Inbred boils down to its most basic element: A gory body count flick.
On that side of things, it delivers. Big time. Once the killing starts, you’re never too far away from the next twisted death scene as the citizens of Mortlake get together for their favourite type of Cabaret show, complete with protective goggles and designated splash zone, featuring the murder of outsiders as their favourite main attraction. Inbred is gory as hell, and once the remaining teens start fighting back it becomes a literal bloodbath of severed limbs, blown off heads, crushed bodies and all kinds of splashy goodness. Presented with a fitting mix of CG and prosthetic work, the gore effects are well realised if goofy and obvious at times.
The mean streak of this film really ought to be stressed again. The whole affair is presented in extremely poor taste (decide for yourself whether that’s something you’ll appreciate) but its treatment of its characters is nigh-on sadistic. On multiple occasions, help, escape and triumph seems almost in reach, only to be snatched away with the swing of a cleaver, the blast of a shotgun, or the interruption of a ferret. Yes, you read that correctly: a ferret. The presence of one of these creatures should be enough to tell you where Chandon’s coming from in his representation of the people of Mortlake. Hell, it’s quite surprising that a whippet was nowhere to be seen.
Do not go into Inbred looking for a genuinely horrific, or even particularly thrilling or tense, piece of work – you won’t find that here. What you will find, though, is an amusing (if you’re an appreciator of dark/broad humour), deliciously gory, occasionally shocking and decidedly vicious little film. Sure, in a nutshell it’s pretty derivative backwoods stuff and the lack of anybody to truly root for is a serious flaw, but it manages to generate enough of its own energy and strangely unique attitude to be worthwhile. It most certainly will not please everyone, but for an undemanding body count flick Inbred is a decent waste of 90 minutes.
