Capture — The Cinematic Dumpster Fire No One Asked For (Or Needed)

American indie horror has a glorious tradition: from the low-budget nightmares of George A. Romero to the stylistic exercises of Ti West, and the gore-soaked delirium of Lloyd Kaufman. But like any tradition, there’s room for the sublime—and the ridiculous. Capture, the latest monstrosity from Bruce Wemple, proudly plants its flag in the latter category, as if someone took a rejected Lifetime script from the ‘90s, doused it in Halloween fake blood, and filmed it on an iPhone in night vision mode. This isn’t cinema; it’s a moodboard of what a 16-year-old thinks psychological horror is after bingeing three episodes of American Horror Story and smoking a questionable joint. At Claqueta Ácida, we have to ask: How is it possible that in 2026, with every narrative and technological tool at our disposal, someone can deliver a product so amateurish it looks like it was shot in a high school film workshop? The answer, dear readers, is as simple as it is depressing: because cinema, like life, is full of impostors who mistake lack of resources for style and ineptitude for authenticity. And Bruce Wemple is the reigning king of impostors this year.

Wemple isn’t a stranger to the bargain-bin horror festival circuit. His filmography includes gems like The House That Screamed (2018) and Blood Harvest (2021), two films that, according to IMDb ratings, hover between 1.5 and 2.3. In other words, cinema so bad it doesn’t even qualify as so bad it’s good—it’s just so bad it’s painful. With Capture, Wemple seems to have decided his life’s mission is to prove horror doesn’t need a script, actors, or even an original idea. Just a group of pretty young things (or at least faces that won’t scare off Netflix casting directors), an abandoned house, and a killer in a mask that looks like it was ordered from AliExpress for €9.99. The result is a film that lurches forward like a zombie with arthritis: slow, predictable, and with an unintentional comedic timing that would make Ed Wood weep with envy. If this is the future of indie horror, someone please put us out of our misery.

The problem with Capture isn’t just that it’s bad—it’s that it’s boringly bad. There isn’t a single moment in its 85 minutes that surprises, unsettles, or even amuses through sheer absurdity. It’s like watching an episode of CSI directed by a film student who just discovered what a long take is (spoiler: he doesn’t know how to use it). The actors, meanwhile, seem to have been cast from a Tinder audition for dramatic roles: their performances oscillate between over-the-top and comatose, as if someone told them horror is all about screaming a lot and flailing their arms like they’re swatting flies. Kaitlyn Lunardi, the protagonist, is the only one who appears to have read the script before arriving on set, but not even her effort can salvage a film that reeks of mothballs and creative desperation. The rest of the cast just stares at the camera with expressions that scream, Do I really have to say this line?, as if they know, deep down, they’re committing a crime against cinema.

And then there’s the script—or rather, the mythical entity that is supposed to be the script in Capture. The plot, if you can even call it that, follows a group of youngsters who decide to spend a weekend in an abandoned house (because, of course, what better plan could there be?). What starts as a MTV reality show from the 2000s quickly devolves into a generic slasher where the killer’s identity is so painfully obvious even the most clueless viewer will guess it in the first 15 minutes. The murderer picks off characters one by one with the creativity of a five-year-old playing with action figures. There’s no tension, no mystery, not even decent gore—just a parade of predictable scenes that lumber forward with the grace of an elephant in a china shop. If Bruce Wemple wanted to pay homage to ‘80s horror, mission accomplished: Capture is so vintage it feels like a lost Uwe Boll film, minus the German’s trashy charm.

Direction: The Art of Getting Everything Wrong

If there’s one thing that defines Bruce Wemple’s style, it’s his ability to turn the simple into complicated and the boring into unbearable. In Capture, his direction is so inept it reads like a tutorial on what not to do in filmmaking. Shots are static when they should be dynamic, close-ups arrive late (or never), and his long takes look like they were filmed by someone who just discovered their camera has a stabilizer. Wemple seems obsessed with the idea that horror is built on awkward silences and meaningful stares, but he forgets that for a silence to work, you first need to build an atmosphere. And in Capture, the atmosphere is as thick as the air in an elevator packed with ten people after a bean stew feast.

The editing is another weak point. Transitions between scenes are so jarring they feel like power outages, and the jump scares (because, of course, no 2026 horror film is complete without them) are so predictable the viewer can anticipate them like an episode of Scooby-Doo. Wemple seems to think horror is all about yelling BOO! every five minutes, but he forgets that for a scare to work, you first need to create tension. And the tension in Capture is as nonexistent as a happy ending in a Lars von Trier film. The result is a movie that lurches forward like a hungover zombie: slow, clumsy, and with a timing that would make Buster Keaton weep.

Performances: A Cast That Looks Like It Was Cast from a TikTok Audition

The ensemble of Capture is a who’s who of actors who are either just starting out or should seriously reconsider their careers. Kaitlyn Lunardi is, by far, the best of the bunch—though that’s not saying much. Her performance swings between overacting and phoning it in, as if she’s playing two different characters in the same scene. The rest of the cast seems to have been plucked from a Tinder audition for dramatic roles: their performances are so flat they might as well be cardboard cutouts shuffling across the screen. Cedric Gegel, as the bad boy with secrets, has the expressiveness of a Zara mannequin, and Chris Cimperman, the comic relief, acts like he’s in a Saturday Night Live sketch instead of a horror film.

But the award for worst actor in the film goes, without a doubt, to Grant Schumacher, whose character is so generic he doesn’t even have a name (in the credits, he’s listed as Guy #2). Schumacher plays his role with the intensity of someone who just woke up from a nap and can’t remember where he is. His lines are so forced they sound like they were lifted from a teen self-help manual, and his chemistry with the rest of the cast is as nonexistent as the film’s plot. If Capture is the future of indie horror, someone please put us out of our misery.

Technical Aspects: Where Low-Budget Becomes No-Budget

The technical side of Capture is a disaster in every sense. The cinematography, helmed by an unknown (because, let’s be honest, no one in their right mind would want their name on this), is so flat it looks like it was shot on an iPhone 4. The colors are desaturated to the point the film resembles a black-and-white documentary about depression, and the lighting is so poor that in some scenes, the actors look like ghosts who just escaped from an Ed Wood movie. The production design is so generic the abandoned house could be any abandoned house from any horror film in the last 30 years. There are no details, no personality—just four walls and a killer in a mask that looks like it was bought on AliExpress.

The score is another low point. Composed by what sounds like John Carpenter’s youngest kid on his first day of GarageBand, the music is so generic it could be used in any other horror film without anyone noticing. The themes are repetitive, the scares sound like someone banging a pot with a wooden spoon, and the musical climax is so predictable the viewer can anticipate it like an episode of The Simpsons. In short: if Capture’s technical aspects are the future of indie cinema, someone please put us out of our misery.

The best

• Runtime: Only 85 minutes, making it one of the shortest horror films in history. An achievement, considering every second feels like an eternity.
• Kaitlyn Lunardi: The only one who seems to have read the script before showing up on set—though that doesn’t stop her performance from resembling a community theater student’s first monologue.

The killer’s mask: A design so cheap it borders on artistic, as if David Lynch and Uwe Boll collaborated on a crafts workshop*. Lack of pretension: At least it doesn’t insult our intelligence by trying to be something it’s not. It’s bad, but not pretentious*.

The worst

The script: So predictable even the killer looks bored. A collage of ‘90s clichés that reeks of mothballs and creative desperation*. Bruce Wemple’s direction: A tutorial on what not to do in filmmaking. Static shots, clumsy editing, and jump scares straight out of a beginner’s manual*. The performances: A cast that looks like it was plucked from a TikTok audition for dramatic roles*. Overacted, listless, and with the chemistry of strangers stuck in an elevator. The cinematography: So flat it looks like it was shot on an iPhone 4. Desaturated colors, poor lighting, and a production design that reeks of recycled ideas*. The score: Composed by someone who just discovered GarageBand. Repetitive, generic, and with scares that sound like banging pots*. Lack of originality: Not a single moment that surprises, unsettles, or even amuses. A zombie with advanced arthritis* moves faster than this film.

The Verdict of Claqueta Ácida

Capture isn’t a film—it’s a crime against cinema. A monstrosity from Bruce Wemple that proves, in 2026, indie horror is still mired in the worst habits of the ‘90s: predictable scripts, cardboard performances, and direction that reads like a YouTube tutorial for beginners. There’s no tension, no mystery, not even decent gore. Just 85 minutes of your life you’ll never get back, like a bus ride with a driver who fell asleep at the wheel. If this is the future of horror, someone please put us out of our misery. Rating: 3.8/10. 💀