Where I live, I’m surrounded by immigrants from African countries. I’ve not seen many genre movies centered on this immigrant experience. His House is one. It’s a horror movie, of course. The couple at the heart of it, beautifully acted by Wunmi Mosaku and Sope Dirisu, are Sudanese refugees. They’re given probational asylum in a fetid housing maze on the outskirts of London. Sequestered. Dirisu’s Bol determines to make the house they’re in their home. But it is not his house. The stares of Mosaku’s Rial carry a straining weight; as the film goes on, it reveals why. A curse has come with/upon Bol and Rial, a curse that first takes one mythic form native to their pain, then later a grotesque one to represent this country that doesn't want them. It’s a simple, effective story, with implications that aren’t easy to parse — all of it strikingly rendered by director Remi Weekes and his collaborators. The wisdom of the film is how it finds both horror and peace in a truth, the truth that nothing is ever really ours. Not a house or land, life or time. Everything is always borrowed. But it can be shared.