American horror films featuring demons generally have a Christian bent, so a Hindu spin on this subgenre is enticing for its potential to breathe new life into well-trodden terrain. But while Bishal Dutta’s It Lives Inside follows through on its promise of representation in terms of its cast full of Indian and Indian American actors, the film’s attempts at actual cultural specificity are about as nuanced as a “very special episode” of a Disney sitcom.
It Lives Inside offers a brief peek at Hindu religious festivities inside Samidha’s (Megan Suri) house, and Sam’s loving mother, Poorna (Neeru Bajwa), primarily speaks to her daughter in Hindi. One gets a sense that the girl’s feelings of shame are tied to her sense of otherness (she’s one of only two Indian Americans at her high school), but otherwise there’s little to distinguish Sam from the disaffected teens at the center of countless other coming-of-age horror films. It Lives Inside views Sam’s culture, as well as her struggles to suppress her identity in order to fit into her suburban world, with a nonchalance that often scans as negligence.
When it’s time to amp up the horror, the filmmakers draw on an ancient Hindu myth with the appearance of a monster that first terrorizes Sam’s estranged childhood friend, Tamira (Mohana Krishnan), and then begins to stalk Sam. But aside from the presence of an old book that Tamira carries around and a few offhand references to this demon that feeds on people’s fears and anxieties, there’s nothing distinctive about the beast. The number sevens that are scrawled throughout the book lead Sam to Google “significance of seven in Hinduism,” though the film doesn’t even bother to clue the audience in on what that significance might be.
That this demon is introduced as what appears to be black, smoky goo trapped in the jar that Tamira carries around with her and, later on, is often either invisible or lurking in the shadows serves as a perfect metaphor for It Lives Inside’s frustratingly nebulous qualities. Had the film actually delivered some genuine chills, it would be easier to look past its derivative story, hollow characterizations, and overly literal symbolism of depression and alienation.
Throughout, Dutta relies on the ponderous slow zooms that have become a marker of “elevated horror,” but they’re more methodical than meaningful. Certainly they aren’t especially inquisitive. Indeed, Megan Suri’s big eyes are profoundly expressive, but the film’s aesthetics, along with its paint-by-numbers script, barely give us a sense of what’s roiling behind them.
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