Review
Warning: This is not a movie you watch — it’s a cinematic assault that leaves you staggered, shaken, and possibly detained! The New York Ripper didn’t just ruffle feathers, it shredded the rulebook and got banned in 31 countries, with the UK’s censors threatening legal hellfire if a single print dared cross their borders. This twisted slice of sleaze isn’t just gore for gore’s sake — it drags you deep into a cesspool of misogyny and madness, holding a cracked mirror up to society’s darkest demons and daring you to stare. As one sharp academic put it, it forces you to confront the horror not just on screen, but inside yourself. And trust me, you don’t come out the same. I watched this beast once, and now I’m writing from a padded cell, nursing wounds inflicted by the film’s relentless frenzy — flashing lights, sirens wailing, and a brutal symphony of stabbing chaos echoing in my brain. This isn’t a film, it’s a savage ritual of violence and terror, and I award it a brutal 43 stab wounds out of 100 — because anything more would be too merciful.