There are films that creep into your subconscious and terrify you long after the credits roll. Afraid of the Dark is not one of them. Instead, it creeps into your living room, sits on your couch, and spends two hours describing its dreams while you desperately look for an excuse to leave.
Directed by Mark Peploe, Afraid of the Dark is marketed as a psychological horror-drama, but what it really delivers is the cinematic equivalent of being trapped in a philosophy seminar led by a sleepy eleven-year-old. This Anglo-French production wants to be a haunting meditation on childhood, fear, and perception. What it achieves is an extended PSA about why horror films shouldn’t be directed by people afraid of, well, horror.
The Plot (Such As It Is)
The story follows Lucas, an introverted 11-year-old who’s part peeping Tom, part unreliable narrator, and part Ambien dispenser. He lives with his father Frank (James Fox, visibly regretting his agent’s phone call) and his blind mother Miriam (Fanny Ardant, who probably asked for hazard pay). His mother teaches knitting at a school for the blind, which doubles as a metaphor factory for the director.
Meanwhile, a slasher is supposedly on the loose targeting blind women, which sounds like a premise ripe for tension. Blind victims! A lurking killer! A child’s skewed perspective! Hitchcock could’ve made this sing. Peploe, however, makes it mumble into its sleeve. The film introduces razor blades, ominous whispers, and creepy photography sessions, then promptly pulls the rug out by saying, “Just kidding, it was all a dream.”
Yes, Lucas dreams the slasher sequence. And then dreams some more. And then has visions. And then hears whispers. Half the film plays like a blurry fever dream where nothing is certain except your mounting urge to check the clock. By the time Lucas’s reality finally crumbles into delusion, the audience’s sanity has already dissolved.
The Characters: A Parade of Blank Stares
Ben Keyworth as Lucas is asked to carry the film, which is like asking a kid to carry a piano across a swamp. He whispers, stares, and occasionally looks like he’s trying to remember if he left his lunchbox at school. There’s no menace, no spark, no dimension—just a boy wandering around in perpetual confusion.
James Fox as Frank spends most of his time looking stern and holding teacups. Fanny Ardant, a superb actress in better circumstances, is reduced to “blind mother who occasionally knits ominously.” Paul McGann appears as Tony, the neighbor, but you’ll mostly remember him as “that guy who looked embarrassed to be here.”
David Thewlis pops up as both a locksmith and another character (because nothing says “budget constraints” like double-casting). Even his naturally unsettling presence can’t save things. When Thewlis—one of Britain’s best weirdos—fails to elevate your horror film, you know you’ve made a mistake.
The Horror: Blunt Razors and Blunter Storytelling
Afraid of the Dark tries to sell itself as a horror film, but its scares are about as effective as a flashlight with dead batteries. The supposed slasher sequences—blind women being stalked—sound terrifying on paper. On screen, they’re filmed with all the suspense of a knitting tutorial.
The razor blade, the killer’s supposed weapon of dread, is handled with less menace than a Bic disposable. There are moments when Lucas imagines (or sees? Or dreams? Who knows?) the blade glinting, only for the scene to cut away into more muttering about eye surgery. The threat never builds; it just dissolves into elliptical editing and vague symbolism.
By the time beetles scuttled across corpses in Whispers, at least you had something gross to look at. Here, you mostly get characters talking about the possibility of something happening while absolutely nothing happens.
The Pacing: Molasses With Subtitles
There are slow-burn horror films, and then there is Afraid of the Dark, which is less a burn and more a damp squib. The film takes its already thin plot and stretches it until it resembles taffy left out in the sun. Entire scenes exist purely to deliver exposition no one asked for.
Lucas spies on his neighbors. Lucas imagines violence. Lucas listens to whispers. Repeat this cycle about ten times, and you have the movie. By the hour mark, you’re not asking, “Who is the killer?” You’re asking, “Does this projector have a fast-forward button?”
Symbolism, Schmymbolism
Mark Peploe clearly wants to make a serious film. Blindness as metaphor! Childhood innocence corrupted! Dreams versus reality! Unfortunately, his metaphors are so on the nose they might as well come with footnotes. Blind women in peril? It’s not just horror—it’s SYMBOLISM about vulnerability. Lucas needing an eye operation? SYMBOLISM about seeing the truth. The whispering motif? SYMBOLISM about secrets.
The problem is, if you want to make an art-house meditation, you need atmosphere and confidence. Instead, Peploe delivers a muddled script that feels like it was workshopped by a focus group of insomniacs.
Accidental Comedy
The best parts of Afraid of the Dark are the moments where its self-seriousness tips into absurdity. Like Lucas barging into a scene to save a blind woman from a man holding a razor, only to stab the poor guy in the eye. Nothing says “thriller” like child-on-photographer violence followed by, “Whoops, it was just a dream!”
Or Miriam knitting ominously while muttering vague platitudes, as if the sweater itself might reveal the killer. Or the bizarre moment when the film tries to pivot into romance between Hilary and Detective Tony, as though nothing spices up courtship like an undead stalker.
By the end, you’re not scared—you’re giggling. The whispers in the dark sound less like menace and more like your neighbor gossiping through the wall.
The Verdict: Horror Without the Horror
Afraid of the Dark is one of those films that reminds you horror and art-house cinema don’t always mix. Instead of a chilling exploration of fear and perception, you get a meandering slog that’s neither frightening nor profound. It’s as if someone tried to cross Psycho with Sesame Street’s “The Letter People” and forgot to add suspense.
This could have been an unsettling, surreal look at childhood nightmares. Instead, it’s a muddled, humorless bore where the only real terror is realizing you still have 40 minutes left.
