There are certain actors that, when you see them in a certain situation or even just in the topline of a film, just project a kind of impending dread. For me, that’s perhaps best embodied by John Lithgow in his many darker and more villainous turns in a career that spans nearly five decades. Whether it’s the fun-hating Reverend Moore in Footloose (1984), the deranged Carter Nix in Bryan DePalma’s Raising Cain (1992), or the last interesting storyline of the ‘Dexter’-verse as the sadistic Arthur Mitchell, Lithgow has a way of doing exuberantly sinister like no one else.
In director James Ashcroft’s The Rule of Jenny Pen, Lithgow plays Dave Crealy, a deranged, tyrannical bully masked under Lithgow’s ever-present charm and the presence of a beaten-up, hollow-eyed puppet named Jenny Pen. Matching his energy is the veteran and decorated Geoffrey Rush as the principled, dignified, and somewhat curmudgeonly judge Stefan Mortensen, who is introduced when he suffers a stroke while delivering a verdict in his courtroom. The after-effects leave him confined to a wheelchair and to an elder care home called Royal Pines Mews. What starts as a meditation on the indignities, small and large, that come with growing old descends into a nightmare as Dave Crealy’s introduced as a seemingly dementia-addled bully who steals the food of his fellow residents and then escalates this behaviour – which goes unnoticed by the staff – to even more brazen acts like sneaking into his victims rooms and terrorizing them with Jenny Pen. There’s a chilling familiarity to the way that this bullying plays out, as almost anyone that’s experienced or even observed it in a schoolyard will recognize the way that it becomes more serious and upsetting when authorities and fellow residents don’t push back.Â
But Stefan does push back almost immediately. His headstrong pride won’t allow himself to submit to the delinquencies of Crealy’s (and Jenny Pen’s) worst instincts. And, of course, like every bully, Dave Crealy becomes enraged and emboldened by this act of defiance. He targets Stefan and the two are soon at war over the peace of Royal Pines Mews. Stefan, to his credit, stands up as well as one can as a wheelchair-confined individual when confronted with a fully-mobile and unstoppable bully. Crealy’s unceasing small digs and manipulation of the staff are compounded with other strange and disturbing goings-on at Royal Pines, like a tragic and unexpected self-immolation of a resident to which Stefan bears first-hand witness.
Feeling like the kind of madhouse horror embodied by One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest, Shutter Island, Session 9, and The Ward, to name a few, Ashcroft saturates The Rule of Jenny Pen with obtuse camera-work, dissonant sound design, and too-close closeups to really drive home how disorienting and confusing the environment created by Crealy’s acts can be. Jenny Pen’s hollow eyes appear to constantly be glowing ominously before morphing into something even more terrifying. Crealy’s unhinged dance numbers (yes, that’s plural) are an excellent example of how to make something spooky that isn’t inherently so, simply by emphasizing Crealy’s unpredictability and using Lithgow’s manic energy to its full potential.
For a film that is largely grounded in reality and with little supernatural presence besides a perceived element that could be chalked up to the Royal Pines Mews residents’ struggles with Alzheimer’s or dementia, it feels a little unbelievable that the care home’s staff can so consistently overlook Dave’s very over-the-top antics and brazenly sadistic acts. This may be an effort on Ashcroft’s part to emphasize how victims of bullying feel that no one takes them seriously, or a riff on the horror trope of the protagonist not being believed, and it does work on that level. There is also, perhaps, an argument to be made that The Rule of Jenny Pen hits a particularly disturbing note and remains there through the film’s conclusion. Once Crealy’s abuse and tyranny reach a certain level, the film’s tone doesn’t deviate – either by escalation or de-escalation – too much from there. But when that note’s a particularly good one, it feels like the pressure being turned up and just staying there with the only release being the film’s credits rolling, and that’s effective as well.Â
The main criticism I can levy at The Rule of Jenny Pen is that much of the rest of the film – in particular the other characters at Royal Pines and the overall narrative – fade far into the background when placed beside Lithgow and Rush’s commanding presence. There’s just no competing with these two for screen time or attention when both – particularly Lithgow, whose considerable talents have lots to work with with this character – shine so brightly. And with a conclusion that, while it provides some closure, made me feel wistful for the end of what may be my new favourite Lithgow role rather than the satisfaction of narrative threads being brought together, this may not have been Ashcroft’s intent.
Ultimately, Ashcroft’s film is about how bullying, left unchecked, can morph into tyranny and while such a story is usually portrayed between younger people on a schoolyard, it feels very viscerally affecting when it plays out between adults. I believe that our current social and political climate can probably be good for a few other examples of this. But, both more and less than that, The Rule of Jenny Pen is a canvas on which Lithgow can dash his most out-of-pocket instincts and play against another generational talent in Geoffrey Rush and an unexpected arena in which they can clash. The script and story might not be big enough to hold these two heavyweights, but just facilitating this interplay might be enough. Even if it doesn’t fully succeed everywhere, The Rule of Jenny Pen is certainly worth the experience of allowing Lithgow’s performance to worm itself into your head, leaving it as hollowed-out as that of Dave Crealy’s puppet.
James Ashcroft’s The Rule of Jenny Pen comes to theatres on March 7, 2025 from IFC Films. A release on Shudder will come later this year. Ashcroft directs from a screenplay he co-wrote with Eli Kent from a short story by Owen Marshall.
