t behooves a movie to prompt this kind of reaction. It’s a draw for curious
, but it did poke at my nostalgia. It is a movie that harkens back to ‘70s grindhouse cinema, when ingenuity was applied to depictions of evisceration—its antagonist Art the Clown has a tendency to go first for his victims’ eyeballs, for maximum disgust anda tip of the tiny hat to the ocularly obsessed Lucio Fulci. This movie is nearly two-and-a-half hours long for no seemingly good reason; i
exposed connective tissue for the carnage—barely 20 minutes go by without some kind of bloodletting. Its obligatory, hard-to-care-about narrative is like that of much vintage porn, or perhaps the more recent convention of torture porn.Why and who and how are barely even acknowledged as concepts—we just know that there’s a killer silent clown on the loose,