My quick rating – 4.8/10. The Man in My Basement starts with a promising hook. A man on the brink of losing everything decides to rent out his basement to an eccentric stranger. Simple setup, juicy potential. And with Corey Hawkins opposite Willem Dafoe, you’d expect the film to mine that tension for all it’s worth. Instead, it plays like a movie with all the right ingredients but no idea what to cook.
Charles Blakey (Hawkins) is down on his luck, but director Nadia Latif makes absolutely sure you don’t develop an ounce of sympathy for him. This man behaves like such an asshole at every turn that you end up watching him the way you watch a slow-moving car crash – morbid curiosity, zero emotional investment. Hawkins commits, no doubt, but the writing gives Charles so few redeeming qualities that it’s hard to care what happens to him, even as things start to get weird.
There are flashes of something deeper. Latif’s use of mirrors creates a handful of genuinely creepy, layered shots that hint at a richer psychological thriller lurking beneath the surface. And early on, the film teases multi-dimensional characters and a plot with enough shadowy corners to get lost in. But that promise evaporates quickly. The story locks into a single plotline and refuses to budge, dragging its feet through scenes that feel repetitive instead of suspenseful. What starts as intriguing soon becomes a test of patience.
As expected, every scene with Dafoe is a highlight. He brings that hypnotic, finely tuned strangeness he’s famous for, and his character—Anniston Bennett—feels like he’s harboring something fascinating just beneath the surface. Unfortunately, the film never lets us see it. One of the most glaring missed opportunities is the decision to hide Bennett’s past rather than explore it. Show us the memories, the people who shaped him, the emotional stakes behind his cryptic behavior, anything that would anchor the guy beyond “enigmatic basement renter with a vibe.” The breadcrumbs are there, Latif just never follows the trail.
And that runtime? At 114 minutes, The Man in My Basement overstays its welcome by at least twenty. Even stretching it to 90 minutes would’ve been ambitious given how thin the story ultimately is. The longer it goes, the more you feel the narrative spinning its wheels, building toward an endgame you assume will reveal something clever or profound. Instead, you get… basically nothing. Latif chooses the “no explanation needed” route, and the result is more frustrating than mysterious.
In the end, strong acting and a handful of stylish moments aren’t enough to save a script that feels lost in its own basement. Without Willem Dafoe, this would’ve been a complete misfire. Latif shows skill behind the camera, but the story needed far sharper direction.
