Tag: Quaid

There’s no such thing as a perfect murder.

But the notion of trying to achieve one has provided fodder for countless novels and films, the latest of which is Companion, the wicked new thriller from writer-director Drew Hancock.

When Josh (Jack Quaid) and Iris (Sophie Thatcher) escape for a weekend getaway with his friends, all is not as it seems — and it takes a deliriously unhinged turn when Iris murders their host, Sergey (Rupert Friend), in self-defense.

It turns out Iris is not Jack’s human girlfriend but rather his robot companion. At first, one might expect the film to be another meditation on artificial intelligence — its perils and pitfalls a reflection of our own fears. But that’s a red herring, as is Iris’s unwitting participation in the homicide. Hancock instead tees up a witty evisceration of the fragility of the male ego and the havoc that ensues in the wake of its entitlement.

Quaid is an ideal conduit for Hancock’s constantly surprising tale. His boyish charms are abundant in the film’s early scenes, from the opening supermarket meet-cute to his affection for Iris. As Josh, Quaid easily convinces us he’s merely a bystander in the weekend’s increasingly horrifying events. His ruffled curls and inherited rom-com pedigree help sell the notion of his innocence.

But Josh is altogether more sinister, a man who has purchased a robot built to his exact specifications to be his companion (and, essentially, sex slave). He is the quintessential “nice” guy, a doting boyfriend on the surface who turns to manipulation and abuse when anyone dares to defy what he perceives as his birthright. He doesn’t want a true companion; he wants someone he can control, down to their eye color and the level of their intelligence. As Josh devolves into the worst version of himself, it becomes an open question whether Josh fails to see Iris’s humanity because she’s a robot or simply because she’s a woman. 

While his performance is one of gradual revelation, Thatcher’s is one of discovery. Fresh off horror thriller Heretic, Thatcher continues to carve a space for herself in the genre with another layered, compelling performance. Iris is blissfully unaware that she’s a robot, even as Hancock’s winking nods to her otherness pervade the opening scenes with a creeping dread. But as she awakens to all the ways she’s been used and controlled, she transforms into a creature of towering anger and intelligence. Thatcher walks this tightrope with ease. 

Initially, it is Iris’s eerie and prim sense of calm that signals that everything is not as it seems. Her blunt brunette bangs and vintage-inspired ensembles set her apart from the modernity of Josh and his friends (as does the unsettling fact that the black slash of her meticulous cat-eye makeup never so much as smears, even when she showers or goes to bed). Thatcher nails the Stepford-Wife quality of Iris’s existence without tipping her hand, making her awakening all the more exhilarating. As Thatcher plays her, Iris is an electrical current of a character, at first tightly regulated and controlled until she unleashes the live wire of rage and power at her core.

The rest of the relatively small cast make a meal of their roles as well. Harvey Guillén’s dry wit and biting ripostes serve as an effective mask for his character Eli’s well of loneliness and love. He is well-matched with Lukas Gage, who channels his good looks into the bland niceties of Patrick, a man with his own secrets. Megan Suri breathes fresh life into the conniving gold-digger trope, while Friend enjoys chewing the scenery as the grotesque Sergey.

But all of it works because of Hancock’s whip-smart script and directorial eye for world-building. There’s a whiff of the retro about it all, the way he employs Peter Gabriel and disco needle drops to wash the proceedings with the patina of the domestic bliss of a “simpler time.” Iris’s clothing choices also reflect that, emphasizing the gender roles that Josh prefers.

These choices clash with the modern trappings of the large lake house where the action takes place and the sci-fi concept of the companion robots. Hancock creates a cognitive dissonance by juxtaposing the romanticized past and the cutting-edge technology of the present, placing the audience into a discordant environment.

As a twisty thriller, Companion more than delivers, keeping audiences guessing until the very end. There are clear ties to Alfred Hitchcock’s Rope, with its unraveling of the perfect murder, and Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, with its reflection on humanity, science, and what happens when we seek to play god. But most of all the film is an invective against a scourge of entitled white men and the collective toll of misogyny. Iris’s ultimate goal isn’t love or even survival — it’s self-determination. Or put another way, consent — the right to control what happens to her and her body, be it one of flesh and blood or metal and wires.

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