Its chief issues stem from its sluggish energy, or its lack of focus and depth. Essentially, it makes the claim that all art is dangerous — a statement that’s not very singular, but is sufficient enough to craft something worth sinking teeth into — but its execution is fairly bloodless and devoid of much pleasure. Its attempts at satire are pretty doughy and half-baked, and the horror and tension are practically nonexistent; there is no nuance or surprises — nearly every death is spoiled by its trailer (another bit of bad Netflix marketing). There’s no vital mystery at its center, except who the artist of these spooky painting is, which isn’t even really all that important — and whose bright idea was it to call this artist Dease?! All that will be running through any reasonable person’s head is Deez Nuts, as they sit in wait for a line of dialogue like “you want all Dease paintings?” (which actually does manifests at one point).

Tonally, it can’t really decide if it wants to play it serious or farcical, and its indecision leads to a lot of bobbling between those two poles. It paints in broad, looney strokes though, devoid of much logic and leaving a lot to be desired, uprooting what makes Nightcrawler a somewhat tangible nightmare in favor of a distended, cartoonish framework that underwhelms more than it thrills. Even more disheartening is its solid cast doesn’t produce much edible fruit from their performances, each character being too outlandish or unlikeable to sympathize with and not deplorable enough to feel catharsis by the time they meet their untimely ends.