Formative Fears is a column that focuses on horror movies revolving around young people or adults reliving something that scared them at a young age. There is no age limit on fears like death, monsters, and the unknown. Overall, this series expresses what it felt like to be a frightened child — and what still scares us well into adulthood.
The namesake of George Ratliffe’s movie Joshua follows in the footsteps of other cinematic bad seeds. This child is only a demon in the metaphorical sense; he has no preternatural abilities to help him dismantle his unsuspecting family. In contrast, Joshua Cairn’s (Jacob Kogan) success hinges on his precocity and his parents’ obliviousness. By the time Brad (Sam Rockwell) and Abby (Vera Farmiga) figure it out for themselves, their falsely picture-perfect life has already come undone at the hands of a nine-year-old boy.
As everyone else dotes on his baby sister Lily, Joshua contemplates his place in the family like any other former only child might. Second-pregnancy fears extend to the firstborn as much as they do to parents, but Brad and Abby fail to see their son’s insecurities. Early on, Joshua’s grabs for attention are innocuous; he entertains everyone with the piano and tells his father he wants to quit soccer. Neither parent hears their son’s whispered cries for consideration and support, though. Abby instead asks Joshua to “keep it quiet for the baby,” and Brad’s lack of argument is misread as disinterest in his son’s life.
Joshua’s disturbing behavior is triggered by a home video; the recording shows what his father meant when he said Joshua had a “lot of spirit” at Lily’s age. Most importantly, the eerie footage captures Abby’s first bout of postpartum depression. Joshua may be smarter than other kids, but even he is still too young to understand Abby’s emotional state is a symptom as opposed to a reflection of how she truly feels about her children. Even so, the anguished person seen in the video is nothing like the seemingly delighted mother Joshua sees today with Lily. Abby has assured her brother Ned (Dallas Roberts) everything is going to be different this time around, but as soon as Lily starts to cry incessantly, her tune changes. Abby’s resolve melts away, and Brad’s pious mother Hazel (Celia Weston) is brought in to help.
Beneath Joshua’s kempt exterior and sophisticated demeanor is a predator. He typically refrains from full-on, physical violence in favor of manipulation and mind games. Joshua also has an uncanny knack for recognizing people’s flaws and weaknesses. With his mother, the boy sets off her paranoia and anxiety by spoiling the bliss she feels with Lily and tampering with her meds. The doubt he plants in her head is manifested by the pounding construction noises from the unit above the Cairns. Meanwhile, Brad is more difficult to crack. He openly admits to a teacher had he known a kid like Joshua when he was younger, he probably would have bullied him. Now having a son as intelligent as Joshua, Brad feels exposed for who he is and never will be. His brand of fatherhood consists mainly of high fives and phoned-in courtesies, but Brad can no longer coast on charm or irksome optimism in this precarious relationship. None of that has any effect on someone as capable and vicious as Joshua.
Deconstructing Joshua is no easy feat. He is not the work of satanic meddling or villainous teachings, and his dramatic transformation from mere prodigy to enfant terrible almost comes out of nowhere. Of course, there are armchair diagnoses that work in a pinch; sociopathy is the go-to answer in these sorts of movies. Something else to consider is maybe Joshua is really testing the bounds of love. The aforementioned videotape stirs up questions about the mother-child bond, whereas with Brad, Joshua outright asks him if he loves his “weird son.” He hesitates, then quickly delivers the answer any parent would — or should — in these formative moments: “I’ll always love you, no matter what.” Joshua is so convinced by his own perceived otherness, he accepts skewed interpretations of his parents’ words and actions rather than what is plainly communicated or displayed. Add in his darker instincts, and Joshua goes to extremes when challenging his mother and father’s love.
To no surprise, Joshua’s malefic change coincides with Lily’s arrival; he is celebrating his own sort of birth. With Brad and Abby so focused on the new baby, Joshua can peel off the veneer cultivated by his parents and society. He can play the wrong notes, study the loss of childhood innocence through Alice in Wonderland, and most of all, he can decide who raises him from this point onward. To Joshua, growing and improving means getting rid of what holds him back.
Ratliffe conveys domestic disquietude with a fair amount of vagueness. There is no mistaking the goings-on in the Cairn home as anything but the work of a juvenile antagonist whose every move is deliberate and never squandered. However, the director and co-writer David Gilbert frame the story so Joshua’s twisted behavior is understood even if not certain. The most substantial clarity comes in the form of a song. Upon closer inspection of Joshua’s original composition at the end — a haunting track called “The Fly,” composed and written by Dave Matthews — missing pieces of the puzzle fall in place. An air of ambiguity still surrounds earlier events, but the confessional lyrics are as insightful as they are chilling. That persistent speculation, along with stacked performances and reams of dread, is exactly why Joshua sticks to the ribs.
William March’s 1954 novel The Bad Seed has inspired countless stories of wicked children as well as stoked the argument of nature versus nurture. The horror genre has exploited both sides of the discourse; evil is either inborn or taught. And while the Damien Thorns and Rosemary’s babies make many adults nervous, there is something profoundly more upsetting about children like Joshua, whose malevolence has no ready explanation or unnatural origin.
source https://bloody-disgusting.com/editorials/3676031/something-rotten-state-joshua-formative-fears/
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