Clark Collis

The Grudge is overly reliant on jump scares and the sheer number of characters involved here means that some are thinly-drawn, though the crackerjack cast of actors breathes at least some life into their respective parts. The real asset here — as well as the movie’s main likely problem for many viewers — is its bleak tone.

The first, pre-'quake half hour is such a patience-testing slow burn that director Nicolás López runs the risk of extinguishing the viewer's interest altogether. But when things head (metaphorically) south they do so with an escalating, apocalyptic ferocity which continues until the very last second.

Writer-director W.S. Anderson's overseeing of the Resident Evil zombie franchise has proven to be both lunatically haphazard and dementedly enthusiastic.

Remarkably, the result manages to be both more preposterous and more efficient than its predecessor, with a couple of deaths occurring so swiftly they border on the subliminal.

While this Blumhouse production may be a less ruthlessly efficient scream machine than, say, its corporate sibling "Ouija," it is much more atmospheric and benefits from a winning central performance from Snook.

Which stinks worse? The absurdly large pile of red herrings Gone amasses? Or the film's sub-Scooby Doo conclusion?

Hale and Posey are likable leads and director Jeff Wadlow (Kick-Ass 2) injects proceedings with a propulsiveness which allows you to mostly ignore the odd plot strand which doesn’t really pay off or the general air of preposterousness.

Unfortunately, no one involved seems to have bent over backwards to make the movie either original or even all that scary.

The frankly preposterous nature of the film’s setup is rendered slightly less so by a couple of second act reveals. But, by then, many viewers will have lost interest in a movie with a very high bodycount but a very small amount of grit, either emotional or literal.

To be fair, Eckhart is physically impressive and Bill Nighy and his raised eyebrow do their best in the role of demon leader Naberius. But I, Frankenstein shares something else with it's monster-hero, something much worse than its patchwork nature: The film is distinctly lacking in the soul department.

In short, this Josh Trank-directed reboot had a very low hurdle to overcome to become the best FF movie so far. The most fantastical aspect of the movie is that it may not achieve that goal.

While the film may justify its title in terms of the viscera on display, it is badly in need of a funny bone.

The result apes "The Bourne Identity" so slavishly yet so boringly it winds up with no identity at all.

If the result features around 1,783 too many fart gags, to be fair, it also boasts a couple of genuine minor scares. Although there's no doubt that the film's most horrible sight is a way-too-long shot of Swardson's naked rump.