Bloody Hell is a movie that makes frequent references to other movies. In most cases, they are explicit. Early on, reference is made to the Bourne series and John Wick to emphasize the protagonist’s prowess as a methodical killing machine. Later, that very protagonist brings up Misery and Big Trouble in Little China, and surely others I neglected to write down, to assess the severity of his situation. Had such references not been so profuse, they may have gone unnoticed, since that is how citizens of a post-Kevin Smith America talk, but not to notice them would be to forget what is being watched. And if you are a little confused already by what these references suggest of the film itself, I cannot blame you.
Bloody Hell is the sort of horror comedy that, on the surface, is just a patchwork of other genres or tropes glued together by wry, knowing commentary. It can be fresh, if not strictly inventive, as it was in Scream, though it can also get old very quickly, as it did in the mostly forgotten Detention, and disappoint, as in Tragedy Girls. Even the more successful of these films, such as Happy Death Day, are bewildering on their own terms. Bloody Hell, with its sharp script and central performance and constant flux of narrative, including a digressive commentary about going viral on the internet, falls into the latter.
Ben O’Toole stars as Rex, a veteran of Afghanistan who achieves hero status for single-handedly thwarting a bank robbery. But the accidental death of a hostage stemming from his actions puts him in prison for eight years. Once released, he goes to Finland to escape scrutiny, only to find himself tied up in a basement with an amputated leg, the captive of a rustic family with a son who only feeds on human flesh. “Horror comedy” might not do the film total descriptive justice when I think about it. In execution, it is an action film that got detoured into a Nordic folk horror world, which O’Toole’s protagonist endures with good humor, all things considered. (I feel no guilt in laying out most of the plot since it is entirely secondary to an appreciation of the film.)
In Rex, we find a recognizable archetype of the American action lead. Like other sardonic ultrasurvivors, such as John McClane of Die Hard and Ash Williams of Evil Dead, he has a penchant for wisecracks and resourcefulness, and he attracts catastrophe with an almost magnetic force. And yet, he is also a defective model. He can easily overpower an armed bank robber, but he takes many attempts to coin a catchphrase, and they all fail. His knack for quick-thinking improvisation does not lead to a chainsaw hand, as in Evil Dead, but a duct-taped golf club leg. Bloody Hell is a comedy of negation, taking the acquired superhero qualities of Rex’s antecedents and bringing them back to Earth.
The film functions on two clever narrative devices. First is that Rex spends roughly one-third of the film and most of the main action tied up in the same position. All the energy otherwise expected to be concentrated in evasion of and confrontation with his captors, as ably demonstrated in flashbacks, is restricted to assessing his surroundings and struggling to escape. The peak of both the film’s ridiculous constrictive logic and its suspense is Rex holding a knife with his foot to attempt to cut the ropes around his wrist, all the while exchanging character exposition with Alia (Meg Fraser), the similarly captive black sheep of the Finnish family.
The second is that Rex mostly interacts with himself. Or rather, he interacts with an imaginary, slightly more confident double who appears at high-pressure moments to clear his thinking, sort out his lingering doubts and feelings, egg him on, and sometimes mock him. This is the kind of detail around which any number of theories might fly. Is his double his conscience? He does carry himself as a kind of guide. But he gets Rex in as much trouble as he gets him out of it. Is he a brother figure, real or imagined? They have that complicated repertoire between admiration and antagonism. In my limited analytical capacity, I took it to be a personification of PTSD, or a self-therapeutic mechanism to abate it. But in this ambiguity lies the film’s real strength.
Horror that utilizes violence over dread inevitably serves as a meditation on suffering, though ornate depictions of suffering don’t always offer much opportunity for meditation. Audition (1999) is the one great exception proving the rule. Like Bloody Hell, Takashi Miike’s gruesome classic is a slow-burner that mixes genres (romantic comedy this time) and involves severed limbs. It also gives the viewer more insight into the desires, motivations, and experience of the victim, hence bringing the viewer closer to the victim’s eventual pain and powerlessness. Audition goes unmentioned in Bloody Hell, perhaps in order to avoid giving the game away.
Audition is one of the greatest horror films ever made, and Bloody Hell can’t hope to match it. But Bloody Hell’s makers understand their best asset and use it well. Bringing Rex’s inner monologue out, so to speak, is a fine source of comedy, but it is also a great method for demonstrating the activity of suffering in a horror film and for giving the sufferer a context that extends beyond the confines of the film’s action.
That level of sophistication is generally granted in the narrative arts, but horror in the pre-A24 era often found itself slighted for being behind the curve and lacking ambition. Consider the genre’s numerous attempts to reinvigorate the “final girl,” the typical slasher protagonist distinct mostly for her sexual purity and ability to scream, as a more proactive and self-sufficient survivor in the Ash Williams mold (David Gordon Green’s reboot/sequel to Halloween, with Jamie Lee Curtis reprising her iconic role, being the most obvious example). Here, we see a film attempting the opposite, with Bloody Hell pointing out the vulnerabilities of the male ultrasurvivor. Not that it is without its creative and well-choreographed cinematic mayhem, including a hands-free sleeper hold and some impressive form with a nail gun. It’s a commendable trick: Come for the cannibalism, Bloody Hell implores, but stay for the feelings.
Chris R. Morgan is a writer from New Jersey. Follow him on Twitter: @CR_Morgan.
