When it comes to horror movies, I used to think that there was nothing new under the sun. But then I saw Rebekah McKendry’s Glorious (2022). Shocking and impressing me at every turn, the film’s plot is–at least to my knowledge–truly original, making comps with other genre content challenging. It’s a story of cosmic proportions set in the most lowly of places, a strange mix of Lovecraftian motifs and scatological aesthetics. Indeed, so extreme is Glorious in its thematic and visual polarities that it seems to be striving for a kind of splatterpunk sublimity that, in the end, I think it achieves. Its juxtaposition of the high and low inspires a vertiginous sensation that may have the viewer, like Wes the protagonist, rushing for the restroom. Just make sure that you’re alone in there.
An exhausted and grungy man named Wes pulls his vehicle into the parking lot of a rest stop. His backseat is piled high with possessions and he seems to be hastily relocating after a difficult breakup. Spending the night in the lot, he burns all of his personal items (including the pants he was wearing) and drinks himself into unconsciousness. When he visits the restroom the next morning to vomit up his guts, the occupant of a neighboring stall begins conversing with him through a glory hole in the partition. He tells Wes that he’s a God and that he–Wes–has been chosen to save the universe.
What makes Glorious so effective is its striking juxtaposition of the mundane and the transcendent. We’re forced to think about the vastness of the cosmos in relation to the confines of a bathroom stall and to imagine the divine alongside the scatological. Placing an ancient God on a filthy toilet, the film aggressively combines the high and the low, and my brain balked at the irreconcilability of its central pairings. This mental stuttering could be attributed to my relative inexperience with sci-fi films, which, if not working with Glorious’ specific oppositions, at the very least deal with the advanced alien/primitive human dichotomy. But because this film is so creative, I’m inclined to more elegantly reframe my cognitive misfiring as the vague discomfort associated with the Kantian sublime. It’s not as far fetched as it may seem: When a break in the wall allows a bloody and shit-stained Wes to gaze at the beauty of deep space, I had a momentary apprehension of my own insignificance in the face of the universe, my own grossness (though I’m pristine next to him) in light of its ineffable grandeur. With this upgraded interpretation of my response, McKendry’s film, which some may dismiss as low genre fare, seems to have a lot in common with the greatest paintings of the Romantic period. Now I’m the one playing with extremes, but it’s to make the point that Glorious is a special film.
The incongruity at the heart of the film’s plot is reflected by its tone which moves quickly and often between hilarity and horror. When we first meet Wes, he’s a slightly more agitated and edgy version of that comedy staple “the ridiculous male who can’t do anything right.” We assume that he’s done something stupid to alienate his girlfriend and aren’t surprised when he can’t figure out how to operate something as simple as a candy machine. A fellow-traveler at the reststop–a sinister woman who drinks a lot of tea–has to obtain the Choco Stix for him and explain to the obvious newbie that it’s hard to sleep on the road with a backseat full of junk. He’s an object of pity and ridicule but not fear. Not yet, anyway. A few minutes later, we see him slam dancing around a bonfire which is fueled by everything he owns. Circling the flames, his face lit an eerie orange, and screaming, full-throated, into the night, he looks utterly demonic, and we know that this is a man who has irrevocably gone off the rails. Wes is dangerous and the irrepressible darkness within him is a nice counterpoint to the film’s humor.
Like Wes, Ghat–the shortened name of the ancient god in the bathroom stall–sways dangerously across the line between light and dark. At first, Ghat is like a deified chatbot. While he knows endless facts and relates them to Wes in painful detail, he doesn’t understand figures of speech and can’t navigate context-driven interactions. The situational nuances that make public restroom conversation undesirable are totally lost on him, and these gaps in his knowledge give rise to comedy. Unintentionally funny, Ghat is also friendly, solicitous toward Wes in an almost avuncular way–that is, until he explodes Wes’ eardrums in a fit of wrath. The god’s unnerving ability to smoothly modulate between tenderness and fury is a tribute to the vocal talent of J.K, Simmons. From the endearing father in Juno to the terrifying teacher in Whiplash, Simmons has a wide range, and he can convincingly shift tonal registers within the same sentence. Having seen the latter film, I can tell you that, for me, the seemingly innocuous phrase “not my tempo” will always shimmer with malice. No one but Simmons could have played Ghat so perfectly.
But if Ghat’s character is on point, there’s another aspect of the film that misses the mark: Wes’ mawkish sentimentalism, which would be hard on any viewer who isn’t a voracious reader of Victorian tear-jerkers. His obsession with the talking teddy bear made me think, initially, that he had lost a child, a theme that in American movies–where children are supposed to be the emotional center of the world–would have justified his endless melodramatic fondling of the toy. But in connection with the end of a romantic relationship, it’s nauseating in its treacly sweetness. So, too, is his incessant grasping of Brenda’s photo, which is so dear to him that he’s willing to retrieve it from a fecal spattered floor and, later, a puddle of blood.
Maybe I find his saccharine expressions of love irksome because Brenda is such an empty character. Existing through dreamy flashbacks, she’s a bare shouldered woman–not unlike the kind featured in that favorite Victorian bauble, the cameo–who, with a prolonged and tentative smile, intones the pathetic line, “You told me I was different.” There is one memorable instance in which the gauzy film over Wes’ recollections is lifted: When the pair first meet at a backyard party, she gently insults him, suggesting that the chesty blonde whom he’s been eyeing is outside of his league. Her honesty and boldness during this awkward encounter suggest that she’s something more than the sentimental projection of innocent womanhood that we’ve seen so far. I wish that Brenda’s personality could have been further fleshed out.
However, I also understand that Wes’ fantasies aren’t really about her; they’re there to tell us more about him, his reductive view of women, and his psychological state. By the end of the film, when we discover why he’s been chosen to save the universe–it’s a twist that will thrill true crime fans–the artistic decisions around her representation make perfect sense. Still, it takes almost 80 minutes for the tumblers to fall into place and, in the meantime, the cloying and tedious flashbacks are a chore to watch. I used that time to get snacks from the kitchen.
While the film would be better off with fewer of these scenes, they are by no means a deal breaker because there’s so much to love about Glorious. Aside from its original plot and fascinating god, it also offers a surprisingly comprehensive cosmogony, a complete origin tale that echoes and integrates many themes from Greek mythology. That’s all very lofty, but what is there for the more down to earth genre fan who prefers thrills of a more physical variety? Plenty! A treasure trove of scatological and body horror delights, Glorious lovingly lingers on Wes as he clings to shit-spattered surfaces, twists on a gore-soaked floor, and wields a dismembered leg against a stubborn door. It’s relentless, shocking, and repulsive. In other words, it’s glorious!