“So what you’re saying is we have a movie we can call ‘American Mummy’ even though the main monster is neither American nor a mummy?”

Two full hours is an excruciating term of time to spend immersed in this molasses-speed marathon of cryptic malaise.

As crazy as the Manson Family was, even their rantings and ravings were more coherent than anything “Psychopaths” has to say.

Nail-biting performances and pointed production design present an undeniably unsettling portrait of paranoia sending sane minds into madness.

“Still/Born” taps into maternal panic in the form of supernatural thrills with haunted house horror and psychological scares.

“Stephanie” is so insular and expands so gradually that interest in wherever it is going can’t help but evaporate along the way.

I’m willing to say, “I don’t get it.” Because I’m not convinced “Like Me” has much worth getting in the first place.

“M.F.A.” haunts the head with provocative questions while hitting hard in the heart with righteous rage.

There is much more rhyme and reason to the hallucinatory hellishness of “Tank 432” than many critics give it credit for.

“Spring” takes the relationship dissection drama of “500 Days of Summer” and changes the spike of heartbreaking humor to hit with body horror instead.

By the time Renee uncovers the final revelation, attention spans are so worn down that you only care because it means the movie can finally wrap up.

“Tilt” ties a knot of haunting tension in your gut and holds it tightly in place through an inescapable sense of disturbing dread.

If you connected with Benson and Moorhead’s "Resolution" and/or "Spring," then "The Endless" will stoke all the right fires.

I don’t know what people are seeing in supposed subtext. The man who made the movie doesn’t appear to know either.

“A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night” bathes in a pop art lethargy that makes the maudlin melancholy of “Only Lovers Left Alive” look blisteringly kinetic.

“Terror 5” has several bright spots of unflinching frights that work well in their sudden outbursts of brutality.

The script gets carried away with excitedly explaining everything down to details that aren’t pertinent to any premise.

The scariest thing about “Tales from the Hood” is that despite being two decades removed from its 1995 theatrical debut, its subtext is as relevant now as it was then.

The slow smolder of its down-to-earth melodrama puts the film in an uphill battle where it underperforms against more energetic peers.

Damn near indecipherable from beginning to end, the movie celebrates manic madness to the nth degree, precisely as intended.