The found-footage horror genre hits eye-strain levels with "V/H/S," an indie anthology of six what's-on-this-tape films from nine directors, featuring mainly two kinds of images: someone talking to a camera lens, and something horrific barely visible through a shaky camera lens.
There are some unholy pleasures: David Bruckner's tale of loutish amateur-porn wannabes (the camera's hidden in the nerd's glasses) who pick up the wrong girl is a grimly propulsive lick of mythic vengeance; the talented Ti West's second-honeymoon story, blissfully free of agitated camerawork, gets at the creepy vibe of road motel rooms; and Joe Swanberg's non-Mumblecore riff on video chats and haunted apartments has the crisp dread of a chilling short story.
The others, by Adam Wingard (whose crime-spree videographers coming upon a cache of tapes is the connective tissue), Glenn McQuaid and the collective Radio Silence, are heavy on the technique of jittery POV and lo-fi effects over logic or mood or performance, and suffer accordingly.
Had "V/H/S" been a nasty jolt of three, it might have been memorable, but at nearly two hours, the gimmick punctures a hole in itself, causing ambience bleed-out. Recommended cure: a tripod