‘Talk To Me’: The Cruelty Is the Point
This low-budget horror movie hits hard when you pause to consider the implications.
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A lot of horror movies pivot off of the ‘doing shit you shouldn’t’ meta-trope, the idea that people engage in activities they know on some level they shouldn’t be doing1. It’s a great engine for a story because it places the blame squarely on the characters—to quote reservoir dogs, “If they hadn't had done, what l told them not to do, they'd still be alive.”
Talk to Me trades in this trope. A group of teenagers in Australia have come into possession of an embalmed hand covered in eerie artwork2; if you light a flame, take the hand like you’re shaking it, and say “Talk to me,” a spirit will appear (that only you can see). If you then say “I invite you in,” the spirit will possess you, taking over your body3. As long as you extinguish the flame within 90 seconds, the spirit won’t be able to bond with you and will be forced out of you4.
The kids, naturally, use this as an awesome party game, which is the realest thing I’ve seen in film in a long time. Of course kids would use this as a way to embarrass their friends and post gnarly videos to social media, instead of pondering the implications of an artifact that summons dead people and allows them to possess you. Of course.
This is a solid set up for a low-budget horror movie, and the film works well from that viewpoint (do I even need to say that the whole “kids allow themselves to be possessed by random spirits” goes horribly, horribly wrong?). But the best part of the film hits in the final minutes, when a short coda to the main story slaps you with ... the implications.
White People Shit
Our heroine, Mia (Sophie Wilde) is still reeling from the recent suicide of her mother when she encounters the Hand at a party. The kids, being natural born assholes5, take turns being filmed while possessed, which results in some alternately disturbing and hilarious adventures—sometimes people sing, sometimes they make out with the family dog, sometimes they lash out violently. As long as the flame is snuffed out before 90 seconds, it’s all fun and games. Being natural born assholes, peer pressure plays a big role—no one wants to be a coward, everyone wants to be one of the cool kids who get possessed6.
None of the kids thinks much about the spirits who are possessing them, of course—until Mia thinks her mother is one of them. The possibility that her mother used the Hand to try to make contact sends Mia reeling into uncharted emotional territory, and it isn’t long before things get out of hand7. Pushing her friend’s young brother, Riley (Joe Bird) to remain possessed with what she believes to be her mother’s spirit, Mia ignores the time limit, and the consequences for Riley are catastrophic. Then Mia comes to believe she’s being guided by her mother’s spirit to save Riley—but this is a horror movie, so of course it’s not really her mother8.
It all ends in blood and tears, as a horror movie should. And while that’s a pretty good horror story by itself, it’s the final beat of that story that really hits, because it finally puts into focus the true victims of this party trick: The spirits9.
Let’s Fake Another Video!
The films ends with a nice if not unexpected twist: Mia has a moment of clarity and sacrifices herself in order to save Riley. Dead, she wanders the world around her for a short time, an invisible ghost10. Slowly, everything fades away until she is wandering a dark void, alone and terrified11. Then, in the distance, a tiny spark of flame, and she runs to it, desperate.
It is, of course, another group of asshole kids using the Hand to contact spirits. Mia peers at a person (in what is apparently Greece), and when they say “I let you in,” the film ends, presumably as Mia possesses the guy and has ninety disorienting seconds to try and make some kind of meaningful contact.
It’s a nice, creepy way to end the story, yes, but it also underscores the true horror of the concept. In the film’s universe, spirits wander a black featureless void until summoned by asshole teenagers who then film their desperate pleas for help and understanding for entertainment value and internet points12. The cruelty of this idea is so monstrous it’s breathtaking, and reminds the viewer that during what is admittedly a fun montage of party possessions there are real, suffering people on the other end. Real, suffering people who have raced to a point of light in the void in the hopes of being seen, being heard, only to be laughed at and treated like a piece of entertainment.
Sometimes the real horror of a premise is in the implications, and Talk to Me is an example of this. The front-facing story is a sturdy if relatively unsurprising tale of messing with forces beyond your comprehension. It’s the hidden story layered inside that is truly horrifying. All you have to do is imagine that Mia’s fate is your fate, forever, to be totally terrified13. Dancing for asshole teenagers, forever, with less than two minutes each time to try to make a connection and beg for help.
Of course, maybe it hits me different because people are always luring me to their parties and ordering me to literally dance for them in exchange for nickels. Which I do, because with enough nickels I can buy whiskey.
NEXT WEEK: Madame Web shows how bad bad writing can be.
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For example, every single time I cut my own hair. Always a huge mistake, always seems like a good idea at the time.
As one does. I mean, who doesn’t have a drawer full of Monkey’s Paws?
I get the feeling that if I participated in this party game I’d take the hand and Richard Nixon would appear in front of me. If I invited him in, three days later the world would lay in apocalyptic ruins.
From personal experience, relying on any of my friends at a party to reliably count to 90, even with a smartphone assisting, is pure foolishness.
I am contemplating making NATURAL BORN ASSHOLE the title of my memoir, what you think?
Again, the drug metaphor here is so obvious it’s almost insulting.
I’m not proud of that pun, but I’m also not not proud of it, if that makes sense.
I mean, every single person sitting in the audience knows this instinctively. This is why the Scream movies work.
With the possible exclusion of the aforementioned Richard Nixon.
This perfectly describes my own experience at every party I’ve ever gone to.
This perfectly describes my own experience waking up every Sunday morning.
Although I have to admit if there was some sort of “ghost possession” influencer out there, I’d probably click the link.
This requires empathy, of course, which makes it a challenge for most of you bastards <bursts into tears>.