After suffering through this intolerable motion picture from Private, "Kill Thrill", I was astounded to look it up on IMDb and find an astronomically high rating from users. Either they are complete idiots (it's a low vote count, of course) or the fix is in.
This garbage comes from a modern tradition marrying pure "action film" with avant-garde mentality, a deadly brew. Even the most basic elements: framing, cropping of image, dubbing, editing, "acting" (from untalented porn performers) are muffed, yet the overall package presumes to have intellectual chops. Back in the day when theatrical release was necessary in filmmaking (video had yet to dominate), stuff at this level was routinely left unfinished in a lab or merely rejected out of hand when shopped to prospective distributors.
End credit for directing goes to team of Louis Moire (a mystery man associated with 'Moire Candy' whatever that is) and the American director Max Candy, whose work I have found unwatchable before and also in this instance.
Garbled story (that's part of the wave of pretentiousness trailing in the wake of Tarantino and Nolan's successes) has anti-hero Russ Comron (played by horrible non-talent "JC Sonogod" -stage name perhaps taken from the amateur video school headed by Bill Zebub), who narrates in an asinine parody of film noir technique rambling on about a nightclub that dominates his past and memory.
We see him in a Jeep motoring along with bride Angelina (Angelina Pet, obviously named after Brangelina) who argues with him about her propensity for seeing ghosts, at which point he suddenly shoots her dead. Callously pushing her corpse out the door onto the shoulder of the highway, he drives along, impressing the easily-impressed viewers with "shock" value, but warning more seasoned film buffs that we're in for a very bumpy ride.
One could write a lengthy master's thesis on the shortcomings of the film (if any prof were foolhardy enough to approve such an assignment) but to be more brief, he picks up a hitchhiker (slim, not attractive Monika Kerr) who becomes the show's leading lady. She takes him to the night club that is coincidentally the one haunting his memories and she conveniently has a key, permitting the duo to squat there. After they hump mechanically, he has a series of near-identical nightmares to fulfill Private's requirement of five XXX sex scenes.
In each nightmare a young couple that he has murdered appear in the kitchen of the club and hump as he watches in horror. Yes, he suffers from the same ghost sightings that his ill-fated bride complained about. She reappears as a humping ghost and the filmmakers' delayed exposition scenes and resolution of loose plot ends are meant to be clever but come off as forced and stupid. Final spoiler dear friends: he ends up in a sort of purgatory, stuck endlessly in the operational night club bumming drinks from the bartender, played as inevitable cameo by Max Candy himself.
The crummy central figure sinks the film on his own, a scruffy guy with Xander Corvus type facial ring piercings, a purple pony tail and very poorly dubbed and synced dialog in English. Many of the ghost women are presented with just voice-over, their lips never moving as they speak to Russ before humping. The sex scenes are poor and throughout the clowns who made this, with camera-work credited to the mysterious "Moire Candy", insist on closeups that remove foreheads from the frame -no knowledge of rudimentary film technique.
For the idiotic cult who like to watch films termed "so bad it's good" I offer this junk up as a test of the courage of their convictions.
This garbage comes from a modern tradition marrying pure "action film" with avant-garde mentality, a deadly brew. Even the most basic elements: framing, cropping of image, dubbing, editing, "acting" (from untalented porn performers) are muffed, yet the overall package presumes to have intellectual chops. Back in the day when theatrical release was necessary in filmmaking (video had yet to dominate), stuff at this level was routinely left unfinished in a lab or merely rejected out of hand when shopped to prospective distributors.
End credit for directing goes to team of Louis Moire (a mystery man associated with 'Moire Candy' whatever that is) and the American director Max Candy, whose work I have found unwatchable before and also in this instance.
Garbled story (that's part of the wave of pretentiousness trailing in the wake of Tarantino and Nolan's successes) has anti-hero Russ Comron (played by horrible non-talent "JC Sonogod" -stage name perhaps taken from the amateur video school headed by Bill Zebub), who narrates in an asinine parody of film noir technique rambling on about a nightclub that dominates his past and memory.
We see him in a Jeep motoring along with bride Angelina (Angelina Pet, obviously named after Brangelina) who argues with him about her propensity for seeing ghosts, at which point he suddenly shoots her dead. Callously pushing her corpse out the door onto the shoulder of the highway, he drives along, impressing the easily-impressed viewers with "shock" value, but warning more seasoned film buffs that we're in for a very bumpy ride.
One could write a lengthy master's thesis on the shortcomings of the film (if any prof were foolhardy enough to approve such an assignment) but to be more brief, he picks up a hitchhiker (slim, not attractive Monika Kerr) who becomes the show's leading lady. She takes him to the night club that is coincidentally the one haunting his memories and she conveniently has a key, permitting the duo to squat there. After they hump mechanically, he has a series of near-identical nightmares to fulfill Private's requirement of five XXX sex scenes.
In each nightmare a young couple that he has murdered appear in the kitchen of the club and hump as he watches in horror. Yes, he suffers from the same ghost sightings that his ill-fated bride complained about. She reappears as a humping ghost and the filmmakers' delayed exposition scenes and resolution of loose plot ends are meant to be clever but come off as forced and stupid. Final spoiler dear friends: he ends up in a sort of purgatory, stuck endlessly in the operational night club bumming drinks from the bartender, played as inevitable cameo by Max Candy himself.
The crummy central figure sinks the film on his own, a scruffy guy with Xander Corvus type facial ring piercings, a purple pony tail and very poorly dubbed and synced dialog in English. Many of the ghost women are presented with just voice-over, their lips never moving as they speak to Russ before humping. The sex scenes are poor and throughout the clowns who made this, with camera-work credited to the mysterious "Moire Candy", insist on closeups that remove foreheads from the frame -no knowledge of rudimentary film technique.
For the idiotic cult who like to watch films termed "so bad it's good" I offer this junk up as a test of the courage of their convictions.