I see two additions, cobbled on like onto a house when a family grows.
The psychiatric sequence, where they explore from the diner the patient's nightmare about the troll behind the dumpster.
The funny murders.
These were like self-contained units, bad dreams superimposed. They could have been lifted out and torn no vital tissue.
The religious scene is at the center. The old decrepit silent God, who merely is. Does not move. Does not talk. Like all his ilk.
"Okay," agrees the priest with no earthly prompting, "We'll stop the production."
The producer on the left of the two who demanded "That's the girl." He demanded a means of spitting out his espresso. He did not indicate he did not like the espresso, although the provider assumed that must be the case. It would have been a traditional interpretation. Men figure it that way, if you spit out their offering. But then, you'd think, after the director is brought online with the scheme, the girl picked would be That's the girl, but she wasn't. We see her picture and then never again, I think.