Someone explain to me how a guy with a mask—with no eyeholes, mind you—can see better in pitch black than his victims, whose sight isn’t hindered by white Lycra. This nameless slasher, a low-rent, Argentine interpretation of a Mexican wrestler, stalks his prey at a boardinghouse, where dinner is served promptly at 9 with a side of murder. Once the dismemberment begins, the lights go out, leaving five terrified women skittering around frames of total darkness, a move both logistically ballsy and intensely aggravating. Between its references to the holy horror trinity of Psycho, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and The Blair Witch Project, Rooms for Tourists is half pro-life (as in, abortion is bad), half anti-life (as in, killing Mommy with her fetus is much better). The scenario is absurd enough to play as satire, but no, the film warns us, “If you think that we are just a bunch of mental cases you didn’t understand anything.” Clearly, I didn’t understand anything.
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on October 11, 2005