When her sister mysteriously disappears, Clover (Ella Rubin, Fear Street: Prom Queen) and four Gen Z pals retrace her last known steps to a quaint empty inn in a remote small town of Glore Valley. Seeing as how the inn is chockablock with flyers for missing people of all ages, races, colors and creeds, you know things don’t bode well for them.
Sure enough, 27 minutes into the movie, all five are murdered. Then suddenly, they’re all alive again, finding themselves trapped in a Groundhog Day-style situation, but dispatched in different ways by different threats each go-round. Like Happy Death Day, the key to survival is figuring out how to break that loop. Bet the freaky hourglass clock on the wall stands as a Big Clue.
Based on a PlayStation game I’d not heard of, Until Dawn turns up with a nifty premise, allowing director David F. Sandberg (2016’s Lights Out) to tinker among several horror genres — slashers, witches, zombies, clowns, etc. — one night at a time. Still, even with each switcheroo presenting new situations (“Is anyone else growing new teeth?”), tiring repetition can’t help but set in.
Ultimately, Until Dawn wastes its invention on underwritten, unlikable characters, as you’d expect people named Clover would be. (How are the others not named, like, Chakra, Journey, Justice and Inclusion?) That may explain my enthusiasm for something of its midpoint breather, in which — spoiler alert! — coughing leads to exploding.
It’s not enough. Until Dawn is high-sheen corporate synergy studio horror as aimless as it is needless. —Rod Lott
To avoid jail time, troubled young man Max (Pete Davidson) takes a Daddy-arranged temp gig as live-in janitor for Jump Scare Green Meadows retirement home.
“You mean like old people?” Max asks. Yes, exactly that.
On Day 1, Max is told not to breach the fourth floor. Yes, The Home is one of those “something is wrong with this place” movies. (That’s a direct quote, by the way.) Worse, it’s as elementary plotted as the generic title suggests. After a tragic event occurs in the first half, the doctor in charge (Bruce Altman, 2006’s Running Scared) consoles our protagonist with, “I’m sorry, Max. We just didn’t see this coming,” it’s hard not to think, “Seriously? Anyone watching this will.”
The Home may be routine in its telling, but The Purge creator James DeMonaco infuses it with memorable imagery throughout, like thin icicles hanging from the eyes of a statue. Or an anatomical mannequin coming to life. Or the elderly lady engaging in rowdy coitus while wearing a mask apparently borrowed from The Strangers.
Any questions regarding story are usurped by a more transparent concern: Why is Davidson, best known for his eight-season run on TV comedy institution Saturday Night Live, starring as the lead in a horror film? This isn’t a tongue-in-cheek exercise like Bodies Bodies Bodies. He’s just not a fit for The Home, because he’s never not just Pete Davidson. I like the guy, but his tabloid infamy overshadows any performance. It’s not like DeMonaco aims to separate the art from the artist, either; the first thing Davidson does onscreen is light a bong; later, he wears a Staten Island T-shirt; and his tattoos become an actual plot point.
The movie’s final third is the dregs, until Max goes Oldboy in the Green Meadows hallway. And all during a hurricane for no reason other than the storm ups the danger ante. Flying chunks of ceiling acting as Ginsu knives aren’t enough to make a visit to The Home any sweeter. —Rod Lott
Carla has visions. Of a science-class skeleton rolling around in a wheelchair. Of a monk violently ax-whacking the head of a Buddha statue. Doctors have “a perfectly reasonable explanation: You’re a medium!”
It’s true! Played by Stefania Orsola Garello (2004’s King Arthur), Carla’s one of a few University of Rome geology students heading home after a lengthy stint of field work. One of them looks like God placed his ears on upside down. Landslides and bad weather conspire to close the highway, forcing them to hunker down in an out-of-season hotel — The House of Lost Souls, one might say.
Also staying at the hotel? Chainsaws, bear traps, tarantulas. And activities? Decapitation is definitely on the table. (And in the laundry dryer.) Amenities? Well, a kid says, “Wow, what a meal, kid,” and that’s the best part.
Director Umberto Lenzi (Ghosthouse) builds The House of Lost Souls atop a foundation of the expected gore, but it lacks pizazz. The film was made for Italian TV as one unit of a four-part series, another being Lenzi’s The House of Witchcraft. However, for my tastes, the most fun to be had reside within the other two, The House of Clocks and The Sweet House of Horrors, both constructed by Lucio Fulci, who knew more about being a bad, bad neighbor. —Rod Lott
For 63 years, a mountain known as the Forbidden Wall’s been off-limits to climbers — not that anyone in recorded history reached its peak. Oh, they’ve tried, but never completed the treacherous task. Somewhere along the way, they fell victim to an evil aural presence that drove them insane enough to unhook their gear and take the Nestea plunge.
Now, the tribal council in charge of the sacred chunk of rock has voted to allow half a dozen of the world’s greatest climbers to give it a go. This time, it’s personal — at least for chill dude-bro Sean (Marc Hills, Blood, Beach, Betrayal): His gramps was the last to attempt the climb. You’ll repeatedly hear this story — and more! — in the exposition dump that constitutes the first 25 minutes of The Sound.
The expedition’s boss is our antagonist. We know this because his name is Colton. Played by Nicholas Baroudi (The Hating Game), Colton arrives like he’s Alec Baldwin in Glengarry Glen Ross, spouting such tuff-boss speech as, “I’m the boss, end of story. Don’t like it, there’s the door, I got 30 other people ready to take your spot.” (I’m paraphrasing, barely.)
We also meet the tribal chief (Wayne Charles Baker, Pathfinder), whose character is so stock, it could make soup. (Sample condescending dialogue: “The ravens told me you were out for a walk.”) The chief gives Sean a bonus task: “Seal that evil in forever.” Replies Sean, “What am I supposed to do? I’m just a rock climber.” Well, dumbo, for starters, you’re the one going up there.
As Jerzy Skolimowski did with 1978’s The Shout, sophomore writer/director Brendan Devane (The Canyonlands) faces a peculiar creative dilemma: When your story hinges on a sound that kills, how do you represent that for your audience? Or do you at all, leaving it to their imagination?
Not crafting a picture of nuances, of course Devane gives sound to, well, the sound. It’s a hodgepodge of voices and feedback and assorted auditory racket — nothing special or all that menacing. But sound design is the least of the film’s troubles. I mean, what do you think will become of the guy named Lucky? (Should you be waffling, would it help if I mentioned he’s not white?)
Although giving speaking parts to real-life pro climbers (like Alex Honnold of the Oscar-winning doc Free Solo) is a nice, respectful gesture on Devane’s part, these remarkable athletes aren’t remotely skilled as actors. His decision to center the movie around Hills is almost as baffling; as Sean, the guy has presence — but one best described as “sleepy.”
Then again, Hills is asked to breathe life into dialogue that wouldn’t take spark with strike-anywhere matches. Take, for example, Sean’s mid-cliff convo with fellow climber Kristin (Rachel Finninger, Monstrous) after the acoustic from Abaddon again rears its fury:
Shaun: “I felt it in my head. Which means it can be in anyone’s head. It can be in your head.” Kristin: “Are you, you know, you?” Shaun: “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Of all the script’s figurative missteps, the biggest and most brainless is what happens — or who pops up, really — in the finale. It’s so wrongheaded, I’m tempted to reveal it, yet mere words wouldn’t do the jaw-dropper justice.
And popping up elsewhere in cameos, thirtysomething’s David Clennon and Tenacious D’s Kyle Gass appear via FaceTime. On the bright side, The Sound features some great photography when it’s not obviously on a set. —Rod Lott
What are you afraid of? Outpost 37 wants to know. Wrapping around the five stories of Phobias, the government testing facility conducts experiments of extracting fear and turning it into a gaseous weapon. Anthologies have had dumber setups, but the well-crafted Phobias pays its more mind.
Have your dictionary of choice handy, because the segments arrive with the names “Robophobia,” “Vehophobia,” “Ephebiphobia,” “Hoplophobia” and “Atelophobia” (and I swear I didn’t sneeze while typing those). You’re likely able to guess what the first one is about — and if not, I’ll tell you: A Korean man (Leonardo Nam, The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift) is befriended by an AI entity offering to take care of his racist bullies.
And the other stories, respectively? A jilted young woman (the Pitch Perfect trilogy’s Hana Mae Lee) is astonished to find a car that controls itself. A teacher (Lauren Miller Rogen, Sausage Party) is menaced in her own home by students angry at her extracurricular exploits. A cop (Martina García, ABCs of Death 2) is forever haunted after a child is mistakenly, fatally shot in a police raid. And singer Macy Gray runs an architecture firm — poorly, of course, given the subject matter.
Each ends on a note of shock or stress, yet something short of closure. Such is the feeling for the whole of Phobias. More tonally and visually cohesive than most anthologies these days, its bits come courtesy of the directors of Monster Party, Black as Night, Stray and The Astronaut, and in her first at-bat, actress Camilla Belle, perhaps best known as the beleaguered babysitter of 2006’s When a Stranger Calls remake. —Rod Lott
