“West of Arkham the hills rise wild, and there are valleys with deep woods that no axe has ever cut. There are dark narrow glens where the trees slope fantastically, and where thin brooklets trickle without ever having caught the glint of sunlight.”

There are places in this world that seem to exist out of time. Hidden and forgotten countries of wilderness governed by a carnal will so far removed from human relevance that it scarcely seems natural to us. It’s in those places where magic can believably reside, where the strange and unknown can blossom and where imagination ceases to remain fantasy.

Color Out of Space (2019) materializes in such a spot, rooting itself amongst trees which pepper its opening moments, appearing as ancient, interweaving monoliths, almost alien in the foggy dim light. Then a voice resounds, ushering the film forward with the words of H.P. Lovecraft, embedding a sense of preternatural power in the foundation of the narrative before it even begins.

Residing on the vast expanse of country estate are the Gardners. A somewhat stereotypical American unit, they have shed city life in lieu of a quiet existence on an inherited farm. They are imperfect and struggling, but cohesive. Still, it’s a bond predicated on the status quo, their life having recently been upended by Theresa Gardner’s (Joely Richardson) struggle with cancer and the family’s subsequent relocation. The world is uncertain, they are very much on their own and, as a result, their actions have become progressively more and more dictated by their steadily increasing self-doubt.

The titular color strikes at the heart of these insecurities. A neon purple ring in the sky, a shade unlike any other, forms as Theresa and her husband Nathan (Nicolas Cage) make love for the first time since Theresa’s mastectomy six months prior. Their daughter Lavinia (Madeleine Arthur) lies in bed, listening to music, trying to drown out the harsh reality of her mother’s illness and her new rural life as the color invades her space. Their eldest son Benny (Brendan Meyer) stares vacantly at his computer screen and their youngest Jack (Julian Hilliard) cowers in the hall, screaming for his parents as the sight and sound of wildly chromatic particles rush through his body.

The aftermath of the color’s arrival serves as proxy for the emotional dissonance that typically accompanies a shocking trauma. Nathan folds in on himself and pours a bourbon. Theresa resents it, embracing Jack, petrified and wordless, attune to the protective nature of her motherhood above all else. Benny is frightened and Lavinia just wants it to stop. The family drama exhibited here could just as well be about the life disruption caused by Theresa’s diagnosis as it is the arrival of a potentially malicious, otherworldly entity.

Richard Stanley directs with a keen eye and a striking vision. The film is a stunning display of luminosity, the interplay between light and shadow a masterclass on how to make a visual motif into a discernible character with clear motivation. The color interacts with each person on its own terms, dividing them and mining their uncertainties until all that remains is the core of what it is they were always afraid of becoming.

Nicholas Cage is the standout, early on establishing his tumultuous relationship with his “intellectually abusive” father, from whom he inherited the farm. As the color wears him down, physically and emotionally, he gives in to his father’s nasally, exaggerated persona. He adopts the intonation that he used in the film’s opening moments in jest, gradually unhinging himself until he is nothing but a heightened clone of his deceased dad.

And, yet, for all his admittedly hilarious outbursts about Alpacas and his drama-obsessed daughter, there are equally manic eruptions that have the opposite effect of a laugh. Screaming and hammering the dashboard of his battery-drained car and shouting at his wife about the sickening pervasiveness of “Cancer smell” are but a few examples of the other side of that coin. Levity exists in life (Nathan’s embarrassing stint on the local news makes him feel more like a real dad than almost anything else in the film), and its existence here is key to the viability of the fantastical narrative.

Each character is treated to their own descent into madness, shepherded by the burgeoning size and malleability of the all-encompassing color. As their minds slip and their psyches begin to skip, in understanding and in time, nature itself flourishes, imbued with the spirited complexion of the color— not stained but in a sort of blush. Whether it be the small flowers sprouting exponentially or the vivid insects the color births, there’s undeniable beauty present in the change.

But, much like Nathan’s transformation, there is absurdity to evolution. Awe can accompany more than beauty, after all, and the final stage of change often requires an avenue that borders on the grotesque. Emotional regression in the face of a tragedy can have detrimental side effects to any relationship. Even if their bodies weren’t transforming, Nathan’s reliance on bourbon, Theresa’s self-disgust and Lavinia’s dedication to spells and rituals treading toward self-harm could make quick work of eradicating the family unit.

The film actualizes the swirling emotions of grief, repression and pain with the culmination of the color’s efforts. Mutations, surrealistic and perverted visions of characters and animals, take the forefront. Living beings interacting directly with the raw, undiluted force of the color. Much of these abominations are brought to life with a combination of stunning practical effects and CGI overlay, lending a weight and physicality that solidifies the terrifying implications and impact of these creatures in the film’s final act.

When all is said and done, the film finds itself again contemplating the immenseness of that which people do not, will not and cannot understand. The voice that shepherds the film at the end is again the same as it was at the start, that of hydrologist Ward Phillips (Elliot Knight), a young outsider who throughout the film attempts to approach the oddities he encounters scientifically. However, in the end, science as we know it is a human construct. In this case, an ineffective serum against a virus from parts unknown.

Color Out of Space is bombastic, innovative science fiction. A vision of wonder and horror so arresting, from its dazzling color palette to its pulsating soundscape, that the experience of watching it feels more akin to the experience of feeling it. Grounding its characters in real, relatable emotion and mental turmoil, the outlandish events brought about by the interloping being from the stars are made all the more substantial and affecting when viewed through the prism of Richard Stanley’s extraordinary vision.

There are places on this Earth that are foreign to us. Strange, miraculous points of bewilderment and reverence. And if such places can exist where we live, breathe and die, imagine what lies beyond the realms where we can travel. For, when our existence is confined to the muzzled darkness in our own heads, the shine from the sun can be blinding.

Much like an emissary of light from some distant sphere, grief and wonderment can bring equal levels of shock to the system. The undiscovered country isn’t always out there, after all, sometimes it’s a feeling. A thought. A flash.

A color. As numbing and frenzied as H.P. Lovecraft suggested.