Eli Roth doesn't like you.
Don't worry, he doesn't like me -- I'm female -- any more than he likes his own sex. Or foreigners. Or homosexuals. Or anyone, it seems.
How could he, when he has so little respect for his fellow man that he asks you to believe, quite seriously, that European women are so desperate to meet mindlessly horny Americans (and Roth painstakingly ensures we understand just how mindless and horny) that they'll practically hand their panties over as soon as they do?
Let's see, we've got Yer Average Mercenary Tramp or Yer Average Virginal Victim. 'Nuff said. They both scream a lot, but for vastly different reasons.
For the middle third of this mess: our very own Cornucopia of Xenophobia and Homophobia. After all, every gay man I know, Roth (all but) asks us to swallow with wide-eyed innocence, begins a relationship with a nice sudden cop to the joint? No? Alright then, where would any self-respecting story be without gruntingly illiterate locals, who serve no more purpose than to direct visitors to Punani Paradise and Hashish Heaven, found a short train ride away? Do watch out for those all-too-common packs of roaming kiddies though. Oh, yes quite the thing around these primitive parts, he seems to insist.
And amen, with the final third, it's almost over, and we find someone loves us after all: the special effects guys, also known as KNB EFX Group, better known as Greg Nicotero and the Gang (ok, well to me, at least), the people largely responsible for showing us gory love with the likes of "Land of the Dead", "The Amityville Horror" remake, "Sin City", and "Kill Bill" Vols. 1 & 2.
As has been previously stated, I'm of the mind that if you're going to make a horror film, be a man and serve it up hot and fresh with some fake eyeballs, buckets o'blood and a decapitation or three. I enjoyed the much-maligned bloodfest, and this is one area where Roth has at least learned from his mistakes: let the big boys handle it and get the hell outta the way.
What does it all mean, dear? I couldn't stand anyone in this film, and the only true pleasure I got out of it was watching them get picked off, one by one and in horrifyingly creative ways, thanks to Greg et al.
Which does not make up for the mindless, masturbatory blather I sat through to see it.
In short: as deep and meaningful as popping a zit. Sure, you can't help but look, but after you have....eww.