In 1922, Wilfred James (Thomas Jane) murdered his wife (Molly Parker). The mother of his only son, Henry (Dylan Schmid), his wife Arlette didn’t necessarily have it coming, per say, she just got in the way of what the men of the house wanted, and she paid dearly for it. See, Wilfred’s a farming man who is defined by his land, and with his wife being the sole proprietor of their property, and she having her heart set on trading in the endless rows of corn and hot summer days in exchange for big city life in Omaha, Wilfred felt as if he were backed into a corner. In his eyes, Wilfred had no choice but to kill her. That’s why he schemed up this awful plan and pulled in his reluctant son close to his side to aid him in his sinning, and together, the two of them got Arlette drunk, stabbed her to death while she slept off the booze in her bed, and dumped her body in the well behind the house.

At first, it seems like they got away clean. The law came around looking for Arlette, but they didn’t find anything except a filled in well in the backyard, freshly coated with sand and containing within it an aged cow whom Wilfred claims tripped and fell into the pit on its own accord. The sheriff buys his story, leaves the two men be, and now Henry is free to date his beloved Shannon, the girl next door who his mom never liked, and Wilfred is free to plow the land and spent his evenings porch sittin’ drinking rye and smoking his pipe, just like he always wanted.

That is until the rats begin to start gnawing into every which corner of their lives.

Just before he covered his dead wife’s still body in sand and excuses, Wilfred allowed himself to peek into the well at her fresh corpse. What he saw scarred him for the rest of his days – Arlette’s cadaver, cold and lifeless, her eyes cloudy, he skin covered in crawling rats. The image never left his brain, and when he started noticing rats popping up around his property, he becomes convinced that it’s not just an infestation, it’s Arlette herself, back from the dead, come to haunt him for his crimes. He might have removed her physical entity from this old farmhouse, but now her spirit lingers, and the torture of her memory is enough to drive both men mad, causing Wilfred to drink away his sorrows, and his son Henry to impregnate his young lover before whisking her away to carry out an unfulfilled life of crime and despair. Arlette’s ghost may not be real, but the memory of her, and what they did, will plague them until they’re six feet deep in the ground next to her – even in death, she’s still bound to them, and them to her, for all of eternity.

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Growing up as a kid in the ‘90s, my introduction to Stephen King adaptations was dealt mainly through TV movies, such as IT and The Langoliers and The Stand. There was a special kind of magic that came with watching these films, not only because it allowed a young girl who was otherwise forbidden to engage with such frightening material the chance to see what it was exactly that had everyone talking about this author I’d heard so much about, but also because these things became a sort of event in and of themselves. This was back before TiVo and streaming services changed the game, back when everyone had cable, and you had to tune in at a certain time on a certain night to watch your program, or you’d miss it. There was no recording a show while you were away from home and fast forwarding through the commercials later. I even recall picking up the morning newspaper and checking to see what time my favorite shows would play that evening. It was a special thing, gathering the family around the tube, tuning in, and sharing reactions with your loved ones and the rest of the world all at the same time. Perhaps that’s why I feel so partial to a movie like Zak Hilditch‘s 1922, which to me, feels just like one of those old King TV movie adaptations, and taps into my nostalgia that I’ve romanticized so much over the years. It feels like a time we’ll never get back again, but with flicks like this one, it seems like this is the closest we might get to the days of old.

Sure, the pace drags a bit here and there, and it’s not quite as scary as the newest rendition of IT or the squirm-inducing Gerald’s Game, but there’s something quaint and wonderfully old-fashioned about 1922 that makes it charming in its own right. Aside from simply reeking of King – the rats, the dead coming back to life to spill secrets and haunt the living – there’s one scene in particular that really sold me on this one. Just after Wilfred really starts to lose everything, including his sanity, he sits lonely in the ruins of his atrophied home, the sunken roof trickling down snowflakes upon his tortured head and the bottle of booze in his shaking hand, as a grazing cow passes in front of him, causing the viewer to question whether this moment in time is one of reality or that of a dream – or rather, of Wilfred’s nightmare. The good parts are scattered here and there, but overall, this is an adaptation that’s extremely faithful to the source material, and worth watching for anyone who wishes to feel nostalgic for the days when you could only catch a King adaptation if you were home at the right time in front of the tube.