This documentary follows neither a chronological line not a thematic thread. Instead, it stands as a compilation of clips that espouse the virtues of gun ownership. A black American fellates a pistol in her mouth; a caucasian woman equates machinery to everyday dating; and then there’s a video of President Joe Biden singing along to a pop tune on artillery. And so on.The film lasts 64 minutes. The central treatise – Americans are crazy about their guns – is as funny as some of the clips are.

From My Cold Dead Hands is strong on musical content, including a razor-sharp re-imagining of ‘I Will Survive’ to include portraits of 45s and weaponry. The film deserves recognition in that it showcases all aspects of life: people of all ages, races and creeds discuss their passion for the hobby. And director Javier Horcajada pieces the work free from bias or apotheosis; letting the audience impart their meaning on the picture.

Sadly, the montage is often dull and pedestrian; a contrast to the rock-heavy energy a documentary on guns should have. It doesn’t help that the film lacks contrast, colour or contradiction, and every scene follows the same theme as the one before: “Look at my gun.” Ripples of sexual energy enter the proceedings – some view their weapon with the same carnal interest as the characters do their pet in The Heirloom (Ben Petrie, 2024) – making for interesting, if concerning, viewing.

“Everything seems to work just fine,” boasts one character, proudly showing his machine gun at the camera. Unsurprisingly, he’s rugged: pecks bursting through his shirt. Tellingly, this protagonist drives a jeep through grassy terrain; no liberals to tell him off. This man is the embodiment of the stereotypical alpha-male that appears as a toxic side character in American indie dramas; all muscle, no substance.

Indeed, that could be a tagline for the movie: brawn, but little brain. From My Cold Dead Hands is heavy on visual splendour, but lacking in many other aspects. There is little rhythm, no sense of history, and hardly any purpose. Tying together the nonsense is a jump cut that brings audiences from one ludicrous scenario to the next. Clarity is nowhere to be found in the frames.

The film’s biggest problem is that this gun epidemic is almost predominantly a national one, making it difficult for audiences around the world to engage with the personage onscreen. Alarmingly, there are small children outside a shop jumping and down with excitement about their potential purchase. Apropos to form, machinery is a currency much sought after in this land.

Anyone who supports gun ownership will enjoy the work more than those who are cynical about it. It’s doubtful anyone is going to change their standpoint based on Horcajada’s tapestry of voices. Bathetically, this picture ends with two men – draped by machinery of all shapes and sizes – discussing the importance of heritage and family. “I think it’s important to pass my reasoning of being a gun owner out there to people on the internet world,” one informs the camera. Well, whatever outlooks he holds did not translate into this tepid, frequently tedious, piece of cinema, and the finished result is lightweight, banal; vacuous even.

From My Cold Dead Hands premieres at the 32nd Raindance Film Festival.