Bone Lake

The House Always Wins

I’ve seen this movie before. Not Bone Lake specifically—though the setup is as familiar as a chain motel’s complimentary shampoo—but the kind of film that promises to be a sexy horror, a smart slasher, a twisty erotic thriller. The kind that winks at the audience while its characters stumble into the same traps we’ve watched a hundred times: the unlocked door, the ignored phone call, the sudden realization that the hot stranger in the Airbnb is way too into knives.

And yet. Here’s the thing about Bone Lake: it knows exactly what it is. The question is whether that’s enough.

Mercedes Bryce Morgan isn’t trying to reinvent the wheel. She’s trying to soup it up, slap on some neon underglow, and see how fast it can go before the ax falls. The film opens with a jolt—a woman in a blood-smeared wedding dress running through the woods, a chainsaw revving in the distance—and then, almost immediately, it dials back into something quieter, more insidious.

A couple, Sage (Maddie Hasson) and Diego (Marco Pigossi), arrive at a secluded lakeside mansion for what’s supposed to be a romantic getaway. The place is gorgeous: vaulted ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, a dock stretching out over black water. It’s the kind of house that exists in real estate listings for people who don’t exist, the kind of place where the Wi-Fi password is probably “trustfall.”

Then the other couple shows up.

Will (Alex Roe) and Cin (Andra Nechita) are too charming, too flirtatious, too interested in Sage and Diego’s relationship. They’re the kind of people who show up at a party uninvited and leave with your silverware. The dynamic shifts almost immediately—Diego, who’s been a little too eager to prove he’s the fun one, starts drinking too much.

Sage, who’s been quietly suspicious from the jump, gets quieter. And Will and Cin? They’re having way too good a time.

There’s a scene early on where the four of them play a drinking game, the camera lingering just a little too long on the way Will’s fingers brush Sage’s wrist, the way Cin’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s the kind of tension that’s supposed to feel electric, but instead, it just feels calculated. Like the film is checking off boxes: *flirtation, check.

Jealousy, check. Impending doom, check.*

Here’s the problem with Bone Lake: it wants to be so many things at once. It wants to be a relationship drama about trust and betrayal. It wants to be a campy, gory slasher.

It wants to be a dark comedy about the absurdity of performative coupledom. It wants to be an erotic thriller, but the sex scenes feel more like obligations than revelations—there’s a lot of heavy breathing and not a lot of heat. The film’s tone lurches between these modes like a drunk driver swerving between lanes.

One minute, it’s all slow-burn dread, the next it’s a chainsaw-wielding maniac bursting through a door like he’s late for a very important date with destiny. The shifts aren’t seamless; they’re whiplash-inducing.