If cinema were a butcher's shop, then "Texas Chainsaw Massacre (2022)" is the gristle-laden cut you wish you hadn't spent your hard-earned coin on. It's a rarity that a film comes along wearing the skin of a classic only to reveal itself as nothing more than a cinematic flaying.
The narrative tries to hitch a ride on the legacy of the horror genre, teasing us with the return of Leatherface, an iconic villain whose mask holds more expression than this film's entire script. Nestled in a remote Texas town, the towering figure continues his tango with anonymity until a gaggle of naïve young souls stumbles upon his lair, sparking a gruesome game of cat and mouse. On paper, it sounds like a tried-and-true recalibration, a premise promising enough to carve out something visceral. And yet, the execution is where the blade dulls and the massacre becomes a mere scuffle.
The characters are akin to lambs—not to the slaughter, but to the pasture of banality. Their idealism appears as a thin veneer for poorly-conceived motives, with the texture of their development being less meaty and more jerky. One might hope for a rooting interest or a savory back-story, but the flavor of investment never blooms on the palate. The machinations of their disruption of Leatherface's "carefully shielded world" are as undercooked as they are forgettable, leaving one to wonder if their GPS led them astray not just geographically, but narratively.
As for the slaughter at the heart of it all, the gore feels as though it's applied with a heavy hand and a closed eye. Random splatters of crimson do not a horror masterpiece make. The violence is relentless, but the shock wears thin, like a novelty knife that grows duller with each subsequent use. If terror is an art, then the brushstrokes here are broad and uninspired, lacking the finesse and dread that the original film wielded like a scalpel.
In the realm of horror, pacing and tension are sacred. They are the quiet before the storm, the creak in the floorboard, the shadow in the doorway. Yet, this offering's pacing is as erratic as a chainsaw's idle: revving and purring but never tearing into anything substantial. The film squanders opportunities for genuine suspense in favor of the next set piece, a battleground where predictability reigns supreme and terror has taken a back seat.
Moreover, when one looks to the broader brushstrokes – the cinematography, the score, the atmosphere – we're met with a lackluster tapestry, frayed at the edges and coming undone where it should be tightly woven. The film's visual language speaks in mumbles rather than screams, its dread-whispered when it should be etched into every frame.
In its final autopsy, "Texas Chainsaw Massacre (2022)" earns a pitiful 4/10. It's a cinematic misstep, a derivation so far removed from its source material that it stands as a somber warning: not all that is hidden should be unearthed. For those seeking a true horror experience, this film is not the revival of Leatherface they may be craving, but rather a time-consuming reminder that some legacies are best left undisturbed.
