The bullies are one-dimensional and overtly cruel in their harassment of Lucas, and Moriah’s hypocrisy in participating in the abuse due to peer pressure, and then secretly asking Lucas for forgiveness, is difficult to sympathize with. None of the characters are likable or worth rooting for, except Lucas, who is merely responding to those around him. The abject loneliness and desperation that comes from being stuck with objectively terrible people in a small town have been captured in painfully visceral ways, although Kipp’s take on these characters is heart-wrenching. RELATED: Malignant's Biggest Unanswered Questions While this is unhealthy from the get-go, Tom, despite trying his best to be more responsible, is pretty negligent towards Lucas, being wholly ignorant of the fact that he is constantly bullied, and shares a borderline toxic dynamic with his secret girlfriend Moriah (Mirabelle Lee). In order to relieve themselves of their pain, Tom proposes a “game” of Slapface, in which the brothers take turns to slap one another (pretty hard) in an attempt to vent out their unspoken grief. Abandoned and having only each other to rely on, Lucas and Tom, while sharing a close dynamic, have a pretty dysfunctional bond after their parents’ death. Lucas lives with his older brother Tom (Mike Manning) in a woodland house and the duo have recently suffered the loss of their parents in a terrible car accident. Weaving an unsavory tale about isolation, bullying, and familial dysfunction, Slapface looms like an uncomfortable truth that is too desolate in tone. Horror as a genre has forever been bold enough to speak about about trauma and its ability to wrench out the most unsavory parts from inside of us, and Slapface dares to delve into this layered discourse, perhaps too well.

This is exactly what Lucas (August Maturo) undergoes in Jeremiah Kipp’s Slapface, in which the young boy lives out an existence characterized by loneliness, harassment, and neglect. Isolation and abuse - both physical and psychological - can shatter a person’s sense of self completely, especially if the perpetrator in question presents their abuse as a form of love.

Lonely screen review