Rating: C-
Dir: Gaby Smiths
Star: Nanny Cogorno, Facundo Vrdoljak, Pablo Cordero Jaure, Sofia Soler
a.k.a. The Tourists, a Season in Hell
There can’t be many horror movies which begin with an extended quote by nineteenth century proto-surrealist poet, Arthur Rimbaud: “Long ago, if I remember well, my life was a feast where all hearts opened and all wines flowed. One night, I sat Beauty on my knees. And I found her bitter. And I reviled her. I armed myself against justice. And I ran away. Oh Witches, oh Misery, oh Hate, My treasure has been entrusted to you!” Then again, the title is largely taken from Rimbaud’s most famous poem. Given this, you would be forgiven for expecting some kind of “elevated horror”, replete with metaphors and operating in a realm of understated subtlety.
The good news is, that’s not the case at all. The bad news? It’s little more than your basic torture porn, with moderately irritating pretensions of importance: again, Arthur Rimbaud. The only slight twist to this rural nightmare is it is mainly told from the perspective of the perpetrators, rather than the victims. The latter are a group of four generic young people, who are so forgettable I only remember the name of one: Naty (Soler). They head out to their country lodgings, ignoring the obvious red flags, and decide to attend a “Show del Horror” run by a local family of… the differently sane. To no-one’s surprise except theirs, the show turns out to be considerably more participatory than they expected.
This feels like it was inspired by Inbred or Circus of the Dead, but doesn’t have anywhere near the impact of either. Initially, it does seem to have something to say, adopting a vitriolic anti-tourist stance, expressed in lines like “Everyone likes the beach but the sand bothers them. And they keep coming… more and more of them.” The problem is, the person expressing the opinion, Gomero (Jorge Ruiz) isn’t the kind of person you want to listen to. However, he’s like Brad Pitt compared to the people who own and operate the Show del Horror, such as Boris (Cogorno) and Junior (Vrdoljak). It’s a family business, passed down to them from their father, Dimitri, described by Junior as “The best magician and illusionist of all time.” I’m unconvinced.
The deeper we get into this, the less interesting this becomes, as we retread territory not too different from The Wizard of Gore. The main (and by the end, close to the sole) point of interest is a visual style, which looks as if it was shot on early 2000’s video, with the contrast turned up. The results have a lurid, fun-house quality to them, which is not inappropriate given the amount of lunatic giggling during torture we get. I’m uncertain whether to be disappointed it ends up wallowing in the lower levels of torture porn, or pleased I wasn’t subjected to ninety minutes of Mr. Rimbaud’s opium-induced poetic meanderings. Where’s a Vogon when you want one?