Stay away from off-the-path 'Ruins'

AT ONE POINT in the mindlessly gory new movie about flesh-eating vines, a blond bimbo who is bent on self-mutilat ion to escape it all stares into the camera and mouths what may become a camp-classic line of this woebegone genre: "There is something so not OK here."

She's right.

In fact, she so does not understate.

"The Ruins" dutifully includes most of the cliches of the teens-in-jeopardy horror genre. The audience at the local preview broke into inappropriate (but entirely warranted) laughter at some of what was meant to be the most harrowing moments.

If there is a lesson to be learned, other than not buying a ticket, it would be if someone suggests that you go off the beaten path to explore a Mayan ruin in the jungles of Mexico - don't go.

We meet two couples lounging poolside at a resort in Mexico swigging tequila. Before long, two of them pair off and take a shower, which fills the requisite R-rated nudity shot - brief and ho-hum by modern standards (or lack of standards). One thing, though, you can't say they're not clean.

The four vacationers succumb to the invitation of a German guy who is going into the wilderness to check out what happened to his missing brother - an archeologist who was digging in Mayan ruins. They want to add a bit of "culture" to their vacation. If only it were true of the film.

On the eventual trek, four guys and two girls head into the jungle - a formula for trouble even if you don't have vines to worry about. The brunette has the important job of saying things like "We should turn back" and "This feels so weird."

At every turn, the tourists make the illogical choice. Why is it in most horror movies the potential victims always run up? No one has gotten the hint yet that there is nowhere to escape when you get to either the attic or the top of the hill. In this case, it's a Mayan pyramid where vines make sounds like cell phones and like to creep inside the body, especially if they can find blood.

The dummies then decide to throw themselves down what appears to be an abandoned well. This isn't smart but, after all, we have to pad this thing out to at least 90 minutes. When the German guy falls down the well, the two girls are lowered to see about him. The "macho" guys note that the girls weigh less, and they think they hear a cell phone ringing down there.

Ere long, there is a machete spotting - a must for the Mexican setting. The natives aren't going to let anyone off that hill. Understandably, they don't want the plant disease, or whatever it is, to spread. These are the most-cliched Mexican bandits since the classic "The Treasure of the Sierra Madre."

Before long, there is the inevitable line: "Why do you get to decide?" as the less-than-bright group argues over power rankings.

The group, conveniently, includes a pre-med student, which gives an excuse for him to propose a double amputation for the German - with a pocket-knife no less. The audience laughs at the puniness of the cutting device, but the eventual gore leads to shielded eyes and "ewwwws."

The unfortunates hope, for a while, that someone will come and rescue them. Among the dubious lines: "Four Americans on a vacation just don't disappear." Ugh. Maybe that used to be true, before Americans became preferred targets around the world. Yes, the line got a laugh.

The vines, as a villain, don't really grow on you the way they do on the characters. It was, perhaps, their turn, though. We've had plants ("The Day of the Triffids," 1962), rabbits ("Night of the Lepus," 1972), cars ("Christine," 1983), trees ("The Wizard of Oz," 1939, and "The Guardian," 1990), dogs ("Cujo," 1983) and various "its" that came from outer space or "them" that are vague. Vines, though, deserve better than this.

In all fairness, it should be pointed out that this is based on a 2006 beach-read, best-selling novel by Scott Smith, an apparent Stephen King wannabe who has even been blessed by King himself. It's surprising that this slight affair could serve as the basis for anything in print. The ending has been changed, we're told, but it's unlikely anyone will care. This isn't Chekhov.

We've had a blood-drinking plant before, but "The Little Shop of Horrors" was a musical comedy. This one doesn't sing.

Mal Vincent, (757) 446-2347 mal.vincent@pilotonline.com