Sixteen dollars. That’s how much it costs at the AMC Boston Common to watch a young woman smart enough to run from a maniac with a chainsaw but dumb enough to run in shoes with chunky heels. Sixteen dollars is how much it costs to watch this woman tire of falling down and hide in a coffin that, helpfully, has been left open but that’s made of one of a chainsaw’s favorite foods. Sixteen dollars is how much it costs to watch that chainsaw fly toward you in 3D and knife at your face, to watch it slice a spiky Southern boy, doing so with the endearing combination of grace and indelicacy that my grandmother applies to the carving of a desiccating turkey.

That much money gets you acting best described as “straight to DVD,” acting often associated with sketch comedy that has bad acting in its crosshairs, with the self-consciousness of reality-television personhood. Of course, that much money also gets you a camera itching to crawl inside one woman’s flared midriff top and the other’s (there are only two) short-short shorts. That much money gets you the scene in which she removes the shorts and seduces a character played by the singer Trey Songz, who’s credited by his full name — Tremaine “Trey Songz” Aldon Neverson — a name longer than his screen time, a name longer than almost any one line of dialogue.