If those numerous, if not necessarily inventive, murders may sound appealing to the aforementioned gorehounds, it’s the execution (lazy pun intended) of said murders that lacks any shred of credibility. The problem lies primarily in the cutting (apparently, this review is a lazy pun extravaganza): editor Daniel Jewell jarringly splices footage so that the actual acts of killing – body exploding, sign penetrating stomach, etc. – are either not shown or done so poorly, one wishes they were left off-screen. It’s most likely not the editor’s fault. Jewell probably did the best he could with what he had. Yet the fact that the paintball shoot-outs in a film titled Paintball Massacre form its most egregious part is inexcusable. Good luck figuring out who’s shooting at whom at any given point. Not that it even matters.
It feels like Berry and his crew were running short on time or just couldn’t be bothered to reshoot certain sequences. A character even fails to light her joint properly in one shot, toking on an unlit spliff throughout the entire scene. (Was the crew high?) Patrick Gill’s score further cheapens the project, as if he composed it on the whim, swinging wildly from 1980’s action-flick cheese to overbearing choral/orchestral nonsense.
“…displays a prowess when it comes to handling the quieter scenes.”
What could have potentially redeemed the film is a tongue-in-cheek, self-referential script. Alas, writer Chris Regan resorts to lines like, “I don’t know what was in that curry last night, but my sh*t this morning looked like pea soup mixed with cat food” to drive the plot forward and ensure hilarity arrives in spades. “We’ll find a ladder or some steps,” a man informs his buddy, who’s fallen into a ravine in the middle of the woods. Cheeky, or stupid? I’ll let the undiscerning audience decide.
It’s not all awful. Berry intermittently displays a prowess when it comes to handling the quieter scenes. I liked the one where Jessica urges the realtor to overcome his fear of the dark by “selling” her the place. In another instance, a character intones wryly: “I thought you were just being a prick. It was school. I thought every relationship was like that.” Perhaps next time, Berry could actually go for a Bergman-esque little study of old collegial indignations gone rampant. As it stands, Paintball Massacre is neither here nor there; neither goofy, nor gory, nor even gimmicky enough to leave a colorful splatter mark.
"…misses the mark as a gory, dime-budget exploitation flick..."
