While the movie starts off with an engagingly familiar hook — take lonely girls: Emma (Bethlehem Million, “Throuple”), Julia (Alex Essoe, “Death of Me”), Harriet (Ally Ioannides, “Jesus Revolution”), Lex (Juliette Kenn De Balinthazy) and Dusty (Bex Taylor-Klaus, “Blackbird”), isolate them and put them at the mercy of a cult-like family — it never truly forms into something more than its collective parts. Worse, these collective parts move at a glacial pace, inching forward for a payoff that only shows its hand late into the film’s 100-minute runtime. Patience, apparently, is key in this mostly shallow, slow-moving venture.

The thin layer of suspense, concocted by a quintet of mostly first time screenwriters (Ariel Vida, Cullen Poythress, David Blair, Megan Sutherland and Sean E. DeMott), is one that any horror movie lover can see through long before the gotcha is revealed. This is especially true since the owner of the weed farm, Mona (Jane Badler, “The Lies We Tell Ourselves”), is instantly recognizable as someone hiding a lot of secrets. But without going into spoilers I will say the reveal is executed well enough and that weed does thankfully play a large role in the overall narrative, just it’s much more of the chill strain than I think people would anticipate.

Because of the first half’s aggressively slow exposition, viewers are left to idly sit by and watch the paper-thin and equally motivated characters “grow” to know one another better. Emma, our main protagonist, is most skeptical of this obviously sketchy job but outside of that, she is hardly differentiated from the rest of the group which includes a non-binary character for the sake of having a non-binary character. Without a solid character arc throughout the story, we are stuck with one-note characters that would rarely make it past the first draft stage of a screenplay.

Putting the slow start and nondescript characters to the side, once the gore does finally start flowing, it’s extremely chunky and visceral. Some spooky lighting design also enhances the blood bath, making what we so long waited for that much more pleasing. For “stoner horror” (is this a horror subgenre?), it’s got some great weed motifs, but it takes much longer than it should to get to most of them. If you’re planning on lighting up before the film I recommend going easy as you might pass out long before the movie gets good.

Based on co-screenwriter Jim Shepard’s short story of the same name, The World to Come follows Abigail (Waterston, “Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald”), a quiet farmer’s wife suffering a great loss. Her husband, Dyer (Affleck, “The Old Man & the Gun”) is equally overcome with similar grief, leaving the two’s emotional chemistry colder than the weather outside their door. But when a young couple moves into a neighboring farmland, Abigail finds herself inspired. For the beautiful redhead wife within the pair, Tally (Kirby, “Mr. Jones”) is the connection Abigail has been craving for. But what starts off as a friendly bond becomes something much more significant between the two, causing both women to question their place in their own marriages. And when Tally’s controlling husband Finney (Abbott, “First Man”) begins to notice the women’s admiration for each other, the metaphorical path that Tally and Abigail begin to travel becomes even more bumpy.

Though it is easy to see the similarities between this film and other lesbian-focused romantic tales, The World to Come stands among the competition simply due to the talent it has in front of and behind the camera. In lesser hands, this period drama could have come across as generic as the forgettable ones that have came before it. But with Fastvold’s calculated direction, this is a film that can easily sit on the shelf with the greater examples of this evolving subgenre. From the delicious moments of poignant tranquility to the harsh realities of the world outside the character’s doors, Fastvold takes audiences by the hand into a cinematic landscape that is as lush as it is painful to explore. And Ron Hansen and Shepard’s beautifully written screenplay adds to that effect greatly.

However, there is one element to the duo’s script that could leave most audiences at a fork in the road. Some will argue that Abigail’s narration is frustrating, childish, and perhaps a bit too on the nose. But when it comes to the taste of this writer, there’s something about Waterston’s voice that comes across as the Sundance equivalent to an ASMR (autonomous sensory meridian response) loop. It’s haunting, comforting, and though at times a tad bit simplistic in description, works as a final seasoning on the film’s narrative flow. But who knows — maybe if it had been another actor’s vocals taking us on this journey instead of Waterston’s, I might have a much drastically different take.

But when it comes to the cast’s portrayals of their respective characters on screen, every one of them delivers the kind of performances that perfectly compliments Fastvold’s unique filmmaking sensibilities. To start, Waterston shapes Abigail into a reserved individual that you want to see succeed but deep down know what’s ahead of her. She is a woman ahead of her time, and Waterston is a master at shaping that element within her performance — making Abigail as unforgettable as the stunning landscapes that surround her. The same can be said for Kirby’s take on Tally — for she is the perfect blend of fairytale enchantment and melancholy without even a word of line being spoken. And though Kirby nor Waterston get to explore the physical aspects of their romance like the similarly memorable ladies of “Portrait of a Lady on Fire” do, their chemistry is hard to deny.

On the opposite side of the coin, we have Affleck and Abbott in their respective roles. Thanks to both a unique angle within the story itself and Affleck’s acting chops, Dyer comes across as something more than the forgotten spouse. The actor (who also serves as producer on the film) brings a subtle yet heartbreaking spirit to his character, making Dyer a standout among the ensemble. Unfortunately, that same believability can be said of Abbott’s Finney in all of the wrong ways. From the juxtaposition of his soft voice with his goosebump inducing delivery, to the equally mind-twirling mannerisms in every frame, Abbott is becoming a master of his craft. And though exploring all of the layers of Finney’s arc (along with Abbott’s performance) could tread on spoiler territory, the simplest thing to say is that as cartoony is it may seem, men like Finney did exist.

Yet there is one truly jaw-dropping surprise within The World to Come and that would be Daniel Blumberg’s fascinating score. Though many have heard their fair share of period drama-friendly compositions in the past, Blumberg offers a uniquely jazz infused creation that is the perfect seasoning over Fastvold (and cinematographer Andre Chemetoff’s) cinematic dish. Every cue conjures a new element to the simplest of scenes, coming across as the true star of a movie that has so much to offer in every frame. It might not be the most accessible or classic of melodies on display, but Blumberg’s work breaks new ground within a genre that seemed too old hat.

And that is the ultimate take away from The World to Come — it may at first seem a lot of the same, but by the end, its a new step in the right direction for a genre that’s grown accustomed to tradition. Perhaps it doesn’t have the brutal flair of such films as “Portrait of a Lady on Fire,” but Fastvold’s efforts are something to be cherished, even amongst its similar romantic competition. It takes a simple lugubrious tale and breathes a beautiful aesthetic life into it — an accomplishment that should give Fastvold, along with the entire cast and crew, the respect they so rightful deserve.

Beginning with an ominous, but not overdone, voiceover from Ward (Elliot Knight, “Billionaire Ransom”), Stanley’s camera glides through forest cloaked in mist. A sense of mystery and trepidation is easily conjured, but without any overt threat or sense of disruption. Into this wilderness comes the figure of Ward, a hydrologist investigating the area for a future reservoir. The intruder quickly encounters something different, as Lavinia Gardner (Madeleine Arthur, “Big Eyes”) performs a ritual drawn from the Necromicon, an occult grimoire that appears in many a Lovecraft tale. From here, the film follows Lavinia back to the homestead of her family. The Gardners in the woods (pun possibly intentional, who knows?) are a stereotypical nuclear family, and over the course of the film try to deal with forces far beyond their understanding. Nonetheless, the ideology of the all-American family persists, propelled largely by blinkered and often destructive masculinity.

At the center of the dynamic between social expectations and inexplicable reality is the patriarch Nathan (Cage, “Running with the Devil”), and his insistence on certain standards of behavior. His wife Theresa (Joely Richardson, “The Turning”), daughter Lavinia, older son Benny (Brendan Meyer, “All These Small Moments”) and young son Jack (Julian Hilliard, “Greener Grass”) are all affected by his insistence, that they initially meet with tired resignation. The family are an interesting blend of old and new. Nathan is something of a farmer by default, living on his father’s ranch despite his apparent earlier refusal to do so. Yet the farming is eccentric, consisting of four alpacas (no, really) that he milks and shears, as well as raising tomatoes and other vegetables. Stanley suggests, but does not clarify, that Nathan is a bad farmer, committed to the idea of being an all-American man who makes his living with his own two hands. However, Nathan seems equally committed to berating his son for not doing all the work. Theresa is more likely the main breadwinner, as she works in stock trading. Her work, however, is marginalized, her computer shut away in the attic and her consultations conducted over Skype. The sequences in the attic isolate Theresa, both through dim lighting and sharp angles in the set design, and the space proves an important site of isolation later in the film. In addition, Theresa’s repeated frustration over an intermittent internet connection indicates her struggle with their isolated location. Benny is somewhat underdeveloped beyond being a stoner and therefore a disappointment, while Jack’s wide-eyed innocence provides an unfiltered wonder on the increasingly strange events of the narrative.

The empathetic center of Color Out Of Space, partially by default but also design, is Lavinia. The ritual of her introduction indicates her rebelliousness but also her compassion. As the film progresses, Lavinia’s distress provides the emotional core of the movie, as the isolated family unit encounter two distinct outsiders. The first outsider is Ward, representing modernity and science, but tellingly he is not a figure of authority. Ward certainly investigates the water table and conducts experiments, but he finds nothing conclusive. His attempts at explanations are unconvincing and the film knows it, allowing the viewer to speculate further. Pleasingly, Ward is far from patronizing or arrogant, rather he represents the attempt to understand. He therefore serves as a figure through which the viewer can project themselves into the scenario. Faced with something very strange, we would likely try to figure out an explanation, relying on our established knowledge and science. But when the object of inquiry is beyond our experience and understanding, what then?

This inexplicability comes from the other outsider encountered by the Gardner family, a mysterious cosmic object. Lovecraft’s work is often described as “cosmic horror,” humanity but an insignificant speck in the universe where greater forces can easily overwhelm us. The cosmic object out of space may be a meteorite, an egg, a capsule, but it is never clear. Nor, indeed, is what follows its arrival, both in narrative and visual terms. The viewer is unclear what is happening, and the visual field changes in unexpected ways. Great bursts of color with no clear source spill across the frame, tendrils of energy snake across the screen and envelop objects. As the film progresses, the distortion effect increases, time and space no longer presented in a straightforward fashion. At times, these distortions lead to outright horror, parts of the film echoing “John Carpenter’s The Thing” as well as Alex Garland’s “Annihilation.” Other cinematic echoes include “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” as well as “Evolution,” Color Out Of Space splicing these elements into a haunting, eerie and often terrifying smorgasbord of psychological and body horror.

This reviewer had the pleasure of attending the film followed by a Q&A with the director at the wonderful Prince Charles Cinema in London. During the Q&A, Stanley described horror cinema as being his salvation and the root of his liberal values. Stanley’s beliefs may seem an odd juxtaposition with Lovecraft’s conservative views on race and gender, especially since the director described his adaptation as slavishly faithful aside from updating Lovecraft’s tale “The Colour Out Of Space.” But that very updating is indicative of the malleability of Lovecraft’s work, and the ability of audiences to create a variety of readings. Audience responses to Color Out Of Space were strange, as despite not having a comedic tone there were instances of laughter, others of pure shock, and some of total wonder. Come the conclusion, the viewer may be unsure what to think, beyond the feeling that they have witnessed something very strange indeed.

After gaining fame (and weight) for his 2004 documentary “Super Size Me,” where he showed the dangers of intense McDonald’s consumption, Spurlock now investigates the mechanics of restaurant management. A more conventional documentary maker would interview managers, staff and customers, but we expect more from Morgan. And more is what he delivers, as our presenter and director takes on the challenge of setting up a fast food restaurant. No, you read that right — he’s setting up a fast food restaurant. Spurlock’s justification is that the only way to know is to do, and do he does, renting barn space, raising chickens, converting a disused former Wendy’s into his new Holy Chicken! establishment, and along the way learns and — most importantly — shares a host of information about the foulness of dealing with fowl.

The gimmick of starting his own restaurant is an effective hook, largely trading on Spurlock’s charisma. He is a charming and engaging host, whether dealing with companies over the phone, established chicken farmers and potential staff for his restaurant, and indeed with the chickens. His scenes with the birds are particularly delightful, and highlight the lack of empathy associated with the consumption of meat. This highlighting is achieved through animations that show the passage of chickens through the industrial process, that are both amusing and terrifying all at once. Watching these sequence might prompt a viewer to consider vegetarianism, but even if not provides food (pun unintended, honest!) for thought.

The industrial process and indeed empire is the true target of the documentary. Spurlock’s attempts to contact large scale companies often encounter silence and bureaucratic runaround, best encapsulated when he calls a company, gives his name and is asked if he is Morgan Spurlock, the documentary filmmaker. Upon giving confirmation, the call is terminated. Undeterred, Spurlock digs deeper, revealing further information. Much of the material about food advertising and the regulations and requirements of the US Food and Drug Administration is disquieting but perhaps not surprising to any cynic. What appear to be assurances are rubber stamps, due to lack of government funding and therefore staffing. But a key ingredient in the continuation of such dissembling is the public willingness to accept simple labels that turn out to be little more than platitudes. Public acceptance of questionable practices are key to allowing the continuation of such practices, and Spurlock and his team are careful not to judge, only reveal. Over the course of Super Size Me 2: Holy Chicken!, the truth behind “free range,” “organic,” “grilled” and other such terms are revealed, to unsettling effect that prompts an almost literal naked lunch moment. What exactly is on your plate and what do those labels mean? And how much harder would daily shopping and consumption be if we investigated the regular fare on offer?

Beyond the labeling and legalities, the surprising and in some cases quite appalling revelations concern the chicken industry of the US. Referred to as Big Chicken (creating a parallel with that other beloved corporate amalgam, Big Tobacco), the chicken industry is presented by the film as a merciless monopoly, the malevolent villain of the piece, seemingly as exploitative and downright ruthless as medical insurance (see Michael Moore’s “Sicko”), entertainment or politics, or for that matter, organized crime. Animal welfare may not be a corporate concern or even one for the viewer, but the scenes that depict the suffering of chicken farmers, held in what is effectively indentured servitude to their Big Chicken masters, are moving and angering. It is this aspect of Spurlock’s investigation that makes Super Size Me 2: Holy Chicken! a scathing exposé, but, once again, Spurlock never displays outrage or fury. Rather, he lets the material speak for itself, and the consumer is left to decide. Pierre Takal’s editing neatly interweaves the personal journey of Spurlock and the viewer’s disturbing journey into Big Chicken, ensuring that our understanding is closely tied to our own experiences as consumers.

The film’s respect for the consumer is consistent, as when Spurlock’s restaurant opens, its unique selling point is honesty. Spurlock and his staff follow the same regulations as other fast food establishments, but use transparency rather than spin. The response of the customers is striking and the viewer might well feel like visiting Holy Chicken! themselves, despite the warnings they have received. After all, are you likely to start growing your own food? But the film’s biggest surprise comes in the end credits, which caused this reviewer’s jaw to drop. Just that is worth the viewing, but there is plenty of fascinating material beforehand.

Any viewer familiar with the unholy trinity of folk horror — “Witchfinder General,” “The Blood on Satan’s Claw,” “The Wicker Man” — as well as more recent contributions like “The Witch,” “The Ritual” and “Midsommar,” is likely to recognize certain elements. The Snowdonia community is isolated with little contact with the outside world, the farm a significant journey from the nearest market. Traditions are followed with a strict fervor, and danger seems to swell from the very ground. A war — which Gwen’s father (Dyfrig Evans) left to fight in — is mentioned that indicates the wider world, but the insular community and entrapping landscape ensure a contained environment. Williams and director of photography Adam Etherington craft a chilling, but eerily beautiful, cinemascape. The landscape is as much a character as the humans, including the mountains and the quarries, the fields, glens and valleys where the drama takes place. Of particular note is a monolith that appears both in Gwen and Mari’s games, and Gwen’s dreams of happier times. Other dream sequences include a figure approaching through the omnipresent fog, obscured and seemingly engulfed by its surroundings.

Such engulfment is a recurring trope, as the film’s characters are often emphasized as tiny figures within the landscape, dwarfed and even overwhelmed by mountains, rock faces and encroaching fog. This fog is mirrored by the encroachment of modernity, manifested by the slate quarry that the family must pass through. In an early scene that takes place within the quarry, Gwen encounters a deceased family being brought out of their home. The quarry walls cast a gray pallor over the sequence, adding to the sense of foreboding. Dr Wren (Kobna Holdbrook-Smith, “Justice League”) diagnoses the cause of death as cholera, but uncertainty afflicts Gwen as well as the viewer.

Uncertainty and paranoia steadily increase, as the family farm is plagued by mysterious events. Superstition and Christianity intertwine and clash, animals die, Gwen’s dreams of family games turn to nightmares of death and monstrosity. Another common trope of folk horror is escalation, and the increasing horror of Gwen’s dreams reflects the increasing woes of the family. A supernatural influence is frequently suggested but not clarified, leaving the viewer to wonder whether the threat comes from within or without.

Much of this threat is conveyed by the compelling performances of the two central women. As Gwen, Eleanor Worthington-Cox is extraordinary, conveying the turmoil of adolescence and responsibility with the full gamut of expressive means. From quiet moments of introspection where her eyes speak volumes, to full-bodied screams of anguish and loss, Worthington-Cox wonderfully portrays a girl aged far beyond her years. As Elen, Maxine Peake matches the younger actor point for point, her flinty anger giving way to weary desperation, but with a resolve that never wavers. Supporting performances are also strong, especially Holdbrook-Smith as the figure of modern science and medicine, torn between professional duty and human compassion, as well as Innes as the virtually silent Mari. Mari is a largely passive observer in the drama that engulfs her family, yet her silence serves as a useful counterpoint to Gwen and Elen’s increasing hysteria. The moments between Mari and Gwen are some of the most touching in the film, the two sisters playing in a way that beautifully encapsulates their bond with each other as well as their environment.

As well as portraying the clash between agrarian tradition and industrial modernity, Gwen is also an intriguing foray into gender opposition. The figures of authority, most obviously Mr. Wynne and Dr. Wren, as well as Minister Bowen (Richard Elfyn, “Killer Elite”), are of course men, and the overtly absent father places the female protagonists of the film very much as victims of patriarchy. Mr. Wynne’s subtle, but cumulative, aggression manifests as dark figures fill the foreground of deep focus shots, Gwen captured as a tiny figure in the background. This visual composition adds to the chilling quality of the film, the expansive landscape acting as secure a prison as any number of stone cells. This is perhaps greatest strength to Gwen — a film acutely concerned with the outdoors that successfully creates in the viewer a sense of that outdoors. Coldness and isolation are the prevalent moods of the film, with little offered in terms of comfort and belonging. Come the end credits, the viewer will likely be left with a sense of profound bleakness over the prospects for individuals in the face of “progress,” and for women who offer a stand against the desires of men.

I wish that the filmmakers had found theirs. Organizing a bad movie into subtitled chapters like “The Writer” and “The Son” doesn’t make it any less bad.

Robin is picked up from the airport by Hans (Christer Cavallius), her biggest fan and a potential stalker. He brings her to the ranch of Farmer Rolf (Rolf Brunnström), a character who quickly out-creeps Hans, and whose mute sister-in-law makes dolls in the barn next door. There’s a room full of potential murder weapons and the grave of Rolf’s wife in the garden. Worst of all, the bathroom is outside!

Thus begins a procession of typical horror victim choices, starting with the decision not to turn straight around and return to the airport. Robin is laughably unprepared for country life, insisting at all times on heels and designer clothes. She’s horrified when she witnesses Rolf executing a chicken for food. You’d think a successful writer would have a modicum of empathy for the lives of others; an imagination worldly enough to conceive of authentic rural life. Apparently not.

Robin is a vacuous bore. Winter is radiant, but her character is a blank slate, aside from her conspicuous lack of compassion or curiosity in others. In the language of film, we are given precious little reason to care about her fate. It’s not even like she is essentially decent underneath — the self-pity, coldness and snobbishness are the sum parts of her character, through and through.

Aside from a couple of self-loathing scrawls, we get little insight into Robin’s presumably tormented mind. Indeed, her mind is not the film’s chief concern, but her body. The preoccupation with Winter’s naked form is partly baked into the plot — it is nominally a film about voyeurism — but Winter and von Barkenberg have nothing to say on the topic. We the audience are voyeurs without a reason to question our gaze.

This lack of personal intrigue would matter less if the situation with Rolf and his nutty relatives were better illuminated. Alas, they’re simply another backwoods family with ill intentions. Even the Leatherface clan had more of a basis for their malevolent insanity — at least they could point to a dreadful cascade of generational influence. We’re led to a finale which is spoiler-proof in its predictability, involving the doubly-dated clichés of cross-dressing and split personality. Just because your credit sequence uses an italicized font from the mid-90s doesn’t excuse tired tropes.

If we are to draw positives, Blood Paradise is certainly nicely shot and beautifully lit, capturing the crisp haze of the Scandinavian summer. It’s idyllic in its location, even if there is no atmosphere of which to speak. A faint vein of irreverent humor runs throughout, which is admittedly preferable to excessive self-seriousness, but it also points to a desperately uneven script.

I would concede that Cavallius delivers a fun performance, channeling some of the nervous energy of Scoot McNairy. Every time he’s on screen it is refreshing to see some semblance of the charisma lacking elsewhere. Indeed, by the end I felt I knew Hans and his wife better than the ostensible protagonist of the story — and that’s taking into account the fact that my screener copy was lacking subtitles for their Swedish exchanges.

Overall, Blood Paradise fails to satisfy on multiple levels. As a backwoods horror its setpieces are poorly staged and edited, frequently failing to establish the basic local geography necessary to incite tension. Even if it weren’t for the film’s strangely coy attitude to gore, the kills would land without visceral impact. There’s a risible climactic shock moment which dares to echo Stuart Gordon’s “Dolls,” but it serves only as a reminder of how horror comedy should be done.

As a work of torture porn it is tame and purposeless. As a black comedy its basic conceit is too nonsensical, and Robin’s endeavor too pointless, to allow for any despairing humor. And as a meta-thriller it’s a non-starter: That Robin is an author is neither here nor there — it’s just another trope to tick off the list. Holistically unsatisfying.