We Are Still Here

New England winters don’t mess around—they cut right through you. Once the temperature drops and the trees shed their leaves, your best bet is to hibernate like a local: Stick to the indoors, preferably curled up next to a well-tended hearth (even more preferably clutching a mug of hot buttered rum). But in Ted Geoghegan’s We Are Still Here, you’re better off taking your chances in the great outdoors.
The film is a Lucio Fulci throwback, though that word does the Italian director’s work a slight disservice. Throwback projects tend to be movies about movies, their prevailing messages sometimes reading as a desperate attempt to both demonstrate and siphon cred from well-established filmmakers. Ti West’s The House of the Devil, for example, seems to really only want to communicate the fact that West has seen Roman Polanski’s Rosemary’s Baby—which isn’t a particularly interesting approach to making a movie.
We Are Still Here doesn’t bother covering up its roots, either. It’s the Fulci-est movie Fulci never actually shot. In fact, if he still roamed the earth today, he’d most likely gaze upon Geoghegan’s efforts with tacit approval. Like the specters that haunt Geoghegan’s protagonists, the presence of the Italian maestro can be felt in each of We Are Still Here’s frames. But there’s homage, and then there’s lazy homage, and Geoghegan has made the former—though in fairness his influences range from Fulci to Dan Curtis and Stuart Rosenberg. Geoghegan has even called on H.P. Lovecraft to supply his fictional setting. We Are Still Here does not lack for pedigree.
It’s traditional in the horror genre that running away from personal tragedy tends to beget more personal tragedy. So, when Anne (Barbara Crampton) and Paul (Andrew Sensenig) Sacchetti move from “the city” to Aylesbury, Massachusetts after the death of their college-aged son, Bobby, they shack up in a century-old farmhouse so isolated that their new neighbors don’t notice anybody’s home for a whole two weeks. While Anne is wrapped up in the fantods, Paul tries stoically to assuage his wife’s grief (as well as his own) without tipping off his incredulity over her claims that she can “feel” Bobby in the house with them. That’s the first bad sign. The second, third and so on each fall under the umbrella of “haunting staples”: Picture frames shatter; floorboards creak; the electrician is mauled in the basement by a charred, pale-eyed ghost—you know, nothing special, except boy, those ghosts are a sight.