May By Rick Curnutte Richard A. Curnutte, Jr. is the Editor of The Film Journal. He has studied English and Film at Ohio University and The Ohio State University.

Every once in awhile, a director will deliver a film that really delves into the horror of the mundane. John Fawcett did it a couple of years back with the dynamite werewolf film Ginger Snaps. He took an ordinary tale of clumsy teen sexuality and added a subtext of terror. Here, first-time director Lucky McKee has done the same to the geeky outsider genre.

May is a young woman who was ostracized as a little girl. Born with a lazy eye that required her to wear an eye patch, May was soon marooned in a lonesome world of solitude, with only a creepy porcelain doll to keep her company.

As an adult, she's become a veterinary assistant. Her sex life is awkward (with the film school type Adam) and adventurous (with the female receptionist where she works). Soon, both relationships turn sour and May turns to her longtime friend, the doll, for inspiration, ultimately "making" her own perfect companion: a doll made from human parts.

The character of May is a tricky one. She's got to be sympathetic enough to come off as more than just insane, but crazy enough to not just be a tragic, put-upon loner. Angela Bettis (a relative unknown) delivers a performance worth celebrating, as every inch of her May is explored in the film's short running time. May is both sexy and scary, strange and luminous. Though the supporting actors are, for the most part, quite strong, it is Bettis that gives the film an extra layer of depth.

McKee has a great knack for bringing an earthiness to such an out-there story. May is, without question, a surreal film by normal narrative standards, but McKee is careful to keep it grounded in reality. For all of its quirks and fits, May is one of the smartest, creepiest horror films in many years. It stands head and shoulders above any and every post-modern comic horror film, because it dares to be a bit different.

                                                                 © FILM JOURNAL 2002