Duane Bradley arrives in Manhattan with his lion’s main of hair blowing in the wind and all the doe eyed innocence (and an uncanny resemblance) to a Brady. But his honest-to-goodness look are a cover for a secret, stored in a locked wicker basket which he takes everywhere and who’s contents intrigue everyone he meets. I mean it’s not exactly a monogrammed Louis Vuitton carryall, and the newsy neighbors in his shoddy hotel can’t help but raise an eyebrow and ask “So what’s in the box?”. Somehow, Duane, the king of awkward and the owner of the worlds weakest poker face keeps his friend a secret until the second act of the film.
When we finally see what’s inside, what a reveal! A turd of a creature with the face of a man, the body of Slimer and skin lumpier than a Worst Beach Bodies issue of Star Magazine. He’s got an appetite for hot dogs (Ayo!) and a penchant for scratching faces like a new member of The Bad Girls Club who’s trying to prove that she’s “The baddest bitch”. His special bond with Duane runs deep: the ability to speak through their minds and a shared decade long plot of revenge. When their codependent relationship is threatened by a kooky receptionist, little monster man gets pissed! Left alone with a television as babysitter, he escapes and begins a murderous rampage in the hotel of which no one is safe. Doesn’t Duane realize how brutal daytime TV is? And the neighbors must face what’s inside room number 7. It aint pretty and begs the question: Do we ever really know our neighbors? You might share some small talk with Mr. Janowitz but when he closes his door I can imagine he reaches for a Klondike bar that sits next to the severed head he keeps on ice. Nah, I’m just kidding. We all know serial killers prefer Ben & Jerry’s.