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Protecting his “land” with a preternaturally brutal efficiency, a metal-masked lumberjack in a beanie randomly comes across people and slaughters them. A sort of stream of consciousness bloodbath with a minimal connecting thread and thought up by an insanely boring lunatic. The opening murder happens to a little boy who foolishly wanders into the woods after his parents stop the car so that papa can take a piss. Dad gets his head chopped off when he goes looking for his son, his hands groping around the empty space where his head once was. Mom flees after a brief standoff on opposite sides of the car that may last less than ten seconds but still feels like it’s carrying on forever. An eerie shot of her running down a vast road with forest on either side of her is drenched in an almost indecipherable muddy tint. She keeps running. As day and night seem to shift in and out of reality and any semblance of time and place dissipates into a cloud of tropes that are only half realized. Ogroff follows, gives up and then continues his hunt. If you started watching this film on a Monday, at twelve minutes in, it’s somehow Thursday. The woman comes across Ogroff’s shed which looks like a teenager with no money attempted to do his best impression of Leatherface’s place but only had three minutes to prepare. The woman is caught and chained to a post. Her screaming annoys the psychopath so he cuts her tongue off and feeds it to his dog. He then butchers the corpse of her son. Dismembered limbs are strewn about while organ music blares. That’s fifteen minutes akin to infinity all resembling home footage broadcast from a parallel dimension where excitement is taboo and everything is inspired by a bootleg copy of an American horror film. It’s torture. It’s transcendent. It’s exactly what the New French Extremity wishes it could harness but is too far up its own ass to realize. More random people come to an end for being in the wrong place. Cars are destroyed, a chess game is ruined, a chainsaw is turned against its owner, dialogue rarely happens outside of overdubbed screams and grunting, Disney characters cameo and if there’s any message trying to be expressed it’s written in braille at a home for the fingerless blind. Eventually, auteur N. G. Mount attempts to add some depth to the pointlessness but it makes little sense. This involves a homicidal love interest, wonderful budget zombies and a vampire priest. Why? Fuck if I know but Howard Vernon is there. Just take your usual DIY backyard asthenic and throw it in a much larger backyard then add a lethargic but still dangerous motorcycle chase. Somewhere between watching The Texas Chain Saw Massacre on mute through the haze of an opium fog and a premonition of the insanity taking a very long trek up hill while drying in concrete that was Bernard Launois’ hypnotic Devil’s Story, Ogroff proudly stands masturbating an axe handle coming off like Day of the Reaper suffered brain damage thanks to being beaten by a heavy camera held in the hands of both Polonia brothers. Is it good? God, no. It’s a fucking mess that rambles on and seems haphazardly thrown together by a complete lunatic who really could not care less if his vision of horror would entertain anyone. Is it a completely unforgettable viewing experience.? Yes… somehow for all the wrong and right reasons, it’s awkward finger nails sink deep into your brain and even after you think you have finally shaken it’s lulling chaos, you’ll realize it’s just kind of been hiding and waiting to choke you out again. Innovative genre films have been blessing the filmscape since its inception, this isn’t one, this belongs to another world.
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