Shelter review

If movie shrinks were for real we’d all be in pretty deep shit. Take Julianne Moore’s harried psychiatrist in this moody but silly thriller.

Not content with summoning schizophrenic Jonathan Rhys Meyers’ multiple personalities at will – and by phone! – she decides to take him, unaccompanied, on a field trip down (suppressed) memory lane. Bad idea.

Though directors Måns Mårlind and Björn Stein do a decent job of building suspense with enticing zooms down long, dark corridors, and a palette composed of sepulchral grey/greens, there’s no saving this patient.

It’s an inexact science, but the point at which Moore suggests one of Meyers’ personalities was “tortured to death by Satan-worshipping mountain witches” is about where Shelter loses its marbles.

From the old codger whose 100-year-old cine-film explains everything to the nonsensical climax, Michael Cooney’s (Identity) script is so ill-disciplined he’ll be lucky to avoid a malpractice suit of his own.


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