The early minutes of Frida Kempff’s Knocking show its main character watching Ingmar Bergman’s Persona in the day room of a mental health facility. If this scene doesn’t set the tone for a film, I don’t know what will. Using a cinematic reference point in this way is a risky move, but Kempff pulls it off by successfully tapping into the same mania and paranoia that filmmakers like Bergman and Roman Polanski did over a half-century ago. Today, with discussions about gaslighting and mental health now part of the common lexicon, Knocking seems as well-timed as it does disturbingly relevant. 

Knocking may not be a wholly innovative story, or even one told in a particularly innovative way, but its timeliness gives it an urgency that’s hard to manufacture out of thin air. The stigma attached to trauma and grief hangs heavy over the film, as those around Molly (played wonderfully by Cecilia Milocco) continuously disregard her pleas for help. “She’s crazy,” they all say, or “Go back to the nuthouse,” as if her former tragedies disqualify her from assistance or the benefit of the doubt. The treatment she receives from her neighbors is infuriating, but is it so far-fetched? 

Where the film shines, though, is not necessarily in how it's made or acted (both superb, by the way), but in the realization that each of us is invited to bring our own baggage into our interpretation of what’s happening to the beleaguered Molly. I can think of a dozen ways to explain the ending (maybe you can too), with each just as correct — or completely wrong — as the next. These kinds of films that allow us to imprint our own experiences onto them are a special kind of rarity. Grade: A-minus —James Rosario

The teen slasher is a tired genre, one filled to the brim with clichés and poor box office results. Gone are the days of the classic ’90s slashers like Scream and I Know What You Did Last Summer; in their wake is a myriad of feeble attempts with precious few breaking the mold. Some of what’s holding back the genre are the teen-friendly PG-13 romps that are less about the body count and more concerned with jump scares. But every once in a while, one slips through and rises to the top.

Based on the novel by Asheville’s own Stephanie Perkins and directed by Patrick Brice (Creep; The Overnight), There’s Someone Inside Your House is a film whose makers know exactly what it is and set out to become that beacon of hope. Full of blood and plentiful corpses, this film is not afraid to go places its predecessors feared. 

The story is everything you would expect from a film like this, with twists, turns, and plenty of red herrings. High schoolers being the target of a serial killer who's intent on exposing everyone's secrets certainly jibes with the aesthetic, and while things may be a little too on-the-nose, it doesn't stop the film from being an enjoyable delight. The end may suffer from the weight of its own earnestness as the villain devolves into all the worst things a mastermind villain would do, but if you’re looking for a slasher flick with plenty of blood and a 90-minute runtime, you could do much much worse. Grade: B — Joel Winstead

The latest visually slick indie from writer/director/star Jim Cummings (Thunder Road; The Wolf of Snow Hollow) loops in fellow multi-hyphenate PJ McCabe as an accomplice to mostly successful ends. Their satirical look at the empty trappings of L.A. life centers on a talent agency where Jordan (Cummings) and PJ (McCabe) schmooze with clients and deliver fake niceties to underlings with the same smarmy charm. When Jordan receives a mysterious purple envelope containing an invitation for a no-strings-attached tryst and follows through, his already volatile career and pending marriage to Caroline (Virginia Newcomb, The Death of Dick Long) turn to mush in entertaining fashion.

While not all of the ingredients coalesce and the film lacks the inspired Southern California conspiracy nuttiness of a Big Lebowski or Under the Silver Lake, Cummings’ compelling lead performance and the script’s dark sense of humor keep interest high. Most importantly, the violent literal interpretation of how infidelity kills relationships more than merits its inclusion in this genre fest. Grade: B —Edwin Arnaudin

(Photos courtesy of Fantastic Fest)