31 Days of Horror: Let Me In (2010) — Innocence, Violence, and the Terror of Being Seen

Let Me In (2010)

Directed by: Matt Reeves

Written by: Matt Reeves

Starring: Kodi Smit-McPhee, Chloë Grace Moretz, Elias Koteas, Richard Jenkins

Release Date: October 1, 2010

Matt Reeves’ Let Me In (2010) reimagines Let the Right One In with haunting precision — a gothic tale of loneliness, love, and the violence required to survive.

As I watched the American reimagining of the Swedish vampire masterpiece Let the Right One In, retitled Let Me In, in the theater 15 years ago, a pair of troglodytic morons giggled in the theater at moments that should have broken their hearts. They giggled when Chloë Grace Moretz’s twelve-year-old vampire leapt upon her prey. They giggled when her weary caretaker, played by Richard Jenkins, committed murder to feed her hunger. Most disturbingly, they giggled during a scene of innocence and affection — a rare moment of human connection in a story about monsters.

Director Matt Reeves (Cloverfield) approaches this stark Swedish story with reverence and sorrow. Let Me In is a vampire film about loneliness — one that replaces the thrill of the hunt with the ache of being seen and accepted. Its young stars, Chloë Grace Moretz and Kodi Smit-McPhee, lure you in with their innocence and devastate you with their empathy and quiet ferocity.

The Boy Who Watches and the Girl Who Can’t Grow Up

Kodi Smit-McPhee plays Owen, a bullied and isolated boy living with his alcoholic mother in a lonely Los Alamos apartment complex. His days are filled with humiliation at school and empty silences at home. He steals money to buy candy — Now & Laters — and dreams of revenge.

Then, one cold night, a strange barefoot girl named Abby (Moretz) moves in next door. She tells Owen they can’t be friends, yet soon they’re talking through the walls that divide their apartments. She never appears during the day. She walks through snow without shoes. The man Owen assumes is her father (Richard Jenkins) keeps nocturnal habits and carries an aura of dread.

The truth is clear to us long before it is to Owen: Abby is a vampire. But she’s also a child, trapped in an endless cycle of dependence and death.

Their friendship — tender, awkward, pure — blooms in the cold, each finding in the other what life has denied them: compassion.

A Remake Done Right

Remakes are often unnecessary. But Matt Reeves avoids the usual pitfalls by grounding Let Me In in atmosphere, casting, and emotional honesty.

Chloë Grace Moretz and Kodi Smit-McPhee bring something both familiar and fresh to their roles. Their chemistry is remarkable — a mix of trust, fear, and curiosity that elevates every quiet exchange. They convey the aching awareness of children forced to grow up too soon, yet still yearning for connection.

Supporting them are two understated yet vital performances: Richard Jenkins as Abby’s desperate caretaker, and Elias Koteas as a detective who slowly uncovers the grisly truth. Koteas, calm and mournful, becomes the film’s conscience — a presence that grounds the horror in something heartbreakingly human.

Beauty in the Bleakness

Let Me In is stunningly violent at times and almost meditative at others. Reeves’s direction captures the haunting quiet of snow and shadow, the warmth of flickering lamps, and the sudden terror of blood.

The violence lands harder because it’s surrounded by moments of stillness — stolen glances, whispered conversations, a shared smile through a window. Reeves reminds us that horror works best when it’s built from empathy.

Those two giggling theatergoers were wrong 15 years ago and they are still wrong today. Let Me In deserves a serious audience, one willing to look past the blood and see the tenderness underneath. For those who do, the film rewards them with one of the most hauntingly beautiful and emotionally rich horror stories of the 21st century.

31 Days of Horror: Dawn of the Dead (2004) — When the Dead Rise, Run for the Mall

Dawn of the Dead 

Directed by Zack Snyder 

Written by James Gunn 

Starring Sarah Polley, Ving Rhames, Mekhi Pfifer 

Release Date March 19th, 2004

Zack Snyder’s Dawn of the Dead (2004) reimagines George A. Romero’s zombie classic with explosive energy, sharp humor, and unexpected heart. Part action spectacle, part survival horror, it remains one of the few remakes that truly earns its place among the greats.

A New Dawn for the Dead

Before Watchmen or 300, Zack Snyder made his feature directorial debut with Dawn of the Dead, a remake of George A. Romero’s 1979 horror masterpiece. Written by James Gunn (yes, Guardians of the Galaxy James Gunn), this version reanimates the familiar story with early-2000s grit, relentless pacing, and a surprisingly effective emotional core.

Sarah Polley stars as Ana, a nurse who barely escapes her suburban home after her husband is attacked by a zombified neighbor child. Shell-shocked and alone, she bands together with a handful of survivors — a stoic cop (Ving Rhames), a practical everyman (Jake Weber), and a desperate young couple expecting a baby (Mekhi Phifer and Inna Korobkina). Together, they take refuge inside a shopping mall, hoping its walls can hold back the apocalypse.

The Mall as Fortress — and Graveyard

Like Romero’s original, Snyder’s Dawn unfolds almost entirely within the mall — a gleaming, sterile microcosm of consumerism now overrun by death. The survivors bond over fear and necessity, and the film captures that chaotic balance of camaraderie and panic with real tension. Toronto and Ontario stand in convincingly for Milwaukee, Wisconsin, grounding the film’s apocalypse in bland, suburban normalcy.

While most of the side characters exist mainly as zombie bait, a few stand out. Michael Kelly is memorable as CJ, a mall security guard whose shift from selfishness to sacrifice gives the film its one real arc of redemption. Still, the heart of the film lies with Polley’s calm resilience and Rhames’s stoic gravitas — a pairing that grounds the carnage in something recognizably human.

Fast Zombies, Faster Deaths

In contrast to Romero’s shambling undead, Snyder and Gunn’s zombies sprint, leap, and claw with feral speed. The change enraged purists at the time, but it works here, amping up both the suspense and the gallows humor. One standout sequence finds the survivors on the roof, trading sniper shots with a gun store owner across the street — picking off zombies that resemble celebrities.

The film doesn’t bother with explaining how the outbreak began. As in Romero’s original, “when there’s no more room in Hell, the dead will walk the Earth” is explanation enough. What matters is the momentum — Snyder’s film rarely pauses long enough for us to catch our breath, even as it occasionally sneaks in moments of quiet dread and melancholy.

From Satire to Survival

What Dawn of the Dead (2004) lacks in Romero’s social satire, it makes up for with pure adrenaline. There’s little of the consumerist commentary that defined the original, but the focus on survival and humanity in crisis gives the remake its own voice. Gunn’s script, rooted in Troma-style pulp, balances gore with wit, and Snyder’s eye for visual spectacle elevates it beyond most horror remakes.

The film’s ending — bleak, ambiguous, and darkly funny — may divide audiences. But in true horror fashion, it lingers long after the credits roll.

A Rare Remake That Works

As a rule, horror fans distrust remakes, and usually for good reason. But Dawn of the Dead (2004) defies the odds. It’s scary, funny, gory, and surprisingly well-acted — a slick, smart reimagining that honors Romero while staking its own ground.

Two decades later, Snyder’s debut remains one of the best zombie films of the 21st century. Not bad for a movie that starts with a ten-year-old neighbor biting your throat out.