My quick rating – 2.2/10. If you ever wondered what would happen if a low‑budget horror‑movie‑school project collided with a middle‑school drama club, look no further than American Psychopath. The film opens with the kind of suburban serenity that makes you want to pull out a lawn‑mower and start mowing—if only the camera didn’t keep zooming in on a lone, bewildered woman who’s apparently lost more than just her keys.
Our heroine, a nameless “girl from out of town,” spends the first fifteen minutes trying to remember where she left her phone, her sanity, and—most crucially—her own name. The script treats amnesia like a decorative garnish: sprinkle it liberally, stir it into every scene, and hope the audience doesn’t notice the bland flavor underneath. By the time Kathy (Erica James) finally pieces together a vague recollection of a “serial killer,” we’re already wondering whether the real mystery is why anyone bothered to write a plot at all.
Enter the “unidentified serial killer,” who, in a bold move that could only be described as “creative budgeting,” never actually kills anyone on screen. Instead, he offers menacing suggestions—think “drill pointed at head” or “watch this terrifyingly quiet hallway”—and then promptly steps out of frame for a dramatic seizure‑like collapse. Director Frank Palangi apparently decided that blood was too messy for a PG‑13 rating, so the only crimson we see is a stock‑footage clip of a puddle on concrete that looks suspiciously like a Photoshop experiment gone wrong. If you squint hard enough, you might even spot the red filter the cinematographer flips on for “extra horror vibes.” Spoiler alert: it doesn’t work.
The film’s pacing is a masterclass in how to stretch 61 minutes of “no plot” into a feature-length snooze fest. Scenes transition with the subtlety of a dial tone, and tension builds slower than a snail on a treadmill. The only thing more relentless than the killer’s invisible presence is the soundtrack’s repetitive synth‑drone, which could double as elevator music for a haunted house that never actually scares anyone.
Acting? Let’s just say the cast could benefit from a crash course in “how to convey fear without actually feeling it.” Our amnesiac protagonist delivers lines with the emotional depth of a weather report, while the killer’s occasional “I’m watching you” is delivered with all the menace of a bored librarian reminding you to return overdue books. If you’re looking for a masterclass in melodrama, you’ll have to look elsewhere, perhaps at a high school talent show.
In the end, American Psychopath feels like a Friday the 13th homage that missed the whole “Friday the 13th” part entirely. That “Lake Crystal” reference was a bit too obvious. It’s a cross between a missing‑plot puzzle and a tension‑free meditation session, resulting in a cinematic experience that’s about as entertaining as watching paint dry… in slow motion. If you enjoy movies that promise terror but deliver a polite, blood‑free lecture on how to forget your own identity, then congratulations—you’ve found your new favorite film.
