Hostel 2 isn’t quite the lesbian murder mystery the perm-erect teenage boys were hoping for. After failing miserably to secure a reasonable download to spank their spotty monkeys to, it was likely that the fake IDs and ironed jeans had to be pulled into action in desperate hope of adding a few widescream images to their fresh and confused wankbank.
Oh the disappointment to be one of those young men to be forced to report back the following day in school:
“yeah yeah it was baaaad. Totally porn yanaa. Deafs every time and the bloods. Towtally sicks innit”
When the reality was,
When I say “isn’t quite the lesbian murder mystery”, it is a little. Confusing it’s simple mind with elements of recent ultra-gore festivals, Eli Roth has “only gone and done” the impossible and served up exactly the same film as before. Only this time we are treated to a directors “cut”.
With no interactivity required, we follow all main protagonists (victims, locals, clients, organisers, misguided buck-toothed do-gooders, those “Come to Daddy” Aphex Twin psycho-children etc etc) to a single white screen-burnt dot of an ending.
This really does give the sequel variation and even allows a little bit of character development, other than the obvious one of developing American yoofs into meat patties for the dirty locals to chomp on at their “Harvest Festival”. Is the postmortem collection of backpacker’s undercrackers defined as a “harvest”? I guess so.
Far from being a painful view, the film has much more of a sinister feel that it’s gory peers, with the direct blood letting replaced with implied and audible torture. The more distressing scenes are those where time’s lost or where you are introduced to new characters. Nearly all of whom are painted in east-European hillbilly mystery. Come to think now, even the one’s you’d figured out, turned out to have a different agenda or ended up as a figment of one’s imagination, the hallucinogen being that of diet coke and 2lbs of peanut M&Ms.
Quite possibly the most disturbing moment came about halfway through the film where one is forced to bear witness to an upside-down pair of boobies, resembling two sad plasticine eyes looking down (up?) at a pallet-knife wielding Nick Park. Or was it the moment when I suddenly realised that at dinner parties, “doing a Loretta Bobbit” meant taking the meat and leaving the veg. I Dunno.
For most of the film you don’t know who bad, who’s mad, who’s in reality or who’s due a reality check. More importantly one never knows who’s next to get their baps whipped off with a bacon slicer. Stick the cast of “Give us a (fucking) Clue” in the bottom right of the screen to mime the agendas of the cast and this would rival Sing-along-a-Schindler’s-List for full blown tea-time family quizatainment.
I guess the very fact one doesn’t really know what’s going to happen, but in reality it’s all been seen before, the clever reproduction and repackaging confuses my simple mind and easily recommends Eli’s film with two thumbs right up into the stomach cavity shaped scoreboard.