Certain films are best experienced with as little prior knowledge as possible, and Companion is one of them. If, by some miracle, you've stumbled upon this review without seeing the trailer, the poster, or any marketing, please keep it that way. That's not to say the film's promotional material spoils anything—it doesn't. It simply lays out the central premise, which arguably shouldn't be considered a spoiler. But there's something to be said about going in blind, about letting the story unfold without expectation. That was my experience, and it elevated the film immeasurably. I wish everyone could see it that way. With that in mind, I'll do my best to talk about Companion without revealing too much.

The film follows Iris (Sophie Thatcher) and her boyfriend Josh (Jack Quaid), who embark on a weekend trip to a secluded billionaire hideaway with Josh's friends. From the outset, there's an undercurrent of tension—Iris isn't quite at ease with the group, particularly with Kat (Megan Suri), whose effortless confidence makes Iris feel like an outsider. Also along for the trip are Eli (Harvey Guillén) and Patrick (Lucas Gage), a couple who add some levity to the dynamic. The getaway seems poised to be an indulgent, if slightly awkward, excursion—until Sergei (Rupert Friend), Kat's billionaire boyfriend and their ostensible host, makes an unwanted advance on Iris. From that moment, the weekend takes a sharp, harrowing turn.

Companion uses this unexpected turn to explore the concept of the "ideal" relationship from a distinctly chilling perspective. The film shows flashbacks of Iris and Josh's relationship, including their meet-cute in a grocery store, where Josh accidentally knocks over an orange display. The scene is shown from Iris's perspective, an idealized memory of a charming, harmless accident. A similar flashback follows Eli and Patrick's first meeting when Patrick steps on Eli's dinosaur tail at a costume party. These moments reinforce the notion that clumsiness in a meet-cute suggests a non-threatening partner, someone approachable and safe. But beyond this initial romanticized version of love, the film slowly peels back the layers to reveal that Iris's wants and needs are never truly considered.

As the film reveals, the expectation is that Josh should be everything to Iris. This is reinforced through his actions and the film's framing of their relationship—Josh is positioned as the natural leader, the protector, and the one who dictates the pace of their interactions. There is no space for Iris's agency, as she is expected to adore him without question. How he speaks to her, how their intimacy is portrayed, and how others in their social circle treat her dynamic with Josh all contribute to the illusion that she should rely entirely on him. He is her protector, provider, and partner—but only on his terms. She is meant to admire him, adore him, and never ask for more. When we see Josh on top of Iris, thrusting until he achieves satisfaction, only to immediately roll over and tell her to go to sleep, the imbalance in their relationship becomes disturbingly clear. Her pleasure, her voice, and her needs are secondary—if they matter at all. Iris's role in their relationship is to fulfill a fantasy and conform to a version of womanhood shaped entirely by Josh's desires.

The film's horror extends beyond physical violence into psychological manipulation, highlighting how power dynamics function within relationships. It presents an eerie parallel to real-world gender expectations, where women are often expected to support, forgive, and cater to their partner's every whim without reciprocation. Josh's behavior is not cartoonishly villainous—instead, it is insidiously commonplace, which makes it all the more horrifying. The way he dismisses Iris's concerns with a casual joke subtly invalidates her thoughts by redirecting conversations to himself, and his ability to appear thoughtful while ultimately acting in self-interest all contribute to this realism. His demeanor is one of effortless control, where his supposed 'clumsiness' from their meet-cute becomes a facade that masks a much more calculated dominance. His actions reflect a deeper societal norm, prioritizing male comfort over female autonomy.

This thematic underpinning—the idea of men shaping women into their idealized versions—makes Companion resonate beyond its immediate thrills. It's a story about awakening and breaking free from a system that quietly manipulates and dictates who a person should be. The film's horror lies not just in the physical violence but in the realization that Iris has been trapped in a relationship where she has never been indeed seen. Her existence has been dictated by what Josh wants her to be, and only when she recognizes this does she begin to fight back.

This evolution is captured in Sophie Thatcher's remarkable performance. She seamlessly shifts from the adoring girlfriend at the start to a gradual, controlled defiance that simmers beneath the surface before fully emerging as a force of survival. She also has moments where she appears eerily vacant that are excellently chilling. Jack Quaid, meanwhile, is pitch-perfect as Josh. His charm—so self-assured, so self-satisfied—is the kind that makes you uneasy. He is, by his own estimation, a nice guy. The type of man who doesn't see himself as the problem. And that, of course, makes him all the more terrifying.

Horror creeps in early in Companion, lurking beneath the surface before fully unleashing itself. The film takes its time, allowing unease to fester in small, nearly imperceptible moments—the tension in a conversation, a sideways glance, the way the power dynamics between the characters subtly shift. Then, when the horror does strike, it does so with an unrelenting ferocity. Companion is not for the faint of heart. The film doesn't just dabble in bloodshed—it revels in it. Stabbings, shattered skulls, grotesque wounds that linger too long on screen—it's all here, executed with surgical precision. Yet, despite the carnage, none of it feels excessive. Every violent act carries weight, a grim punctuation to the film's more prominent themes. It's horror at its most effective—brutal, unflinching, and impossible to look away from.

But Companion is more than just its bloodshed. The film is thematically rich, weaving social commentary into its horror framework. It critiques how men often craft idealized versions of women, expecting them to conform to a predetermined mold. It highlights the subtle (and sometimes overt) mechanisms of control that exist in relationships and society as a whole. These ideas simmer beneath the surface, waiting to erupt as forcefully as the film's physical horror. The film also offers a sharp examination of consent, autonomy, and emotional labor, all within the confines of an engrossing horror narrative.

Directed by Drew Hancock and produced by the team behind Barbarian, the film shares a kindred spirit with its predecessor. Like Barbarian, Companion thrives on subverting expectations. It lures the audience into a false sense of familiarity, only to pull the rug out from under them in the most exhilarating way possible. This kind of film benefits from an unspoiled viewing, making it a perfect choice for the Regal Monday Mystery Movie screening where I saw it. There's something truly special about sitting in a packed theater, utterly unaware of what's about to unfold and experiencing the collective gasps, the tension, the nervous laughter. It's the same reason I love attending festival screenings—films with no trailers, no posters, no preconceived notions. Just a raw, unfiltered experience.

I absolutely loved Companion—a thematically rich feminist horror film with big ideas that’s equally stylish, bloody, and surprising. The film blends visceral storytelling with thought-provoking themes, creating an exhilarating experience. Few films surprise me like this one, and I can't wait for more people to experience its brilliance...provided they can manage to avoid the trailers.