The Rule of Jenny Pen is a quietly terrifying tale about control, cruelty, and the monstrous potential of unchecked power, even when that power takes the form of a cracked baby doll on a man’s hand. Director James Ashcroft follows up his brutal debut Coming Home in the Dark with a more psychological kind of horror, adapting a short story by Owen Marshall into a suffocating chamber piece set in a drab New Zealand care home. What starts as a grim social drama about aging and isolation spirals into a Kafkaesque nightmare, held together by two powerhouse performances from Geoffrey Rush and John Lithgow.
Rush plays Stefan Mortensen, a stroke-stricken judge who finds himself imprisoned in Royal Pine Mews, a care facility full of faded wallpaper, sour smells, and the quiet cruelty of institutional neglect. Stefan expects rehab and a return to normalcy. What he gets is a shared room, a slow spiral into physical helplessness, and a puppet dictator named Jenny Pen. John Lithgow’s Dave Crealy, a resident feigning dementia to manipulate his caretakers, rules the halls at night with a filthy hand puppet and a sadistic streak. Submit to Jenny’s rule, or suffer the consequences. For Stefan and his roommate Tony, this bizarre setup becomes a waking nightmare.
Ashcroft smartly avoids ambiguity. This isn’t a tale of psychological decline, it’s about power games and systemic failure. Rush is tremendous as a man too proud to cry for help, even as he’s gaslit and physically overpowered. His performance bristles with rage and vulnerability, a portrait of dignity eroding. Lithgow, meanwhile, is magnificent. Equal parts cartoonish and chilling, he makes Dave Crealy and Jenny Pen into one of the most sinister duos in recent horror memory. Whether laughing, threatening, or simply watching, Lithgow makes every moment with Jenny Pen feel like a violation.
The film leans into atmosphere over exposition. Cinematographer Matt Henley turns the care home into a hellscape, all flickering lights and endless corridors. At times, it feels like the geography of the building is shifting, like it might go on forever. Sound design amplifies the unease, with Jenny’s squeaks and whispers lingering in the silence. We see things slightly askew, half in frame, just as Stefan experiences them. The horror is in the disorientation, in not knowing when Dave will strike or how far his influence stretches.
If the film stumbles, it’s in its final act. Ashcroft hints at escalation, hallucinations, puppet-induced psychosis, maybe even supernatural touches, but never commits fully. A duplicated climax blurs the emotional payoff, and some viewers may wish the psychological tension erupted into something more concrete. It also switches perspectives in a way that I think damages the flow of the entire film. Still, the film knows where its power lies: in the performances, and in its quiet indictment of how we treat the vulnerable.
The Rule of Jenny Pen isn’t flashy or gory, but it’s deeply upsetting in all the right ways. It’s a film about how power persists even when the body fails, about how evil can hide behind a friendly face and a harmless toy. It’s a slow burn that lingers, with haunting imagery and two legends at the top of their game. Jenny Pen may be plastic, but the fear she inspires is very, very real.
3.5/5 Stars
