It is said that all human interaction should be built upon trust, but one wonders of late if perhaps the millennial generation has taken that notion a bit too far. This is certainly what Dave Franco’s writing (for a full-length feature) and directorial debut seems to posit via the simple use of a group of friends (two of them brothers) renting an Airbnb on the coast for the weekend. With the trip spurred on by business partners Charlie (Dan Stevens) and Mina (Sheila Vand, best known for A Girl Walks Home Alone At Night) in celebration of finishing their painstaking preparations for their new startup–in case you needed to be reminded again that the setting is the Pacific Northwest (because, if Twin Peaks taught us anything, all fucked up shit happens there)–the two settle on a remote and spacious abode with a hot tub, complete with an ocean view.
Their significant others, Michelle (Alison Brie, who has an in with the director) and Josh (Jeremy Allen White), who, to further complicate the tense sexual chemistry between Charlie and Mina, is the former’s younger brother, are clearly the backup willing to do whatever the alphas say regardless of their own potential opinions. Josh, with his puppy-like reverence for Mina, brings along his own dog, Reggie, for the journey–even though the Airbnb in question specifically states no dogs allowed.
Regardless of the French bulldog’s cuteness or not, it already seems to be part of a setup that baits the killer of the film to follow all the conventional rules of horror–which would predictably mean the dog dies. Yet there is nothing necessarily predictable about The Rental, co-written with Joe Swanberg (a micro-budget king, therefore fond of the spartan plot and dialogue formula that goes with it, as evidenced by the likes of Drinking Buddies). In fact, the slow build to the crescendo of it all is not even remotely what the average horror watcher has been conditioned to expect, for it doesn’t feature “porno kills” (a.k.a. drawn out, gratuitous violence and gore), nor is there any satisfaction regarding the potential of a “final girl.” It is, full-stop, a cautionary tale about placing any faith or trust in strangers, which is what the entire gig economy is based on (Airbnb and Uber being the most shining examples). The major irony of this, of course, is that the much presently maligned boomer was always so adamant in telling their children not to engage with strangers of any kind–and so apparently compelled millennials to do the exact opposite of that.
The brewing lack of trust between the friends and lovers themselves augments from the moment Mina accuses their host, Taylor (Toby Huss), who manages the property for his rich brother, of denying her request for the house only an hour before Charlie’s is accepted because of her overly ethnic last name, Mohammadi. At first, this accusation is just among her friends, but it doesn’t take long for her to butt heads with Taylor, prompting her to bring this to his attention as he leaves (following his clunky tour of the residence). He doesn’t deny it, but insists he has no further business to conduct with them–if they want to cancel, they can be directed to the policy for doing so in the listing.
Of course, his business with them is nowhere near over, with Michelle making the mistake of mentioning she wished she had brought their telescope to look at the stars. Taylor quips that he thought only Peeping Toms had telescopes, then offers to bring his own, as though to emphasize the point of just how goddamn creepy strangers (particularly racist ones) are. Mina brings this up when the telescope appears in the living room whilst they’re all taking a walk on the beach, commenting that no one should be okay with the fact that this guy felt obliged to walk right in–that he’s comfortable enough to come and go as he pleases.
The others write it off as an ill-conceived act of kindness, trying to brush off the bitter aura that keeps collecting over the entire joint. To shrug away some of the tensions, Michelle whips out the molly she wants to surprise Charlie and Josh with that night (Mina already being in on the secret), recalling how, let’s say, “lovey-dovey” Charlie gets when he’s on it. She herself decides to opt out so she can be fresh for the morning’s hike, telling the other three to “feel free” but to save her some for tomorrow night. All of this, naturally, sets all the dominoes in motion for Charlie and Mina to “canoodle” amongst themselves after Michelle falls asleep and Josh ends up drinking too much.
But The Rental is not a warning about infidelity, so much as a straightforward depiction of “millennials being millennials”–which is to say, unaware (beyond anything but themselves) assholes. In other words, the perfect target for a psychopathic killer to toy with for his own pleasure. For there has never been an easier time in existence to get one’s psychological rocks off by way of preying on people’s assumption that just because strangers are “held accountable” to an app they’re rated by means they can be regarded as reliable, therefore not a threat.
This presents a different kind of philosophical question that has plagued humankind since its inception: does trusting strangers or “outsiders” with your life make you “decent” or just plain stupid? Have the prejudices we’ve been conditioned to believe are “damaging” to others actually the very defense that allowed us to survive all these centuries? Let us put it this way: Neanderthals, “daft” as they might have been, were more paranoid and mistrustful of potential looming threats than the Homo sapiens that evolved from them. Sure, there might not be a ravenous animal waiting just outside of our “cave” anymore, but there remains a different kind of animal: human neurosis.
While some might find The Rental to be a letdown for its lack of gore and horror in the more 80s slasher sense, bear in mind that it is a precise reflection of the very flaccidity experienced by millennials in everything they do, with no greater recent example than the gradual anticipation of some kind of all-out cataclysm occurring as a result of corona, but instead getting in return only another herald of our fizzling decline.
So if you must try to curb some of the same listlessness exhibited in The Rental by partaking of your precious (and privileged) quarantine getaway come the next lockdown, perhaps a hotel that’s still open and practicing social distancing measures is best. Or, you know, just don’t leave your house instead. Because, most terrifying of all, your host probably didn’t properly clean the property before your arrival. Just another act of good faith we’re fools to believe in.
