Hated ‘The Lighthouse’? Here’s Why You Were Supposed To.

Robert Eggers’ 2019 film, The Lighthouse, is a cinematic Rorschach test. Few films in recent memory have so cleanly divided audiences into two camps: those who see a masterpiece of psychological horror and those who see a pretentious, incomprehensible slog. Viewers often walk away either hailing it as a work of genius or decrying it as a frustratingly bizarre and unpleasant experience. There seems to be very little middle ground.

This article is for those in the latter camp. If you found the film’s plot nonsensical, its atmosphere oppressive, and its dialogue impossible to follow, you are not alone. But what if those criticisms aren’t signs of the film’s failure, but rather the keys to understanding its success? The premise here is simple: the most challenging aspects of The Lighthouse are not flaws to be overlooked but deliberate, meticulously crafted artistic choices designed to create a specific, nightmarish vision.

What follows is an exploration of the film’s most common critiques, reframed to reveal why the very things that may have made you dislike it are actually its greatest strengths. By the end, you may not love the film, but you will understand the method behind its madness.

The Story Makes No Sense… On Purpose

The Ending Is a Mess and the Plot Is Confusing

A primary criticism leveled against The Lighthouse is its obscure symbolism, surreal sequences, and lack of a clear narrative resolution. Many viewers leave the theater feeling the film “doesn’t have an ending” or is just a “random succession of strange events” with no satisfying payoff. Complaints about the ambiguous conclusion and cryptic events are common, leaving audiences feeling baffled rather than fulfilled.

This is a deliberate subversion of narrative expectation. The film prioritizes creating an “experience” over a “comprehensible movie.” The goal is not to tell a linear, logical story but to immerse the audience directly into the characters’ psychological collapse. As the two lighthouse keepers descend into madness, the laws of reality and narrative coherence break down for them – and for us. The confusion and lack of closure are meant to mirror their own disorienting, horrifying journey where nothing makes sense anymore.

“This is precisely the type of film that will garner equal amounts of unbridled praise by the arthouse diehards, as well as criticism (and likely rejection) from a lot of other viewers.”

It’s Designed to Be Unpleasant

The Atmosphere Is Intentionally Oppressive

Many viewers describe The Lighthouse as a deeply “unpleasant” viewing experience. Its atmosphere is frequently called “ugly, claustrophobic, hermetic,” with visuals that are “murky and relentless.” This isn’t an accident; it’s a calculated assault on the senses, achieved through specific technical choices.

The film is shot in a nearly square 1.19:1 aspect ratio, an “oppressive” and claustrophobic frame that squashes the characters together and emphasizes their confinement. The stark, orthochromatic-style black-and-white cinematography renders the world in grim, high-contrast tones, stripping it of any warmth. This is all amplified by the sound design, which is not merely a backdrop but a relentless assault on the nerves. It is a throbbing, unsettling noise—a low, discordant hum that sounds like a foghorn being played through a broken cello, which creates a feeling of inescapable dread. The film isn’t just about two men feeling trapped and unnerved; it uses its technical craft to make the viewer feel trapped and unnerved right alongside them.

The “Boring” Pace Is the Point

It’s Slow, Repetitive, and “Boring”

Another frequent complaint is the film’s pacing. Critics often label it as excessively slow, with repetitive scenes that stall the plot and lack meaningful progression. From this perspective, the film feels like it could have been condensed significantly without losing anything important.

However, this “slowness” is a primary tool used to create the oppressive atmosphere. The repetitive structure mirrors the mundane, grueling, and mind-numbing labor of the two “wickies.” Their days are a cycle of hauling kerosene, whitewashing the tower, and emptying chamber pots. By forcing the audience to experience this monotony, Eggers builds a realistic foundation for their gradual descent into madness, a descent that directly fuels the narrative breakdown. A sudden snap would feel cheap; instead, the slow-burn approach allows the dread to accumulate organically, making the final explosion of insanity all the more potent. The boredom is a feature, not a bug, it’s the engine of the characters’ psychological undoing.

The Dialogue Is Both Authentic and Alienating

The Old-Timey Dialogue Is Impossible to Understand

Many viewers express frustration with the film’s dialogue, noting that its “archaic and nautical jargon” is often so dense that it requires subtitles to follow. This difficulty can make it hard to track the plot and connect with the characters on a basic level.

This choice creates a deliberate friction between historical authenticity and audience alienation. The dialogue was meticulously researched and crafted, based on 19th-century sailors’ vernacular and the writings of Herman Melville to be historically accurate. It immerses us completely in the period. At the same time, its alienating quality reinforces the characters’ profound isolation not just from each other, but from the modern world and the audience itself. Willem Dafoe, in particular, weaponizes this archaic language, turning his monologues into arias of madness that are as compelling as they are confounding.

“…spouting rage-filled Melville-esque invective straight from Davey Jones’ locker…”

The Acting Is the Anchor in the Chaos

The Only Redeeming Quality Is the Acting

Even the most scathing reviews of The Lighthouse almost universally praise its central performances. The “undeniably outstanding acting” of Willem Dafoe and Robert Pattinson is often cited as the film’s saving grace. Both are described as giving “career best performances,” with an “intensity and realism that sells the film” even when the narrative is at its most abstract.

This is perhaps the most crucial element of Eggers’ design. In a film that is intentionally confusing, abrasive, and difficult, the raw, human anchor of the performances is what makes the entire artistic experiment not only believable but compelling. Dafoe’s tyrannical old sea dog and Pattinson’s tightly-wound subordinate create a dynamic that is terrifyingly real. Their commitment grounds the film’s mythological and surrealist flights of fancy in a tangible, desperate human conflict, giving the audience something to hold onto amid the storm.

An Experience, Not an Escape

Ultimately, the perceived flaws of The Lighthouse are a series of interconnected artistic choices that coalesce into its greatest strength. Robert Eggers masterfully orchestrates the narrative collapse, the sensory assault of the sound and visuals, the grueling pace, and the alienating dialogue into a unified and singular artistic statement. The film rejects the conventions of narrative entertainment to create something more visceral: a direct, unflinching simulation of a descent into madness. It is a masterfully crafted piece of psychological horror designed to be challenging, claustrophobic, and unsettling, not a pleasant escape.

This leaves us with a final, thought-provoking question: Does a film succeed by giving us what we want, or by giving us an unforgettable experience we never knew we needed?