Let Me In
Matt Reeves' magnificent Let Me In is an Americanized adaptation of Let the Right One In, a Swedish horror film which itself is based on an acclaimed novel by John Ajvide Lindqvist (also Swedish). As such, its setting has been moved from frigid Scandinavia to the more familiar but no less frigid Los Alamos, New Mexico, a town depicted as so bleak and uninviting as to provoke a lawsuit from the state's tourism commission. Its atmosphere is particularly inhospitable to timid loners like 12-year-old Owen (Kodi Smit-McPhee), a spindly late-bloomer who suffers regular humiliations at school courtesy of a trio of pubescent sadists.
Owen's home life isn't much better: Dad's gone for good, pending a divorce from mom, who's an aspiring wino and something of a religious nut. He seeks refuge nightly in the solitary confines of his apartment complex courtyard, where he meets and befriends Abby (Chloe Moretz), a new neighbor and apparent kindred spirit whose quirks include a penchant for walking barefoot through the snow. That, along with her professed inability to recall her exact age, provides Owen with the first clues that his new friend may not be entirely normal.
She is, in fact, a vampire. And like any vampire, Abby requires blood for sustenance. But since the sight of a little girl chomping on the necks of locals is certain to raise eyebrows at Child Protective Services, she entrusts the duty of procuring nourishment to her haggard elder companion (Richard Jenkins). First believed to be Abby's father but later revealed as otherwise, he (his name is never stated) trots out wearily on occasion to find a fresh young body to drain of its blood. His skills appear to be slipping in his old age (like Owen, he is a mere mortal), and his sloppiness soon attracts the attention of a grizzled local cop (Elias Koteas), who has no idea how far in over his head he is. (The film is set in 1983, when the vampire-detection tools available to law enforcement officials were woefully inadequate.)
Meanwhile, Abby and Owen's relationship blossoms, and, notwithstanding the inevitable complications that arise in every human-vampire relationship, they develop a profound and sweetly innocent bond. Still, lurking in the back of our minds is the knowledge that Abby, at her core, is a remorseless bloodsucker, and one significantly older than her pre-teen visage would have us believe. Is her affection for Owen sincere, or is she merely grooming him to assume the role of her caretaker once her current one exceeds his usefulness?
There's a great deal of manipulation at work in Let Me In, both on the part of Abby and director Reeves, who alternates between tugging on our heart-strings and butchering them. Abby is one of the truly great horror villains — so great, in fact, that I suspect many audience members won't view her as one, even as her list of mutilated victims grows. Reeves does well to preserve an element of ambiguity, resisting the urge to proffer a Usual Suspects-esque denouement, inviting us instead to connect the story's dots ourselves. The film's unique and affecting juxtaposition of tenderness and savagery, combined with a slew of stellar performances, makes for an experience unlike any other in recent horror-movie memory, one whose effects will linger long after the closing credits have rolled.
Hollywood.com rated this film 3 1/2 stars.