Amelia’s Children Review: Baroque Horror at Its Most Unhinged

Like an irresistible horror bonbon, “Amelia’s Children” lures you in with itss delectable premise: a young American guy named Edward (the swoon-worthy Carloto Cotta) discovers through a DNA test that he’s got a long-lost Portuguese twin and mega-rich mother (the delightfully creepy Anabela Moreira). Along with his devoted girlfriend Ryley (the charismatic Brigette Lundy-Paine), Edward jets off to a lavish estate to finally meet his eccentric fam.

But once they arrive, this mouth-watering setup quickly curdles into something rotten. Strange vibes ooze from Edward’s mom and bro like a noxious fog. Amelia’s obsession with plastic surgery and bizarre rituals gives you the heebie-jeebies, while Manuel’s overly familiar behavior with her is just…ick. You can practically smell the skeletons rattling in their opulent closet.

Writer-director Gabriel Abrantes whips up an intoxicating, genre-blending concoction – part psychological thriller, part campy dark comedy, all coated in a gooey glaze of WTF moments. With its twisted delights and audacious twists, “Amelia’s Children” is a salacious treat you’ll urgently want to devour.

A Twisted Homecoming Straight Out of a Fever Dream

“Amelia’s Children” kicks off with a haunting prologue showing a child being abducted from a glamorous Portuguese estate under the cloak of night. Flash forward years later, and we meet the now grown-up Edward, a hunky but naive musician blindly seeking connection to his mysterious roots.

At the urging of his whip-smart girlfriend Ryley, Edward eagerly takes an ancestral DNA test. The bombshell results reveal he was that kidnapped kid – with a long-lost twin brother and fabulously wealthy mother still living it up at the family’s ancestral compound. Ignoring Ryley’s trepidation, an awestruck Edward whisks them both to Portugal to reunite with his newly discovered clan.

From the moment they arrive at the secluded, palatial estate, red flags start waving like matadors’ capes. Edward’s slobbering mother Amelia is a plastic surgery zombie, with trout lips and a petrified poker face. His identical twin Manuel has the unkempt, wild-eyed look of a mother’s boy who’s gotten way too cozy. The vibe is suitably creepy, like stumbling upon a sinister Addams Family reunion mid-ritual.

As Ryley’s unease grows, Edward basks in the maternal affection he’s Always craved, downing cocktails while shrugging off each new eccentricity. Amelia doles out oedipal pet names, Manuel idles away shirtless, and tendriled vines seem to twitch with life. For Ryley, it’s a waking nightmare straight out of a lurid paperback.

The deeper she lurks into the estate’s secrets, the more unhinged everything becomes. Amelia’s youthful makeover takes a grotesque turn. Decades-old mysteries around Edward’s kidnapping scratch back to the surface. And something…unholy appears to be lurking in the wine cellar, beckoning with gnarled fingers.

Without revealing too much, let’s just say Ryley’s fight to flee this house of horrors takes a deliciously unrestrained final act turn that makes “Carrie’s” prom night look G-rated. Amelia’s brood is rotten to its gnarled, inbred core, and Abrantes isn’t afraid to tear it apart with nasty relish.

Abrantes’ Twisted Vision Brought to Luridly Vivid Life

When it comes to bringing “Amelia’s Children’s” deranged delights to the screen, writer-director Gabriel Abrantes shows he’s got an exquisitely wicked eye. This isn’t some cheap, straight-to-VOD schlocker – Abrantes laces every scene with a meticulously crafted, fever dream ickiness that seeps right under your skin.

From the lush, gothic production design of Amelia’s palatial estate to the gnarly, decay-ridden makeup effects slathered on mom’s mug, the visuals leave a lingering stench of opulence gone rancid. Abrantes shoots it all with a vibrant yet unsettling starkness, his roving camera always threatening to unmask the next petit bourgeois nightmare.

The use of watery greens and sickly golden hours drenches each room in a tainted fairy tale ambiance. One particular night-shrouded stalking sequence sees Ryley’s trembling POV dissolve into viscous blurs, her panicked footsteps echoing like they’re sloshing through tepid bathwater. It’s a brilliantly disorienting plunge into subjective delirium.

And then there are the delightfully off-putting character mannerisms Abrantes bakes into every interaction, from Amelia mindlessly squishing grapes to Manuel’s come-hither slinkiness. These flourishes transform the slightest movement into forbidden frissons of wanton perversity. By the final gloriously unbound set piece, you half expect the crimson-streaked walls to start throbbing with arousal.

Abrantes has cooked up the platonic ideal of an arthouse torture porn flick – gorgeous to gaze upon yet so rotten under the surface. Like mother, like son, this film’s nasty pleasures will haunt you long after it’s over.

A Masterclass in Unhinged Scene-Chewing

While the visuals in “Amelia’s Children” are a revolting wonderland, it’s the performances that really make you gag – in the best way possible. Leading the charge in an unrestrained tour-de-force turn is Brigette Lundy-Paine as the increasingly frantic Ryley. Lundy-Paine is a force of pure charisma, her expressive Baby Doll eyes brimming with skepticism and slowly bloating into wells of sheer horrified disbelief.

In Ryley’s early scenes trying to play cultural ambassador for her man, Lundy-Paine nails the balance of genial progressiveness and knowing side-eye. “You’re gonna have the creamiest…wettest fish,” they tease Edward about a local delicacy, that ellipsis hinting at the unspoken leeriness lurking underneath. Once the madness kicks into high gear though, Lundy-Paine is a ouija board channeling primal terror. Their operatic freakouts over Amelia’s contorted plastic surgery mask are skin-crawlingly palpable.

Not to be outdone, Carloto Cotta goes full tilt-a-whirl psycho as the dueling Edward and Manuel. Tasked with embodying two sides of the same pretty boy himbo coin, Cotta wears trust fund privilege and oedipal fervor with equal aplomb. His Edward is all puppy dog naivete, face scrunched in permanent bewilderment at Amelia’s mind-bending transgressions. Meanwhile, Cotta’s Manuel slithers through rooms with serpentine lust, tousled locks dangling as he wraps himself around dear ol’ mumsie.

But let’s be honest, the true showstopper is Anabela Moreira’s nightmarish turn as the cosmetically reanimated Amelia. Dripping a plasticky cocktail of Jocelyn Wildenstein and Nancy Grace, Moreira’s grand-gor guignol of a performance sees her snapping from paternal concern to ravenous arousal with each passing line reading. When her trouty lip situation finally curls into a deranged self-satisfied smirk, you can’t decide whether to cackle or call an exorcist.

Between Lundy-Paine’s haunted relatability, Cotta’s distinctly delineated lunacy, and Moreira’s outright grotesquerie, “Amelia’s Children” gives you whiplash from so much full-bodied, no-fucks-given acting. This unholy trifecta of thespian talent will possess your soul long after the credits roll.

Grotesque Tapestry of Vanity, Privilege, and Forbidden Desires

On its scabby surface, “Amelia’s Children” is a prurient shocker reveling in the excesses and depravities of the idle rich. Dig deeper though, and Abrantes has spun a subversive skewering of privileged insularity and the bottomless depravity it can enable.

Amelia’s estate, with its baroque excess and winding underground tunnels, is the literal and figurative manifestation of old world aristocracy calcifying into decadent isolation. The generations of unchecked power and influence have putrefied this once-great clan into a rotten tangle of vanity, incest, and occult pagan ritual – all hinging on the perpetuation of youthful Aryan vigor.

In their desperation to keep the bloodline “pure,” Amelia’s brood has regressed into the most reptilian, narcissistic obsessions – clinging to eternal youth, enmeshing in ouroboros cycles of procreation and rejuvenation. Moreira’s ghastly visage, with its taut plasticky sheen and monstrous injectables, is the garish embodiment of this pursuit of agelessness at any ungodly cost.

You can see why poor, infatuated Edward is so easily drawn into the clan’s tainted orbit. For this penniless artist, stumbling into Amelia’s decadent dynasty offers illusions of identity, purpose, and the fulfillment of covetous Western ideals around heritage and legacy. Of course, the reality is a family tree gnarled from generations of inbred rot.

It’s no wonder then that the outsider figure of Ryley becomes the vessel through which we experience the revulsion of Amelia’s brood. An Asian-American everywoman, she’s immediately made to feel alien in the estate’s septic whiteness, her technologically-empowered skepticism butting up against ancient monied customs. In making her our surrogate, Abrantes crafts a searing allegory of marginalized identity confronting the birthright privilege of the aristocracy.

With its squalid secrets and noxious grotesqueries, “Amelia’s Children” is like the gothic apotheosis of White Lotus satire – a lavishly unsettling reminder of the moral putrescence aristocracy births when kept too insular for too long. Pour a glass of that vino, and brace for the stench.

A Flawed But Tantalizingly Twisted Diversion

Let’s be clear – “Amelia’s Children” is a delightfully batshit detour into the avant-grotesque. This is arthouse horror at its most deliriously unbound, gleefully mutating from tame bourgeois thriller into full-blown pagan freakout by its unshackled final scenes. For the discerning cult film palate, it’s a sinful treat.

From the first discomfiting frames of dreamy expository text to the practically Shakespearean tragedy of its climax, Abrantes has crafted an atmosphere of sumptuous yet suffocating dread. The auteur’s visuals marinate in a gauzy, sickly ambience, like the entire film was art directed by Helena Bonham Carter’s mildewy wig collection. Every lavish set piece and dripping candelabra bristles with an electric wantonness just waiting to be unleashed.

Speaking of unleashing, the movie takes perverse delight in its provocative fixations – from Amelia’s gnarled plastic surgery to Manuel’s momma’s boy loucheness to the jaw-dropping final setpiece that must be seen to be believed. For all its straightforward setup about ancestral longing, Abrantes desperately wants to corrupt proceedings with as many taboo frissons as cinematically possible. It’s like he went full tilt conducting an amateur masters course called “Freudian Psychoanalysis for Nutters.”

The real bewitching ingredients, however, are the uniformly unhinged performances. Brigette Lundy-Paine is a genuine revelation as Ryley, embodying the perfect horrified surrogate for our sanity-saving identification. And Anabela Moreira’s grotesque maternal turn as Amelia will haunt your nightmares for weeks. Where so many fright flicks strive for subtle dread, she leans exuberantly into Grand Guignol monstrosity – her slithery line deliveries and expressionless Mumanoid mask perpetually daring you to look away.

That said, as tantalizing as its twisted delights may be, there’s no denying “Amelia’s Children” is a slight, occasionally shaggy work. The screenplay’s first two acts can be sluggish in setting the stage, spooling out rote jump scares and rudimentary haunted house tropes in repetitive loops. And despite its eventual full-bore descent into total bonkers madness, the big reveals can’t quite transcend their lurid paperback novelty.

Still, the sheer commitment from Abrantes and co. ensures that even the most eye-rolling moments retain a deranged, forward-driving energy. Like an unholy union of the Red Room from “Twin Peaks” and the “Teddy Perkins” episode of Atlanta, “Amelia’s Children” may not reinvent the horror wheel. But it gives that mutha a wicked new high-arthouse spin teeming with squirm-inducing surprises. For the adventurous cinephile, its demented charms are utterly…irresistible.

An Uncompromising Vision for the Bravest Genre Connoisseurs

At the end of the day, “Amelia’s Children” is an audacious piece of depraved arthouse horror from a singular creative mind. It’s the kind of deliriously bonkers cult gem that will have adventurous cinephiles howling through both rapturous glee and mucosal nausea.

For the franchise-fatigued horror hound starving for something original and uncompromising, Abrantes’ baroque creation surely delivers the twisted goods – but only if you’ve got the stomach for its grotesqueries. More vanilla fright fans would be wise to stick with the latest Blumhouse joints. This one gets under your skin and starts breeding new nightmares.

As for me, I was utterly bewitched from start to gloriously unshackled finish. Like a modern “Suspiria” by way of John Waters and Yorgos Lanthimos, “Amelia’s Children” is the stuff of insomnia-fueled fever dreams – an inbred dynastic fever dream you can’t help but gaze upon in horrified thrall. For those brave enough to embrace its maggot-riddled wonders, it’s a deranged must-see.

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