Good Boy

In an era where every second horror movie feels like either a $100 million franchise reboot or a "lofty" metaphor for inherited trauma, there is something deeply refreshing about a film that just wants to make you feel like you need a silk-scrub shower. Viljar Bøe’s Good Boy is a lean, mean, and deeply weird Norwegian thriller that arrived in 2022, right when we were all collectively reaching "Tinder fatigue." It takes the concept of a "red flag" and turns it into a high-visibility vest.

I watched this on a Tuesday afternoon while my neighbor was power-washing his driveway, and the constant, aggressive hum of the water weirdly synced up with the film’s low-frequency dread. It made the whole experience feel like a home invasion in progress, which, given the plot, wasn't entirely off-brand.

The Millionaire and His "Dog"

The setup is deceptively simple, playing on the modern fairy tale of the "dating app jackpot." Sigrid (Katrine Lovise Øpstad Fredriksen) is a struggling student who swipes right on Christian (Gard Løkke), a handsome, polite millionaire who lives in a house that looks like it was decorated by a minimalist ghost. He’s perfect. He’s charming. He’s wealthy. There’s just the small, furry matter of Frank.

Frank isn't a Golden Retriever. He’s a man in a surprisingly high-quality dog suit who lives, eats, and sleeps on all fours. Christian treats him with the casual affection you’d give a beloved pet, and the film’s genius lies in how it forces us—and Sigrid—to navigate the "ick" factor. It’s basically "The Tinder Swindler" if the swindle involved a flea collar and zero dignity. Sigrid’s initial reaction is exactly what mine would be: a mix of "I should leave" and "But he has a really nice pool."

Gard Løkke plays Christian with a chillingly blank sincerity. He doesn't come across as a raving lunatic; he comes across as a man who has simply decided that his reality is the only one that matters. It’s a quintessential post-2015 performance, echoing the "polite sociopath" energy we’ve seen in films like Fresh (2022) or The Menu (2022), where the horror isn't a masked killer, but the bizarre social contracts we agree to just to avoid being rude.

Survival on a Shoestring

What really blows my mind about Good Boy is the math. This film was produced for roughly $8,500. In the world of contemporary cinema, where Marvel spends that much on a single CGI cape-flutter, Viljar Bøe managed to craft a tense, professional-looking thriller for the price of a used 2014 Honda Civic.

The production was a true indie hustle, born out of the Norwegian University of Science and Technology (NTNU). Because they lacked a studio budget, the film relies entirely on atmosphere and the inherent creepiness of the dog suit. There are no expensive jump scares or digital monsters here. Instead, the horror comes from the sound of Frank’s heavy breathing and the sight of a human-sized silhouette lurking in the corner of a dark room.

It’s a masterclass in how limitations breed creativity. By keeping the cast tiny—mostly just Gard Løkke, Katrine Lovise Øpstad Fredriksen, and Amalie Willoch Njaastad—and the locations limited, Bøe traps the audience in Christian’s suffocatingly quiet world. The film doesn't need a sprawling "cinematic universe"; it just needs a leash and a very uncomfortable dinner scene.

A Contemporary Cringe-Fest

We live in a "cringe" culture, and Good Boy weaponizes that feeling. The first half of the movie plays out like a pitch-black romantic comedy. You find yourself laughing at the absurdity of Frank sitting at the table, only to have that laugh die in your throat when you realize the power dynamics at play.

The film engages with the current conversation about the "safety" of digital dating and the performative nature of wealth. It is the most effective PSA against dating rich guys since American Psycho. When the shift from "weird lifestyle choice" to "genuine nightmare" happens, it’s not with a bang, but with a sickeningly logical progression. Bøe (who also wrote the screenplay) understands that the scariest thing isn't the man in the dog suit; it’s the man holding the leash.

There’s a specific kind of bravery in Nicolai Narvesen Lied’s performance as Frank. He has no lines. We never see his face. Yet, he manages to convey a sense of tragic submission that anchors the movie’s third-act shift. By the time the credits roll, the film has moved past its "meme-able" premise into something genuinely haunting that lingers long after you’ve closed your laptop.

Good Boy is a testament to what a filmmaker can do with a weird idea and a microscopic budget. It’s uncomfortable, darkly funny, and eventually, legitimately terrifying. While the ending might be a bit polarizing for those who want a traditional "Hollywood" resolution, I found its commitment to its own grim logic incredibly satisfying. If you’re tired of over-produced studio horror, give this Norwegian oddity a look—just maybe don’t watch it right before a Hinge date.