Abigail (2024)
Directors: Matt Bettinelli-Olpin, Tyler Gillett
Screenwriters: Stephen Shields, Guy Busick
Starring: Melissa Barrera, Dan Stevens, Alisha Weir, Kathryn Newton, Angus Cloud, Giancarlo Esposito
There’s something almost nostalgic about seeing a mainstream film reach back toward the old Universal monster tradition, even if the result is uneven. Abigail attempts to blend a heist-thriller setup with a vampire origin story, and while parts of it are entertaining and watchable, the film struggles to decide what it wants to be. The result is a movie that sometimes recalls classic horror beats but rarely commits long enough to fully realize any single idea.
The film opens with the trappings of a heist picture: a group of professional criminals brought together for one job, a tight timeframe, and an atmosphere of mistrust. Early scenes establish the ensemble through brisk, expository dialogue. Joey (Melissa Barrera) takes the lead in introducing the group, summing up each member in a few pointed lines: Acteur (Dan Stevens) is the ex-cop, Peter (Kevin Durand) is the imposing muscle, Sammy (Kathryn Newton) is the thrill-seeking privileged kid, Rickles (William Catlett) is the military type, and Dean (Angus Cloud) plays the laid-back, unreliable stoner. They are loosely bonded by the job, not by friendship, and that detachment becomes important to the film’s emotional core—or lack thereof.
The plot quickly escalates when the crew kidnaps a young girl, Abigail (Alisha Weir), seemingly to hold for ransom. Phones are confiscated, alliances are strained, and the group must spend a tense twenty-four hours with only each other for company. Initially, the setup evokes the claustrophobic paranoia of ensemble thrillers where any one member could be hiding something. That paranoia, however, never fully takes hold because the characters are defined mainly by archetype rather than depth. They behave exactly as you might expect, and few surprises emerge from their interactions. Even Abigail, central to the film’s mystery, is presented so clearly in marketing and early scenes that the potential for a shocking reveal is undercut.
When the story pivots toward the supernatural, tonal friction becomes apparent. The film splits into two distinct impulses. One is an almost absurd, old-school monster movie that embraces gore and body-horror set pieces. The other leans into a late-20th-century allegory about decadence, addiction, and self-destruction—images of drugs, sex, and excess that feel at odds with a story built around a child antagonist. Those two approaches rarely integrate smoothly; instead, they sit in tension with one another, creating a sense that the filmmakers hedged their bets rather than committing to a single coherent vision.
The horror sequences offer moments of effective design—a creepy atmosphere, well-staged shock beats, and occasionally striking practical effects—but they also suffer from repetition. Several major set pieces rely on the same visual shorthand: blood-splattered choreography, frantic close-ups, and a straight-faced delivery from actors in situations that could have benefited from tonal variation. The intended black-humor lines land inconsistently, and the film rarely allows itself to be playfully subversive or properly self-aware. Instead, it remains over-serious just when a touch of irreverence might have improved the experience.
On the upside, the cast does what it can with material that doesn’t always invite nuance. Melissa Barrera anchors the ensemble with a focused performance, and Alisha Weir brings an eerie, watchable presence as the title character. Dan Stevens and Kathryn Newton contribute reliable supporting turns, adding texture to the group dynamic. But strong performances can only do so much when the script is content to keep most roles at the level of shorthand. The movie’s pacing is another mixed bag: some scenes build tension effectively, while others stall under the weight of exposition or repetitive shocks.
The film’s ambitions—to revive a classic vampire myth while filtering it through contemporary sensibilities—are admirable, but the execution leaves the audience with the sense of a near-miss. Abigail is sometimes inventive and often watchable, yet it rarely surprises or deeply engages. If the filmmakers had chosen a single tonal direction and explored it more fully—either committing to a modern allegory with emotional consequences or leaning wholeheartedly into an absurdist creature feature—the result might have been much stronger.
Score: 7/24
Rating: 1 out of 5.
By Rob Jones
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