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Rating: Finally, about time! After taking the elevator, highway, and crossroads, here we are at the borders of Hell. And let's hope that from now on, the seats reserved for cinephiles on Charon's boat are completely booked. That the horror filmmakers of this ongoing decade wanted, in some way, to leave a mark (not just beside the waters of the toilet) with their works (especially Saw and Hostel) seems evident, but with "Frontiers - At the borders of hell", this time they've gone way too far. However, behind the banality and thematic abuse of the title, consistent with the predictable unfolding of the plot, lie far more "profound" intentions.
The first chapter of the Saw saga represented at least an appreciable attempt to combine splatter with old-school thriller (when the identity of the culprit was revealed only at the end), only to cross over into sadism in the 4 sequels, pushing the limits of human endurance.
Hostel, on the other hand, has ignobly discredited the enormous macabre potential of the hotel setting elevated to its highest by Hitchcock, turning out to be a super-publicized scam (I remember that at the cinema, there were even barf bags available as gadgets) that only fueled the controversy over the figure of Tarantino.
If it's true that there are no limits to the worst, apparently, those "borders" had to be crossed to dispel any doubt. I was telling you about the intentions; well, it seemed to me that the sole objective of Xavier Gens' film was to surpass in atrocity the two films mentioned above. Even if it meant staging a truly impressive and purposeless visual and psychological violence. I believe this is precisely the last frontier of splatter cinema: whether the plot is implausible, at times even grotesque, is of little importance, what's important is that nothing is left to the viewer's imagination, and that the blood and various parts of the tortured bodies routinely cover the big screen in a manner directly proportional to the ticket price (which on Sunday nights is even at its maximum).
For an hour and a half, any boundary between the cinema hall and a slaughterhouse is obliterated. The pretext for the story is the likely victory in the presidential elections of a far-right candidate; taking advantage of the violent street riots, a group of criminals tries to escape to the Netherlands following a bank robbery. Among them is Yasmin, the only woman and the only one in the gang with a bit of sense, pregnant by the boss, her ex-boyfriend. During the escape, they decide to stop at a creepy motel run by a family of patriarchal, Nazi-idealist psychopaths who, in order to preserve the purity of their "race", even encourage incestuous relationships. I almost forgot the other delightful whim of the welcoming family unit - in case the situation wasn't gruesome enough - cannibalism. The favorite dishes, naturally, are the guests. Completely irrelevant seemed to me, however, the semi-peaceful presence of slightly lacking humane creatures segregated in the basements (probably the fruits of such insane unions). Describing the individual tortures wouldn't compare with seeing them. It is likely that the stronger stomachs, now accustomed to the atrocities portrayed in films of this genre, might not be too disturbed; what is really disturbing is not so much the intensity of the violence, although not negligible, but the duration. From the first frames to the closing credits, it's a succession of brutality without a moment of respite, without any possibility to refresh the view with some scene depicting a different context (any crap, police investigations, for example), in an exhausting, continuous quest for the most gruesome effect. Before even halfway through the movie, you start to sigh (I assure you I really did) because, also thanks to the countless references (The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The Hills Have Eyes, and even the same Hostel), it's not difficult to imagine where the story is heading. I believe that, knowing these films, you can do it too without wasting a single euro on renting the DVD, nor your precious time. Unless you are proud of your masochism or, deep down, believe that Jeffrey Dahmer was really Santa Claus, because you think that there's never too much violence under your eyes.
If that's the case, I dare not imagine what you might do with a camera in your hand...
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