Home is where the heart is, but it’s also often where the trauma lies, which is a concept many of us come to realize far too late in life. We all carry our challenges, but there’s something about the home in which we grew up that feels particularly difficult to overcome, even if our experiences were mostly positive. This is what director Peter Cornwell establishes as the fundamental theme of Mercy, a film based on Stephen King’s short story “Gramma”, which follows the experiences of a young boy who accompanies his mother and older brother to the small town in West Virginia, where his grandmother has lived her entire life, and who is nearing the end of her life, choosing to return to the remote home amongst the hills in which she raised her family, hoping to die in familiar surroundings. The secrets that emerge once our protagonist begins to witness the changes happening to his beloved grandmother reveal a deep, dark history tied to this home, which his family has kept concealed for generations, but now can not longer hide, launching an evil into the world that seemingly can only be stopped by the young boy and his undying devotion to a grandparent who is most certainly not exactly who she claims to have been all these years. A strange but captivating film carefully pieced together by a director with a keen interest in exploring the depths of the human condition through the perspective of a young man seeking answers to questions he didn’t realize he’d have to ask, the film adapts King’s story into a poignant and poetic ode to family and the fear we have when realizing that the person across from us at the dinner table may not necessarily be who we expect. A unique approach to common themes, tied together by a very precise, complex vision that is as earnest as it is daring, Mercy is a fascinating work of horror that has many merits and a few shortcomings that momentarily contradict each other, but ultimately amount to something quite sincere and genuinely meaningful.

A horror film that does not act as a form of allegory has become increasingly rare, especially in recent decades as the term labelled “elevated horror” has started to become quite prominent, driving many films that aim to take a more sophisticated and meaningful approach to terror. King has always been a foundational voice in terms of infusing his stories with deeper meanings, and we’re able to extract a lot of meaning from even the simplest of works. Mercy is a film in which the underlying subject matter is not difficult to encounter, since it establishes its foundation at the very start, allowing us access into the lives of these characters and their personal existential quandaries that are going to flourish into the eventual descent into unhinged terror that occupies the final act of the film. The theme that drives the story is grief – from the start, the film makes it clear that this is a film based around a young man realizing that his beloved grandmother is on the verge of death, and whose anxiety and concern for her wellbeing manifests in him developing an unusually close relationship to her, ultimately becoming the target of the malicious forces that pulsate throughout her, leading to a gruesome conclusion for everyone involved. Grief as a subject is not uncommon in horror – there’s something oddly compatible between trauma and stories designed to terrify and unsettle, and we find that absolutely every aspect of Mercy is defined by its decision to explore the world of these characters and how they process the impending death of their matriarch differently. Granted, the film is far from complex, and several elements do leave quite a bit to be desired, but it is ultimately still quite effective in looking at the subject of grief as more than just a one-dimensional depiction of a family growing sombre over a loss that has not happened yet but is gradually occurring before their eyes, taking the form of something much darker and more sinister as a way to show the feeling of uncertainty and despair that often emerges in many of these situations.

Despite what appears to be a shoestring budget and a genre that does not always attract the most prominent talent, Mercy has a surprisingly solid cast. The lead role is occupied by Chandler Riggs, who was at his peak as a young performer at the time as a result of his work on television and in film (but who has seemingly faded from the public consciousness, despite a terrific range of talents), with a supporting cast filled with recognizable actors. Frances O’Connor does her best with quite a limited role, playing a character who has to navigate the awkward space between being a mother to her two children, and the daughter of someone who is slowly venturing towards her imminent death, but who has made it clear that there are unresolved matters that she is eager to sort out before her demise. Dylan McDermott and Mark Duplass are essentially nothing more than plot devices, characters used to advance the narrative without adding too much to it, but they’re still very effective, and bring a sense of levity to an otherwise dour film. The heart of the film is Shirley Knight, who takes on the titular role, and who delivers a staggering performance that is perhaps far better than the film in which she is appearing. Very rarely do we see actors commit so fully to a role that requires this much from them, and her performance is astonishing in how she manages to take a one-dimensional role and infuse it with such humanity in the earlier portions, and then rapidly switch to outright terrifying for the final segments, where we hardly recognize her, showing her ability to dig deep into the soul of this character. It’s an exceptionally compelling work that perhaps warranted a more engaging film in terms of its underlying themes and everything that it ultimately represents. It’s a solid cast that defines Mercy and elevates it from an overly trivial story of grief, proving just how vital good performances are to the success of a film.

Mercy is a peculiar film insofar as it struggles to find its own identity. Many promising aspects surround it, but it is primarily a film that doesn’t seem to be able to define itself in coherent terms. This isn’t entirely cause for concern since there are elements that are certainly very promising as far as the filmmaking and storytelling go, but it does put us through a series of challenges that perhaps feel partially unnecessary, even if we can see the reasoning behind such decisions. Cornwell is not a director known for a particularly daring mise en scène, and he doesn’t seem entirely interested in making the film look particularly memorable – the locations on which it is filmed are stunning, but the visual aesthetic is quite cold and aloof, and lacks the richness and vibrancy we would normally expect from a film that is as much about the family as it is their surroundings. However, this could be seen as intentional since the feeling of uncanny discomfort is integral to our overall experience with the film, and we can see the reasons that a director may be prone to creating a story that instils in us a sense of dread rather than any other emotion. Ultimately, Mercy is a film driven by its atmosphere more than its terror, and while the third act is filled with some horrifying imagery, most of the impact of this film comes in the mood, which contains thick, impenetrable layers of unsettling ideas. The cold, aloof tone only complicates our feelings, creating a sense of deep despair that eventually works in the film’s favour. I have very little doubt that had Cornwell decided to keep the film as an atmospheric horror, rather than succumbing to the temptation of that off-the-wall conclusion that ultimately adds nothing of value to the story, Mercy would have been far more effective since it’s encroaching feeling of despair and deep, unbearable sadness that gives the film its unique appearance and allows it to be far more effective than the final few moments would allow.

While it may not occupy the upper rungs of the vast canon of King adaptations, nor be a particular highlight in the careers of anyone involved, Mercy is still a solid, well-made film that features many promising qualities, particularly in terms of how it arranges itself as more than just a run-of-the-mill possession horror acting as a thinly-veiled allegory for grief. Instead, it functions as something much more profound, a heartfelt manifesto on the experience of watching a loved one slowly descend into their demise, focusing on the feelings of uncertainty and confusion that emerge when we realize that this is truly all that there is in a lot of instances. Its bold storytelling feels pedestrian at some moments, but has a genuine heart that makes it much more engaging, far more than we would expect at a cursory glance. It has clear imperfections and is certainly not without shortcomings, but it is still exceptionally intriguing from start to end, carrying a sincerity and humanity that feels far deeper than its surface may suggest. Anchored by strong performances that are honest and compelling, enough to compensate for the peculiarities of the narrative, Mercy is a strong effort that may not rise above some questionable narrative choices (particularly in the conclusion), but does just enough to warrant our time, suggesting the possibility of a much better film being constructed from the promising fragments that make up this narrative.