A girl’s strange behaviour makes her mother, who is also a fertility doctor with established beliefs, question that establishment.
Thrilling, depressing, and shocking all at once.
Run Rabbit Run is a proud Australian slow burn that raises a rather simple question and then spends its entire runtime refusing to answer it. Is it paranormal? Or is it psychological?
The viewer enters Run Rabbit Run knowing full well they are watching a horror film. Before long, most audiences will think they have figured out exactly what is happening. The clues seem obvious. The behaviour appears familiar. The narrative points in a particular direction.
But writer Hannah Kent (theatrical feature bebut) and director Daina Reid emphasise the problem. Sarah is a mother. And mothers do not easily accept explanations that threaten the foundations of their reality, especially when their children are involved. Or do they? That uncertainty drives the entire film.
Sarah Snook absolutely nails the role – as she absolutely does whatever the role. Every scene depends on her ability to balance grief, denial, fear, confusion, and maternal instinct, and she carries the film effortlessly. Whether you interpret events as supernatural or psychological, Snook makes both possibilities feel equally plausible.
What fascinated me most, however, was not the horror itself but the emotional core beneath it. Estrangement, family trauma, unresolved grief… The scars we inherit and the ones we pass on. In that sense, Run Rabbit Run joins the growing collection of recent films exploring maternity through the lens of horror – the full list of those I have watched will be revealed in the next review. Some approach it through possession, others through monsters, others through guilt, depression, or identity. Here, motherhood becomes a labyrinth.
And speaking of labyrinths, the rabbit imagery is far from accidental. Like Alice following the White Rabbit into Wonderland, Sarah is pulled into a metaphorical rabbit hole where certainty gradually disappears. Rabbits, holes, doubles, buried memories, and fragmented identities all become symbols for motherhood’s darker side: the fear of losing a child, the fear of losing oneself, and perhaps the fear that the two are inseparable.
Reid keeps everything mysterious and unsettling, allowing atmosphere and ambiguity to do most of the heavy lifting. And then there is that final look into the camera (no spoilers) that will keep you thinking about way past you turn off Netflix and your TV.
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