The Rule of Jenny Pen – Film Review

James Ashcroft’s The Rule of Jenny Pen is an unsettling and atmospheric psychological horror film that sinks its claws deep into themes of aging, mortality, and institutional violence. Adapted from Owen Marshall’s short story, this New Zealand production is marked by a sense of creeping dread that builds with quiet intensity. With commanding performances from Geoffrey Rush, John Lithgow, and George Henare, the film balances a measured pace with sharp emotional undercurrents, crafting a grim, meditative thriller that stays with you long after the final frame. Despite some uneven tonal shifts and a few missed opportunities for deeper exploration, it stands as a solid, haunting effort in psychological horror.

Ashcroft and co-writer Eli Kent reimagine Marshall’s original story for the screen with a cinematic minimalism that suits the narrative’s slow erosion of hope. The film opens in the rigid solemnity of a courtroom, where Judge Stefan Mortensen (Geoffrey Rush) delivers his final ruling before collapsing from a stroke. From there, the setting shifts to the sparse interiors and institutional coldness of a care home — a place that feels less like a hospice and more like purgatory.

Ashcroft handles this transition with remarkable restraint. The sterile walls, pastel furnishings, and fluorescent lighting amplify the sense of entrapment and existential dread. Cinematographer Matt Henley uses soft focus and lingering wide shots to enhance the emotional distance between the characters and their environment. Sound design also plays a key role: the buzz of overhead lights, the drag of wheelchairs, the heavy silence of night hours all coalesce into a quiet symphony of despair.

Geoffrey Rush is magnetic as Mortensen, a man who begins the story with dignity and command, only to slowly lose both in the face of physical deterioration and institutional apathy. Rush plays him with a vulnerability and inner torment that’s deeply affecting but never melodramatic. As Mortensen transitions from denial to resignation, Rush captures the nuances of a man who once ruled by the rule of law now living under the rule of something far darker.

Opposite him is John Lithgow in one of his most terrifying performances in years. As Dave Crealy, a long-time resident and former staff member of the care home, Lithgow brings a grotesque charisma to a character who rules the residents through psychological torment and manipulation. His use of the Jenny Pen puppet — equal parts childish and disturbing — evokes both absurdity and genuine menace, like something out of a demented Punch and Judy show. It’s a brilliant narrative device: the puppet becomes a symbol of power, regression, and the erosion of identity within a place that infantilizes its residents.

Dave is more than just a bully — he’s a representation of institutional rot, of how power can linger in unexpected corners and fester. Lithgow wisely underplays much of the role, letting his silences and micro-expressions speak as loudly as his threats. His Dave doesn’t rage; he corrodes.

George Henare delivers a soulful performance as Tony Garfield, a former rugby player hiding behind a stoic front. Henare brings both tenderness and internal conflict to the role, and his character arc offers the most catharsis the film has to offer. The moment his passivity begins to shift, a deeper humanity emerges, and Henare handles it with quiet strength and dignity.

While The Rule of Jenny Pen flirts with supernatural horror — namely through the presence of a death-omen cat and a handful of dreamlike sequences — its true terror lies in its psychological realism. The film is a meditation on helplessness: physical, social, and emotional. The horror doesn’t come from jump scares or gore, but from watching once-powerful people rendered powerless, not by monsters, but by neglect and time.

Ashcroft builds tension slowly, with long takes, eerie silences, and a refusal to provide comfort or relief. The film’s pacing is deliberate, and while this approach pays off in moments of emotional and thematic weight, it occasionally borders on stagnation. Some scenes, particularly in the second act, feel repetitive — reiterating Mortensen’s despair without deepening it. A tighter edit or further development of supporting characters might have helped maintain momentum.

However, when the film finds its rhythm, it is devastatingly effective. The moments of horror are quiet but harrowing: a body in the rain, a burned sleeve smoldering in the wind, a puppet’s squeaky voice echoing down a hallway. These images stick in the mind because they are rooted in emotional truth rather than shock value.

One of the most compelling aspects of the film is how it explores resistance in the face of despair. While Mortensen initially believes he will recover and escape the care home, he eventually comes to understand that recovery is a fantasy. His transition from denial to a kind of grim resolve becomes the backbone of the film’s moral arc. The battle he wages is not one of physical strength but of dignity — and that’s what gives the film its emotional heft.

This thematic focus also gives rise to some of the most powerful scenes: quiet acts of rebellion, a shared look of solidarity, or a climactic moment of unity in the face of tyranny. It’s in these scenes where Ashcroft’s vision shines brightest, allowing the characters to reclaim their agency — even if only momentarily.

The Rule of Jenny Pen may not reinvent the psychological horror genre, but it brings a uniquely grounded, emotionally rich take to it. James Ashcroft directs with a steady hand and a keen eye for moral ambiguity and slow-building dread. The performances — particularly from Rush, Lithgow, and Henare — elevate the material considerably, providing a depth of feeling that transcends the simple premise.

That said, the film’s slow pacing, occasionally heavy symbolism, and underdeveloped supporting characters hold it back from greatness. Some audiences may find it too subdued or depressing, particularly those expecting traditional horror thrills. But for viewers willing to sit with its silences and look beneath its surface, The Rule of Jenny Pen offers a haunting portrait of institutional cruelty, aging, and the last flickers of resistance.