The Outwaters will be released in theaters on February 9, 2023
The Outwaters is one of the more unique and boundary-pushing found-footage horror films to come out in a hot minute. Let me continue with a disclaimer stating that this movie will very likely be violently divisive, given that it shares experiential similarities with the recent bumps-in-the-night horror phenomenon Skinamarink. Writer, director, and star Robbie Banfitch taps into an experimental descent into an almost cosmic horror ode to Terrence Malick with the slightest injections of H.P. Lovecraft's signatures – as long as you endure the lengthy first half that lulls us into a false sense of California lovin' serenity – and to call the results of the experiment “mixed” is among the great understatements of the year.
Banfitch stars as our cameraman and tour guide Robbie Zagorac, a Los Angeles resident who ventures into the Mojave Desert to shoot a music video. Along for the ride are guitarist and brother Scott (Scott Schamell), presumed longtime friend and beautician for the shoot Ange (Angela Basolis), and last but not least, angelic vocalist Michelle (Michelle May). There's little backstory beyond what Robbie records on his camera because Banfitch's screenplay is allergic to exposition. Whatever transpires on screen – from Los Angeles earthquakes to the unexplainable vulgarity that erupts in sandy-dry isolation later on – is left wide-open to interpretation however you feel is necessary to process Banfitch’s onslaught of vile visuals.
The Outwaters is a hallucinatory experiment that relies heavily on auditory horror, isn't afraid to leave us scratching our heads, and thrusts us into a barren mystery with mere crumbs of information. Banfitch’s direction and storytelling does allude to the presence of something evil, a foreboding signal distortion that comes through the radio or as music is played through amplifiers, so at least there's a whiff of an ominous threat that suggests Robbie's documentary will turn from wholesome to horrific. Although, that's the only hand-holding we get – and even then it's limp and inconclusive. Some will detest these methods and won't be won over by Banfitch's remarkably existential mode of dread and destruction that follows, but I was ultimately swept up by the frightening intimacy of its unknown brutality.
When wearing his director hat, Banfitch takes artistic pleasures like photography and music and runs them through a nightmare filter. Michelle's lyrics and Scott's guitar accompaniment evolve from soothing background tunes into disturbing sonic unpleasantness as Robbie confronts everything from stubborn mules blocking his party's path to sharpened axes planted in rubble mounds. Robbie's cinematography defies convention as he twirls perspectives upside down or pushes on extreme close-ups, which morph from artsy to alarming once the film's tone reaches a rolling boil. At its most frantic, most dire, and most anonymous – slathered in blood and screeching unknown creature calls – The Outwaters is an alarming spiral into madness without a parachute.
At its worst, it relies on the most expeditious diversions from traditional horror storytelling. The Outwaters refuses to show much of anything through Robbie's teeny-weeny, pinhole-sized flashlight circle, which elevates frustration as he darts our only window of visibility away from grand reveals or completely switches off, so we get to stare at a blank screen as Horror Movie Sounds™ play. Not like there's oodles to understand once there's no turning back – Robbie's relationships with those he loves, suggested disassociation from civilization, and whatever curse poisons the desert territory are never explicitly developed. Banfitch attempts to summon ASMR horrors like autotuned death squeals laid atop desolate natural landscapes, which isn't enough reason for this movie to tip so dangerously close to the two-hour mark.
Almost the entire first half is devoted to meandering through Robbie's interactions with Scott (a brother who seems distant), Ange (a reunion between besties), and Michelle (a muse of sorts). That’s followed by a long, long duration of him shuffle-step wandering around their campsite, through mental recreations of recent memories, all while he’s painfully barefoot over rocky terrain and incessant booms – like artillery cannons – blare overtop to signify bad times.
My analysis is torn because Banfitch has these stimulating and refreshing ideas about what shapes horror films can take – this one rather amorphous and out of reach – yet does nothing to stabilize his ambitions. It's punk-rock to bet on himself, never sacrificing his personal filmmaking voice to appease the masses. I'm not sure I'd want Banfitch to attempt anything else with The Outwaters, but that doesn't negate the disappointment of feeling much colder than others to something so astonishingly unseen. Banfitch almost erases his film's entire "buildup" in how he carelessly bounds into the mouth of Hell behind Robbie's lead, as if Hunter S. Thompson welcomes us into his worst campfire acid trip. Such tremendous sights await the most adventurous moviegoers as ponderous psychological horror collides with gory slasher intentions, along with equal aggravation for horror fans expecting something entirely more narratively concrete and graspable.
source https://www.ign.com/articles/the-outwaters-review