The Prodigy [Review by SpecialK]

Let’s take a moment to discuss the real-life horror story of Mary Vincent. In 1978—back when it was perfectly normal for a teenage girl from Las Vegas to hitchhike home from Berkeley in a truck driven by an unassuming grandfather of a man—Mary, age 15, woke up in the back seat of her ride only to realize she’d been driven in the wrong direction for hours. She was subsequently struck with a hammer, stripped, brutally raped, tossed down a 30-foot cliff, and left for dead—but not before her attacker savagely hacked off both her arms. However, Mary didn’t die. She packed her wounds with dirt and spent hours crawling back up the cliff, where she flagged down a passing car of honeymooners who drove her bloodied, mutilated body to safety. Mary not only survived, but she described her attacker to police so well that his neighbor saw the sketch and turned him in. Mary became a wife, mom, artist, and advocate for survivors.

When most people tell this story they talk of Larwrence Singleton—Mary’s attacker, who served less than nine years of the 14 he was sentenced for what he did to her, and who was paroled for good behavior despite the concerns clearly outlined in his psychiatric evaluation. Larry then took in a deep breath of freedom only to spit it right back out by savagely stabbing to death his next victim, mother of three Roxanne Hayes.

Now dear readers, in 2019—when this horrorista is barraged daily with the senile ramblings of a presidential p****-grabber; when hour-by-hour judicial stays inspire sighs of relief that at least for the next week or so a woman’s right to choose still dangles by a single sinew in this country; and when even the West Wing’s heiress is parodied doing household chores in a crude attempt at “art”—which of these two scripts of Mary’s tale do you think would appeal to this foiled feminist? The story of Mary’s survival or of society’s failure?  You guessed it. Now if only the filmmakers behind The Prodigy had taken a moment to make that same cognitive leap, I’d be writing a very different review. But alas.

In The Prodigy, expectant mother Sarah (admittedly, played quite deftly by Taylor Schilling) has the unfortunate luck of going into labor at the exact moment a severed-hand-obsessed serial killer learns his latest victim has escaped and the police are surrounding his house. What does this bode for Sarah and her new son Miles? We soon find out, as the years pass and Miles turns out to be a genius, spending his days in gifted classes and his evenings around the dinner table basking in the love of his very stupid parents.

But something is wrong with Miles. He stares a bit too long. He talks to himself in gibberish. And then people start getting hurt. But what is the connection to the brutal serial killer and the woman who survived his attack? What exactly is wrong with Miles? And how far would a mother go to save her son? Honestly, who cares? But before I dive into yet another rant about how these alkaline tropes bleach out any vibrant color that radiates from Mary Vincent’s story (ugh, so basic), let me simply direct you to my previous gentle reflections on themes of motherhood and female sacrifice in horror films.

But I digress. So is The Prodigy a well-produced, well-shot film? Yes, quite. Honestly I think director Nicholas McCarthy— who also directed one of my favorite scary movies of all time, The Pact—might have been the saving grace that brought this film to the box office. But is The Prodigy scary? Meh. Well done again here to McCarthy on the few original scenes where Sarah’s fear of her own child is magnified, but aside from that…meh.

And that’s about all I have to say that’s positive about this mostly annoying film. Let me just place this SPOILER ALERT right here before I continue with the rest of this paragraph. The child acting is unbearable (sorry Jackson Robert Scott but a creepy glare does not an actor make). The ending is obnoxious to anyone who exists in today’s world with two x chromosomes and knowledge of Mary’s story. And perhaps what’s most offensive of of all, the film’s admittedly effective scares borrow far too heavily from some of the best: if you eliminate from The Prodigy frightening scenes plucked almost directly out of Annabelle, The Omen, The Amityville Horror, and Child’s Play, you’re left with the only original scare this story has to offer—and that’s the hat tip to Mary Vincent’s terrifying tale.

Which brings me back to my original point—know your audience and tell your story from the correct angle. I’ll be the first to admit that this murderino knows much more than anyone should about true crime, and that not many theatergoers may notice the Mary Vincent parallels in The Prodigy (seriously? Nobody has written about this yet?), but if what they say is true about the number of women who watch horror films and ladies who love listening to killer stories, I’m far from alone in my disappointment.

SpecialK Verdict: Just skip it and watch this instead—interestingly enough, the truth makes for a much better story.

The Prodigy opens Friday, February 8.

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