Together

Mainstream body horror is having a moment. Elements have long been floating around, and its definition can be imprecise. But movies that wholly embody its visceral glory, literalizing the constant search for self in a world desperate to impose a definition upon us, are much less common. However, there's recently been a small but steady wave cresting. I'd trace it back to the Palme d'Or winning Titane in 2021, a film seen far more widely than its offer of "a woman bleeds oil after having sex with a car" would have you expect, especially as its US release came in the thick of a COVID resurgence. The following year saw David Cronenberg's return to the genre for the first time in a couple decades, and The Substance was nominated for Best Picture last year while also being favored to win Best Actress. Although Conenberg's 2025 release didn't fit the bill, Emilie Blichfeldt's debut The Ugly Stepsister did. And the latest is Michael Shanks' debut feature.

Instead of exploring our relationship to the broader world and the pressure it exerts upon us, Shanks is more concerned with the influence our loved ones exert. Tim (Dave Franco) has been in a funk ever since discovering his mother cheerily sitting in bed next to her deceased husband's decomposing corpse, worried that he too is fated to suffer a psychotic break and be slowly poisoned by his environment without realizing it. That's exactly what he's doing to his longtime girlfriend Millie (Alison Brie), trapping her with a dispassionate zombie. It's fitting; their relationship is also drifting along, causing her to wonder aloud if they're still in love, or just comfortable. So when he becomes overly attached following a night they spend in a strange cave, she's confounded more than thankful. She's delighted to finally have sex again, of course. But it's so sudden and intense as to be disruptive to both of their lives. Soon, any separation between them feels like a thousand miles, irresistibly dragging him to wherever she is, and eventually pulling them towards each other.

Although a pretty on the nose metaphor for codependency, Shanks pays enough attention to the story to keep you thoroughly entertained. We already knew of the talent Franco and Brie possess in the realms of dramatic and comedic acting, skills that allow them to deftly move between the black humor inherent in the situation and the more heartfelt navigation of a partnership on the rocks. The film's unique take on body horror gives them many chances to showcase their capability at physical acting, too. As Tim's control of his body wanes, Franco combines that with a sad puppy dog demeanor that contrasts hard with his prior inability to care, further emphasizing the transformation. The way the narrative unfolds gives Brie has less time to play in that space, but she equips herself quite well, especially in a couple of the movie's most memorable (and memorably gruesome) scenes.

Despite the unorthodox approach, it remains as upsetting as you would hope. The force drawing them together results in unique opportunities for disturbing and disgusting imagery, making manifest the damage inflicted by focusing on your partner to the exclusion of every other part of your life. There are some lovely little bits of foreshadowing that telegraph a few of the most intense scenes coming a mile away, but that barely diminishes their effectiveness. The imagery overall is quite inventive and affecting throughout, including a handful of early shots that had me on edge long before the true terror began.

The chemistry between Brie and Franco is as easy as can be, making clear that Shanks' decision to cast a real life married couple was the right one. In their individual roles, Franco is amongst the best at playing pathetic and exasperated, and Brie has continued to improve her deployment of sharp edges, long ago leaving behind the sweet passivity of Annie.

These attitudes give you the sense that part of what keeps their characters together is their complimentary skill sets. Interestingly, Shanks is very deliberately playing with stereotypical American gender roles: Tim is the one who's emotional and cooks and declines sex because he's tired, whereas Millie is the breadwinner and flirting with infidelity and more comfortable using power tools. That it's Tim who's made "clingy" by the mysterious force plays into this even more strongly, as that descriptor is most often reserved for use by dudes at the bar whining about their ex-girlfriends. While it feels a little out of place at first, the way the plot development drives home the rationale, even if you reason it out more than feel it.

Despite all of this, it's not a particularly sticky story. As enjoyable as it was in the theater, its weight dissipated soon after walking outside. The movie's dual protagonists mean neither has to face this nightmare alone, so although their proximity is the problem, the horror is somewhat lessened. It doesn't help that there's a character who emerges late as the antagonist and exposition machine, breaking the cardinal guideline of "Show, don't tell" just before the climax (although the climax itself and the epilogue avoid that pitfall). Combined with the handful of plot threads whose resolution is rushed and unsatisfying (even if they technically work), there are a few too many distractions to allow the main thread to truly shine.

Yet it's unique enough that it's not too hard to look past its flaws to have a good time. A bloody, messed up, freaky time, sure. But there's enough humor and insight and clever situations to keep you engaged the whole time, despite not being quite as deep as it thinks it is.