A brutally candid exploration of lust, obsession, and grief, deliberately blurring the line between romantic drama and psychological horror.

Fennell, whose reputation as a cinematic provocateur comes from a pair of hotly disputed previous films, Promising Young Woman, and Saltburn, seems to be setting up a kind of punishment for our expectations: If we were imagining one of world’s most endearing tragedies about passion being turned into a sexually frank and explicit drama, Fennell suggests strongly we think again. That more or less holds true for the rest of the film. As much as the trailer suggests an unhinged, psycho-sexual bacchanalia, the actual event is far more tame  —  at least, graphically  —  than what we might have imagined. 

The traditional Dracula is, of course, known for draining his victims of blood and life-force. Not a great guy, but still not one you necessarily expect to command you to “suck” his “cock,” especially from numerous horrific A.I. interpretations of the character. As the literal opening line in Radu Jude’s riotous vampiric polemic, the irascible director is giving you a heads-up on what to expect for the rest of the film’s nearly three-hour runtime. 

Working from a fusty script by writing duo Damian Shannon and Mark Swift, who wrote a previous installment of the Friday the 13th series, Raimi goes deep in his bag of tricks  —  comic fish-eye perspectives; extreme close-ups; POV cameras hurtling through jungle terrain; extreme and ludicrous gore  —  to keep things going, but the indecisive screenplay simply won’t allow for the full Raimi experience. 

Pandora is bigger, bolder, bluer, and more aggressively immersive than ever.

A similar scheme is hatched in Paul Feig’s film, although I have to be extremely vague about the details so as not to ruin the carefully plotted set-up. Suffice it to say, there’s a good chance you will utterly loathe the film as I did for almost the entire first two acts before the reward comes your way. 

There are a great number of mysteries in Rian Johnson’s third leg of his Knives Out trilogy, many of which answered save one — at least expressly: Why does the lighting change so dramatically in many of the film’s most directly parochial scenes?

Wright is working more or less within his element here  —  stylized violence surrounded by biting satire (a recurring bit featuring a reality series called“The Americanos”  —  a Kardashian stand-in family  —  is particularly ripe)  — and proves a good match for the material, even as King’s plot starts grinding its gears in the third act. 

For this film, a loose adaptation of Thomas Pynchon’s novel Vineland, the shots vary between languid and almost thunderously violent, from the lilting trills in Jonny Greenwood’s soundtrack, to abrasively coarse auditory punch-outs. At times, it’s like the effect of flipping through random channels on your TV, the sudden change of tone and timbre shocking you with their contrast.  

The conceit of the series is that the films are based on the real-life case files of the Warrens, who documented their encounters via various tape and video recordings (clips of which were often shown during the closing credits to suitably chilling effect). In theory, this has always added a bit of heft to the otherwise pretty flimsy goings-on, though by now, so much of the Warrens’ “accounts” have been thoroughly debunked — including supposed paranormal doozies like the Amityville haunting — it’s pretty much impossible not to take all of these films without a boulder of salt. 

… the final farewell left me both devastated and comforted.

So, does this reboot fly? Only through turbulence.