My quick rating - 4.6/10. Brute 1976 positions itself as a dusty grindhouse tribute to The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, complete with desert heat, abandoned towns, masked lunatics, and characters whose collective IQ drops by two full points every time someone says, “Let’s split up.” Set in, well, 1976, the film opens strong with a direct nod to TCM—not just a subtle wink, but a full-on “hey, remember that movie?” followed by characters immediately referencing it, just in case you didn’t catch the homage the first time. Subtlety is not Brute’s strong suit.
The setup promises more than the film ultimately delivers. Raquel (Gigi Gustin) and her girlfriend break down in the middle of nowhere, because of course they do, and instead of waiting for help like regular humans, they wander into an abandoned mine, which—shockingly—goes poorly. At the same time, a fashion photoshoot crew is prancing around the nearby desert, preparing a Bicentennial-themed “salt and pepper” spread meant to celebrate American unity. When Raquel fails to arrive for the shoot, the team drafts their makeup artist, Sunshine (Sarah French), as a stand-in model. They later find the ghost town of Savage, a perfectly reasonable place to roam around taking glamour shots, despite its history of… well… savage violence.
Naturally, Savage isn’t as empty as advertised. It’s occupied by a local family of masked psychos who treat trespassers like Black Friday markdowns. One of the opening girls is kidnapped, while the other has her breasts turned into clothing—which would be shocking if we saw it happen. Although the stupid guy visiting the glory hole should've been truly grotesque had it not been censored. Yes, somehow this proudly sleazy throwback decides to deploy a black bar right when things get interesting. Apparently there’s an uncensored version floating around out there, but Amazon plays it PG-13 safe. Given that a drill is involved, my imagination connects the dots just fine.
The rest of the film settles into familiar slasher territory. People wander off alone just to meet their contractual obligation of dying separately. Sunshine proves that looking good with a knife and knowing what to do with one are two very different skills. At one point, a killer performs Rusev’s WWE finisher so blatantly I’m expecting a cease-and-desist before the credits roll.
The biggest issue with Brute 1976 isn’t incompetence—it’s timidity. The atmosphere and setup are begging for outrageous carnage, Rob Zombie levels of grime and insanity. Instead, kills arrive with all the impact of a stern warning. A little blood splatter here, a recycled mannequin head there. Even the soundtrack overshoots the action, blaring dramatic stings for moments that barely qualify as tense. It’s like scoring The Imperial March over someone tossing a paper airplane.
By the time the ending staggers in—anticlimactic and abrupt—you’re left wondering whether the filmmakers forgot to film the actual finale. There’s an after-credits tease that maybe hints at a sequel, but given how tame this one played it, I’m not exactly lining up for round two.
Brute 1976 has the bones of a brutal, throwback cult flick—but instead of going savage, it plays nice. In a genre where insanity is currency, this one’s running on pennies.
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