![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjDiHy0xyLNO3mNHnhelNuARk_jZX6-GYg0nlqmvh-NSN02728JjbP51RpDYDEVMubAHcF-BQro4llpHcqyd-ppGMvB18VpPlwvicI9mSm4zh3XzxH43VV9luBfjndpt5-OBvQO2bsqNRc/s320/sinister.jpg)
displays more imagination than most and produces the requisite number of chills. Unfortunately all this happens in the last 15 minutes or so. Up until then this is mostly a case of missed opportunities to scare the living daylights out of us as true-crime writer Ethan Hawke and his family move into a house where four people were murdered so that he can write a book about the events. It's the kind of film in which no-one acts rationally but then in horror movies no-one acts rationally anyway; if they did there would be no movie. It also doesn't help that Hawke is such an annoyingly smug son-of-a-bitch, (no change there, then), about whom we don't give a damn and yet he's really the only real character in the film. There are certainly worse horror movies, (this one is surprisingly gore-free), but you still have to sit through a lot of dross to get to the good bits.
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