backdrop—it’s a character, one that’s decaying, Gothic, and probably smells faintly of disinfectant and despair. The walls ooze atmosphere (and possibly mildew), the corridors stretch like fever dreams, and every flickering light bulb feels like it’s counting down to a nervous breakdown.
Mark Hartley, best known for the cult documentary Not Quite Hollywood, fills the frame with baroque dread and sly humor. Every shot feels lovingly crafted by someone who grew up renting Italian horror VHS tapes in the dark. It’s part Suspiria, part The Shining, and part Home Renovation Nightmare.
Even when the story flirts with absurdity—and it does, gleefully—the production design keeps it grounded in its own twisted dream logic. You might not believe in telekinesis, but you’ll believe this hospital is haunted by bad intentions.
Love in the Time of Psychosis
At its heart (rotting though it may be), Patrick is a love story. A deeply unhealthy, telepathically controlling, stalker-ghost kind of love story, but still—love! Patrick’s obsession with Kathy borders on romantic comedy, if your idea of romance involves levitating corpses and short-circuiting computers with your mind.
There’s something darkly funny about how the film commits to Patrick’s warped idea of affection. He’s the ultimate clingy boyfriend: he can’t move, won’t leave you alone, and literally kills anyone who tries to date you. He’s like Tinder, if Tinder had psychic powers and a grudge.
What makes it work is Hartley’s willingness to embrace both the absurd and the sincere. The film never winks at the audience; it just lets the ridiculousness play out with straight-faced grandeur. You find yourself laughing one minute and gasping the next—a rare magic trick in modern horror.
Old School Horror with New Blood
Patrick wears its influences proudly. You can feel the echoes of vintage horror—De Palma’s voyeurism, Cronenberg’s body horror, even a dash of Hammer Films theatricality—but Hartley injects enough contemporary flair to keep it from feeling embalmed.
The kills are stylish, the pacing is brisk, and the tone walks that razor-thin line between camp and genuine menace. It’s a film that knows exactly how silly its premise is but refuses to apologize for it. Instead, it doubles down and invites you to enjoy the madness.
The score, drenched in synth and menace, ties it all together. It feels like a love letter to 1980s horror—equal parts pulsing dread and pulpy excess. If you’re the kind of person who misses the days when horror movies had actual mood lighting instead of Instagram filters, Patrick is your séance in cinematic form.
The Coma Awakens
By the time the final act rolls around, Hartley throws subtlety out the window and invites chaos to dinner. Patrick’s psychic rampage hits full throttle—telephones spark, bodies fly, and moral boundaries crumble. It’s operatic, over-the-top, and absolutely glorious.
When the credits finally roll, you’ll feel both exhausted and oddly exhilarated, like you’ve survived a séance conducted by David Cronenberg and hosted by Charles Dance. It’s messy, melodramatic, and proud of it.
The Final Diagnosis
Patrick (2013) isn’t just a remake done right—it’s a reminder that horror doesn’t have to choose between brains and blood. It can have both, preferably floating in a jar on Dr. Roget’s desk.
It’s rare for a film this knowingly ridiculous to also feel this alive. Hartley’s direction, Vinson’s conviction, Dance’s devilish grin, and Gallagher’s hypnotic stillness combine to create something that’s part horror, part dark comedy, and entirely entertaining.
★★★★☆ (4 out of 5)
A gloriously gothic shocker that proves even a man in a coma can out-act half of Hollywood. Patrick may not awaken subtlety, but it revives the kind of stylish, deranged horror that remembers to have a wicked sense of humor—because sometimes, the scariest thing of all is taking yourself too seriously.
