‘American Horror Story’: Gothic revival in a troubled neighborhood

Dennis O’Hare (“True Blood’s” Russell Edgington) plays Larry Harvey, a half-burned prison parolee who stalks Ben on his daily jogs and implores him to move out of the house before something bad happens. Ben refuses, even after Larry tells him how the house’s spirits caused him to set his wife and children on fire, a blaze that left him disfigured.

“This is not about the house!” Ben yells at Larry. “This is about me. What I did. I cheated on my wife.”

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Hank Stuever

Hank Stuever is The Washington Post’s TV critic and author of two books, “Tinsel” and “Off Ramp.”

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The teenager, Violet, is enrolled at yet another iteration of Ryan Murphy High School, where cruelty and criminality in the hallways supplant the curriculum. She falls for a Cobainesque teenage boy, Tate (Evan Peters), who is being treated by her father for his borderline schizophrenia. The weird voices in Tate’s head just love what’s going on in the house’s basement.

And I haven’t even told you yet about “American Horror Story’s” campiest treat of all: Jessica Lange as the drippingly genteel next-door neighbor, Constance, who breezes in and out of the Harmons’ kitchen as if she owns the place — a sinister Blanche Dubois bearing ipecac-laced cupcakes along with poisonous bons mots. Constance is the mother of the Down syndrome child from the prologue, Addie (Jamie Brewer, in the adult version), who seems to know all of the house’s secrets.

Addie also keeps sneaking into the Harmons’ house, mainly to play with the unseen monster in the basement. “I think I’m going to have to start strapping her in at night again,” Constance says, deciding instead to lock Addie (whom she refers to as “the mongoloid”) in a closet filled with mirrors, where the young woman screams at the sight of her own face.

Yes, abusing the mentally disabled. “American Horror Story” tries to make its most despicable moments feel like a ride through a carnival spook house, with varying success. At its shriveled, scorchy heart, the show’s nightmarish narrative is also an act of satire, a broad commentary on familial dysfunction.

At least that seems to be the subtextual intent. It is about infidelity; it is about the false balm offered by fabulous real estate. And it readily accesses a nostalgic 1960s and ’70s goose bumps vibe inspired by “Rosemary’s Baby,” “Last House on the Left” and “Dark Shadows.” If nothing else, “American Horror Story’s” opening credits — a montage of medical mysteries and bubbly burns of celluloid film — are a stylistic triumph. (Even the font choice is perfectly terrifying.)

Yet in honoring such fare, Murphy and Falchuk are also attuned to the intensity of modern-day horror of the sort seen in “Paranormal Activity” and other recent films. The idea is to make “American Horror Story” as chilling and naughty as it can be without murdering the metaphor.

But the metaphor gets bludgeoned anyhow. The first episode is so crammed with ghouls and gross-outs that some viewers will squeal with delight while others wonder whether they can possibly tune in for this sort of fright every week. That’s certainly my lingering criticism of “American Horror Story”: I’m supposed to come back for more? And more? (Without a prescription for anti-anxiety pills?)

In next week’s episode, after a harrowing break-in by a trio of Manson family wannabes, Vivien announces she’s ready to move. Yeah, right. You get the awful feeling that this is another one of those “Hotel California” situations. The Harmons can check out any time they like, but they can never leave.

American Horror Story

(one hour) premieres Wednesday at 10 p.m. on FX.