Send Help (2026, dir. Sam Raimi): Tug-of-War

# 0.

A tug-of-war with a mischievous old man is just that much fun.

# 1.

Relax. There is no need to become serious over such an obvious opening setup. The contrast between a diligent yet uncharismatic protagonist and a despicable, silver-spoon villain is merely a preparatory step for toying with genre later on a deserted island. The piling on of reasons that allow the audience to become thoroughly irritated — whether in terms of class, economics, sexuality, or behavior — serves the same purpose. The director is only interested in mechanically inputting, within the first 10–15 minutes, whom we should root for and whom we should suspect, and then exploiting that structure, so we need only focus on how playfully he unfolds the genre.

The full-fledged deserted island development is largely divided into two parts. In the first half — the disaster–romance–thriller section — familiar images unfold. Scenes one would expect from a typical castaway narrative are presented with straightforward honesty: weaving trees and leaves into a shelter, securing food and water, starting a fire, searching the island, signaling for rescue. The development in which a storm arrives and brings crisis, the scene of confessing one’s inner thoughts by the campfire, and the cooperation in the face of danger followed by betrayal are likewise not unfamiliar. And yet the viewing experience is unexpectedly uncomfortable, because those “familiar images” are laid out upon an “unfamiliar progression.” The director opens up just enough space in each scene for us to predict the characters’ actions, only to slip away the moment we try to confirm it, like swinging away on Spider-Man’s web.

# 2.

In contrast to the moral binary established in the opening, Linda and Bradley toy with the audience throughout the first half, oscillating between sincerity and deception. For instance, Bradley — whom we are supposed to hate — earns sympathy by eating sea bugs, while Linda — whom we have been rooting for — suddenly appears holding a kitchen knife. A tense scene in which they climb a precarious cliff passes without incident, and the growth drama that had been built up with some seriousness crashes into sudden betrayal. The image of dragging a raft out to sea for escape is familiar, yet becomes unexpectedly gripping as it betrays the romantic expectations just prior. The scene in which Linda rescues Bradley and performs CPR after his failed escape is also familiar, but the grotesque addition of him vomiting twists the emotional line. The following day, Linda’s revenge actively borrows the style of a The Silence of the Lambs-like psychopathic thriller, but reins itself in just before spiraling out of control, continuing the push and pull with the audience.

In the latter half — the horror–action section — from the moment Bradley’s fiancée Judy appears, the film’s theme shifts completely from “distress” to “hatred,” and accordingly the director’s mode of direction changes dramatically. As the genre itself drives and consumes the characters, Sam Raimi, unlike in the first half, allows the audience no room for anticipation. Even if Linda’s eye is suddenly gouged out, a luxurious mansion appears on the deserted island, or brutal rifles run rampant, the audience can only accept it unilaterally, with no means of resistance.

Then a question. What is the most “alien” scene in this film? Answers may differ, but for me it is unquestionably the ending. According to conventional genre grammar, it would be standard to conclude with a narrow rescue from the deserted island. However, the director ends the film with the driving of Rachel McAdams. In fact, that scene in itself carries no particular informational value. Rachel, neatly dressed, plays golf and then gives an interview containing remarks she could have made at any other time. And yet, to an audience that has just watched the film, her nonchalant demeanor feels detestable. The director places precisely that “detestable feeling” at the most crucial point of the film.

# 3.

It is a film in which the director and the audience engage in a tug-of-war over context with the same text. The setting of the film is confidently laid out in the first paragraph, but that context does not belong to Sam Raimi; it is merely the result of me, the audience, unilaterally projecting my own context. In the subsequent disaster–romance–thriller section, the audience’s context and Sam Raimi’s context collide over the same text, and each time the text is pulled toward Sam Raimi’s context, I described it as if it were swinging away like Spider-Man. Upon entering the horror–action section, Sam Raimi completely monopolizes the context, leaving the audience unable to anticipate or predict anything, and the fact that we come to view the blameless Rachel with a sense of disgust is clear evidence that the audience’s perception has been entirely seized by the creator’s context.

At last, the viewing experience returns to the beginning of the film. Even the text that said in the first half “there is no need to be serious” could have been interpreted entirely differently if I, as the audience, had approached it with another context. If reading a twisted possessiveness in the act of raising a bird, rather than a gentle disposition, or seeing in the act of eating a tuna sandwich not psychopathic sociality but the weary life of an office worker, all stem from the audience’s own context, then how many texts do we misread in everyday life through narrow contexts.