The House of the Devil: Critic Reviews

Writer-director Ti West's crisp, economical, satisfying little horror pic reclaims the pleasures of the kind of old-school formula that the jokey Scream franchise deconstructed into satire.

After years of vivisectionist splatter, here is a horror movie with real shivers.

Things quickly get silly and unscary.

West avoids cliche and cheesiness with wise casting choices. Donahue's naturalistic performance is as persuasive as the subtly sinister portrayals by Tom Noonan and Mary Woronov.

West, a rising young director of minor cult pleasures, comes clean here about his love for all things Bava (Mario) and Carpenter (John).

Gravely gorgeous in the style of a storybook Snow White, Donahue gives eloquent reaction shots and nails West's piece de resistance -- a bounding, Walkman-soundtracked, Jazzercise dance through the house.

The film may provide an introduction for some audience members to the Hitchcockian definition of suspense: It's the anticipation, not the happening, that's the fun.

Even the familiar tropes of The House of the Devil are familiar in the right way, like an old, bloodstained sweater.

In keeping with his models, West is concerned with not suspense exactly but the ritual withholding and ultimate lavishing of bloody chaos.

Call it the best '80s babysitter-in-peril movie never made.

Although the payoff is creepy, it takes a little too long to arrive -- and when it does, it's about as worn-out as the movie's title.

The classical structure slowly builds tension before erupting into a decisively gory finish, harkening back to a smarter and more nuanced era of spooky storytelling.

The House of the Devil is really a romance: a love letter to the kind of gal we thought had given up the ghost.

A horror film with no punch.

In the end, this homage to '80s horror is little more than a faithful flashback -- authentic in execution but about as scary as something you saw again and again way back when.

West's assured way with widescreen framing, long takes and silences followed by sharp if explainable noise are almost cruelly funny in their heart-stopping pleasures.

West has all at once crafted a film that beautifully reproduces the look and texture of a straight-to-video horror from the '80s, and filled it with the sort of nail-biting tension that works in any decade.

Now this is how you make a scary movie. The House of the Devil is a delicious throwback to the golden era of Hollywood horror -- one that is unapologetically earnest and overwhelmingly committed to the task at hand.

It's full of meat and marrow. I'm going in again.

...there's simply never a point at which the almost distractingly uneventful narrative becomes as compelling as one might've hoped.

Imagine a bad Ken Loach film invaded by monsters from a George A. Romero movie that's run out of cash, and you've already visualised a movie better than this one.

The power of this film lies in the approach to the inevitable final act, rather than the realisation of the act itself.

A master of the slow-burn, West carefully creates an atmosphere of clammy dread through Noonan and Woronov's off-kilter performances and dialogue, and direction that encases Donahue in shadow or squeezes uncomfortably close-in.

The finale descends into predictable mayhem, but it's the build-up that'll haunt you.

The pay-off is a little far-fetched, but by then we have had our emotional workout.