Death Becomes her  Writer-director Karen Moncrieff knows her way
around a dead body  Karen Moncrieff's The Dead Girl is the
scrap-bag opposite of a torture-porn movie -- or more precisely,
a patchwork made up of the material that wannabe snuff flicks
elide. Picture the scene, for example, in the recent Turistas,
where a topless woman is sliced open on an operating table, only
to have a mad doctor remove her organs while she watches. The
movie's interest in the character extends no further than her
tits, her guts and her death. She's gone from a viewer's mind
even before the body bag is zipped.  The Dead Girl begins where
the sequence in Turistas ends: with a girl's mutilated body. The
movie then conducts what is essentially an investigation -- not
into the gory details of the killing, but the grim human
questions on the periphery. Who found her? Did the girl have a
mother? A child? If so, what did they do next? As for the
killer, might he even have a wife/mother/girl of his own --
unaware of that drawer out b