An okay indie thriller about the gradual meltdown of a psychotic teenager. It's a solid screenplay bolstered with some excellent performances, starting out with a dirty, gritty authenticity that's reminiscent of classic exploitation flicks of the past. But about halfway through, director Sivertson seems to be possessed by the muse of David Lynch. We have the bad-boy Greaser, the red-lipped femme fatale, the nighttime drives and seedy motel rooms, the graphic sex and violence, the contrast of raucous jazz with grating death metal. Unfortunately it lacks the all-important intellectual rabbit holes and surreal artistry. The tonal switcheroo is kind of distracting, and the second half drags terribly to an over-the-top WTF last act of shameless overacting. Sivertson clearly has talent, and he manages to convey a suitable sense of unhinged psychosis and disorientation. But he needs confidence in his own style and vision instead of cribbing from the playbooks of others.
