Good Boy – Film Review

Ben Leonberg’s Good Boy is an undeniably unique entry into the supernatural horror genre — a film that dares to view the haunted house formula through the eyes of a dog. That conceit alone could have easily tipped into novelty, but Leonberg’s confident direction and affection for his four-legged star turn what might have been a gimmick into an emotionally charged and surprisingly tense experience. It’s an ambitious first feature — uneven at times, but deeply felt and occasionally haunting in ways that linger long after the credits roll.

Todd (Shane Jensen), a quiet man seeking a new start after personal tragedy, moves into a rural home with his loyal dog, Indy, an adorable Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever who serves as the story’s emotional and narrative anchor. Soon after their arrival, strange phenomena begin to unsettle both man and beast — whispers from empty rooms, strange flickering lights, and the growing sense that something ancient is watching. Yet unlike most haunted house tales, Good Boy grounds its suspense not in the perspective of the human protagonist but through Indy’s sensory experience. What does it mean for a dog to confront something it can’t comprehend, yet instinctively knows is wrong? That question gives Leonberg’s film a fresh emotional texture.

One of Good Boy’s most striking achievements lies in how it translates the supernatural through canine perception. Leonberg and cinematographer Wade Grebnoel shoot from low, roaming angles, blurring focus around the edges to evoke Indy’s movement through scent, sound, and instinct rather than rational awareness. The camera often glides through hallways just behind Indy, giving viewers a palpable sense of presence — as though the house itself is breathing.

Leonberg’s direction cleverly balances realism and artifice. Early sequences show Indy adapting to the new home with endearing normalcy — exploring corners, chasing light reflections, sleeping beside Todd. These gentle domestic moments lull the audience into a false sense of security. When the horror arrives, it creeps in subtly, with uncanny silences and sounds beyond human hearing that make Indy’s behavior shift — alertness, growling at empty air, pacing without reason. The audience, like Todd, must interpret these reactions, realizing too late that the dog’s intuition was right all along.

Indy’s performance — and yes, it deserves to be called that — is genuinely remarkable. Animal performances often rely on editing tricks or overt anthropomorphism, but Leonberg avoids both. Indy is simply being a dog, yet through careful framing and pacing, his reactions carry emotional clarity. When he cowers or stands his ground, the moment feels earned, not staged. Leonberg, clearly understanding his canine collaborator’s rhythms, allows Indy to guide entire sequences without dialogue. This choice pays off beautifully in the film’s most terrifying moments, when the supernatural manifests in ways only Indy seems able to perceive.

While Indy commands the screen, the main human performance lends Good Boy a grounding sense of melancholy. Shane Jensen imbues Todd with understated vulnerability. His relationship with Indy feels lived-in — less like an owner and more like a man whose last tether to comfort is his companion. Through quiet gestures — the way he speaks to Indy, the exhaustion in his posture — Jensen conveys the grief that shadows Todd’s every decision.

Thematically, Good Boy touches on grief, devotion, and the limits of understanding between species. There’s a poignant tension between Todd’s rational denial and Indy’s instinctual knowledge of danger. The dog cannot articulate what she feels, and Todd’s failure to trust her instincts becomes a quiet tragedy. Leonberg doesn’t overstate this — he lets it simmer beneath the scares, giving the film surprising emotional resonance.

For a debut, Good Boy shows remarkable stylistic control. Leonberg clearly studied both arthouse horror and classic creature cinema. His pacing recalls early Ti West — patient, atmospheric, occasionally testing viewers’ patience, yet always deliberate. The sound design is exceptional, using subtle layering to mimic canine sensitivity: distant scratching, low-frequency hums, and the faint echo of movement behind walls. Rather than relying on jump scares, Leonberg prefers creeping dread, occasionally punctuated by startling bursts of violence or spectral imagery.

However, the film isn’t without its flaws. Its middle act sags slightly, and some exposition is delivered too neatly, diluting the mystery. And while Leonberg’s commitment to the dog’s point of view is admirable, it sometimes limits narrative momentum; extended sequences of Indy wandering can feel repetitive, especially when emotional stakes momentarily fade. It’s also extremely short at only seventy-three minutes, including credits, so sometimes, it feels as though it’s too light on story.

Still, even when the pacing falters, Good Boy maintains a hypnotic quality. Leonberg’s sense of atmosphere is keen, and his restraint is commendable. He resists the temptation to turn the film into sentimental melodrama or cheap animal peril. Instead, he crafts something elegiac — a horror film about love and instinct, told from a perspective that can never speak but feels everything.

By the time Good Boy reaches its climax, the story has evolved from a simple haunting into something more symbolic. The supernatural threat mirrors the unspoken grief that haunts Todd and, by extension, Indy. The house becomes a vessel for emotional decay, and Indy’s bravery — her willingness to face what Todd cannot — becomes almost mythic. Leonberg doesn’t anthropomorphize her into a hero but treats her courage as something elemental, born from loyalty and fear intertwined.

The final act delivers both emotional catharsis and genuine terror. Without spoiling specifics, Leonberg’s imagery turns dreamlike and surreal, suggesting that the divide between human and animal consciousness is thinner than we imagine. The ending lingers — haunting not because of what’s seen, but what’s felt.

Good Boy is an impressive, heartfelt debut that successfully marries the emotional purity of a dog’s devotion with the dread of supernatural horror. While its pacing and structure occasionally falter, its originality, atmosphere, and sincerity make it stand out in a crowded genre. Leonberg’s decision to let his real-life dog, Indy, lead the story pays off in ways both emotional and cinematic — crafting a film that feels handmade, deeply personal, and surprisingly profound.

It is both a love letter to dogs and an unsettling reflection on grief, loyalty, and unseen horrors. Ben Leonberg’s first feature may not be flawless, but it’s courageous, memorable, and refreshingly humane — proving that sometimes, the bravest hearts beat on four legs.