Warning: This review contains spoilers for a movie that, at the time of writing, is still playing in theaters. Readers, please be advised.
After watching Good Boy, the first word from my mouth was as follows: “Damn”. My next five words after watching the film were “damn, that dog can act”. Director Ben Leonberg’s actual dog, Indy the Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever (also known as a ‘Toller’), is the main character of this supernatural thriller; according to interviews with Leonberg and others on the set, the magic of Indy’s performance comes from the fact that unlike their human counterparts, animal actors do not really know or understand that they’re in a movie. That said, the production of the film was allegedly tailored to Indy’s comfort onset; much of his fear onscreen is, in fact, an example of the Kuleshov effect in action as we see his natural stare paired with suspenseful music and visuals. Most of the time, Indy’s just staring at the director, and Kari Fischer offset making silly noises at him. No scene was too difficult to shoot, either: Every shot of Indy is genuine, with no computer-generated imagery doubles in sight.
The artistic choices in the film were also tailored around Indy: The plot is conveyed through largely offscreen dialogue between characters with Indy as a witness, and the entire film is shot at the dog’s diminutive height of 19 inches off the ground. While Leonberg actively encourages the audience to project their fear onto Indy, the film itself forces the audience to share his point of view—through every unsettling thing that point of view can not only see, but hear as well.
The film begins with Indy relaxing with his owner, Todd (played by Shane Jensen), inexplicably hunched over and motionless on the couch. We, as the audience, can see something’s not quite right with the man beside the dog, especially as his phone vibrates on and on with frantic messages from his sister, Vera (played by Arielle Friedman). It’s just before she suddenly bursts into the room, and we see blood dripping from Todd’s mouth, and can only look on with Indy as Vera tries her hardest to call 911 for her brother. From the very first scene he’s in, Indy shows his acting prowess (or perhaps Leonberg’s directing skill): the shot begins with him opening his eyes from a nap, and as he tries to coax his owner off the couch, he really does seem not to fully understand that something’s wrong with his buddy. It’s only when Vera’s on the phone that we see Indy’s characteristic canine gung-ho attitude shift into something much closer to concern and even fear.
I suspect the film’s title sequence is comprised at least partially of home movies of the real Indy’s earliest puppy-hood with Jensen and Friedman’s voices dubbed over them in post; this montage of a sweet little baby Indy, vulnerable and needy, coming to know and love and grow under the watchful care of both Todd and Vera is enough to win most pet lovers’ emotional investment in the characters. I have a cat, myself, but I understand that the love one has for their pets that they’d raised from such a young age is universal; I can recall my first meeting with my Link at the Humane Society, with him reaching through the bars of his kennel and latching onto my KN95 mask as he cried out to me just as easily as I can recall his first time perching in the windowsill and looking out at the world through the window in wonder, and can remember that just as easily as his bravery when we had gone to the airport and boarded the plane to Texas together. Every time I saw Indy playing and heard the voices of our main characters laughing and cooing over him, I thought of every time Link greets me or my husband at the front door when we come home, no matter how long we were gone, as if he needed to tell us out loud just how much he missed us. It’s impossible for anyone with a pet to not empathize deeply with both Todd and Indy during the events of the film as a result.
After Todd is discharged from the hospital, he immediately flees to his grandfather’s home despite Vera’s repeated warnings over the many phone calls between the siblings that we see through the film’s runtime that the home is cursed or haunted. He brushes not only that off, but also Vera’s initial advice to never be separated from Indy due to his canine companion’s heightened senses. She mentions that there are dogs that can sniff out drugs, bombs, cancer, and can even sense when their owner is having a medical emergency—which Todd ignores. Indy, however, had already felt something wrong with the house, and at first didn’t want to leave the car when called. This already makes Indy the smartest character on screen for most of the movie. Perhaps Todd’s characterization is written in such a way that he has already accepted the vague possibility that he will die soon, so it doesn’t matter if he does anything reckless; perhaps this is just the symptom of being a deuteragonist in a horror film. Whatever the case, he not only settles into the house and constantly wrangles with its electrical system, but also continually ignores every warning sign that we get to see from Indy’s limited yet insightful perspective. Already, a shadowy figure has repeatedly appeared right in front of Indy, yet somehow manages to disappear right when Todd comes into the room—frustrating enough for a human to put up with, but at least a human could fully articulate the words “something is wrong, we need to leave”. Indy is given no such liberty; instead, instead thrust into the position we had all come to associate with Courage the Cowardly Dog.
Like Courage, though, Indy’s nerves lead to a hyper-vigilant intuition that unveils the more supernatural elements of the plot. Though Todd digging up his grandfather’s (played by horror veteran Larry Fessenden) old home movies next to more phone calls from Vera show us that dear old grand-dad had died in the house his family had owned for generations and his own beloved pooch having never been found following his death, Indy’s adventures show us not only the leftover malice within this house, but the residual spirit of loyalty through the appearance of another dog—the ghost of that pup we’d heard and seen barks and glimpses of in the old video tapes, named Bandit (played by another movie pup, Max, an English Cream Golden Retriever). Something we usually regard as odd in dogs (trying to flatten themselves under a bed or dresser to get a hold of something they’d found down there) is suddenly a suspenseful dive for more information as Indy inches closer to the vision of a red bandanna left behind; only a sniff is needed to communicate as much to Indy spiritually as a touch might convey to a human protagonist.
Something I considered especially bold was the choice to allow the audience to see Indy’s nightmares. The blurry line between dream and reality is especially effective as a tool to illustrate the house’s influence on our hero. The movie seems to tease us with Indy’s dream sequences; at times, I was left uncertain whether Indy was truly in danger or if this was somehow all in his little head. When Indy is cornered by a strange man in a gillie suit, for instance, I couldn’t be certain that this wasn’t somehow a dream he’d had after falling asleep in the woods; little relief is offered when the man (played by Stuart Rudin) is revealed to be a neighbor and implied to be a family friend, warning Todd of the fox snares he’d set up that effectively act as Chekov’s gun as the movie starts to come to a close.
Todd’s health deteriorates at the same rate as his sanity. He starts to withdraw and push Indy away, even physically doing so, the more he snaps at him. When another fit of coughing up blood gives him a grim terminal diagnosis, Todd lashes out despite Indy being in his lap; after a certain point, he even cruelly leaves Indy outside on a chain, vulnerable to whatever evil lurks in the woods surrounding the house as his breath grows ever more shallow. More heartbreaking than it is to see someone grapple with the fact that they are dying is the sight of a once-impenetrable bond between man and dog starting to fall apart, especially given Todd’s unusual choice in door-knocking techniques and sudden interest in smudge sticks and candles.
Indy is eventually led down to the cellar by the ghostly voice and guidance of Bandit; we learn only when Indy makes it through the outside hatch that Bandit did not run away like the others had thought, but instead had died like so many good dogs had: In wait of the owner that could never come back to them. What was once a figure draped in shadow by now has shown itself to us as this muck-covered thing of a man, constantly reaching out towards Indy and Todd both. The muck-man (as I’ll call him) even tries to attack Indy while he’s chained to the doghouse, and only through some startling ingenuity on Indy’s part does he break free and rush to be at his owner’s side again. When he makes it, all seems to be well…
In fact, perhaps everything feels a little too perfect. Todd wakes and instantly hugs Indy, apologizing to him, even playing a bit with him until he notices his dog doesn’t exactly have all the energy he expects him to. Just when he stands to ask what’s wrong, he notices his own body still lying motionless on the bed; when it finally clicks for Todd that he has, in fact, died, the muck-man suddenly returns to drag him down to the cellar. Indy barely manages to catch up, still trying his hardest to stave off the inevitable, only for Todd to give his parting message after his spirit ends up drenched in the very same muck:
“Indy… You’re a good dog. But you can’t save me. I need you to stay right here.”
With the cellar hatch shut and the doors closed, we’re almost left to fear that Indy will befall the same fate as Bandit. Thankfully, Vera arrives after sunrise, discovering Todd’s body and finding Indy curled up just outside the still-open cellar door. She calls him up to come home with her, and Indy only pauses when he hears Todd’s whistle from the caves underneath the house. After all he’d seen, Indy still considered staying just where his friend had told him to, even with the knowledge that he probably wouldn’t really see him again until his own life came to an end. That really is a good dog.
While the initial pitch of Good Boy—”What if a horror film was shot from a dog’s perspective, in every meaning of the word?”—is interesting, the commentary it makes on just what it might be like for the tables to turn and how a dog might cope with the death of his owner ensures that the film doesn’t linger too egregiously on this pitch to the point that it becomes a blatant gimmick. Instead, we grapple with themes of dread, loss of control, and the most confusing yet profound grief any of us could experience in a way that makes the fear of our own mortality (one of the most base and ancient of human fears) feel fresh and innovative. I get choked up enough whenever I realize that even my precious baby Link’s life must naturally have an end someday; I become petrified whenever I consider the same for myself; I don’t really know what to think about the mere possibility that Link may see my life end before his own. And Link’s a cat, a creature known more for anarchy than loyalty; were he a dog, I would almost feel an obligation to explain it all to him as if he really understood English. Perhaps the thesis of Good Boy not only sheds light onto the internality of our beloved pets when the end of our lives stares us in the face, but so too does it stand as a testament to the deep loyalty of dogs as a species in relation to man. Think of what mankind has done to dogs: We have bred them to work, to hunt, to look pretty, to look (a very strange idea of) cute, all rarely to their benefit and sometimes to their detriment. Despite all of this, there are very few dogs in the world that have known the love and care of a human that would not fight to the bitter end for them against any sort of threat, even threats they don’t fully understand. When any animal bonds with a human, they show us love and loyalty with want for nothing in return; they show gratitude when even their most basic needs are met, but beyond this, every little thing they do communicates to us that they cherish us just as deeply as friends and even family as we do them.
I highly recommend this movie, and I highly recommend that viewers with pets give theirs a big hug and kiss at some point during or after watching. You’ll likely feel the urge without my suggestion, and more than likely, your pet will appreciate the gesture no matter where it comes from.
Written by by Alexei Lee
