Cinematic remakes and interminable franchises have obtained a pretty horrid reputation over the years. American remakes of well-regarded foreign films prove especially loathsome. After viewing what Gus Van Sant did to Hitchcock’s “Psycho” or what Ronald Emmerich did to Honda’s “Godzilla,” such resentments seem rational.

The perpetual recycling of once golden ideas in modern filmmaking speaks to Hollywood’s depreciating stock of creative and original ideas. However, every once in awhile a contemporary re-imagining can open a film up for different interpretations and solidify one’s appreciation for the material. Such is the case with Matt Reeves’ poetic revision of the acclaimed Swedish vampire drama “Let the Right One In.” Viewers can rest assured that Reeves’ “Let Me In” is a faithful adaptation that is nothing short of a miracle.


The most deliberate alterations from the original film emerge from the time and place. The chilling tale is now set in 1983 in Los Alamos, N.M., during Reagan’s principled presidency. It is here, on an isolated and snow-infested jungle gym, that we meet Owen (Kodi Smit-McPhee), a lonely 12-year-old misfit quietly singing and conversing in solitude. It becomes immediately apparent, both verbally and nonverbally, that Owen suffers from immense sadness and loneliness.

Of course, being viciously bullied by his male classmates doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. He occupies most of his time role playing with his imaginary friends and spying on his eccentric neighbors through the lens of his telescope. 


Then one day he meets Abby (Chloe Grace Moretz), a mysterious and intriguing young girl his age who has recently moved in next door. Their first encounter turns sour after she firmly declares that the two of them can never become companions. It is unspecified to Owen (but eminent to everyone in the audience) that Abby and her father (Richard Jenkins) are blood-thirsty vampires with hefty appetites. However, it doesn’t take long for Abby to disregard her initial admonition and to soften to Owen’s disarming sensibilities.

The two of them form an unlikely bond, looking past their sullen withdrawals and identifying the longing and innocence in each other. Their relationship is handled with extreme sensitivity and sentiment. As bodies begin to disappear, Owen is forced to confront the horrifying truth of Abby’s animal nature. When a hard-boiled policeman (Elias Koteas) following the murders draws closer to Abby’s residence, the sustainability of Abby and Owen’s quiet romance becomes savagely threatened.

Reeves’ manages to beautifully translate Swedish author John Ajvide Lindqvist’s touching story about adolescent alienation into an American context, validating its relevance across cultures. However, rightfully absent in the first film, is Reeves’ bizarre use of CGI, gruesome slayings, American pop culture references and subtle religious and political undertones.

These elements are appropriately marginalized as the heart of the film lies with the relationship between the two young leads. The performances by Smit-McPhee and Moretz evoke a sense of melancholy and heartbreak that is eerily convincing. They present characters driven by need, finding solace and comfort in each other.

Despite a few structural modifications, the film evokes the same tension, tone and pacing of the original. What could have easily been reduced to tasteless schlock emerges as something quite profound. The production value is shiveringly effective, moody and macabre, tranquil and lurid, dark and beautiful. Also, much of the film’s suspense is credited to Michael Giacchino’s (“Up”) haunting score, which stirs up a healthy mix of emotion and terror. Audiences who have not seen the original may deem this as some kind of masterpiece. Those walking in with entrenched reservations may just walk out with deep admiration.

— Laron Chapman, film and video studies junior