In horror history, few franchises have endured such wild tonal shifts as The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and Kim Henkel’s The Next Generation (1995) might be the most baffling entry of them all. Written and directed by Henkel—who co-wrote Tobe Hooper’s original 1974 masterpiece—this supposed return to the series’ unhinged roots instead devolves into an exhausting, shrill spectacle, where madness replaces tension and anarchy is mistaken for horror.

The film’s only real legacy today is the early casting of Matthew McConaughey and Renée Zellweger, two future Academy Award winners whose performances stand out, but for wildly different reasons. McConaughey, as the leg-braced psychopath Vilmer Slaughter, is the one genuine source of energy in the film. He throws himself into the role with a manic intensity, chewing through scenery (and remote controls) like a man possessed. Zellweger, on the other hand, delivers a grounded, earnest performance that feels completely at odds with the film’s overblown absurdity. Watching her endure the relentless torment of Vilmer’s twisted family feels more punishing than thrilling—any sense of fun gets smothered beneath the weight of its chaos.

Henkel clearly aims to recapture the raw hysteria of the original, pushing the grotesque family dynamic to its extremes. However, without any sense of pacing or release, the film quickly becomes an overwhelming, screeching endurance test. There’s no reprieve from the relentless shouting, violence, and nonsensical plotting. Even Leatherface—one of horror’s most iconic figures—is reduced to a parody of himself, shrieking in drag and stripped of any real menace.

By the time the infamous “Illuminati subplot” emerges, with cryptic government figures suggesting Leatherface’s crimes are part of some grander conspiracy, it’s clear the film has fully derailed. What’s meant to be a meta-commentary on horror instead feels like a desperate attempt to inject meaning into an already incoherent mess.

The Prognosis:

For all its flaws, The Next Generation is at least memorable in its sheer lunacy. But as a horror film, it fails to provide genuine suspense or even dark humour—just a grating, exhausting descent into noise. McConaughey’s unhinged performance keeps it from being entirely unwatchable, but much like Vilmer’s malfunctioning mechanical leg, the film jerks and sputters without ever finding its footing.

• Saul Muerte