Weirdly specific about the year his eighth feature takes place – 1976 – perhaps Rob Zombie is hoping some of early-slasher grit of Texas Chainsaw Massacre and The Hills Have Eyes will stick to him. He wishes: other than the minivan full of cavorting, toking, sideburned carnival workers abducted on Halloween to become fodder in a bloodsport conducted by Malcolm McDowell’s braying aristo, there’s nothing to date 31 to any period other than “time to die”. The handheld profligacy of the camerawork covers for a total vacuum of character motivation, history, or anything else to help the audience situate themselves. But, as the swastika-daubed Latino dwarves and chainsaw-wielding redneck clowns pile in, 31 exudes a self-assurance that takes hold anyway. Richard Brake’s leering psychopath Doom-Head, prone to Tarantino-esque soliloquys before burying the hatchet, leads from the front in that respect. A cinematic Jägerbomb: definitely not good for you, but gets the job done.
