When it comes to cult hit films it’s quite hard nowadays for a movie as abrasive and unapologetic as Chainsaws Were Singing (2024) to achieve a passionate following without the assistance of home video. As streaming becomes omnipresent, films that thrive on audience participation and reaction need festivals like Fantasia to make waves and become notorieties. In comes writer/director Sander Maran’s gory, splattery, silly, horror comedy that also works as a musical in which a chainsaw-wielding maniac kills and maims unsuspecting victims in his path of carnage. 

That entire sentence sounds like a loaded pitch for something transgressive, and indeed, Chainsaws Were Singing seeks to be a film that insults and assaults any kind of audience member who can’t stomach nonsensical storytelling, cheap-looking blood & gore effects, and humor that borders on being childish. Maran’s film is not interested in an innovative story or characters leaving a lasting impression. All traditional story elements of filmmaking are tools for Saran to make the most unrelenting and hysterical experience for audiences to enjoy and laugh in unison. 

The small bare-bones story concerns a love-struck couple: Tom (Karl Ilves) and Maria (Laura Niils) fall in love at first sight, right as Tom is about to jump off a bridge to end his life. Their love even blossoms into a musical number. Yet, their celebration is cut short by the “Killer” (Martin Ruus), a manic with a bloody gleeful smile and a chainsaw killer who kidnaps Maria, causing Tom to enlist the help of an obnoxious pestering sidekick friend, Cobra (Kristo Klausson), to save Maria from the Killer’s cannibalistic family. Blood, vomit, songs, and idiocy ensue. 

The “idiocy” part is crucial, as within the first five minutes it becomes an apt descriptor for the following events. Tom meets two dumb policemen, where one cop shoots at everyone and everything but the Killer, a bukkakke-worshiping cult where a janky-looking fridge spews semon at its victims, a lesbian hedgehog (that surprisingly plays an important plot point), and geysers of blood and guts spilling and leaking out of the Killer’s victims. In short, Saran throws the entire kitchen sink at the screen, and while it feels like a holistically unique experience, the shock factor begins to wear thin. 

By the twenty-minute mark, the film reveals its card, and the proceeding events are how much stuff Saran can throw at the screen for the two-hour runtime. Exploitation films that want to emphasize maximalist cinematic flourishes can only sustain themselves by some level of investment in their characters. Saran isn’t concerned with his characters, as they resemble meat puppets that are loud and annoying than endearing. 

Chainsaws Were Singing isn’t meant to be endearing in the manner Troma films are, or low-grade horror films that have the likeness of being cheap and low-budgeted. There can be fun for a film that lets its freak flag fly. Once the chainsaw itself manages to get a solo amidst the Killer’s freakish musical number, you’ll know if you should let your guard down and give in to the absurdity or feel the film thinks it’s edgier and cooler than it is. Maran clearly invested all the time and money he had into a project that took a decade to make. That type of independent filmmaking is admirably noteworthy when most films are hesitant to ostracize audiences for easy accessibility. 

For all the nonsensical shenanigans and Monty Python-inspired musical numbers (one could argue that Saran is mocking the musical genre by how blatantly silly the lyrics are by the tonal clashes to the visceral images), it never feels Saran has a firm grasp on the material. Tom and Maria are no more significant than the endless dead carcasses left in the Killer’s mayhem, and if nothing or no one matters, then the extremism feels like set dressing, and some of the best exploitation films have some character to latch onto. Only in a Fantasia screening or MidnightMadness auditorium could Chainsaws Were Singing evoke provocative enthusiasm. Outside of those venues, it’s hard to justify more than an hour to what is essentially a sketch of images and jokes that add to a blood-soaked sandwich. 

Review Courtesy of Amritpal Rai

Feature Image Courtesy of Fantasia Fest