Two unrelenting curses collide: Smile’s manic grin or It Follows’ relentless stride—which supernatural nightmare reigns supreme?

In the shadowed corridors of modern horror, few subgenres chill the spine quite like the supernatural curse. Films such as Smile (2022) and It Follows (2014) masterfully weaponise inevitability, transforming everyday acts into harbingers of doom. Both pictures thrust ordinary protagonists into cycles of dread, where passing on a malevolent force becomes the only slim hope for survival. Yet, as we pit Parker Finn’s visceral shocker against David Robert Mitchell’s atmospheric slow-burn, one emerges as the more enduring haunt. This analysis dissects their mechanics, moods, and cultural ripples to crown the superior curse.

  • The shared DNA of sexually charged curses belies profound differences in pacing, symbolism, and scare tactics that define each film’s terror.
  • It Follows excels in metaphorical depth and sensory immersion, outpacing Smile‘s reliance on jump scares and grotesque effects.
  • Ultimately, Mitchell’s masterpiece endures as the pinnacle of curse horror, its subtlety etching deeper into the psyche than Finn’s bold but fleeting frights.

Curses Unleashed: The Premise Breakdown

At their core, both films hinge on a supernatural affliction that demands transmission to evade death, echoing ancient folklore of plagues and demons while updating it for contemporary anxieties. In It Follows, the curse activates through sexual intercourse, manifesting as a shape-shifting entity that pursues the victim at a methodical walking pace. No running, no superhuman speed—just an unhurried inevitability that turns every horizon into a threat. David Robert Mitchell crafts this premise with economical precision, introducing it via a frantic beachside hookup that spirals into paranoia for college student Jay (Maika Monroe). The entity’s disguises—ranging from a towering naked figure to a baggy-clothed child—keep viewers guessing, its presence signalled by distant footsteps or a sudden figure in the frame’s periphery.

Smile, directed by Parker Finn, flips the script with a more immediate, visually grotesque curse triggered by witnessing a suicide accompanied by an eerie, rictus grin. Therapist Rose Cotter (Sosie Bacon) becomes afflicted after a patient’s horrifying exit, the curse compelling her to pass it on by staging her own death in front of someone new—ideally killing them in the process. Finn amplifies the horror through hallucinatory episodes, where smiling apparitions invade Rose’s reality, blending psychological breakdown with supernatural assault. The film’s party scene, where Rose desperately tries to infect a room full of oblivious revellers, captures the curse’s frantic urgency, contrasting sharply with It Follows‘ languid dread.

These setups draw from similar wells: both invoke STD metaphors, with sex or proximity as vectors for doom, critiquing casual intimacy in a post-AIDS era. Yet It Follows sustains ambiguity— is the entity real or a collective delusion?—while Smile leans literal, its grinning demon fully corporeal by the climax. This divergence sets the stage for their stylistic showdown, where Mitchell’s restraint builds existential terror and Finn’s escalation delivers visceral punches.

Production histories underscore their indie ethos. It Follows emerged from Mitchell’s frustration with slasher clichés, shot on 16mm in Detroit’s suburbs for a gritty authenticity that mirrors the protagonists’ entrapment in familiar spaces. Smile, born from Finn’s short film of the same name, ballooned into a Paramount hit amid pandemic-era fears, its $17 million budget enabling polished effects but diluting some raw edge. Both capitalise on low-concept highs, proving curses need no lore dumps to terrify.

Pacing the Pursuit: Slow Dread Versus Sudden Shocks

It Follows redefines horror tempo with its walking predator, a pace that mimics real-life inescapability rather than cinematic frenzy. Mitchell stretches tension across vast suburban landscapes—empty streets, abandoned pools, sunlit beaches—where the entity lurks just out of frame. A pivotal sequence at the local theatre sees Jay and friends scanning the audience, the camera panning slowly to reveal ordinary faces that could conceal death. This methodical rhythm forces empathy, as victims ration their fleeting normalcy between sightings, turning flight into a Sisyphean ordeal.

In contrast, Smile favours rapid escalation, bombarding Rose with auditory hallucinations (whispered ‘You’ll die’) and jump scares that erupt from domestic bliss. The kitchen confrontation with her ex, or the hospital sequence where smiling staff close in, prioritises heart-stopping jolts over simmering unease. Finn’s editing—quick cuts, swelling strings—propels a breakneck narrative, culminating in a ritualistic finale that resolves the curse with explosive finality. Effective for multiplex thrills, it lacks the pervasive infiltration of It Follows, where dread permeates every idle moment.

Mitchell’s mastery lies in spatial awareness; cinematographer Benjamin Kasulke employs long takes and deep focus to make distance a weapon, the entity’s approach measurable in blocks. Finn, via cinematographer Charlie Sarroff, uses tight close-ups and Dutch angles to convey disorientation, heightening claustrophobia but sacrificing the open-world paranoia that makes It Follows so immersive. Pacing alone tips the scales: one film stalks your subconscious, the other assaults your reflexes.

Sound Design’s Silent Screams

Audiovisual synergy elevates both, but It Follows‘ synth score by Rich Vreeland (Disasterpeace) stands as a genre landmark. Retro waveforms—pulsing bass, ethereal pads—evoke John Carpenter’s analogue menace, swelling imperceptibly as the entity nears. Silence amplifies footsteps crunching on gravel or heavy breathing in a car, crafting a soundscape where absence screams loudest. Mitchell layers diegetic noise—distant traffic, splashing waves—into the entity’s advance, blurring safe havens.

Smile‘s Cristobal Tapia de Veer crafts a percussive frenzy, tribal drums and dissonant strings underscoring grins and convulsions. The recurring ‘Smile’ motif, a warped lullaby, haunts effectively, while foley work on cracking bones and gurgling throats adds grotesque tactility. Yet it serves shocks primarily, lacking the score’s role in It Follows as a persistent character that unnerves even in respite.

These choices reflect directorial intent: Mitchell builds a hypnotic trance, Finn a panic attack. Vreeland’s album outsold the film, cementing its cultural footprint.

Effects and Entities: Visceral vs Ethereal

Practical effects anchor Smile‘s monster design, with creature creator Alec Gillis crafting a towering, porcelain-skinned demon whose elongated limbs and jagged maw evoke The Thing. The transformation sequences—skin splitting, eyes bulging—utilise silicone appliances and animatronics for tangible horror, Finn citing influences from The Brood. These culminate in a basement showdown blending pyrotechnics and puppetry, delivering memorable grotesquerie amid CGI assists.

It Follows shuns spectacle for suggestion; the entity, played by multiple performers including David Greathouse’s imposing nudity, relies on prosthetics sparingly. Mitchell favours partial reveals— a hand emerging from a pool, a head twisting unnaturally—heightening mystery. Low-fi techniques like practical rain and fire enhance realism, proving less gore yields more fear.

Smile‘s effects impress technically, earning awards chatter, but It Follows‘ minimalism endures, its ‘what you don’t see’ philosophy outlasting flashy kills.

Performances that Pierce the Veil

Maika Monroe anchors It Follows with vulnerable poise, her Jay evolving from carefree teen to resolute survivor. Monroe’s physicality—frantic swims, desperate drives—conveys mounting exhaustion, while subtle glances betray inner fracture. Supporting turns, like Keir Gilchrist’s awkward Paul, add relational depth, their group dynamic evoking real adolescent bonds under siege.

Sosie Bacon shines in Smile, channeling Rose’s unraveling with raw intensity; her therapy sessions crackle with denial, peaking in a feral climax. Robin Weigert and Jesse Moss provide solid foils, but the ensemble feels thinner, prioritising plot propulsion over character interplay.

Monroe’s nuanced lead elevates Mitchell’s metaphors; Bacon’s ferocity suits Finn’s frenzy. Edge to It Follows for emotional investment.

Metaphors in Motion: Trauma and Transmission

Both probe generational trauma—It Follows as STD allegory intertwined with mortality, its beach opening nodding to nuclear-age fears. Mitchell infuses queer undertones, the curse’s fluidity mirroring fluid identities. Suburban Detroit settings critique American ennui, idylls masking decay.

Smile tackles mental health stigma, Rose’s gaslit breakdown echoing real therapy dismissals. Its smile motif satirises performative positivity, a pandemic-era jab at forced grins. Yet it resolves neatly, diluting critique.

Mitchell’s layers invite endless reading; Finn’s directness entertains but simplifies.

Legacy’s Long Shadow

It Follows birthed imitators like Happy Death Day, its score sampled widely, cementing A24 prestige. Smile 2 (2024) proves Finn’s franchise potential, grossing $134 million initially.

Influence favours Mitchell; his film reshaped indie horror’s patience.

Director in the Spotlight

David Robert Mitchell, born 2 October 1974 in Clawson, Michigan, embodies the Motor City’s gritty renaissance in cinema. Raised in Detroit’s suburbs, he immersed in 1970s-80s horror via VHS—Carpenter, Craven, Romero—fueling his analogue aesthetic. After studying at Florida State University, Mitchell cut teeth on commercials and shorts, debuting feature The Myth of the American Sleepover (2010), a coming-of-age tale praised for nostalgic intimacy.

It Follows (2014) catapulted him, earning Cannes acclaim and $23 million worldwide on $2 million budget. Mitchell followed with Under the Silver Lake (2018), a neo-noir odyssey starring Andrew Garfield, delving conspiracy paranoia amid LA underbelly; divisive yet visually lush. Upcoming Mer-Man promises aquatic horror. Influences span Halloween to Fantasia, his widescreen frames evoking fairy-tale dread. Michigan loyalist, Mitchell champions practical filmmaking, shunning digital gloss for tactile terror.

Filmography highlights: The Myth of the American Sleepover (2010)—teen romance in empty houses; It Follows (2014)—curse pursuit masterpiece; Under the Silver Lake (2018)—surreal mystery; plus shorts like Virgin (2005) exploring adolescent angst. Awards include Gotham nominations, solidifying his auteur status in horror’s vanguard.

Actor in the Spotlight

Maika Monroe, born 10 May 1993 in Santa Barbara, California, transitioned from kiteboarding prodigy to scream queen with effortless grace. Dropping elite surfing for acting, she debuted in At Any Price (2012) opposite Dennis Quaid, but It Follows (2014) ignited stardom, her Jay blending sensuality and steel. Trained minimally, Monroe relies on instinct, crediting skate culture for physical authenticity.

Post-curse, she headlined Greta (2018) with Isabelle Huppert, earning stalker thriller buzz; Villains (2019) showcased dark comedy chops alongside Bill Skarsgård. God Is a Bullet (2023) marked gritty action turn. Awards elude her, but critics laud versatility—from The Guest (2014)’s razor-sharp final girl to Significant Other (2022)’s isolated terror.

Filmography: At Any Price (2012)—farm drama; The Guest (2014)—retro thriller; It Follows (2014)—curse icon; Greta (2018)—obsession chiller; Villains (2019)—couple chaos; Her Smell (2018)—rocker biopic; God Is a Bullet (2023)—revenge saga; Significant Other (2022)—woods horror. Monroe’s poise promises enduring reign in genre royalty.

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Bibliography

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