Rob Zombie’s 31 (2016)

Rob Zombie’s 31 was one of the most eagerly anticipated horror films of the year. Not because his track record is overflowing with cinematic masterpieces—quite the opposite, in fact—but because there always remains the faint hope that one day he might finally get everything right.

His House of 1000 Corpses certainly had its moments. There was humour, a dash of style and an opening fifteen minutes or so that suggested genuine promise. Unfortunately, the film gradually dissolved into a chaotic mess, but at least it hinted at an ability to tell a story.

Then came his remake of Halloween.

To my eyes, it was nothing short of a travesty. An ugly, unsubtle and stylistically bankrupt reworking of one of the most elegant horror films ever made. John Carpenter’s original possessed atmosphere, lyricism and visual sophistication. Zombie’s version replaced all of that with volume, grime and blunt-force trauma. There were occasional flashes of competence buried within it, but overall it felt less like a reinterpretation and more like a brain-dead imitation that nobody had asked for in the first place.

What lingered in the memory afterwards was Zombie’s remarkable ability to drag everything towards a trailer-park aesthetic with all the subtlety of a hammer strike to the forehead. It was the cinematic equivalent of a bad smell that follows you around long after you’ve left the room.

Then came Halloween II, which somehow managed to double down on every flaw of its predecessor. Once again we were treated to a loud, messy, grungy, bloody and largely incoherent experience that Zombie’s loyal fanbase enthusiastically embraced while the rest of us stood bewildered at his ability to turn everything he touched into a pile of cinematic scrap metal. It was another aggressive, chaotic film that seemed to mistake noise for style and ugliness for artistic vision.

Yet despite all of this, there remained a flicker of optimism.

Perhaps one day Zombie’s fascination with grime, exploitation and white-trash Americana would finally align with genuine storytelling and visual flair. Maybe 31 would be the film where everything clicked into place.

Alas, within minutes it becomes painfully clear that this is not that film.

Rather than displaying artistic growth, 31 feels like the culmination of all Zombie’s worst instincts. What unfolds is a bloated, self-indulgent, overblown and frequently incomprehensible exercise in excess that seems to embody everything that has become frustrating about his work.

The plot, such as it is, revolves around a collection of degenerates—inevitably led by the ever-present Sherri Moon Zombie—who find themselves trapped in a deadly game involving a collection of homicidal clowns and assorted maniacs.

From there the film descends into a barrage of jittery imagery photographed with the sort of frantic handheld camerawork that filmmakers often employ when they want to create urgency or realism. In practice, it simply resembles a visual migraine. The camera lurches, shakes and stumbles about so relentlessly that the entire film begins to feel like it is being viewed from the back seat of a vehicle travelling over rough terrain.

The bigger problem, however, is that none of the characters inspire the slightest emotional investment. They are little more than unpleasant caricatures wandering through a nightmare of Zombie’s own design. No effort is made to flesh them out or make them remotely sympathetic, which means the audience quickly reaches the point where it simply doesn’t care what happens to any of them.

The cast includes the usually reliable Malcolm McDowell and the wonderfully distinctive Meg Foster. Under normal circumstances that would be reason enough for optimism, but here they seem to be operating on autopilot, collecting a pay cheque while surrounded by chaos. Every character appears more repellent than the last and before long I found myself actively rooting for everyone to be butchered as quickly as possible simply so the film might finally end.

As matters progress, 31 settles comfortably into torture-porn territory. There are loud performances, endless screaming, grotesque imagery and a great deal of posturing masquerading as wit. Unfortunately, very little of it is actually entertaining.

What surprised me most was the reaction of the audience.

This screening took place at a film festival and the theatre was packed with horror fans eager to embrace whatever madness Zombie had in store. Yet the response was astonishingly muted. If the film was intended to be funny, nobody appeared to notice. Throughout the entire running time there were perhaps one or two scattered giggles while the rest of the audience sat in near silence, staring blankly at the screen as the carnage unfolded.

One particularly absurd sequence involving California Dreamin’ seemed designed to provoke some reaction, but again the audience remained largely unmoved.

In many ways, the film itself became a form of endurance test.

Zombie has once again taken a potentially interesting premise and transformed it into something that feels designed exclusively for the most devoted members of his fanbase. If you already worship at the altar of Rob Zombie, you may well find plenty to enjoy. If not, the experience is likely to prove exhausting.

The best moment in the entire film arrives when the end credits finally begin to roll and the audience is released from captivity.

There is simply nothing here that I found worth recommending. The film is ugly, humourless, self-satisfied and painfully lacking in any sense of craft. Zombie’s self-referential jokes and knowing nods to other films may qualify as humour in some circles, but they did absolutely nothing for me.

The frustrating thing is that Zombie occasionally demonstrates flashes of imagination. One or two ideas buried within 31 suggest that there is a better filmmaker trying desperately to emerge. Unfortunately, that filmmaker remains trapped beneath layers of noise, posturing and self-indulgence.

Most importantly, the film never manages to engage its audience.

For me, that is the cardinal sin.

The worst films ever made can still engage. They can provoke laughter, fascination, suspense or even disbelief. They can draw you into their world despite their shortcomings. 31 never achieves any of those things. Every joke falls flat, every reference feels calculated and every monologue strains desperately to sound cool while achieving the exact opposite.

Some audience members emerged beaming and declaring the film “banging”, while one enthusiastic fellow proudly announced that it was the first Rob Zombie film his girlfriend had ever seen and that she loved it.

Fair enough.

Enthusiasm is a wonderful thing, even when it borders on self-deception.

For me, however, 31 remains memorable for all the wrong reasons. It is tasteless, exhausting, devoid of tension, lacking in visual elegance and almost entirely bereft of genuine suspense. It is difficult to recall a more loathsome cinematic experience in recent memory, which makes the disappointment all the greater because the premise itself held genuine promise.

A horror fan can endure an awful lot. We sit through endless sequels, bargain-bin slashers and all manner of nonsense because occasionally perseverance is rewarded with something wonderful.

31 was not one of those occasions.