The Rule of Jenny Pen (2024)

The Rule of Jenny Pen is one of those movies that sneaks up on you — slow, quiet, but with this gnawing tension that keeps building until you’re squirming in your seat. It’s not flashy, not packed with big action or effects, but it knows exactly what it’s doing. And honestly? It’s very unsettling in the best way.

The story takes place in a New Zealand aged care home — a bland, cold, soul-sucking kind of place. Judge Stefan Mortensen, played by Geoffrey Rush, has just had a stroke. He’s stuck there, trying to recover, trying to hang onto some kind of dignity. You can feel the frustration oozing out of him — he used to be someone with real power, and now he’s in a room with peeling paint, being bathed by strangers. It’s hard to watch, but in a very human way.

Then comes Dave Crealy — and this is where it all starts to shift. John Lithgow plays him with such an eerie calmness, and he carries around this weird little puppet named Jenny Pen. At first, you’re like, “Alright, just another oddball in the home,” but no. There’s something properly wrong with this bloke. You can’t quite put your finger on it at first, but the puppet starts showing up at strange moments, saying things that cut a bit too deep, and suddenly you realise Crealy’s not just eccentric — he’s terrifying.

What’s really scary about this film isn’t ghosts or gore — it’s the psychological stuff. The slow erosion of someone’s mind, the fear of being powerless, and the way people can manipulate that weakness. Jenny Pen isn’t just a creepy doll — she’s a symbol of how easy it is for someone to mess with your head when you’re already hanging by a thread.

Geoffrey Rush is, unsurprisingly, fantastic. You believe every bit of Mortensen’s decline — the shame, the rage, the helplessness. He never overdoes it. He just lets the character slowly fall apart, and it’s heartbreaking to watch. Lithgow is just as good. He’s not playing some over-the-top villain — he’s playing a quiet, calculated predator. You keep waiting for him to slip, to explode, but he never does. That’s what makes him so scary — he never gives you the release.

The film is slow, no doubt about it. Director James Ashcroft doesn’t rush a thing. He lets scenes linger, keeps you trapped in these tight, uncomfortable rooms, forces you to sit with the characters’ discomfort. And that’s the point. It’s supposed to feel like that — like you’re stuck in there with them.

Visually, it’s spot on. Everything’s grey, dull, lifeless. You can practically smell the disinfectant. The lighting is harsh where it needs to be and soft when you’re meant to feel that bit of hope (spoiler: there’s not much). And when Jenny Pen’s bright red lips show up in all that drabness? It’s jarring — and that’s exactly the reaction it’s aiming for.

The soundtrack is minimal, almost invisible — and that’s a compliment. It doesn’t tell you how to feel. It just sits there in the background, adding to the weight of every scene. Sometimes it’s what’s not being said or played that gets to you most.

Dialogue is sharp, too. No fluff. Every line, especially between Mortensen and Crealy, is loaded. You feel the subtext, the tension, the mind games. It’s all in what’s not being said, and that makes it way more gripping.

The editing matches the tone. No fast cuts, no quick fixes. It’s all paced to feel heavy, claustrophobic, and real. The scenes often hold just a second too long — not in a bad way, but just enough to make you uncomfortable. Like you’re waiting for something awful to happen — and sometimes it does, and sometimes it doesn’t, which honestly makes it worse.

There aren’t any big special effects, and that’s a good thing. The horror comes from the characters, the atmosphere, and the way it all seeps into your bones. It’s psychological, emotional, real. And that makes it hit harder than most horror flicks with monsters or blood.

If you’re a fan of slow-burn psychological stuff — think Misery, The Babadook, or even One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest — this’ll probably be right up your alley. It’s not quite as intense or stylised, but it plays in that same space. It’s more about what’s going on in the characters’ heads than what’s happening on screen. And that’s what makes it so bloody effective.

It’s not perfect — some people are definitely going to find it too slow, or too bleak. But if you’ve got the patience for it, The Rule of Jenny Pen is absolutely worth watching. It’s creepy, it’s smart, and it hits you in the chest without ever raising its voice. Watch it with the lights low, maybe a blanket nearby — and don’t be surprised if you find yourself glancing over your shoulder once or twice after Jenny Pen has said her bit.