I’ve realized, after seeing (bits and parts) of the Suicide Club, I am not that grown-up nor hip enough to sit through a movie that promises a bloodbath.
Sure, I could stomach Battle Royale or Azumi, the least, but Suicide Club and all of its fake blood left me squeamish. When I do finally get the nerve to finish it without hitting the fastforward button post-haste, I would have to soak my eyeballs in alcohol after it’s over.
Suicide Club is a disturbing Japanese movie that came out after the Ring series (I think) and came out in 2002, when everyone was too thrilled enough to jump into the Asian Horror bandwagon. Its notorious moment is at the beginning of the movie when 54 schoolgirls leap into their deaths into a speeding train. With that prelude, that’s saying something about the number of horrifying deaths that follow.
It exploits over-the-top violence to back up what it seems as art and social commentary, but in the end, at least on my part, it was just an absurd mess. It was purely for shock and awe. Whatever relevant point the movie wanted to come across, it was lost at the sight of rolled up skin the audience was treated to.
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