You rarely look for the bad guys in a home invasion shocker, but since the majority of the victims in Neil LaBute’s “Fear the Night” are either insufferably stupid or raspy-witted, their survival may not be the priority it should be.
Either way, most of them will be butchered before we can tell them apart in a film that doesn’t seem so much written by LaBute as enjoyed together from a pile of well-worn thriller tropes. The plot could fit on a pistol barrel (or, in this case, an arrowhead): eight women descend on a remote ranch for a bachelorette party, only to find their stripper-and-sextoy parties interrupted by lurking louts who prefer artisanal over mechanical weaponry. Bloody chaos ensues as the ladies lament their inability to sprint in high heels and struggle to remember a three-count knock signal that distinguishes friend from foe.
“What’s Happening to Us?” asks a distraught partygoer, echoing my bewilderment. Like her cohort, she’ll hopefully—and, in Mia’s (Gia Crovatin’s) case, longingly—turn to the one guest no one else seems to like: Tess (a plucky Maggie Q), a super-serious military veteran and recovering addict. Tess suffered. Tess has seen things. Tess will use her very specific skills to collect these nitwits or die trying.
Pausing mid-murders to allow for a touching reconciliation and romantic confession (not the time, Mia!), the script stumbles forward from the back of the napkin. As for LaBute, a once astute chronicler of male cruelty and ineptitude, his continued dabbling in genre is lamentable. Perhaps the nicest thing to do is pretend this dud never happened; it certainly worked for “Dumb and Dumber To” by the Farrelly brothers.
Fear the night
Not judged. Running time: 1 hour 32 minutes. In theaters and for rent or sale on most major platforms.
