Name: The Rule of Jenny Pen Review: A Haunting Tale of Power and Aging
Item: The Rule of Jenny Pen
Author: Caleb Anderson

In The Rule of Jenny Pen, Judge Stefan Mortensen (Geoffrey Rush) begins his journey in a world of order and power, governing his courtroom with the kind of intellectual precision that only a lifetime of legal experience can hone. The film begins with a striking scene in which Stefan collapses from a stroke in the middle of a vehement condemnation of a child predator.

It’s a tragic and ironic moment, as the man who formerly controlled the lives of others is abruptly deprived of his freedoms. While many films focus on the emotional aftermath of such a life-altering moment, James Ashcroft wastes no time putting Stefan in a new environment that will challenge his sense of control even more deeply.

Royale Pine Mews, Stefan’s assisted living facility, is introduced with the same icy sterility as a courtroom. The monotony of acoustic guitar singalongs and the dreary buzz of fluorescent lights create an atmosphere of silent melancholy punctuated by the indignities of aging and dependency. Stefan’s words have no weight here, and the staff responds to his cutting wit with blank stares or patronizing smiles.

Enter Dave Crealy (John Lithgow), a fellow patient whose playful attitude masks something far more deadly. Dave manipulates the facility’s fragile ecosystem, turning it into a psychological battleground, using his unsettling puppet, Jenny Pen. Their first interactions are uncomfortable but restrained, like the opening arguments of a trial. Still, as Dave’s torment worsens—from frightening pranks to blatant cruelty—the facility transforms into a chaotic theater of power struggles and paranoia.

The Faces of Oppression: Character Analysis

Judge Stefan Mortensen (Geoffrey Rush) is defined by his ability to control words, his courtroom, and, by extension, other people’s lives. The film gently layers his past with brief flashbacks and dialogue, portraying a man who has spent decades believing in the power of structure and justice. But what happens when a man’s identity is based on intellect and authority loses both?

Stefan’s stroke doesn’t just take away his physical mobility; it also destroys his sense of worth. Forced into Royale Pine Mews, he relies on his erudition and biting humor as coping techniques, berating the facility’s mundane rituals and denigrating his fellow inhabitants as “lesser minds.” Rush delivers a great portrayal, blending Stefan’s arrogance with an underlying vulnerability.

Whenever he fumbles a word or tries to move his right hand, cracks form in his façade. It’s a realistic portrait of a man dealing with the humiliation of decline. While Stefan’s spiky manner makes him tough to root for, he’s also painfully true.

On the other end of the scale is Dave Crealy (John Lithgow), whose seemingly absent-minded shuffle and soft-spoken demeanor conceal a persona full of hatred. The power of Lithgow’s portrayal stems from its duality: Dave is both sad and menacing. His past is hinted at but never fully addressed, leaving us to put together a man consumed with remorse and hate.

His control over the facility stems not from physical power but from his ability to exploit the flaws of others, a skill perfected through years of isolation. Then there’s Jenny Pen, the dead doll who doubles as his weapon and mask.

Jenny Pen cannot be seen as just an object; Ashcroft’s directing and cinematographer, Matt Henley’s framing, endow her with a frightening presence as if she is an extension of Dave’s damaged psyche. Is she his crutch, accomplice, or justification? That question is purposefully left unanswered in the film, making her even more unsettling.

Beneath the Surface: Thematic Exploration

At its core, The Rule of Jenny Pen is a raw, uncompromising reflection on the shadows of aging. The film does not shy away from the visceral worries associated with getting older—loss of autonomy, physical deterioration, and the isolation frequently accompanying the twilight years. Royale Pine Mews, with its fluorescent-lit halls and drab color scheme, is a microcosm of this gloomy reality. It’s a place where lives are reduced to routines, and the past feels like a faraway dream.

Judge Stefan Mortensen regards being forced into such an environment as the ultimate humiliation; his brilliant mind is locked in a body that refuses to cooperate. Watching his struggle is immensely unsettling because it taps into our communal fear of losing our physical talents and the sense of identity that has grown around them. The film’s intimate close-ups and deliberate pacing encourage us to sit with Stefan’s sorrow and frustration, leaving the audience to grapple with their mortality.

The film’s investigation of power relations is equally riveting. Stefan and Dave are trapped in a psychological tug-of-war that reflects larger societal structures of control and resistance. Dave, with his weaponized puppet and evil cunning, thrives in an environment where the weak and powerless are easy targets. Stefan, on the other hand, represents a more traditional form of authority—one based on logic, laws, and justice.

Their quarrel is ideological rather than personal. While Stefan’s effort to retake control exemplifies the core of institutional power when deprived of its framework power, Dave’s unfettered cruelty depicts how systems frequently fail the vulnerable. This thematic conflict makes the film feel larger than life, a striking allegory for power abuses and the subtle acts of resistance that emerge in its shadow. It’s a chilling representation of what happens when authority is challenged, and morality is tested.

Crafting Fear: Direction, Style, and Atmosphere

The Rule of Jenny Pen, directed by James Ashcroft, is a masterclass in slow-burn tension, utilizing every tool at his disposal to create a dreadful atmosphere. Royale Pine Mews, the assisted care facility where the story takes place, feels like a limbo of muted tones and artificial sterility. Cinematographer Matt Henley heightens the unpleasant situation by using tight, stifling framing and shallow focus, frequently isolating actors within the frame to accentuate their loneliness and vulnerability.

The camera focuses on minute, unsettling details—trembling hands, the mechanical drip of a catheter bag, or a resident’s vacant stare—to create a world that feels as fragile as its occupants. These visual choices create nearly excruciating tension, making even the most ordinary encounters feel fraught with danger.

Sound design is as important in Ashcroft’s concept. The film’s audio soundscape has an unsettling cadence, with creaking flooring, the subtle buzz of medical equipment, and spooky silence that frequently fills the intervals between speaking. When mayhem breaks out, piercing, abrupt sound effects that feel like an assault on the senses accompany it. Jenny Pen, the doll, works very well in this aspect.

Her presence is punctuated by unsettling creaks and the faint rustle of fabric, making her feel alive in ways that defy sense. Jenny Pen appears to reflect Dave’s splintered psyche, serving as a shield, weapon, and projection of his inner turmoil. She is more than just a prop in the film’s psychological warfare; she embodies the helplessness and anguish throughout the story. Every moment she’s on-screen feels filled with unsaid threats, emphasizing the unrelenting, claustrophobic atmosphere of the film.

Performances of a Lifetime: Rush and Lithgow Shine

In The Rule of Jenny Pen, Geoffrey Rush has a standout performance as Judge Stefan Mortensen, capturing him with a biting mix of arrogance, fragility, and smoldering wrath. Rush does an excellent job showing Stefan’s progressive unraveling—his initial resistance, reinforced by his intellect and sharp wit, gives way to silent desperation as his physical limits and loss of authority take their toll.

Rush masterfully conveys the humiliation of a man whose body has deserted him in a moment early in the film when Stefan tries to hold a plastic cup during physical therapy. Despite Stefan’s slurred speech and shaky motions, Rush imbues him with furious resolve, turning what could have been a miserable figure into one rich in emotional complexity. It’s the kind of role that feels made for an act or of Rush’s caliber, and he hits every beat with precision.

On the opposite side of the coin, John Lithgow’s portrayal of Dave Crealy is nothing short of terrifying. Lithgow has an extraordinary ability to balance charm with menace and leans heavily toward the latter. Dave is a predator disguised as an innocent, shuffling inhabitant, and Lithgow’s understated acting makes his deeds of cruelty even more horrifying.

Whether he’s making veiled threats or calmly brandishing the doll Jenny Pen, Lithgow emanates almost delighted cruelty. There’s a sequence in which Dave locks eyes with Stefan, his look morphing from blank wonder to something much darker, making your skin crawl. Lithgow’s grasp of subtlety means that Dave is more than just a caricature of evil but a truly unsettling reflection of unbridled power and hate. Rush and Lithgow transform the film into something spectacular.

A Tale of Two Paces: Narrative Structure and Criticisms

One of the most divisive aspects of The Rule of Jenny Pen is its pacing, which alternates between deliberate tension-building and stretches of predictability that border on monotony. James Ashcroft’s storytelling style, which leans heavily on atmosphere and repetition, immerses the audience in the claustrophobic mundanity of Royale Pine Mews. While this initially helps to depict Stefan’s new reality as oppressive, the latter section of the film becomes bogged down by a repeating cycle of Dave’s anguish and Stefan’s increasingly fruitless attempts to fight back.

While powerful on their own, these scenes begin to blur together without much buildup, leaving the narrative trapped in place. Despite its psychological depth, the film occasionally struggles to maintain momentum, and some viewers may become frustrated with its slow unraveling.

The climax, on the other hand, is where The Rule of Jenny Pen attempts to redeem its slower moments, and whether or not it succeeds will most likely depend on the spectator. Stefan and Dave’s ultimate fight is harsh and strange, blurring the border between reality and illusion in a way that feels both cathartic and unsettling.

Ashcroft makes bold choices in the film’s final act, preceding neat resolutions in favor of an enigmatic, almost surreal finale. While this lack of resolution may irritate some viewers, it also underlines the film’s greater themes of impotence and moral ambiguity. Even with its pacing flaws, the ending produces a lasting impression that encourages reflection, ensuring the film remains in the viewer’s mind long after the credits have rolled.

Conclusion: The Lasting Impact of The Rule of Jenny Pen

The Rule of Jenny Pen is a chilling look at aging, abuse, and the fragility of power. Its virtues lie in its ability to personalize aging indignities while transforming the assisted living facility into a terrifying war for control.

Geoffrey Rush and John Lithgow anchor the film with raw and engaging performances that make their psychological turmoil feel uncomfortably real, even as the narrative occasionally deviates into exaggerated, almost bizarre territory. With its precise attention to sound design and claustrophobic visuals, James Ashcroft’s directing heightens the terror beneath the everyday.

But what genuinely distinguishes the film is its thematic relevance. It pushes viewers to confront hard questions about morality, justice, and the systems that fail our most vulnerable citizens.

Despite its pacing flaws and moments of narrative redundancy, The Rule of Jenny Pen succeeds in sowing seeds of discomfort that bloom long after the credits roll. This is not a film for anyone seeking easy pleasure. Still, for those ready to embrace its pain, it offers a genuinely unsettling, thought-provoking act that forces its characters and audience to grapple with their darkest anxieties.

The Review