Texan gardeners Billy Buck (John Smihula) and Jacob (Adam Berke) have moved to Long Island. Alas, they aren’t only the best lawn carers rich Long Island yuppies in their quintillion dollar houses could ask for, but also enjoy slaughtering people with the same thoroughness they apply to the green stuff. Which is to say, after they have clubbed or macheted their victims to death, our Texan friends then proceed to rip their victims’ flesh off with their bare hands until only bones remain. As you do in Texas, apparently. Though, come to think of it, Billy Buck’s and Jacob’s headwear actually reminds me more of what Austrian or Bavarian mountain farmers wear in German Heimatfilmen.
As the more long-suffering among my imaginary readers know, I am not the biggest fan of pure gore movies not coming from Italy, but there’s an undeniable charm to the shot on Super-8 (just like young JJ Abrams!) gore movies made by Long Island’s finest, Nathan Schiff. They Don’t Cut the Grass Anymore is no exception.
For a film that’s all about showing people – or rather various pieces of meat – being ripped apart in loving, close-up detail, Grass has such a joyful and good-natured air of something made as a lark, out of the sheer fun of doing it, and not as an attempt to be a career, it is difficult not to be charmed by it.
This focus on the barest basics (bones?) of the matter of horror doesn’t mean Schiff isn’t a strangely effective filmmaker – he may only have a small bag of tricks in his slaughterhouse, but those he has, he applies with cleverness and a sense of fun. From time to time, things become downright experimental. So one shouldn’t be surprised when the flesh-ripping is accompanied by looped dialogue of the victims before they were quite as dead.
That this lark somehow got out of hand and turned into a movie people half a world and nearly four decades away still watch certainly says something about the human spirit, the glories of horror cinema, or the joys of watching yuppies getting slaughtered.
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