‘The Hunt’ is Blumhouse’s archly hipster, redundant rendition of ‘The Most Dangerous Game’ with liberal dosages of presumptuous gallows humor which never materialize into talking-head laughs (the anti-elite lines are mortifying edentate- “We’re gonna be on Hannity…Just like those two Jew boys that fucked Nixon up.”).
Instantly by lobbing buzzwords like “deplorables”, “snowflake” and “crisis actors”, scribes Nick Cuse and Damon Lindelof pander to the sectarian political factions. The mystery-box asterisk around the premise is highly pellucid from the plane kidnapping of several innocents who are paralogical in their self-preservation (ex. Why would someone crowbar open a crate that could be a boobytrap?).
The gore quotient is embellished to Eli Roth gratuity with an eyeball nerve skewered by a stiletto heel and another bystander in a pit of spikes. However, their collective reactions are incredulously lackadaisical or narcotized as if they were superficial, exasperating paper cuts.
More than once, Craig Zobel tergiversates the Jane Leigh rule of bankable billing as a safeguard for longevity. When Yoga Pants (‘American Horror Story’s Emma Roberts) is sniped within minutes of awakening, the shock value of other stars on the chopping block dissipates rapidly.
The social commentary about left-wing versus right-wing is lip service next to the ganglionated vomitorium in Manorgate’s “Arkansas”. The symposiums about gun control, climate change, immigration and the euphemism of “African-Americans” over “blacks” are broached with sound-byte simplicity.