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Can the classic case of frilly frocks and plastic physiognomies send our spines into orbit once again? Oh demons, disarm us.
For those of you who aren’t familiar with the infamous cabinet of demonic entities possessed by paranormal investigators, Ed and Lorraine Warren, rest assured, Annabelle shall readily enlighten you. Whilst James Wan, the creator of The Conjuring (2013), was the first to exploit this haunted “hard” evidence, which caused a supposed sequence of disturbing events in a residential farmhouse, it is now Wan’s longtime cinematographer Jon Leonetti who takes the reigns of The Conjuring’s prequel. Instead of a farmhouse, Leonetti flings us right back to a 1969 backdrop coloured with Santa Monica housewives and earthy velour interiors. Even better, he also incorporates the psychological epidemic that was the Charles Manson angst into his potion of horrors.
In Annabelle, we are promptly provided with a “pretty” plastic antagonist; a large porcelain doll, whose face bizarrely resembles a Venus flytrap in both colour and contour. It doesn’t take us long to suspect a villain. Actually, it is difficult to comprehend that this freaky-ass doll was considered desirable at any instant in time. But alas; just like any plastic Tomette, Dickette and Harriet of its vintage, this doll was the epitome of grandeur.
From the offset, we are greeted with many a constant, and not-so-many variables: John, the husband/med-student hybrid, and Mia, the stunning and slender wife, perfectly pregnant. Here we have the quintessential undisturbed nuclear family. Now, if this cannot be classified as a neon sign for some looming bloodcurdling affairs, than neon signs have no purpose in this world.
To our dismay, like the Golden Arches on a drunken Saturday night, the neon sign does not deceive us. Leonetti wastes no time; we are abruptly greeted with the gruesome attack of the neighbours by a pair of psychotic cult members, of course. (In fact, one of the attackers, Annabelle, happens to be the long lost daughter of the victims — thank you so very much, Mr. Manson.). The deranged attackers aren’t satisfied; they are committed to annihilating any obstacle. An innocent couple? Perhaps a knife to the pregnant stomach should suffice.
Whilst, miraculously, the protagonists survive the opening onslaught — unlike their attackers of course — the dust is sure as hell yet to settle. It is clear Leonetti is not one to deviate too far from superficial horror-homage; sewing machines sounding, rocking chairs rocking, lullabies singing, and the same freaky doll present all the while. Bigger fish are fried, however, when John secures his hospital residency, Mia gives birth to healthy little Leah, and the troops move to a luxury bedsit in Pasadena — oh, and let’s not forget the doll. Be forewarned: a winged demon with extendable phalanges (courtesy of makeup artists Greg Nicotero and Howard Berger, best known for the Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe), and vintage baby prams are indeed on the horizon.
Leonetti exploits our classic associations with horror, adopting what turned out to be a collective parody of slapstick conventions. These days, successfully petrifying an audience with only some traditional approaches isn’t easy. Whilst cinematographer James Kniest’s lighting was at the height of proficiency, seeing a winged demon in HD with a 1960s milieu wasn’t perhaps the most effective within this context. It would be fair to say that Leonetti made a promising attempt, and there was a degree of empathy for the petite mommy trying to protect both her newborn and her sanity simultaneously. Despite budget constraints, production designer Bob Ziembicki successfully exploited the perspective of the enclosed elongated setting of the apartment, where the majority of the demonic appearances took place. As predictable and superficial as it may have been, the debris of nerve-nibbled straws scattered on the cinema floor is testament to the handful of lip-biting moments Annabelle managed to generate.
