You’ve probably been there. It’s midnight, you’re scrolling through Netflix, and you see that oddly poetic, mouthful of a title: I Am the Pretty Thing That Lives in the House. Maybe you watched it and felt like you were drowning in a slow-motion dream. Or maybe you turned it off after twenty minutes because, honestly, "nothing was happening."
I get it.
Oz Perkins, the director behind this 2016 polarizing ghost story, doesn’t make movies for people who want jump scares or a masked killer swinging a machete. He makes movies for people who want to feel a cold draft on the back of their neck for ninety minutes straight. This film isn't just a "movie"; it’s more like a visual poem about the inevitable decay of everything we hold onto.
The Haunting of Iris Blum’s Mind
The plot is deceptively simple. Lily Saylor, a live-in nurse played by Ruth Wilson, moves into a secluded Massachusetts estate to care for Iris Blum. Iris is a retired horror novelist who is losing her grip on reality due to dementia. But the house has its own history—a history that Iris supposedly wrote about in her most famous book, The Lady in the Walls.
Wilson plays Lily with this incredible, high-strung fragility. She’s terrified of everything. Every creak, every shadow. It’s almost frustrating to watch at first. You want to tell her to just turn on a light, but the lighting in this film is a character itself. It’s oppressive.
Perkins uses a very specific kind of dread. He tells you right at the start that Lily is going to die. There’s no spoiler alert needed because the protagonist literally narrates her own demise in the opening minutes. "A house with death in it can never again be bought or sold by the living," she says. It sets a tone of absolute hopelessness. Most horror movies are about survival. I Am the Pretty Thing That Lives in the House is about the opposite. It’s about the fact that you’ve already lost.
Why the "Slow Burn" Label Actually Fits Here
People throw around the term "slow burn" like a slur these days. But here? It’s the entire point. The camera moves like it’s underwater.
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The cinematography by Ian Anderson doesn't rely on quick cuts. Instead, we get long, lingering shots of hallways. Shadows that look like they might be moving, but you aren't quite sure. It forces your eyes to search the corners of the screen. That’s where the real horror lives—not in what pops out at you, but in what you think you see in the dark.
Think about the character of Polly, the "pretty thing" mentioned in the title. Played by Lucy Boynton, she’s the ghost trapped in the walls. We see her in flashbacks, but she’s mostly a blurry, white smudge in the background of Lily’s life. There’s a specific scene where Lily is looking at a spot of mold on the wall. It’s gross. It’s tiny. But it’s the physical manifestation of the house rotting, and by extension, the history of the house reclaiming the living.
The Sound of Silence and Whispers
If you watch this with shitty laptop speakers, you’re missing half the experience. The sound design is incredible. It’s full of these wet, thumping noises and whispers that feel like they’re coming from inside your own head.
Perkins, who also directed Gretel & Hansel and more recently Longlegs, has a signature style that feels very "literary." He’s less interested in the mechanics of a haunting and more interested in the feeling of being haunted. The dialogue isn't how people actually talk. It’s stylized. It’s theatrical. Lily talks to herself in these long, flowery monologues that sound like they were ripped out of a 19th-century Gothic novel.
Some people find this pretentious. Kinda fair. If you’re looking for The Conjuring, this is going to feel like watching paint dry. But if you’ve ever sat in an old house alone and felt like the air was getting heavier, this movie captures that specific anxiety better than almost anything else in the last decade.
The Connection to Real-Life Horror Heritage
It’s worth noting that Oz Perkins is the son of Anthony Perkins—yes, Norman Bates himself. You can feel that DNA in the work. There’s a deep reverence for the "Old Dark House" tropes, but he flips them. In the classic films, the house is a puzzle to be solved. In I Am the Pretty Thing That Lives in the House, the house is a digestive system. It’s just waiting to swallow Lily whole.
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The film also plays with the idea of the "Final Girl" in a way that’s pretty depressing. Usually, the girl survives. Here, her death is a foregone conclusion. The horror isn't that she dies; it's that she becomes just another layer of the house's history. Another story for the next person to read about.
Why Modern Audiences Struggle With It
We are living in an era of "elevated horror," a term that many people (including myself) find a bit annoying. However, it usually implies that the horror is a metaphor for trauma or grief. While that's true here—Iris Blum's dementia is a clear parallel to the blurring of the ghost's identity—the movie doesn't give you a neat "Aha!" moment.
There is no big twist.
No exorcism.
No battle.
It’s just a steady slide into the grave.
That lack of catharsis is why the movie has such low audience scores on sites like Rotten Tomatoes compared to critic scores. Critics love the atmosphere and the technical precision. Casual viewers often feel cheated by the ending. But that’s the risk you take when you make a movie that’s 90% mood and 10% plot.
The Visual Language of the Ghost
Polly’s movements are one of the few "scary" visual elements that actually stick. She moves in a jittery, unnatural way—a technique Perkins used again in his later films. It’s not CGI-heavy; it’s more about the uncanny valley. It reminds us that ghosts aren't just dead people; they are echoes. And echoes eventually fade or become distorted.
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The way Lily discovers Polly’s presence isn't through a Ouija board or a psychic. It’s through the house itself failing. A leak. A stain. A smell. It’s the domestic becoming alien.
Actionable Takeaways for Watching (or Re-watching)
If you’re going to give I Am the Pretty Thing That Lives in the House a chance, don't treat it like a standard horror movie. You have to change your expectations.
- Kill the lights. This isn't a "background noise" movie. If there’s glare on your screen, you won't see half of what’s happening in the shadows.
- Focus on the narration. The words Lily says are actually clues to the internal logic of the ghost world. Pay attention to how she describes the "three times" a person sees a ghost.
- Look for the mold. The black mold in the corner of the room is the most important "character" in the film. It grows as Lily’s mental state declines.
- Don't wait for the jump. It’s not coming. Once you accept that the movie is a funeral procession, it becomes much more effective.
Final Insights on the Pretty Thing
This film is a polarizing piece of art because it refuses to play by the rules of engagement. It’s a ghost story where the ghost is bored and the victim is resigned. By leaning into the inevitability of death rather than the shock of it, Oz Perkins created something that stays with you.
It’s not a movie you watch to be entertained in the traditional sense. It’s a movie you watch to be unsettled. If you can appreciate the craftsmanship of a director who is more interested in the texture of a wall than a kill count, you’ll find a lot to love here. Just don’t expect to feel good when the credits roll. You’re meant to feel like you’ve been left alone in a cold, dark room.
To get the most out of your next viewing, pay close attention to the transitions between the "past" (Polly's story) and the "present" (Lily's story). Notice how the camera angles often mirror each other, suggesting that both women are essentially the same person in different stages of the house's lifecycle. Understanding this cyclical nature is the key to unlocking the film's true ending.