Martin Lomax is a pathetic little heap of a man. He’s squat, fat, and asthmatic. Perhaps a bit retarded, definitely a bit insane. He lives with his hateful, hectoring mother in the home where, as a boy, he was raped repeatedly by his father (now in prison). Under his mattress, he keeps a scrapbook. In it are photos and stills from the first Human Centipede film, which he uses for masturbation fodder.
Surprisingly, Martin has a job. He works in an underground parking garage where he sits in a tiny office alone, and apparently spends his day watching the movie on his laptop and masturbating some more. In one scene, he uses sandpaper to do so. Presumably he doesn’t always use sandpaper, otherwise there would be nothing left to jerk, but that’s neither here nor there. Before long, he decides to create a human centipede of his own. A bigger and better one. To do this, he approaches people in the parking garage and beams them in the head with a tire iron, knocking them out and dragging them off to an old, empty warehouse. Once he has all of his victims collected, he gets down to business.
Unlike the first film’s Dr. Heiter, Martin is no surgeon, and when his initial attempts at mimicking the good doctor’s medically competent work fail, he resorts to simpler methods: a staple gun and duct tape. So in the second half, with very little dialogue except doomed moans and shrieking, teeth are knocked out with a hammer, and a lot of people are stapled and taped mouth-to-ass, ass-to-mouth. Laxatives are administered…explosive diarrhea and vomiting ensue…Martin rapes his creation with barbed wire wrapped around his schlong…a baby is born and stomped on by its own desperate mother… Utter carnage. Everything but the kitchen sink, which, as an object associated with washing things, and one too large to stuff up someone’s ass, is of no use to a film like this anyway.
All in all, The Human Centipede 2: Full Sequence is far more repugnant than its predecessor. A depraved collection of images that had me repeatedly laughing out loud at the lengths it was willing to go to shock the viewer. Where the first film left much to the imagination, this one takes it balls-to-the-wall and rubs your nose in the offal. And, in black & white, it even looks good doing it. The shit and the blood glistens black, the whites of eyes, wide with terror, pierce the darkness like high beams. Every curve of Martin’s sweaty, porcine face and body, every crevice and crack of the bloody, filth-caked warehouse is pronounced and enhanced, giving the film an almost comic book quality that both takes the edge off and adds to the bleak aura. It’s certainly well deserving of an honored place in the Cinema of Doom pantheon.