*Killer Body Count* is like a rollercoaster designed by Alfred Hitchcock, reassembled by Quentin Tarantino, and occasionally hijacked by a teenage boy with a Playboy subscription. It's stylish, darkly funny, and full of twists sharp enough to require a tetanus shot. While it occasionally veers off track, it's undeniably entertaining-like a lurid tabloid that you hate yourself for reading but can't put down.
The plot, a tangled web of misdirection, sex, and murder, is as satisfying as unearthing a juicy Agatha Christie twist. The red herrings are well-placed, and the comedy sneaks up on you like a killer in the shadows, often providing relief from the film's more gratuitous scenes of sweaty titillation. Speaking of which, the sexploitation elements sometimes feel like they wandered in from a *Basic Instinct* reboot nobody asked for, but hey, they'll keep someone entertained.
The cast delivers above-average performances, with a wry charm that keeps things from collapsing under their own melodrama. It's not horror, nor does it need to be-it's a dark psychological thriller with a visceral flair and mischievous smirk. For all its flaws, it's worth a watch if you're in the mood for noir-ish fun with a slightly unbuttoned collar.
