The Serial Killer Who Needed Better Writing (and Therapy)
There are movies about killers who stalk their prey, torment their victims, and chill your bones. Then there’s Rock, Paper, Scissors (a.k.a. Rock Paper Dead, 2017), a film so lethargic it could only terrify someone who’s never seen a screen before. Directed by Tom Holland — yes, the same Tom Holland who gave us Fright Night and Child’s Play — this cinematic corpse proves that even horror legends can phone it in from beyond the creative grave.
The title promises a game of tension, a clash of choices, maybe even something clever. What we get instead is an uneven, dull, and occasionally hilarious slog through half-baked psychoanalysis, ghostly guilt trips, and dialogue that sounds like it was written by someone who took a crash course in “Serial Killer Clichés 101.”
This isn’t Psycho. It’s not even American Psycho. It’s Psycho: The Community Theater Version, starring people who look like they wandered in from a Lifetime movie about red flags.
Plot: Paper-Thin and Rock-Bottom
Meet Peter Harris (Luke Macfarlane), a.k.a. “The Doll Maker.” Once a prolific serial killer, he’s been declared “cured” and released from a state hospital for the criminally insane — which tells you everything you need to know about the American mental health system in horror movies. He returns to his old family home, where he’s supposed to heal, reflect, and definitely not relapse into murder.
Naturally, the house is haunted — not by actual ghosts, but by the movie’s own indecision about what genre it wants to be. Peter begins experiencing visions of his childhood trauma and his victims, which might have been eerie if they didn’t look like rejected music video effects from 2003.
Enter Ashley (Jennifer Titus), a beautiful, ambitious writer who shows up on Peter’s doorstep with the brilliant idea to write a book about him. Because when someone nicknamed The Doll Maker invites you into his secluded murder house, you pack your typewriter and go.
From there, we’re treated to a slow-motion descent into something resembling madness but feeling more like mild inconvenience. Peter struggles with temptation, Ashley flirts with danger, and the ghosts occasionally show up to whisper, “Boo,” in a way that feels contractually obligated.
There’s also a subplot involving a detective (Michael Madsen, in full “I’ll do it for a paycheck” mode) and Dr. Evelyn Bauer (Tatum O’Neal), Peter’s psychiatrist, who apparently graduated from the “Why Not Release The Killer?” School of Medicine. None of it matters. It’s all noise, like a bad true-crime podcast that won’t stop explaining itself.
By the end, people are dead, Peter’s not so cured after all, and the audience has developed an incurable case of apathy.
Characters: Everyone Needs Therapy — Especially the Screenwriter
Luke Macfarlane tries his best as Peter Harris, but there’s only so much an actor can do when every line of dialogue sounds like it was translated from another language, then back again by a Roomba. His “inner torment” mostly registers as mild indigestion. When he’s supposed to be frightening, he looks confused; when he’s supposed to be tragic, he looks constipated.
Jennifer Titus’s Ashley is the kind of woman horror movies love to write: intelligent, ambitious, and apparently incapable of recognizing danger when it’s holding a knife. Her attraction to Peter is never believable, unless you assume she has a fetish for bad decisions. Watching her flirt with a known murderer feels less like tension and more like a cry for help.
Tatum O’Neal’s Dr. Bauer is meant to be the voice of reason, but mostly she’s there to remind you that once upon a time, she had an Oscar. Every scene she’s in has the energy of someone who just realized they left their oven on.
And then there’s Michael Madsen. Oh, Michael. His performance as Detective Doyle Dechert is pure Madsen — mumbly, monotone, and weirdly charming, like your drunk uncle solving crimes at Thanksgiving. It’s as if he wandered in from another movie, took one look at the script, and decided to wing it.
The supporting cast fares no better, though special mention must go to John Dugan as Uncle Charles, who delivers his lines with the quiet menace of a man who’s just realized he’ll be explaining this credit for the rest of his career.
Tone: Somewhere Between Hallmark and Hall of Shame
The biggest problem with Rock, Paper, Scissors is that it doesn’t know what it wants to be. Is it a supernatural thriller? A psychological drama? A redemption story? A parody of all three? The film plays it so safe that it feels like it’s afraid of its own premise.
One minute we’re watching moody flashbacks to Peter’s traumatic childhood — shot with all the subtlety of a soap opera — and the next, we’re watching him stare at dolls like he’s considering starting an Etsy shop. The movie wants us to sympathize with Peter, but it also wants us to fear him, and it ends up doing neither.
The pacing is glacial, the scares nonexistent, and the “psychological depth” about as deep as a kiddie pool. Even the music seems to give up halfway through — it starts off ominous, then fades into the cinematic equivalent of elevator jazz for serial killers.
Direction: When Horror Legends Run Out of Juice
Tom Holland, the man who gave us classics like Fright Night and Child’s Play, directs this like someone directing a hostage video. You can almost hear the creative exhaustion behind every shot. The cinematography is washed-out, the editing sloppy, and the blocking so awkward it feels like no one actually rehearsed.
There are occasional glimpses of Holland’s old flair — a creepy visual here, a clever transition there — but they’re buried under so much tonal confusion that you can’t appreciate them. It’s like watching a magician forget how to do his own tricks.
Even the kills are uninspired. When your movie is about a serial killer, the least you can do is make the murders memorable. Instead, we get off-screen slayings, lazy cutaways, and a few drops of blood that look like watered-down ketchup.
Themes: “Cured” in the Same Way This Script Was Finished
On paper (no pun intended), Rock, Paper, Scissors could have explored interesting ideas — trauma, guilt, the illusion of rehabilitation. Instead, it dips its toes into all of them before backing away like a nervous swimmer.
The film tries to humanize Peter, but without showing any actual humanity. His “hauntings” by past victims feel like a cheap conscience montage, and the flashbacks to his childhood abuse feel exploitative rather than insightful.
If this movie were an essay, it would get a C-minus and a note from the teacher that says, “You have interesting ideas, but please, for the love of God, develop them.”
Cinematography: Point, Shoot, Forget
The movie’s look is as uninspired as its title. Everything’s bathed in a dull beige palette that screams “direct-to-DVD.” The lighting is flat, the compositions random, and the ghost effects would embarrass a YouTube fan film.
Even the house — the central setting that should ooze atmosphere — feels weirdly empty. It’s a film about haunting memories that somehow manages to look completely un-haunted.
Final Thoughts: Paper Covers Rock, Audience Covers Eyes
There’s a universe where Rock, Paper, Scissors could’ve been a chilling, character-driven horror film about guilt and redemption. In this universe, it’s a sleepy mess that mistakes staring contests for suspense and therapy sessions for terror.
It’s not scary. It’s not profound. It’s not even entertainingly bad — just limp, lifeless, and painfully earnest about its own mediocrity.
By the time the credits roll, you’re left wondering what the “rock” and “paper” were supposed to symbolize. Maybe the “rock” is your skull, and the “paper” is the script that beats it into submission.
Final Rating: ★☆☆☆☆
(One out of five doll heads — a film so dull, even its ghosts would rather haunt something else.)
