That loss makes her protective of Lewis, a precocious lad who carries dictionaries in his suitcase and uses words like “pulchritudinous.” He’s naturally shunned at school. Blink and you’ll miss the numerical tattoo on her arm, visible briefly in one scene. Wearing a pencil skirt and gray bun - Jonathan describes her, affectionately, as looking like a Q-tip - Zimmerman is an emigree from Paris who came to America after the war, in which her husband and child were killed.
It’s also the source of nightly ticktocking, though Florence can’t find anything in the crawl space. The house itself could be a replica of Stephen King’s, and its velour interior, designed by Jon Hutman and dressed by Ellen Brill, reps the film’s most distinctive ingredient, a mahogany-gold wonderland of seemingly limitless dimensions. Jonathan’s next-door neighbor and best friend, Florence Zimmerman (Blanchett), is introduced stepping out of a grandfather clock that seems to connect their two homes. Sporting a boxed beard and black kimono, Black leans into his regular persona, period be damned, begrudgingly telling a matronly neighbor (a memorable Colleen Camp) he’ll keep the noise down after midnight, even though “them’s me best jamming hours.” He’s a dream guardian, serving choc-chip cookies for dinner and insisting there’s no such thing as bedtime.
Kitted out by Marlene Stewart in a tweed jacket, bow tie and aviator goggles, Lewis (Vaccaro) arrives in the fictional New Zebedee, Michigan, in 1955, to meet his uncle Jonathan (Black), who has assumed custody of the boy after the death of his parents in a car crash.
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