If you could nick a David Fincher film’s throat, hang it upside down, and bleed it for two days, it would look like this movie. As a fetish object, it’s impressive.

He has that look that casting directors go for when they’re hiring prep school jerks or Nazi youth. The actor’s straightforward performance, by turns entitled, baffled, terrified and ashamed, makes Lockhart a punching-bag hero, the kind who exists mainly to suffer horribly before achieving an enlightenment that looks a lot like comeuppance.

Lockhart is insufferable at first because he’s supposed to be. There’s a sense in which he deserves the miseries inflicted upon him because he’s a snotty capitalist swine who would otherwise grow up to be another Ebenezer Scrooge, and he’s representing a system that produces Scrooges by the millions. Verbinski and screenwriter Justin Haythe (“Revolutionary Road,” “The Lone Ranger”) seem at times to be making a statement about the vampire-like hold that the cultural memory of Europe still has over many rich and powerful Americans.

Lockhart’s predecessor went to the clinic “to take in the waters”—which, as another character notes, is a very nineteenth century thing to do—and the all-white denizens of the place seem awed by the very existence of Volmer, a handsome gadfly who has the chiseled looks of an old movie Gestapo officer but carries himself like an ambassador of reason.

The clinic grounds are a replica of an identical place that burned down decades ago on this very spot—there’s a backstory involving taboo hideousness—and there are recurring situations that pivot on insularity, hatred of outsiders, and the purity of bloodlines. (Mia Goth, who plays the doctor’s daughter, is the ultimate expression of the film’s anemic vision: she looks haunted and starved yet somehow also glamorous.)

This is a fine starting place for a social satire and also a fine thematic flavor for a compact, dreamy horror movie. There are real ideas here, good ideas even, but they remain tantalizing but insufficiently shaped.

It’s only during the last half-hour—a succession of over-the-top set-pieces that I loved, and that many colleagues found trashy and excessive—that “A Cure for Wellness” attains the level of bug-nuts wildness that it possibly needed all along.

Verbinski isn’t bad at psychological and atmospheric horror, but he’s often at his most original when he’s letting it all hang out in sequences of clockwork suspense and ridiculous action, which is why the slapstick sequences in the “Pirates of the Caribbean” movies, the chases in “Rango” and the last 45 minutes of “The Lone Ranger” represent Verbinski at his most Verbinskian.

It’s in the maybe narratively-unnecessary final half-hour that “A Cure for Wellness” finally starts drawing the kinds of connections (through sheer excess) that give it a distinctive personality, such as a cut from a decadent, repulsive character whirling in circles after sustaining an injury to a group of clueless rich folk waltzing in a grand ballroom.