Horror has always been the most derivative of movie genres, but Spanish director Jaume Balaguero’s “Darkness” breaks new ground.

To wit: An American family living in Spain moves to a house in the boonies with a grisly, murderous past (a la “The Amityville Horror”). The young son, Paul, is soon visited by the dead (a la “The Sixth Sense”) and begins acquiring mysterious scars (a la “The Shining”).

His teenage sister (Anna Paquin) investigates further, and finds that the secret of the house lies in an ancient blood ritual that must be completed at the next lunar eclipse (“Rosemary’s Baby,” “The Ninth Gate,” and God knows how many others). Meanwhile, Mom (Lena Olin) tries to prevent Dad (Iain Glen) from having visions and exploding in murderous rages (“Jacob’s Ladder,” “The Shining” again).

“Derivative” doesn’t mean “bad,” though, and Mr. Balaguero, widely revered in Spain for his 1999 thriller “The Nameless,” might have salvaged this story with the kind of savvy stylization he brought to his earlier film.

Unfortunately, his bag of tricks here is limited to profuse and uninspired use of sudden, loud sounds, shadowy figures scurrying in the background, and elaborately cued lightning. A disturbing family drama threatens to emerge from the proceedings – “Darkness” is at its best when exploring Dad’s bouts with his inner demons – but it’s quickly stifled by tired attempts to jolt the audience and more narrative dead-ends.

Particularly wasted is the great Italian actor Giancarlo Giannini, as the children’s grandfather. He is given precious little to do in the first half and then is saddled with the humiliation of breathlessly hissing out acres of exposition in the second. That all this exposition leads to no legitimate payoff will come as no surprise to anyone who has already realized the script isn’t interested in telling a story.

“Darkness” does actually pick up somewhat in its final reel, when the family’s imploding dynamics begin to work in tandem with the supernatural forces terrorizing them. During these scenes, you begin to glimpse the film Mr. Balaguero perhaps intended: A grim portrait of a disintegrating family unit, in which no member can be trusted and no one can hang onto their identity. But it’s too little, too late – a minor blip of interest in an otherwise wan retread of better horror flicks past.