The Norwegian Drillbit Massacre (1988) (Norway)

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Short horror from J.C. Møller is precisely what you would come to expect and demand from an enthusiastic horror fan working in the diseased bed of SOV tomfoolery. An undead maniac slaughters people for almost thirty minutes. Boom! Do you need anything else? Tape degradation threatens to put a hamper into the proceedings but we manage to make it through in one piece. Metal music blares over the soundtrack as home footage of a cemetery leads to a man with one powerful mullet wandering around, cleaning up the final resting place of several Norwegians. Soon, his glorious shock of hair and tasteful striped sweater are snuffed out forever by a masked homeless man (possibly zombie) emerging from a lump of dead vegetation (possibly rising from the grave). Into the countryside with his trusty drill he marches. More mullets bless our screen as a soccer game is interrupted by death via drill. Butcher-shop gore and unsteady camera work hammers home the ambition exploding from the screen. Penis punishment and cannibalism are close behind. Somewhere, Olaf Ittenbach nods in approval. A child drinks and reads pornography in the woods, he gets a drill up his butt for his sins. Sometimes it’s good for your garbage slasher film to have a message. Zombie hunters show up in the form of a smoking teenager with long hair and a girl who looks like every babysitter you had a crush on. The action comes to a dead stop as we watch some weirdo in a silly wig perform an exercise routine. Whereas this would be a death sentence in some mass-produced flick of a similar nature, here you just kind of shake your head and say “Oh, those boys.” That’s why these flicks can get away with so much bullshit. Should they know better? Yes. Undoubtedly. But it’s all too charming that they just don’t. Ruined shirts and jeans probably got some stern looks from Norwegian mothers and the killer has the fashion sense of somebody you’d find sleeping at a 24-hour McDonalds around two in the morning. Backyard splatter is delightfully offensive in the way that you can only find in these demented zero-dollar labors of love from people who shouldn’t have had access to a camera but had plenty of like-minded weirdos willing to go all out for the damaged dreams of a friend or family member. We saw it in Splatter Farm, Blood Brothers and Weasels Rip My Flesh… yes, I’m throwing this in with those masterpieces of trash enthusiasm, and it’s nice to know that somewhere in Norway, a young man brought his love of splatter films, underage drinking and metal music to the dance.