No, I'm not the designer; I'm just the needle :-)
Friday, 10 October 2014
Tuesday, 4 February 2014
Clean Up In Aisle...DEATH
4th Feb Removal
WHAT a generic title! I know my memory for names was never the best, even before I took all those bumps off the top rope, but I've been calling it 'Retrieval', 'Revival', 'Resolved'...Still, boring title, generic cover and misleading Lovefilm synopsis aside (and they have the WORST synopsis writers on god's green earth; they could make Gone With the Wind sound like Mandingo), this one was actually worth my time. I am made of surprise.
Though it was obviously made for less money than Avatar's second unit's weekly doughnuts and coffee expenditure, it actually looks good; had a real camera! Possibly more than one! And still my heart, a microphone that picks up dialogue! Le swoon. Also, real actors that have been in other things, including Billy Burke: yes, Bella Swan's perennially-nonplussed father from the Twilight Saga; known affectionately to Rifftrax fans as Mustache Dad! He is one of the few things (apart from copious alcohol or a recent concussion) that makes sitting through any of those wimped-down-high-school-Langella-Dracula fanfilms bearable to a viewer whose age or IQ reaches double digits, and he's quite the dawg in this one too; yes, a mustache is evident, plus beard, and so at various times are a rather nice suit, and some unsuspectedly-rocking tattoos.
Louche Mustache is the cooler associate of a sad little schlub with a distracting resemblance to Sam Raimi after a fortnight without sleep (after the reviews of Spiderman 3, for example), who's having a really bad time of things. Glum Raimi's on the outs with his missus and son, and appears to be having some version of PTSD that led to him being institutionalised for a while (under the care of oh hi Elliott Gould; thanks for keeping your shirt buttoned up this time), and now has him under on the sort of heavy-duty medication regimen that means he probably shouldn't drive, drink alcohol or operate heavy machinery. It's okay, though; he's found a cleaning job where he drives from house to house with a large industrial vacuum cleaner. Oh. Well, don't worry; at least he won't take the offer from the wealthy douche householder at his newest job (who's paying him $5,000 cash off the books to clean the whole house right here, no questions asked, and including the suspiciously pinkish stains on the white shag rug) to share several bottles of rich dick's mysteriously-missing-wife's red wine, though? Oh. He makes poor decisions, is what I'm saying here; is that coming across?
Well, I'm sure the one-percenter-prick is just catching up with some overdue spring cleaning, what with all the heavy steamer trunks being shifted around, and there's no sinister implication to be drawn from privileged twatwaffle's butcher-knife fondling, and bottle-smashing fits of rage. At all. I must confess that imperious arsehole was the highlight of the film for me, and what a tall cool drink of paraffin he is; imagine that someone built a robot duplicate of Stephen King (quite poorly), then programmed it to be nothing but an arrogant jackass with a smug face you'd like to rearrange with a pickaxe handle. He's played by Oz Perkins [elephant in the room lives here], who also has a co-writer credit, and I choose to believe that he wrote his own dialogue, because it rings out of his mouth like Donald Trump tossing a fake nickel into a blind man's cup.
I like this one; the plot turns, but does not swerve, it's funny, and seldom runs out of steam, or into the 'yes, I know what's coming, sweet lord, can we just GET THERE, thankyou?' that seems to be a hazard with many thrillers that aren't quite as clever as they think they are. It deserves to be watched by more people than just (judging by the IMDB's "People who liked this also liked..." recommendations) Kelly Brook completists and/or chronic masturbators.
WHAT a generic title! I know my memory for names was never the best, even before I took all those bumps off the top rope, but I've been calling it 'Retrieval', 'Revival', 'Resolved'...Still, boring title, generic cover and misleading Lovefilm synopsis aside (and they have the WORST synopsis writers on god's green earth; they could make Gone With the Wind sound like Mandingo), this one was actually worth my time. I am made of surprise.
Though it was obviously made for less money than Avatar's second unit's weekly doughnuts and coffee expenditure, it actually looks good; had a real camera! Possibly more than one! And still my heart, a microphone that picks up dialogue! Le swoon. Also, real actors that have been in other things, including Billy Burke: yes, Bella Swan's perennially-nonplussed father from the Twilight Saga; known affectionately to Rifftrax fans as Mustache Dad! He is one of the few things (apart from copious alcohol or a recent concussion) that makes sitting through any of those wimped-down-high-school-Langella-Dracula fanfilms bearable to a viewer whose age or IQ reaches double digits, and he's quite the dawg in this one too; yes, a mustache is evident, plus beard, and so at various times are a rather nice suit, and some unsuspectedly-rocking tattoos.
Louche Mustache is the cooler associate of a sad little schlub with a distracting resemblance to Sam Raimi after a fortnight without sleep (after the reviews of Spiderman 3, for example), who's having a really bad time of things. Glum Raimi's on the outs with his missus and son, and appears to be having some version of PTSD that led to him being institutionalised for a while (under the care of oh hi Elliott Gould; thanks for keeping your shirt buttoned up this time), and now has him under on the sort of heavy-duty medication regimen that means he probably shouldn't drive, drink alcohol or operate heavy machinery. It's okay, though; he's found a cleaning job where he drives from house to house with a large industrial vacuum cleaner. Oh. Well, don't worry; at least he won't take the offer from the wealthy douche householder at his newest job (who's paying him $5,000 cash off the books to clean the whole house right here, no questions asked, and including the suspiciously pinkish stains on the white shag rug) to share several bottles of rich dick's mysteriously-missing-wife's red wine, though? Oh. He makes poor decisions, is what I'm saying here; is that coming across?
Well, I'm sure the one-percenter-prick is just catching up with some overdue spring cleaning, what with all the heavy steamer trunks being shifted around, and there's no sinister implication to be drawn from privileged twatwaffle's butcher-knife fondling, and bottle-smashing fits of rage. At all. I must confess that imperious arsehole was the highlight of the film for me, and what a tall cool drink of paraffin he is; imagine that someone built a robot duplicate of Stephen King (quite poorly), then programmed it to be nothing but an arrogant jackass with a smug face you'd like to rearrange with a pickaxe handle. He's played by Oz Perkins [elephant in the room lives here], who also has a co-writer credit, and I choose to believe that he wrote his own dialogue, because it rings out of his mouth like Donald Trump tossing a fake nickel into a blind man's cup.
I like this one; the plot turns, but does not swerve, it's funny, and seldom runs out of steam, or into the 'yes, I know what's coming, sweet lord, can we just GET THERE, thankyou?' that seems to be a hazard with many thrillers that aren't quite as clever as they think they are. It deserves to be watched by more people than just (judging by the IMDB's "People who liked this also liked..." recommendations) Kelly Brook completists and/or chronic masturbators.
Thursday, 30 January 2014
Film is cheap, but talent is expensive
The Great American Snuff Film
Hmm, so; the 'Great' 'American' 'Snuff' 'Film', eh? Well, it's definitely...American, I suppose.
As for the rest...A more accurate title might be 'Cheap American Student Film', since it's firmly in the "We gots a camera, a scrapyard, and we know two girls willing to roll around on the floor covered in fake blood? We gots a MOVIE!" school of film-making.
In the place where a plot would normally be, we have two social rejects (thin Adam Savage and his accomplice, mid-90s WCW undercard wrestler who's taken one too many chairshots to the noggin), lots of wrecked cars, and two female friends of the production tied up on a trailer floor in shorts and tanktops.
They (and we) waste time with clumsy molestation attempts from the lost Dudley Brother, and 'brandings' with obviously-not-lit cigarettes that leave no burn marks, while waiting for Monotone Man to cease his endless voiceover droning and get around to killing them. It does make few feeble attempts to add in some True Crime-y details (David Parker Ray and Lake and Ng, mostly), and even claims to end (after the 'film' itself finally sputters to a halt) with some 'authentic snuff footage', but if you believe that tall tale, then I have this (guaranteed-not-swamp)land in Florida that I can sell you...
Hmm, so; the 'Great' 'American' 'Snuff' 'Film', eh? Well, it's definitely...American, I suppose.
As for the rest...A more accurate title might be 'Cheap American Student Film', since it's firmly in the "We gots a camera, a scrapyard, and we know two girls willing to roll around on the floor covered in fake blood? We gots a MOVIE!" school of film-making.
In the place where a plot would normally be, we have two social rejects (thin Adam Savage and his accomplice, mid-90s WCW undercard wrestler who's taken one too many chairshots to the noggin), lots of wrecked cars, and two female friends of the production tied up on a trailer floor in shorts and tanktops.
They (and we) waste time with clumsy molestation attempts from the lost Dudley Brother, and 'brandings' with obviously-not-lit cigarettes that leave no burn marks, while waiting for Monotone Man to cease his endless voiceover droning and get around to killing them. It does make few feeble attempts to add in some True Crime-y details (David Parker Ray and Lake and Ng, mostly), and even claims to end (after the 'film' itself finally sputters to a halt) with some 'authentic snuff footage', but if you believe that tall tale, then I have this (guaranteed-not-swamp)land in Florida that I can sell you...
I only hope that none of these clowns has a wife/partner/mother that needed them to repaint the spare room, clear the yard or refinish the basement in the weekend this film took to make; that would be the saddest thing of all...
Friday, 24 January 2014
Where I whinge
Writing is hard.
Or, to express it more phonetically: Writing is reeeeeally haaaard, you guuuuys...
It isn't physically difficult; I have a keyboard and a desk, and a relatively comfy chair; I'm not the Diving Bell and the Butterfly chap, and nor do I have to chip each letter from granite, or carve it into a block of wax with a style.
And law alone knows, I'm not in any danger of running out of things to say ["Shame!" drifts down from the peanut gallery].
But it takes so much time, that I could spend...making up excuses not to clean, watching wrestling PPVs, petting the cat, eating biscuits, reading Take a Break...
Yes, I'm lazy and undisciplined, and bad at the actual arse-in-chair fingers-on-keys grab words from my brain and turn the hot air from my mouth into permanent marks on the page bit.
I'm going to fail this 500-films-in-50-weeks project, I suspect. I'm more certain of that than I am that Cena and Orton will spend 2014 playing swapses with the WWE title; more certain than Ric Flair turning up at a live event arseholed drunk and disgracing himself again; more certain than Tom Cruise spending the entirety of his next film being smug.
BUT; the discipline is good for me, and my ambition is to fail at it in a better and more spectacular way than I've ever failed before.
So: AVAUNT!
Or, to express it more phonetically: Writing is reeeeeally haaaard, you guuuuys...
It isn't physically difficult; I have a keyboard and a desk, and a relatively comfy chair; I'm not the Diving Bell and the Butterfly chap, and nor do I have to chip each letter from granite, or carve it into a block of wax with a style.
And law alone knows, I'm not in any danger of running out of things to say ["Shame!" drifts down from the peanut gallery].
But it takes so much time, that I could spend...making up excuses not to clean, watching wrestling PPVs, petting the cat, eating biscuits, reading Take a Break...
Yes, I'm lazy and undisciplined, and bad at the actual arse-in-chair fingers-on-keys grab words from my brain and turn the hot air from my mouth into permanent marks on the page bit.
I'm going to fail this 500-films-in-50-weeks project, I suspect. I'm more certain of that than I am that Cena and Orton will spend 2014 playing swapses with the WWE title; more certain than Ric Flair turning up at a live event arseholed drunk and disgracing himself again; more certain than Tom Cruise spending the entirety of his next film being smug.
BUT; the discipline is good for me, and my ambition is to fail at it in a better and more spectacular way than I've ever failed before.
So: AVAUNT!
Tuesday, 21 January 2014
Why does it burn when I slash?
19th January The Burning
I told you it was a Miramax film! In fact, their very first. Just a bit different from their era of "Yo, middle classes: here's a book and some frocks, now give me a frigging Oscar", but still, it's all cool; New Line like to pretend they're not the House That Freddy Krueger Built, too.
One from my 'Somehow, I have never managed to actually watch this' list; I know, you'd think I would have, since it's a summer camp slasher film from the early 80s, with Tom Savini on the makeup duties; why am I not already there, at least since it's been available uncut for the last couple of years here in the UK? Part of my 'thinking' behind this 500 films in 50 weeks project is to have a whole year of 'one day's; as in "I'll have to get around to watching that one day".
Well, for The Burning, that 'one day' is today; witness the touching and doubtless Oscar-bait story of how grumpy drunk camp caretaker has his face accidentally burned off (don't mix naked flames and grain alcohol, kids!), is unsuccessfully rehabilitated, and (after a brief stopoff on the set of Maniac, apparently, in order to pick up a hooker, and butcher her when his melty-face look fails to turn her on) returns to the campsite to slaughter every mother's son in the place
How does it measure up against the campsite slasher subgenre's Ur-Text, Friday the 13th?, or the swaths of subsequent knockoffs?We have the Summer camp setting of course; an open and active one this time, that appears to cover ages 10 to mid-20s, or early-40s if you factor in the camp counsellors (even with hair, Jason Alexander does not look under 35). There is smoking of dope, and dipping of skinny, and pointing of view...or possibly viewing of point...? Anyway! killer's POV, with heavy breathing, and shears in shot. Effects are stellar, of course: SAVINI; need I add more? With a splendid burn makeup on the vexed caretaker-killer Cropsy (that makes Two-Face from The Dark Knight look like even more of the CG howler it truly is - how come his eyeball doesn't fall out?), and a jawdropping scene (restored for the first time in the UK) that de-builds a raft full of growing bodies 50 different ways in 5 minutes.
Unusually, the film is a lot more 'ethnic' than the homogenised norm for camper-slayers; though there are still fewer non-white faces than the front row at a Trace Adkins concert, at least everyone ISN'T a Gentile; including the Final Boy, who's more Leo Sayer than Jamie Lee, and sports an awesome Kotter 'fro that could deflect chainsaw blades on its own, and in a pinch can be used to hide small woodland creatures.
I told you it was a Miramax film! In fact, their very first. Just a bit different from their era of "Yo, middle classes: here's a book and some frocks, now give me a frigging Oscar", but still, it's all cool; New Line like to pretend they're not the House That Freddy Krueger Built, too.
One from my 'Somehow, I have never managed to actually watch this' list; I know, you'd think I would have, since it's a summer camp slasher film from the early 80s, with Tom Savini on the makeup duties; why am I not already there, at least since it's been available uncut for the last couple of years here in the UK? Part of my 'thinking' behind this 500 films in 50 weeks project is to have a whole year of 'one day's; as in "I'll have to get around to watching that one day".
Well, for The Burning, that 'one day' is today; witness the touching and doubtless Oscar-bait story of how grumpy drunk camp caretaker has his face accidentally burned off (don't mix naked flames and grain alcohol, kids!), is unsuccessfully rehabilitated, and (after a brief stopoff on the set of Maniac, apparently, in order to pick up a hooker, and butcher her when his melty-face look fails to turn her on) returns to the campsite to slaughter every mother's son in the place
How does it measure up against the campsite slasher subgenre's Ur-Text, Friday the 13th?, or the swaths of subsequent knockoffs?We have the Summer camp setting of course; an open and active one this time, that appears to cover ages 10 to mid-20s, or early-40s if you factor in the camp counsellors (even with hair, Jason Alexander does not look under 35). There is smoking of dope, and dipping of skinny, and pointing of view...or possibly viewing of point...? Anyway! killer's POV, with heavy breathing, and shears in shot. Effects are stellar, of course: SAVINI; need I add more? With a splendid burn makeup on the vexed caretaker-killer Cropsy (that makes Two-Face from The Dark Knight look like even more of the CG howler it truly is - how come his eyeball doesn't fall out?), and a jawdropping scene (restored for the first time in the UK) that de-builds a raft full of growing bodies 50 different ways in 5 minutes.
Unusually, the film is a lot more 'ethnic' than the homogenised norm for camper-slayers; though there are still fewer non-white faces than the front row at a Trace Adkins concert, at least everyone ISN'T a Gentile; including the Final Boy, who's more Leo Sayer than Jamie Lee, and sports an awesome Kotter 'fro that could deflect chainsaw blades on its own, and in a pinch can be used to hide small woodland creatures.
Monday, 20 January 2014
Going to Hell in WV
19th January Episode 50 [yes; I didn't wait for post #50 to do 'Episode 50'; bite me, it's fun!]
Things I now know about West Virginia:
What we've got is a remake of Legend of Hell House, with the idiots going to an obviously haunted location at the behest of sinister wealthy person, with vaguely debunk-y notions, then are harshly disabused of them as BAD THINGS commence to happen. Except here we have two competing groups of idiots (one not-Ghosthunters 'skeptic' lot with their cute little EMF meters and their leader with a TRAGIC BACKSTORY, and one set of deliverence-ministerers led by a floppy-haired humourless dick and his floaty Deanna-Troi-lite 'psychic'), rather than one.
Hell House's queasy sexuality has been purged, and replaced here with a rather toothless 'yay Jesus' small-r religious subtext. Since the TRAGIC BACKSTORY involved a dead sister resulting in a LOSS OF FAITH which has driven debunker-boy away from the big JC and into the soiled arms of rationality, and which he must OVERCOME in order to RECONNECT WITH HIS FAITH, to have the spiritual strength to fling a crucifix, drive off the one demon rather boredly cavorting in the gateway, like a stripper covering someone else's Wednesday afternoon shift and seal the cheap-CG Hellgate. Clearly a victory for the angels... I guess...? Though not for Mr Sinisterwealthyperson from the beginning, who was rather hoping they'd disprove the existence of Hell, since he's dying, and is sure to be headed there for his many sins in life; the last shot of the film is him viewing the idiots' conclusions, and weeping profusely. Or perhaps he was PZ Myers, and he'd just finished reading the script.
The Lovefilm thumbnail and DVD cover is a filthy. filthy lie, by the way; though there is some footage shot from the cameras the idiots bring in with them, this is NOT by any definition a 'Found Footage' film. Sufferers from motion sickness can rest easy; as for the rest of us...
After all this...THIS, I decided to watch a Miramax film. No, really! Come back later, and see.
Things I now know about West Virginia:
- Lots of Mines of one type or another
- Brad Dourif (born in Huntington, WV; son of a paint and dye factory owner)
- Large numbers of hardscrabble miners unaccountably voted for sleek, privileged East-Coaster John F Kennedy rather than for Hubert Humphrey in the 1960 Democratic Party Primary. With NO SUGGESTION of corruption or anything.
- The Blue Ridge Mountains of (cf: Lonesome Pine, The; On The Trail Of)
- It contains the literal gate to Hell.
What we've got is a remake of Legend of Hell House, with the idiots going to an obviously haunted location at the behest of sinister wealthy person, with vaguely debunk-y notions, then are harshly disabused of them as BAD THINGS commence to happen. Except here we have two competing groups of idiots (one not-Ghosthunters 'skeptic' lot with their cute little EMF meters and their leader with a TRAGIC BACKSTORY, and one set of deliverence-ministerers led by a floppy-haired humourless dick and his floaty Deanna-Troi-lite 'psychic'), rather than one.
Hell House's queasy sexuality has been purged, and replaced here with a rather toothless 'yay Jesus' small-r religious subtext. Since the TRAGIC BACKSTORY involved a dead sister resulting in a LOSS OF FAITH which has driven debunker-boy away from the big JC and into the soiled arms of rationality, and which he must OVERCOME in order to RECONNECT WITH HIS FAITH, to have the spiritual strength to fling a crucifix, drive off the one demon rather boredly cavorting in the gateway, like a stripper covering someone else's Wednesday afternoon shift and seal the cheap-CG Hellgate. Clearly a victory for the angels... I guess...? Though not for Mr Sinisterwealthyperson from the beginning, who was rather hoping they'd disprove the existence of Hell, since he's dying, and is sure to be headed there for his many sins in life; the last shot of the film is him viewing the idiots' conclusions, and weeping profusely. Or perhaps he was PZ Myers, and he'd just finished reading the script.
The Lovefilm thumbnail and DVD cover is a filthy. filthy lie, by the way; though there is some footage shot from the cameras the idiots bring in with them, this is NOT by any definition a 'Found Footage' film. Sufferers from motion sickness can rest easy; as for the rest of us...
After all this...THIS, I decided to watch a Miramax film. No, really! Come back later, and see.
Friday, 17 January 2014
Chokeslammed through an elevator roof in the Bioshock Hotel
15th January See No Evil
The last two entries were products of my desire to finally get my Lovefilm 'Watchlist' below 100 entries, but this one is from my last pre-owned-DVD/Blu-Ray shopping trip. Sadly, its shelf-stale nature means that unless I find a time portal that runs back to 2007, I've missed the closing date for the competition on the insert: win a trip to Wrestlemania and meet lead actor, pro wrestler and possible future political figure Kane (Yes, I'm a smark; what of it?). The Big Red We-Had-To-Get-Jerry Lawler-to-stop-saying-'Retard' himself plays Jacob Goodnight, and oh my goodness if only that was the silliest thing about this movie.
Oh look; here's an impractically large and architecturally confused old building (a burnt-out hotel this time) mostly created in CG! and who should be hoving into view but an ethnically and culturally diverse co-ed group of foulmouthed criminal youths trying to knock some time off their various sentences by 'volunteering' for some cleanup work. But oh noes! the Bioshock-2-looking halls are prowled by a physically imposing filthy man bearing the emotional scars of a religious fanatic mother, and wielding some would-be iconic and hideously impractical weapon (big old hook on about ten feet of chain, since you don't ask; at least it's not ANOTHER power tool, and the big chap trades it in for a more sensible axe partway through. Post Jack Torrance, I believe it's now compulsory for anyone using an empty/abandoned hotel as a killing ground to do so with a REALLY BIG AXE).
So what's a giant bald virtual-mute with a head full of maggots [yes, really] to do, when all he wants to do is lay tripwires and work on his collection of jars of homeless people eyeballs, but can't move for these young people with their tattoos and their baggies of dope, and their making out and their hula hoops and their rumble seats? Making things worse, the McManus nominally in charge of the male miscreants is the cop who invaded Big Hooky's previous crucifix-slathered lair in the pre-credits scene and tried to fix his clock with a bullet in the big old dome; didn't work, obviously (though bullet wound = skullhole full of maggots because gross visuals always beats logic, as 63% of all horror films made since 2000 have established), and was-a-cop loses a partner and a forearm to a free-swinging axe.
Then there is doping, and swearing, and foreshadowing and some sorts of attempts at character; then they split up and go to bed, nerdy computer criminal fellow and Black Man Called Tyson [wince] go looking for a supposed safe full of cash, and the film settles in to a comfy rhythm of killscreamrunstalkscreamkillrepeat, until only arseholes remain - (which isn't a spoiler, since there were really only arseholes there from the start). For the killspotters, (and you all know who you are) who really only watch slasher movies for the creative kills, we have some hookings, some eyeball-pluckings, some spikings, a chokeslamming into the roof of a lift (as advertised), and the standout; someone being killed by having their mobile phone shoved down their windpipe. Mostly practical effects, too, until the end, which gives real effects the big finger in favour of an entirely CG Kane. Much to the detriment of the film, since it's not only a harsh shift in visual tone, but it's the quality of CG that wouldn't pass in a PC game cutscene from 2006 (except possibly in an EA game, since they appear to have lately replaced their QA department with a dusty room full of old chairs, an overhead printer and an elderly hedgehog called Colin). Too bad. Might be acceptable if you have low standards, or poor eyesight, or you crank your contrast right down; only you can decide if you can get past it.
But, is it scary? meh...is it trying to be? It's more gross than anything else. Though I have to say I've never found Kane frightening at all. I mean, obviously he is BIG (I imagine if he was stood on your foot, you'd know all about it), and he does have an...interesting face, with possibly more planes and angles [not this one] than any three regular-person faces, but he's never struck me as anything but a large, sweet chap making a scowly 'grr' face, possibly for the amusement of their child. That's just me, though, I know.
So tomorrow; I don't know yet; since it's Date Night, I'm allowing my dear spouse and helpmeet to pick the movie. Odds that it will be Lawrence of Arabia? 3/2 and dropping.
The last two entries were products of my desire to finally get my Lovefilm 'Watchlist' below 100 entries, but this one is from my last pre-owned-DVD/Blu-Ray shopping trip. Sadly, its shelf-stale nature means that unless I find a time portal that runs back to 2007, I've missed the closing date for the competition on the insert: win a trip to Wrestlemania and meet lead actor, pro wrestler and possible future political figure Kane (Yes, I'm a smark; what of it?). The Big Red We-Had-To-Get-Jerry Lawler-to-stop-saying-'Retard' himself plays Jacob Goodnight, and oh my goodness if only that was the silliest thing about this movie.
Oh look; here's an impractically large and architecturally confused old building (a burnt-out hotel this time) mostly created in CG! and who should be hoving into view but an ethnically and culturally diverse co-ed group of foulmouthed criminal youths trying to knock some time off their various sentences by 'volunteering' for some cleanup work. But oh noes! the Bioshock-2-looking halls are prowled by a physically imposing filthy man bearing the emotional scars of a religious fanatic mother, and wielding some would-be iconic and hideously impractical weapon (big old hook on about ten feet of chain, since you don't ask; at least it's not ANOTHER power tool, and the big chap trades it in for a more sensible axe partway through. Post Jack Torrance, I believe it's now compulsory for anyone using an empty/abandoned hotel as a killing ground to do so with a REALLY BIG AXE).
So what's a giant bald virtual-mute with a head full of maggots [yes, really] to do, when all he wants to do is lay tripwires and work on his collection of jars of homeless people eyeballs, but can't move for these young people with their tattoos and their baggies of dope, and their making out and their hula hoops and their rumble seats? Making things worse, the McManus nominally in charge of the male miscreants is the cop who invaded Big Hooky's previous crucifix-slathered lair in the pre-credits scene and tried to fix his clock with a bullet in the big old dome; didn't work, obviously (though bullet wound = skullhole full of maggots because gross visuals always beats logic, as 63% of all horror films made since 2000 have established), and was-a-cop loses a partner and a forearm to a free-swinging axe.
Then there is doping, and swearing, and foreshadowing and some sorts of attempts at character; then they split up and go to bed, nerdy computer criminal fellow and Black Man Called Tyson [wince] go looking for a supposed safe full of cash, and the film settles in to a comfy rhythm of killscreamrunstalkscreamkillrepeat, until only arseholes remain - (which isn't a spoiler, since there were really only arseholes there from the start). For the killspotters, (and you all know who you are) who really only watch slasher movies for the creative kills, we have some hookings, some eyeball-pluckings, some spikings, a chokeslamming into the roof of a lift (as advertised), and the standout; someone being killed by having their mobile phone shoved down their windpipe. Mostly practical effects, too, until the end, which gives real effects the big finger in favour of an entirely CG Kane. Much to the detriment of the film, since it's not only a harsh shift in visual tone, but it's the quality of CG that wouldn't pass in a PC game cutscene from 2006 (except possibly in an EA game, since they appear to have lately replaced their QA department with a dusty room full of old chairs, an overhead printer and an elderly hedgehog called Colin). Too bad. Might be acceptable if you have low standards, or poor eyesight, or you crank your contrast right down; only you can decide if you can get past it.
But, is it scary? meh...is it trying to be? It's more gross than anything else. Though I have to say I've never found Kane frightening at all. I mean, obviously he is BIG (I imagine if he was stood on your foot, you'd know all about it), and he does have an...interesting face, with possibly more planes and angles [not this one] than any three regular-person faces, but he's never struck me as anything but a large, sweet chap making a scowly 'grr' face, possibly for the amusement of their child. That's just me, though, I know.
So tomorrow; I don't know yet; since it's Date Night, I'm allowing my dear spouse and helpmeet to pick the movie. Odds that it will be Lawrence of Arabia? 3/2 and dropping.
Thursday, 16 January 2014
All fur coats and nylon knickers
14 January 2014 (Later that day) Strip Nude for Your Killer.
After that title, do I actually need to say anything else? Apart from, it's Blood and Black Lace if everyone in it, male and female, was a...well, let the Ayatollah of RocknRolla say it for me...
Following a model's death during a botched abortion, who is the motorcycle-helmet-and-black-leathers slasher (looking like if Dario Argento sponsored a MotoGP team) switchblade-ing up vapid trollops and sleazy sexual predators alike in and around the Albatross [no, really] photo modelling agency in never-clearly-specified-but-probably-Milan?
Can it be the predatory-lesbian agency owner?
Or her Paul Bearer-looking lech of a husband-in-name-only?
Or Edwige Fenech and her amazing cropped hairdo and nylon undies combo, as a photographer who secretly just wants to be a model?
Or her sort-of boyfriend, a photographer introduced picking up a wannabe model at a swimming pool and getting her out of her bikini and into a public sauna room sex scene with an alacrity that would make an 80s New York bathhouse habitue dizzy [my legal team advises me to assure you that this is definitely NOT the Terry Richardson story]?
Or the other photographer, who 'doesn't have much to do with women'?
Not telling! Half the fun of these not-Bava films is being absolutely positive the culprit is him (or her, or they), only to have that be the very next victim. The OTHER half, of course, is swooning over the groovy pads, counting the number of prominently-displayed J and B bottles (four), and grooving on the amazing theme music, which here is never more than 5 seconds away from breaking down and giving in to its urge to become 'Papa Was a Rolling Stone'
Film sets out from the first scene to be as 70s Eurosleaze as possible, with the first shot, and the about-to-be-botched abortion, from between the hapless girl's legs, looking up, with only the careful positioning of the OBGyn's head preventing it from becoming a Jess Franco film ("Why the doctor have an afro? Oh...that's not *his* hair..."). Then we're off through a whirl of switchblade stabbings, attempted rape, domestic abuse, blackmail, voyeurism, aforementioned predatory lesbianism, reckless driving, petty larceny, implied incest, and many 70s-style real breasts and abundant pubic regions, while police bumble along in the background and the actual detecting business is picked up by civilians for no particular reason, and the culprit is identified mainly by being one of the four-or-five speaking roles left alive by the end. The few survivors seem remarkably untroubled by the grisly murders of almost everyone they know, and the film ends with an unsubtle joke reference to anal sex. Classy!
You'll like this if: You're old enough to remember the 70s, or you wish you were (but not in a tiresome Austin Powers-hangover way; if you're that person, you're an arse, and you're not allowed to watch this film. Go on, piss off. No-one likes you anyway).
You'll hate this if: you're the chap who complains when the killer shown throughout the film in tight-fitting leather is obviously not remotely the actual culprit unmasked at the end; or you're Andrea Dworkin
This film is as old as your writer, and even more unfashionable and dubious. Worth another watch? Worth MANY; if you need a reason to rewatch after tracking the plot holes and/or ogling the many implant-free 70s breasts have palled, and the mid-70s Italian interior design and fashions can't persuade you, then I don't know who you are, and we have no way to communicate.
Tomorrow's film has important advice: don't raise your child in an incredibly perverse and repressively religious environment; they'll grow up to have poor hygiene and develop a fungal nail infection. Also, they'll probably kill people and collect their eyeballs. Mainly the nail thing, though, because that is just icky.
After that title, do I actually need to say anything else? Apart from, it's Blood and Black Lace if everyone in it, male and female, was a...well, let the Ayatollah of RocknRolla say it for me...
Following a model's death during a botched abortion, who is the motorcycle-helmet-and-black-leathers slasher (looking like if Dario Argento sponsored a MotoGP team) switchblade-ing up vapid trollops and sleazy sexual predators alike in and around the Albatross [no, really] photo modelling agency in never-clearly-specified-but-probably-Milan?
Can it be the predatory-lesbian agency owner?
Or her Paul Bearer-looking lech of a husband-in-name-only?
Or Edwige Fenech and her amazing cropped hairdo and nylon undies combo, as a photographer who secretly just wants to be a model?
Or her sort-of boyfriend, a photographer introduced picking up a wannabe model at a swimming pool and getting her out of her bikini and into a public sauna room sex scene with an alacrity that would make an 80s New York bathhouse habitue dizzy [my legal team advises me to assure you that this is definitely NOT the Terry Richardson story]?
Or the other photographer, who 'doesn't have much to do with women'?
Not telling! Half the fun of these not-Bava films is being absolutely positive the culprit is him (or her, or they), only to have that be the very next victim. The OTHER half, of course, is swooning over the groovy pads, counting the number of prominently-displayed J and B bottles (four), and grooving on the amazing theme music, which here is never more than 5 seconds away from breaking down and giving in to its urge to become 'Papa Was a Rolling Stone'
Film sets out from the first scene to be as 70s Eurosleaze as possible, with the first shot, and the about-to-be-botched abortion, from between the hapless girl's legs, looking up, with only the careful positioning of the OBGyn's head preventing it from becoming a Jess Franco film ("Why the doctor have an afro? Oh...that's not *his* hair..."). Then we're off through a whirl of switchblade stabbings, attempted rape, domestic abuse, blackmail, voyeurism, aforementioned predatory lesbianism, reckless driving, petty larceny, implied incest, and many 70s-style real breasts and abundant pubic regions, while police bumble along in the background and the actual detecting business is picked up by civilians for no particular reason, and the culprit is identified mainly by being one of the four-or-five speaking roles left alive by the end. The few survivors seem remarkably untroubled by the grisly murders of almost everyone they know, and the film ends with an unsubtle joke reference to anal sex. Classy!
You'll like this if: You're old enough to remember the 70s, or you wish you were (but not in a tiresome Austin Powers-hangover way; if you're that person, you're an arse, and you're not allowed to watch this film. Go on, piss off. No-one likes you anyway).
You'll hate this if: you're the chap who complains when the killer shown throughout the film in tight-fitting leather is obviously not remotely the actual culprit unmasked at the end; or you're Andrea Dworkin
This film is as old as your writer, and even more unfashionable and dubious. Worth another watch? Worth MANY; if you need a reason to rewatch after tracking the plot holes and/or ogling the many implant-free 70s breasts have palled, and the mid-70s Italian interior design and fashions can't persuade you, then I don't know who you are, and we have no way to communicate.
Tomorrow's film has important advice: don't raise your child in an incredibly perverse and repressively religious environment; they'll grow up to have poor hygiene and develop a fungal nail infection. Also, they'll probably kill people and collect their eyeballs. Mainly the nail thing, though, because that is just icky.
Started badly, then...
14 January 2014: Sensored [Yes, Blogger autocorrect, do you think I don't KNOW? Go away now, wiggly red line]
First 'official' of the 500, and it's meh.
Robert Picardo is a suburban solid citizen, or maybe he's a torture-killer, or maybe just a torturer, or maybe an undercover CIA operative, or maybe a children's book author, or maybe a schizophrenic who made it all up, or maybe all of them because why the heck not?
Yes; one of THOSE films: "main character is crazy, so go to hell narrative continuity or resolution!" and consequently an unsatisfying experience.
I like me some Robert Picardo, lord knows; not quite enough to suffer Voyager on an even semi-regular basis, except for the Brad Dourif episodes, and Threshold (the 'Paris goes faster than light, devolves into a reptile, kidnaps Janeway, reptiles her and they have freaky newt babies' one, which is so terrible that it goes through terrible, passes awful, pauses briefly in hilariously bad, then slingshots right back to terrible again; I refer interested parties to the SF Debris review, and ), but I do like him, and he continues the tradition of being the best thing in mediocre material. Here he gets to be cold, brutal, savage, tentative in his approaches to the socially over-enthusiastic redhead over the street, dry, emotional. Everything but a song-and-dance routine.
I can't criticise any of the performances, in fact; Picardo,or asthmatic CIA bloke, or overly-forward neighbour woman; even generic main torturee is less unbearable than is usual (good grief, I'd have him as best man at my wedding compared to the please-die-soon charisma-vacuums cluttering up the Hostel films)...I just wish I cared, and that the writer or director did, at least enough not to undermine them for the sake of one more bloody Russo swerve.
Worth another watch? Unless I really missed something; no
One good thing? Picardo aside...Managing to have a not-annoying child actress
One bad thing? That underwhelming ending. Like Beef, I know the difference between drug-real and real-real, and thanks for telling me that I've just wasted 70 minutes becoming invested in characters you can't even be bothered to resolve properly. I'm not that guy, you know; I can stand a bit of ambiguity, and I don't need Simon Oakland to turn up and tell me that the man we've just seen try to kill someone while dressed as a woman likes to dress as a woman and kill people, but come ON. Did you have an ending for them, and could we not have that instead? Hmph.
This film made me grouchy, so I had to move on to a mid-70s Italian Bava knockoff; so I could guarantee many characters would be naked at some point, most would be dead by the end, and it would AT NO POINT be a dream.
TO BE CONTINUED...
First 'official' of the 500, and it's meh.
Robert Picardo is a suburban solid citizen, or maybe he's a torture-killer, or maybe just a torturer, or maybe an undercover CIA operative, or maybe a children's book author, or maybe a schizophrenic who made it all up, or maybe all of them because why the heck not?
Yes; one of THOSE films: "main character is crazy, so go to hell narrative continuity or resolution!" and consequently an unsatisfying experience.
I like me some Robert Picardo, lord knows; not quite enough to suffer Voyager on an even semi-regular basis, except for the Brad Dourif episodes, and Threshold (the 'Paris goes faster than light, devolves into a reptile, kidnaps Janeway, reptiles her and they have freaky newt babies' one, which is so terrible that it goes through terrible, passes awful, pauses briefly in hilariously bad, then slingshots right back to terrible again; I refer interested parties to the SF Debris review, and ), but I do like him, and he continues the tradition of being the best thing in mediocre material. Here he gets to be cold, brutal, savage, tentative in his approaches to the socially over-enthusiastic redhead over the street, dry, emotional. Everything but a song-and-dance routine.
I can't criticise any of the performances, in fact; Picardo,or asthmatic CIA bloke, or overly-forward neighbour woman; even generic main torturee is less unbearable than is usual (good grief, I'd have him as best man at my wedding compared to the please-die-soon charisma-vacuums cluttering up the Hostel films)...I just wish I cared, and that the writer or director did, at least enough not to undermine them for the sake of one more bloody Russo swerve.
Worth another watch? Unless I really missed something; no
One good thing? Picardo aside...Managing to have a not-annoying child actress
One bad thing? That underwhelming ending. Like Beef, I know the difference between drug-real and real-real, and thanks for telling me that I've just wasted 70 minutes becoming invested in characters you can't even be bothered to resolve properly. I'm not that guy, you know; I can stand a bit of ambiguity, and I don't need Simon Oakland to turn up and tell me that the man we've just seen try to kill someone while dressed as a woman likes to dress as a woman and kill people, but come ON. Did you have an ending for them, and could we not have that instead? Hmph.
This film made me grouchy, so I had to move on to a mid-70s Italian Bava knockoff; so I could guarantee many characters would be naked at some point, most would be dead by the end, and it would AT NO POINT be a dream.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Nearly-New Year,
So: since we have a whole new year, and everything, and is the traditional time when people make resolutions they'll break before Valentine's Day, I've made one too.
It WAS going to be a film a day, but since I began two weeks late, that would be an unimpressive 350 films; pfft, we can do better than that!
500 films in 2014.
Also, god above or below help me, 500 NEW films (since I have no self-control, and would end up watching Texas Chainsaw Massacre (of COURSE the original, silly) three times in a day. Again.
So, a three-step process:
- Find new film
- Watch new film
- Blog new film
It's only 10 a week, two a weekday; or one a weekday, and a weekend binge. I know it can be done.
Whether it SHOULD, is a whole other matter.
It WAS going to be a film a day, but since I began two weeks late, that would be an unimpressive 350 films; pfft, we can do better than that!
500 films in 2014.
Also, god above or below help me, 500 NEW films (since I have no self-control, and would end up watching Texas Chainsaw Massacre (of COURSE the original, silly) three times in a day. Again.
So, a three-step process:
- Find new film
- Watch new film
- Blog new film
It's only 10 a week, two a weekday; or one a weekday, and a weekend binge. I know it can be done.
Whether it SHOULD, is a whole other matter.
Thursday, 24 October 2013
Is it fear of plagiarism...
...That keeps me from the keyboard?
No; one can't steal from an empty cupboard
Is it lack of time?
Not when I have four hours a week to watch pro wrestling (not including PPVs, old matches and Rope Break)
Is it lack of opinions?
Good GOD, no!
Well then...
Resuming, I suppose?
Yep.
No; one can't steal from an empty cupboard
Is it lack of time?
Not when I have four hours a week to watch pro wrestling (not including PPVs, old matches and Rope Break)
Is it lack of opinions?
Good GOD, no!
Well then...
Resuming, I suppose?
Yep.
Thursday, 29 December 2011
She does enunciate very clearly, though...
Look, she was in Friday the 13th: The Series, so that counts as a horror connection.
Besides, her 'British?' accent made my spouse whimper like a tiny girl, so into the horror blog she comes.
Monday, 26 December 2011
Ill-Advised Remake Monday: The Omen
INT, daytime. 20th Century Fox's boardroom, sometime in the mid 2000's:
CORPORATE SCUM #1
...So, we're agreed, gentlemen? Another Alien Tril...Quad...Quintilogy Boxset on DVD? Only this time, the box will be in the shape of an entire lifesize Alien Queen, and the discs themselves will be excreted from its anus? Genius!
Any more business?
CORPORATE SCUM #2
Ah, yes...My Random Remake Suggest-o-tron came up with The Omen the other day, and I couldn't help but notice that it'll be June 2006 soon, so, you know: 06/06/06, so...
CORPORATE SCUM #1
Well, I suppose...Isn't it a bit, you know, old?
CORPORATE SCUM #2
No, it'll be great, honestly; we'll get some slumming actors, like the original did, toss in some in-jokes for the fanboys, and some of that CG blood that the kids love! It'll be awesomes!
CORPORATE SCUM #1
All right...make the leads much younger and duller, chuck in some flashy and pointless dream sequences for shocks, oh, and a gratuitous 9/11 reference and we've got a deal! Now, lunch? [buzz] Marcy, could you send us in the usual six live puppies, garnished with the crushed hopes and aspirations of a generation of film students? And a Pellegrino? Thanks!
END
--------------------
Yes, your correspondent is extemporising somewhat, but it doesn't take a huge imaginative leap to visualise the thinking process behind this film: Exploitable property+built-in marketing opportunity+more blood=PROFIT!! They really only forgot one thing; to actually make it any good. So, what did they stupidly change, what should they have let go, and is that REALLY HIM under that awful plasticky burn makeup? [Short answers: too much, those blasted dream sequences, and yes; hooray!]
To start with the plot...If you need me to describe it, then go away and punch yourself, hard. In the stomach. While you're getting your breath back, read on: Diplomat's wife loses her child at birth, diplomat is persuaded to unofficially 'adopt' an adorable orphan baby, feels no need to inform wife of change. Adorable baby grows up to be adorable tow-headed little boy, acquires insane nannies, Rottweiler; is surrounded by mysterious 'accidents' that plague those who attempt to inform Daddy Diplomat that Dimples may in fact be Satan Jr. (Spoiler! He is.). Everybody dies!
[While the 1976 original didn't start the Evil Child genre (Paging Rhoda Penmark!), it was an early example of the (still popular) Evil Solemn-Faced Little Kid subtype, and was almost-singlehandedly responsible for turning the name Damien (or Damian) from a Saint-that-worked-with-lepers-and-therefore-perfect-for-Catholic-familes baby name, to shorthand-for-Lucifer in within a generation. You think I'm joking? According to the Office for National Statistics, in the UK in 1974 the name Damien (or Damian) was the 64th most popular; by 1984, it was 97th, and by 1994 not even in the top 100.]
This remake doesn't fiddle about with the basic plot points TOO much (baby death - nanny death - new nanny - ominous priest - priest death - mum off balcony - dead mum - gratuitous archaeology - headless photographer - angst dad - nanny fight - dead dad), and is as successful as the original in chucking a splashy death at the audience just when things are getting too fidget-inducingly Bible-y, but it's what they ADDED that's my main problem with it.
The film starts with some priest-y enclave in the (heavily-implied) Vatican, viewing a short film on all of the newsworthy disasters of the last 20-odd years, and doom-and-glooming it about the imminent return of the Antichrist...This is necessary, why? Your writer was raised Methodist, and knows about as much of Catholic priests as I do of Quantum Theory but refuses to believe that none of them have read a newspaper since 1970. Unless the film is assuming that the audience haven't either? Or need to see footage of the Boxing Day Tsunami, 9/11, etc, which they had surely FORGOTTEN ALL ABOUT UP TO THAT MOMENT? It's an arbitrary selection of footage too; oh, so it's natural disasters, because God is angry, but no...here's 9/11 and a civil war. So, it's the evil of people, but...ah, that was an earthquake. NVM then.
The film promptly cuts from this amazingly point-filled opening like it never happened (I'd like to pretend the same thing), and we start the plot proper. It trots along from point to point like a good pony until...well, you see Lee Remick (the mother in the original) could convey her growing paranoia and dread of the little bugger just with facial expression, body posture...you know, ACTING. The new girl...can't. So nuts to subtlety and let's have her dream-sequence some goatskullfaced robed jumpscares (that look nothing like they came off a Dennis Wheatley paperback cover from 1968 or anything)! Yes, let's do THAT!
As for the cast, well...I'm sure Liev Schreiber is a perfectly nice chap, but...charismatic? No. To the extent that...I actually forgot he was in the film while he was off screen. Yes; I'm embarrassed, but I want you to know that never happened with Gregory Peck. The supporting cast of Reliable British Thesps swaps wavering-Irish-accented Patrick Troughton for Pete Postlethwaite, whose accent bounces back and forth across the Irish Sea like the Fishguard ferry in a Force 9-er, and offers us scruffy David Thewlis in lieu of mod David Warner; I do not consider this an acceptable substitute. I suspect the casting of Mia Farrow as the 'nanny from the agency' is a bit of wink-wink gimmick casting for Rosemary's Baby fans, since she's no Billie Whitelaw, and far too mimsy to be convincing as a threat to the large stolid tree that is Liev Schreiber; and is there really any reason except someone's game of Weird Character Name Bingo to have Michael Gambon follow Dumbledore with Bugenhagen?
Still, in each dungheap a diamond, and there's an unexpected treat for all the watching House On the Edge of the Park fans (so, me and Brad Jones, then); yes, it's Giovanni Lombardi Radice, aka John Morgen, as Father Spiletto! Oh Ricky, you can even make a Roman Collar suspect! Don't ever, ever change! While I'm on this positive trend, I should take time to praise the Damien; I have no maternal instinct whatsoever, but this is an adorable, solemn small boy. I definitely felt a small hollow thump in the place where normal women have a biological clock. If I could somehow guarantee that my loins would yield forth something like that (and not, as I secretly fear, some squawking money-sink with a Hannah Montana fixation) then even I might be persuaded to breed.
This remake doesn't fiddle about with the basic plot points TOO much (baby death - nanny death - new nanny - ominous priest - priest death - mum off balcony - dead mum - gratuitous archaeology - headless photographer - angst dad - nanny fight - dead dad), and is as successful as the original in chucking a splashy death at the audience just when things are getting too fidget-inducingly Bible-y, but it's what they ADDED that's my main problem with it.
The film starts with some priest-y enclave in the (heavily-implied) Vatican, viewing a short film on all of the newsworthy disasters of the last 20-odd years, and doom-and-glooming it about the imminent return of the Antichrist...This is necessary, why? Your writer was raised Methodist, and knows about as much of Catholic priests as I do of Quantum Theory but refuses to believe that none of them have read a newspaper since 1970. Unless the film is assuming that the audience haven't either? Or need to see footage of the Boxing Day Tsunami, 9/11, etc, which they had surely FORGOTTEN ALL ABOUT UP TO THAT MOMENT? It's an arbitrary selection of footage too; oh, so it's natural disasters, because God is angry, but no...here's 9/11 and a civil war. So, it's the evil of people, but...ah, that was an earthquake. NVM then.
The film promptly cuts from this amazingly point-filled opening like it never happened (I'd like to pretend the same thing), and we start the plot proper. It trots along from point to point like a good pony until...well, you see Lee Remick (the mother in the original) could convey her growing paranoia and dread of the little bugger just with facial expression, body posture...you know, ACTING. The new girl...can't. So nuts to subtlety and let's have her dream-sequence some goatskullfaced robed jumpscares (that look nothing like they came off a Dennis Wheatley paperback cover from 1968 or anything)! Yes, let's do THAT!
As for the cast, well...I'm sure Liev Schreiber is a perfectly nice chap, but...charismatic? No. To the extent that...I actually forgot he was in the film while he was off screen. Yes; I'm embarrassed, but I want you to know that never happened with Gregory Peck. The supporting cast of Reliable British Thesps swaps wavering-Irish-accented Patrick Troughton for Pete Postlethwaite, whose accent bounces back and forth across the Irish Sea like the Fishguard ferry in a Force 9-er, and offers us scruffy David Thewlis in lieu of mod David Warner; I do not consider this an acceptable substitute. I suspect the casting of Mia Farrow as the 'nanny from the agency' is a bit of wink-wink gimmick casting for Rosemary's Baby fans, since she's no Billie Whitelaw, and far too mimsy to be convincing as a threat to the large stolid tree that is Liev Schreiber; and is there really any reason except someone's game of Weird Character Name Bingo to have Michael Gambon follow Dumbledore with Bugenhagen?
Still, in each dungheap a diamond, and there's an unexpected treat for all the watching House On the Edge of the Park fans (so, me and Brad Jones, then); yes, it's Giovanni Lombardi Radice, aka John Morgen, as Father Spiletto! Oh Ricky, you can even make a Roman Collar suspect! Don't ever, ever change! While I'm on this positive trend, I should take time to praise the Damien; I have no maternal instinct whatsoever, but this is an adorable, solemn small boy. I definitely felt a small hollow thump in the place where normal women have a biological clock. If I could somehow guarantee that my loins would yield forth something like that (and not, as I secretly fear, some squawking money-sink with a Hannah Montana fixation) then even I might be persuaded to breed.
So, on balance: worth a peek as a curiosity, but don't expect it to be anywhere near as good as the original, and brace yourself for random goatskulls, and the odd crashing misstep of taste, amongst all the lumbering solemness.
Friday, 28 October 2011
Free Things Friday, 28th Oct: Dahmer
Well, in these times of global recession, cutbacks, layoffs and trickle-downs, we're all looking to cut back a bit, aren't we? Whether it's recycling freezer bags, only using one ply of the toilet roll, or trapping rats for food, anything that can make the hard earned dollar (pound, Euro, shekel, rupee, talent, etc) go further is A GOOD THING; particularly the hard-earned ENTERTAINMENT dollar (rouble, yen, bottlecap).
"But Dear Impostor", I hear you cry from around a mouthful of partly-masticated Rattus Rattus; "how is one to obtain ones Quality Entertainment both legally and freely?" Turn to your mother, your helpmeet, your GOD; YOUTUBE! Yes, I said legally; hard to believe, but among the 9 minute 'videos' consisting of a still with a "go to www.jjfxnotarussiantrojansitereallyhonest7jw for the full version of this still-in-cinemas-hot-film" message, there are full, free (frequently out-of-copyright) gems. Of course, there's a large amount of dreck, but that is true of any given B****B**st*r rental shelf (Such a 20th-century concept!), and nothing is better than the opportunity to riff a bad film, save it be the opportunity to riff one FOR FREE.
So, for Instalment One:
It's Dahmer!
No, not Dahmer: The Secret Life, or the Trial of Jeffrey Dahmer, or another daft Ulli Lommel film (as Uwe Boll is to video games, Ulli Lommel is to true crime, and oh my word Tenderness of the Wolves was a long time ago and another country - literally - and besides the wench is dead. Though, if it stops him making another blasted Boogeyman film...). Unlike most surnamed serial killer films, this is actually good. Starring (Oscar Nominee ooh-la-la) Jeremy Renner as Hungry Jeff, and Bruce Davison as his buttoned-up dad Lionel (and why isn't Bruce Davison in many more films, eh? And why is Willard not out on DVD yet? Did the remake bomb THAT badly that it put a black pox on every version? Questions for another day...), real names are used for the Dahmer family, though the victims tend to have names and biographical details fudged; not too surprising, since this looks like an indie film without room in the budget for name-brand coffee at the cast's lunch table, never mind for lawsuits from aggrieved relatives.
I'll level with you now; if you're looking for human-thigh sandwiches, and skull-fucking, then this will NOT be the film for you; odd as it sounds, it's more of a character piece...It just happens that the character is a cannibal serial killer, and a serious challenger to Travis Bickle as God's Lonely Man. Renner is very good as the Loneliest Man on Earth, and we're with him all the way from his awkward late teens, to his attempts at disconnected sex with drugged strangers in gay bars and saunas; to his hamfisted attempts to get people to come home with him, to stay, and then to never, ever leave. To which end he almost succeeds, thanks to the unwitting assistance of the local police, who seem very willing to sign off a naked, blood-covered, incoherent (very) young man as a domestic dispute; implausible as it seems, this incident's straight from the police reports, much to the police's embarrassment after Dahmer's arrest when they had to face a lot of hard questions about exactly how concerned they were about the (mostly young, predominantly black or Asian) victims.
As far as psycho performances go, Renner's more Tony Perkins than Hopkins; scenery (and longpig) goes unchewed, there's not a one-liner to be heard, and the tensest moment is a confrontation between Dahmers Junior and Senior over the key to an old medicine box. This is Dahmer, not Lecter; not a droll intellectual with a penchant for chianti and opera, but a sad, lonely foul-up with a boring job and a drinking problem; that odd fellow at the bus stop, or in the supermarket who tries to make conversation with the checkout girl, that messageboard commenter who gets angry about odd things, or your strange downstairs neighbour, or your cousin, or you...or me.
It's not a perfect film; the flashback-flashforward structure is tricksy, and for not much effect; a very little of some of the supporting actors goes a long way; and good Lord there is a LOT of red light, and low light, that makes some scenes hard on my old pair of eyes.
This film is not for you if:
- You think 'low-key' means 'boring'
- Male-male sexuality makes you squirm, or titter
- You want every serial killer film to have a body count; nubile coeds for preference
- You work for, or have a relative in, the Milwaukee Police Department.
- You have poor night vision,
BUT; if you'd like a little something different, and for free, come and see here:
Wednesday, 26 October 2011
Blimey, that's...Brave
Cannibal Holocaust with an 18 cert? I've lived too long!!
Yes, Shameless films apparently spent another 3 months in the BBFC's waiting room, to get Cannibal Holocaust certificated, and only 15 seconds of cuts (replaced by reaction shots of the same length, to avoid jumps in the soundtrack)! I'm surprised that the BBFC had to cut as little as that, given the legal restrictions under which they operate regarding animal cruelty; since I'm the first person to verbally pistol-whip Our Esteemed Classificators for their often daft responses, I have to doff my bonnet to the serious consideration they gave to the film and that they describe here (Well, me with a nice thing to say about a BBFC decision? Maybe these are the End Times after all...).
Now; Cannibal Holcaust, see, was a harder watch than films like Salo, for me; because cheek-to-cheek with the faked rape, staged arson and body-painted extras chewing on ribs, CH has real, unfeigned animal cruelty and death of at least...four (possibly five) live animals, including a pig (kicked, then shot), a river turtle (de-shelled while still alive and piteously flapping its flippers), a spider (business end of a machete, may have been subbed for a rubber spider), a monkey, and some sort of muskrat(?) thing. Perhaps it's hypocrisy, since I'm comfortable with animals dying to fill my belly (yes, it was a delicious beef madras that I had the other day, thanks), but not for my amusement (not planning on a trip to a bullfight any time...ever). We all make our...accommodations with our consciences, and this one's mine. There is a non-animal-cruelty version available; included with the R1 boxset that I have; a sensitive viewer may find that less troublesome; rest assured that the real (pre-existing) atrocity footage of an African civil war has been retained in that version.
On an unrelated point...I'm not entirely convinced that the South American locals playing the anthrophages were ever, you know, PAID for all their running around, rolling in mud, and being pretend-raped and pretend-killed. I start to visualise a 'The Last Movie' situation, and shift awkwardly in my seat; curse you, white liberal post-colonial guilt!
CH is...actually, probably indefensible for a moral human being in the 21st century and just to shrug and say 'oh, them crazy Italians'...yeah, probably not good enough. What it is, among other things, is an indictment of an even worse trend in the Italian cinema of the time; Mondo films which really did traffic in 'real' war crimes footage [including a more-than suspicion that some of it may have been, um...'arranged' for the cameras] or at least, that executions, army-charges, etc were scheduled for the film-makers' convenience. Consequently, there's very little that the filmmaker characters in CH do, that Jacopetti and Prosperi (the directors of Mondo Cane and the fathers of the entire 'Mondo' movement) weren't at least accused of,up to and including real animal death, setting up atrocities, exploitation of native populations, and at the very least culpability in rape and killing. For more background on those charming fellows Signore Jacopetti and Prosperi, and the whole Mondo subgenre, I'd highly recommend Kerekes' and Slater's Killing For Culture, albeit vastly overdue for an updated reprint; I'd particularly like to see them cover the Blair Witch Project; the most successful 'Snuff' film ever made.
So, Cannibal Holocaust; problematic, all right, in more ways than you'd think were possible; still, I'm glad that it's around, and available in as intact a form as possible. Your correspondent urges you, in this as in all situations, to see it for yourself (punt some cash into Shameless Films' pockets, since I'm sure there are still more Sirpa Lane films awaiting their DVDebut), use your own eyes, and make up your own mind.
Sunday, 3 July 2011
So...I was looking for my spare sewing machine bobbins...
...And opened a box that I haven't opened since I moved house (last October). Which turned out to be full of dvds! Whee! Well, what have we got?
Ooh! Nightmare Before Christmas! Nightmare on Elm Street Box Set; [Night of the] Intruder; - yes, I alphabetise; what of it? National Lampoon's Class Reunion! Napoleon Dynamite? How the Sam J Jones did that get here? Ah, curse you, vanished Virgin Megastores and your 4-for-£20 offers! I would wish a pox on your line...if that hadn't already happened.
So, perhaps this is A SIGN that I should start up the reviewing things thing again. Or that I am a lazy slattern. Either/or.
Now, perhaps those bobbins are in that other box, with my Fango back issues...
Monday, 15 June 2009
Arise, Sir Triple-Nippled Vampy-Wizard of Summerisle:
And about time too...
"Christopher Lee, best known for playing Count Dracula and starring in Lord Of The Rings, has been knighted in the Queen's Birthday Honours list."
What took you so long, Big Liz? Alan Sugar's had a knighthood for approximately 400 years, and what's he done, except peddle sketchy stereos, look like a badly-pickled walnut and shout 'bladdy' at MBA-clones? The only question is, of course; when Sir Vlad gets knighted, who is going to bow to whom? As any fule kno, Lord Summerisle is the posher of the two...
Now, I could fill an encyclopedia with the many, many, MANY faces of Sir C of Lee, but here are a few less-seen ones (thx Google Image Search!)
I have this very book myself...
Family Reunion, from House of Long Shadows (not quite sure where John Carradine's got to, though...)
Um...yes...well...The audition for Crimes of Passion went well, but in the end Ken Russell decided to go with Kathleen Turner after all; will posterity prove him wrong? No; not at all.
"Christopher Lee, best known for playing Count Dracula and starring in Lord Of The Rings, has been knighted in the Queen's Birthday Honours list."
What took you so long, Big Liz? Alan Sugar's had a knighthood for approximately 400 years, and what's he done, except peddle sketchy stereos, look like a badly-pickled walnut and shout 'bladdy' at MBA-clones? The only question is, of course; when Sir Vlad gets knighted, who is going to bow to whom? As any fule kno, Lord Summerisle is the posher of the two...
Now, I could fill an encyclopedia with the many, many, MANY faces of Sir C of Lee, but here are a few less-seen ones (thx Google Image Search!)
I have this very book myself...
Family Reunion, from House of Long Shadows (not quite sure where John Carradine's got to, though...)
Um...yes...well...The audition for Crimes of Passion went well, but in the end Ken Russell decided to go with Kathleen Turner after all; will posterity prove him wrong? No; not at all.
Thursday, 21 May 2009
Stupid burns like a white-hot flame
Well.. if she can do it (or, perhaps more accurately, her underpaid PA can do it), then I suppose I can blog every day too.
I want you to know, non-existent readers, that I have never before in my life said "Bitch, please"...
But..."Bitch, please"
[adds a third spoonful of refined sugar to my morning coffee, and reaches over for another cinnamon roll]
I want you to know, non-existent readers, that I have never before in my life said "Bitch, please"...
But..."Bitch, please"
[adds a third spoonful of refined sugar to my morning coffee, and reaches over for another cinnamon roll]
Monday, 9 March 2009
Back From the Dead...
Well, that WAS a long hiatus, wasn't it, non-existent audience?
It's been a busy few months, so, what with work, and Christmas, and getting shacked up; which was nice.
I do seem be back now, though. Let's see how long it lasts.
Monday, 22 September 2008
Ill-Advised Remake Monday: Day of the Dead
First things first; while this film is certainly ill-advised on almost every level, I'm not sure it qualifies as a remake. There are some zombies, there are some soldiers, there is a scientist called Logan, and a soldier called Rhodes, and a semi-sentient zombie called...wait for it...Bud (See? Get it? Not 'Bub'? Get it? See? I believe it was around about this point I started bleeding from the ears...), but actual remake? Possibly not. It has as much of 28 Days Later (fast zombies, jittery fast-shutter camerawork), The Crazies (military fail to control icky outbreak) and the original Night of the Living Dead (disposable teen couple, squabbling marrieds) as it does the original Day.
Plot? Umm....Military quarantine a town in Colorado, all the cast tries not to get eaten; some fail. Mina Suvari is the shortest soldier in the military. Your hapless correspondent wonders why Ving Rhames now qualifies for the Brad Dourif billing ('AND Ving Rhames'), until I realise it's one of those got-him-for-three days show-up-and-die overgrown cameos (the sort of thing Rob Zombie has 5 or 6 of, and one of them is Danny Trejo); one facial expression, a messy special effect, and his agent's phone number visibly protruding from his fatigues pocket. The only other major black character just has to be a cool, gun-toting, slang-talking street kid with a self-sacrificing heart of gold and absolutely-god-forbid-NO romantic interest in his tiny blonde superior officer. The not-Bub resembles Robbie Benson. People get poorly, get very poorly, go a bit blank, then turn into pasty, screaming meth-heads with a taste for cerebellum tartare. Who, after a brief cheap-CG phase. turn into blobs of black oily glop when set on fire.
And while I'm on the subject, what the hell is it with the fast zombies? How come, right up to the mid-90s, zombification made you dull and slow-moving, and now it suddenly has the same effect as a cocktail of steroids, Red Bull and PCP? Even the zombie chorus-line in Thriller, funky movers to a decomposing man, were not what you could call...speedy. Somewhere, I'm sure, there is a highly-academic paper to be written on the subject, but it'd need one of those doctorate-y horror people, and since my highest qualification is a Retail NVQ (Level 2), this is not that place and I am not that person...
In summary; not the worst film I've ever seen...not even the worst film with 'Day of the Dead' in the title (see 'Day of the Dead 2: Contagium' sometime, if you ever feel as though you have too many brain cells and need to lose a few)...Watch it if you want to appreciate the original more, if you like to feel the warm glow of familiarity, or if you just can't get enough gun-toting blondes, shouty soldiers and infected people...and the last copy of Planet Terror is taken.
Plot? Umm....Military quarantine a town in Colorado, all the cast tries not to get eaten; some fail. Mina Suvari is the shortest soldier in the military. Your hapless correspondent wonders why Ving Rhames now qualifies for the Brad Dourif billing ('AND Ving Rhames'), until I realise it's one of those got-him-for-three days show-up-and-die overgrown cameos (the sort of thing Rob Zombie has 5 or 6 of, and one of them is Danny Trejo); one facial expression, a messy special effect, and his agent's phone number visibly protruding from his fatigues pocket. The only other major black character just has to be a cool, gun-toting, slang-talking street kid with a self-sacrificing heart of gold and absolutely-god-forbid-NO romantic interest in his tiny blonde superior officer. The not-Bub resembles Robbie Benson. People get poorly, get very poorly, go a bit blank, then turn into pasty, screaming meth-heads with a taste for cerebellum tartare. Who, after a brief cheap-CG phase. turn into blobs of black oily glop when set on fire.
And while I'm on the subject, what the hell is it with the fast zombies? How come, right up to the mid-90s, zombification made you dull and slow-moving, and now it suddenly has the same effect as a cocktail of steroids, Red Bull and PCP? Even the zombie chorus-line in Thriller, funky movers to a decomposing man, were not what you could call...speedy. Somewhere, I'm sure, there is a highly-academic paper to be written on the subject, but it'd need one of those doctorate-y horror people, and since my highest qualification is a Retail NVQ (Level 2), this is not that place and I am not that person...
In summary; not the worst film I've ever seen...not even the worst film with 'Day of the Dead' in the title (see 'Day of the Dead 2: Contagium' sometime, if you ever feel as though you have too many brain cells and need to lose a few)...Watch it if you want to appreciate the original more, if you like to feel the warm glow of familiarity, or if you just can't get enough gun-toting blondes, shouty soldiers and infected people...and the last copy of Planet Terror is taken.
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