Horror snobs may worry over the intention of Mike Flanagan with this miniseries adaptation of The Haunting of Hill House. Esoteric interpretations stretched out as an antonym of common denominations are the very crux of this Netflix original. Where the charms of The Haunting, the Robert Wise-directed piece from all those years ago, was founded in the creativity of the camera and what could be achieved, The Haunting of Hill House is a flatlining horror that relies on all the modern pop moments that move away from the traditions and sanctity of the Shirley Jackson horrors of old. Dedication to fixing the house or being stuck in a location that characters cannot leave of their own volition, the many tropes of the modern genre connect in what is, essentially, a house of horrors and trickery.
Darkness prevails throughout The Haunting of Hill House, a piece that requires and lingers on non-diegetic sound to perceive some emotionally wrought moment or tension. What audiences see is no longer enough. It must be what they hear but a character cannot. That can be utilised well, but for The Haunting of Hill House, it is a stumbling block, as many of its horror elements are. A startle is not the same as a scare. It shows in the moments that linger on the important narrative elements. A staircase that lingers and leads up to the taller parts of the house feels Tim Burton-esque in its presentation, a daunting presence that decries the gothic simplicity for something that must and will take precedence.
Never a moment across the series does a unique spectacle come about. What Flanagan achieves is an indifference to the classic elements of Jackson’s literary strengths, now shrouded in a condensed smoke of modern tech and an understanding of its impact. But there is real fear in the performances, and they are so creatively moved. A lot of it appears to be an expression of new horrors that come through old wounds and paranormal experiences in the past. The Haunting understands the real horror at the heart of haunted houses not through any specific adaptative strokes but through its commitment to Jackson’s prose. The Haunting of Hill House loses that in its desire to make artificially grim surroundings feel creepy and unnerving. That natural chill is lost in the face of artistic splendour, which feels a bit weak and lopsided here.
Essentially, missing the point of Jackson’s work entirely yet managing to circle back with a rewarding tale of family values, The Haunting of Hill House corners itself as a mixed bag. Its performances range from anywhere between vaguely solid and plausibly acceptable while Flanagan’s cold design comes off more as a fear of lacking scares than it does a competent understanding of the haunted horrors. Jackson’s writing may as well be a secondary thought for Flanagan and company, who do a poor job of housing the real implications and message of the classic novel. Nothing wrong with going bigger or better as Suspiria tried to do, but make sure the end result is better, as Suspiria found, not improving could be fatal.
