If you decide to watch Guillermo del Toro's Cabinet of Curiosities then draw your blinds, bring out an ouija board, blast eerie music on your speaker, and pray for a stormy night because the only way you’ll receive the “horror” experience you were promised is if you do the heavy lifting and scare yourself.
While the anthology doesn’t make you pull your feet inside your blanket at night in fear of the unknown, its existence does remind other creators and audiences of the sheer scope and diversity that exists within the horror genre. But as with most anthologies, the series suffers from being severely uneven. While the small nuggets of different stories and new characters can be exciting, it becomes difficult to tie each episode together to create something cohesive and meaningful.
To tuck you into bed before he unleashes a chest of monsters, show creator and Academy Award winning director of Pan’s Labyrinth, Guillermo del Toro, opens each episode as an introduction to a chilling bedtime story. Featuring works from eight different directors under the guidance of Del Toro— the anthology portrays the ghastly nature of the human mind and unleashes our deepest darkest fears in the form of rats, witches, monsters, and oddly enough, a beauty lotion from your worst nightmares.
The “children’s nightmare tales” atmosphere that is woven through the majority of the episodes is a clear influence of Del Toro. His work pushes the boundaries of what is considered traditional horror by combining the genre of magical realism with fear that erupts from human empathy. Del Toro’s work portrays the unusual to elicit discomfort, teetering on the boundary of horror. He is also heavily involved in the creation of more traditional films of the genre like Antlers and Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark as a producer. Horror is thus not an unfamiliar territory for him. However, the incorporation of his unique style — the containment of the scary and fantastical within a beautifully designed period piece — elevates some episodes and destroys others.
The anthology starts off on the wrong foot with TV-Movie director Guillermo Navarro’s Lot 36. Tim Blake Nelson embodies a one-dimensional, racist, hate-spewing, debtor who purchases storage units to make money by selling the items contained. When he tries to flip an old man’s storage unit, mysterious forces begin to reveal themselves.
Lot 36 is plagued with stale acting, a boring atmosphere, and a painstakingly slow pace. Nelson’s “non-believer” portrayal has been overdone within the genre and frankly holds no substance anymore, especially when this overconfident attitude is never challenged. The story moves slowly, barely building to a satisfying climax and as expected, there is absolutely no pay off to the cringey dialogues that had to be endured.
The manner in which the stories unfold in this series are more often than not, pretty much the same. Horror drives itself forward on unpredictability and when that factor is yanked away, you’re left with a soggy and grotesque remainder of gross and gory moving images that do nothing interesting.
A stand-out from the series, however, is director of A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night, Ana Lily Amirpour’s The Outside. Channeling a David Cronenburg like approach to horror— one that is bodily, bizarre, and nauseating — The Outside crafts a fever dream story about oddball Stacey’s (Kate Micucci) determination to become beautiful.
Employing a fisheye lens, Amirpour distorts images to embody the all consuming nature of jealousy and obsession. The loud and precise slushing and squishing sounds of lotion being slathered and squeezed is stomach churning. With the addition of a charming and lovable character to root for in the form of Stacey’s husband Keith (Martin Starr), the story takes unexpected turns that are frustrating, erotic, and downright crazy.
Despite The Outside’s success in using the genre in an innovative manner, it sticks out like a sore thumb within the anthology. Graveyard Rats, Pickman’s Model, and Dreams in the Witch House capture Del Toro’s sensibility with more enthusiasm and exuberance. Whereas Jennifer Kent’s The Murmuring is refreshingly stripped down and bare bones in its portrayal of internal turmoil that arises from memories, grief, and regrets. Its slow and meditative approach mirrors Robert Egger’s dark and isolated works like The Witch.
Each episode in the anthology stands on its own accord. While some pull off the fantastical, period-piece horror genre well, the others stumble and fall tragically. A mess of extreme gore, poorly constructed visual effects, and monsters that look like they were created on an ancient PC, Netflix’s Cabinet of Curiosities should have been a curiosity left unexplored.