Psycho Killer

Although its title accurately foreshadows bloodshed and mayhem, Psycho Killer is dead on arrival.

More concerned with amplifying serial-killer tropes than generating consistent suspense, this lurid cat-and-mouse thriller might be alluring for true-crime aficionados, but they will be let down by the lack of compelling mystery or intrigue.

The ridiculous nature of the plot is evident right from the opening sequence, in which a Kansas highway patrolman (Stephen Adekolu) is gunned down in broad daylight during a rural traffic stop.

The only witness, as it turns out, is Jane (Georgina Campbell), the victim’s wife and a fellow cop. Her radio calls for help are too late as the “Satanic Slasher” — nicknamed for the messaging and imagery he leaves behind — gets away.

Jane becomes obsessed with tracking him down, even outside of her jurisdiction, despite pleas to stand down from her misogynistic superiors. She appears to piece together clues much more efficiently than the FBI, anyway, so why not?

Along the way, details are gradually revealed about the anonymous pill-popping assailant (James Preston Rogers), a hulking figure whose face remains in shadow almost throughout, whether behind his black tactical mask or his oversized hood.

His true motives are as cloudy as his methods are reckless. Is he driven by his spiritual devotion to the devil? Are the opioids to blame, or some lingering trauma from his past?

Such details are trivial in the screenplay by Andrew Kevin Walker (Seven), which generally takes itself much too seriously — save for a cartoonish gathering of a satanist sex cult at a lavish mansion, overseen by a supermarket mogul (Malcolm McDowell) and his eager young assistant (Logan Miller).

As helmed by rookie director Gavin Polone, Psycho Killer shortchanges much of the character depth and moral complexity in favor of eye-rolling twists and gratuitous gore. There’s little attempt to develop or define either perpetrator or pursuer beyond the narrative function of both roles.

With his rather generic trench coat, gravelly robotic voice, aviator sunglasses, and vintage sports car, the title character is not destined for a place among the pantheon of classic movie murderers. He’ll probably be forgotten as quickly as his film.

Rated R, 91 minutes.