There are some movies you watch and think, Well, that was unpleasant, but at least it had a point. Then there’s Family Portraits: A Trilogy of America, a three-course cinematic buffet of despair directed by Douglas Buck, a man clearly allergic to hope, sunlight, and functional family dynamics. Marketed as a “Suburban Holocaust,” this anthology promises horror rooted in American dysfunction. What it delivers is 115 minutes of misery so thick you’ll want to hug your least favorite uncle just to remind yourself that people can occasionally be decent.
But let’s dive in, shall we? Because if the characters have to mutilate themselves for “art,” the least we can do is suffer through a review.
Part I: Cutting Moments – Fifty Shades of Garden Shears
We open with Patrick and Sarah, a suburban couple whose marriage is deader than Blockbuster Video. Patrick spends his evenings ignoring his wife and sexually abusing their son, Joey. Sarah, desperate for attention, puts on a red dress and lipstick like she’s starring in a budget perfume commercial. Patrick, of course, doesn’t notice—probably because the game is on.
So what does Sarah do? Therapy? Divorce? No. She scrubs her lips raw with a scouring pad and then cuts them off with scissors. That’s right, scissors. Suddenly Patrick notices her, because nothing rekindles a marriage quite like self-mutilation.
Their rekindled passion leads to violent sex, during which Patrick cuts off Sarah’s breasts with garden shears before lopping off his own penis. They bleed out together, proving that even in the suburbs, romance isn’t dead—it’s just very, very bloody.
This short film feels like American Beauty if Kevin Spacey had taken a pair of Fiskars to his nether regions instead of pining after Thora Birch’s friend. Disturbing? Yes. Subtle? About as subtle as a colonoscopy performed with a weed whacker.
Part II: Home – Meet the Fockers, but Everyone Dies
Next up is Gary, a man whose daddy issues could fuel several decades of therapy bills. Abused by his father, Gary grows up to be a devout Christian, which in Buck’s universe is shorthand for “ticking time bomb.” He marries Helen, has a daughter named Cassandra, and for a brief moment, you almost think things might turn out okay.
Spoiler: they don’t.
Gary murders Helen and Cassandra, then sits on his porch crying about how he feels his father’s presence. The film wants us to feel the crushing weight of generational trauma, but mostly we’re just wondering why Gary didn’t try journaling or, I don’t know, punching a pillow instead of his family.
It’s the kind of story that screams “Important Commentary on Suburbia” while also making you wish someone would cut the projector power.
Part III: Prologue – Hook Hands and Teddy Bears
By the time we reach Prologue, you’re emotionally numb, which is good because now we get to meet Billy, a young woman returning to her hometown after surviving a brutal attack that left her with prosthetic hook arms. She has no memory of who hurt her, which is convenient for the plot but less so for her dating life.
Meanwhile, local farmer Benjamin is keeping secrets. His wife, Joan, lies to neighbors about their missing daughter Angela. Spoiler: Angela isn’t “in London.” She’s in the ground, courtesy of dear old Dad. Billy eventually regains her memory and realizes Benjamin was her attacker. She confronts him, but instead of vengeance, she just watches him cry like a child caught stealing cookies. Joan, tired of the whole charade, casually tells Benjamin she knows he’s a serial killer and then walks away like she’s late for brunch.
The story ends with teddy bears being handed around like cursed party favors, Joan vandalizing her own house, and Benjamin digging another grave. It’s all very symbolic, very bleak, and very stupid.
Themes: America, But Make It Bleak
Douglas Buck clearly hates the suburbs. Or maybe he hates families. Or maybe he just hates us, the audience. Each segment is a grotesque painting of American life—fathers molesting sons, husbands murdering wives, mothers losing grip on reality. It’s like Norman Rockwell’s Saturday Evening Post covers, but if Rockwell had replaced his paints with buckets of pig’s blood.
The problem is that Family Portraits confuses nihilism with profundity. Yes, suburbia hides darkness. Yes, generational trauma is real. But do we need to watch people chop off lips and breasts to get that message? Buck seems to think the only way to make a point is to rub our faces in gore until we’re begging for mercy.
Performances: Sad Faces and Bloody Props
The acting ranges from passable to “please make it stop.” Jared Barsky, playing both Joey and adult Gary, spends most of his screen time staring into the void like he’s waiting for his paycheck to clear. Nica Ray as Sarah delivers a solid performance, but it’s hard to appreciate when she’s busy mutilating herself with scissors. Larry Fessenden pops up in Prologue because apparently his contract requires him to appear in every indie horror film ever made.
But honestly, the real stars are the props—the scissors, the garden shears, the hooks. If the Academy had a category for “Best Supporting Household Object in a Misery Porn Feature,” this film would sweep.
Direction and Style: Bleak Chic
Visually, Buck nails the grimy, suffocating atmosphere. Suburban homes feel sterile and haunted, cornfields loom with menace, and every frame screams, “There is no escape.” The problem is, he never lets up. Watching Family Portraits is like being bludgeoned with a hammer labeled “AMERICA IS BROKEN.” Subtlety is not invited, and optimism was murdered before the opening credits.
Entertainment Value: Zero Stars, Unless You’re a Masochist
Is this movie entertaining? No. Is it horrifying? Yes, but not in a fun way. It’s the kind of horror that leaves you feeling dirty, like you just walked in on your neighbor crying in the shower. Buck seems determined to make us suffer, and on that front, he succeeds. If you’re into emotional waterboarding, this film is a masterpiece.
Final Thoughts: A Trilogy Too Far
Family Portraits: A Trilogy of America is marketed as an exploration of suburban nightmares. What it really is, though, is an anthology of misery porn with occasional mutilation interludes. Buck wants to shock us into recognizing the darkness beneath the white picket fences, but all he really does is remind us that scissors and garden shears are dangerous tools.
By the time the credits roll, you won’t be reflecting on America’s moral decay. You’ll be googling “lighthearted comedies” just to cleanse your soul.
