Right so there’s this centipede. He’s called Arthur Pod. He hates his life, his job as a grape treader and the little room he rents from his Aunt Enna. Then one day a giant creature wielding a metal spade turns poor Arthur’s life upside down, literally. As he is falling among and back to the earth Arthur thinks “Here’s somebody who gets things done. A go-getter. A person in charge of their destiny.” So he sets off on a quest to become a human.
Ahh if only. If only.
The actual The Human Centipede’s finest moment was when you first saw the poster and thought “what is tha…..oh holy fuck!” That’s all it has. After that image there’s nothing left to threaten you with. It spunked it. No surprises, no shocks, no twists, nothing. And the remains don’t really constitute a film. But, fuck ye, if you must watch it…
Imagining centipedal combinations of your friends, colleagues and family will get you through the first fifteen minutes of dullness. Just don’t imagine all your friend’s mums in an ass-to-mouth line. I said don’t imagine the mums! Sake! You’re so disrespectful!
That should get you to the crazy scientist. Someone made a Christopher Walken out of grey, knotted pipecleaners and plonked it in Germany. Kristofer Volken. He’s great.
But he’s in an episode of Casualty. Honestly, Saturday telly is gorier. And boasts more “oooooh what’s going to happen?” If that rusting drainpipe on the school gable end falling on the granny picking up litter could cause gross-out torture and vague comedy then you’d have no need to see The Human Centipede.
Fuck it, you’ve no need anyway. Look at the poster again. Get creeped out. That’s yer whack.
SO THANK GOODNESS FOR BOOBS
Boobs aside (which is a scene in Human Centipede 2) Slumber Party Massacre is a riot of a Halloween rip-off. Escaped maniac. Girls in houses of an evening. Hilariously bad dorks. Jocks with endless jaws. Killing. Lots of killing. Good jump scares, a couple of show-off shots to smile at and a handful of drill-related slaughterings that deserve a wee round of applause.
There’s only one real issue…. a murderer in a denim outfit?
Really? Denim jacket and jeans? Is that what women writers and directors find scary?
Okay he has a big drill. A big penile drill. But the killer is mincing and twee. Salt’n’pepper hair. A dancer’s shuffle as he creeps forward. Like one of the cast of Cats. “The Magical Massacre Mistofelees. His drill leaves a big Macavity in your chest.” He either humps the film or makes it that extra bit special. I can’t work it out.
But Slumber Party Massacre II is now on the list for next Gubbins Night. Definitely.