If ever a film title over-promised and under-delivered, it’s The Night of Bloody Horror. On paper, it sounds like a grimy drive-in gem—a Southern Gothic slasher soaked in Freudian dread and low-budget bloodshed. In reality, it’s a leaden, confusing slog through bad acting, worse pacing, and the kind of editing that suggests someone spilled the film reels and just guessed the order.

Directed by Joy N. Houck Jr., this Louisiana-shot mess follows Wesley, a man recently released from a mental institution who may or may not be carving up women in a series of disconnected, lazily staged murders. He also might be suffering the ghostly hangover of his dead brother’s trauma. Or maybe it’s his overbearing mother. Or a dream. Or all of the above. Or none of it. The plot doesn’t just meander—it collapses into a narrative sinkhole by the second act, never to recover.

As a horror film, Night of Bloody Horror is utterly toothless. The kills are bloodless, awkwardly blocked, and lack any tension or catharsis. Despite its title, the film is rarely bloody and never horrifying. What should be gory spectacle or psychological torment is instead reduced to flat, amateur-hour staging, complete with shrill sound cues and repetitive “shock” flashbacks that play like a slide projector from hell.

Gerald McRaney, in his first feature role, tries to give Wesley some depth, but he’s drowned by a script that gives him nothing but psychobabble and wooden melodrama to chew on. It’s an unfair start to a career that, thankfully, would rise above this mire. The supporting cast fares no better, delivering their lines with the enthusiasm of people waiting for lunch. Not a single character feels like they belong in this world—or any world.

Technically, the film is barely functional. The editing is choppy, often cutting mid-sentence or lingering awkwardly after scenes have died. The cinematography is flat, frequently overlit in some scenes and murky in others. The soundtrack is a Frankenstein’s monster of tinny stingers and misplaced jazz-funk grooves that suck any remaining atmosphere out of the room.

If there’s any entertainment to be found here, it’s accidental—unintentional comedy born from overwrought acting, bizarre dream sequences, and the sheer incompetence of the storytelling. But even as a so-bad-it’s-good experience, The Night of Bloody Horror struggles to maintain interest. It’s not weird enough to be cult-worthy, and not scary enough to justify the word “horror” in the title.

The Prognosis:

There’s a kernel of an idea in here—a Southern-fried psychological slasher with family trauma at its core—but it’s utterly squandered. Instead, what we get is an amateurish, directionless, and dreary affair that serves as a cautionary tale in how not to make a horror movie. Keep telling yourself, it’s only a picture? No need—there’s nothing nightmarish here, just the dull ache of wasted time.

• Saul Muerte