Texas Chainsaw Massacre

There is a specific, guttural frequency to a Poulan 306A chainsaw that triggers an immediate fight-or-flight response in any horror fan worth their salt. It’s a mechanical growl that carries the weight of 1974’s heat-drenched nightmares. When Mark Burnham revs that engine in the 2022 reboot/sequel/side-step Texas Chainsaw Massacre, the sound design is impeccable. It’s loud, it’s angry, and it’s about the only thing in this movie that feels truly tethered to the original masterpiece.

I watched this on my couch on a Tuesday night while my cat was aggressively licking a crinkly plastic bag in the corner, and honestly, the rhythmic crinkle-lick provided a weirdly appropriate avant-garde percussion to the onscreen mayhem. Released straight to Netflix, this installment arrived in that frantic post-2018 Halloween landscape where every legacy franchise felt the need to "pull a Laurie Strode"—bringing back the original survivor to settle an old score. But while Michael Myers got a trilogy of varying quality, Leatherface got 83 minutes of influencers getting turned into pulled pork.

Blueprints for a Bloodbath

The setup is peak Contemporary Cinema: a group of idealistic, somewhat insufferable Gen Z "disruptors" (led by Sarah Yarkin and Elsie Fisher) head to the ghost town of Harlow, Texas. Their goal? Gentrify the dust, auction off the old buildings, and create a curated utopia. It’s a premise designed to make the audience lean back and wait for the inevitable. When they accidentally evict an old woman whose "son" happens to be a six-foot-plus engine-revving behemoth, the social commentary hits the floor as fast as the first victim.

Director David Blue Garcia and producer Fede Álvarez (who gave us the spectacularly wet Evil Dead remake) clearly decided that if they couldn't match Tobe Hooper’s untouchable atmosphere, they would simply drown the viewer in gore. In an era where "elevated horror" often chooses dread over drenching, this movie chooses the latter. The bus scene is the slasher equivalent of a Gallagher show—messy, loud, and weirdly satisfying in its sheer commitment to practical-looking carnage.

The cinematography by Ricardo Diaz is surprisingly slick for a film that went through a mid-production director swap. It’s got that high-contrast, digital sheen common to modern streaming horror, though it lacks the sweat-under-the-fingernails grime of the original. However, the score by Colin Stetson (Hereditary) is the MVP here. He uses industrial drones and discordant sounds that make the town of Harlow feel like it’s breathing, even when the characters are doing the exact opposite.

The Legacy Sequel Trap

Where the film stumbles—and it stumbles hard—is in its attempt to bridge the gap to 1974. Olwen Fouéré steps in as Sally Hardesty, taking over for the late, great Marilyn Burns. The film positions her as a hardened hunter who has been waiting fifty years for this rematch. Unfortunately, Sally Hardesty’s return has the emotional impact of a wet paper towel. She’s sidelined for the majority of the runtime, and her eventual confrontation with Leatherface feels less like a legendary showdown and more like a mandatory checklist item from a studio executive’s "How to Make a Legacy Sequel" manual.

The "social media" element also feels a bit dated the moment it hits the screen. There’s a scene where a character holds up a phone to a blood-soaked Leatherface and threatens to "cancel" him on a livestream. It’s clearly meant to be a satirical jab at the powerlessness of digital clout against physical brutality, but it lands with a thud. It’s the kind of "what the kids are doing now" writing that feels like it was drafted by someone watching TikTok through a telescope.

Despite these narrative groanners, there’s something to be said for a horror movie that respects your time. At 83 minutes, it doesn't overstay its welcome. In a decade where every superhero movie demands three hours of your life and a working knowledge of fifteen spin-offs, a lean, mean slasher that just wants to show you how a chainsaw interacts with a human femur is almost refreshing.

The Face Under the Mask

Sarah Yarkin as Melody and Elsie Fisher (fresh off the brilliant Eighth Grade) do a decent job with the material they’re given. They aren't just screaming mannequins; they have a sisterly bond that provides the film’s only real emotional anchor. Jacob Latimore and Moe Dunford round out a cast that is essentially there to be obstacles for Leatherface’s blade, and they play their parts with the necessary "don't go in there" energy.

Ultimately, this is a film of the streaming age: it’s designed for immediate consumption and rapid discourse. It’s a "Friday night with friends and a few beers" kind of movie. It doesn't have the soul-shaking nihilism of the 1974 original, and it doesn't have the wacky, industrial-goth energy of the 1986 sequel. It’s a product of 2022—slick, violent, slightly confused about its own politics, but technically proficient enough to keep you watching.

Texas Chainsaw Massacre (2022) is the cinematic equivalent of a fast-food burger: you know it’s not particularly good for the genre’s health, but the salt and fat content are high enough to satisfy a specific craving. It won't redefine the slasher, and it certainly won't replace the original in your nightmares. But if you’re looking for high-budget gore and a killer score, it’s a perfectly functional way to spend 83 minutes—just maybe keep your cat away from any plastic bags while you watch.