There’s a sucker born every minute, and some of them own banks.

A decent, if overstuffed, survey that makes up for its conventionality with a sophisticated, carefully constructed take on the elusive power of shoegaze (without ever once stooping to that derisive term). Take your pick of glaring omissions, though — Bardo Pond and especially Swirlies were mine.

Pretty fluffy. Every time I hoped it’d lean into the cruelty and ugliness of its premise it amplified its Vegas revue by-way-of Bob Guccione affect instead. Fenech is a prize in every way, though, and Martino nails the nightmare visuals in a couple of scenes, so all is forgiven.

The title’s practically meaningless, a lure to get inveterate horror fans to sit still for a movie that pivots on loss, lies, attachment fear, bloodthirsty patriarchal ineptitude, and a pair of fatal acts of kindness. Horror is what we do to each other, kids.

I have no problem with this approach, especially in a film that uses interior space and light so beautifully and that wields dread-for-the-sake-of-dread with such expertise. I had low expectations but high hopes going into this; all of the latter were exceeded.