Blumhouse’s Fantasy Island

THERE were no screenings for the Press to see this redo of the camp, late-70s US show.

And after taking my paid-for seat in a virtually empty cinema on Friday morning, it became clear it had nothing to do with protecting us from coronavirus.

They just wanted to stop the spread of bad reviews.

Blumhouse is the studio behind low-budget horror hits Paranormal Activity and Get Out, along with this month’s The Invisible Man.

So it’s not much of a shock to see that the magical hotel where all wishes come true has been given a slight dusting of horror.

This one doesn’t summon up a single scare, but it does deliver a Blumhouse staple – the rubbish ending.

Sadly, the beginning and the middle aren’t much cop either. The first thing you notice is that there is no excitable, aviation-obsessed midget shouting: “De plane.” Little Tattoo, it seems, didn’t make the cut, but Roarke (Michael Pena) the suave and slightly sinister Hispanic proprietor is there to smarm them off the flight.

This time the guests are all competition winners with dark secrets, played by C-list TV actors. When Rourke grants them their fantasies, they turn into one overlong, wildly implausible, inter-connected nightmare.

There are a few amusing lines but the lurches in tone are bewildering. One minute they are being chased by a cheap-looking zombie, the next someone is hammily snivelling over a family tragedy.

Self-isolate yourself from this one.