After a few years of seriously questionable mainstream movies, sometimes, something comes along and reminds you just why you fell in love with this medium in the first place, you know?
And that might seem like a strange way to start a review of Sting, the new movie from Kiah Roache-Turner, a B-movie creature feature flick about a giant spider terrorizing the residents of a Brooklyn apartment block. But when it’s right, it’s right, and Sting, for me, was so damn right.
Sting feels like a movie that could have come from that glut of nineties and early-noughties creature features – Eight Legged Freaks, Slither, Tremors – in the tone and execution, but at the same time, doesn’t rely on the hit of that nostalgia to succeed. So many of the throwback horrors of the last few years feel designed to trade on our love for movies of our childhoods, and, while there’s a certain invocation of that atmosphere (especially the setting and styling, woven into the plot due to the run-down nature of the old apartment block and money troubles of the central family keeping their wardrobe firmly in the outdated), it’s a creature feature for the modern era – and God, what a glorious one at that.
I mean, let’s talk about the creature itself, to start with – it’s an audacious choice, picking such a common fear as your movie monster, but I love how Sting balances the creepy-crawly aspect of this creature with the more explicit science fiction and genre elements (and, yes, this is technically a science fiction movie, though one that remains gloriously unexplained – the killer spider crashes into the apartment block from space, and that’s all we get and all we need), half shudder-inducing scuttling and scrabbly real effects, half Michael Myers lurking unseen in the background of a shot. The residents of the apartment block serve as the hunting ground for the creature, and the limited setting (with an oppressive snowstorm blustering outside) allows for some great setpieces (Robyn Nevin, as venomous landlady Gunter, was my personal favourite – they could never make me hate you, horrible single goth pensioner woman with an ugly cat, they could never make me hate you).
But what really makes this movie s(t)ing is the central relationship. Sting is one of those rare monster movies where the human characters are the most compelling part of the story (though, to be quite fair, Godzilla Minus One did the same thing brilliantly just a few months ago, and I will use any opportunity to convince people to go see it already), and, first off, I have to give credit to the brilliant performances here, especially Alyla Brown as Charlotte. The precocious pre-teen role is a tough one at the best of times, but a combination of really strong writing (that doesn’t sound too distinctly like a grown adult penning dialogue for a member of Gen Z) and her fantastic charisma and range bring this character to life – she’s honestly fantastic, and if this is anything to go on, I’m really excited to see where her career goes after this.
Anyway, adulation aside, it’s the relationship between Charlotte and her stepfather Ethan (a brilliant, put-upon, sweater-clad Ryan Corr) that’s at the heart of this movie. It’s an unusual one – so often, the step-parent role is a villainous one or an antagonistic one in horror, but Charlotte and Ethan share a complex relationship of respect, love, care, and pain as Charlotte navigates the distance her biological father has put between them. It’s a decidedly scrappy relationship, where both make mistakes and inside jokes alike, a real warmth and depth and complexity built into their connection that serves as the emotional throughline for the film. Yes, it’s about fighting a giant spider from space, but it’s actually a story about holding yourself accountable and building unconventional family – my favourite kind, honestly.
Sting is a glorious little movie, a throwback that’s as much its own beast as it is a love letter to classic creature features of the past – there’s love in every detail here, and it shows, from the writing to the direction to the acting to the set design. It’s a little masterpiece in its own right, Sting is an undeniably joyful slice of gruesome horror fun, a reminder of how brilliant genre can fiction can be when it’s crafted with such obvious care and attention. As long as you’re not a parrot, of course.
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By Lou MacGregor
(header image via Collider)
No But Listen 