Good Boy

Good Boy is one of those rare horror films that chills your blood, not because of its jump scares, but because it forces you to immerse yourself in the fragile, silent bond between a human and his dog. Directed, filmed, and co-written by Ben Leonberg, it is told entirely from the perspective of his own dog, Indy, a Nova Scotia retriever, who becomes both the protagonist and the emotional backbone of the film. What could have been a clever short film idea is transformed, under Ben Leonberg's patient eye, into something much deeper: a ghost story disguised as a meditation on loyalty, grief, and the limits of understanding between species. From the very first images, where Indy wanders through an empty house half-lit by faint winter sunlight, we sense the intimacy of the project. This is not a director manipulating an animal for show, but a filmmaker translating his dog's natural curiosity into cinematic language. The perspective—low, cautious, constantly adapting to sound rather than sight—revisits familiar horror tropes in a new light. We see human legs instead of faces, hear muffled voices through walls, and learn to fear silence. The effect is haunting, not only for what is visible, but also for what is hidden.

The plot unfolds with deceptive simplicity. A young man named Todd, played with quiet desperation by Shane Jensen, retreats with Indy to his late grandfather's rural home after being diagnosed with an unknown illness. The creaky, half-renovated house is filled with relics of the past: old photographs, VHS tapes full of static, and an atmosphere of abandonment that seems to beat like a heart. Todd's sister Vera, played by Arielle Friedman, pays them a brief visit, but the film's true relationship remains that between man and dog. As Todd's health declines, Indy becomes increasingly aware of invisible movements in the shadows, as if the house itself were alive. The supernatural threat never fully takes shape; it lingers at the edge of perception, mirroring the way dogs seem to sense storms or sadness before we do. What is frightening here is not the ghost, but the idea that love can trap us by forcing us to witness someone's slow decline without being able to help them. Every glance, every whimper, and every tilt of Indy's head becomes an act of devotion that turns into tragedy.

Ben Leonberg reportedly spent more than 400 days shooting the film, using Indy as a non-actor rather than a professional actor, and this authenticity permeates every frame. There are no visual effects, no talking animals, no manipulative music. Instead, Ben Leonberg creates emotion through editing, using the Kuleshov effect, where meaning arises from the juxtaposition of shots. A shift from Indy's calm, observant eyes to a dark hallway, or from his panting to the faint sound of breathing coming from elsewhere in the house, invites the audience to project their emotions and fears onto the animal's stillness. In doing so, Leonberg transforms Indy into a mirror for us, reflecting the confusion we feel when caring for someone we don't fully understand. The direction is meticulous and tactile. Wade Grebnoel's cinematography keeps the camera low and the lighting natural, relying on work lights and dying light bulbs to paint a palette of sickly yellows and dusty grays. It's a claustrophobic world, where every sound—the thud of footsteps, the scratch of claws, the whistle of wind against the door—seems amplified by isolation.

The house itself becomes a character, embodying both Todd's past and his decline. As Todd watches old tapes of his late grandfather, voiced by Larry Fessenden, the film takes on a metaphorical dimension: the past speaks through old media, declining technology becoming a channel for the dead. It is no coincidence that Fessenden, a veteran of American independent horror and chronicler of human frailty, lends his voice to the ghostly patriarch. His grave tone lends the invisible spirit a weary familiarity, suggesting that the haunting may not come from elsewhere, but from within. Leonberg resists traditional exposition; he refuses to explain whether the house is cursed or whether Todd's illness distorts reality. This ambiguity, filtered through Indy's gaze, seems honest. A dog does not understand death; it only understands change: smells, rhythms, absences. Thus, the film is less about confronting evil than about dealing with loss in its purest and most instinctive form.

For a film that takes place largely in a single location and with almost no dialogue, Good Boy maintains an impressive level of tension. Nevertheless, its greatest achievement lies in the emotional current that underlies the horror. The longer we remain in Indy's gaze, the more we realize that the real story is not about haunting, but about the unbridgeable distance between love and understanding. Todd's illness isolates him, and Indy, ever loyal, cannot understand the reason for his pain, only the fact that it exists. The repetition of certain sequences—Indy exploring the same rooms, returning to the same doors—reflects the circular nature of grief itself. It is in this repetition that the film risks monotony, but also finds its rhythm. The tempo is deliberate, sometimes punitively slow, but it is this slowness that gives weight to the small gestures: a paw on a bed, a muzzle against a trembling hand, a silent vigil in front of a closed door.

When the horror finally reaches its climax, it is accompanied not by screams or spectacle, but by silent devastation. Ben Leonberg stages the climax as a collision between exhaustion and inevitability, where the supernatural elements dissolve into the simple truth of loss. The final act blurs the line between the living and the dead so much that it doesn't matter which side of the line we're on. What remains is Indy's bewildered loyalty, the purest emotion in a world that is falling apart. The camera lingers on him not as a witness, but as the last surviving consciousness in a ruined space. It's rare to see a horror film find its catharsis not in survival, but in endurance, the act of staying, waiting, grieving without understanding.

Good Boy transcends its initial premise. It is not only an intelligent genre experiment, but a small, painful elegy on companionship in the face of mortality. Few films have captured with such tenderness what it means to love something—or someone—without having the words to express it. Ben Leonberg has made a debut film that is both a ghost story and a love letter, reminding us that sometimes the most faithful witnesses to our darkest hours walk on all fours and see the world from a few inches above the ground. Beneath the horror lies something universal and unbearably human: the silent contract of love, the promise to stay even when you don't understand why everything hurts. In this sense, Good Boy deserves its title twice over: once for the dog, and once for the filmmaker who trusted his companion to show him the way.

Good Boy
Directed by Ben Leonberg
Written by Alex Cannon, Ben Leonberg
Produced by Kari Fischer, Ben Leonberg
Starring Shane Jensen, Arielle Friedman, Larry Fessenden, Indy
Cinematography: Ben Leonberg
Edited by Ben Leonberg
Music by Sam Boase-Miller
Production company: What's Wrong With Your Dog?
Distributed by Independent Film Company, Shudder (United States), Shadowz / CGR Events (France)
Release dates: March 8, 2025 (SXSW), October 3, 2025 (United States), October 10, 2025 (France)
Running time: 73 minutes

Seen on October 25, 2025

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