So here’s the thing, kids.
I’m not a horror movie buff. Never have been.
Aliens? Yes, please. Weather as the ultimate adversary of man? Sure, why not? Supernatural beasties hellbent (pun intended) on tipping the world over to expose its maggoty underbelly and set loose chaos? Sure, if nothing else is on.
So, I suppose it’s more correct to say that I’ve never been a fan of horror movies that involve humans being evil to humans, because quite frankly I can get that for free at any shop or the BMV. There’s a delicious thrill to be had in watching a xenomorph stalk space marines in the claustrophobic halls of a derelict spacecraft, because it probably won’t happen to me (as long as I don’t trust Paul Reiser, at least).
However, being chased by a masked weirdo who would like nothing more than to make my insides my outsides? That happens to too many people (trans and otherwise) every year to make such movies enjoyable for me. It cuts, if you will pardon the expression, a little too close to the bone.
All this said, it was with no small measure of reluctance that I plunked down my hard-earned cash to see The Collector, a movie about a guy who edits a small-time literary magazine.
Oh, I’m sorry, that’s “The Corrector.”
No, this flick is about a man with serious, serious issues, not the least of which is his need to transform isolated homes into Rube Goldberg-style machines of wacky doom. Unlike, say, Jigsaw, whose deathtraps are accompanied by some sort of queasiness-inducing moral “lesson,” the Collector’s traps seem strictly designed to hinder rescue and prevent escape while he removes bits of his victims and stomps around wearing really unattractive clodhopper boots.
There’s a plot about a desperate ex-con who’s become a jewel thief, looking for the big score that will keep his wife and child safe from the loan sharks, but ultimately, this is a flick about waiting. Waiting to see how our hero will deal with the baddie, waiting to see how the unworthy fall victim to the house’s clockwork abattoir, waiting for the gratuitous nudity, waiting to see if there’s an 800 number for the shop where bad guys purchase their custom leather headgear. In the end, the movie sets up the by-now obligatory cliffhanger, leaving the viewer (or at least this viewer) not so much anticipating the sequel, but the box office returns to see if the film will justify the MAKING of the sequel to answer all the these borderline-interesting unanswered questions.
But if they want more of my money for their collection, they’re gonna be waiting a long time.