It’s late on Friday, and as I hurry into the theater, I can see a person in a black tux and sneakers talking earlier than a movie, although I solely catch the final phrases of his introduction, spoken in an unmistakable Finnish accent: “…we’re all animals.” That is all very film-fest-ish, and doubtless not a great signal. However the film, Euthanizer (Grade: B), seems to be one thing like the actual deal, a homegrown and unassumingly grotesque head-scratcher a couple of pipe-smoking, sixty-ish small-town mechanic (Matti Onnismaa) who has a aspect enterprise taking pictures the locals’ sick canine and gassing their cats and guinea pigs in a jerry-rigged station wagon. The second that seduced me: Onnismaa’s character, Veijo Haukka, opens the cargo door of the station wagon, luggage and limes a gassed cat, and casually tosses the plastic cat provider on a pile behind the shed. That, and the plot of timber out behind his home, with the collars of all of the canine he’s put down dangling off the branches.
Veijo reckons himself to be some form of folks thinker, granted perception into the cruelty of man alongside together with his unofficial title as an Angel Of Loss of life to the world’s pets and wildlife: cruising the native roads each night to search out and bury roadkill, hanging sadistic bargains (say, making a person sit in a canine crate whereas he places a bullet in his pooch’s cranium), lecturing each buyer that comes his approach about their mistreatment of animal life. Effectively, as everybody on the town shrugs, he’s nonetheless rather a lot cheaper than the vet. The TIFF program notes draw needlessly hyperbolic comparisons to Larry Cohen, Roger Corman, and Monte Hellman, however the truth is that director Teemu Nikki—the man within the black tux and sneakers, it seems—is nowhere as sensationalist as these first two factors of comparability make him sound.
The Hellman factor I can virtually see; there’s some commonality between Veijo and his intensely outlined outsider anti-heroes. However the plot is absolutely twisted noir. The traditional triad of intercourse, dying, and cash is stuffed in right here with fratty white supremacists, a few trunk-loads of lacking tires, and a hospice nurse (Hannamaija Nikander) who likes being choked. All of it results in a fiery implosion that—on the danger of sounding excessively imprecise—is each predestined and meaningless. Nikki, who seems to be benefiting from an especially restricted funds, has tried to make one thing like a modern-day tackle the creepy, kinky, deeply private B film, studiously avoiding something that will smack of revivalism; in any case, no genuine B film ever got down to appear to be a B film. The surrealists would have preferred this movie.