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As an overzealous Los Angeles police officer, Samuel L. Jackson certainly seems ready to head down such a cliched, schlocky road.

You could argue that all Neil LaBute movies are horror movies.

Whether it’s “In the Company of Men,“ “Nurse Betty” or “The Shape of Things,“ someone always ends up being tormented and terrorized in some way. And in true horror-flick fashion, the victim is usually a woman.

But in “Lakeview Terrace,“ the director takes his first real stab at the genre, if you will (“The Wicker Man” doesn’t count because it was a remake and because it was just so awful). And with this story of a psycho cop who tries to run off his new next-door neighbors, you wish he would have just given into the B-movie instincts of the material and not tried to make “Lakeview Terrace” about Something Important.

As an overzealous Los Angeles police officer, Samuel L. Jackson certainly seems ready to head down such a cliched, schlocky road. He is, after all, the one who triumphed over all those snakes on that plane. But LaBute, working from a script by David Loughery and Howard Korder, is trying to probe the dangers that lurk within a supposedly safe suburbia with making a statement about race relations. It’s “Unlawful Entry” meets “Crash.“

Jackson’s Abel Turner is a strict, single father of two who patrols his hillside cul de sac as thoroughly as he works his beat. When racially mixed newlyweds move in next door - Chris (Patrick Wilson), who is white, and Lisa (Kerry Washington), who is black - he turns even more prickly.

Some of the initial tension is intriguing: the subtext that exists within Abel and Chris’ awkward neighborly small talk, the vaguely threatening tone in Abel’s voice that grows less veiled in time. Abel catches Chris sneaking cigarettes and tossing out the butts. And, understandably, he’s a little perturbed when Chris and Lisa christen their swimming pool with some late-night skinny dipping in full view of his young son and teenage daughter.

Then there are the freaky break-ins and acts of vandalism that no one can explain. The blinding security lights that Abel shines into the couple’s bedroom at night and refuses to shut off, even after repeated complaints. And Abel’s incessant remarks about their interracial marriage.

“You can listen to that noise all night long,“ Abel says to Chris as he blares rap from his car stereo, “but when you wake up in the morning, you’ll still be white.“

Wilson, who grew up in the Tampa Bay area, effectively keeps things low-key even as Jackson’s eyes bulge and he busts out that maniacal laugh. But any early good will gets obliterated by the over-the-top ending. When Abel says to Chris during his nightly patrols, “Not everybody up here is somebody you’d want to live next door to,“ it’s just one of many occasions to beat us over the head with the obvious. And that comes long before a single gunshot.