If Carpenter's Michael is metaphysical, a near-abstract figure stalking and shadowing victims like death itself, Zombie's Michael is emphatically physical, busting through windows, doors, walls, and human bodies like a kaiju.
The labyrinthine plot structure sometimes feels more labored than hypnotic (the clunkiness really becomes noticeable in the third act), and I wish the film had let its world be even more uncompromisingly cruel, but this is steely, portentous macho formalism in the best way possible, and unlike any of Ritchie's other work that I've seen. Comparisons to S. Craig Zahler are apt: the nightmarish descent into a criminal underworld; the verbal relish; the shocks of unblinking brutality; the deadpan…
A ferocious expression of woman's rage and a waking nightmare marked by vivid, apocalyptic imagery (Lynch and Argento came to mind). Though still an avenging angel figure, Matsu also becomes more of a witness, receding into near-total silence as the mad misogynist world around her spins into oblivion (she has two lines of dialogue in the entire film). This is stunning stuff.