James Ashcroft, the twisted Kiwi mind behind The Rule of Jenny Pen, isn’t some jump-scare junkie churning out cheap thrills for the popcorn-munching masses. Ashcroft’s a craftsman, a guy who cut his teeth as an actor before stepping behind the camera to unleash nightmares like Coming Home in the Dark (2021), a flick so brutal it reportedly knocked critics out of their seats. With Jenny Pen, he’s back, swinging for the fences again, this time with a psycho-biddy brawl that swaps out the hags for two grizzled old bastards—John Lithgow and Geoffrey Rush—duking it out in a New Zealand nursing home. This flick is a grotesque waltz of elder abuse, psychological torment, and a creepy-ass puppet that’ll haunt your dreams. Buckle up, horror freaks—this one’s a wild, fucked-up ride.

The story kicks off with Judge Stefan Mortensen (Rush), a sanctimonious prick who’s all about laying down the law—until a stroke bitch-slaps him mid-rant, leaving him hemiplegic and dumped into the pastel purgatory of Royal Pine Mews Care Home. “Where there are no lions, hyenas rule,” he sneers early on, and oh boy, does he meet his hyena. Enter Dave Crealy (Lithgow), a towering, demented resident who’s turned the joint into his personal torture playground, armed with a hollow-eyed baby doll puppet named Jenny Pen. By day, he’s a giggling eccentric charming the staff; by night, he’s a sadistic fuck, stalking the halls, yanking catheters, and forcing residents to “lick the Jenny Pen’s asshole”—yep, that’s a direct quote, and it’s as messed up as it sounds.

Stefan, still sharp as a tack despite his crumbling body, clocks Dave’s bullshit and decides to take him down. Alongside roommate Tony Garfield (George Henare), a washed-up Maori rugby legend, Stefan wages a war of wits and wills against this puppet-wielding psycho. What unfolds is a claustrophobic, unpredictable nightmare that oscillates between pitch-black comedy and gut-churning horror, all wrapped in a stylish package with extra piss and despair.

At its core, The Rule of Jenny Pen is a brutal meditation on aging, power, and the indignities of being shoved into society’s dustbin. Ashcroft doesn’t pull punches—this isn’t some feel-good “golden years” bullshit. The nursing home’s cheery pink walls and forced sing-alongs can’t mask the rot: neglect, isolation, and the slow erosion of autonomy. Jenny Pen herself—eyeless, hollow, a therapy doll turned torture device—symbolizes that loss of control, a warped mirror of the residents’ fading agency. When Dave demands, “Who rules?” and they choke out “Jenny Pen,” it’s not just humiliation—it’s a surrender to the void.

Then there’s the masculinity angle. Unlike the estrogen-drenched hagsploitation classics (What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? vibes abound), Jenny Pen pits two old codgers in a dick-measuring contest of dominance. Stefan’s a lion stripped of his roar, Dave a hyena reveling in chaos. Their clash is less about good versus evil and more about who gets to be king of this shitty little kingdom. The puppet’s lewd demands—“lick her asshole”—twist that power play into something sexual and perverse, a middle finger to traditional notions of male worth. Kant’s quoted in the film: “out of the crooked timber of humanity, no straight thing was ever made.” Here, old age warps these fuckers even further, and Ashcroft revels in the splinters.

The film’s got a loud-as-hell message: we suck at caring for the old. Royal Pine Mews isn’t a horror show because of ghosts or gore—it’s the banality of neglect that’s terrifying. The staff, overworked and jaded, see Dave as a harmless nutjob, not a predator, because who gives a shit about a bunch of geezers anyway? Stefan’s pleas fall on deaf ears, a metaphor for how society tunes out the elderly until they’re dead weight. It’s not subtle, but it’s effective—Ashcroft’s saying, “Look at this shitshow, you assholes. This could be you.”

There’s also a nod to institutional abuse, with Dave as its personification. A former caretaker turned tormentor, he’s the system’s dark underbelly given flesh—and a creepy puppet. The film doesn’t preach, though; it just shoves the ugly truth in your face and dares you to blink.

Ashcroft and co-writer Eli Kent adapt Owen Marshall’s short story with a razor’s edge, blending dark humor and dread into a script that’s tight as hell—until it isn’t. The dialogue crackles, especially when Stefan’s slinging zingers or Dave’s taunting with twisted glee. Lines like “You’re not a victim here” (Stefan to a courtroom mom) come back to haunt him, a karmic boomerang that’s damn satisfying. But the middle sags like an old man’s balls, repeating beats of Dave’s cruelty and Stefan’s frustration without enough escalation, becoming a bit repetitive. The double ending—two climaxes when one would’ve sufficed—also muddies the waters, diluting the impact. Still, when it locks in, it’s a mind-ripper.

Holy shit, the acting. John Lithgow is the MVP, turning Dave into a monstrous clown that’s equal parts hilarious and horrifying. With silvery contacts, gnarly teeth, and a 6’4” frame looming over wheelchairs, he’s a nightmare in high-waisted pants. Lithgow’s commitment—prancing, sneering, tugging catheters—is unhinged perfection. He’s Baby Jane on steroids, and his shaky Kiwi accent only adds to the campy chaos.

Geoffrey Rush matches him blow for blow, playing Stefan as a purring kitten next to Dave’s rabid dog. He’s a dick—blaming a victim’s mom in the opening scene sets the tone—but Rush layers in nobility and desperation that make you root for him anyway. George Henare’s Tony is the heart, his sweetness a gut-wrenching contrast to Dave’s savagery—his failed haka in the cafeteria is a tearjerker that hits like a freight train.

Ashcroft’s direction is a fucking masterclass—claustrophobic, stylish, and relentless. Cinematographer Matt Henley turns mundane hallways into a Kubrickian labyrinth, with Dutch angles and sweeping shots that crank the tension to eleven. The sound design—clattering cups, warped laughter, a menacing “Knees Up Mother Brown”—is a sonic jolt of devastation. And the puppet? Jenny Pen’s glowing, hollow eyes are the stuff of nightmares, a genius touch that elevates the whole damn thing.

The film’s ballsy swings are its lifeblood. It risks being exploitative but lands pulp profundity, using Lithgow’s Trojan horse to smuggle in real shit about ageism and power. It’s not afraid to piss you off or make you squirm—perfect for horror fiends who crave the raw stuff.

For all its brilliance, Jenny Pen stumbles on tone. It wants to be a black comedy and a soul-crushing thriller, but can crudely shift between the two. The result? Moments of greatness—like that disorienting stroke opener—get bogged down by uneven pacing and a narrative that falters a bit.

The Rule of Jenny Pen isn’t flawless, but fuck if it isn’t memorable. Ashcroft, Lithgow, and Rush deliver a geriatric horror show that’s as smart as it is sick, a chilling spin on aging’s terrors. It’s not for the faint-hearted—elder abuse ain’t a popcorn flick—but for horror nuts who dig big swings and bigger scares, it’s a must-see. Jenny Pen’s hollow stare will stick with you, a grim reminder that old age might just be the scariest monster of all. Brace yourself for a puppet-ruled hellscape you won’t shake off easily.