Envision yourself in a critical financial situation. Your mortgage is past due, and the threat of foreclosure is imminent. Job opportunities are scarce, and seeking a loan from friends and family only breeds animosity. Then, a man shows up at your door, presenting a solution — a significant amount of cash. However, there’s a stipulation: he wishes to reside in your basement for a few months, and he bears a striking resemblance to Willem Dafoe.
Given the array of characters this acclaimed American actor has portrayed — from a disturbed lighthouse keeper to a detective who defies gender norms, Spider-Man’s nemesis the Green Goblin, and even Jesus — his visage alone captivates audiences. The potential for what Dafoe may contribute to the film is boundless. Yet his presence raises concerns for the protagonist of The Man in My Basement.
The narrative unfolds as a blend of haunted house motifs, psychological suspense, and existential discourse, making this thriller audacious but not consistently effective. Nonetheless, it prompts viewers to reflect on what is for sale and what remains unattainable.
The Man in My Basement fulfills its promise with notable star power.
In her debut feature as a director, filmmaker Nadia Latif adapts Walter Mosley’s novel The Man in My Basement, with the author himself collaborating as co-writer. She commences her film with astute casting. Corey Hawkins (Straight Outta Compton) and Willem Dafoe co-star in The Man in My Basement, with Hawkins portraying Charles Blakey, a native of Sag Harbor who attended college but struggled to find his footing. Now, while his contemporaries own homes, manage businesses, and get engaged, he finds himself back in his deceased mother’s home, unemployed, discontented, and solitary. Well, nearly solitary. There are peculiar thumping noises coming from upstairs. And then there’s the man at his doorstep, who knows an unsettling amount about Charles’ basement.
Exuding a polished sense of entitlement, Anniston Bennet (Dafoe) is a white businessman who becomes an immediate cause for concern, presenting a devil’s deal. What could he be scheming in this Black man’s basement? He remains vague on that front. Yet as the two inhabit Charles’ familial home over a series of significant weeks, clarifications will surface, and terrible secrets will be revealed.
The Man in My Basement serves as a gradually unfolding haunted house narrative.
Despite the charming wooden elements and golden stained glass windows that make this ancestral home enchanting, Latif infuses gothic aspects of psychological dread and restrained eerie visuals to render her house suitably unsettling. A noise in the night here, a disembodied voice there, and even a lingering hand inching toward the haunted homeowner will cultivate suspense. But such happenings are limited to the upstairs. Below, in the basement, Bennet finds himself confined.
While Latif employs recognizable ghost film symbols to establish a spooky atmosphere, her film uniquely shines in the basement sequences. There, Bennet has trapped himself, resolute about paying for transgressions he won’t readily disclose. In the meantime, Charles understandably feels disturbed by this occupation of his home. A contest of wills emerges as these two men confront each other over what can be redeemed and what demands reparation.
In these interactions, Hawkins confronts Dafoe with a passionate yet anxious energy, while the four-time Academy Award nominee’s enigmatic antagonist exudes an unsettling calmness. The two engage in discussions about philosophy, history, morality, and racial dynamics in moments that evoke a stage play, grounded within the basement, relying on dialogue over visual storytelling. This approach is at times compelling, possibly aiming to evoke the intense conversations between Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling in The Silence of the Lambs. However, Latif refrains from presenting the gore or overt horror such a comparison might suggest.
Latif draws inspiration from Poltergeist, though there’s a distinct deviation.
The Man in My Basement provides ambiance and dramatic tension, but falls short in delivering spine-chilling frights. Following gothic horror traditions, Latif examines the psychological isolation Charles experiences as a Black man who has not met the aspirations his proud family and vibrant Sag Harbor community had for him. Yet, elements of more visceral ghost stories, like Poltergeist, are also woven in. Specifically, Latif provides her own twist on the skin-peeling gag in front of a mirror, and akin to Carol Anne, Charles receives communications from the deceased via his television. (This is one of the rare instances where onscreen violence occurs…literally onscreen, which, although disturbing, also creates a separation between the protagonist and the horrors.)
Nonetheless, Latif dismisses a climactic moment filled with the kind of thrilling spectacle that audiences of ghost tales or psychological thrillers might anticipate. The confrontation between Charles and Bennet is a verbal exchange, not a physical clash, and while this aligns with the philosophical themes of Mosley’s novel, it feels lacking, especially with other threads involving Charles’ family being truncated. Or perhaps the visual references to much more terrifying films foster expectations that Latif either cannot or will not fulfill.
Instead,