Likewise, Bruiser failed to attract much notice and barely even received a theatrical screening outside of fantastic film festivals. George Romero has a way with brilliant and biting sociological metaphors in many of his films – the level of ideas and interplay he engages in can often be stunning. On the other hand, there is sometimes a nastily unpleasant undertow to some of his films. He likes to write just desserts morality plays, not unakin to old EC horror comics tales where the greedy and self-absorbed in life usually ended up abruptly meeting some supernatural comeuppance. Romero and Stephen King conducted an EC homage in their anthology Creepshow, which did the EC just desserts morality play with rich lashings of black humour. Outside of his collaboration with King, Romero has written a number of other such just desserts stories – Monkey Shines, his segment of Two Evil Eyes, the screenplay for Creepshow II (1987) – that do the EC-styled story, but without the sense of black humour that made the originals palatable. However, without the undertow of black humour, all that that leaves is a series of horror tales where George Romero is sketching one-dimensional caricatures of venal people and setting them up to be nastily despatched. The one-dimensional unlikability of the characters gives these exercises a certain shrill unpleasantness, one where Romero seems to be inviting the audience to cheer on their despatches. Bruiser is filled with these caricatures – the bitchy wife, the obnoxious asshole boss, the best friend account who is revealed to be scamming the hero and the racist caricature of a thieving Latino maid. All are set up as deserving victims. In this regard, Bruiser is fairly much a re-run of Monkey Shines – which felt like a single-minded vent of monomaniacal anger against the people who had betrayed the hero. One is almost starting to feel like there is paranoiac and embittered that runs through Romero’s personality – of finding out that all the people the closest to him have deeply betrayed him or are unworthy of trust – that he seems driven to return to and work out again and again.

On the positive side, Bruiser is a slightly better film than Monkey Shines. The one-dimensional characterizations are at least offset by a decent cast. Peter Stormare gives a live wire performance that succeeds in capturing the attention, although the entertaining obnoxiousness of it eventually starts to become over-the-top by about the time that Stormare is busted by the cops. The part of Nina Garibaris’s wife is particularly well written and she provides some sizzle in the scenes where she has sex with Peter Stormare in full view at a party and then blisteringly runs husband Jason Flemyng down and walks out on him. It is also nice to see that Romero has chosen the fine and promisingly up-and-coming British actor Jason Flemyng in the lead over any American counterparts, where Flemyng convinces ably.

The central metaphor of facelessness that runs throughout the story is effectively conveyed. The idea of a man who loses his identity because he is too unassertive is similar to H.F. Saint’s Memoirs of an Invisible Man (1987), which later became the basis of the John Carpenter film Memoirs of an Invisible Man (1992). You could also draw comparisons to the Japanese classic The Face of Another (1966). Romero delivers some striking images of Jason Flemyng painting his blank faced mask with streaks of paint and blood. Although, the metaphor is not explained particularly well – such as the connection between the blank facemask and how this somehow gives the affected person the ability to suddenly exact repressed revenge fantasies – and Bruiser ends on an ambiguous resolution where the whole thing appears to be starting all over again with another corporate underdog. Nor is the title relevant to the story.