Nobody goes into a horror movie called Clowntown expecting substance, but a little respect for the form would be nice. This awkward, silly regurgitation of tropes barely functions as a hate watch, finding a way to be so unimaginative as to be borderline offensive.
The film’s opening feels like a Sweded version of Halloween from Be Kind Rewind and the closing act calls to mind a torturous misreading of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, leaving everything in between to pick clean the bones of horror cinema for lifeless facsimiles of other better scenes you’ve seen countless times. The first image on screen is a mailbox with the name “Strode” emblazoned on the side, so from jump street, originality is a breakfast menu item and it’s already half past noon.
The plot is beyond simple. Familiar to the point of absurdity, like the fake rap songs they use in commercials that imply an understanding of hip hop without actually possessing one. The filmmakers seem to grasp cinematic theory the way an alien might pantomime the English language after watching an hour or two of an Aaron Sorkin show. A small pairing of friends, couples whose names just aren’t worth remembering, are on their way to a faraway concert where one of them plans to propose. Along the way, returning to a diner in search of a missing cell phone traps them in a town called Clinton, where murderous clowns pick them off one by one. Clinton. Clowntown. Gah!
It wouldn’t be too hard to overlook the novice filmcraft on display if Clowntown at least accomplished the seemingly simple task of making killer clowns actually menacing. Clowns are scary as hell. This isn’t rocket science. Making people fear a clown shouldn’t be any more difficult than getting them to enjoy pizza. Bread, sauce, cheese, toppings. It ain’t fucking brain surgery. Somehow, the assemblage of face painted marauders come off as uninspired nuisances rather than symbols of fear. Remember every meme about Jared Leto getting into character as The Joker? That’s the brand of clown here. The first transgressive act the viewer sees is a vaguely droog-like jester setting an ancillary character on fire. For a fleeting moment, it feels like the flames might engulf the film itself, saving the audience the abject punishment of the remaining hour of screen time.
No such luck. These poor boring bastards continue trying not to get merked by clowns, but the viewer is left at an impasse. The victims aren’t unlikeable enough for their deaths to be cathartic and the clowns aren’t thrilling enough for their carnage to be exciting. Neither side of the ongoing conflict engenders much more than intense longing for some salvation from the mediocre filmmaking on display.
There’s almost certainly a short form Vice documentary about America’s recent memetic clown outbreak that’s more unintentionally terrifying than anything in Clowntown. If the film has any merit, it’s as a cautionary tale, a before picture in a weight loss ad, the incompetent housewife suffering through the act of cutting vegetables before someone hands her a slap chop. Maybe they can start screening it on the first day of film school, repeatedly stopping the projector to give the professor room to stoically remind his students what not to do behind the camera.
Better yet, maybe some years hence, Clowntown could be a therapeutic instrument designed to help poor coulrophobics overcome their deepest fear, once again allowing them the childlike joy that’s eluded them at birthday parties and circuses. That would be nice.
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