From Blumhouse, the producers of Paranormal Activity and Get Out, comes this teen horror-thriller with neither the franchise potential of the former, satirical edge of the latter, or scare factor of either. Our generic band of college kids (living in their ludicrously fancy accommodation and kitted our with every fruit-based device at their disposal) are partying in Mexico for Spring Beak when a mysterious stranger (who they can definitely trust because he’s the right kind of rugged) involves them in a game of truth or dare. When the teens return home, they find the game has followed them, their nearest and dearest briefly transforming into hideous pursuers who urge their victims to reveal dark secrets or perform dangerous acts.
There’s nothing inherently wrong with this premise: many genre movies have been built on far less a stable foundation than a drinking game. It’s the flat execution and shrill performances that crush this unpopped kernel of potential fun. By-the-numbers doesn’t even begin to cover the construction. All together now: cast of idiot teenagers do something stupid. Something weird happens to one but they neglect to tell the others. Twenty minutes are spent fruitlessly trying to get us invested in their plight (a little personal bias comes in here, as the jock character closely resembles a childhood bully of mine). Everything goes very wrong and then there’s a stupid ending (credit where it’s due: there’s no final frame jump-scare).
For all the various crises - read: daddy issues - of our cast (such as a closeted student forced to out himself to a homophobic father or a habitual cheater dealing with her father’s recent suicide), I found myself cold to their plight. Largely because of their entirely plot-driven idiocy, but also because the methods used to dispatch them once the premise collapses and truth or dare become interchangeable are (with the exception of a crafty rooftop vodka binge) so blunt and bloodless. One supposes this comes part and parcel with production values of an episode of Riverdale, where prosthetics and make-up is made unaffordable by hugely unimpressive CG work. The sign of demon possession is little more than a Trollface Snapchat filter, an insult actually levelled by the protagonists towards their tormenters in a cynical attempt by the filmmakers to sidestep criticism. I dare Blumhouse to do better.
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