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 urder-Set-Pieces"
comes with the claim of being the most brutal and
visceral horror film ever made, proudly boasting
of being banned by a long list of festivals, as
well as several processing labs. On top of this,
the film has now been withdrawn from circulation
for suitably shady 'legal reasons', all of which
certainly seems to suggest that it is indeed the
genuine article. Unfortunately, or perhaps
inevitably, the film fails to live up to the hype,
and despite a few moments of severe
unpleasantness, it is simply too ludicrous and
ham-fisted to be truly disturbing. Although it's
easy to see why the film has managed to put a few
noses out of joint, thanks to some cynically
chosen taboo breaking scenes. Nevertheless, the
film is quite plainly an empty exercise in the
cheapest of shocks and one which never makes any
effort to be believable, or to assault the viewer
in any way other than through the obvious on
screen splatter.
The plot follows a
Las Vegas
serial killer known only as 'the photographer' (a
pantomime performance by Sven Garret) as he
stalks, tortures and butchers an assortment of
women, most of who appear to be strippers. At the
same time, he somehow manages to maintain a
relatively normal relationship with his oblivious
girlfriend, despite her pre-teen sister's
suspicions that something sinister is lurking
behind his stoic façade. There really is very
little more to the film than this.
"Murder-Set-Pieces"
lives up to its title by being essentially a
collection of kill scenes interspersed by some
excruciatingly lame dialogue. Despite this,
director Nick Palumbo seems to have delusions of
grandeur, pitching the film as some kind of savage
commentary on the breakdown of society in the same
manner as "American Psycho". This is of
course an oft quoted excuse for showing extreme
carnage, and one which never really rings true in
"Murder-Set-Pieces", as the film is too
clumsy to be seen as anything other than low grade
exploitation.
Also, there is no attempt
made to explore the mind of the murderer, and as a
character, 'the photographer' is decidedly
uninteresting. Other than his Nazi leanings and
some vague suggestions of early abuse, no reason
is given for his maniacal behaviour, and as such
he never comes across as a realistic or believable
screen monster. Far too many other aspects of the
film are impossible to take seriously, such as the
somewhat camp central psycho's frequent ranting in
German, or the fact that it is impossible to
imagine him ever managing to pass as normal, let
alone being able to charm his female victims.
The constant stream of cameos
by well known genre figures such as Tony Todd (the
"Final
Destination" movies) and Gunnar Hansen
only serve to dilute the film's impact, as do the
awful wisecracks and puns which pepper the script,
most of which are cheap enough to make even Freddy
Krueger of "A Nightmare on
Elm Street
" fame blush. As such, the film lacks any
real kind of intensity, and never comes close to
the likes of Eric Stanze's shocking
"Scrapbook".
"Murder-Set-Pieces's"
infamy really results from two scenes, one of
which is the use of real life 9/11 footage. This
clearly has no place in the film, and has no point
other than for Palumbo to falsely claim some kind
of relevance. The other scene features the murder
of a child which, though shocking enough, is so
clearly signposted and underlined as being an
important part of the film that it feels
distastefully manipulative more than anything
else, and again smacks of a distinct lack of
imagination on the filmmaker's part.
To be fair,
"Murder-Set-Pieces" does deliver in
terms of blood, and is quite likely to satiate
even the most jaded of gore-hounds. It should be
noted, however, that the vast majority of this
comes in the form of after the fact grime or
headache inducing montages which come complete
with flashing lights and loud heavy metal music.
However, these additions in no way compensates for
the fact that "Murder-Set-Pieces" is
substandard in virtually every other department,
and in no way comes close to justifying the film's
very existence. Palumbo's film is likely to appeal
to only the least discerning of genre fans, and
even then as nothing more than a passing
curiosity, and one which fails to live up to its
reputation. |
