A Hitchcockian black comedy in the spirit of 'Rope' and Agatha Christie's 'Ten Little Indians' that begs the question can murder, if done well, be considered art? An art whose medium is one... See full summary »
A Hitchcockian black comedy in the spirit of 'Rope' and Agatha Christie's 'Ten Little Indians' that begs the question can murder, if done well, be considered art? An art whose medium is one of flesh and bone. Written by
Labyrinth Pictures, LLC
As a movie, R.S.V.P. makes a dandy drinking game. See a continuity error, take a shot, and I guarantee the most hardened two-fisted drinker will pass out before the third act.
Helmer Galluzo seems to know even less about movies as a director than he does about serial killers as a writer. Sloppy, under-written, and edited with a hacksaw, R.S.V.P. reeks of "feeelm school" auturism and low-budget expectations.
As for the cast, well, what can you do with dialogue this choppy. Especially annoying was Mewes' umpteenth reprise of his "Clerks" stoner character. The only thing to look forward to in this film is for Patrick Bateman to somehow leap from "American Psycho" and bury an ax in his head. Sadly, that doesn't happen.
Honestly, the DVD could be better employed as a coaster for one of Jonathan Bank's cocktails.
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