Ladies and ghouls of the cinematic mausoleum, your esteemed connoisseur of Hellwood’s hellish hits, Vincent Volcano, is back—scarf aflame and ire stoked. Today, we’re dissecting the cinematic roadkill known as ‘Lights Out,’ a title that, for many viewers, doubles as a viewing strategy.
First, let us light a candle for the departed soul of originality, as this latest offering from Christian Sesma plays like a Frankenstein’s monster of borrowed body parts from every action film you’ve already forgotten. Our leading man, Frank Grillo—no stranger to throwing fictional punches—seems locked in a Sisyphean struggle where he must continually out-grunt his on-screen adversaries, replacing depth with decibels.
As if conjured by a misguided Ouija board, we’re served the stale tale of a battle-scarred soldier seeking salvation by, you guessed it, indulging in the sweet science of fisticuffs. The screenwriters, Chad Law and Garry Charles, along with their trusty sidekick Brandon Burrows, must have raided the crypts of clichés to stitch together this screenplay—indeed a triumph of treacle over talent.
Now, Sesma’s direction—or should we say misdirection?—fares no better, crafting scenes so emotionally arid that you’d wish for an oasis of substance in this desert of drivel. Jaime King, whom I once believed could elevate any material, is relegated to the background, leaving one to wonder if she was serving penance for some undisclosed sin.
Mekhi Phifer does what he can, juggling family drama with criminal entanglements, but his performance feels like déjà vu wrapped in a been-there-done-that tortilla. And poor Scott Adkins, a martial arts maestro, is so grossly underutilized that one hopes he was handsomely compensated for his wasted warrior spirit.
The action set pieces, a playground for Sesma’s low-budget sorcery, feel like reheated leftovers from a better meal you can’t quite remember. Grillo and Adkins demonstrate their combat prowess, but it’s akin to a master chef being asked to microwave a burrito—competent, yes, but beneath their skills.
Supporting players like Dermot Mulroney attempt to lend gravitas as corrupted constables, but in this theatrical wasteland, even their efforts echo hollowly, like a scream in an empty vault.
My fellow damned film aficionados, ‘Lights Out’ flickers and sputters where it should blaze. If this is the future of cinema, then Hell is truly a place on earth, and we’re all living in it. For the masochistic completists or unrepentant Grillo groupies, perhaps this cinematic séance holds a morbid allure. For the rest, heed the title’s advice and keep the lights off.
I grant ‘Lights Out’ a scorching 4 out of 10—those four stars reserved solely for the fires I yearned to set to the film reels. Remember my tormented readers: “Flames Fade, but Classics Burn Forever!” This wretched reel, however, deserves only the extinguishing coldness of oblivion.
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Ah, Vincent Volcano, the fiery critic ablaze with scorching takes on ‘Lights Out.’ Your review reads like a horror story in itself, where mediocrity stalks the screen, and clichés lurk in the shadows. It’s as if you’ve unearthed a tomb of lost potential and boxed office bombs. Your words strike a chord like a ghostly piano in a haunted mansion. Kudos for shedding light on the dark corners of this film, even if the monsters within seem all too familiar. From your fiery prose to your cinematic critiques, you truly set the bar ablaze—just like the hopes of unsuspecting moviegoers. Cheers to your infernal wit, Vincent, for turning this review into a devilishly entertaining read!