In an era when horror leaned heavily on blood, shock, and monster masks, The Other quietly crept in like a spider on the nursery wall—subtle, elegant, and unrelentingly chilling. Directed by Robert Mulligan (To Kill a Mockingbird), adapted by Thomas Tryon from his own novel, this 1972 psychological horror-thriller is less about jump scares and more about the slow, merciless erosion of innocence. It is the anti-Exorcist, a film that burrows not into hellfire but into childhood itself, where the horror is domestic, psychological—and all too human.
And for those wondering: yes, the evil twin trope gets its due. But no, this is not Parent Trap with body counts.
🎭 A Performance Driven by Duality
At the center of The Other are real-life twins Chris and Martin Udvarnoky, making their only film appearances—and somehow also making every other creepy kid performance before or since look like an after-school play. Chris, as Niles, brings a poignant naivete to his character, while Martin’s Holland (or more precisely, Niles’ idea of Holland) is seen only through distorted memory, projection, and madness. That’s the true genius of the film: it never quite shows us “evil” in action. It lets us sense it.
Uta Hagen, in a rare film role, is perfectly cast as Ada, the warm yet tragically blind Russian grandmother. Her scenes with Niles are delicate, wise, and eventually heartbreaking. She is the moral and spiritual compass of the story—and when even she cannot steer the boy away from darkness, you know we’re not heading for a happy ending.
Diana Muldaur (of Star Trek and L.A. Law) is underused as the emotionally crumbling mother, Alexandra, but adds an understated melancholy to the proceedings. And yes, a very young John Ritter shows up too, reminding us that even sitcom dads have skeletons (or drowned infants) in their cinematic closets.
👻 The Atmosphere: New England Gothic by Way of Childhood Trauma
Shot in sun-dappled Californian locales subbing for 1930s Connecticut, The Other feels like a painting by Andrew Wyeth left out in the rain. There’s an almost dreamlike serenity to the landscape—the farm, the barns, the trees—that contrasts with the increasingly nightmarish actions of its central character.
Robert Mulligan’s direction is a study in restraint. He never opts for sensationalism; there are no jarring music cues or sudden shadows. Instead, he lets the story unfold like a fairy tale with a maggot in the apple. The camera rarely shares a frame with both twins, heightening the idea that Holland is as much a psychological construct as a sibling. The decision to keep the horror grounded in suggestion—never directly showing the murders—is what makes it all the more unsettling. It’s not what you see. It’s what you think you saw.
And let’s talk about that ending. Burned barns, drowned babies, and a boy peering quietly from a window while evil lies quietly inside—there are no pitchforks or lynch mobs here. Just a lingering, stomach-churning sense that this story isn’t over. That it will never be over.
🧠 The Horror is Psychological—And Personal
What elevates The Other from eerie period piece to a masterwork of psychological horror is its treatment of childhood trauma, guilt, and repression. The story hinges on a boy’s inability to cope with grief—and the lengths his mind will go to in order to keep his twin brother “alive.” But this isn’t the cute imaginary friend trope. This is psychosis, deep and unchecked.
The “Game” that Niles plays—a kind of astral projection taught by Ada—is a brilliant narrative device. What starts as a mystical connection to life around him slowly becomes a method for disassociation. The movie isn’t concerned with literal magic—it’s a metaphor for the dangers of unchecked fantasy, the way children invent realities to survive the unbearable. It’s also a terrifying reminder that good intentions can pave the road to horror. Ada’s spiritual teachings, rooted in love, ultimately give her grandson the tools to destroy everything around him.
By the time the infant niece is replaced with an angel lamp (the most horrifying metaphor for death since Pet Sematary’s tiny coffin), the viewer has already been pulled so deep into Niles’ fractured world that you hardly need a jump scare to feel disturbed. Mulligan makes you complicit. You like Niles. That’s the horror.
🏆 A Forgotten Gem Deserving of Classic Status
While The Other didn’t find the mainstream success of its horror contemporaries, it has steadily gained recognition over the decades as one of the genre’s most psychologically rich and emotionally devastating films. It’s a patient movie, requiring you to listen, to watch, and to trust that the pit in your stomach isn’t going away anytime soon.
This is The Shining before The Shining. This is The Sixth Sense if it traded its twist for something more insidious. It’s The Bad Seed without the melodrama. If Mulligan had leaned into more visual shocks, the film might have gained cult status sooner. But he didn’t. He leaned into truth—the kind that doesn’t scream, but whispers when the house is too quiet.
Final Thoughts
The Other is an exquisite slow-burn that rewards those who like their horror literate, psychological, and heartbreakingly sad. It’s about childhood, family, grief—and the monsters that don’t live under the bed, but inside the mind.
If you want blood and guts, you’ll be bored. If you want soul, The Other will get under your skin—and stay there. It might just be the most terrifying film you’ll ever see that never once tries to scare you.
★★★★★ (5/5 stars)
Required viewing for horror lovers with a brain, a heart, and a high tolerance for emotional devastation.
