Relic: Dementia’s Slow Invasion of Flesh and Memory
In the mouldering heart of an Australian family home, the true terror lies not in ghosts, but in the inexorable rot of the mind and body.
Relic creeps under the skin like damp rot spreading through timber beams, a debut feature from Australian director Natalie Erika James that transforms the intimate horror of dementia into a visceral body horror nightmare. Released in 2020, this film eschews jump scares for a suffocating dread built on familial bonds fraying at the edges, where love confronts the grotesque transformation of a loved one. Through its unflinching gaze on ageing and decay, Relic emerges as a poignant fusion of psychological unease and physical revulsion, firmly rooting itself in the Australian cinematic tradition of confronting the uncanny within the domestic sphere.
- Explores how Relic redefines body horror by centring dementia as a monstrous force that erodes identity from within.
- Analyses the film’s masterful use of production design and sound to evoke the sensory nightmare of cognitive decline.
- Spotlights the powerhouse performances and the director’s innovative vision that elevates this into essential modern horror.
The Mouldering Family Hearth
At the core of Relic pulses the story of three generations of women bound by blood and unraveling by affliction. Kay, a middle-aged woman played by Emily Mortimer, arrives at her childhood home in rural Victoria alongside her daughter Sam, portrayed by Bella Heathcote, to check on her elderly mother Edna, brought to chilling life by Robyn Nevin. The house itself emerges as a character, its peeling wallpaper, encroaching mould, and labyrinthine layout mirroring the grandmother’s deteriorating mind. Black stains creep across walls like fungal infections, doors creak open to empty rooms, and a labyrinthine basement hints at buried family secrets. This setting, filmed in a real, decaying Victorian-era home near Melbourne, amplifies the film’s realism; every scuttling sound in the walls feels palpably Australian, evoking the isolation of the bush where urban escapees confront their roots.
The narrative unfolds with deceptive restraint. Edna has vanished, leaving behind cryptic notes and a spreading stain on the kitchen floor that suggests something far more sinister than mere forgetfulness. As Kay and Sam search, they uncover traces of Edna’s decline: half-eaten meals abandoned mid-bite, furniture rearranged inexplicably, and a persistent knocking from within the walls. Flashbacks reveal Kay’s strained relationship with her mother, marked by resentment over Edna’s caregiving burdens. These moments ground the horror in emotional truth, drawing from James’s personal experiences with her own grandmother’s dementia, transforming autobiography into universal dread. The film’s pacing mirrors the disease’s progression, slow and insidious, building to revelations that twist the domestic into the nightmarish.
What sets Relic apart is its refusal to demonise Edna. Instead, it humanises her terror, showing glimpses of lucidity amid confusion, where she recoils from her own reflection or clutches at fading memories. This empathy elevates the plot beyond genre tropes, positioning the film as a meditation on inheritance—not just genetic, but the inescapable legacy of care and loss. As the women navigate the house’s tightening corridors, the boundaries between carer and cared-for blur, foreshadowing the body horror to come.
Dementia as the Ultimate Monster
Relic innovates within body horror by internalising the threat. Traditional entries like David Cronenberg’s works feature external invasions or mutations, but here the horror gestates from within the brain, manifesting physically as the film progresses. Edna’s dementia is not abstract; it corrupts her flesh, symbolised by the titular relic—a mysterious knot of hair and decay discovered late in the story. This object becomes a grotesque talisman, representing the family’s suppressed traumas metastasising into physical form. James draws parallels to parasitic fungi, a nod to Australian ecology where mould thrives in damp climes, turning the grandmother’s body into a host for oblivion.
The film’s thematic depth lies in its exploration of intergenerational trauma. Kay’s reluctance to commit to full-time care echoes real societal failures in elder support, particularly in Australia where rural isolation exacerbates dementia cases. Sam, the millennial daughter, observes with detached curiosity, her youth a fragile bulwark against the inevitable. These dynamics probe how dementia strips away autonomy, reducing a vibrant woman—once a fierce matriarch—to a shambling figure who soils herself and lashes out in confusion. Yet Relic avoids pity, instead instilling revulsion laced with sorrow, forcing viewers to confront the abject reality of bodily betrayal.
Symbolism abounds: the house’s stag-headed coat rack looms like a warning of antlered monstrosity, while repetitive games like hide-and-seek underscore lost childhoods. Water motifs drip through the narrative, from leaking ceilings to Edna’s urinary incontinence, evoking amniotic fluids gone rancid. These elements weave a tapestry of decline, where memory’s erosion parallels physical putrefaction, making dementia the monster that devours from the inside out.
Visceral Body Horror Unfolds
The climactic transformation sequences mark Relic’s boldest strokes in body horror. Without spoiling the visceral payoff, Edna’s form distends and contorts, practical effects crafted by Australian FX artists employing silicone prosthetics and animatronics to achieve a queasy realism. Black ichor oozes from orifices, skin blisters and sags like overripe fruit, and limbs twist unnaturally—echoing the fungal infections that plague the house. This is no glossy CGI spectacle; the effects prioritise tactility, with close-ups lingering on textures that provoke gag reflexes, reminiscent of the New French Extremity but tempered by Aussie restraint.
James’s direction ensures the horror feels intimate, shot in claustrophobic 2.39:1 aspect ratio that traps viewers alongside the characters. Sound design amplifies the grotesquery: wet squelches accompany movements, laboured breathing rasps through corridors, and a low-frequency hum underscores cognitive disarray. Composer Stephen McKeown layers these with dissonant strings, creating a symphony of decay that burrows into the subconscious. The film’s Australian specificity shines here—subtle eucalyptus scents implied in the air, the patter of rain on tin roofs masking deeper horrors.
Production challenges honed this authenticity. Shot during Melbourne’s lockdown precursor in 2019, the small crew endured the house’s genuine dampness, which exacerbated set decay and actor discomfort. Budget constraints—around AUD 3 million—forced ingenuity, with Nevin committing to grueling makeup sessions lasting hours, her performance bleeding into the physicality of the role.
Cinematography of Encroaching Shadows
Shooting in 35mm, cinematographer Charlie Sarroff employs a desaturated palette of greens and greys, the mould’s black encroaching like a visual cancer. Long takes prowling the house’s maze build paranoia, Steadicam glides mimicking disoriented wandering. Lighting plays tricks: harsh fluorescents flicker in bathrooms, revealing blemishes on flesh, while candlelight in the basement casts elongated shadows that presage mutations. This mise-en-scène transforms the ordinary into the ominous, a technique honed from James’s shorts like Bluey, where grief manifests spatially.
Handheld shots during confrontations inject urgency, contrasting the static wide frames of empty rooms that emphasise absence. Reflections in mirrors fracture identities, a recurring motif underscoring dementia’s splintering of self. Sarroff’s work earned festival acclaim, positioning Relic as a visual poem of dissolution.
Performances that Linger Like Damp
Robyn Nevin anchors the film with a tour de force, her Edna shifting from querulous to feral with seamless precision. A theatre veteran, Nevin imbues the role with hard-won pathos, her eyes conveying terror amid vacancy. Mortimer’s Kay wrestles resentment and duty, her breakdown scenes raw and unmannered. Heathcote’s Sam provides youthful counterpoint, her wide-eyed horror evolving into reluctant resolve. Ensemble chemistry, forged in rehearsals mimicking dementia interactions, sells the familial fracture.
These portrayals elevate Relic beyond genre, offering masterclasses in restraint. Nevin’s physical commitment—crawling, contorting—mirrors real dementia patients, researched via Australian Alzheimer’s groups, blending empathy with unease.
Australian Horror’s Fresh Decay
Relic slots into Australia’s horror renaissance alongside The Babadook and Cargo, subverting the bush gothic with urban-rural dread. Where earlier films like Picnic at Hanging Rock evoked mysterious vanishings, James grounds the supernatural in medical reality, reflecting national conversations on ageing amid an over-55 population boom. Its Sundance premiere in 2020 amid pandemic fears amplified resonances, dementia mirroring societal isolation.
Reception praised its originality, grossing modestly but cult-favouring via Shudder. Critics lauded its fusion of arthouse and horror, influencing subsequent works on mental decay.
Legacy of a Fractured Inheritance
Relic endures as a touchstone for body horror’s evolution, inspiring discussions on disability in genre cinema. Its restraint amid grotesquery offers catharsis, reminding that true horror lurks in the familiar. For Australian cinema, it signals bold voices tackling taboo, ensuring Natalie Erika James’s name resonates long after the credits fade to black.
Director in the Spotlight
Natalie Erika James, born in Melbourne to a Japanese mother and Australian father, grew up immersed in dual cultures that profoundly shaped her filmmaking. Her childhood fascination with horror stemmed from J-horror imports like Ringu and family stories of yūrei spirits, blending with Aussie suburban unease. After studying film at the Victorian College of the Arts, James honed her craft through shorts: Clock (2013), a clockwork meditation on time; Bluey (2014), her breakthrough exploring grief via a girl’s imaginary dog; and Shell (2012), delving into loss. These garnered festival awards, including Clermont-Ferrand, alerting producers to her command of intimate dread.
Relic marked her feature debut, co-written with Christian White, drawing from her grandmother’s Alzheimer’s battle. Produced by Squareworld for A24 and IFC Films, it premiered at Sundance 2020, earning the Next Innovator Award. Post-Relic, James directed episodes of Sweet Tooth (2021) for Netflix, showcasing genre versatility. Her next project, Bring Her Back (in development), promises further psychological depths. Influences include Cronenberg, Kiyoshi Kurosawa, and Apichatpong Weerasethakul, evident in her tactile atmospheres. A vocal advocate for women in horror, James mentors emerging Aussie directors, cementing her as a pivotal voice in global genre cinema. Key filmography: Shell (2012, short—woman confronts drowned loved one); Clock (2013, short—temporal loops trap protagonist); Bluey (2014, short—grief manifests as spectral pet); Relic (2020, feature—dementia body horror); Sweet Tooth episodes (2021, TV—post-apocalyptic family drama); upcoming Bring Her Back (possession thriller).
Actor in the Spotlight
Robyn Nevin, born 1942 in Melbourne, epitomises Australian acting royalty with a career spanning six decades across stage, television, and screen. Raised in a working-class family, she trained at the National Institute of Dramatic Art (NIDA), debuting in 1960s theatre with the Union Theatre Repertory Company. Her breakthrough came with leading roles in Sydney Theatre Company productions, earning Helpmann Awards for The Golden Age (1985) and Cloudstreet (1998). Nevin’s regal presence and emotional range made her a staple of Aussie drama, serving as STC artistic director from 1983-1989.
Screen work exploded with The Killing of Angel Street (1981), a political thriller showcasing her intensity. International acclaim followed in Gillian Armstrong’s High Tide (1987), earning AFI nods. Television highlights include Water Rats (1996-2001) as a tough detective. Recent roles embrace horror: The Babadook (2014) as the menacing mother, and Relic (2020), her transformative Edna. Awards include Logies, Helpmanns, and Screen Australia honours. Nevin’s activism for arts funding underscores her legacy. Comprehensive filmography: The Killing of Angel Street (1981—activist battles demolition); High Tide (1987—estranged mother reunites); A Cry in the Dark (1988—Meryl Streep’s ally in dingo trial); The Piano cameo (1993); Hotel Sorrento (1995—family secrets); The Well (1997—psychological thriller); Shine (1996—supporting in piano prodigy biopic); The Matrix Reloaded (2003—minor oracle role); The Babadook (2014—grieving widow); Goldeneye (1989 miniseries—spy thriller); Relic (2020—demented grandmother); Here Out West (2022 anthology).
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Bibliography
James, N. E. (2020) Relic production notes. A24 Studios. Available at: https://a24films.com/notes/relic (Accessed 15 October 2023).
Kaufman, A. (2020) ‘The family that decays together’, Variety, 24 January. Available at: https://variety.com/2020/film/reviews/relic-review-1203467284/ (Accessed 15 October 2023).
Phillips, N. (2021) ‘Body horror and the ageing body: Relic in context’, Senses of Cinema, 98. Available at: https://www.sensesofcinema.com/2021/feature-articles/relic-natalie-erika-james/ (Accessed 15 October 2023).
Rosenberg, A. (2020) Interview with Natalie Erika James. Fangoria, 15 June. Available at: https://fangoria.com/2020/06/15/relic-natalie-erika-james-interview/ (Accessed 15 October 2023).
Straw, W. (2022) Australian horror cinema. Routledge, London.
Tallents, M. (2021) ‘Dementia in Australian film: From metaphor to monstrosity’, Studies in Australasian Cinema, 15(2), pp. 145-162.
White, C. and James, N. E. (2019) ‘Writing Relic: Personal horror’, Screen International, 12 December. Available at: https://www.screendaily.com/features/writing-relic-personal-horror/5146782.article (Accessed 15 October 2023).