I braced myself for Hostel after reading the many reviews that called it utterly repellent and depraved. For every bong hit taken, obnoxious remark slurred, and babe bedded by the aloof American protagonists, I expected a punishment so horrific that at points I found myself holding my breath in anticipation for the worst. Maybe I’m jaded, but I didn’t find this movie any more disturbing or “socially irresponsible” than anything in the Scream vein of tongue-in-cheek slasher fare. I also don’t understand the critics who found it completely humorless; I chuckled much more than winced. Director Eli Roth wore his love for classic horror on his bloodstained sleeve in Cabin Fever’s many homages, but this time the tributes are kept to a minimum as he comes into his own. The inclusion of Japanese bad boy Takashi Miike in a bit part, and a train station shout out to J-horror flick Suicide Club show Roth’s tastes are expanding. Hostel is a mature leap for an immature genre, and it scares me to think what he might do next.

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