Slaughtered Vomit Dolls
Written & Directed by Lucifer Valentine
For years, I saw this film advertised in the pages of the great Rue Morgue magazine, and I was always intrigued. I pictured it as some unseeable shockfest that belonged in an underground that no longer exists, and so when I saw it available to watch on Netflix Instant Watch, I cleared a few hours on my schedule, waited for my wife to leave the apartment (her tolerance of the genre only goes so far), and sat down to watch the movie that has had me curious for so very long.
Before I go any further, let me give you the official synopsis:
"The gruesome tapestry of psychological manifestations of a nineteen year old bulimic runaway stripper-turned prostitute as she descends into a hellish pit of satanic nightmares and hallucinations."
I had to offer up the above synopsis, because otherwise you would have no idea what this movie was about, even if you watched it for yourself. Very little of the supposed plot is actually exposed in the movie, which pretty much means there is no plot at all--no matter what the filmmakers want you to believe.
Here is the actual synopsis of the film:
Hookers and prostitutes talk to the unseen man behind the camera, get naked, have sex, vomit, and then get murdered.
That's...pretty much it.
It's a montage of violence, vaginas and vomiting; boobs and blood; unspeakable acts committed on and by unbearable people. It's a very difficult film to sit through--and not just because of the content, but also because of its execution.
The sound is almost consistently distorted, the dialogue more often than not slowed down to a demonic-sounding crawl (at one point, a character actually states "I can speak slower than you...I can speak slowest."), almost as if the filmmakers were trying to get you to hit the mute button. The herky-jerky editing is absolutely maddening, like a 12 year old meth addict making a music video for Rob Zombie. The camera work is so gonzo that when something is in focus and centered in the frame, it was almost surely accidental.
One could say that this was an experimental horror film, what it would be like if some forgotten member of Andy Warhol's Factory had directed August Underground, and I suppose that's not too far from the truth. But even experimental horror films can fall prey to the film student curse of pretentiousness and self importance. This movie, above all else, proves that.
In the end, this was just a botched attempt at turning the snuff film into an art film. Not for the faint of heart, and not for the discerning viewer. If you are completely jaded, though, and can only get your kicks through gratuitous shock and awe, then this may be right up your alley: I for one have never seen a one-armed girl forced to play the guitar, or a man vomit into a coffee mug, only to drink it back down like a hot cup of Joe, just to guzzle it down again a few moments later.
Some of you are mentally filing this in your DO NOT WATCH list. Others are rushing over to Netflix to queue it up at this very moment. This just goes to show that every movie has an audience, no matter how bad they may seem to some of us. If that weren't the case, Uwe Boll would be wielding a mop instead of a camera, and Chris Seaver would be delivering my pizzas and getting stiffed on the tip.
Oh, what a marvelous world that would be.
Proceed at your own risk, hipsters.
"I don't know what's left of me, but you can fuck it if you want."