The House of the Devil (Ti West, 2009)

Based only on the evidence of its mise-en-scène (which reconfirms the suspicion that pizza is the plebe marker of class in Reagan-era films), the grainy film stock (which impeccably captures haze and flicker and moonlight and shadow), and the slow-burning narrative (which rediscovers the terror in waiting, walking, and telephones ringing), one would be forgiven for thinking this film was recently discovered after decades of being interred in the dank basement of a Plainville, Connecticut, video store, incorrectly clasped in a The House on Sorority Row clamshell. However, one would sadly also be correct for thinking that this film selects style over substance, based on the evidence of its incessant Dutch angles and the ever-tracking camera, and its final reel, which ignites into an unconvincing bloody laughable mess of a porny insemination ritual.

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