2016's Don't Breathe was a nail-biting subversion on the home-invasion subgenre, as teens breaking into a blind-man’s home found themselves trapped inside with the vicious homeowner. Five years later, a sequel has materialised which shifts the focus to The Blind Man (Stephen Lang), now raising a young girl called Phoenix (Madelyn Grace) who survived a house fire. When a group of criminals break into their house to take Phoenix, The Blind Man fights back in order to save her.

Rodo Sayagues takes over directorial duties, working off a script he co-wrote with Fede Alvarez containing an interesting idea. A father-figure tapping into their buried past of violence is nothing new, especially since Taken was released. When that past was the role of a villain, and that darkness becomes redirected at forces threatening their adoptive daughter, there comes an interesting twist to the formula.

Sadly, this idea feels misguided when shackled to an established property. If audiences hadn’t seen the lead’s villainous past in a previous film, the potential would’ve been there for moral ambiguity as we saw the father shrouded in a mysterious past grow more vicious. Instead, it plays as trying to redeem a murderous rapist, and after previously seeing him wield a turkey baster full of his semen, the last thing audiences want is to see him anywhere near a girl.

This doesn’t deter the filmmakers, as they use his scenes with Phoenix to try and tug on the heartstrings in a blatant attempt to get audiences on The Blind Man’s side. Paired with how the antagonists’ villainy grows to cartoonish proportions, it feels like desperate ways to justify this films existence. Any interesting ideas feel diluted by forcible attachment to the first film, making this feel more in common with Hellraiser 5 through 8.

​Credit where it’s due, the tension is replicated in one scene where Phoenix evades intruders, and the gory kills are worth one’s time. It’s just a shame how sporadic those elements are, with bizarrely grainy shots and frustrating character decisions being more frequent. When the contrived ending brings to mind the laughable way Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker ended, it’s clear the wrong lessons were taken in approaching this sequel.

Older man, younger woman. This set-up is inherently creepy, especially in show business. An unfortunate and depressing truth, but a truth nonetheless. In the post #MeToo and post-Weinstein cinematic landscape, Amelia Moses’ Bloodthirsty feels welcome and timeless, a film that treats these issues through the ever-versatile lens of horror by exploring grooming, visceral hunger and identity.

Identity is where the film begins, as we encounter troubled indie singer Grey (Lauren Beatty). A strict vegan, Grey suffers from hallucinations of animal ferocity and fleshy consumption, for which she takes medication prescribed by Dr Swan (Michael Ironside). She is also preparing for her second album after her initial success, and therefore experiences the dilemma of how to reward expectations while also not repeating herself. Her dilemma is echoed by those that the film faces as a whole: how to present material familiar to horror audiences while also being innovative, as well as how to engage with socio-political issues without being preachy.

Moses as well as screenwriters Wendy Hill-Tout and Lowell (who also composes additional music to supplement Michelle Osis’ haunting score) manage these dilemmas by focusing on the personal dramas that Grey faces. An early scene where she poses for a fashion photo shoot highlights the different personae that she must don, literally in terms of wigs and costumes. An aggressive reporter (Jesse Gervais) probes Grey about whether she and girlfriend Charlie (Katherine King So) plan to marry, despite Grey insisting that her personal life is not for public consumption. And yet it is Grey’s inner life, her mind and, dare we say it, spirit that her music springs from, or so we are led to believe when mysterious album producer Vaughn Daniels (Greg Byrk) invites Grey to come and record with him at his remote lodge that houses a recording studio.

The introduction of Vaughn’s isolated home, reached via a snowy drive through the Canadian landscape, may sound alarm bells for you. If so, you are not alone as Charlie immediately feels uncomfortable and urges Grey not to stick around. The couple’s initial tension escalates as Grey draws closer to Vaughn as he encourages her compositions, forcing her to confront her inner demons and to trust him. Each time he urges Grey to trust him he seems more unsettling and his actions less appropriate, but while at the same time Grey does become more creative and seemingly more open. Her initial mousiness steadily gives way to something more confident and even predatory.

The single location and small group of characters – Vaughn also has a servant Vera (Judith Buchan) – recall various other films, especially Ex Machina despite being far lower tech. It is perhaps not as thought-provoking as Alex Garland’s masterful inquiry into humanity and selfhood, but it does offer a strong emotional tone throughout. Moses displays masterful control of the cinematic space, using steady shots to capture our characters in enclosed spaces that are nonetheless isolating. By contrast, there are instances of jarring editing that reflect Grey’s similarly fractured mind. Time and space jump around, what she did and how is not made clear. The sound design is especially evocative, as mastication is emphasised on the soundtrack to visceral and decidedly chewy levels. The sound of eating links to Grey, and the film overall is at its strongest when it maintains its focus on her as well as keeping things ambiguous – there are some revelations that take place away from Grey which detract from her arc.

On this note, the film makes great use of Grey’s songs as commentary for the events. The inclusion of a song called ‘Bloodthirsty’ might seem a bit on the (wrinkled) nose, but it works as a reflection on the events, a discussion of fame and a (literal) coda. Meanwhile, the steady development of Grey’s album provides a smart parallel between her growing apart from Charlie and closer to Vaughn, while her music as well as something emerges from within her. The music studio, especially the recording booth, serves as an atmospheric space for Grey’s creativity/subjugation, enclosed as she expresses herself and observed both by Vaughn and her own reflection in the entrapping glass. While the story may be well-worn, Bloodthirsty offers a bold and innovative twist that is satisfyingly unsettling, gory when it needs to be, and says something about the entertainment and media industries as ​well as contemporary female identity.

Neill Blomkamp is a genuinely compelling figure in the industry. A creative who’s career has often been sucked in by failed attempts to adapt Ips (Halo, Alien, Robocop) but all his work to date have been original works that all have fascinating points to make on our relationship to technology and to each other. But none have satisfied quite as much as District 9. And sadly Demonic does not end up being a return to form.

Carly (Carly Pope) is a woman haunted. In her nightmares her absent mother visits her as a terrifying prospect. And this is because, decades earlier, her matriarch was responsible for a terrible act of violence. But what if she could enter her mother’s subconscious? And what if this uncovers something supernatural in what took place in the past?

The story behind Demonic is perhaps more interesting than the film itself. Blomkamp has been absent from cinema for six years, and in that time has been steadily releasing fascinating short films. With the arrival of the pandemic, it suddenly became easier for the director to make a smaller, contained feature length. And thus Demonic was born.

And for much of the first half this seems to be capturing some creative magic. The narrative is initially genuinely fascinating, Pope is an interesting lead and the world being built feels complete and one we want to spend time. And yet things begin to fall apart as true motives are revealed. A compelling first half gives way to an increasingly ridiculous set of events that builds to a climax that would be lot more fun if it weren’t all taken so seriously. It all becomes a bit Da Vinci Code left and feels as wooden and ludicrous as befell that book and film.

I do believe there is another great film in Blomkamp but Demonic is not it. This exasperating horror joins the likes of Elysium and Chappie as some good ideas undone by narrative weaknesses and pronounced flaws in its final act. The sci-fi here isn’t as engaging as you’d like it to be and the horror is often poorly shot, eking out very few frights. You just want Demonic to be better.

​I think for many this is a work that will frustrate and disappoint and I implore viewers to seek out other recent tech horrors like Possessor and Come True instead.

If you were going on a cruise, or more accurately, an expedition through the Amazon, whom would you hire as your guide? Alright, if you couldn’t have Indiana Jones or Lara Croft, because they’re busy doing their own thing? You want someone stalwart, someone firm, someone resilient, someone who could be a rock. Hey, how about The Rock, AKA Dwayne Johnson? His Captain Frank Wolff tells pretty awful jokes, charges too much and is a constant charlatan with an odd choice of pets. But he knows the river better than anyone and is therefore ideal for a couple of explorers seeking to penetrate the interior. Explorers like Lily Houghton (Emily Blunt) and her hapless brother MacGregor (Jack Whitehall), who come to the Amazon in search of a mysterious leaf that will cure any disease or injury. This being 1916, there is a demand for such a panacea.

Not that this is a simple trip, as Frank owes money and most of his boat to local magnate Nilo (Paul Giamatti), while Lily and MacGregor are pursued by German aristocrat Prince Joachim (Jesse Plemons), also fixated on the leaf that will make the Kaiser’s army invincible. Maybe Jungle Cruise wasn’t the best name, as this is more of a Jungle Quest, but that’s established intellectual property (in the form of a theme park ride) for you.

To be fair, the object of the quest isn’t terribly important, as the value of this cruise is the journey rather than the destination. And it is a fun journey. Rapids, waterfalls, wildlife, locals who start out hostile but turn out not be racial stereotypes, deadly German U-boats (seriously), immortal Conquistadors cursed with the properties of the jungle (I’m not making this up – the writers did!), ancient mechanisms and booby traps to thwart the hapless adventurer (slightly more familiar territory here).

Our heroes are a very affable bunch. Johnson and Blunt have wonderful chemistry and are very funny, while Whitehall plays a beautifully realised dandy way out of his depth. MacGregor continues Disney’s willingness to include LGBTQ+ characters, who experience prejudice and abuse for no reason other than the bigotry of others. If we could have an LGBTQ+ lead some time, that would be lovely.

The interplay between the three leads is reminiscent of Brendan Fraser, Rachel Weisz and John Hannah in The Mummy and The Mummy Returns (although far more fun than that in The Tomb of the Dragon Emperor), and this is only the first of the similarities. Jungle Cruise’s set pieces offer equivalent spectacle with plenty of thrills and spills, and director Jaume Collet-Serra balances the more horrific moments involving sentient mud and vines as well as vicious snakes and bees with wit and pathos. The magical adversaries are often reminiscent of those in that other Disney blockbuster based on a theme park ride, Pirates of the Caribbean, and the central trio also recall Johnny Depp, Orlando Bloom and Keira Knightley. It’s like a comedic trio is an established trope or something. Meanwhile, the presence of Johnson as well as the setting echos Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle and The Next Level. So the film is far from original and there’s plenty that you have likely seen elsewhere.

Collet-Serra does handle the familiar material effectively, but it is fair to say that you have likely seen it done better. The environment is more overpowering than the adversaries; there is an excess of vertical levels as our heroes climb, fall, climb and fall again. The linguistic gymnastics are distracting as, unlike The Mummy, Jungle Cruise is largely afraid of subtitles and German and (16th century) Spanish characters mostly speak accented English. The film also suffers from an over-reliance on digital sets and backgrounds, which have the effect of making the perils that our heroes encounter seem weightless and thus lacking in, well, peril. Some latter act plot convolutions feel unnecessary, and the film is at its best when it keeps things simple.

Simplicity is the film’s charm, and it succeeds largely because of its charm. Much of this is due to the winning charisma of the cast, while the quest narrative draws the viewer along for the ride. There is also great humour, such as German sailors taking orders from bees and a hilarious moment where two humans and a jaguar all vomit, two of them due to motion sickness and one because of intoxication. Figure out which one for yourself. Jungle Cruise may be Welcome to the Jungle Mummy of the Caribbean, but it fulfils that modest target with wit, spectacle and thrills to spare.

The Last Thing Mary Saw is a film that rewards expectations while also offering surprises. Its period setting and subject matter suggests a slow-burn delivery, with a reliance on atmosphere. This delivery and atmosphere are indeed what the film provides, with a steady drip-feed of menace that will likely prompt discomfort and anguish in the viewer. Along the way, however, there are also some shocks and jump scares, including moments of body horror. In the tradition of many of the best horrors, the film hints at various ideas without overt metaphor or heavy-handed symbolism, and does so by prompting empathy between the viewer and the suffering of its characters. 

Arguably, the most fundamental aspect of horror is expressing victimhood, whether that be victimisation by a masked killer, a malevolent supernatural force or wider societal forces. The Last Thing Mary Saw offers the last of these with suggestions of something else, but whether there is a need for any horror beyond the societal forces is debatable. Set in New York in 1843, Mary (Stefanie Scott) is the eldest daughter of a landowning family. Across three chapters, Mary narrates to the Interrogator (Daniel Pearce) the events that led to her being arrested. Chief among these is the forbidden passion between Mary and her housemaid Eleanor (Isabelle Fuhrman), their homosexual relationship condemned as ‘unnatural’ by Mary’s rigidly Christian family. The punishment of the girls is wince-inducing and heartbreaking, and also proves to be consistent with the family’s cruel behaviour when we learn of the treatment of another servant, Theodore (P. J. Sosko), whose resentment is well-balanced with resignation. 

The unhappy household, ruled with an iron fist by the Matriarch (Judith Roberts) forms the setting for a film about oppression that itself feels oppressive. Writer-director Edoardo Vitaletti and production designer Charlie Chaspooley Robinson create discomfiting surroundings through drab interiors with looming walls and ceilings, while director of photography David Kurta lenses the scenes in chilly, washed-out tones. Deep focus shots provide a long perspective, often of windows from the end of seemingly long corridors, adding to the sense of entrapment despite freedom seeming so close. Vitaletti shows confidence in the cinematic apparatus that he utilises effectively, as much of the film is wordless. Expression of theme is delivered through guarded faces, footsteps on the bare floorboards, creaks in the house and ominous candlelight. It is easy to forget the importance of lighting in film, because it is so fundamental that we rarely notice it. Here, Vitaletti balances flickering candlelight with deep shadow, indicating the menacing darkness that surrounds Mary and Eleanor and the feeble light that obscures as much as it illuminates. As mentioned, there are long stretches when no one speaks, and one character who ceases to speak altogether, and these stretches are juxtaposed with moments when characters speak at length as though delivering sermons. The dialogue is period-appropriate and softly spoken, the whispered ‘sermons’ adding an auditory dimension to the oppressive atmosphere. The sermonisers have no need for volume, as they brook no discussion and rapt attention is both expected and enforced. 

Through its mise-en-scene, old-style dialogue and subject matter, The Last Thing Mary Saw is reminiscent of Robert Eggers’ The Witch with touches of William Oldroyd’s Lady Macbeth. These period dramas all feature young women who struggle against social strictures, and like these films, The Last Thing Mary Saw evokes a strong sense of place and time. The dogmatic theological subjugation is scarily recent – rather than being 1690s Salem, this is mid-18th century New York, and much of the treatment of those who do not conform remains relevant. The contemporary resonance of this period story helps make The Last Thing Mary Saw a deeply sad tale with many disturbing moments. No one uses the term witchcraft, but its spectre weighs heavily over the proceedings. However, the end result is perhaps even more horrifying, as what serves as the ultimate source of suffering and oppression is not what you might expect. We see fear and hatred of what is different, but when things become seriously Old Testament, there is a strong sense of institutionalised domination that is very far from being Other. The last thing that did Mary see proves to be this source of subjugation, and the final image that the viewer sees, while heavily foreshadowed, ensures that this ominous tale will linger long in the memory. 

Let’s get this out of the way: Stillwater is not the Amanda Knox story. Although inspired by the actual murder of Meredith Kercher and the subsequent imprisonment of Amanda Knox, director Tom McCarthy and his co-writers Marcus Hinchey, Thomas Bidegain and Noé Debré have crafted a fictional story. It is the story of Bill Baker (Matt Damon), whose daughter Allison (Abigail Breslin) has been imprisoned in Marseilles, France, for a murder that (according to her) she did not commit. In his attempts to prove her innocence, Bill embodies the stereotype of the American abroad, encounters locals both helpful and recalcitrant, and draws closer to a type of truth. 

Having established what it is not, Stillwater remains something of a tricky film. It presents some rather crude events, but it is not a crude film. It touches on multiple interesting ideas but does not engage with them in depth. It is a story of various types, although it does not do adequate justice to any of them. As a result, it is both frustrating and moving. 

As a tale of family, Bill and Allison have a strained relationship – the scenes between them in the prison visiting rooms emphasise that their enclosure within this narrow space is likely the closest they have been in some time. Scenes of Bill describing their relationship add to this impression, and while Allison is clearly relieved to see him, the subsequent anger between them seems inevitable and, as a result, lacks emotional weight. While in Marseilles, Bill encounters local actress Virginie (Camille Cottin) and her daughter Maya (Lilou Siauvaud). In the absence of a close relationship with Allison, he develops new connections with them. This relationship is affecting as Bill’s interactions with Maya especially are touching and amusing. Virginie’s assistance of Bill does work when it comes from a place of helping others, although a late development feels unnecessary. 

As a tale of the American abroad, it is interesting to note how unengaging Bill is. An Oklahoma redneck, or more precisely, roughneck, his skills are mechanical work such as electric wiring, plumbing and demolition. His people skills are somewhat less developed, aided by Damon’s clamped-down performance. His baseball cap, goatee and sunglasses compliment his stocky frame and monotonal responses of ‘Yes, sir,’ ‘Yes, ma’am’ and his regular praying seemingly by rote. There is a strong sense of repression in Bill, which also comes across in his interactions with Allison despite her overt rebellion. Between them, there is evident regret: Allison over the choices that led her to her current predicament; for Bill over seemingly his entire life, or perhaps his inability to express himself. When Bill becomes more agitated, there is a sense of entitlement and that he can get what he wants – as Virginie tells him at one point, he behaves like an American and he confirms that that is what he is without irony or apology. 

On the other hand, there is also an acknowledgement that being an American gets him nowhere. How he voted does come up, but does not lead to the answer you ight expect. Without assistance, Bill is stuck, locals do not talk to him, although they do sometimes beat him up. Despite ostensible similarities to Taken (American aiding daughter in France), Bill lacks the special skills of Liam Neeson’s Bryan Mills, being specifically the bumbling American abroad. Later events do stray into the territory of taking what you want no matter what, which is problematic both politically and dramatically as the melodrama of this section fits uneasily with the generally down-to-earth approach McCarthy utilises. Frequent shots of the different areas of Marseilles, from the plush lawyer offices to the rundown prison interiors and the impoverished banlieue areas, give a sense of the environment as both lived in but also alien. 

The attempts at social presentation echo McCarthy’s previous film, the Oscar-winning Spotlight, where the director expertly placed a newspaper investigation within a wider sociological context and wove an intricate tapestry of Boston’s troubled communities. Stillwater does not present Marseilles in anything like this amount of detail. There are passing references to the insular nature of the banlieue, as well as to immigration in the form of local resentment towards ‘Arabs’ that crudely parallels American attitudes towards Mexican immigrants. The lack of exploration of these topics is frustrating as these moments offer the potential for an insight into attitudes towards others that Allison is herself a victim of. The frustration is more pronounced by the film being overlong – at 2 hours 19 minutes it overstays its welcome with an excess of scenes that, for the most part, lead to little. 

However, it is perhaps notable that Bill appears to learn very little over the course of the film. We expect our protagonists to go on a journey, learn more about themselves and provide us with the growth that we like to think comes with experience. By eschewing this typical arc, McCarthy may give the film a kind of strength precisely through that which makes it frustrating. For all our experiences, do we ultimately end up back where we started? The film begins and closes with Stillwater, Oklahoma, and while there is (again) a mild suggestion of seeing things differently, it may be that that revised perspective ultimately changes nothing. Stillwater is a limited experience that does not entirely work, but it nonetheless may offer material to reflect on about our own willingness or indeed ability to change. ​

The recently divorced David Vanowen (Ford Austin) moves into a rundown place with the intention of carrying out his own restoration project, starting with the replacement of the septic tank. Landscaper Allen (Richard Riehle) cautions against the D.I.Y. approach for that particular part of the property but David is determined not to get the professionals in. It’s when he sets to work that he discovers a body buried in the backyard. And that’s not all – there also over three million dollars in cash.

Any initial thoughts David has of reporting his discovery to the police are soon overshadowed by the thought of the large pile of money and what good it could do in terms of improving both his life and the lives of others around him. Daughter Jessica (Rachel Alig) needs financial assistance and David’s once bright prospects of promotion at the tech company he works for appear to be dimming by the day.

All seems well with David’s unexpected windfall until the corpse starts showing up around the place and our anti-hero’s already fraying nerves from his recent stresses and strains threaten to shred even further and tip him over into full-blown insanity. Can he keep the dead guy at bay and what will he do to keep his hands on the cash?

Writer/director Michael P. Blevins’ horror thriller is an odd one, a mix of the creepily effective and the downright clunky that holds the interest in spite of – and possibly because of – some strange choices along the way. The corpse himself, played by Tom Fitzpatrick, is a wonderful creation, a nightmarishly hilarious Carnival Of Souls type who’s good for providing a couple of startling appearances early on in the piece.

As the story progresses, there’s less of a focus on the dead body and more emphasis on David’s deteriorating mental state as he grows increasingly paranoid and his behaviour lurches from one erratic episode to another. At one point he turns up at work completely oblivious to the fact that he has blood on him, a fact which does not go unnoticed by his boss Mr. Wu (Clint Jung) who isn’t an uncaring bloke but also needs that project finished, damn it!

It’s moments like these which amp up the weirdness in Digging To Death but also undermine the central premise. The assorted characters in David’s office line up to comment about how far David has gone off the rails but not one of them thinks there might be a reason to call any of the emergency services, whether it’s a medic for their colleagues parlous psychological state or the cops who might want to ask where the blood came from.

Those work-related vignettes are a fine example of the variable level of performances in this movie. As the lead, Austin does a decent job in a role which has him switch from caring dad to terrified homeowner to total psychopath but he’s generally not that well served by the support. Riehle is good but his appearance is fleeting and Alig is sympathetic as the daughter who’s trying to make sense of the changes in her father.

​Ken Hudson Campbell, as David’s best friend Mark, cuts an interesting figure as a character who is not at all cast from the classic cinematic buddy mould. He’s flawed, he’s real, he’s interesting and he needed more screen time to be honest. As for the rest of the cast, the antics of some of the players take the viewer out of some scenes because they’re either overacting or not really acting at all.

True, most of the heavy lifting in terms of the drama in the movie is on Austin’s shoulders, even playing against himself in a couple of amusing and low-key chilling sequences but as soon as he’s back at work, sitting at his PC and his fellow employees are stopping by for a chat then everything dissipates – tension, laughs, drama, you name it. There’s no wonder his job is doing his anxiety no favours, I’d be ready to kill after a day of working there.
And yet, despite all of this, there’s something inexplicably compelling at play here. The plot doesn’t always turn in the ways you’d expect, the kills are not especially gory but they’re still brutal – and blackly comic - in their own offbeat way and the ending doesn’t cop out, replacing a predictable last-minute rescue with something far darker and sadder.
Digging To Death is a head-scratching mix of the good and the bad. For every piece of dialogue which lands there’s a couple of lines that no human being would ever say. The corpse is a creepy joy to behold but there’s a feeling that the story doesn’t know quite what to do with him in the second half. There are efficient shocks from time to time but there’s also a tiresome dream within a dream jump scare. The performances range from engaging to mesmerizingly stilted. People die in horrible ways but the gruesome business is almost always out of shot.
Is it great? Is it terrible? I think it’s neither. It’s worth a watch for when it gets things right but be prepared for the number of times it doesn’t hit the mark.

After nearly 10 years of movie reviewing, I’ve come to the realisation that it is relatively easy for a critic to talk about a movie that’s either outstandingly good or outrageously bad. The former can allow a writer to unashamedly wax lyrical about every miniscule element of a film they love while the latter allows them to utilise every negative adjective in his or her arsenal to completely eviscerate someone’s work with guilt-free abandon and sometimes, ironically, headline making praise. 

However, it is surprisingly difficult to to review a thoroughly bland film because there’s only so many times a writer can use the words “dull”, “tedious”, “boring” and other such synonyms before the review itself becomes, well, dull, tedious and boring. And that, dear reader, is the dilemma I face today reviewing the clumsily titled anthology horror  ‘The 100 Candles Game’, a movie so cliched and so remarkably forgettable that I honestly had to watch it twice before I felt that I could review it with any merit.

Oh don’t get me wrong, it’s undoubtedly bad and deserves a place on any “worst horror movies” list.  But it’s just so mediocre in terms of its direction, it’s performances, it’s writing and it’s overall horror execution that it’s hard to be truly angry with it. It’s the cinematic equivalent of candy floss - a flavourless mass of nothingness that provides little nourishment and disappears the very instant it is consumed. Also, I guess it would be very bad for your teeth if you tried to eat the DVD which, in retrospect, would have been far more preferable to actually watching it. 

Set in a world where basic concepts such as terror and suspense fail to exist, ‘The 100 Candles Games’ sees 4 people engaging in a candle-lit session of spooky storytelling. These stories run the gamut of generic horror plots - creepy kids, unseen scary forces, more creepy kids, exorcisms, monsters and, just to be safe,  a few more creepy kids. So, essentially what we have here is an adult version of the Canadian cult kid series ‘Are You Afraid Of The Dark?’ but with even more cliches and terrible performances. 

With so many scenarios for potential frights, including one featuring my most potent fear, claustrophobia, it is quite astonishing just how not scary ‘The 100 Candles Game’ is and despite the input of 9, yes, 9(!!!) different filmmakers, the lack of any frights at all is somewhat startling in itself. From the individual stories which lack any originality, suspense or directorial flair to the overarching plot of the storytellers themselves, every aspect of the movie reeks of dull familiarity. There’s not even the potential of enjoying the movie as a gory guilty pleasure as there’s so little blood used that even the most undemanding of horror fans could find little to like. 

If ‘The 100 Candles Game’ had been part of a students A-Level media studies coursework then I would have more respect for it because even though it’s thunderously boring, there are some set pieces that exhibit definite potential - most notably, a well constructed and genuinely thrilling vignette about a young boy dealing with freaky fog which easily stands out as the highlight of the film. However, as a studio backed feature with proper distribution rights, it is criminally insubstantial and should be dismissed by audiences and critics alike as the generic slice of badly acted nonsense it is. That is unless you’re an insomniac because I can personally guarantee that the movie will have you asleep in a matter of minutes. In fact, *yawn* just thinking about ‘The 100..... Candles Game’ for this long *yawn* is making me feel.....a bit......zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.