PREMIERE'S REVIEW (posted 12/20/07)

Since mainstream American horror's devolution into a pleasureless, single-position orgy of slashers and torture pornos — most trying to out-sicken each other with autopsy realism and envelope-pushing bombast — you have to tip your hat whenever an import attempts instead to maintain suspense and atmosphere, even when said import is an obvious retread. There's absolutely nothing groundbreaking about Spanish newbie Bayona's gothic horror fable, based on a dusty, decade-old script by Sergio G. Sanchez; in its defense, The Orphanage feels determinedly old-fashioned in evoking haunted-habitat and cursed-child tropes with freshly vivid flair. The cinematography elegantly skulks instead of dizzies, and the scares come from an escalating sense of dread, not cheap shots. (Don't try to figure out the twists when I say that I was reminded of The Innocents, The Omen, and even Suspiria while watching.)

Presented and co-produced by Pan's Labyrinth auteur Guillermo Del Toro, another horror stylist who Bayona has lovingly ripped off, The Orphanage's aesthetics and plot most closely resemble Del Toro's The Devil's Backbone, minus the fascism. Several years after she was adopted from the titular home, Laura (The Sea Inside's Rueda) and her husband Carlos (Cayo) return to live in the abandoned orphanage — repurposing it as a haven for special-needs kids — with their seven-year-old son, Simón (Príncep). The cavernous beach house is freaking out the sensitive little guy, who colors disturbing pictures of his imaginary new buddy, a creepy kid whose misshapen head is masked by a burlap sack with a face drawn on it. How real is he? Well, who else could've told Simón the truth that he's not only adopted himself, but HIV-positive?

As the film isn't particularly deep or unconventional (there's nothing new to learn about maternal psychologies here), it seems wrong to divulge anything past Simón's sudden disappearance at a party, where the wicked baghead of Christmas past confronts Laura in the flesh to further help her insanity along during her son's manhunt. Sure, there's the bog-standard M. Night endgame twist as we've come to expect from such genre exercises, but calling it a letdown is an overstatement, especially when the increasingly gonzo storyline proves to be the least interesting component of the film. The Orphanage's joys come from the experiential: Bayona's cultured technical skills, including some phenomenal sound design, and sustained anxiety. It's about as healthy as junk food gets.

— Aaron Hillis