So, Marcus Dunstan, you dumb son of a bitch. We meet again, huh? After scripting three Feast movies (oh, there’s a challenge) and a trio of Saw movies (or should I say, recycled them), some fucktard in Hollywood decided to put your name on a director’s chair where you could sit your fat ass for a few weeks and twiddle your dick, huh? Somebody needs to appeal to the amoebic intelligence of 18-24 year old men with boners for torture porn, I suppose. Though, to call you an anthropomorphic nutsack, Mr. Dunstan, would be a disservice to smelly nutsacks — and I doubt your brain could fill up even the most shriveled of scrotes. So I say this, Mr. Dunstan: Jump up my ass.
I don’t even want to review your fucking film. To call it was it was — 90 minutes of agonizing, sadistic, fetid dogshit — would give it more power than it deserves. Seriously, is that all you got, anus brain? You think you can chase of a few lightweights out of a theater and somehow cash in on the shock value of your sadism among a bunch of giggly 17-year-old girls and their pea-brained boyfriends who are trying to wear them down for a night of roofies and finger banging? Give it up, pube breath. You’re going to have to bring a lot more than that, asshole. Cause I stayed. Not because I was entertained (I wasn’t), revolted (brother, please), or even curious (hah! About what?), but because I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction. Ripped flesh? Pffffft, Hellraiser did it 47 times better, and it did so with panache? Murderous booby traps? Stolen from a franchise that you’ve been running into the ground for years. A masked boogeyman? See: The 1980s, pal.
The Collector is, essentially, Saw set in a house, only the Collector (who wears a some sort of beekeepers outfit that’s about half as scary as the “No Rain” bee girl’s costume) has none of the Jigsaw Murderer’s charisma. And when you can’t claim to be half the movie of Saw XXV, then you may as well stick your head in a dung pile and inhale. The plot (ha ha ha ha ha!) is about a man named Arkin (Josh Stewart), a decent enough guy who has been casing a house (as a handyman) for weeks. The plan is to break in while the family is away, steal a jewel from a safe, and keep his wife’s loan sharks at bay. However, when he arrives at the house, he discovers that it’s been booby trapped — there are bear traps on the floor, hooks dangling from ceilings, knives hanging from chandeliers, a bedroom floor covered in acid, razor wire dividing rooms, and nails on the stairs, all set up by the Collector, a psycho exterminator who likes to collect people for his trophy case. Once Arkin realizes what’s going on, however, he sets about trying to save the family, who were caught by the Collector before they could make it to the Cape for the weekend.
And that’s it. The family is captured by the Collector; they are tortured; they have their mouths sewn shut; they are thrown into walls of nails; they are hung up by hooks; they are mauled by bear traps; and they get their entrails pulled out. There’s nothing to this movie (and certainly nothing new) but a series of death traps because that’s the only thing that the two-bit shit-for-brains writer/director could come up with. An even mediocre director might know a little something about creating characters; about sympathy; about doses of humor; or pacing; or storylines; or suspense; or tension. Marcus Dunstan only knows how to set up a torture and mutilation scene that makes him feel better about his tiny dick. One day, he’s going to finally see a big penis. And it’s going to come from the business end of a horse. And I hope it ass rapes him.
But, hey! If you’re feeling emasculated; if you need to see a woman felt up before a nail is driven into her temple; or if you just get off on the prolonged, agonizing deaths of people you couldn’t possibly give a shit about, then maybe The Collector is for you. Maybe it’ll give you just the right amount of testosterone-fueled adrenaline you need to unshrivel your dried up, desiccated ball sack to go home and masturbate into a sock, you misogynistic, humanity hating fuck.
Dustin Rowles is the publisher of Pajiba.