As gripping as a highly produced serial killer doc gets. I only wish the filmmakers had more faith in their audience instead of cobbling together something so insultingly manipulative. Any journalistic integrity here is obfuscated by schlocky B-movie frills, including horror music and CGI bloodbaths—any trick necessary to gloss it up while paying minimal lip service to the actual tragedy of it all. Pure exploitation.

With three films under her belt, July has created her own stylings and flavor of cinema that can be difficult to pin down — not unlike Hal Hartley or even David Lynch before her. Her off-center, deadpan style is never arbitrary or gratuitous. Rather it's the film's best means of transmitting feelings of familial alienation, and the experience of breaking free from a pastel-drenched state of arrested development.

This review may contain spoilers. I can handle the truth.