Good Boy

Rating 6/10

Few things induce anxiety as effectively as a pet in peril.  Horror filmmakers have long recognized that our compassion for animals runs deep.  Perhaps even deeper than our empathy for humans.  A threatened dog or cat instantly raises the emotional stakes.  We can stomach the haunted houses, ghosts, and psychological torment, but when a loyal companion is at risk, our nerves fray.  Good Boy plays into that fear.

Indy is a lovable Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever that becomes increasingly agitated.  His owner, Todd (played by Shane Jensen), suffers from a mysterious illness.  After Todd is released from the hospital, he brings Indy to their late grandfather’s (Larry Fessenden) remote upstate home.  Todd’s sister, Vera (Arielle Friedman), voices her concerns about the dwelling, but Todd insists.  Once there, the loyal dog grows wary of the eerie old house.  Dark, muddy apparitions appear.  Strange noises abound.  Although it’s ambiguous how much of this is supernatural and how much is mental.  As Todd’s health deteriorates, Indy’s instincts tell him something sinister is lurking within the house, and possibly within his master himself.  This is a haunting story told through the eyes of man’s best friend.

What makes Good Boy such a unique experience is the point of view.  The saga is told from the retriever’s perspective.  That means framing, camera angles, what’s shown (and what’s not) are shaped by Indy’s senses.  We see the world from his height; many scares are delivered through sounds, movement, and darkness.  That means our understanding of what we’re seeing is limited.  We comprehend this world as an animal might live through it.  Dialogue is sparse.  Much of the dread stems from mood and sensory tension.  We are constantly worried about the dog.

Roger Ebert once famously said, “No good movie is too long and no bad movie is short enough.” This is a satisfying thriller, though its premise is absolutely stretched to its limit, even at just 72 minutes.  Good Boy is more of a film experiment than a fully developed story.  What shines through is Indy’s remarkably expressive performance. He conveys a range of emotions (devotion, confusion, and panic) with an authenticity that even puts some human actors to shame.  A furry companion represents innocence and unconditional love.  We’re used to human deaths in horror pictures, but the idea of a beloved animal in danger feels worse.  The scares hit harder because our compassion for Indy runs deep.

That said, Indy is still a dog, and his expressiveness has limits.  The few human actors are filmed in shadows or from obscured angles, keeping the focus squarely on him.  Resting an entire account on an animal’s shoulders is a risky choice.  Director Ben Leonberg mostly pulls it off.  A behind-the-scenes segment after the credits reveals how Leonberg achieved this effect, and it’s fascinating.  The post-credits epilogue actually made me appreciate the production even more.  Sometimes, the bond between a pet and its owner can be both a source of comfort and an intense source of unease.

10-07-25