Decades before the Marvel Cinematic Universe (almost a century!), Universal’s Classic Monsters became the first shared universe in film. Certainly you know them by reputation alone: Frankenstein, Dracula, Wolf Man, The Mummy, The Creature from the Black Lagoon, The Invisible Man … the broad success of this universe spanned over three decades, and defined the careers of (then) household names like Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, and Lon Chaney Jr. The universe survived so long that it eventually reached such levels of self-parody that Abbott and Costello became official members.
After many years (and some unsuccessful conjurings), those monsters are rising out of their slumber—but the world has changed, and we’ve found worse things to be afraid of than a man wrapped in bandages or a horny manphibian. The old monsters need to find new ways to frighten us.
Universal learned this the hard way in 2017 after their Tom Cruise-starring blockbuster The Mummy—the first title in a planned rollout of an MCU-style Dark Universe—failed to impress just about anyone (including the box office). The grand experiment was over almost before it started.
Enter Blumhouse Productions, who have made a name for themselves producing low budget hits like Paranormal Activity, The Purge, Insidious and Get Out. They signed director Leigh Whannell (he and James Wan rocketed onto the scene following the success of their Saw franchise) and a new, less distended, more artistically inspired version of a classic monster was born (again).
From its agonizing and breath-holding opening moments and beyond, it becomes clear that The Invisible Man is not a story about the invisible man. This is the story of Cecilia (played by Elisabeth Moss), who has suffered greatly at his hands. We don’t need to be told this, because we can infer it almost immediately. For her, a passing jogger is enough to incite a panic attack, and getting far enough outside to retrieve the mail is cause for celebration. The emotional wounds from abuse run deeper than any bruise, and Cecilia wears her damage like a set of chains. It is in her eyes, her posture, her jumpiness at even the smallest things.
Even after word reaches her of her tormentor’s apparent suicide, Cecilia quickly begins to doubt the veracity of the news when she senses his inexplicable presence in her new life.
In lieu of bandages, special effects or CGI, Whannell and cinematographer (and fellow Aussie) Stefan Duscio have found a more elegant and sinister way of depicting an invisible antagonist, and it was always there just waiting to be used.
The answer is space.
The power of premise and connotation makes the deliberate focus of the camera on any negative space an excruciating thing, so simple in concept and so effective at summoning dread. A simple camera pan becomes an agonizing suggestion, and suddenly there is created a monster literally out of thin air. With some help from sound and score (composed by the accomplished Benjamin Wallfisch) the fixed gaze of the camera turns any empty chair or corner into an awful idea: that the reason you feel like you’re being watched is because you are, and you are nearly powerless against such a thing.
This film got me thinking about the difference between subtext and agenda, two things which, though similar, don’t share the same principles about intellectual or artistic honesty. When a film has an agenda, it comes dangerously close to propaganda—art that is politically motivated for a cause, a story which attempts to compel to action or feeling in a way that is either ham-fisted or downright abusive of the sacred pact of truthful storytelling. We become pawns in the political message of a storyteller who uses film or story as a vehicle to deliver a position or stance. 2003’s The Life of David Gale shows what it means for a film to have an agenda: by the end, I felt duped because my emotions had been used in a heavy-handed attack on corporal punishment. Agenda turns a story into a Trojan horse.
Subtext, on the other hand, provides depth and meaning to a story. It adds a metaphorical layer that exists in tandem with the literal events and characters, in a way that is satisfyingly symbolic and intellectually thought-provoking. It rewards active viewing and thoughtful analysis. There’s nothing dirty about it: subtext is an organic byproduct of stories told truthfully, with characters and themes that resonate and breathe and show us ourselves and the world around us.
It is not just the brilliantly simple, suspense-building camera work that makes The Invisible Man so successful: Whannell’s script tells a story that will reverberate especially with anyone who has been the victim of emotional or physical abuse, and then gaslit into feeling that they are the ones to blame. It understands trauma, and how it follows you around and rains down residual suffering long after the initial blows. And all of it works because Moss, as brilliant as ever, becomes the beating heart at the center of it all.
The film has taken H.G. Wells’ original story and updated it for the 21st century; Whannell’s film is more interesting and more timely because it realizes that we have been fixated for too long and too directly on the psychotic madmen who have smashed their way through our real and imagined histories, and not nearly enough on the victims of their careless hubris. In this particular case it doesn’t matter how you feel about #MeToo or #BelieveWomen (although it matters in real life), because the story works, narratively and emotionally, regardless. That is the beauty of subtext. Ultimately, Moss’ character proves that she can define herself as something other than just a victim, and she can do it on her own terms.