The most interesting thing about this, for me, was the dynamic between Ringwald and Tripplehorn in that their work relationship (occasionally) extrapolates that weird thing that happens in work spaces where people obviously come from different socioeconomic backgrounds but are ostensibly considered 'equals,' and awkwardness ensues. But that's not ultimately what the film is about.
Irredeemably crude and flat in certain spots/aspects (some of the performances and dialogue, especially, exist in a dull purgatory between camp and amateur theater troupe), but touches Fuller territory in others, and Sherman's visual gift, though a rough translation to narrative cinema, still shines. (Extra half-star for those exquisite dagger earrings placed on Ringwald by Sherman and costumier Todd Thomas).
Blood drenched and strange, completely underrated. The cinematography flows between light orange and wooden interiors into deep red with guts spewing everywhere. Carol Kane is convincingly unhinged in what could come off as ridiculous and some of the murders are truly bleak. This is a brilliant slasher film, a truly weird combination of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Office Space (but predating that one by 2 years).
well done Cindy. A great little piece of dark, quirky comedic gore fest of fun. Nice little story holding it together, nowt too taxing for the noggin. I have seen many supposedly superior movies to this, and this stands up there looking down. And many thanks to Molly's closet!
Working late alone? Good. Working late with a mousey psycho-killer with weird eyebrows? Definitely bad. The body-count stacks up indefatigably as our Batesesque heroine populates her living room with corpses of co-workers and others with bits missing. Her nagging mom dies of natural causes - life's so unfair. The sketchy motivation is down to her dad taking an unnatural interest in his girl. The horror, the horror.
Sherman tends to think in photographic arrangements, mostly connecting their different spaces with cuts. But this strategy is neither a plausible substitute for the use of elaborate filmic dramaturgy nor for a coherent choreography of body movements. It doesn't work very well as foundation for a satiric splatter film.
A film implies time, which carries a spatial dimension, at all unrelated to the artistic medium of photography. To pass a pastiche of some North-American thrillers through the sieve of her most typical and recognizable artistic look, neglecting the density of cinematic time-space, forces the film to become too kitsch, beyond the intended. We are left with a kind of a cartoon that constantly mocks its silliness.