What’s so great about The Lighthouse? Honestly, it’s like nothing else. It’s one of those films that defies easy categorization—part psychological thriller, part horror, part dark comedy, and all kinds of weird.
But that’s what makes it great. It’s a film that dares you to get comfortable and then immediately pulls the rug out from under you, over and over again.
You walk in expecting maybe a moody tale of two men going mad in isolation, and you leave with this intense, surreal experience that haunts you long after the credits roll.
Let’s start with the look of the thing. The black-and-white cinematography, the claustrophobic 4:3 aspect ratio—it’s not just an aesthetic choice. It’s the film trapping you in the same box as the characters. It feels like you’re suffocating right along with them, stuck in this tiny, oppressive world where the only escape is madness. Every frame is meticulously composed, from the storm-battered lighthouse to the sea crashing against the rocks, and it feels old—like it could’ve been made in the 1930s but with modern sensibilities. It’s both timeless and utterly strange, like a forgotten fever dream pulled from some dark corner of cinema history.
Then there’s the sound. Good lord, the sound design. The foghorn that just keeps blaring like some kind of cosmic, Lovecraftian warning. The wind howling, the waves crashing—it’s all relentless, just like the film’s descent into madness. And then there’s the music (or lack thereof). The score is sparse, but when it shows up, it’s unnerving, like the film itself is becoming unhinged. And the silence? Even more disturbing. It feels like the island is alive, a character in its own right, and it wants to break you.
Now, let’s talk about Robert Pattinson and Willem Dafoe. This movie is basically a two-man show, and they bring it. Pattinson plays Winslow, the younger man, all repressed anger and bubbling frustration. You watch him slowly unravel, and you believe every second of it. Then there’s Dafoe as Wake, the salty old sea dog who speaks in these mesmerizing, Shakespearean monologues about the sea, the gods, and the mysteries of the deep. He’s like some ancient mariner come to life, part mentor, part tormentor, and all kinds of weird. Their dynamic is electrifying—they go from uneasy colleagues to sworn enemies to something almost primal. It’s like watching a slow-motion car crash of power struggles, manipulation, and guilt, but with barnacles and lobster traps.
The real magic of The Lighthouse is in how it mixes mythology, folklore, and good old-fashioned psychological horror. Is the lighthouse a beacon of salvation or some kind of portal to madness? What’s the deal with that mermaid? And the seagull? (You’ll never look at a bird the same way again after this movie.) It’s a story about isolation and guilt, but it’s also a deeply unsettling exploration of how myth and madness blur together when you’re left alone with your darkest thoughts. There are moments where it feels like you’re watching something mythic, something out of a seafaring legend. At other times, it feels like a nightmare you can’t wake up from.
And then there’s the ambiguity. What actually happens in The Lighthouse? Who knows? It’s a film that revels in not giving you clear answers. The lines between reality and hallucination, between truth and lies, are constantly shifting. You’re left as confused and disoriented as the characters, and that’s the point. It’s a film that doesn’t hold your hand. It wants you to feel lost, to question everything, to dig through its layers of meaning—if there’s even a meaning to find.
What makes The Lighthouse great is that it’s not content with being just a movie. It’s an experience. It’s unsettling, disorienting, and completely unpredictable. It doesn’t care if you “get” it or if you’re comfortable. It’s weird and grotesque and hypnotic, like a nightmare you can’t shake, even though you kind of don’t want to. It’s the rare kind of film that gets under your skin, worms its way into your subconscious, and leaves you thinking about it long after the lights come back on.
In short: The Lighthouse doesn’t just show you madness—it is madness, bottled up and unleashed on screen. And that’s why it’s so damn great.