Thank God Julian Richards' "psychological" tirade is over, and such a culminating work of art to go out on. If you couldn't smoke out the sarcasm, I hated this film, and I hate the work of Julian Richards. As a director, there is nothing inexplicable about what he does. He's never crafted anything profound or philosophical, or even viewable. At least I can watch an Uwe Boll film in good humor. Hell, I'm looking forward to "Postal." But there is not one redeeming quality about any film in Richards' repertoire. "Silent Cry" was the second worst film I've ever seen after "The Last Horror Movie." His short, "Bad Company," was dense and naïve, and "Darklands" was a pretentious rip-off of "The Wicker Man." I would rather vomit my intestines out and shove them back up my ass than watch this drudging, prosaic exhibition of untalented, unapologetic filmmaking again.
The movie begins with a murmuring radio broadcast, announcing that a psychotic murderer has escaped from the confines of his insane asylum. A waitress is promenading through a diner, flicking the lights off. A silhouette passes in front of the camera, and the waitress glances backward, tiptoeing disjointedly across the linoleum. Wiping sweat from her brow, she dismisses the disturbance as a figment of her paranoid imagination. Out of nowhere, a disfigured man wearing a spine-chilling mask raises his shadowy arm over his head, a knife tantalizingly clenched in his fist. As his arm begins to descend, the picture becomes gritty, transitioning to static, and then to a close-up on the movie's protagonist, a philosophical serial killer named Max Parry (Howarth). "The film you borrowed from the video store, I recorded over it. I think you'll find this more interesting." Ironically, this is where the movie loses my interest. Max is a mild-mannered wedding photographer who gets his kicks by butchering people with a wooden shellfish hammer. That's the entire movie. Interested? Well, what I may have forgotten to mention is the monotonous, incessant monologue that constitutes over ninety percent of the film, gallingly belched from Max's yap, a middle-aged British Aristotle with a camera.
As the movie winds down, the viewer realizes they are next on the menu as Max begins knocking on the doors of the people who have rented the videotape. This ploy is completely ineffective because it doesn't even make sense. How could someone watch his home movie if it was still being shot? The acting is wooden, the production, threadbare, the editing, shoddy, and the direction, lazy. I have nothing bad to say about the writers except that they should blow their brains out. It makes my blood boil that "The Last Horror Movie" is such an acclaimed independent, underground film, winning the "Jury Prize" at "Raindance," and "Best Feature" at the "New York City Horror Film Festival." This movie makes "Horror 101" look like a masterpiece. It's criminal! If I had a million dollars, I would buy as many copies of this movie as I could, and invite my horror brethren to the biggest bonfire this world has ever seen.