Welcome to Amityville—Again. God Help Us.
There are horror franchises that won’t die (Halloween), horror franchises that shouldn’t die (Evil Dead), and then there’s Amityville — the cinematic zombie that staggers out of its grave every few years with another bargain-bin sequel no one asked for.
Enter The Amityville Playhouse (also known, more appropriately, as The Amityville Mistake). Released in 2015 and directed by John R. Walker, this film marks the thirteenth entry in a franchise that’s long since lost any connection to Jay Anson’s original haunted house story. By this point, “Amityville” is less a location and more of a punchline — a brand name for bad lighting, bad acting, and worse scriptwriting.
This particular offering doesn’t just continue the tradition — it escalates it.
The Plot: Or, a Random Collection of Scenes That Technically Happen
The film follows Fawn Harriman (Monèle LeStrat), a high school student who inherits an abandoned theater in Amityville after her parents die in what we can only assume was an act of mercy by the screenwriter. She heads to the creepy old Roxy Theater with her friends — Indy, Kyle, Jevan, and Matt — plus her teacher, Mr. Stewart, who’s busy investigating Amityville’s dark history because, apparently, no one in this universe has heard of Zillow.
Once inside the theater, the group quickly discovers they can’t leave. Not because of ghosts — but because the script traps them in scenes so dull they physically can’t escape. There’s a Ouija board that spells “SISTER,” some demons that look like rejected extras from a high school zombie walk, and long, long stretches of dialogue that suggest the director’s true horror was the runtime itself.
Meanwhile, their teacher uncovers a ridiculous conspiracy involving ancient caves under Amityville that serve as a gateway to Hell, opened centuries ago by the Shinnecock tribe. (Yes, you read that right — a centuries-old indigenous demon curse. Because nothing says “fresh ideas” like casual cultural appropriation wrapped in fake blood.)
He learns that the town’s elite have been sacrificing six people every November 13 to keep the demons happy. Naturally, Fawn is the next intended sacrifice — because of course she is. By the finale, everyone’s either dead, possessed, or wishing they were.
The Acting: As Wooden as the Theater’s Stage
Monèle LeStrat’s performance as Fawn is… well, she exists. That’s about the nicest thing one can say. She delivers every line like she’s practicing English phonetics for a visa interview. Whether she’s discovering her demonic twin sister’s legacy or watching her friends die, she maintains the same blank, vaguely inconvenienced expression — the face of someone who just realized their Starbucks order was made with soy milk instead of oat.
Linden Baker, as her boyfriend Kyle, seems to believe he’s in a CW teen drama about property management. Eva Kwok’s “Indy” adds little beyond the occasional reaction shot, and Logan Russell as Jevan looks like he lost a bet that required him to appear in this film.
Then there’s John R. Walker, who also directs and plays Fawn’s teacher. He delivers every exposition dump with the enthusiasm of a man explaining tax law at a child’s birthday party. Watching him try to connect the dots between the demon lore and Amityville’s secret cults is like watching someone read Wikipedia out loud — only slower.
The Production Value: Hell’s Discount Matinee
If the movie looks cheap, that’s because it is — the entire production feels like it was filmed on the world’s last surviving camcorder. The lighting alternates between “fluorescent hellscape” and “so dark you might as well be listening to a podcast.” The special effects, when they appear, are straight out of Microsoft Paint. The “demons” resemble papier-mâché Halloween masks bought from a thrift store that only sells regret.
Even the theater itself — ostensibly the film’s central, spooky location — looks less like a haunted site and more like the local community center where your aunt hosts Zumba classes. There’s not an ounce of atmosphere. You could drop Beetlejuice into this setting, and he’d die of boredom before the ghosts got him.
The Script: The Real Gateway to Hell
Screenwriter Steve Hardy deserves a standing ovation for managing to write dialogue so lifeless it could resurrect the dead just so they could leave. Characters constantly explain things the audience already knows — or worse, things the characters themselves couldn’t possibly know.
Example: Fawn’s teacher somehow discovers that Amityville’s mayor has been sacrificing people to demons to “keep them appeased.” How? Who knows! Maybe the demons have a PR department.
The film also commits the cardinal sin of horror writing: it replaces fear with confusion. There’s talk of portals, sacrifices, cults, possessed surveyors, and a demonic twin sister — but none of it connects in any coherent way. It’s like reading fanfiction written by ChatGPT’s sleep-deprived cousin.
And don’t even get me started on the dialogue. At one point, a character actually says, “We have to stop them… before they stop us!” which might be the most profound line ever written by someone who just discovered circular logic.
The Pacing: A Slow March to Oblivion
If you’ve ever wanted to experience eternity, you don’t need to die — just watch The Amityville Playhouse. Every scene lingers long after its welcome, like a bad date who refuses to pick up the check.
There’s a moment when the group tries to escape the theater and discovers the doors won’t open. This should be tense, claustrophobic, a descent into panic. Instead, it’s five minutes of people politely tugging at door handles while the soundtrack hums with the enthusiasm of an idle refrigerator.
By the time the “twist” arrives — that Fawn’s possessed by her dead twin Adrienne — most viewers will have spiritually left their bodies, hovering above the couch like disinterested ghosts.
Cultural Offenses and Continuity Crimes
The movie’s attempts at Native American “curse” mythology are both lazy and offensive. The Shinnecock legend subplot reads like someone Googled “ancient evil tribe story” five minutes before the shoot. It’s a throwback to that charming mid-‘80s horror tradition where screenwriters thought “indigenous backstory” automatically meant “credible lore.”
Also, it’s never clear how any of this ties into Amityville as a concept. You could change the town’s name to literally anything — Clevelandville, Tim Hortonsville — and the plot would make the exact same amount of sense: none.
The Ending: Curtain Call, Please
After ninety minutes of mumbling, dim lighting, and demon latex that looks flammable, the film ends with Fawn revealing she’s been possessed by her twin all along. She drags her teacher back into the theater, screaming, “I’m Adrienne!”
This is supposed to be shocking. It isn’t. It’s like finding out a bowl of oatmeal is, in fact, also oatmeal.
Final Verdict: The Real Horror Is That It Got Made
⭐☆☆☆☆ (1 out of 5 Unpaid Stagehands)
The Amityville Playhouse isn’t scary, it’s not atmospheric, and it’s barely comprehensible. It’s a low-budget séance where no one shows up — not the ghosts, not the tension, not even common sense.
It’s proof that you can’t just slap “Amityville” on a script and call it horror. At this point, the real curse of Amityville isn’t a haunted house — it’s the endless stream of sequels haunting our streaming services.
If Hell has a film festival, this movie plays on repeat — to punish the souls of bad screenwriters. Bring popcorn. And a flashlight. You’ll need both to see what’s going on.
