Pitchfork (2017)

Starring Daniel Wilkinson, Brian Raetz, Lindsey Nicole

Directed by Glenn Douglas Packard


It had to happen sooner or later…I just REALLY had hoped that it wouldn’t have happened so damn soon: we’ve officially got our first “lame-duck” of 2017, and it comes at the expense of the pseudo-slasher, Pitchfork.

Here’s a little bit of a lesson for those contemplating a career in filmmaking, and especially those who want to create the new brand of slasher-flick: just cause ya slap a mask on a disenfranchised youth with an axe to grind, it doesn’t always make them a compelling killer…or an entertaining one, for that matter.

Directed by Glenn Douglas Packard, the film tells the story of a kid named Hunter (Raetz), who is facing the ever-so-difficult prospect of declaring his sexuality to his parents. On one side is his mother, who takes a somewhat sympathetic approach to things, and then there’s dear old dad, who is sure to flip his lid at the thought of his son stating his homosexuality as a standing in his life – live and let live, pop.

So, Hunter has assembled the usual slasher-flick assemblage of soon-to-be victims to act as his support system – we’ve got the jock, the slut…come on, do I really need to fill in the rest of the blanks with this descriptive? They’re all here, and it won’t be long before their blood is spilled in copious amounts.

The film simply doesn’t offer anything new in its approach – from whimpering, whining victims to uninspired kills to Mr. Pitchfork himself…good lord, man – animal fur with a pitchfork on his mitt – REALLY? Look, I could bemoan over this movie’s lamentations until the cows come home, but the bottom line is simply this: I don’t want to type it, and you won’t want to read it – now if you decide to incur some ocular trauma to yourself, then that’s up to you.

Pitchfork isn’t necessarily the worst thing that’s come along to horror flicks in this short calendar-span of 2017, but it’s just the idea that “been there, done that” has yet been done again – do yourselves a favor and walk on by this stagnant exhibition of what’s already been slapped on a slab and save yourself a good 90 minutes or so to reflect on what was.

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Matt Boiselle

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