Neon’s relentless marketing campaign for Osgood Perkins’ fourth feature successfully wove tall tales (and even longer legs) that painted it as a descent into unspeakable terror, with social media teasers and cryptic trailers suggesting a full-blown fright fest. But as with any good horror story, there’s more beneath the surface. Far from the gore-drenched scream-fest the publicity machine has hinted at, Longlegs is a masterclass in subtlety.
It’s a film that doesn’t lunge at you with desperate thrills but rather oozes into your subconscious, settling there like a sinister squatter you can’t evict. Perkins’ direction weaves a web of atmospheric dread, making the real horror not what you hear or see, but what feels like gradually peeling your own nails off bit by bit. The plot seems straightforward enough.
An FBI agent is tasked with investigating a series of gruesome family murders spanning decades, all marked by cryptic notes signed “Longlegs.” The deeper she digs, the more tangled the web becomes. Longlegs is a specter, always a step ahead, always watching.
The sense of impending doom is excruciating, and Perkins ensures that it never lets up. A masterful blend of procedural crime-thrillers with a garnish of the occult and wrapped in a shroud of relentless dread, Longlegs is a brooding descent into a Satanic fever dream. It dabbles less in the conventions of jumpscare-ridden terror and more a slow-burning, dreadful march into the abyss — a sensation only .
