‘House at the End of the Street’ is about as exciting as a complex partial seizure

by Ben

Fucking death and gore and stuff

I came into today wondering what I was going to do. I considered knocking over a convenience store, or perhaps tweeting about my morning wood, or even listening to Femme Fatale on repeat. Instead of doing any of those much-more-fulfilling things, I logged in to my brother-in-law’s Netflix account, stretched out on my bed with my Kindle, and spent approximately 95 minutes being thoroughly not-entertained.

House at the End of the Street is about as thrilling a thriller as that time I bought a handle of cheap vodka and watched Avatar without any pants on. Except instead of being, you know, fun, this film was more like swift and not-really-accidental anal penetration while doing doggy with your best mate’s mother. The parts are there, and Jennifer Lawrence is still as strong as she’s always been in the acting department, but everything falls flat on its face when the SURPRISE TWIST occurs.

"I dare you not to stare at my tits"

“I dare you not to stare at my tits”

I’m not even going to supply the dignity of explaining the plot to you. It’s so boring that I almost would have rather suffocated on a bag of rotten Roswell-era dicks than watched it. The only reason I’m actually writing a review of House instead of other films I’ve seen recently (Iron Man 3 (it was fucking awesome), or Star Trek (it was fucking awesome), or Oblivion (it was pretty damn good), or The Great Gatsby (it was mediocre), or Jack Reacher (it wasn’t that great) (2016 edit: I retract that statement–Jack Reacher is great)) is due to the fact that I really would rather hate than anything else. Plus it serves as a warning to anyone else to spend a precious 95 minutes doing literally anything else (like falling off a cliff, writing a romantic space opera screenplay while masturbating to bestiality porn, or getting run over by a giant hot dog truck).

It’s really a shame that Jennifer Lawrence chose to star in such a lackluster effort. There are precious few moments of suspense, and what suspense it does create is quickly lost on pointless exchanges between Lawrence and a terribly-flat performance by Maximillion Drake Thieriot. Megan Fox’s effectiveness in Jonah Hex was far more convincing than Thieriot’s, and that’s saying a great deal considering that Fox only had about five minutes of on-screen duties. It was more like an extended cameo. Actually, if Megan Fox took the place of Thieriot, House at the End of the Street could have played on lesbian overtones and been a pretty good erotic thriller. I’ll pretend that’s what I did watch instead of this heap of llama shit.

I’m not really one for horror/thriller pictures in the first place, but at least I know when what I receive is trash or quality (a la Drag Me to Hell). Horror/thrillers tend to rely on cheap sleight-of-hand and nifty camera framing to create a false sense of tension. House is no different, and despite all its other shortcomings, that’s what really does the film in. There’s nothing new here; it’s all standard affair. So fuck it. Just watch The Hunger Games or Silver Linings Playbook again if you want to see Lawrence in something worthwhile. If it’s a quality horror/thriller you’re after, find something else. Anything else. Just watch The Cabin in the Woods or turn out all the lights, grab a torch, and make funny shapes on the wall with your dick.

Conclusion: A complete waste of time. 0.0/5.0