Nowhere, Kansas yawns open: a purple CGI pup trembles in the doorway as the sky coughs up a dust‑devil full of faces. Liam Neeson’s gravelly inner monologue counterpoints Courage’s squeaks, turning panic into poetry, while Helen Mirren’s Muriel radiates tea‑warm bravery that could shame a storm.

The trailer snap-cuts through farmhouse surrealism—wallpaper that breathes, a bathtub filling with shadows, a gramophone that plays warnings backward. Familiar nightmares wink: a too‑smiling barber in moonlight, a crooked pharaoh’s curse etched in static, a cockroach concierge who charges in secrets.

Practical puppetry stitches to slick VFX; theremin shivers over fiddle lullabies; comedy lands on the exhale before the next shiver. Muriel’s kindness becomes the film’s anchor, Courage’s devotion its engine, as the house itself unfolds into a trembling maze to hide her from whatever rings the windmill bell at 3:03. Final sting: a door labeled “Nowhere” opens onto everywhere—and the dog steps forward anyway.