Without any interesting arcs, side plots, or even a main plot to go along with the gore, “Ice Cream Man” devolves into a lot of meaningless mayhem.

Three out of four stars is a solid score for the high mark “Evil Dead Burn” hits on the gruesomeness strength-o-meter hammered with all the movie’s might.

The experience feels a lot like flipping through late-night TV at a time when loud guys in cowboy hats and blinking 1-800 numbers dominated ad breaks.

This supposedly preplanned trilogy became a tangled, bloated, inconsistent blob of inconsequential characters, dead ends, and ludicrously lame lore.

If you want to see impossible amounts of blood explode crimson colors like the world’s worst version of a gender reveal, well, “Abigail” at least has that.

“The Autopsy of Jane Doe” earns entry onto any list of deeply intriguing thrillers with satisfying supernatural suspense to match its maddening mystery.

Any time the opening notes of “Goodbye Horses” start playing, you just know there is about to be inescapable terror.

“The End of Oak Street” pays homage to an era when Hollywood wasn’t afraid to make big movies with cyborg cops, intergalactic soldiers, and colossal creatures.

The movie is something to sip patiently out of a porcelain cup, not 64 ounces of soda to gulp down with popcorn spilling out of an overpriced novelty bucket.

“Backrooms” brings out the buried dread of being unconsciously trapped in an oppressive environment that slowly melts a mind into compliant complacency.

It’s a flashy heap of pure camp from beginning to end, made even more amusing because the movie doesn’t exhibit the self-awareness to realize it.

“Haunt” reminds me of a Minor League rehab game for a ballplayer recovering from an injury in that it reads like Beck and Woods wrote it to shake off rust after a bout of writer’s block.

“The Devil’s Doorway” has enough meat on its bones to earn a leg up on “The Devil Inside,” but not enough intrigue to bump past the chills of “The Last Exorcism.”

The film features barely a hint of hilarity in spite of its premise, going instead for a somewhat stifling style of artily brooding bleakness.