House at the End of the Street | Movie review
Don’t come within a zip code of this horrible Jennifer Lawrence–starring potboiler.
Something horrible from the past has come back to haunt Jennifer Lawrence. It’s called House at the End of the Street, and it was shot (abysmally) two years ago, months before the actress scored the lead in The Hunger Games. Her credible teenage petulance is the only entertaining element of this utterly incompetent psychological thriller, in which Lawrence’s new-girl-in-town cozies up to the handsome, sad-eyed college boy (Max Thieriot) who lives next door. He’s dreamy damaged goods, an orphan whose brain-damaged little sister went all Michael Myers on Mom and Dad. Shockingly uneventful, the film marks time until dropping its big, dumb reveal. How big and dumb, you ask? We refer you to co-screenwriter David Loucka’s last movie, Dream House—an equally moronic and twist-laden dose of residential evil.