Slice

A Raw Look at Spiritual Self-Destruction.

Chet Turner Films’ 2025 film “Slice” is an anthology horror-drama built around a chilling question: how far will men go—and how much will they give up—when life offers shortcuts wrapped in poison?

“Slice” cuts into uneasy territory, where masculinity, addiction, and power intertwine to create something both grotesque and unexpected.

Opening in a dimly lit church basement, a sobriety meeting frames the story. A man shares a confession so bizarre it borders on the surreal—yet reality hints it may be truer than it seems.

His testimony becomes the gateway into three extreme tales that refuse to sensationalize their subjects.

Directors Nick Iway, Dustin Mills, and Austin Shell lean on raw dialogue and unsettling honesty, reminding us that horror doesn’t always wear a mask or lurk in shadows. Sometimes it is simply the impulse to bargain away dignity for bad decisions gone worse.

The film unfolds in three chapters—Ready Cash, Into the Fold, and Paying Up—each an escalating stage of spiritual self-destruction.

Feverish in tone, they collectively map a descent into a distinctly modern kind of hell.

The first story exposes the voyeurism of dark-web rooms, where desire quickly turns into a weapon.

The second shifts into cult submission, where promises of strength conceal systems designed to exploit.

The third, and final chapter transforms desperation into true extreme-horror, where addiction consumes everything—from dignity to humanity—before demanding more.

Each short ends abruptly, like a scab ripped off before healing, and that incompleteness feels intentional.

It suggests cycles of addiction, toxic masculinity, and self-destruction never resolve neatly; they repeat, mutate, and trap the next willing victim.

The anthology format brings structural challenges. Tonal inconsistency creeps in, some parts hit harder than others, and transitions can feel jarring.

Character development is inevitably thin—protagonists often function more as tragic case studies than fully realized people.

Visually, the film cultivates discomfort—caught between ecstasy and regret. Its mockumentary-like style and dark cinematography blur clean images into something grainy and invasive, daring the audience to examine their own complicity in consuming stories of downfall.

At times, unexpected humor cuts through, but never enough to release the tension.

The use of pornography underscores unease rather than arousal, pushing “Slice” into the realm of extreme cinema. Yet shock value sometimes overshadows deeper resonance.

At moments, the film feels more committed to unsettling visuals—designed for visceral impact—than to emotional payoff, leaving the viewer cold where they might have felt empathy. There are hints of exploitation, but tempered by clear, deliberate intent.

The sobriety circle returns to close the anthology, this time in silence—as though no words could contain what has been revealed.

“Slice” doesn’t provide catharsis. It simply shows us the ugliness and leaves us to sit with it. It isn’t flawless, but its exquisite unease lingers, offering a piercing insight into human weakness and the cost of surrender.