Confined location thrillers may have begun as an easy means of limiting production costs, but it's become a renewable gimmick based on how many situations the premise can be applied to. 12 Angry Men practically invented the technique because it was based on a stage play and captured what it’d be like to experience an intimate live production. However, contemporary entries in the subgenre seek to isolate characters in a claustrophobic situation in which their problem-solving skills are put to use. While this can end up being as upsetting as the Stephen King adaptation Gerald’s Game or as entertainingly ridiculous as the Blake Lively aquatic thriller The Shallows, it's a narrative device that presents a hook to potential members of the audience—what would you do in the situation?
It’s not an insult to say that Locked should’ve been made two decades ago, because the industry could use more films that explain themselves with a simple logline. The role of Eddie Barrish, an absent father and jobless ex-con, was originally written with Glen Powell in mind before the Texan actor was seduced by bigger projects. It’s fascinating to consider what someone with Powell’s likability would do in the role of a self-loathing anti-hero when considering he was replaced by Bill Skarsgård, an actor who’s made a career out of playing unsightly monsters.
Eddie’s motivation is as straightforward as wanting to provide for his daughter, but it's effective as a means to set up the story’s twist. It’s after an attempt to break into a state-of-the-art SUV that Eddie’s trapped in the vehicle, which has been modified to adjust its internal climate and drive itself. It’s only shortly after he’s been stuck that Eddie’s introduced to the car’s unseen owner, William (Anthony Hopkins), who can only communicate through the vehicle’s speakers. With his cell phone signal blocked and the car’s windows turned opaque, Eddie’s left to William’s mercy and left to contemplate his confinement.
Outside of a clever visual trick in which it’s revealed that onlookers can’t see or hear anything that Eddie does while inside William’s augmented torture chamber, Locked doesn’t make many leaps in its imagination of vehicular technology. It’s not the first confinement film that’s set within one car, given A24’s Locke and Netflix’s Wheelman, but it’s unique in that the SUV isn’t moving. The simplicity of the inciting incident in Locked is reflected in its character motivations, which are devoid of unnecessary convolution. William’s a dying man, once a medical professional, who’d waited for someone to spring his trap. There’s no overarching conspiracy; it’s just a sadistic capitalist versus a down-on-his-luck nobody who could easily disappear without a trace.
Locked isn’t devoid of subtext; that William’s a doctor who’s dying of cancer is a dramatic irony used to justify his interest in being able to “play God.” It’s also not unnoticed that Eddie’s trapped within the prized possession of the upper class he’ll never be a part of, which is designed specifically to dispose of people like him. Yet, Locked isn’t weighed down by philosophical debates between its two leads about crime and punishment, and is at its best when Eddie’s forced to conceive of quick-witted solutions to his macro problems. It’s only when William’s analytical skills allow him to track down Eddie’s daughter, Sarah (Ashley Cartwright), that the credibility is strained.
Locked was produced by Sam Raimi, and the influence of his torture horror roots can be seen. The first third of Locked is framed like a Final Destination sequel because of the various punishments Eddie’s meant to endure, which include a humorous moment in which the car’s speakers are made to blast yodeling music incessantly. It’s in the middle chapter that Locked’s transformed into a Cast Away-esque survival drama, where Skarsgård is given ample room to show his strengths as a physical performer. Although Skarsgård was able to contort his body in all sorts of disturbing ways when cast as Pennywise in the new It films and prequel show, it’s more distressing to see him play a normal guy who is withered down by malnourishment and starvation.
Hopkins once infamously quipped that he’d mark down the initials “NAR,” meaning “no acting required,” on potential scripts that were sent his way where he could appear on set with little-to-know preparation; while he was cast as the all-powerful Odin in the Marvel film Thor, Hopkins faced little pressure to return because the character was ridden with a mysterious illness that rendered him unconscious for nearly the entire runtime. It’s more than likely that the screenplay for Locked got Hopkins’ “NAR” seal, but his voice is still more than enough to instill fear. The most obvious template for what Locked became is Phone Booth, in which Colin Farrell was caught within a New York public call box for 81 minutes. Phone Booth is a better film than Locked, but Hopkins’ didactic, gentlemanly voice is far more intimidating than the monotone murmuring of Kiefer Sutherland.
Locked is an impressive feat in directing for David Yarovesky, but it’s more effective as a series of suspenseful mini-set pieces than a feature-length narrative. There are enough examples of claustrophobic nail-biters to suggest the concept would work best as one piece of a larger story, such as the episode “Fly” from Breaking Bad. Locked may feel more ambitious because it’s unencumbered by goals beyond being a feat in suspense and occasional black comedy. It’s more admirable that Locked is aware that its legacy is to be forgotten, and not remembered as an overcomplicated mess that squandered its potential.