Scott Marks 3:01 p.m., Dec. 12
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre
An arty, ominous start: a black screen interrupted by yellow flashes, barely distinguishable, of fingers, of teeth, of flesh, in advanced stages of decomposition. But after the deceptive prologue, Tobe Hooper's made-in-Texas curio, a cult item on the midnight movie circuit, falls quickly into the bag — and to the bottom of the bag — of minor league, or semi-pro, horror movies whose main ingredients are a puny budget and a lonely country house terrorized by devil worshippers, axe murderers, flesh eaters, whomever. Inside the house, here, lives a paunchy, grunting executioner with a Halloween mask, a set of Nutty Professor dentures, and a shrieking electric saw that leads him to flesh and blood like a divining rod. At heart, the movie, with a sleazy image of pond-scum green, is just another portrait of Southern imbecility — backwoods backwardness, tooth decay, hyenic laughter, drool, etc. 1975.
— Duncan Shepherd
- Rated R | 1 hour, 23 minutes
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