The unhappy marrieds who stray off the interstate in Vacancy think that the most unpleasant thing awaiting them is a night in the same bed. But when their car breaks down on a quiet rural road, the only place to stay is a run-down motel with some particularly creepy amenities. Mattress stains and untraceable smells aren't the half of it.
Staffed by a twitchy manager (Frank Whaley) whose passive-aggressive hospitality is straight out of a Jim Thompson novel, the Pinewood Motel is a city dweller's idea of hell. No restaurant, no cable, not even running water, unless you count the brown sludge oozing from the taps. What it does have is hidden video cameras, a secret entrance and a stack of videotapes showing previous occupants being gruesomely murdered by men with long knives and silver masks. Without knowing it, David (Luke Wilson) and Amy (Kate Beckinsale) have been cast in a snuff film, and its climax is fast approaching.
At first glance, Vacancy seems to be the latest entry in the lamentable "torture porn" genre, whose films mainly involve waiting for the next vaguely sympathetic character to have his or her vital organs pulled out with a fork. But director Nimród Antal and writer Mark L. Smith are up to something a bit cannier as well as more devious.
Vacancy is a ruthlessly efficient stalk-and-slash machine. Antal, whose previous movie, Kontroll, involved a killer set loose in Budapest's subways, knows how to milk tension from confined spaces and low lighting.
But Vacancy starts to turn in on itself once David discovers that they've been imprisoned in a psychopath's version of a movie set, complete with multiple camera angles and in-house editing system. Suddenly, Vacancy becomes a critique of sadistic thrillers, at the same time still serving as a crackerjack example of the genre.
Self-awareness can be an easy out, but Antal's friendly fire finds its mark, especially when a panicked Amy asks her husband why anyone would want to watch another human being violently murdered. David fixes the lens with an icy glare and sneers, "They're enjoying themselves."
Antal and his cinematographer, Andrzej Sekula, are clearly having their own kind of fun, using reflections and split-focus lenses to toy with the audience's perceptions. The shot that pulls back from a TV monitor to show Whaley savoring his captives' distress might well keep retreating until Antal comes into view, rubbing his hands with glee.
However much he's enjoying the show, however, Antal exercises restraint at key moments. For all the screaming on those snuff tapes, we don't actually see much in the way of blood and guts, especially by the slaughterhouse standards of Hostel or Turistas. He even hides a brutal beating behind a curtain, which in this context is equivalent to a porno movie in which the actors perform under the sheets.
Wilson and Beckinsale's brittle bickering quickly grows tiresome, but Whaley gives his off-kilter killer surprising depth. Casting himself as an omnipotent figure, he's reduced to a whimpering pervert once things stop going his way. That still leaves open the question of whom those tapes he's been making are meant for. What kind of sicko would watch this stuff? The answer lies no farther than the ticket in your hand. _________________ T.T.F.N.
William Pattison
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