The latest from-beyond-the-grave serial killer looks like Freddy, moves like Jason, and growls like a tiger, even though he’s, um, full of snakes. His name, apparently, is Mr. Jangles, though to the dopey kids down in the Louisiana bayou—yes, Louisiana—he’s just known as Ray. The tastelessly timed slasher clone he’s at the center of is called Venom, and it’s brought to you by Jim Gillespie, director of I Know What You Did Last Summer; Constantine scripters Flint Dille and John Zuur Platten; and Wicker Park screenwriter Brandon Boyce. Unlike at least one of those films, it’s not clever, original, nor even remotely frightening. The requisite group of teenagers—led by Jessica Biel stand-in Agnes Bruckner—become the requisite target of Ray (Rick Cramer), who drowned when trying to save a witch-doctor grandma (Deborah Duke) after a car accident. Before dying, Mr. Local Scary Guy done gone and opened the suitcase of evil that Grandma had in her back seat, allowing, duh, the souls of all the bad seeds she’d saved to take over his body. At one point, his snake-bitten corpse is lying on a coroner’s table; the next, it’s gone—which one of the punks describes as “the really fucked-up part.” Cue the killing: First you hear a guttural growl, then Mr. Jangles comes at you with a tire iron. He eliminates a good half-dozen or so of his rural town’s residents, each time with plenty of R-rated gore and not much suspense. Scene after scene includes someone or other skulking around some spookily quiet area, but rarely do these setups result in any frights. The finale, too, is simply a series of anticlimactic chases, with Bruckner’s boobs bouncing merrily and her lips remaining glossy despite the blood caked all over her clothes. The ending is no surprise, and after 85 minutes of crap, Venom’s makers actually have the balls to set up a sequel—now that’s the really fucked-up part. —Tricia Olszewski