Bless Sam Raimi. With the Evil Dead trilogy, this subversive American filmmaker bestowed upon horror fans an outrageous collision of horror, comedy, and gross-outs gags that became truly iconic. His madcap energy made the Spider-Man trilogy a foundation in superhero cinema, and then the grisly Drag Me to Hell (2009) assured fans that his foray into family-friendly fare didn't mean he'd lost his touch. Now, nearly 45 years since The Evil Dead debuted, he's once again serving up gloppy, gnarly, and hilarious horror with Send Help.
2026 is off to an incredible start in terms of horror cinema, thanks to Nia DaCosta's epic 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple. And even though that zombie movie involves a prolonged scene of torture and flaying, Raimi's Send Help is far more likely to have audiences gagging, thanks to an almost gratuitous amount of glop. We're talking blood, sweat, vomit, and whatever else might ooze in quantities that had a packed theater of critics gasping and yelping in shock and deranged delight. But all this gross spectacle is just the start of what makes Send Help a totally twisted thrill ride.
Send Help plays like Romancing the Stone meets Triangle of Sadness... meets Misery.
Dylan O'Brien and Rachel McAdams in "Send Help."
Credit: Brook Rushton / 20th Century Studios
Rachel McAdams stars as middle-aged pencil pusher Linda Liddle; she's diligent, smart, and has a lot of unexpected skills, thanks to her deep love of Survivor. So, she's pretty pissed off when her nepo baby boss, Bradley Preston (Twinless' Dylan O'Brien), decides the promotion she deserves will go to one of his frat bros. However, their power dynamic shifts dramatically when a business trip leaves them both shipwrecked on a desert island.
While a wounded Bradley is useless in building shelter, foraging, hunting, or gathering water, Linda's untapped survival skills make her a force to be reckoned with in the wild. So, yeah, it's basically like the third act of Triangle of Sadness, when the sunken yacht's cleaning lady, Abigail (Dolly de Leon), takes charge of the spoiled, rotten rich folk who've washed up on shore. However, Send Help's screenplay — by Damian Shannon and Mark Swift — pushes this premise beyond the expected "eat-the-rich" comedy into terrain that is both familiar and strange.
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Some scenes hint at an enemies-to-lovers arc, where, forced to survive together, Linda and Bradley find the good in each other, despite their differences. Perhaps, in the wild, they'll get past their egos and fall for each other like Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas did in Romancing the Stone? There's certainly enough tousled curls and bared flesh for the possibility. However, other scenes suggest that Linda's interest in Bradley isn't so simple. Her obsession with not only showing him her worth, but also making him pay for his bad behavior leads to scenes that are jaw-dropping in their menace. As she flashes the only knife they have at him, I couldn't stop thinking about the hobbling scene in Misery, wondering just how dark Send Help would go. And in this weird space of genre mash-up, McAdams is riveting and darkly, darkly funny.
Rachel McAdams is unexpectedly brilliant in Send Help.
Rachel McAdams in "Send Help."
Credit: Brook Rushton / 20th Century Studios
No shade to the Oscar–nominated Canadian movie star, but for the first half of this movie I thought she'd been miscast. The premise of Send Help and some of its flirtier scenes might suggest that a rom-com icon like The Notebook star would be well-suited to the role of Linda. However, from the opening frames of this film, Raimi paints Linda not as a standard quirky-but-cute heroine, but as a repulsive mess. Her attire is ill-fitting, as if every piece of it is fighting with the next. Her hair is flat and greasy, as if she's forgotten that her hair even exists. And she brings a sloppy tuna salad sandwich to work every day for lunch, which ends up smudged onto her desk, her face, and even her boss' hand. When he coldly tells her there have been complaints about the "noxious" smells at her desk, you can practically get a whiff of the tuna and Miracle Whip through the screen.
I marveled at why Raimi would cast McAdams in a repulsive role that felt like a riff on Roseanne Barr in She-Devil. It's strange to see this elegant movie star dressed badly, making cringeworthy, socially awkward conversation. But this discomfort is intended, as she will bloom like the She-Devil anti-heroine. Incredibly, Linda's time on the island leads to her getting a natural glow-up as she rediscovers her confidence. Frolicking under a waterfall, this is the romantic heroine McAdams audiences are familiar with — but not entirely.
Always under the surface of Linda, there's something off about her. Despite her being the protagonist of the film, there's the unnerving sense that we can't really tell what's going on in her head. Sure, at first, audiences might well relate to the "eat-the-rich" fantasy of thriving on a tropical island while a shitty boss' life is in your hands. But McAdams never leans fully into her charisma, always keeping an edge to Linda that flickers like her annoyed eyes or the blade of her knife. Raimi wrings excitement out of a cat-and-mouse game between Linda and Bradley, where your empathy might well shift from one to the other and back again, and again, and again. By the film's end, McAdams has transformed, not just physically, but from a pitiable heroine in distress to something far more camp and thrilling, putting her performance here in the good company of Goldie Hawn and Meryl Streep in one of my all-time favorite comedies, Death Becomes Her.
Send Help is a gross and glorious good time.
Dylan O'Brien in "Send Help."
Credit: Brook Rushton / 20th Century Studios
McAdams feasts on every frame of this movie, and O'Brien — who thrilled critics with his astounding double act in last year's dark comedy Twinless — is her perfectly paired scene partner. At the start, his Bradley is an archetype of a rich asshole, brashly bullying his employees and casually sexually harassing any hot woman in his orbit, while wearing obscenely expensive clothing. On the island, however, the power dynamic shift pitches him into sulking, whimpering, or cajoling — all done with a keen comedic awareness. His torment is meant to be horrifying and hilarious, and it is, not only because of Raimi's mastery at building tension but also because O'Brien has sly but stellar skill for the playing the fool.
He and McAdams collide so sensationally in this movie that it could have been fun, even if it were less gross. But honestly, the sheer amount of glop that Raimi flings at his stars and onto the screen enhances the sense of mayhem and suspense. Just as the script slams genre elements of romantic fantasy, dark comedy, and psychological thriller together to keep the audience off balance, the glop and gore knocks us out. For example, just when you think a scene is done with the vomit (or the blood), there will be another burst of fluid. Then another. And again. And each time, the audience I was part of screamed in horror, shock, and awe.
This was an incredible viewing experience; Raimi took me back to being a kid again, watching Evil Dead 2 on VHS and squealing at the sheer outrageousness of it all. All these years later, I'm much harder to shock — and yet he did it again. Watching Send Help, my stomach churned, my jaw dropped, my eyes bulged, and I threw my hands over my face a few times to guard from the gross explosion on screen. Then I walked out cackling and giddy, because Send Help is not just one of the grossest movies I've seen in the last decade. It's also a rip-roaring, no-fucks-to-give good time.
Send Help opens in theaters on Jan. 30.
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