This odd little exercise in deferred gratification offers a grindhouse-style flick with only polite amounts of gore and no nudity.

Instead of cheap thrills, Ramin Fahrenheit’s familiar saga of murderous lonelyhearts exalts the aesthetics of exploitation cinema at its very lowliest, with endlessly beige Super-8 image rubbing against stagey looped sound and stodgy overacting (and Norman Orenstein’s awesomely overblown jazz-prog score), suggesting a world in which Doris (A Night to Dismember) Wishman becomes self-aware and bags an arts-council grant.