‘The Plague’ Review: If Kubrick and Cronenberg Made an After School Special

William Golding’s 1954 novel “The Lord of the Flies” strands a group of young boys on an island. There, they must fend for themselves, but in the absence of rules and ethics, they devolve into barbarism. It was, we were told in English class, an allegory. It was actually, we learned at recess, a fact. Kids don’t need an excuse to be cruel to each other. They certainly don’t need to be isolated from society, because society itself, when it’s run by bullies, is cruel enough.

That’s the premise of writer-director Charlie Polinger’s “The Plague,” starring Everett Blunck as a boy who has recently moved and is desperate to make new friends. At the Tom Lerner Water Polo Camp, run by a character inexplicably credited as “Daddy Wags” (Joel Edgerton), the 12- and 13-year-olds are willing to be your friends. All you have to do is accept their casual humiliations and ostracize the one kid they’ve all decided to hate.

That kid, Eli (Kenny Rasmussen), has a skin condition. It’s clearly a minor infection, easily treated and nothing to worry about, but Jake (Kayo Martin), the leader of this water polo torture club, has decided Eli has “the plague.” It’s contagious, you have to understand, so you can’t make any physical contact with Eli. If you do, you have to run away screaming and scrub yourself clean. This plague also explains Eli’s social awkwardness, since Jake says it also affects the brain. 

It’s nonsense, obviously, but Jake is so committed to the bit and the rest of the boys are so eager to play along, that throughout the film the most rational characters sometimes find themselves wondering, is there something to this? It’s hard to keep your grip on reality when your reality is constantly challenged by ignorant sadists, who make your life a living hell if you don’t share that ignorance, or validate that sadism.

“The Plague” is a school bullying story, and in many ways it’s the same one filmmakers have been making as long as anyone can remember. Bullying is bad. You shouldn’t let mean kids dictate your self-worth or control your behavior. These are cold hard facts that mean diddly squat when your survival depends on not being a bully’s target. Sometimes literally. 

At one point Edgerton gives a pep talk — I refuse to call him “Daddy Wags” — which amounts to, pathetically, “it gets better.” Because when you’re an adult and the adolescent horrors are behind you, you’re just glad you don’t have to deal with it anymore. It’s a useless perspective for the kids who still have to deal with it every day, while it steadily erodes their sanity and souls.

Polinger films “The Plague” like an after school special from hell, with a Cronenbergian obsession with bodily disease and humiliation, and a Kubrickian rejection of traditional empathy. Steven Breckon’s haunted cinematography portrays swimming pools like floating hells, where children don’t so much float as ominously hang, headless, when viewed from beneath the rippling water. Johan Lenox’s mutant choir score ties it all together, evoking unholy energy and ugly, frightened emotions. I’d say if “The Plague” wasn’t nominated for Best Original Score there’s something terribly wrong with the Oscars, but “The Plague” didn’t even make the short list, so there’s just something terribly wrong with the Oscars.

Polinger’s young cast has incredibly difficult roles, and they navigate the disquieting material like seasoned pros. Blunck undergoes a series of wretched transformations, absorbing cruelty and spreading it to others, getting lost in the tragic irony. Martin is a monster, but a very realistic one, the kind of everyday creep who gets away with it in plain sight because he’s smart, charismatic and knows that no matter what sin he commits, he’ll never face real consequences.

And then there’s Rasmussen, who reveals Eli as a multifaceted, fascinating individual without ever turning him into just another misunderstood kid, the kind who seems very normal once you get to know him. Eli has problems, caused or exacerbated by his Job-like torment. As a direct result of Rasmussen’s sunken performance, for a split second “The Plague” makes you wonder if there’s something to the title affliction after all, and maybe, just maybe, this isn’t a drama but a grotesque horror film.

Then again, real life is horrifying sometimes, and Polinger’s heightened, ethereal aesthetic doesn’t change the grim fact that “The Plague” holds up an only slightly warped mirror to what actual kids go through, sometimes every day. Not just in water polo—although I played water polo in high school, and “The Plague” dredged up some rotten memories about how horrible those kids were—but in every facet of childhood. Yes, it gets better, but not soon enough, and films like Polinger’s nightmarishly plausible one accurately convey how ceaseless and punishing that experience is, was and, unfortunately, will be again.

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