[The following review contains MINOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]
The first time I watched The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, I felt unclean afterwards, as though the grime and grit of the setting had infected my skin. It is, after all, a thoroughly unpleasant cinematic experience: every frame resembles a murder victim’s last known photograph, and the climactic descent into insanity seems far too genuine to have been staged for the camera (if Leatherface actor Gunnar Hansen’s personal accounts are to be believed, grueling conditions behind-the-scenes indeed reduced the cast and crew to a mad delirium). Few movies since have had such a profound and visceral impact upon my psyche; only Antrum: The Deadliest Film Ever Made has come close.
In this case, of course, the effect is entirely intentional; whereas Tobe Hooper apparently considered Chainsaw Massacre to be a dark comedy (which does come through in the finished product… if you squint), Antrum is deliberately designed to assault the subconscious, from the early disclaimer warning any audience members suffering from weak constitutions to leave the theater (William Castle would be proud) to the fake-out closing credits that roll approximately ten minutes prior to the actual ending.
I hesitate to discuss the plot and themes in further detail; much of the story’s suspense lies in discovering its intricacies and idiosyncrasies as it unfolds, and I’d hate to deprive potential fans of that thrill. Suffice it to say that recognizing the various visual tricks and sleight-of-hand techniques employed by directors David Amito and Michael Laicini—the documentary-style prologue, which elegantly creates a palpable sense of anticipation for the terror to follow; the fabricated “snuff” footage randomly interspersed between shots, which within the context of the overarching meta-narrative is obviously meant to be “authentic” (an homage, I believe, to Michael Findlay’s infamously trashy Snuff); the enigmatic occult symbols scratched into the “celluloid,” which linger just a bit too long to fit the textbook definition of “subliminal”—hardly diminishes the film’s mystique and allure.
Ultimately, the word that best describes Antrum is “unsettling.” Its oppressive, foreboding atmosphere lingers in the viewer’s nightmares; I’ve jolted awake in my bed with Alicia Fricker’s moody musical score ringing in my ears, tormented by the overwhelming dread that I’ve been irrevocably tainted by the sin of witnessing something taboo, forbidden, cursed. That is the essence of true horror.