Alex Thompson, the Chicago-based indie darling behind Saint Frances and Ghostlight, takes a sharp left turn into the murky waters of psychological horror with Rounding. Known for his knack for weaving tender, humanist dramas with a touch of wry humor, Thompson’s latest—co-written with his brother Christopher—feels like a bold swing at something darker, grittier, and a hell of a lot creepier. Shot back in 2022 before Ghostlight stole hearts, Rounding finally clawing its way to a theatrical and digital release on February 14, 2025, via Doppelgänger Releasing, is a curious beast: part medical mystery, part mental breakdown simulator, and part half-assed monster mash. It’s got atmosphere for days, a lead performance that’ll make your skin crawl, and enough ambition to choke a horse—but does it stick the landing, or does it just limp offscreen like its protagonist’s festering foot? Let’s crack this fucker open and find out.

Rounding follows Dr. James Hayman (Namir Smallwood), a med school hotshot who’s already cracking under the weight of his own brilliance. After a botched assisted suicide—where his terminally ill patient (Cheryl Lynn Bruce) flips from “end me” to “oh shit, never mind” just as the lights go out—James has a full-on meltdown and bails from the big city to a rural hospital in the fictional Greenville. Think snowy Midwest nowhere, all icy jogs and existential dread. He’s hoping for a fresh start, but this ain’t no Hallmark redemption arc. Under the watchful eye of Dr. Harrison (Michael Potts), a supervisor who’s equal parts mentor and “get your shit together” nag, James stumbles into the case of Helen Adso (Sidney Flanigan), a 19-year-old asthmatic who’s racking up hospital visits like they’re frequent flyer miles. Her test results don’t add up, her mom (Rebecca Spence) is a hovering nutcase, and James starts sniffing around like a med-school Sherlock—only to unravel faster than a cheap sweater.

As James digs, his grip on reality slips. He’s having panic attacks, blacking out, losing time, hallucinating multi-headed monsters straight out of a medieval fever dream, and hobbling around on a foot that’s rotting worse than a zombie’s leftovers. Is Helen’s mom poisoning her? Is James just losing his damn mind? The film teases both, piling on the tension until it all collapses in a twisty, trauma-soaked finale.

Alex Thompson’s no stranger to spinning gold from the mundane. Saint Frances (2019) tackled abortion and motherhood with a sly grin, while Ghostlight (2024) turned a grieving family into a quiet masterpiece—both steeped in Chicago’s theater scene and his partnership with Kelly O’Sullivan (who pops up here as a colleague). Rounding marks a solo detour, born from chats with his pulmonologist dad and med-student brother during the COVID lockdown. It’s got that indie grit—shot in real-ass locations like Elmhurst and Galena—but Thompson’s admitted he’s more of a “horror tourist” than a genre diehard. And it shows. This ain’t The Exorcist; it’s a drama with horror sprinkles.

Rounding kicks off with a pretentious-ass title card about Asclepius, the Greek god of medicine, and “enkoimesis”—some hypnotic dream-state where docs played deity to their patients. It’s a heavy-handed nod to James as a modern healer wrestling with godlike responsibility, but the film’s real meat lies in its exploration of guilt and burnout. James is a walking wound, haunted by that patient he couldn’t save, and his obsession with Helen feels like a desperate grab at absolution. The rural hospital’s crosses and creepy demon art (paging Hieronymus Bosch) hammer home the religious vibe—medicine as a sacred calling, James as a fallen priest flogging himself with every step.

Then there’s that goddamn foot. James bangs it up jogging, and it festers into a grotesque metaphor for his decaying psyche—blackened, oozing, a body horror gag. The multi-headed creature he keeps seeing? It’s less a literal monster and more his shame given teeth—pathetic, snarling, and stuck in a hallway mirror. Thompson’s going for a Jacob’s Ladder mindfuck, blurring reality and nightmare, but the symbolism’s so thick you’ll need a machete to hack through it.

At its core, Rounding wants to scream that doctors aren’t invincible. James is a pressure cooker of empathy and ambition, boiling over because he can’t separate his job from his soul. The film nails the grind of residency—sleepless nights, endless patients, delivering death sentences with a straight face—and asks: how the hell do you stay sane? It’s a gut-punch for anyone who’s ever burned out, medical or not. But when it veers into Helen’s maybe-Munchausen-by-proxy subplot, it loses focus. Is this about James’ breakdown or a conspiracy? Pick a lane, Thompson—the dual tracks derail the message.

The script, penned by Alex and Christopher Thompson, is a mixed bag. It’s got sharp dialogue—James snapping “dishonest” at an acting class meant to fix his bedside manner is pure gold—and a knack for quiet dread. But it’s also a cluttered clusterfuck. Too many red herrings (is Helen levitating? Who cares?), too little payoff. The Helen mystery feels tacked on, and the horror beats—like that random truck hallucination—are cheap jump-scare fodder that don’t earn their keep. The final twist, tying James’ trauma back to his first patient, hits hard but comes too late to glue the pieces together. It’s like the Thompsons wrote a killer short story, then stretched it into a feature with duct tape and wishful thinking.

Namir Smallwood is the beating heart of this bitch. He’s electric—twitchy, hollow-eyed, a man unraveling in real time. You feel every ounce of James’ guilt and desperation; it’s a star-making turn that drags the film across the finish line. Sidney Flanigan’s Helen is a quiet enigma, her wide eyes hinting at secrets she barely gets to spill—shame she’s stuck as a plot device. Michael Potts brings gravitas to Dr. Harrison, but he’s undercooked, a sage mentor with no meat on his bones. Rebecca Spence’s Karen is a one-note villain, all glare and no depth. The ensemble’s stacked with Chicago theater vets (Kelly O’Sullivan, David Cromer), but they’re window dressing—talent wasted on thin roles.

Rounding shines when it leans into its vibe. Nate Hurtsellers’ cinematography turns snowy hills and dim corridors into a claustrophobic nightmare, all muted blues and lurking shadows. The score by Macie Stewart and Quinn Tsan is a cello-driven creepshow, amplifying James’ spiraling headspace. Those acting-class scenes—where docs practice empathy like it’s a script—are darkly funny and painfully real, a nod to Thompson’s Ghostlight roots. And Smallwood, man—he’s the glue, making you care even when the plot stumbles.

For a horror blog, Rounding is a tease. The monster’s a glorified cameo—super fucking cool design, zero impact. The scares are sparse and tame; it’s more Uncut Gems stress than Hereditary terror. The pacing’s a slog—90 minutes feel like 120—and the mystery fizzles out, leaving you with a shrug instead of a scream. Thompson’s clearly out of his depth with genre trappings; he’s a drama guy playing dress-up, and it shows. Strip the horror, and you’ve got a solid psychodrama—leave it in, and it’s a muddled mess that doesn’t know what it wants to be.

Rounding is a frustrating flick. It’s got the bones of a great trauma tale—James’ descent is raw as hell, and Smallwood’s a revelation—but it trips over its own ambitions. The horror’s a limp dick, the mystery’s a damp squib, and the symbolism’s so heavy it sinks the ship. Still, there’s enough moody grit and acting chops to make it worth a spin for horror-adjacent weirdos like us. Thompson’s got talent, no doubt—he just needs to decide if he’s here to scare us or sob with us. For now, Rounding is a half-baked head trip that’ll haunt you more for what it could’ve been than what it is. Grab a beer, dim the lights, and give it a whirl—just don’t expect it to keep you up at night.