REVIEW: Amber Heard Brings Some Intrigue to Otherwise Uninspired The Ward

The Ward, John Carpenter's first directorial effort in 10 years, is not an ideal hiatus-buster. The premise itself -- a psych ward for young women is the site of a killing spree -- is somewhat pre-Carpenter, and the toe-dip into torture porn feels a little desperate. But his budget-blond lead, B-movie mistress Amber Heard, is well-chosen, and the combination of an excellent supporting cast and a pliable theme work to offset the sizable debits incurred by the often rote direction and seriously iffy ending.

It's 1966 when Kristen (Heard) is dragged off to a North Bend, Ore., mental hospital after she sets a house ablaze wearing nothing but a white slip and a dazed but alluring expression. Described as "confused and disturbed" by her suspiciously courtly doctor (Jared Harris), Kristen is no dummy, and jacks her way out of her cell on the second night. When she is intercepted and subjected to the Frankenstein-ish procedure of electroconvulsive shock therapy, one of the maybe-menacing orderlies (there is also an amusingly dead-eyed nurse) mutters his wish that they might "fry the crazy out" of all of the girls on the ward. Those girls include a sniffy redhead named Sarah (Danielle Panabaker), a pugnacious weirdo named Emily (Mamie Gummer, fully going for it), the sweetly functional Iris (Lyndsy Fonseca), and a timid regression case named Zooey (Laura-Leigh).

The strange, shady things Kristen sees when she enters the hospital are soon consolidated into the same, one terrible thing: A nasty female corpse who snacks on inmates at night. The particular end of this ghoul's first victim draws distinct parallels to the nature of the shock treatment Kristen was subjected to, but Carpenter and his writers (Michael and Shawn Rasmussen) don't press the theme of rebellious young women trapped in the loony bin at the beginning of the women's movement much further than that. In fact the lack of any sort of pressure becomes The Ward's defining quality and ultimate undoing. The story's obvious and various potential is left to stand on its own, and the scares are largely uninspired. The steamy shower reveals, the hallway chases, the sudden window appearances -- they all seem governed by the terms of the genre, not the story, and without the knowing intellect that might give such automatic choices an edge.

Which is not to say The Ward is still not more expertly made than the vast majority of the horror being churned out today. The credits alone have more art and atmosphere than the entire running time of Insidious, and Carpenter's signature smooth camera moves and slow-jam pacing are in effect. Heard is an absorbing and enigmatic presence as a young woman whose memories -- glimpsed in flashback -- of abuse begin to conflate with the demon chasing her around the lockdown ward. The actress loses her footing in the final scene, but then its challenges form more of an earthquake than a twist, and it's hard to blame her. Carpenter's Shutter Island spin on the "final girl" trope doesn't have the energy or conviction to vault the film's final minutes out of expository U-turn territory. Though it's a relief from the stomach-turning spectacles of recent years, The Ward needs more guts to get over.