Sick

Remember that bizarre window in 2020 when we were all neurotically wiping down our cereal boxes with Clorox wipes and treating a sneeze like a pipe bomb? Sick (2022) takes that specific, skin-crawling brand of germaphobic anxiety and sharpens it into a jagged little steak knife of a movie. It’s a lean, 83-minute slasher that arrived on Peacock with very little fanfare, but for my money, it’s one of the most effective uses of the pandemic as a plot device we’ve seen yet.

I watched this on my laptop while nursing a lukewarm cup of peppermint tea, and at one point, my neighbor’s car alarm went off outside. I nearly leaped out of my skin and threw my mug across the room. That’s the kind of high-strung energy Sick thrives on. It doesn't want to philosophize about the "human condition" during a lockdown; it just wants to make you jump.

The Lean, Mean Quarantine Machine

The setup is classic Kevin Williamson—the man who gave us Scream and I Know What You Did Last Summer. We start with a grocery store sequence that perfectly captures the "early days" paranoia: the empty shelves, the suspicious glares at anyone not wearing a mask, and the sheer tension of standing in a checkout line. From there, we follow Parker (Gideon Adlon) and her best friend Miri (Bethlehem Million) as they head to a remote, high-end family lake house to quarantine in style.

Naturally, they aren't alone.

What follows is a home invasion thriller that strips away the meta-commentary Williamson is usually known for and replaces it with sheer, propulsive momentum. Director John Hyams, who made the surprisingly gritty Universal Soldier: Day of Reckoning, brings a heavy, physical touch to the choreography. When characters hit walls in this movie, they don’t just bounce off; they thud. The stunts feel dangerously real, like the actors are actually one missed step away from a trip to the ER. It’s a refreshing change from the floaty, over-edited action we often get in modern horror.

Williamson’s Razor: Sharp and To the Point

While many contemporary "elevated" horror films are busy trying to be metaphors for grief or trauma, Sick is content being a bloody good time. That’s not to say it’s brainless. The script, co-written by Katelyn Crabb, uses the "rules" of COVID-19 to create genuine obstacles. A ringing cell phone isn't just a jump scare; it's a potential death sentence when you're trying to hide. A face mask isn't just a political statement; it’s a way to muffle a scream or hide an identity.

Gideon Adlon (who I first noticed in the underrated Blockers) and Bethlehem Million have a natural, easy chemistry that makes you actually care if they get gutted. They aren't the typical "slasher victims" who make every wrong choice possible. They fight back with a desperate, believable ferocity. Even Dylan Sprayberry, playing a surprise visitor named DJ, brings a layer of "is he or isn't he a creep?" tension that keeps the first act humming.

The film does eventually reveal the "why" behind the carnage, and without spoiling it, I’ll say it is the ultimate 'Reply Guy' motivation taken to its most violent extreme. It taps into that specific 2020-2022 brand of moral superiority and internet-fueled rage that divided families and friend groups. It’s a bit on the nose, sure, but slasher movies have always functioned best when they're poking at the fresh bruises of the culture.

A Masterclass in Physicality

The middle 40 minutes of this movie is essentially one long, breathless chase sequence. John Hyams uses the geography of the lake house—the docks, the rafters, the sprawling woods—to perfection. There’s a particular sequence involving a ladder and a second-story window that had me holding my breath until my head felt light.

Technically, the film is top-notch for a streaming original. Yaron Levy’s cinematography captures the cold, sterile beauty of the Utah winter (standing in for rural Oregon), and the score by Nima Fakhrara keeps the pulse-pounding without relying on cheap "stingers." It’s a reminder that even in an era of franchise dominance and bloated runtimes, a small-scale, well-executed genre piece can still punch way above its weight class.

Interestingly, Sick was filmed under strict COVID protocols itself, which adds a layer of irony to the production. You can feel that claustrophobia on screen. It’s a "streaming era" movie through and through—designed to be consumed quickly, discussed on social media for its "brave" ending, and appreciated for its efficiency. It doesn't overstay its welcome, and in a world where every horror movie thinks it needs to be two and a half hours long, that’s a minor miracle.

Sick is a lean, mean, and surprisingly mean-spirited slasher that understands exactly what it is. It manages to weaponize our collective 2020 trauma for scares without feeling exploitative or dated—at least not yet. If you’ve got 80 minutes to kill and a lingering fear of unmasked strangers, this is a lockdown you won’t mind revisiting. It’s a sharp reminder that while the virus was scary, people were always the real threat.