The Babysitter

The Growing Pains of a Satanic Panic

If adolescence is a horror movie, puberty is its jump scare. It is a time of grotesque transformations, unmanageable fluids, and the terrifying realization that the adults you trust might actually want to devour you. In *The Babysitter* (2017), director McG takes this metaphor literally, delivering a slick, hyper-caffeinated slasher that weaponizes the innocence of the 1980s suburban nostalgia against the cynical snap-zoom aesthetics of the Instagram age. It is a film that asks a simple, terrifying question: What if the only person who truly understands you is also trying to harvest your blood for a pact with the Devil?



McG, a filmmaker whose oeuvre (*Charlie’s Angels*, *Terminator Salvation*) has often been criticized for favoring style over substance, finds his perfect playground here. The film does not just lean into his music-video background; it accelerates into it. The visual language is a candy-colored assault, utilizing on-screen text, freeze-frames, and a color palette so saturated it feels like a comic book left out in the sun. Yet, this "MTV editing" serves a narrative purpose. It mimics the frenetic, overstimulated mind of its protagonist, Cole (Judah Lewis), a twelve-year-old outsider whose world is defined by anxieties and bullies. The direction creates a suffocating sense of artificiality—the pristine suburban house becomes a gladiator arena, and the violence, when it erupts, is less about grit and more about the absurd physics of a *Looney Tunes* short played for keeps.



At the center of this carnage is the relationship between Cole and Bee (Samara Weaving). Weaving delivers a star-making performance that anchors the film’s chaotic energy. She is not merely the "hot babysitter" trope; she is a deconstruction of it—warm, attentive, and genuinely cool, which makes her inevitable betrayal sting with surprising emotional weight. The film’s brilliance lies in how it refuses to make Bee a one-note villain. Even as she orchestrates a satanic ritual in Cole’s living room, she retains a twisted mentorship role, pushing Cole to overcome his fears. The horror isn't just that she wants to kill him; it's that she is the first person to demand he grow a backbone.



The supporting cast of cultists—archetypes of high school clichés (the jock, the cheerleader, the token minority)—are dispatched with a gleeful disregard for physics, but they serve as the Greek chorus of Cole’s insecurities. Robbie Amell’s shirtless, murderous quarterback is particularly effective, oscillating between homicidal rage and genuine encouragement of Cole’s survival instincts. This dynamic turns the home invasion thriller into a twisted rite of passage. Cole isn’t just fighting for his life; he is fighting to outgrow the need for a babysitter.

Ultimately, *The Babysitter* is a surprisingly sharp critique of the transitional object. Bee represents the comfort of childhood dependence, a safety net that must be violently cut away for adulthood to begin. McG wraps this heavy psychological lifting in a package of gore and glitter, resulting in a film that feels like a sugar rush with a metallic aftertaste. It is a violent, vibrant reminder that growing up is a messy business, and sometimes, killing your heroes is the only way to survive the night.