Oh, ya hey der. How's it going? Oh, that's pretty darn good, ya know. Oh, me? Well, not so good ya know. Why's that? Oh, well ya see - I live in this small town in New England. Ya see, everything's supposed to be just hunky-dory, but we've got this little problem - ya see. We got these outsiders. What'ya mean, my accent is too mid-western? Oh well, Wisconsin is the new New England - at least according to this film's location shooting.
Anyway, where was I? Oh, so we had these three young ladies, ya know, move into our tightly-knit, CHRISTIAN community, and well, ya know, they don't seem so great. They been putting all these ideas, see, into our kid's head. Ideas like: women could function without man-folk, like God could be a woman, like maybe, just maybe, there might not be a proper, christian god. I don't know, but I don't like the cut of their jib.
Ya see, many years ago, this small New England town (not, I repeat, not Wisconsin, ya know) was infested with witches. Them witches ran around, messin' up the livestock, withering the crops and corruptin' the men-folk with their way-too-sexy bodies and way-too-radical ideas. Come to think of it, these women bear a peculiar resemblance to some a them? Hmm...
Anyhow, Ulli Lommel he come out here and shoots this film, not too disimilar from our small (ahem) New England lives. I think its supposed to be some allegory about how people oughtn't judge others for being different (think I read something about that somewhere), and how hysteria is never in short supply when superstition outweighs reason and ration, and how ugly truths are often better hidden underneath rhetoric and lies - but I don't know.
Its hard to get past this whole Wisconsin for New England thing. Plus, can't say the acting is da greatest in this little film, ya. I mean, aside from this Donald Pleasance character, its a little sparse in der. The plot takes a while to develop, but ya know, it gets pretty tense. I mean, I don't really see the connection in what we did to them ladies and what them New Englanders did to tha witches, but whatever brings da cows home. Crazy German filmmakers should be out tendin' the livestock, not making pseudo-artsy horror films.
So dats my story. Have a good day.
Showing posts with label scythes and digestion (critique). Show all posts
Showing posts with label scythes and digestion (critique). Show all posts
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Friday, December 12, 2008
..and the streets will run technicolor with their grue (Street Trash)
They called me a lunatic. They said I was a fool, but I was there I tell ya. They said "look at the crazy old bum." Well, I might be a little eccentric, but I ain't crazy.
Y'see, these kids lived down in the junkyard that fat fuck ran. They had a sweet setup - a bit hard to believe how clever that setup was - but I guess them Gilligan's Island people did some crazy, ingenious shit too. These kids are real connivers, scamps. They eke out an existence by themselves cause their folks went crazy.
Older bro Fred, see he's a wildcat - fuckin' round with the local homeless; stealin', scammin', whatever floats his boat. But the younger kid Kevin, he ain't so good at it, so his older bro gets down on him. The little kid also hangs with this cute Asian chick (She got a crush on him, so I hear. Can't imagine how that works him bein' all filthy and whatnot) that's employed by the junkyard.
Across the fence though, is this wack-job Bronson - a real Vietnam headcase who runs the bum show. They let him push 'em around cause he's meaner than a cock-punched wolverine (he scared the shit outta me, lemme tell 'ya). He's got lieutenants like Wizzy; all nasty nutjob drunks. Don't blame 'em neither.
So this fat fuck Ed who runs the cheapie liquor store finds this crate of shit - Tenafly Viper - in his basement. Shit's gotta be 60 fuckin' years old. He sells it cheap. The real trouble starts when Fred pinches a bottle of it.
Turns out the shit's toxic (thought things got better with age, guess not cheap-jack liquor). Fred's bottle gets swiped by Paulie, one of Bronson's charges. He hides out on this old toilet, and from what I heard he just melts into this multicolored goo. Messed up shit!
From there, everything goes to shit. We got a he-man cop rovin' the streets, lookin' to put the squeeze on Bronson. Crazy mobsters and their drunken girlfriends runnin' around the place. Hell, some poor SOB even gets his John Hancock lopped off, and the nasty assholes play fuckin' keep away. Can you believe it!
I tell you, it may not be the most coherent shit I ever heard, but it sure is a crazy time. I wouldn't believed it if I ain't seen it with my own eyes. It's a gruesome spectacle, but one that I'll never forget. Swear to Holy Christ, if they ever made a movie about it, I'd probably watch it. Although I can't imagine it would make much sense, but I bet they'd get good special effects an' hopefully cast actors that don't suck at all.
I ain't yankin' your chain. It's all the Goddamn truth. I was there to see it. Not a bad little story, eh. Now, how about it bud, can you spare some change?
Y'see, these kids lived down in the junkyard that fat fuck ran. They had a sweet setup - a bit hard to believe how clever that setup was - but I guess them Gilligan's Island people did some crazy, ingenious shit too. These kids are real connivers, scamps. They eke out an existence by themselves cause their folks went crazy.
Older bro Fred, see he's a wildcat - fuckin' round with the local homeless; stealin', scammin', whatever floats his boat. But the younger kid Kevin, he ain't so good at it, so his older bro gets down on him. The little kid also hangs with this cute Asian chick (She got a crush on him, so I hear. Can't imagine how that works him bein' all filthy and whatnot) that's employed by the junkyard.
Across the fence though, is this wack-job Bronson - a real Vietnam headcase who runs the bum show. They let him push 'em around cause he's meaner than a cock-punched wolverine (he scared the shit outta me, lemme tell 'ya). He's got lieutenants like Wizzy; all nasty nutjob drunks. Don't blame 'em neither.
So this fat fuck Ed who runs the cheapie liquor store finds this crate of shit - Tenafly Viper - in his basement. Shit's gotta be 60 fuckin' years old. He sells it cheap. The real trouble starts when Fred pinches a bottle of it.
Turns out the shit's toxic (thought things got better with age, guess not cheap-jack liquor). Fred's bottle gets swiped by Paulie, one of Bronson's charges. He hides out on this old toilet, and from what I heard he just melts into this multicolored goo. Messed up shit!
From there, everything goes to shit. We got a he-man cop rovin' the streets, lookin' to put the squeeze on Bronson. Crazy mobsters and their drunken girlfriends runnin' around the place. Hell, some poor SOB even gets his John Hancock lopped off, and the nasty assholes play fuckin' keep away. Can you believe it!
I tell you, it may not be the most coherent shit I ever heard, but it sure is a crazy time. I wouldn't believed it if I ain't seen it with my own eyes. It's a gruesome spectacle, but one that I'll never forget. Swear to Holy Christ, if they ever made a movie about it, I'd probably watch it. Although I can't imagine it would make much sense, but I bet they'd get good special effects an' hopefully cast actors that don't suck at all.
I ain't yankin' your chain. It's all the Goddamn truth. I was there to see it. Not a bad little story, eh. Now, how about it bud, can you spare some change?
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Grand Guignol and the Art of Canned Ham (Theater of Blood)
"Can you imagine it?"
"Imagine what?" she said looking coy.
"Ok, you like a good horror flick, right?" I raised my eyebrows.
"Does the pope wear a stupid hat?"
"Depends on your perspective, I suppose. But if I were to grossly generalize your average horror film - emphasis on average - tends to be a touch underdone, right?"
"And that's a bad thing?" she shrugged.
"Also perspective dependent."
"Touche."
"And depending on what you consider low-brow, if you consider it to be bad, per se -"
"Quit being so goddamn middle of the road."
"Ok. But for the sake or argument, let's take your average viewer. Movies with a gore quotient (say on the Gore Score levels) above five, tend to be shafted in favor of psychological or "scary" films.
"I suppose your average Jane Six-pack (sic), when faced with a double feature option of Evil Dead and The Haunting would prefer The Haunting, probably."
"What if there were movies that had both high art and solid sanguinary spills?"
"I'd say it was made in the seventies in all likelihood."
"Correct you are. It's called Theater of Blood. It's a movie that takes a solid list of ingredients: good cast (Vincent Price, Diana Rigg, Ian Hendry, etc.), an amusing script and clever direction - plus a tongue well tucked into cheek - and utilizes them for an optimum cinematic effect.
"Spill it," she winked.
"Well, everyone knows the dichotomy of artist and critic; it's a love-hate sort of thing. Of course, the people who hate critics more than any other are the artists, writers, directors, etc. who find their work constantly defiled by wretched reviews.
"In seventies England, no one suffers the wrath of the critics more than Edward Lionheart. His Shakespearean company is drug over hot coals and razor wire by the entire Critics Circle - the poshest of the posh critics. When he loses their coveted Critics Choice award to a 'neophyte,' he can no longer bear it, and lavishes the critics with a hammy rendition of Hamlet before plunging off their penthouse balcony to his death."
"Brutal."
"Indeed. Sometime later, members of the Circle begin to die in horrible fashions. Their deaths are inspired by the gory demises fashioned by Shakespeare himself. Of course, everyone would suspect Lionheart, save the buffering factor of his own corporeal end."
"So did you just pull spoiler on me, or is it a punch-less who-done-it?"
"Oh, it's no mystery. Now I admit, this film does have a few flaws - such as the fact that no one bothered to look into Lionheart's demise more thoroughly. Also, his ability to escape from dramatic assaults takes some suspension of disbelief. Although they do manage to eschew much of it to his mad brilliance. Of course, the biggest curiosity - not a technical one anyhow - is how a man of such charismatic intelligence manages not to realize that he's a corny, scene-chewer of epic proportions."
"You know men and their egotistical pride."
"So there are some flaws, a couple of plot holes, but -"
"But..."
"Put it this way, the film's pluses distinctly outweigh its negatives."
"Such as?"
"Well, I already mentioned the stellar acting. Diana Rigg (Emma Peel from the Avengers) is ravishing and her acting is subtle, yet lush - at times. Handry and a cast of veteran thesps. also provide solid and fascinating characters, between the haute couture Circle and the befuddled police.
"But the true feast is our consummate chiller actor Mr. Price. Its a perfect role for a man of his ability and he takes the ham-sandwich and transforms it into gourmet fare. Of course all ready known for chewing the occasional scene (brilliantly!) he becomes the maw of a black hole - enveloping our attention.
"In addition to thespic glory, it has superb set design and the set pieces abound with sublime Shakespearean menace. And does the stage ever run red. We have surgically severed heads, impalings and the odd electrocution - all wickedly executed.
"Director Douglas Hickcox knows how to pace a film as well. The veteran auteur sets up solid camera angles and framing to create proper menace and spectacle. Writer Anthony Greville-Bell's gallows humor plays well off the pomposity of the major characters and also the suspenseful under- and overtones. They really pull off a genuinely entertaining story on top of everything else.
"Plus, I'll never forget the disgusted looks Lionheart shoots his assistant during the bedroom surgery. Classic!"
She looked at me with piqued interest.
"If I didn't know any better, I would have thought you were reviewing it."
"Yeah I suppose so."
"Sounds like a hell of a horror-comedy, though. And I don't use that combination lightly. Where can I find it?"
"It's out on DVD (MGM's Midnight Movies imprint - some impressive films, thoroughly unimpressive features). Shouldn't be to hard to find. But, since you're my friend, I'll lend you my copy."
"Thank you kindly, I look forward to the massacre."
"As well you ought to."
"Imagine what?" she said looking coy.
"Ok, you like a good horror flick, right?" I raised my eyebrows.
"Does the pope wear a stupid hat?"
"Depends on your perspective, I suppose. But if I were to grossly generalize your average horror film - emphasis on average - tends to be a touch underdone, right?"
"And that's a bad thing?" she shrugged.
"Also perspective dependent."
"Touche."
"And depending on what you consider low-brow, if you consider it to be bad, per se -"
"Quit being so goddamn middle of the road."
"Ok. But for the sake or argument, let's take your average viewer. Movies with a gore quotient (say on the Gore Score levels) above five, tend to be shafted in favor of psychological or "scary" films.
"I suppose your average Jane Six-pack (sic), when faced with a double feature option of Evil Dead and The Haunting would prefer The Haunting, probably."
"What if there were movies that had both high art and solid sanguinary spills?"
"I'd say it was made in the seventies in all likelihood."
"Correct you are. It's called Theater of Blood. It's a movie that takes a solid list of ingredients: good cast (Vincent Price, Diana Rigg, Ian Hendry, etc.), an amusing script and clever direction - plus a tongue well tucked into cheek - and utilizes them for an optimum cinematic effect.
"Spill it," she winked.
"Well, everyone knows the dichotomy of artist and critic; it's a love-hate sort of thing. Of course, the people who hate critics more than any other are the artists, writers, directors, etc. who find their work constantly defiled by wretched reviews.
"In seventies England, no one suffers the wrath of the critics more than Edward Lionheart. His Shakespearean company is drug over hot coals and razor wire by the entire Critics Circle - the poshest of the posh critics. When he loses their coveted Critics Choice award to a 'neophyte,' he can no longer bear it, and lavishes the critics with a hammy rendition of Hamlet before plunging off their penthouse balcony to his death."
"Brutal."
"Indeed. Sometime later, members of the Circle begin to die in horrible fashions. Their deaths are inspired by the gory demises fashioned by Shakespeare himself. Of course, everyone would suspect Lionheart, save the buffering factor of his own corporeal end."
"So did you just pull spoiler on me, or is it a punch-less who-done-it?"
"Oh, it's no mystery. Now I admit, this film does have a few flaws - such as the fact that no one bothered to look into Lionheart's demise more thoroughly. Also, his ability to escape from dramatic assaults takes some suspension of disbelief. Although they do manage to eschew much of it to his mad brilliance. Of course, the biggest curiosity - not a technical one anyhow - is how a man of such charismatic intelligence manages not to realize that he's a corny, scene-chewer of epic proportions."
"You know men and their egotistical pride."
"So there are some flaws, a couple of plot holes, but -"
"But..."
"Put it this way, the film's pluses distinctly outweigh its negatives."
"Such as?"
"Well, I already mentioned the stellar acting. Diana Rigg (Emma Peel from the Avengers) is ravishing and her acting is subtle, yet lush - at times. Handry and a cast of veteran thesps. also provide solid and fascinating characters, between the haute couture Circle and the befuddled police.
"But the true feast is our consummate chiller actor Mr. Price. Its a perfect role for a man of his ability and he takes the ham-sandwich and transforms it into gourmet fare. Of course all ready known for chewing the occasional scene (brilliantly!) he becomes the maw of a black hole - enveloping our attention.
"In addition to thespic glory, it has superb set design and the set pieces abound with sublime Shakespearean menace. And does the stage ever run red. We have surgically severed heads, impalings and the odd electrocution - all wickedly executed.
"Director Douglas Hickcox knows how to pace a film as well. The veteran auteur sets up solid camera angles and framing to create proper menace and spectacle. Writer Anthony Greville-Bell's gallows humor plays well off the pomposity of the major characters and also the suspenseful under- and overtones. They really pull off a genuinely entertaining story on top of everything else.
"Plus, I'll never forget the disgusted looks Lionheart shoots his assistant during the bedroom surgery. Classic!"
She looked at me with piqued interest.
"If I didn't know any better, I would have thought you were reviewing it."
"Yeah I suppose so."
"Sounds like a hell of a horror-comedy, though. And I don't use that combination lightly. Where can I find it?"
"It's out on DVD (MGM's Midnight Movies imprint - some impressive films, thoroughly unimpressive features). Shouldn't be to hard to find. But, since you're my friend, I'll lend you my copy."
"Thank you kindly, I look forward to the massacre."
"As well you ought to."
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Nostalgic for Splatter (Hatchet)
Let me tell you a little story. You may or may not remember it as well as I do. Maybe you remember it better. In any case, beware, for this is a temporally situated tale. Let me lay the foundation for you.
It was the vainglorious 80s. An era by and large that was all about being rich, getting shitty haircuts and doing a lot of coke (or Quaaludes, if you preferred) - the milieu of trickle down economics, teflon coated figureheads and Cyndi Lauper. One of the few things that actually, from time to time, kicked the generally stagnant, homogeneous culture in the happy-sacks, was horror films (and yes, I'm aware of how homogeneous they could be as well, but at least they had a picante flavor). The most prevalent of these was the slasher - reigning overlord of 80s horror. Love them, loathe them, shove them up the MPAAs ass, you couldn't avoid them. They were omnipresent. They shook their gory junk in your face - The Burning, Friday the 13th, Evil Dead, Nightmares in a Damaged Brain, etc., etc. The type of film that gave Tipper Gore PR hardons to go with her nightmares (despite the fact I've never actually met gore hounds that actually went on to KILL someone!)
But sadly, as the mullets receded into small towns, as hair metal fell to seattle sound and political correctness ingratiated itself as newspeak, horror films of this variety split for the crotchety hills Kandarian demons came from. Occasionally, during the 90s, splatter would rear its ugly head. Dead Alive, Darkness, The Johnsons (Neatherlands) - films like this stoked the fires as best they could, but for the most part, horror was flapping in the breeze like a Central Park pervert. Cheesy thrillers and weak sequels weren't enough (although I still have a soft, squishy spot in my heart for Jason Goes to Hell - unrated of course). Scream, despite varying opinions, did help renew latent interest in the genre, but it was limited to smart-assed, yawn-inducing knock-offs of the ...Last Summer variety. But somewhere in our collective cinematic unconscious, ancient tape-based chants were playing. The woods would fill with blood once more. Of course we had to wait for tame PG-13 "fright" films and lame J-horror remakes to slough off, but the red tide built steadily off-shore.
Hooray!
I heartily thank the new perveyors of B & G & T & A. Suddenly, those of us who grew up on grue, struck back from directors chairs and typewriters (well, word processing programs anyhow). The crimson surf hit with full force, taking our entrails with it. Amongst the many responsible was Adam Green. He represents the true believers of the splatter world and his film Hatchet resounds with homage, pastiche and resplendant love for a much-maligned genre.
Unfortunately, it never came to a theater near me. I thereby missed out on surround sound squishiness (and the entertaining to a point audience participation). I was stuck with my couch and my off-color television, late New Years Day ('08). I was nursing a brutal hangover on top of it - ironically from New Years Day rather than Eve. But I was far from deterred. I sat there all alone, laughing, squirming on occasion and yelping 'Fuck yeah' as the blood gushed.
The story is simple, to the point. Students partake in the standard Mardi Gras festivities. Our protagonist Ben, is nursing his aching heart (after a recent break-up) and bores with the festivities. He convinces his friend Marcus (reluctantly) to voyage into the haunted bayou with a ragtag gaggle of touristas. According to local legend, a deformed child was accidentally killed by his father some years ago. Now he prowls the woods, filled with malevolent, spectral rage, searching for any unfortunate trespassers. As you may have guessed, the folklore is anything but, and things go awry - big time.
Hatchet is a slasher film with its rudimentary elements in place, but also well aware of their surroundings. While it eschews the trite, hyper self-awareness of late 90s slashers, it maintains its brain along with its guts (mmm...brains). And what guts it has. This is not a movie for those shy of the sanguinary arts. It reaches down your gullet and garrotes you with your own intestines - in an SFX manner of speaking. Hatchet also has a fair share of suspense and good old jumps, elevating it far above numerous other slashers of a similar ilk.
Admittedly, not all the gags work to perfection, but it mingles low brow with insider winks and dry humor rather well. Its sensibly self-aware, tossing in juicy nuggets for horror fans without being off-putting to the casual viewer. But let's face it, even though the neophyte can enjoy it, this movie was made for us ravenous splatter fans. It contains some marvelous genre cameos and bit parts - Robert Englund as a redneck, Tony Todd as, well, Tony Todd in a top hat. Another bonus is solid casting (I know, I was as shocked a you were). While some of the actors are better than others, the main cast is well above average - especially for a slasher. But most of all, this film makes me misty for those cool, spring afternoons spent waiting at the old IGA for my friend's mother to finish shopping. We'd sift through the spinning racks, lusting after the most carnage-drenched titles, hoping we could convince her to rent them. Hatchet invokes the little ghoul inside me that never forgot the bountiful joys that a few practical effects and a shitload of Karo syrup brought. For that, I salute you Mr. Green, from the bottom of my fiendish heart.
Now, where did I put that machete.
It was the vainglorious 80s. An era by and large that was all about being rich, getting shitty haircuts and doing a lot of coke (or Quaaludes, if you preferred) - the milieu of trickle down economics, teflon coated figureheads and Cyndi Lauper. One of the few things that actually, from time to time, kicked the generally stagnant, homogeneous culture in the happy-sacks, was horror films (and yes, I'm aware of how homogeneous they could be as well, but at least they had a picante flavor). The most prevalent of these was the slasher - reigning overlord of 80s horror. Love them, loathe them, shove them up the MPAAs ass, you couldn't avoid them. They were omnipresent. They shook their gory junk in your face - The Burning, Friday the 13th, Evil Dead, Nightmares in a Damaged Brain, etc., etc. The type of film that gave Tipper Gore PR hardons to go with her nightmares (despite the fact I've never actually met gore hounds that actually went on to KILL someone!)
But sadly, as the mullets receded into small towns, as hair metal fell to seattle sound and political correctness ingratiated itself as newspeak, horror films of this variety split for the crotchety hills Kandarian demons came from. Occasionally, during the 90s, splatter would rear its ugly head. Dead Alive, Darkness, The Johnsons (Neatherlands) - films like this stoked the fires as best they could, but for the most part, horror was flapping in the breeze like a Central Park pervert. Cheesy thrillers and weak sequels weren't enough (although I still have a soft, squishy spot in my heart for Jason Goes to Hell - unrated of course). Scream, despite varying opinions, did help renew latent interest in the genre, but it was limited to smart-assed, yawn-inducing knock-offs of the ...Last Summer variety. But somewhere in our collective cinematic unconscious, ancient tape-based chants were playing. The woods would fill with blood once more. Of course we had to wait for tame PG-13 "fright" films and lame J-horror remakes to slough off, but the red tide built steadily off-shore.
Hooray!
I heartily thank the new perveyors of B & G & T & A. Suddenly, those of us who grew up on grue, struck back from directors chairs and typewriters (well, word processing programs anyhow). The crimson surf hit with full force, taking our entrails with it. Amongst the many responsible was Adam Green. He represents the true believers of the splatter world and his film Hatchet resounds with homage, pastiche and resplendant love for a much-maligned genre.
Unfortunately, it never came to a theater near me. I thereby missed out on surround sound squishiness (and the entertaining to a point audience participation). I was stuck with my couch and my off-color television, late New Years Day ('08). I was nursing a brutal hangover on top of it - ironically from New Years Day rather than Eve. But I was far from deterred. I sat there all alone, laughing, squirming on occasion and yelping 'Fuck yeah' as the blood gushed.
The story is simple, to the point. Students partake in the standard Mardi Gras festivities. Our protagonist Ben, is nursing his aching heart (after a recent break-up) and bores with the festivities. He convinces his friend Marcus (reluctantly) to voyage into the haunted bayou with a ragtag gaggle of touristas. According to local legend, a deformed child was accidentally killed by his father some years ago. Now he prowls the woods, filled with malevolent, spectral rage, searching for any unfortunate trespassers. As you may have guessed, the folklore is anything but, and things go awry - big time.
Hatchet is a slasher film with its rudimentary elements in place, but also well aware of their surroundings. While it eschews the trite, hyper self-awareness of late 90s slashers, it maintains its brain along with its guts (mmm...brains). And what guts it has. This is not a movie for those shy of the sanguinary arts. It reaches down your gullet and garrotes you with your own intestines - in an SFX manner of speaking. Hatchet also has a fair share of suspense and good old jumps, elevating it far above numerous other slashers of a similar ilk.
Admittedly, not all the gags work to perfection, but it mingles low brow with insider winks and dry humor rather well. Its sensibly self-aware, tossing in juicy nuggets for horror fans without being off-putting to the casual viewer. But let's face it, even though the neophyte can enjoy it, this movie was made for us ravenous splatter fans. It contains some marvelous genre cameos and bit parts - Robert Englund as a redneck, Tony Todd as, well, Tony Todd in a top hat. Another bonus is solid casting (I know, I was as shocked a you were). While some of the actors are better than others, the main cast is well above average - especially for a slasher. But most of all, this film makes me misty for those cool, spring afternoons spent waiting at the old IGA for my friend's mother to finish shopping. We'd sift through the spinning racks, lusting after the most carnage-drenched titles, hoping we could convince her to rent them. Hatchet invokes the little ghoul inside me that never forgot the bountiful joys that a few practical effects and a shitload of Karo syrup brought. For that, I salute you Mr. Green, from the bottom of my fiendish heart.
Now, where did I put that machete.
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