A horror-film starring a wrestler, and helmed by the director of New Wave Hookers, back from when Traci Lords' film career was in different territory, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. What could possibly go wrong? And the answer for the first forty-five minutes is, absolutely everything. These drag out interminably as a bunch of no-name actors [who are so weak, I'm not even going to honour their names in the credits] playing juvenile delinquents are rolled out and wheeled up to the derelict hotel they are supposed to spend the weekend renovating. They might as well have had "cannon fodder" tattooed on their foreheads, which renders the limp efforts to provide back-story or flesh out their characters entirely redundant. One wonders what the mad serial killer lurking behind the scenes was doing all this time. Playing Minesweeper?
Once this get into gear, however, and the blood begins to flow, things get more entertaining, with some imaginatively sick moments of Grand Guignol splatter. No-one is going to claim Kane was unjustly-overlooked at the Oscars - if he ever gets a role that doesn't involve him wielding a meathook, I will be genuinely impressed. However, given the part, he is entirely appropriate, and shambles about, dispatching the victims with glee and plucking out their eyeballs, the result of a childhood which appears to resemble a Nine Inch Nails video. It is, indeed, entirely nonsensical; really, what did you expect? If you can skip the opening half, you might even be forgiven for finding this entertaining. But if you can't get through the earlier tedium, you can't be blamed for that either.