2/5 stars

I blame Saw.  Sinister is the morbid journey of a nonfiction writer, played by Ethan Hawke, as he investigates serial murders of families across the States.  Each of the murders share a common trait; the youngest child of each family went missing.  Not even ten-seconds into the film we are shown the grotesque hangings of one of the families.  Truly, our audience fascination with watching this kind of death, even staged, speaks volumes about the dire state of the horror genre.  Then comes the algebra.  X equals the cop who warns our hero of the impending doom if he stays inside the haunted house.  Y equals the children who merely act as props in the horrific narrative.  All divided by Ethan Hawke.  He is a worthy subject for the camera to follow.  The man has control over every muscle in his face, and his abilities almost make the fright worthwhile.  He creeks around the house with excellent trepidation.  Meanwhile, his wife, a capable Juilet Rylance, sleeps through every loud bang, crash or thud, meaning she must be wearing ear plugs the size of strip steaks while she sleeps.  And there are plenty of things that go bump in the night.  You are familiar with it already; the theatre goes quiet with foreboding, then the subject will seemingly close the scene but before you know it a ghoulish aberration has invaded your sight coupled with an ear piercing scream (and because no one has answered me I ask again; from whom are the audience supposed to believe this scream comes?  Our collective unconscious?)  If you are thirteen, I want you to go grab a bucket of popcorn, a cute date, and have a blast.  Anyone older who has been around the horror bend will be shouting, ‘Oh the linearity.’

Lenhardt Stevens