Art

In a world of ten-a-penny slasher flicks and Thomas Hirschhorn, already wrapped in layers of pop cultural-parody, one might feasibly ask: where is taboo? Like this work or not, Unsworth’s revolting gorefest of a film is sandwiched well enough between high and low forms of cultural production as to prompt at least a cursory engagement with this thorny old question.

Unsworth, a recent RCA printmaking graduate, is best known for quasi-Boschian drawings detailing the depraved exploits of contemporary humanoid stereotypes. This mock-schlock flick is, by comparison, much more of an ordeal. While it trades on a similar sense of animal amorality, the contemporary frames of reference (horror films and grisly tabloid tales) offer little in the way of psychological places worthy of exploration. The film is set entirely inside a shed and – in the style of John Waters meets David Kronenberg – follows two packing-tape-wrapped ‘men’ as they commit murder, mutilation and sex acts (including a salad cream wank-fest over a couple of digestives).

The 30-minute experience is at once ridiculous and annoying, like being bashed over the head repeatedly with a soft toy. One leaves neither shocked, nor depressed, sure only of how difficult it is to define ‘off limits’ when really anything goes.