Coprophilia. The title is quite unusual for a review, however, it reflects the whole essence of this 'picture'. This film is an hour and a half of the selected feces, which we are diligently trying to feed. Why is that? Let’s try to figure it out.
Let's start with acting. She's gone. Heroes must evoke emotion. Maniac is fear, victim is empathy. For an hour and a half, I had hoped that all the chickens who decided to take their revenge, 39 (no one knows who and all the men on the planet, in the person of randomly generated Jerry), would be brutally and slowly killed. Nope. Screaming, screaming, dull ' to the copier of the replica' and again and again and again and in a circle.
Realization. What happens if you throw a grenade at someone? That's right. He teleports into the dimension of the toilets, from which the director of this film ' came. Really, it will. At least in this movie. I'll spoil one scene (sorry, though I hope no one else will suffer such torture after me) when Jerry throws a grenade at a SWAT officer and he disappears, and then there's a cotton (like an explosion). Or what happens if a person is pushed into the neck with a spoke (a stake from a tent, something like that)? That's right, a couple of liters will pour out, then you can safely walk on, catch girls and exterminate special forces. And paintball.
Plot. He's here. So are the holes. There are holes in the plot. There are holes in the head of the writer and director. And now there's a hole in my head. Because I watched it.
In short, to sum up, I hope that this review will be a warning to all the madmen who (like me) will consider watching this sub-film.
The score is 0 out of 10 (although there is nothing to bet on)