The Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning

3.5 out of 53.5 out of 53.5 out of 53.5 out of 53.5 out of 53.5

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Producer Michael Bay goes back to the bloody (and bloody lucrative) well with The Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning, a prequel to the 2003 remake (which he produced) of the 1974 Tobe Hooper classic that itself spawned three sequels. Despite its lineage being convoluted, however, its construction isn’t, as this entry in the increasingly tarnished franchise is little more than an uninspired rehash of its immediate precursor that’s been stitched together with cheaper materials. Featuring downgrades in virtually every significant area, this latest Leatherface saga swaps sexy screamer Jessica Biel with blandly cute Jordana Brewster, flashy music video director Marcus Nispel with middling imitator Jonathan Liebesman, and a tale about 1960s teens hunted by Southern maniacs with a similar one that also comes equipped with the lamest of origin stories. Nonetheless, in an effort to mask the fact that it’s basically peddling the same ol’ slop, The Beginning slightly tweaks its creaky template, offering up protagonists who, far from its predecessors’ blissfully overconfident, sheltered dolts, have been painfully affected by the country’s involvement in Vietnam.

With Dean (Taylor Handley) planning to burn his draft card and flee to Mexico with girlfriend Bailey (Diora Baird), and his Nam vet brother Eric (Matthew Bomer) poised to reenlist so he can look after his younger sibling, Sheldon Turner’s screenplay initially suggests an intriguing scenario in which Leatherface, his foster father Sheriff Hoyt (R. Lee Ermey), and the rest of their cannibalistic clan set their vengeful sights not on de facto flower children—and, by extension, the liberal, carefree counterculture—but, rather, military men intimately familiar with life’s brutality. Such promise, alas, soon turns to pulp as it becomes clear that Liebesman’s film is only interested in playing glib lip service to such dynamics—as well as its narrative’s parallels between overseas wartime atrocities and Leatherface’s domestic carnage—before callously dispatching with its men, having its attractive females terrorized while wearing low-cut jeans, and restaging familiar series staples like a twisted dinner gathering and nocturnal chase through the mist-shrouded countryside.

With a wad of chewing tobacco in his cheek and gleeful sadism in his eyes, Ermey delivers some amusingly perverse humor that sporadically helps alleviate the crushing tedium generated by gory but fright-less set pieces, undeveloped cultural war subtexts, and the director’s penchant for shooting everything in precisely calibrated green and yellow hues that lack the ferocious raggedness of the original’s low-budget visuals. The facially deformed Leatherface, meanwhile, is saddled with a backstory—he popped out of his mother while she died on a slaughterhouse floor, was rescued from a dumpster by Hoyt’s wife and mercilessly teased by playground children, and found himself driven to kill after losing his job at the foreclosed abattoir—that, instead of enhancing the fiend’s imposing mystique, winds up sapping him of his mysterious, primal horror. Reducing the iconic brute to a victim of childhood neglect and abuse? That’s not, as The Beginning‘s tagline boasts, “The Birth of Fear.” It’s the death of it.


As good as the treatment the previous Michael Bay-approved Texas Chainsaw Massacre received on DVD. The film's oily teenagers resemble succulent slabs of meat-lambs being led to a noisy slaughter. The Dolby Digital Surround EX is almost as good as the DTS 6.1 ES soundtrack, boasting excellent frequency response and intense surrounds.


Some of the early scenes from the film suggest the filmmakers were trying to summon the spirit of Apocalypse Now (note the way Matthew Bomer is introduced inside the motel pool and the way Taylor Handley cools off beneath the ceiling fan), but there's no acknowledgement of such cribbing from director Jonathan Liebesman and producers Andrew Form and Brad Fuller, who, on their commentary track, tediously go on about how they wanted to make their backstory as credible as possible. But these fanboys come off more effusive in the five-part "Down to the Bone" documentary, during which they reveal how they wanted the film to "feel like the beginning of hell." (Critics of the film might say, "Mission accomplished.") Among the seven deleted/extended scenes included on this disc, you won't find a single shot of a young Leatherface being abused by schoolyard bullies, as that scene was never shot; you'll have to settle instead for three mostly incoherent alternate endings. Rounding out the disc is a theatrical trailer and a bunch of sneak peeks, including one for Joel Schumacher's The Number 23, which looks to be a contender for the worst film of the year.


It may not deserve it but The Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning gets a delicious DVD treatment.

Image 3.5 out of 5 3.5 out of 5 3.5 out of 5 3.5 out of 5 3.5 out of 5

Sound 3.5 out of 5 3.5 out of 5 3.5 out of 5 3.5 out of 5 3.5 out of 5

Extras 3.5 out of 5 3.5 out of 5 3.5 out of 5 3.5 out of 5 3.5 out of 5

Overall 3.5 out of 5 3.5 out of 5 3.5 out of 5 3.5 out of 5 3.5 out of 5

  • DVD-Video
  • Dual-Layer Disc
  • Region 1
  • Aspect Ratio
  • 1.85:1 Anamorphic Widescreen
  • Dolby Digital Formats
  • English 5.1 EX Surround
  • English 2.0 Surround
  • DTS
  • English 6.1 ES Discrete
  • Subtitles & Captions
  • English Closed Captions
  • English Subtitles
  • Spanish Subtitles
  • Special Features
  • Audio Commentary by Director Jonathan Liebesman and Producers Andrew Form and Brad Fuller
  • Deleted and Extended Scenes
  • "Down to the Bone" Behind-the-Scenes Documentary
  • Theatrical Trailer
  • Sneak Peeks
  • Buy
    DVD | Soundtrack
    Release Date
    January 16, 2007
    New Line Home Entertainment
    89 min
    Jonathan Liebesman
    Sheldon Turner
    Jordana Brewster, Taylor Handley, Diora Baird, Matthew Bomer, Lee Tergesen, Andrew Bryniarski, Terrence Evans, Kathy Lamkin, Marietta Marich, R. Lee Ermey