A lot has been written about the so-called “torture porn” subgenre of horror films, as realized by blood-banquet impresario Eli Roth and the Saw co-creators, and all I can add is: Enough. Seriously, it was fun for a while, like a vacation into the dark recesses of our unconscious to see where exactly that line between tolerable and intolerable imagery existed, and I’m sure it taught us a little something about ourselves (not to mention the people we saw the films with). And yes, the first two installments of Saw were both sick and ingenious: Two men in a room with shackles and dull tools; a pit of dirty hypodermic needles; a villain willing to give himself up, if only the police officer would wait and talk. But the subgenre is already dead—perhaps the shortest span of one ever. When you open a third sequel with the complete, uncensored autopsy of a lovable sicko—skin folded over like flaps, face peeled away, ribs spread, skull sliced open, genitals awash in light—and then present him in flashbacks as a good husband, a kind businessman and neighbor, and an expectant father, you’re admitting that you’ve lost all control over character. When, ten minutes from the end, you introduce a vital someone we haven’t seen in over a year, and then expect us to lean forward in our seats and say “Aha!”, you’ve lost all grasp of common sense. By the end of Saw IV I was hoping for some sort of reconstructed timeline; I had no idea what was happening, who was from what previous installment, or how the filmmakers convinced Tobin Bell to do this again. And sure, the scene with an abused wife speared to her husband was good, but it was just too underdeveloped. So please, for the sake of retaining some respectable embrace over a good idea, just stop.
by Adam Balz | Source: 35MM Theatrical Print
12 Nov 2007 10:29 AM | Submit Comment
