Here’s a suicidal hypothetical only a horror director would think of: What if the moment a deeply troubled young woman (Kelsey Asbille) was about to throw herself off a cliff, a serial killer (Finn Wittrock) showed up, talked her off the ledge and then abducted the woman for some far grislier purpose? Would this psycho’s plan still count as murder, or because this victim had already made up her mind to die, is there some less damning word for it?
Conspicuously subpar Netflix cheapie “Don’t Move” starts with that contrivance and then piles on another: Once the woman regains consciousness, her captor reveals that he’s injected her with a “special relaxant” that will start to kick in at any moment. From the moment it does, the sedative will take 20 minutes before Iris is completely paralyzed. What would you do in her situation?
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The point, of course, is to observe a woman who’d just been about to end her life find the will to fight for it. But there’s something so schematic about Iris’ situation, it feels like an insult to those who deal with actual thoughts of self-harm. That doesn’t mean it’s not compelling to watch at times, as Iris does her best to overcome her immobility, but nothing about it feels believable. Best just to take the ride as a test run from a handful of young filmmakers calling in favors, and focus on its surprises (“Don’t Move” suspiciously counts Ted Sarandos’ daughter among its producers).
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Another familiar name among the credits is Sam Raimi, for whom directors Adam Schindler and Brian Netto helmed the Minnesota chapters of the Quibi series “50 States of Fright.” Set deep in the woods and along dirt roads far from civilization, “Don’t Move” feels like yet another film dreamt up during the pandemic that a tiny crew could execute. But that constraint is nothing compared to the one placed on Asbille, who spends half the movie immobile.
Although the “Yellowstone” trouper is limited to her eyes and the twitching of an index finger, we’re right alongside her in these moments. In one scene, temporarily rescued by a well-meaning hermit (Moray Treadwell), she learns to communicate by blinking her eyelids, sending a panicked “SOS” when Wittrock’s character shows up (he’s billed as “Richard” in the end credits, but introduces himself under different names, depending on who’s asking). Both here and in a later scene with a cop (Daniel Francis), the silent woman is easily drowned out by her manipulator.
Our identification with Iris is so strong at times, it’s a shame the film is confined to streaming, since it could be fun to watch in a theater with a crowd, where people are inclined to shout at the screen when an endangered character doesn’t do what they want. In that spirit, the title feels like a false command, since Iris can’t move, but gladly would if she were able. This creates a helpless but highly effective kind of suspense, as Iris must rely on her tormentor to mess up, at least until her limbs start to respond again.
This quandary recalls the central set-piece in Robert Zemeckis’ Hitchcockian ghost story “What Lies Beneath,” when Michelle Pfeiffer’s character lies conscious but incapacitated in a gradually filling bathtub. That’s the sort of thrill that “Don’t Move” lacks, even in its closest scene, where Iris must find a way attract this would-be killer’s attention before a raging fire burns her alive. Is that really enough to cure her suicidal urges? Or, in an altogether different interpretation, is Wittrock not really there at all, but the manifestation of the grief and trauma that’s been tormenting her, and which she must vanquish in order to move on?
“Don’t Move” is now streaming on Netflix.
