On 14th November 1975, Ronald DeFeo brutally murdered his entire family, claiming voices in the house drove him to it. A year later newlyweds George and Kathy Lutz move in with her three children. Shortly after George's mind begins to unravel as the house takes hold of him.

The screenplay by Scott Kosar is based on the screenplay for the original film, which, in turn is based on a book by Jay Anson. As you might expect with such provenance, it's not terribly original. Nor is it very engrossing because Kosar has stripped it of any human interest. There is virtually no character development in the script - we are essentially presented with a toothy, all-American couple and their three photogenic kids, they move into the house and the dad goes nuts practically overnight. The "true" story has been stripped of realism and subverted into a generic horror movie. As a result, it doesn't matter how good the actors' performances are because they have so little to work with, so no matter how hard they try they feel like stock characters, from the loving mother to the local priest. The problem with a rewrite of any film from this period was always going to be a question of originality and though the dialogue sounds authentic, the situations have now been done so many times that when the big denouement about the house's grisly past comes around, it feels like a cliché. As do all of the set pieces and George Lutz's descent into madness. I mean there's even a sexy babysitter to contend with.

The child actors in the film are very good, in the main. Jesse James is particularly effective as eldest sibling Billy, on the cusp of teenage rebellion though not yet thoroughly evil. Chloe Mortez is your standard Hollywood blonde moppet and Jimmy Bennett is so high-pitched that sometimes only dogs can hear him. I'll be glad when he hits puberty, not only because his voice will drop but also because with any luck the onset of adolescent acne will render him unemployable. He gives a whole new meaning to the term squeaky clean. Isabel Conner is an unsettling presence as the ghost of Jodie Defeo, but that's more to do with her disturbing habit of appearing out of nowhere and her pallid and veiny face. Philip Baker Hall adds a touch of gravitas as local priest Father Callaway. Sadly he's not given much to do and is playing his standard authority figure so is wasted.

There is a tremendous amount of period detail in the film that reminds us of how lucky we are not to live in the seventies. From the smocking to the deafeningly loud shirts and ill-advised babydoll tops to mirrored headboards and Kiss posters it's all horrifying in a very different way. The overwhelming impression is that the entire decade was made of dark brown velour and corduroy.

This is a film that will scare the pants off any underage viewers who've snuck into a screening. However, it will be a huge disappointment to horror aficionados or anyone who's seen more than a couple of schlock movies before. Despite some sympathetic central performances, the film is too formulaic and hastily slapped together to frighten. It's an abortive attempt to keep a sub-genre alive and going to see it will only line producer Michael Bay's already bulging pockets. It's not a bad film it's just desperately mediocre.