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A muddled, logic-starved provocation, Grace avoids smugness by refusing to play its body horror for shits and giggles, but its resonance is purely atmospheric. Miscarriage-plagued Madeline (Jordan Ladd) decides to carry her latest child to term after losing it during a car accident that also kills her dullard of a husband, who goes bizarrely unmissed even by his own mother. Through sheer determination (a/k/a screenwriter contrivance), Madeline wills her baby to life, except little should-be-stillborn Grace, who transforms mommy's breasts into a bloody war zone after only a few feedings, appears to be only half-alive given her low temperature, putrid body odor, and kinship to flies. Soon—perhaps naturally—the blood from organic supermarket meat (and from a surgeon who pays house calls) ends up in the tyke's glass bottles after the hospital-averse Madeline diagnoses her as being protein-deprived. Creepy, yes, but what's the point of all of this bratty, poignance-free bloodletting? If the references to Madeline's past sex life and finicky diet are any indication, perhaps writer-director Paul Solet's only point is to warn us of the dangers of lesbian vegans aiming their breasts at the mouths of babes.