If you’re like me, and you find yourself retreating to a safe place in your mind whenever human beings are being graphically decapitated on screen, you’ll spend the majority of Centurion , horror maestro ( The Descent ) Neil Marshall’s Roman bloodbath, on psychological lockdown. The more philosophical and intellectually detached among you might wait out the frequent plasmatic explosions from an interested distance, speculating on the cultural circularities implicit in evisceration as entertainment, or teasing out the film’s bizarre but unmistakable urination motif. The rest — the majority, I suppose — will revel in every hyper-realistic goring, unconcerned with the irony of the bloodthirsty, second-century barbarism Marshall dwells on, giving the film its of-the-moment appeal.
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REVIEW: Next-Level Bloodshed, Stunning Visuals Keep Centurion From Genre Oblivion
