The Home (now streaming on Starz) pits Pete Davidson against the residents of a creepy retirement community, and it isn’t exactly a Millennials-vs.-Boomers clash for the ages. “Best generation, my f—in’ dick,” our headliner mutters under his breath at one point, and that’s an accurate representation of this quasi-horror movie’s level of articulation. Filmmaker James DeMonaco (director of the first three The Purge movies, writer of all of them) takes a halfway decent idea and turns it into an uninspired, vaguely brownish-colored movie version of the stew you make out of all the leftovers in the fridge, and that you can’t revive with just a little more salt.

THE HOME: STREAM IT OR SKIP IT? 

The Gist: Hurricane Greta is about to slam into this community, and this movie would love you to come to the conclusion that it’s the result of the collective might of boomers’ farts after they ate too many Wagyu tenderloins basted in the metaphorical gravies wrung from the pores of younger generations. Maybe that’s why Max (Davidson) is so skinny, but it’s definitely why he’s so P.O.’d. He breaks into a building and expresses his angst via some elaborate graffiti art that gets him arrested – again. His foster father finagles a deal for him to avoid jail time by performing community service at the Green Meadows Retirement Home and that doesn’t seem too bad since he’ll be a janitor and not a nurse on diaper duty. And at this point it’s established that Max has some trauma stemming from his foster brother’s suicide, the type of trauma that’s requisite to pile atop any and all protagonists of crappo horror movies at this point in the 21st century.

It’s worth noting that Green Meadows is a halfway-decent retirement community – not as posh as the one in The Thursday Murder Club, and not as repugnant as you might expect for a low-rung horror flick. BUT. There’s always a BUT. He arrives at the home and looks up and sees peering out a window the face of a gaunt old man with eyes that ain’t quite right. I’m sure it’s nothing! Management gives him the nickel tour, and gives him the first rule of The Friday the 13th Murder Club: DON’T GO ON THE FOURTH FLOOR. And yes, that’s also the second rule of The Friday the 13th Murder Club. Max will stay in a room at the home so he can be available 24/7 in case the job requires a 2 a.m. mop-up, and also so he can have lucid dreams that may or may not actually be dreams about weird shit happening around these here parts.

But everything goes fine and Max quietly manages his trauma and nothing incredibly gross and/or violent happens and he lives happily ever after the end. No! Actually, he catches a glimpse of old people in bizarre masks having miserable sex, and hears horrible screams of agony coming from, yes, the fourth floor. Max seems to be getting along OK, and even makes a couple of friends, like Lou (John Glover), who summons Max to clean up a big mess of feces when it’s actually a little welcome party for the new super. Ha! Max also has conversations about Real Stuff with Norma (Mary Beth Peil), both sharing the pain of the people they’ve lost. Eventually the fourth floor misery noises get to be too much and Max picks the lock and investigates, and it’s full of wheelchair-bound elderlies in states of drooling, semi-comatose madness. After Max gets his hand slapped for violating the first/second rule, that’s when the bullshit ramps up. Let’s just say this bullshit has some Satanic vibes, and poor Norma doesn’t deserve what happens to her, although Max seems ready to do something about all this.

What Movies Will It Remind You Of? The Home is sub-Blumhouse drivel nominally referencing things like Rosemary’s Baby, Eyes Wide Shut, and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest  in order to make it seem smarter than it is. Other recent scary movies set in nursing homes: The Manor, The Rule of Jenny Pen.

Performance Worth Watching: A moment of praise for the makeup and practical effects people, who provide The Home with more memorable elements than any of the cast performances.

Sex And Skin: A bit. Nothing extensive. But definitely unpleasant.

Our Take: In The Home, DeMarco tries a little bit of everything: flashbacks, dream-sequence fakeouts, jump scares, body horror, surveillance-tech POVs, occult gobbledygook, creepy sex, conspiracies, climate change dread, generational divide, paranoia, deepfake-ish dark-web weirdness… it goes on, and none of it is particularly compelling or original. It’s most effective in its grisly imagery, with a couple of memorable deaths that might tickle the cockles of horror connoisseurs, and DeMarco’s generous deployment of pus and eyeball gloop shows a variation on the usual bodily fluids that’s, well, I don’t know if “satisfying” is the right word, but at least we’re not drenched in the same ol’ blood and barf. Small victories, I guess.

Most will take issue with the casting of Davidson, who in the majority of his roles to date has yet to show the intensity that anchoring a thriller like The Home demands. He puts in some diligent effort in the role of the guy who routinely goes what the eff is going on around here?, and his work is a cut above merely cashing a paycheck, which isn’t to say he’s necessarily good. Miscast, maybe. The victim of half-assed writing, more likely, this being a paranoid creepout that never gets under our skin, with attempts at cheeky comedy that fizzle out and social commentary that dead-ends into obviousness. Having Davidson piss and moan about “F—ing boomers” ain’t enough.

The plot works its way through its hodgepodge of this ‘n’ that plot mechanisms to get to a conclusion that’ underwhelming and over the top at the same time; the initial bit of exhilaration quickly dissipates and we’re left with the sense that the movie just hasn’t been good or diligent enough in its storytelling and character development to earn this catharsis. It’s just spectacle for its own gory sake. This mediocrity might just inspire Davidson to retire from horror movies.

Our Call: Hate to say it, but 1.7 decent kills does not a horror movie make. SKIP IT.

John Serba is a freelance film critic from Grand Rapids, Michigan. Werner Herzog hugged him once.