Odessa A’zion (“Hellraiser”) plays Tara, a teenager in contemporary Fall River, and a descendant of the Borden family. Tara faces typical growing pains — her boyfriend Carl (Michael Cooper Jr., “On the Come Up”) is going away for college; she and her younger brother Caleb (Jackson Dean Vincent, “The Secrets We Keep”) bicker over their infant brother Jack; parents Emily (Leslie Bibb, “Running with the Devil”) and Ben (Dermot Mulroney, “The Mountain Between Us”) are having difficulties, leading Caleb and Tara to wonder which parent they will end up with. There is also the matter of Tara’s aunt Diane (Mary Buss, “Lord Finn”), locked away in a psychiatric hospital because she murdered her infant child, a crime linked to the infamous ancestor.

Perhaps more pressing is that there are murders taking place in Tara’s neighborhood. The police initially treat them as missing persons, but the audience are treated to scenes of murder. These sequences are suspenseful as the victims sense someone is nearby, sometimes in isolated surroundings like a pre-dawn jog through the town, or during a walk home through woods. But other murders take place within the home, making it clear that nowhere and no one is safe. The murders are shocking and brutal, featuring ample blood spatter but also injury detail. This makes the film wince-inducing, especially when limbs are split, accompanied by screams of agony. No quick and simple kills à la Michael Myers here — while the killer’s face remains out of shot, the ax and its impact are there for all to see.

Who is responsible for these murders? Each victim is linked to Tara. Could someone be striking on her behalf? Is Tara losing her grip on reality? Or is there something supernatural at play? This obscured face or silhouette of the killer sets up a whodunnit, perhaps akin to “Scream,” and The Inhabitant does borrow from the slasher genre with its stalk and slay set pieces, though the wider context is more reminiscent of psychological/supernatural horrors like “Secret Window,” “Rosemary’s Baby” and “Gothika,” where the source of the horror is ambiguous. Lauder’s direction as well as Kevin Bachar’s script maintain this ambiguity throughout the film. At times we are drawn towards one suspect, but as more details are revealed, we are treated to other plausible answers. Dream sequences as well as a seance are thoroughly eerie, with quick cuts creating a distorted perception, closely tied to Tara and ensuring the viewer is as confused as the protagonist or indeed those around her.

Furthermore, the environment in which this takes place itself feels inhabited. Tara’s home is an extensive interweaving of rooms and corridors, a place of comfort but also tension and even menace. Tara’s relationship with her parents is as fractious as that between them, and her best friend Suzy (Lizze Broadway, “Ghosted”) is her closest confidant. It turns out, however, that there is more to Suzy than meets the eye. While her character is perhaps under-served, the attention paid to her allows the film to refer to various issues around identity and relationships. Sequences focused on Suzy are among the most tragic, not least because she is the one Tara can always go to, but Tara remains ignorant of much of Suzy’s pain.

Pleasingly, the film’s focus is maintained on the females, with the male characters — Carl, Ben, Caleb — kept on the periphery. Horror is well served when focused on women, because of the genre’s inherent concern with victimhood. The frequent victim position of women, such as Tara receiving unwanted male attention and the institutionalization of Diane, adds to the sense of women’s compromised subjectivity. The largely absent father suggests that Emily is neglected, and that Tara must force a space for herself, which is all the more difficult when her own mind is unreliable. Thus, one could read the murders as a violent eruption in the face of female suppression, just as much as a mental illness or a family curse, although the uncertainty that pervades the film allows for multiple readings.

This uncertainty is facilitated with a fluid visual style, including long panning takes as well as a delicate shifting of position within shot/reverse-shot patterns. During an early conversation between Tara and therapist Dr. Sanchez (Sabreena Iman, “The Line”), the camera pans behind one character’s head but instead of completing the motion in that position, we cut to a completion of the motion behind the other character’s head. Meanwhile, a jarring editing pattern continues throughout, as past and present, memory, dream and reality cut between each other. This style keeps the viewer off balance, as confused by what could be happening as Tara. This lack of clarity, combined with the visceral and indeed emotional violence, ensures that The Inhabitant is eerie, gripping and shocking, with an ambiguity between the psychological and supernatural as sharp as an axe blade.

A road trip that builds on Abbas Kiarostami’s “A Taste of Cherry” and Jafar Panahi’s “Taxi,” Jafar’s son Panah has built on his father’s legacy in Hit the Road, a mixture of laugh out loud comedy, sadness, family drama, and serious social/political issues. While the film succeeds in bringing the meaning of the genre “comedy/drama,” into sharp focus, its protest against the repressive regime in Tehran is clear. From the opening scene, however, it is difficult to discern in which direction the film will go and the feeling is that the director may be limited by the authorities as to what he can or cannot say.

As the film opens, an SUV is seen crossing the dry and dusty Iranian landscape somewhere in the Northwestern portion of the country close to the Turkish border. “Where are we?” the mother (Pantea Panahiha, “Exodus”) asks, “We’re dead,” says the youngest of her two sons (Rayan Sarlak, “Gol be Khodi”) from the back seat. The occupants in the car do not seem to be engaged in a death rattle, however, and Khosro, the bearded father (Mohammad Hassan Madjooni, “Latyan”) with his leg in a plaster cast has to continually fend off the rascally intrusions of his six-year-old son. The movie primarily confines itself to the inside of a car and unfortunately our first experience is one of family dysfunction and insults.

The rambunctious, but adorable, boy is described by his father as the “little fart,” the “little monkey,” and a “pest,” but you pays your money and you take your choice. When the boy gets out of the car, he kisses the ground to his father’s protestations and the disapproval of his mother, beautifully played by Panahiha, and the indifference of their sick dog Jessy. While these shenanigans dominate the opening scene, the melancholy sound of Schubert A-minor sonata D. 784 playing in the background suggests that all is not fun and games as does the silence of the older brother, 20-year-old Farid (Amin Simiar). Though exquisite, the Schubert Sonata (used to greater advantage in Robert Bresson’s sublime, “Au hasard Batlhazar”) lends the first touch of sadness to what seems to be a joyous if obscure occasion.

The family does not tell the boy the real reason for the trip, hiding under the pretense that his older brother will be gone for a short time in order to get married. It is clear, however, that the child can sense this is a lie which may be part of the reason for his over-the-top behavior. The mother is also unnerved when she feels that someone is following their car but it is only someone trying to tell them that their coolant is leaking. When the car does make several stops, cinematographer Amin Jafari raises the film’s aesthetic level with engaging scenes depicting the beauty of the Iranian hills and landscapes.

There is one beautiful sequence where the boy lays on top of his father and they are both transported high above the earth into a wondrous panoply of stars. The focus of Hit the Road turns darker, however, as we begin to understand that the mother’s cries suggest that wherever they are headed she will not see Farid again. The film becomes even more enigmatic when the talk centers about bail and a quarantine period and clandestine meetings take place between the car’s occupants, merchants of sheep, and shadowy characters giving directions about where to go to meet up with some other shadowy people.

As he journey progresses, the viewer has an odd feeling of danger, also sensed by the occupants of the car. To cover their feelings, they listen to a popular Iranian song on the radio as if to cover their fear. Although the pop music seems incongruous given the circumstances, it seems to lighten the mood. Later, the little boy asks his dad if they’re cockroaches. “We are now,” Khosro replies, “Whenever you see a cockroach,” he says, “remember that his parents sent him out into the world with lots of hope.” And with that, the director balances humor and serious drama and, in the process, honors the legacy of his father, Jafar Panahi, now forbidden to make movies, while carving out a niche for himself as a young director from whom we might expect great things.

This description could apply to many a haunted house film, from “The Innocents” to “The Others” to “The Awakening.” The Night House offers genre tropes familiar to fans of those films, but also throws in some unexpected features. Beginning with slow panning shots of an opulent and very modern house by a lake, we quickly learn that this is the home of Beth (Rebecca Hall, “Godzilla vs. Kong”), recently widowed after her husband Owen (Evan Jonigkeit, “Brave New Jersey”), an architect who also designed the house, shot himself without warning. Beth is dealing with her grief both at home and in her work as a high school teacher, when she is further disquieted by a mysterious presence in her house. Is the presence the product of her bereaved and confused mind, or is there something supernatural at work?

While the film is a bit disjointed initially, director David Bruckner uses this disjointing to unsettle the viewer, as mysterious images and dreams during the first act seem to clarify that this is indeed a haunting. More often than not, films of this type maintain ambiguity until the finale as to whether the events are psychological or supernatural. In this case, however, the question appears to be answered relatively early, but as Beth learns more about Owen, the mystery deepens and other horror tropes creep in with increasingly crawly effect. Reversed images, the sight of Owen standing naked on the water, a palatable sense of malevolence and a secret life all disrupt any sense of certainty. Most significantly, we learn of Beth’s own past trauma, not directly associated with Owen’s suicide but a life-shaping event in its own right.

In her matter-of-fact and often quite aggressive response to the threatening mysteries that she encounters, Beth is more interesting and varied than the standard gothic heroine. There is no running around in a nightie and coming over all tremulous here. At times, she is more reminiscent of a slasher final girl, apt to call out her non-corporeal visitor with a bottle of brandy to hand or head out into the woods with a powerful flashlight. Her investigation becomes obsessive but remains understandable, as she flicks through Owen’s phone and computer, follows his purchase trails to rare bookstores and confronts friends and new acquaintances with similar resolve.

Onscreen throughout most of the film, Hall commands the screen with great presence. Her luminous eyes convey pain and anger in equal measure, especially in a crucial scene when the camera eases behind her, crossing the 180-degree line as the film itself takes a significant turn. She is ably supported by the rest of the cast, especially co-worker Claire (Sarah Goldberg, “Izzy Gets the F*ck Across Town”), the best friend we should all be so lucky to have, as well as her neighbor Mel (Vondie Curtis-Hall, “Breaking Brooklyn”) who offers advice both useful and patronizing. In his brief appearances as Owen, Jonigkeit displays a touching innocence, while still hinting at something below the surface.

If you’ll pardon the cliché, the house is also a wonderful supporting character. Production designer Kathrin Eder makes this modern structure both efficient with clean lines, while also being warm and inviting. Thus, when the very building becomes untrustworthy it is all the more unsettling. Figures in the architecture take form and just as quickly disappear, creating some intense set pieces and startling jump scares. The director of photography, Elisha Christian, lenses the daytime sequences in warm light while at night the shadows take on multiple dimensions, suggesting both familiar and unfamiliar darkness. Beth’s discovery of another house, that of the title, extends the central conceit of haunting and trauma manifesting physically through structures, with further revelations to be found. The final sequence is quite literally gut wrenching, but it is notable that the film is also deeply sad. Like many a tale of haunting, The Night House covers the five stages of grief, with Beth demonstrating fear, anger, denial, bargaining and acceptance. This is possibly by rote and the viewer may find themselves anticipating the next stage, but the film also probes the compelling question of mortality. What do we believe happens after we die? Is it more or less comforting to believe that there is something after death, or nothing? The Night House uses these questions to great effect, and while the finale may be a little rushed, it remains an eerie investigation that lingers in the mind like echoes of a near death experience . . .

Within this established formula and with well over 20 films in the canon, there is a risk of repetition and over-familiarity, which can breed boredom and contempt. Under the direction of Destin Daniel Cretton, Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings is infused with sensibilities and stylistics of the martial arts film (a Marvtial arts film, if you will), giving this entry in the Marvel Cinematic Universe a refreshing edge that helps it stand out among its siblings. This is despite the familiar origin story: Shaun/Shang-Chi (Simu Liu, “Women Is Losers”), is living a normal life when extraordinary circumstances pull him into a secret world where he must embrace his destiny. It’s a well-trodden path, which is perhaps ironic considering the film’s repeated emphasis on hidden paths and concealed doors, but the familiarity of the tale is a strength rather than a weakness. We’ve been enjoying this type of hero’s journey for literally centuries, so it is surely churlish to complain about what works, especially when it works as beautifully as it does here.

For Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings is beautifully told and presented. The title is interesting, because while we get plenty of Shang-Chi, the Ten Rings themselves remain tantalizing legendary. A prologue narrated to the young Shaun (a device also used in “Black Panther”) by his mother Li (Fala Chen, “Revenge of the Green Dragons”), mentions that his father Xu Wenwu (Tony Chiu-Wai Leung, “The Grandmaster”) found the Rings long ago, but that’s all we get. The Rings are not even the McGuffin of the story, simply used by Wenwu to establish and maintain power with his secret society, hinted at in earlier Marvel installments (see “Iron Man” and “Iron Man 3” especially). Wenwu demands that his son as well as his daughter Xialing (Meng’er Zhang) join him on an obsessive quest, a quest that begins in the prologue, takes a major detour but then proceeds from San Francisco to Macau to a hidden village in a moving bamboo forest (if that seems weird, did you miss “Doctor Strange” and “Ant-Man and the Wasp”?). Along the way we are treated to some family drama, familiar faces (hello, Benedict Wong!) and what we’re really here for: Martial arts combat!

The combat is gorgeously handled. From a super-charged yet sensual and flirtatious contest in the prologue to the introduction of Shaun’s skills in a bus to a battle fought on scaffolding to the spectacular climax, Cretton leans into the opportunities afforded by this genre. The martial arts genre varies from the fantasy wuxia of Chinese cinema like “Hero” and “House of Flying Daggers” to contemporary-set kung fu adventures like “Enter The Dragon” and urban thrillers like “The Raid,” not to mention the action comedies of Jackie Chan and his ilk. The combat sequences, choreographed by Andy Cheng, are balletic both in terms of the performers’ movements and also William Pope’s camera, utilizing the style of the genre. As Shaun ducks in and out of blows, bounces off walls and strikes at multiple opponents, the camera both captures the exquisite movement of the human body while also drawing the viewer into this movement. The Rings as well as other superpowers do not overwhelm the artistry on display, especially in moments when combatants seem to take command of the elements. A sequence in a super-charged fighting ring carries serious heft while the clashes between Shaun and Wenwu demonstrate the major tensions between father and son.

Family indeed forms the central tension of the film, with Wenwu willing to do anything for his notion of family while Shaun urges caution and restraint to no avail. The two men form a great contrast, with Leung giving Wenwu a stoic façade, ably supported by the Rings, while also expressing that this man is deeply broken. Shaun is amiable but also pained, and the steady narrowing of the gap between him and Wenwu is communicated through Liu’s performance that is as much physical as verbal. A major delight of the film, however, is Awkwafina (“Paradise Hills”) as Shaun’s best friend Katy. Much like Darcy (Kat Dennings) in “Thor”, “Thor: The Dark World” and “WandaVision,” Katy is an anchor character, giving the audience some grounding in the increasingly bizarre events, especially by providing levity and laughs as well as excellent driving, archery and karaoke. Speaking of laughs, there is a hilarious appearance by another familiar face who comes with an adorable animal companion. Cynically, one can read that aspect as something Disney will exploit for maximum merchandise, but that does not mean that Morris is not a great part of the film.

Speaking of not being cynical, the film displays a refreshing confidence in its material and audience. After the annoying insistence on accented English in “Black Widow,” Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings has long stretches of dialogue in subtitled Mandarin (which could almost be an in-joke about audiences accepting Mandarin). Furthermore, the range of characters ensures that we do not have exoticized “Others,” but detailed and varied human beings. Much like “Black Panther,” this film demonstrates the diverse world that Marvel depicts and, while this is admittedly all in the service of a deeply problematic multinational corporation, it is nonetheless encouraging to see mainstream entertainment making diversity mainstream. Disney may be laughing all the way to the bank, but the rest of us can laugh our way to the karaoke bar thanks to this vibrant, enervating and inclusive fantasy adventure.

The film starts off simple enough, as married couple Catherine (Amanda Seyfried, “First Reformed”) and George Claire (James Norton, “Little Women”) move to Chosen, New York, as George has a new job as an art history teacher at Saginaw College. Everything seems to be fine until Catherine realizes that the new house they’re in is haunted by the spirit of the previous wife that lived there. After that specific moment, in which “apparitions” of the ghost are seen in the background, Things Heard & Seen progressively becomes more discombobulated, incapable of finding the one thing that makes any horror film great: A clear identity.

Identity makes any great film, but is particularly important to horror films: It has to know what it is at its core before trying to mix with 1001 different subgenres of horror. Unfortunately for Berman and Pulcini, Things Heard & Seen has no idea what it really wants to be. Should it focus on the couple’s rifting relationship? Or how about George’s charlatan past? Or the ghost! That’s right! We shoehorned in a ghost in the script! Wait . . . how should we use it?!?!? And there lies its biggest problem: The film deals with way too many themes that it has no idea what do with everything it’s dealing with. Whenever Catherine has some sort of spiritual connection with the ghost of the house, it feels terribly jarring and out of place since we’ve never seen a proper “connection” (or symbiotic relationship, if you will) with the two of them. The “ghost” was set up as being some sort of “scary” creature until Saginaw art history chair Floyd DeBeers (F. Murray Abraham, “Robin Hood”) tells Catherine that she means no harm . . . but another ghostly creature is in the house and must be “found.”

All of that construct could be a great set-up, where the house’s two spirits psychologically control Catherine and George, damaging their relationship further, with the “evil” spirit controlling George to make more erratic decisions and corrupting his psyche. In contrast, the “good” spirit makes Catherine see the light on George’s abusive tendencies. This would’ve made a more compelling drama if the film solely focused on that.

Thankfully, the psychological horror aspect of the film — which seems to take massive inspiration from Stephen King (and Stanley Kubrick)’s “The Shining” — through its themes and aesthetics delivers. There’s one moment where the film shifts entirely and starts to become quite interesting. It’s where George meets his thesis director (Lewis Payton Jr., “The Extra Man”) who is curious to see George in New York being a “professor,” and where we then learn that George forged his letter of recommendation and his work amounts to nothing but plagiarism. Because of this, the ghost can control George into becoming increasingly psychotic, which prompts three successively cathartic (and scary) sequences involving Floyd, Catherine’s friend Justine (Rhea Seehorn, “I Hate Kids”) and Catherine herself. The atmosphere of George’s descent into madness is top-notch, with James Norton commanding every scene he is in through an unpredictable, and at times, increasingly violent force. Look at his eyes, and you’ll see firsthand how his behavior becomes progressively corrupted.

The same can be said for Amanda Seyfried, whose descent into loneliness and isolation forces her to seek out help from spirits. The sequence in which she assists in a séance with Floyd to communicate with the spirit is very well done and represents how Catherine feels towards speaking with the afterlife. However, it’s her relationship with Floyd and a welcomed extended cameo from veteran actress Karen Allen (“Raiders of the Lost Ark”) as Mare Laughton that makes Catherine a tad more effective than when she is alone or when she interacts with the sons of the last couple that lived in their house, Eddie (Alex Neustaedter, “American Woman”) and Cole (Jack Gore, “Wonder Wheel”).

The film’s ending takes a rather spiritual turn, borrowing a visual cue that seems to be taken straight out of Ron Howard’s “Angels and Demons” during the climactic parachute sequence. In this case, George is sailing and sees George Inness’ The Valley of the Shadow of Death. It’s an interesting way to end your film. Still, since spiritual imagery (and Inness’s art) take a backseat for a more conventional horror flick without any sense of identity, it’s hard for the audience to care one bit about what happens when Inness’ painting magically appears at the end — as if it signifies something. If the film spent a tad more time on the significance of the painting, the ghosts, and how George and Catherine’s connection with them made their relationship more toxic than it was, Things Heard & Seen would’ve been something truly memorable. It’s not terrible: The acting is mostly great and the cinematography is highly dynamic and inventive. There are also some genuinely effective scares (anything where Catherine walks in the house and the ghost appears for a brief second is maddening) peppered in what is an otherwise conflicted movie. But most of all, it’s an improvement over “You Should Have Left,” Seyfried’s most recent go in the realm of horror. Now that was just bad.

Katie is a university student raising money through events and social media related to her cancer. After the initial head-shaving, we see her making her way to campus, meeting her friends and rehearsing for a dance recital. This opening sequence is a masterful piece of visual storytelling, as writer-directors Yonah Lewis and Calvin Thomas construct the environment of the film, Katie as well as other characters, almost entirely without dialogue. Cinematographer Christopher Lew lenses the Ontario locations in chilly and stark colors, with deep focus shots of dilapidated buildings, bridges and elevated train tracks constructing a sense of entrapment that is furthered by editor/composer Lev Lewis’ smart cutting on the notes of the ominous, but never overbearing, score. As the film progresses, the sense of enclosure becomes ever stronger, as the camera pushes in towards Katie. This technique means, whether Katie is outdoors or indoors, in a two-shot with girlfriend Jennifer (Amber Anderson, “Your Highness”) or alone in a room, the camera creeps towards her in a manner that shrinks the frame, suggesting threatening and Katie’s increasing fear and desperation. During one tense conversation, the frame is partially occupied by a large mirror, Katie in the foreground but the shallow focus blurring the mirror. This reflective void expresses the confrontation that Katie is making with those around her and with herself, both of them equally frightening.

Katie’s fear is a product of her own actions, because that initial expectation about cancer and a “White Lie” is proved correct — Katie does not have cancer. The dance recital, crowdfunder, magazine articles that we see arrayed round her are all in the service of her elaborate and sustained deception, the extent of which is impressive as demonstrated in conversations that she has with Jennifer, her father Doug (Martin Donovan, “Tenet”) as well as university and medical administrators. The history of her diagnosis, symptoms and treatment are all meticulously researched and delivered with a conviction that would make any undercover agent proud. When further evidence is needed to sustain her ruse, she performs additional manipulation to get the money she claims is for medication and further treatment.

On the one hand, it is impressive to see Katie’s skill at developing her fiction. On the other hand, the viewer may roundly condemn the protagonist for her blatant preying upon people’s sympathies not to mention the financial fraud that she is committing. Conversations with doctors and lawyers reveal the wider ramifications of her actions, creating further expense and risk as suspicion grows. The score escalates both in tempo and volume, and conversations with officials raise the stakes still higher, culminating with one of the tensest photocopying sequences ever seen on film. Mobile phones are also used to great effect: The device is common enough to be part of the scenery and can provide something of a deus ex machina, but in White Lie, the cell phone is a lifeline, a tool and even a threat, as Katie receives texts and calls that she lies about, social media notifications that induce panic, other alerts that offer relief, and the policing of online shaming and bullying makes a timely but not heavy-handed appearance.

Throughout the increasingly fraught events, Rohl performs a remarkable balancing act, using subtle shifts in expression to express both her fear of exposure and adherence to her story. Her performance is central to maintaining audience sympathy — despite her actions, the film never condemns Katie but presents her as a figure threatened and frightened but determined to continue. Maybe we want her to succeed; maybe we want her to be found out; maybe we want her to find a way out of this mess she has created for herself; would the ultimate irony be that she actually develops cancer? Katie is certainly manipulative, but not vindictive or cruel. The only times she becomes angry are when people who know the truth deny her what she seeks.

Perhaps most importantly, the film does not dwell on WHY Katie is doing all this. The amount of effort, discipline and self-inflicted suffering, not to mention expense, that she goes through and incurs is geared towards her elaborate deception, but is it all for money? She pursues a specific financial aid through her university that requires particular documents, but this seems more of a McGuffin than anything else. Perhaps her project is to maintain a sense of control, Katie’s strained relationship with her father suggests that she is determined to make things happen her way. There’s may also be a political comment on university tuition fees: That one way to pay for college is through dishonesty and deception. Ultimately, Katie’s reason is not explored in White Lie because it is not the point. The film’s emphasis is on the psychological (and to a lesser extent, physical) strain and commitment to her project, inviting the audience to consider how to deal with such a situation. The ending is pleasantly ambiguous, showing both an ongoing commitment, and also the cost. It is noticeable that the cost seems inevitable, as either the truth will out, or even if not, the scaffolding of deception dictates a very heavy price.