Tea or coffee, iPhone or Android, pornography or “7th Heaven”? Decisions with mutually exclusive and collectively exhaustive options inundate our daily lives. One could unflinchingly reject “The Collection” as a bloodbathing, talentless, sadistic exhibit. That’d be too easy, because he or she would be 100 percent correct.

The Collection

B
At Quality 16 and Rave
LD


But films of this “Like, are you serious?” nature actually accomplish a fundamental task of going to the movies: They manifest entertainment value.

In “The Collection,” sicko-genius director Marcus Dunstan (“Saw 3D”) doesn’t deviate from his usual fucked-up genre: blood, tits and bloody tits. His Rotten Tomatoes profile is devoid of a picture and a bio, and his filmography holds a consistently “rotten” appraisal. Still, he doubtlessly succeeds here in unconventional ways with satire, Shooter McGavin with boyish, blonde locks and high-octane lensing that beautifully depicts the gross-out fest.

Elena (played amateurishly by rookie Emma Fitzpatrick) and two friends head to an underground nightclub — you know, the one guarded by a Mortal Kombat character and located down 39 different alleyways. Dancing, drugs and drinking ensue. Irrelevant to everything, Elena finds her boyfriend, supposedly working overtime, sucking face with a random chick. Classic.

The focus then shifts to a bug-eyed, leather-masked subhuman who presses a button that mechanically locks all doors in the club. Then a spinning spiked wheel descends across the entire dance floor. Splat. Elena survives, but is taken by The Collector, causing her wealthy father (played with comical sincerity by Christopher McDonald, “Happy Gilmore”) to assemble a mercenary team to retrieve her in an abandoned hotel. Let the good times roll.

A fair question to ask is: What distinguishes this rubbish from the “Saw” or “Hostel” series? In many ways, all three are similar: the sadism, the superfluous expletive counts, the failed attempts at plot consolidation. But “The Collection” delivers a special component that brings it freshness: the tempo. Once the labyrinth odyssey begins, the rest of the film balances painfully slow, whispering moments with the skull-crushing speeds of killing sequences. It works.

Too many people forget to laugh at films like this. It’s supposed to happen. The writers know it, the genre fans definitely know it, but generally viewers take splatter movies too seriously. This leads to an immediate discounting of the film and “What were the writers smoking?” arguments. “The Collection” is teeming with truly impressive creativity. The abandoned hotel, for instance, is rigged with human-size mousetraps that all serve the same purpose: drain the victim of all blood. But it’s not the blood fountains that make or break this film — blood is a given.

Let it make you cringe, scream, barf and stuff your face into your date’s cleavage. But don’t allow it to make you disbelieve too much. Remember: The creators are even more aware of their film’s objective, ridiculousness and lack of believability. Movies, at their core, transport oneself to an alternative world where different people, events and meanings exist. Films too often aren’t self-aware. “The Collection” knows exactly what it is, how many statues it plans to reel in and the eternal following these movies retain.

When juggling between deciding to see “The Collection,” one shouldn’t juxtapose blood-versus-drama or gross-versus-clean. Instead, think farce-versus-comedy or satire-versus-blatant LOL. It’s a funhouse everyone has nightmares about. In the end, it’s simply an inexplicably Animorph-eyed dude wearing an inexplicable leather mask who inexplicably slaughters innocents and inexplicably gets no joy out of his inexplicable profession.

Have a sense of humor, stiff.

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