Murder, Set Pieces

Directed by Nick Palumbo

This is what it’s all about, right here. Anybody who’s ever haunted a video rental shop knows how disappointing it is to pick up some obscure horror flick that promises all the goods and only delivers 90 minutes of steaming boredom. And anyone fortunate enough to receive new screeners of independent slasher films is well aware of how often those self-lauded efforts fall far short of their intended effect. But every now and again you get lucky. As happened here with Nick Palumbo’s Murder Set Pieces. Bloodier, sexier, and better executed (literally) than most, like August Underground’s Mordum this is a uniquely disturbed picture put together in a remarkably effective manner, one absolutely guaranteed to affect every viewer in one way or another.

With a short nod to Texas Chainsaw Massacre (to which the present film will pay homage more than once during the course of its ultra-violent running time) Murder Set Pieces opens up with the burning flare of a flashbulb. But instead of illuminating desiccated corpses this photographic glare captures the still-bleeding body of a semi-nude girl, bound to a chair in a blood-spattered basement. The equally gore-drenched photographer towers over her, grunting in German.

Cut to young Jade (Jade Risser) and her eleven-year-old friend Megan, running back from ditching their first day of school. And who should be waiting to pick them up but The Photographer (Sven Garrett), the man currently dating Jade’s older sister Charlotte (Valerie Bader). Even when he’s not butchering a female captive The Photographer is clearly a prick – in response to Megan’s compliment, “Cool car,” The Photographer replies, “I know.” He spends more time pumping iron in the rat-infested abattoir of his basement than he does with Charlotte, and when he does go out it’s usually with other women. Which basically means other victims. Murder Set Pieces is rich with these encounters, and in fact inside of the film’s first seven minutes The Photographer has a pair of lesbian hookers naked in a motel room, grinding away to the throb of the Strip’s neon lighting and the techno-metal pulse of the soundtrack. One hooker’s throat is slashed with a straight razor early on so that The Photographer can better enjoy the second victim, who he violently chokes out as she screams in horrible realization. When she awakens, bound and even bloodier than the dead girl, she begins to scream again, this time at some unseen horror.

Aside from his arrogant demeanor, there’s more than a little that Jade doesn’t like about her sister’s new boyfriend. She tries to convince Charlotte that there’s something wrong with her man, even as they’re on their way to his house for dinner. But Charlotte isn’t listening. At the dinner table The Photographer even makes some severely misogynistic comments, and although Jade picks up on his meaning loud and clear they pass right by the drunken Charlotte. Excusing herself from the table, Jade tiptoes upstairs to look for any evidence that might prove that The Photographer is a bad guy. And she finds some right away – standing on his bedroom dresser is a framed photograph of a young Nazi standing next to Adolf Hitler. The Photographer catches Jade in his room at this very moment, but instead of being pissed he actually seems rather proud; the man in the photograph is his grandfather, a ‘hero’ who “fought against the bad guys during the second World War.” The irony of his statement is not lost on young Jade.

Some time later The Photographer is prowling the Strip again, and easily picks up another aspiring model. After this session he stalks Jade and Megan for a little while, then sends out for an escort. This little hardbody screams like a monkey when The Photographer picks her up and drags her into the bathroom, where he literally fills the bathtub with her blood.

Feeling the need for something other than his trusty straight razor, The Photographer heads out to pay a visit to The Mechanic – original Leatherface Gunnar Hansen, in a role that can only be likened to that of a pedophilic white power Kenny Rogers. It’s a classic scene, one well-matched by another apt cameo further on in the film.

At any rate, freshly armed The Photographer heads out to a strip club, where he and the viewer are treated to some truly gymnastic displays of nudity set to metal. The next we see of his little lap-dancer however, the bloody-faced girl is being violently ass-raped on a bare mattress. When he finishes, The Photographer wraps her in plastic and lectures the quivering girl on the evils of the world, all the while coming ever closer to her face with the waving of his butcher knife.

The next night The Photographer is at it again; the last we see of the pretty young hitchhiker he picks up is her severed head, dropped out of his car window after he finishes having sex with it. (“Pig!”) Then he’s in the corner of his basement, gnawing upon the decaying limbless torso of a child. This scene segues right into a true Dario Argento moment, as a music box tune follows the camera’s crawl across a carpet littered with the bloody crayon drawings of a young Photographer, demonstrating that his disturbance is long-standing and deeply rooted.

The other previously-mentioned cameo comes in another epic scene in which The Photographer pays a visit to Talk of the Town, an adult bookstore manned by none other than Tony Todd…

While Charlotte bemoans the fact that her strapping foreign artist hasn’t called in over a month, the carnage continues. The Photographer has been keeping very busy with his program of personal annihilation, carrying out a score of unspeakable brutalities. The least of which is murder. The camera watches as he collects and graphically dispatches victim after victim after victim, and some of the ways in which he deals with his captives is rather shocking. As can be his selection of victims. Some of this material is truly harrowing, and there are scenes presented here during which only the most hardened of gore hounds will remain unaffected. (Meaning, choose carefully if you’re considering this for a date movie.) Murder Set Pieces continually manages to outdo itself with its own parade of torture and sex murder, and holds more than a few nasty surprises within.

As the body count rises The Photographer continues to lurk around the perimeter of Jade and Charlotte’s lives. Catching him stalking her, Jade tries again in vain to convince her sister that The Photographer is a dangerous man. When her friend Megan disappears Jade knows she didn’t just run away, and when Charlotte fails to return from a sudden date with The Photographer Jade fears the worst. Stealing Charlotte’s key to The Photographer’s house Jade sneaks a ride out to his place and lets herself in…

And, “I feel like saying more, but I don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

While the ending is bound to meet with mixed reactions, the dramatic finale does a fine job of riding a fine line that avoids both cliché and ‘I saw it comin’ a mile away’ thanks to the constant escalation of violence and the conclusion’s traumatic atmospherics. Me, I was not in the least disappointed.

So there you have it – sex, violence, snuff and swastikas; how much more fucking perversion would you like? Shot in and around Las Vegas, Murder Set Pieces truly gives new meaning to the term “Sin City.” Aside from his previous effort Nutbagz (which, if its brief mention and appearance in this film is any indication, is equally fucked-up and worthwhile) I don’t know what else Palumbo has done, but Murder Set Pieces is a remarkably professional and effective feature. First rate cinematography, skilled performances, excellent production values and gruesomely realized FX (from the sick-fuck geniuses at Toe Tag Pictures) all combine perfectly for what is an undeniably accomplished and, if there is any justice in the underground, award-winning presentation.

Throughout the film nightmares, flashbacks and episodes of cruel and unusual behavior too numerous to mention help illustrate The Photographer’s dementia. And while these aren’t truly necessary in the face of the film’s ceaseless violence, they do help flesh out his madness and provide ever more surreal glimpses into his life and psyche. As do the many details of The Photographer’s basement workshop: the blood-stained racks of tools, his collection of dried severed heads, the bloody masks and anatomy charts. The toilet seat of his throne of execution. And The Photographer’s narcissism is as relentless as his cruelty; his constant exercising, the numerous photographs of himself and his collection of egocentric artifacts all support The Photographer’s image as a one-man Master Race, an individual holocaust unwinding itself across the desert cities.

As mentioned before, the acting all around is excellent – the cast brings an immediacy and passion to their performance that’s very impressive for an independent feature. Even Garrett’s rigid portrayal of The Photographer is well-crafted; although he generally plays the part as wooden and distant, this attitude well befits the sociopathic ogre he portrays. Too, this demeanor provides a most effective contrast when he unleashes the raving psycho side of his character’s personality. Physically he’s perfectly cast, a bulky, brutal, Aryan-looking fucker who you’re not surprised to see working out onscreen to The Triumph of the Will. Also especially worthy of mention is the mature and skillful performance by newcomer Jade Risser, who is as adept at screaming like a little girl as she is coming off as a shell-shocked horror veteran.

Again, the cinematography is spectacular, brilliantly crisp and colorful and carefully composed as far as scope, angle and the judiciously used photographic effects. All convey the distinct impression that this is one well-crafted motion picture, the kind of picture demonstrating a shot-on-film look so noticeably absent in many indie flicks.

The film’s soundtrack, featuring performances by Necrophagia, Bronx Casket Company, Zombi, Giallos Flame, and Eric Galligan, is also excellent. However with the almost pornographic scale of violence presented onscreen, viewers may decide to provide their own musical accompaniment.

As far as the actual presentation of the feature goes, this is difficult to say. The screener format is widescreen VHS, but this came on a cassette so fresh from the duplication facility it still had the TCR count running in-picture for the duration of the film. No cover art, no extras, no promotional material, nothing. All of which actually make the product more appealing on this end, giving the film a more occult quality than would some flashy promo pack. But those interested in buying the formal release, which should be every reader of this review, would do well to check out www.frightflix.com and find out how to do so.

As professional as it is however, despite its achievements and cult qualities Murder Set Pieces is destined to remain underground, away from mainstream recognition and respect and the accordant success it deserves. The non-stop violence and gore are truly over-the-top, and combined with The Photographer’s sheer sadism it all makes for a very powerful film, one whose impact will not be soon forgotten. In short, it’s simply too vicious and ugly a film (and I mean that in the nicest possible way) for most circles. Which is actually more good than bad – let the Hollywood asses keep bobbing for their Golden Globe nominations; films like this one set the bar for underground filmmaking ever higher. Like Mordum, this one is guaranteed to carve a new face into independent horror.