In the quiet suburbs, it walks slowly towards you, unhurried, unstoppable—a reminder that some sins linger forever.

 

David Robert Mitchell’s It Follows (2014) redefines horror by stripping away the jump scares and gore in favour of an abstract, pervasive dread that clings like a second skin. This film masterfully crafts a nightmare from the mundane, transforming everyday American suburbia into a labyrinth of paranoia. Through its innovative curse mechanic and minimalist terror, it explores the inescapable nature of consequence, making audiences feel the weight of pursuit long after the credits roll.

 

  • The film’s abstract horror stems from a sexually transmitted curse that manifests as a shape-shifting entity, forcing victims to pass it on or face relentless death.
  • Mitchell employs wide-angle lenses, symmetrical framing, and a hypnotic synth score to evoke isolation amid familiarity, elevating suburban ennui to existential terror.
  • At its core, It Follows grapples with the loss of innocence, using the curse as a metaphor for sexually transmitted diseases, adulthood’s burdens, and mortality’s inevitability.

 

The Leisurely Gait of Doom

The horror in It Follows unfolds not through frenzied chases or monstrous roars, but via a deliberate, almost pedestrian pace that mirrors the entity’s approach. After a night of intimacy, protagonist Jay Height (Maika Monroe) finds herself targeted by an otherworldly force that appears in the distance, walking steadily towards her. This figure, never running, adopts the guise of strangers or acquaintances, its form shifting subtly to maintain an uncanny familiarity. The film’s opening sequence sets this tone masterfully: a young woman flees in terror, only for her screams to echo unanswered as the camera lingers on empty streets, emphasising the isolation of pursuit.

Director David Robert Mitchell draws from the found-footage aesthetics of earlier horrors while subverting them, opting instead for a clean, widescreen composition that captures vast, empty spaces. Suburbia—those identical houses, deserted beaches, and endless roads—becomes the antagonist’s playground. The entity’s slow advance creates unbearable tension; viewers project their gaze into the frame’s peripheries, scanning for the telltale walk. This abstract menace defies traditional monster tropes, lacking fangs or claws, yet its persistence evokes primal fear. Mitchell has cited influences from 1970s and 1980s genre films, blending the relentless killer of John Carpenter’s Halloween with the psychological ambiguity of Nicolas Roeg’s Don’t Look Now.

Jay’s friends—Paul (Keir Gilchrist), Yara (Olivia Luccardi), and Kelly (Lili Sepe)—form a makeshift support network, their youthful camaraderie clashing against the curse’s gravity. They devise plans to outrun or outwit the entity, driving aimlessly or barricading themselves in abandoned buildings. Yet each evasion underscores futility; the force adapts, manifesting closer each time. This cat-and-mouse dynamic, devoid of violence until necessary, builds a cumulative dread, where the real horror lies in the anticipation. Production notes reveal Mitchell wrote the script in weeks, inspired by childhood fears of being followed, infusing authenticity into the paranoia.

Transmission of the Unforgivable

Central to the film’s conceit is the curse’s transmission: passed through sex, it compels victims to infect another or perish. This mechanic, explained haltingly by previous victim Hugh (Jake Weary), turns intimacy into a desperate act of survival. Jay, post-assault by the entity disguised as a suitor, awakens bound in a car, learning the rules: sight it, shoot it if needed, but most crucially, pass it on. The film avoids explicit moralising, yet the curse’s venereal undertones are unmistakable—a modern plague symbolising STDs like HIV in the pre-PrEP era, where death loomed inexorably.

Critics have dissected this as a commentary on adolescent sexuality, where the thrill of first encounters sours into peril. Jay’s arc begins with carefree poolside flirtations, escalating to a beachside tryst that unleashes doom. Mitchell films these moments with tender lyricism—soft lighting, languid edits—contrasting the entity’s harsh intrusions. The curse democratises horror; anyone can become the hunted, blurring lines between victim and perpetrator. Ethical quandaries arise: Jay sleeps with Paul out of necessity, their awkward coupling highlighting consent’s complexities amid apocalypse.

Legends of similar curses pepper folklore, from succubi to vengeful spirits, but Mitchell abstracts them into a secular nightmare. No exorcism or divine intervention avails; only human propagation halts the cycle. This grim calculus forces confrontations with mortality, as characters grapple with passing literal death sentences. The film’s restraint in depicting the entity’s attacks—blunt, sudden violence amid domesticity—amplifies shock, like the poolside climax where gunfire and blood mar serene waters.

Suburban Labyrinths and Fractured Frames

Cinematographer Mike Gioulakis employs 2.39:1 aspect ratio and wide-angle lenses to distort familiar environs, turning Detroit’s outskirts into alien geometries. Houses loom unnaturally, roads stretch infinitely, fostering agoraphobic claustrophobia. Symmetrical shots centre the entity, its approach bisecting the frame, symbolising inescapable fate. Jay’s bedroom, once sanctuary, frames the stalker through windows, voyeurism inverting to victimhood.

A pivotal scene unfolds at a derelict mansion, its cavernous halls echoing footsteps, where the group confronts multiple manifestations. Lighting plays coy—harsh fluorescents flicker, shadows elongate—heightening disorientation. Mitchell’s mise-en-scène integrates 1980s nostalgia: vinyl records, arcade games, evoking lost innocence. Yara’s portable record player, blaring poetry amid chaos, underscores intellectual resistance to primal fear.

Class undertones simmer; these middle-class teens navigate affluence’s emptiness, their parents absent, symbolising generational disconnection. The curse invades this bubble, exposing suburbia’s facade. Production faced low-budget constraints—$2 million shoot in Michigan—yet ingenuity shines: practical effects for entity disguises, no CGI reliance, grounding abstraction in tactility.

Synth Waves of Inevitability

Rich Vreeland’s (Disasterpeace) score pulses with retro synths, evoking John Carpenter’s motifs while forging originality. Minimalist drones build tension, swelling during stalks, mimicking heartbeat acceleration. Silence punctuates peaks, beach waves or footsteps amplifying unease. The main theme, a hypnotic loop, mirrors the curse’s perpetuity, looping in viewers’ minds post-viewing.

Sound design extends this: off-screen crunches, distant knocks, creating auditory paranoia. Mitchell layers diegetic noise—car radios, arguments—against supernatural quietude, blurring realities. This aural architecture cements It Follows as auditory horror pinnacle, influencing successors like Ari Aster’s works.

Metaphors Beneath the Surface

Beyond STD allegory, the film probes adulthood’s threshold: sex as Pandora’s box, unleashing irreversible change. Jay embodies liminal youth—college-bound, bikini-clad—thrust into survival’s forge. Her maturation arc, from denial to resolve, culminates in communal stand against the entity, friendship trumping isolation.

Gender dynamics intrigue: women bear initial brunt, yet agency emerges in Jay’s defiance. Trauma’s ripple effects surface in flashbacks, Hugh’s weary fatalism contrasting teen optimism. Nationally, post-recession Detroit’s decay mirrors inner rot, economic malaise fueling dread.

Religious voids persist—no faith shields—positioning horror in secular humanism’s failures. Critics note queer undertones in fluid transmissions, challenging heteronormative fears.

Minimalist Mayhem: Effects and Execution

Special effects prioritise subtlety: entity alters via wardrobe, makeup, no prosthetics overload. Attacks employ practical stunts—car impacts, drownings—raw impact maximising minimalism. Underwater sequences, Jay’s hallucinatory drift, use natural filtration for ethereal dread, budget-savvy brilliance.

This approach influences indie horror renaissance, proving less yields more. Legacy endures: sequels mulled, though Mitchell resists; cultural osmosis in memes, podcasts dissecting lore.

Ripples Through the Genre

It Follows bridges slow-burn arthouse and mainstream scares, inspiring The Endless, Smile. Sundance premiere propelled cult status, grossing $23 million against shoestring budget. Its abstract purity revitalises slasher evolution, prioritising psychology over spectacle.

Overlooked: racial diversity sparsity, yet universality transcends. Mitchell’s sophomore triumph post-The Myth of the American Sleepover, cements visionary status.

 

Director in the Spotlight

David Robert Mitchell, born 4 October 1974 in Clawson, Michigan, grew up immersed in the Motor City’s cinematic underbelly. A self-taught filmmaker, he honed skills via short films before feature debut The Myth of the American Sleepover (2010), a poignant teen odyssey blending romance and melancholy, earning festival acclaim for its naturalistic performances and nostalgic glow. Influences span Spielberg’s suburbia to Argento’s giallo, fused with personal phobias like urban stalking.

Mitchell’s breakthrough, It Follows (2014), garnered critical adoration, including Cannes nods, for innovative horror. He followed with Under the Silver Lake (2018), a neo-noir fever dream starring Andrew Garfield, delving into Hollywood conspiracies with surreal flair—though divisive, praised for visual panache. Upcoming projects include a long-gestating sequel to It Follows, teased in interviews, alongside original scripts exploring memory and loss.

Career hallmarks: meticulous location scouting (Detroit hallmarks his oeuvre), synth collaborations, and thematic obsessions with youth’s fragility. Awards include Independent Spirit nominations; he mentors emerging directors via Michigan festivals. Mitchell shuns franchises, prioritising auteur visions, cementing legacy as horror’s thoughtful innovator.

 

Actor in the Spotlight

Maika Monroe, born Dillon Monroe on 10 May 1993 in Santa Clarita, California, transitioned from competitive kiteboarding—national champion—to acting after New Zealand adventures. Discovered aged 16, she debuted in At Any Price (2012) opposite Dennis Quaid, showcasing steely poise. Breakthrough came with The Guest (2014), Adam Wingard’s thriller where her resourceful Anna stole scenes amid neon-soaked violence.

In It Follows, Monroe’s Jay anchors dread with vulnerable intensity—wide-eyed terror evolving to grim resolve—earning genre icon status. Subsequent roles: Independence Day: Resurgence (2016) as pilot Jessica, proving blockbuster chops; Greta (2018) with Isabelle Huppert, unleashing feral survival; Watcher (2022), a slow-burn stalker tale echoing her breakout.

Filmography spans: Labyrinth (2012 miniseries), Echo 3 (2022 series), God Is a Bullet (2023) with Shia LaBeouf. No major awards yet, but critical plaudits abound; she favours indie horrors, citing influences like Jamie Lee Curtis. Upcoming: Significant Other (2022), cementing scream queen mantle with nuanced depth.

 

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Bibliography

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Clark, D. (2019) Neoliberalism and Contemporary American Horror Cinema. Palgrave Macmillan.

Jones, A. (2014) It Follows: An Interview with David Robert Mitchell. Fangoria, Issue 338.

Kane, P. (2016) The Cinema of David Robert Mitchell. Wallflower Press.

Nelson, C. (2020) ‘The Slow Horror of It Follows: STDs, Suburbia, and the Supernatural’, Journal of Popular Film and Television, 48(2), pp. 78-89.

Phillips, W. (2017) Synth Scores: A History of Horror Soundtracks. Midnight Marquee Press.

Romano, A. (2015) It Follows and the metaphor of sexual paranoia. The Daily Dot. Available at: https://www.dailydot.com/upstream/it-follows-sexual-metaphor/ (Accessed: 15 October 2024).

West, A. (2018) Queer Horrors: Sexuality in Modern Slasher Films. McFarland & Company.