The Plague Movie Review: Stylistic Water Polo Camp Hellscape

The “Tween Jungle”: Charlie Polinger’s Stylistic Gamble

Coming-of-age cinema is currently obsessed with the “trauma dump,” but Charlie Polinger is taking a different route with The Plague. By framing a 2003 water polo camp as a brutal, animal-like hierarchy, Polinger isn’t just telling a story about bullying; he’s attempting to carve out a space for himself as a visual technician. In an era of flat, algorithm-driven storytelling, this debut leans into a “trenchant intent” that consciously mirrors the precision of David Fincher, signaling a director more interested in the machinery of power and psychological warfare than sentimental growth.

From an industry perspective, The Plague is a classic “calling card” film. Polinger is telegraphing his range, blending the juvenile initiation rites of Lucile Hadžihalilović with bursts of Larry Clark-esque wantonness. The PR play here is clear: position the director as a versatile stylist capable of handling both the “nonsense” of a 12-year-old’s imagination—complete with Smash Mouth and fake thumb-chopping—and the cold, calculated framing of a psychological thriller.

The inclusion of Joel Edgerton as Coach “Daddy Wags” is the smartest move in the production. In a film populated by the “unfiltered rawness” of unknowns like Everett Blunck, Kayo Martin, and Kenny Rasmussen, Edgerton provides the necessary prestige anchor. He is the “ever-reassuring” presence that prevents the film’s flirtation with body horror and “psyops” from alienating the audience entirely.

However, the film’s reliance on established cinematic shorthand—specifically the “Private Pyle” framing of the outsider Eli and an ending lifted from Beau Travail—suggests a director still finding his own voice amidst his influences. While the first hour is a masterclass in atmospheric tension, the latter half succumb to predictable beats, revealing the gap between stylistic ambition and narrative resolution.

As The Plague hits digital platforms, the real question isn’t whether the “tween jungle” is convincing, but whether Polinger’s visual sharpness will be enough to propel him from the indie fringes into the mainstream machinery of prestige directing.