False Positive

There’s a specific kind of silence found only in high-end medical clinics—a pressurized, expensive hush that suggests if you just pay enough, death and disappointment can be rescheduled. In John Lee’s False Positive, that silence is the real antagonist. I watched this film late on a Tuesday while nursing a lukewarm cup of peppermint tea that had a single, shriveled leaf floating in it, and honestly, that tiny bit of organic debris felt more "natural" than anything happening in the gleaming, sterile world of Lucy and Adrian Martin. This is a film that takes the innate anxiety of pregnancy and turns the dial until the plastic snaps, resulting in a piece of contemporary horror that feels like a fever dream filtered through an Instagram aesthetic.

The Prestige of the Speculum

Released directly to Hulu during that strange, mid-pandemic transition where A24 was experimenting with streaming-first strategies, False Positive arrived with a lot of baggage. We were all still stuck in our houses, doom-scrolling through a world that felt increasingly out of control, and here comes a movie about the ultimate loss of bodily autonomy. Ilana Glazer, whom I’ve spent years loving as the chaotic weed-prophet of Broad City, pivots hard here. As Lucy, she trades the "yas queen" energy for a mask of brittle, upper-middle-class desperation.

The setup is classic "maternal dread": Lucy and Adrian (Justin Theroux) can’t conceive, so they visit the legendary Dr. Hindle (Pierce Brosnan). Hindle is a god in a lab coat, a man who doesn't just treat infertility—he bestows life. But as soon as Lucy is pregnant with "the one," she begins to suspect that Hindle’s miracle involves a lot more than just a steady hand. It’s medical gaslighting at its most expensive, and the film does a fantastic job of making you feel Lucy’s isolation. Her husband Adrian, played with a suspicious, toothy perfection by Justin Theroux (who seems to have specialized in playing "husbands with secrets" since The Leftovers), is a little too enamored with Hindle. He’s the kind of guy who calls his wife "crazy" while smiling like he’s in a toothpaste commercial.

Brosnan and the Art of the Creep

If you’re going to cast a villainous doctor, you can’t do much better than Pierce Brosnan. For my money, Pierce Brosnan is a weapon of mass charisma in this film. He uses that James Bond twinkle to make every needle prick feel like a violation and every compliment feel like a threat. He represents the ultimate paternalistic nightmare: the man who knows what's best for your body more than you do.

The film is at its strongest when it leans into this contemporary social anxiety. We are living in an era where women’s voices in the doctor's office are often dismissed as "hormonal," and False Positive amplifies that scream. There’s a scene involving a "reduction" that is genuinely harrowing—not because of gore, but because of the clinical coldness of it all. Zainab Jah shows up as Grace Singleton, a midwife who represents the antithesis of Hindle’s cold science, providing a grounded performance that almost makes you believe Lucy might find a way out of the maze.

Interestingly, the film was co-written by Ilana Glazer and director John Lee. If that name sounds familiar, it’s because Lee is the mind behind the legendary, psychedelic nightmare-fuel of Wonder Showzen. Knowing that explains a lot about the film’s final act. It’s not interested in being a straightforward slasher; it wants to be a surrealist critique of the "mommy" industrial complex.

A Suture That Doesn't Quite Hold

Why did this movie vanish into the "forgotten" bin of 2021? I think it’s because it’s a bit of a tonal chimera. It starts as a polished A24 thriller and ends like a midnight movie at a fringe festival. Some viewers found the shift jarring, but I actually appreciated the swing. The film uses its A24-approved color palette—lots of muted teals and surgical whites—to lull you into a sense of prestige before it starts pulling the rug out.

There’s a bit of trivia that makes sense of the vibe: the production actually used real medical equipment and consulted with fertility specialists to get the clinical details right, which only makes the later, more hallucinatory sequences feel more unearned to some. I personally loved the visual of the "blood-red" contrast against the white walls, even if the script occasionally trips over its own metaphors. It’s a movie that wants to be Rosemary’s Baby for the #MeToo era, and while it doesn't quite reach those heights, it’s a fascinating, prickly watch that deserves more than its current "obscure" status on streaming platforms.

In an era of franchise fatigue, False Positive is a weird, singular object. It’s messy, it’s angry, and it features a version of Pierce Brosnan that will make you never want to see a sonogram again. It’s not a "masterpiece" in the traditional sense, but it’s a deeply uncomfortable exploration of who owns a woman’s body when the doors to the clinic close. If you’re in the mood for something that feels like a cold compress applied to a wound that won’t heal, give it a shot. Just maybe skip the peppermint tea.

***

Ilana Glazer proves she has the dramatic chops to carry a film, even when the screenplay gets a bit wobbly in the third act. Justin Theroux continues his reign as the king of "unsettlingly handsome" antagonists, and the direction by John Lee ensures that even the quietest moments feel like they’re vibrating with hidden menace. It’s a 93-minute reminder that sometimes, intuition isn't just a feeling—it's a survival mechanism.