Wes Craven’s My Soul to Take arrives with such a preposterous premise: that seven premature babies born the night of the death of a serial killer grow up as mirrors of his personality. (Granted, the dude did expire at midnight sharp, but c’mon!)
However, his kitchen-sink prologue makes me think the ludicrous nature of it all is intended, like a self-parody that was perhaps two notes too subtle for mass audiences to notice. Scream, it is not — but it is better than what would be Craven’s follow-up, 2011’s Scream 4.
Sixteen years after that over-the-top opening, the so-called Riverton Ripper — he of the cruelly curved blade emblazoned with the word “VENGEANCE” — is back. This time, his targets are those birthday boys and girls, including the asshole jock, the blind minority, the Jesus freak (“If things get too hot, just turn on the prayer conditioning”), the abused misfit and our protagonist, the unpopular and possibly schizophrenic Bug (Max Thieriot, TV’s Bates Motel).
The Ripper is easy to spot: He resembles a prematurely bald Rob Zombie and soup-kitchen hobo. It’s an unsettling and decidedly odd choice for a villain, but the misunderstood My Soul to Take is nothing if not a picture that bops along on its own unusual, discordant rhythms. Love it or hate it, you haven’t quite seen this film done this way before. It’s wildly imperfect, but interesting in its insanity, which is enough for me. —Rod Lott