Tuesday, July 5, 2016

uphill gardening.

Torture Garden (1967).
Director: Freddie Francis.
Cast: Burgess Meredith, Michael Bryant, Maurice Denham, Beverly Adams, Barbara Ewing, John Standing, Jack Palance, David Bauer, Robert Hutton, John Phillips, Clytie Jessop and Peter Cushing.

Cabbage reeking carnie 'Doctor' Dave Diablo (Meredith, dressed in his - unwashed - Penguin hand me downs) has a frightening exhibit to share with the few lucky punters that can fit inside his frankly embarrassingly studio bound tent, an exhibit that fully exposes the depths of man's inherent inhumanity and badness and is guaranteed to make even the bravest soul fill his trousers.

But all of this fades into insignificance when compared the terrifyingly piss poor waxworks that anyone unlucky enough to enter his tent has to endure first.

Five brave B-list celebs are persuaded to enter his den of delights of which the centrepiece is, disappointingly a dining chair with some wires attached to the base upon which sits a scabby shop window dummy in polyester flares.

Luckily for Diablo either they're all easily amused or there must have been nowt on the telly that night because the crowd are utterly captivated by his over the top musings, marvellous hat and homemade 'electric chair' and are more than happy to part with a fiver each for the once in a lifetime chance to travel up his dingy back passage and experience (as Dr. D puts it) the most horrific thing they will ever see.

Which it turns out is a rather harsh faced, pendulous breasted wax gypsy wielding a pair of gardening shears (the fantastically named Clytie Jessop who also features in The Innocents and Hammers 1964 snoozefest Nightmare alongside big screen Doctor Who tottie Jennie Linden).

Each to there own I guess.

"Come clap the goat!"

But, the Doc explains, this is no ordinary waxwork pikey oh no, because it can in fact predict the future.

But who will be brave enough to face it's blades?

Leather jacketed beige bad boy about town Colin (Brit Teevee stalwart Bryant) is the first to volunteer, and after a mysterious dose of sweaty sex face and crash zooms finds himself outside the cottage of his ailing, wheelchair bound and urine stained Uncle Roger (alcoholic Time Lord Azmael himself, Denham).

It appears that Colin is your typical ne'er do well; jobless, skint and obsessed with pub lunches, fondue parties and tottie whose only interest in his uncle is to get his smooth, almost ladylike hands on the old man's inheritance.

Uncle Roger has other ideas tho' and is insistent that money isn't everything and all Colin needs to do to be happy is to live his life more considerately and maybe even get a job.

Tho' being a rich old sod he would say that wouldn't he?

Desperate for the cash, our Colin starts to stamp his feet and shout a bit, causing poor Roger to clutch his chest whilst making vaguely erotic (for an old man that is) 'love you long time five dollar' sucky mouth movements.

Seems poor Rog has a weak heart (but fantastic rectal muscles) and is trying to get his nephew to give him his medicine but Colin, either thru' badness or thru' being hypnotised by the sight of an elderly cripples blow job face just stands there and watches him die.

A sexy old man
(possibly named Roger) yesterday.

Even more angry than normal plus now sexually frustrated after his uncle's impromptu sex show and still desperate for the money, Colin starts to ransack the house looking for the hidden loot.

After what seems like an eternity of watching his smash china tea sets, rummage thru' hundreds of pairs of skid marked big pants and empty old copies of Razzle onto the floor Colin comes across a hidden cellar entrance under his uncle's bed.

Descending into the darkness he finds a dirty spade lying across a fresh mound of earth taking this as a sign of where the cash is hidden Colin begins to dig, soon finding a battered old coffin.

With pound signs ker-chinging in his eyes and thoughts of silk cravats filling his head Colin excitedly pries open the lid expecting to find a massive wad of money inside. Imagine his surprise then when out pops a boss eyed black cat called Raymond (or something).

But this is no ordinary cat, turns out this moggy has devilish mind powers (no, really) and has a proposition to make to Colin.

It seems that Uncle Roger was employed by the cat to do certain tasks for him in return for money (it's not what you think, unfortunately) and offers Colin the same deal.

All Colin has to do is murder a few passing punters to keep the cat supplied with his food of choice....

Human heads!

And no, I am not making any of this up.

"Suck mah Werthers!"

Intrigued by what Colin has experienced, bullet breasted wannabe actress Carla (one time arse revealing Dean Martin co-star Adams) stands before the dirty Gypo to see her future....

Cue that crash bang cum face effect.

Carla it seems will do anything to achieve fame and fortune in Hollywood, even if it means destroying her bubbly blonde flatmates party dress minutes before she's due to meet slick haired yet flaccid manbreasted director Mike Charles, and them going on the date herself.

He's about seventy so a lucky escape for her mate me thinks.

Arriving at the restaurant they immediately (well it is an anthology movie, time is of the essence) bump into movie God Bruce Benton (
pencil 'tached cousin of Woolworth heiress Barbara Hutton and star of Can Heironymus Merkin Ever Forget Mercy Humppe and Find True Happiness? Robert Hutton) and his producer pal Eddie Storm (Phillips from The Onedin Line) and, seeing as it's Hollywood a big bitching session ensues between Storm and Charles over a few glasses of Babycham, leaving Bruce and Carla to get better acquainted.

"Let's get naked and play ping pong!"

Charles wants a new picture deal but Storm thinks he's past it (which is a wee bit rich seeing as he's about seventy three himself) but Charlie boy has an ace up his sleeve, you see he knows the secret of Bruce's success in the movies and he's threatening to tell anyone who'll listen.

With that he flounces off to a seedy bar to get drunk.

Predictably Charles is soon 'silenced' by a rat faced barman on orders from Eddie whilst Carla's luck seems to just get better and better seeing as she get's cast as the female lead in leathery Bruce's new movie without having to let an old man stick it in her.

Finding herself falling for the old fashioned charms (and wobbly turkey neck) of Bruce she becomes suspicious when he seems to cold shoulder her every attempt at seduction with a reply of "I'm not like other men....it's how I stay on top" before sneaking off for meetings with Eddie.

Now you or I might take that as a subtle way of him saying he's gay, but remember that this is the sixties, long before homosexuality was invented leaving Carla no alternative but to follow him home one night.

She only makes it as far as the car park tho' before some butch looking bruisers bundle Benton into the back of a car and drive off, stopping only to shoot him in the head and dump his body on a grass verge.


Eddie persuades Carla to help him get Bruce to a special hospital where he can get the best treatment but Carla isn't too sure that'll help. Maybe it's the huge fuck off hole in his temple or the fact that he's not breathing that has convinced her that he's actually dead.


Imagine her surprise the next morning when he turns up to work on time and with no visible signs of injury.

Carla is determined to discover the bizarre truth at any cost....*

Excited by her friend Carla's sweaty face, doe eyed, chisel chinned yet strangely attractive Dorothy (posh totty Ewing) is next to stare into the shears of fate.

A plummy journalist for a high brow music Dorothy finds herself interviewing famous concert pianist and professional fop Leo Winston (Standing last seen in The Shadow in The North alongside Jared Harris and Phil Cornwell of all people).

Falling for his fey charms and smooth, ladylike hands, she soon has Leo tickling more than just the ivories, much to his butch managers chagrin.

Oh, and then his piano starts to get jealous culminating in possibly the most bizarre stalk and slash scene ever committed to celluloid when it leaps out on poor Dorothy after hiding behind a door then pushes her out of the window.

Whilst playing Chopins Funeral March.

Honest guv.

"Roll up! Roll up! and give the Gypsy a
mooth shite-in she'll never forget!"

Lastly professional sexy bitch and rabid Edgar Allen Poe fan Ronald Wyatt (the mighty Sir Jack of Palance) approaches the stand (where the gypsy is situated, not the Stephen King book obviously).

Finding himself at a special viewing of rival Poe nut Lancelot Canning's (Cushing) private collection, all he can do is sweat over the books and fawn at Canning's feet (or is it the other way around?) whilst managing to wrangle an invite to Lance's house to get pissed and maybe if he's lucky, steal some stuff.

What follows is an incestuous tale of two middle aged men sitting in big comfy leather armchairs knocking back Sherry like there's no tomorrow, with each hoping the other gets sweaty and naked first.


After some top quality drunk acting from Cushing (who manages to make even a cravat and cable knit jumper sexy) Wyatt, high on love and cheap booze can't believe his luck when Canning allows him access to his secret chamber and thrusts something long and leathery into his sweaty sausages hands, an unpublished manuscript written by Poe.

On modern writing paper.

Confused, yet strangely aroused, Wyatt is determined to find the source of the text.

Could Poe still be alive, locked in a secret room just out of shot?

"Put it in me!"

Master of the threadbare anthology Freddie Francis brings his usual deft touch to this, the second (and little seen) of the Amicus horror cycle which, tho' lacking the flair (and budget) of the later Dr. Terrors House of Horrors or Tales From The Crypt is still an enjoyable way to waste an evening.

Which is nice for those of you who are easily pleased or enjoy the sight of an actor like Jack Palance sweatily leering over Peter Cushing's arse everytime he bends down, buxom posh birds being attacked by string instruments or tramps being run thru' with pitchforks for a laugh.

The script, knocked together in a few drunken hours by horror hack Robert Bloch skips along at such a pace, cramming in enough totally bonkers idea's into it's two hour running time that you can forgive the odd lapse in acting, effects or storytelling (of which there are many) and just go with the flow whilst the poverty row studio bound feel of the production actually add to it's dreamlike quality.

Except the Hollywood segment which frankly is just bollocks no matter how drunk you are.

Admit it tho', if you're reading this then you already own it don't you?

*They're all robots if you're wondering.

Monday, July 4, 2016

people you fancy but shouldn't (part 59).

Emily Woodrow, no-nonsense single mother of three, waitress and
part-time church organist from Preacher as played by Lucy Griffiths.

the last rezort.

Came across this on the festival circuit last month.

Was expecting it to be shite.

But guess what?

The ReZort (AKA Generation Z, 2015).
Dir: Steve Barker.
Cast: Dougray Scott, Jessica De Gouw, Martin McCann, Richard Laing, Jassa Ahluwalia, Sam Douglas, Bentley Kalu, Claire Goose, Shane Zaza, Elen Rhys, Robert Firth, Sean Power, Rebecca James, Jamie Ward and Catarina Mira.

“Every apocalypse deserves an after party!”

Welcome to the world of post zombie apocalypse Britain, were every street looks like Glasgow on a wet Wednesday afternoon (albeit with the addition of some CGI big wheels) where a pesky virus has killed a third of the human race before bringing them back as piss-stained flesh-tearing zombies.

Just like Glasgow then.

Luckily for us (and the film's budget) the war 'tween the living and the dead has been fought and won, the virus controlled and the remaining dead contained.

Tho' it has left Europe with a massive refugee problem.

A zombie outbreak yup but Europe getting upset by refugees? Now the plot has got a wee bit far-fetched.

Anyway a pretty canny entrepreneur called Penelope Wilton (Brit TeeVee stalwart Goose) has taken advantage of the situation transforming a zombie-ridden island in the Mediterranean into a high-class holiday resort catering for people wanting to unleash their aggression by hunting the undead.

Sun, sea, sand, sex and wholesale slaughter.

Which if I'm honest sounds pretty bloody perfect.

Except for the sun bit.

and the sea.

But I digress.
Heading off to the island on the recommendation of her psychiatrist is the wistful Mel (Council estate Shauna Macdonald De Gouw from the Sky One remake of Dracula), a dew-eyed china-doll of a gal who is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder after losing her family during the crisis.
I'm assuming that they got eaten and that she didn't misplace them behind the sofa or something, tho' either works for me.
Along for the ride (well she is paying) is her boyfriend Lewis (Ripper Street's McCann),  a former soldier who's swapped a life of zombie slaying for gazing longingly at his girlfriend whilst wearing a variety of sensible jumpers.

You can see why he's offered to join her on her journey of healing.
Arriving at the airport our depressing duo soon meet to meet up with their fellow travellers; Sadie - a woman who was jilted on her wedding day (the yumsome Rhys, star of World War Z and the actress voted Wales' 30th sexiest woman in 2009), some photo-fit business types, Yoofspeak spouting simpletons Jack and Mike (Ahluwalia and Ward) and a grumpy, Fred Perry clad Scotsman named Archer (Scott).
You got all that?
Good, now we can begin the film good and proper.

Thoughts of a zombie apocalypse and friends long gone or just realised that she's left the gas on....you decide.

Arriving at the resort (which resembles Jurassic Park if built by Butlins)our merry band start having fun, jigging away to a sub-techno-school disco DJ (what no Agadoo?) whilst a (power) suited and booted Wilton gives then the lowdown on the (undead) showdown as a manacled mop-haired monster snarls and snaps at her from the stage for maximum effect.

The crowd (as they say) goes wild.

Except for Mel who, if at all possible gazes at the slowly setting sun in a more wistful fashion than ever before.

"Yall nevah git ye honds ahn mah tattie scones!"

But as the holidaymakers party into the wee small no one notices save Archer (he's most definitely a canny Scotsman) when Sadie sneaks away from group and heads into the bowels of the resort and begins tampering with the islands computers before returning to her room with a hard drive full of who knows what.

Up bright and early the next morn to begin a day of shooting zombie the happy holiday folk are blissfully unaware of the panic and confusion raging below as the resorts computer systems slowly splutter and grind to a halt.

As the behind the scenes mayhem escalates our merry band continue to enjoy themselves shooting shackled zombies from a safe distance finally setting up camp atop a hill where they can enjoy a beer, a barbecue and a bit more blasting as the sun sets.

And it's as everyone is enjoying a cosy night under the stars that the inevitable finally happens.

Yup, all the security protocols, electric fences and other assorted safety measures turn themselves off.

Shit even the hot water stops working.

Awoken by the low moans (and putrid smell) of the undead as they shuffle - fairly quickly it must be said - toward the camp the gang, Archer reveals himself to be a hard as fuck killing machine to whom the zombie war never ended, standing purposely astride a Jeep as his clinically despatches the approaching hordes in a style reminiscent of sex god Paul Darrow* during a particularly kinky Blakes 7 episode as the others run around shouting "We're doomed!" whilst dropping guns on the floor.
"Shite in mah undead mooth!"

Assuming command of the group he vows to lead them to safety - or at least the nearest chip shop - but with the islands emergency protocols activated and a squad of bomb-laden jets heading their way time is running out.....
From Steve Barker who gave us the Govan-based gore-bore Outpost comes a surprisingly effective take on the zombie genre that offsets its low budget with big ideas making you think as to why no-one has attempted anything similar before.

Wearing its Michael Crichton influences on it's bloodied and torn sleeve like a badge of honour whilst throwing in knowing winks to past classics (there's a lovely Zombie Creeping Flesh reference), The Rezort is confidently directed, nicely cast and with some nicely under-stated perforrmances from the majority of the cast.
Scott is especially great in what could have been a tedious, one note role whilst  Martin McCann bravely underplays boyfriend Martin adding real depth to what is essentially a quickly sketched character.

Yes the reveal - and by default the films message - is a wee bit heavy handed but when the previous 80-odd minutes have been so entertaining you can forgive the film-makers being a wee bit preachy.

Plus when the only criticism of a movie is that you wish the cast and crew had a bigger budget to totally realise their ideas then it can't be that bad.

Elen Rhys - milky thighs not shown.

Well worth seeking out, The Rezort shows that the spirit of Nigel Kneale is still alive and kicking in these terrifying times of popcorn horrors.
*Yes Scott is really that sexy during these scenes

Sunday, July 3, 2016

mummy's boy.

Our local pound shop has become a veritable Mecca for top quality movies since they had Ghosts of Sherwood in stock....looks like I'm in for a long and joyful summer.

Especially seeing as work-wise I've drawn everything humanly possible to draw so am at a loose end.

But where to start? 

Resurrection of The Mummy (2014).
Dir: Patrick McManus.
Cast: Stuart Rigby, Lauren Bronleewe, Bailey Gaddis, Sarah Schreiber, Alena Savostikova, Elizabeth Friedman and Jessie Paddock.

"He's my Dad!"
“let’s hope so. You can never really know for sure who anybody is.”

Somewhere in a disused quarry quite near to director Patrick (birthday parties a speciality) McManus' house gangle-limbed amateur tomb raider cum part-time arse bandit Professor Terry Tralane (Rigby from Meet the Spartans) is taking time out of his busy schedule to admire a plastic scarab brooch he's just gotten out of one of those lucky dip machines you find in supermarkets.
Unfortunately this tour de force of teeth baring brilliance is cut short when our poor professor suddenly begins to cough up some badly rendered CGI stones that soon whip up a scary sandstorm that engulfs the guy whole.

Which is nice.
Meanwhile in Egypt (or thereabouts) his ball-faced beauty of a daughter Maggie (BBQ Pitmasters star Bronleewe) is excitedly awaiting her fathers arrival so that she and her toothy team of airhead archaeologists can get down to the business of excavating the infamous Tomb of The Nameless One.
Or Anankotep as the Professor keeps referring to him.

It's not gonna be all fun and games tho' as their official government guide Mr. Walter Madu has also turned up with some grave news.

It seems that due to a general air of badness at the dig site he's decided to revoke the parties work permit (but not alas their Equity cards) and refuse to take them anywhere.

Not even up the casino.

Which by the look on Tralane's face is the most upsetting part of the story.

Luckily tho' our creepy archaeologist has other ideas and just before settling down for a night of tearful masturbation and copious Pot Noodles he mutters a few bizarre incantations which cause poor Mr. Madu to stab himself to death with his car keys.

So the next day and with a group of swarthy Arab types in tow (well in nightshirts and their mum's tea towels on their heads but you get the idea) Tralane and the girls - armed only with some cut off shorts and a couple of flasks, no spades or shovels for them! - head off to find the infamous tomb.

Seeing as the films running time is just shy of 75 minutes they do this fairly quickly which means we get a wee bit of extra time to not only learn more about the characters, who are in case you're interested:

Kelly - horse faced, nice ponytail, Ronnie - human/chipmunk hybrid, Sara - hieroglyphics expert and council estate Jane March and Grant - distinguishing characteristics include a big face and a pink t-shirt that reads, “I run like a girl – try to keep up” in big shiny letters.

But also wonder what excuse Russian 'super' model Alena Savostikova - as pot-headed pixie Daw - had for being so late for shooting that up until this point she hasn't appeared in any single scene or even had anyone speak to her out of shot.

Yup, she just appears from nowhere and starts handing out drugs whilst complaining about Croatian death squads.

Looking back in the cold harsh light of day there may in fact be one more but I'm fucked if I know for sure.

If I've missed anyone out I'm sorry.

But thinking about it you've probably had a lucky escape.

Savostikova: Somewhere to park your bike.

Anyway back to the plot where Maggie, using her incredible deductive powers has figured out that the incredibly complex and confusing locking system sealing the tomb door can be bypassed by sticking your fingers gingerly into a paper-mache beetle, which would be cause for celebration if a group of evil Libyan soldiers hadn't just turned up and shot the guides leaving our merry band no alternative but to hide inside the tomb, shutting the door behind them.

Can you see the major flaw in this plan?

Trapped inside an ancient Egyptian cupboard (well it's either that or this Anankotep bloke really tiny) and with no hope of rescue - for them or us - Tralane decides to have a little look around and almost instantly comes across  a small passageway (which lets be honest, is much more preferable to firing your muck over any of the cast - except maybe Elizabeth Friedman but only if she kept the hat on) which he heads off to investigate.

Sara, either bored with the constant complaining or just fancying a wee bit of rough goes with him and the pair soon uncover the fabled sarcophagus of Anankotep and excitedly open it.

I foresee bad things happening.

"Tonight Matthew I'm going to be hung from my testicles and beaten like a dog...."

But before that there's just time for an excruciatingly awful - and hellishly misplaced - pot-induced soliloquy about the trials and tribulations surrounding being a child in Eastern Europe.

Suffice to say there won't be any acting plaudits heading Alena Savostikova's way any time soon.

Tho' judging by the pic below there might be some casting calls for dog food ads.

"Look at the dog!"

As we all know tho' drugs are for mugs and Kelly after only one suck on Daw's massive blunt begins to experience vision of a ghostly Anubis-like figure in the distance.

Which if I'm honest is much better than enduring Nigel Wingrove's nun-centric Visions of Ecstasy.

But not much.

Frightened by such a chillingly realistic representation of the Egyptian God of The Underworld Kelly runs screaming into the tunnels where she's promptly squashed by some bits of polystyrene.
Leaving Tralane and Sara to examine the burial chamber Maggie and Ronnie  race towards (well take a leisurely stroll - the sets not that big) the sound of Kelly’s screams culminating in a scene which gives us the treat of seeing a well-manicured hand covered in jam.
Tom Savini is currently on suicide watch.

Heading back to Tralane and Sara, the delectable duo discover that the passageway has been mysteriously sealed so attempt to break it down with a toffee hammer one of them had in their bag whilst unbeknownst to them the Professor begins mumbling something slight and incomprehensible under his breath whilst Sara looks on in the manner of a pound shop nodding dog.

Albiet one with frankly stunning thighs.

"Here....I found your talent down the back of the sofa..."

I must admit that at this point I popped out for a fag so could only view the next couple of scenes thru' a rain-lashed window (no I didn't pause it....do you think I'm fucking insane?) but did get to see what I think was Ronnie being overcome by an Atari 800 quality mummies bad breath before coughing up some Marmite and poor Sara attacked by some bandages  that gives the director the chance of sneakily showing her cleavage as a piece of oily rag snakes up her shirt.

I wont slag it off too much but let's just say I'm glad it was raining as otherwise nothing would have cooled my ardour.

With only Maggie, Grant and Daw left alive (well they're opening and closing their mouths whilst moving about) our terrific trio have soon found an escape route and stumble out into the sunlight only for Maggie and Grant to decide to head back inside to rescue the Professor.
Daw being a cowardly foreigner elects to sit on a rock and get shit-faced.

Which all things considered is a fairly sound plan.
Or it would be if minutes later she isn't mysteriously transported back into the tomb before having her soul sucked out leaving her  dead-eyed and used up only fit for smizing blankly on catwalks whilst parading around in more and more outrageous outfits. 

So no change really.

"I am not a number I am a Friedman!"

Things look even grimmer for Grant tho' (if that were possible) when she falls into a hole before being buried alive by a group of stagehands frantically emptying the contents of a kids sandpit onto her falling sand leaving only Maggie standing.

Probably on a box to keep her in shot with her dad.

Will our chubby cheeked heroine save her dad and beat the undead despots curse?

Will previously dead cast members re-appear at some point to get stabbed in the face?

Will anyone outside the directors close family care?

"Cotton wool in mah mooth!"

From the diseased mind of writer/director/icon defiler Patrick McManus, the man who gave us 2012's Dracula Reborn comes this second chapter in his magnificent cinematic assault on the Universal Monsters back catalogue.

"You ain't seen me right?"

With a poster stolen from Brendan Fraser, a cast kidnapped from the checkouts at Aldi, a plot stolen from The Pyramid and special effects supplied by a hook-handed child on a ZX Spectrum, Resurrection of The Mummy is less a triumph of ideas over budget but more like a thinly veiled attempt to introduce a new form of torture on the world.

Pixelated grey squares stand in for empty casing ejecting from machine guns as a variety of animated flame GiFs are substituted for the gunshots, hastily painted woodchip wallpaper stands in for the walls of a centuries old tomb and characters change height and positioning depending on how the director was feeling that day.

For all it's faults (and they were legion) at least Dracula Reborn had Victoria Summer in it.

And for that I can forgive it most of its sins.

Summer: Lovin'.

True, it's great to see folk producing a feature on such a slight budget but not when they show so much contempt for those watching. 
No time, no talent and no mercy, Resurrection of The Mummy is the cinematic equivalent of a bored, back alley handjob, ultimately pleased with itself for just being there with no interest at all in the viewers pleasure.

A wee bit like your mum.


Friday, June 17, 2016

the undeck rises.....

Nothing like a good plug first thing on a Thursday morning so here goes....

Finally launching this frankly fantastic deck of playing cards that I've been beavering away at for the last few months, a real labour of love, the set harks back to the glory days of VHS, video nasties and classic Zombie films.

C'mon what's not to love? 

The cards are in manufacturing at the moment, so as a special pre-sale offer, save yourself £1.50 of the normal price AND get a signed A3 poster, using the art from any card (the poster won’t have the suit or numbers on, just the art). 
Follow this link for order details.
Normal service will be resumed as soon as..... 

Sunday, June 12, 2016


So I had a little time on my hands... 

Found my old RE notes in the cupboard... 

And with a little coffee and a fair bit of research, figured out that Justin Bieber just might be the Anti-Christ. Below are some cited Biblical characteristics, along with proof. Take the time to read this, you won't be disappointed:

- He will rise from obscurity…a “little horn” [Daniel 7:8] (Born a Canadian)

- He will speak boastfully [Daniel 7:8; Rev 13:5] (Quoted as saying, “As hard as I’ve tried, I don’t know how not to be adorable.”)

- He will oppress the saints and be successful for 3 ½ years [Daniel 7:25; Rev 13:7] (His full-length album released March 2010... His downfall starts 3 years, 9 months after)

- He will try to change the calendar, perhaps to define a new era, related to himself [Daniel 7:25] (Manhattan's borough President Scott Stringer announced June 1 as "Justin Bieber Appreciation Day")

- He will try to change the laws, perhaps to gain an advantage for his new kingdom and era [Daniel 7:25] (Quoted as saying, “I want my world to be fun. No parents, no rules, no nothing. Like, no one can stop me. No one can stop me.”)

Well I’m scared.

Or bored.

Guess which one?

 Be seeing you.

Sunday, June 5, 2016

walk like an egyptian.

Sorry (again) for the lack of updates, been busy beavering away on the frankly fantastic UnDeck card set (available to buy the end of the month).

Luckily I have had a wee bit of time to view some of 'the films' including this gem.

A word of warning tho' the film (and by default this review) features quite a lot of 'the words'.

Gods Of Egypt (2016).

Dir: Alex Proyas.
Cast: Brenton Thwaites, Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, Gerard Butler, Chadwick Boseman, √Člodie Yung, Courtney Eaton, Rufus Sewell, Geoffrey Rush, Bryan Brown, Rachael Blake, Emma Booth, Goran D. Kleut and Kenneth Ransom.

I tore the wings off my wife. Imagine what I'll do to YOU...

Welcome to the wild and wacky world of the ancient Egypt, where men are men and the ruling gods are inconsistently sized, sun-tanned panto-stars who bleed golden blood and can transform into animal-headed action figures at will.

It is here that we meet part-time popster and full time thief Jeff Bek (Home and Away's Thwaites channelling Sesame Street's Grover in an ill fitting wig) who, alongside his Giraffe necked true love Zaya (Fury Road's Eaton) are excitedly preparing for the coronation of the lord of the air himself Terry Horus (Game of Thrones sister shagging superstud Coster-Waldau) and the abdication of his dad Osiris (Brown, no introduction necessary).

Preparing for the ceremony by having a bath whilst being massaged by tiny handed CGI ladies, Horus is visited by the saucy Goddess of Love Linda Hathor (council estate Monica Bellucci and Netflix Electra Yung) for a quick chat not only about marriage but also (and this may be important later) the shiny bracelet - made I kid you not - of the stars which Horus gave her to protect and save her from demons and the like in her previous job as a guide for the dead travelling thru' the underworld.

So far so plot info-dump.

Butler: Beard of evil, breath of Buckfast.

As is the way in these stories something has to go wrong and in this case it's the appearance of Horus' jealous uncle Barry Set (Butler essaying a drunk Glaswegian fish-wife licking piss of John Nettles), who annoyed at having to spend his life in a desert wearing a skirt and sandles has decided to seize the throne and declare himself king.

And just to prove what a bastard he is he's passed a new law where the dead have to pay to pass into the afterlife.

Expect this to become Tory policy very soon.

Removing Horus' eyes (son) he exiles our grumpy god to a nearby pyramid whilst claiming Hathor 'as his own'.

As his own what tho' is never explained.

Fast forward twelve months and the whole city has been overrun by hastily CG-ied statues of Butler (partly built by Bek thanks to a new government employment initiative) whilst poor Zaya is now in the employ of the pube-bearded architect Colin Urshu (a Cripinesque Sewell wearing a comedy nose, well at least I hope he is) spending her days cataloguing various bits of brown tracing paper filled with children's drawings whilst attempting to stop her breasts escaping from her dress.

Which is fair enough.

Being a religious type tho' Zaya still believes that Horus is the only one who can defeat Set and to this end gives Bek the plans to Set's treasure vault where he keeps Horus' eyes.

Look, I didn't write this.

"Oi! Baby! Get in mah belly!"

In a scene that almost reaches the heady heights of mild indifference Bek does indeed manage to break into the vault and succeeds in stealing one of Horus' eyes, unfortunately Urshu finds out about their plan to overthrow Set and kills Zaya as the couple flee on a badly animated chariot.

Still wanting to lose his virginity to a lady (you know what these Egyptians are like) but shy about the thought of doing it with an albeit fairly attractive and possibly still quite warm corpse, Bek takes her body to a by now gin and piss soaked Horus and attempts to bargain with the fallen god:

Bring Zaya back from the dead in exchange for his eye and Bek's thievery skills.

Agreeing to the mortals plan Horus sets off to visit his curmudgeonly granddad Ra (an obviously in debt Rush) who spends his days high above the earth flying around in what looks like a wedding cake defending the mortal realm from a massive toothed cloud.

Honestly this seemed perfectly normal when I was watching it.

Unfortunately Ra is a wee bit grumpy and - after a speech about free will and responsibility - decides it's nothing to do with him and goes back to poking the aforementioned cloud with a glowstick.

It's not all in vain tho' as on the way back to earth Horus manages to fill an old milk bottle with the 'divine waters' from Ra's space-boat, which he plans to use  dry up the desert and therefore cause Set to lose his powers.

Or something.

Hathor of hollow.

Meanwhile back at the main plot Set is busy trying to persuade Hathor (in between shagging her) to take him to the underworld (which surprisingly isn't a euphemism for anal) so he can conquer there too, luckily she still loves Horus (and cock in general judging by the way she so quickly jumped into bed with Set....I'm surprised she didn't try and shag Bryan Brown whilst he was bleeding out at the start - god knows I would) and - using her magic bracelet - escapes into the desert where she soon comes across (not in that way) Bek and Horus who are resting up after an exciting battle against some oiled muscle men with massive computer generated beetle heads.

Trust me it's brilliant.

Seeing as she's shagging his uncle and quite happily stood back whilst he had his eyes plucked out, Horus understandably doesn't trust Hathor but like all women she soon has him eating out of the palm of her hand (and any other crevices you can think off) with little more than a flutter of her eyelashes and a jiggle of her (admittedly impressive) breasts.

With the unnecessary flirting out of the way it's time to get back to the action so our dynamic duo tell Hathor of their plan to break into Set's pyramid.

Being blokes tho' they haven't really thought the plan thru' so it's up to Hathor to remind them that they'll need to answer the tricky riddle set by the sphinx if they wish to survive the quest.

To this end the group heads off to the library of the god of wisdom Tim Thoth (The Black Panther himself - the Marvel one that is not notorious kidnapper and murderer Donald Neilson, Boseman) in order to recruit him to solve not only solve the riddle but to up the minority quota so the film doesn't suffer at the hands of the PC press or overweight online crusaders.

Oh right.

Insert amusing caption here....but not your cock obviously, he'd probably tear it off.

Quickly arriving at Set's shrine (it's almost like the whole thing is set in a large cupboard), they quickly bamboozle the sphinx and effortlessly reach the source of Set's power but realising that there's still over an hour left to fill Set turns up and confuses Bek with logic before destroying the flask of divine water and stealing Thoth's brain.

Luckily he leaves his annoying lisp and ludicrous glittery dress to rot in the desert.

Just as it appears that all is lost Horus surprisingly manages to save Hathor and Bek giving our motley crew time to learn a lesson in humility whilst Hathor energetically jiggles the sand from between her breasts.

With Horus sorry for saying he'd raise Zaya from the dead and suddenly admitting his feelings for Hathor there's just enough time for a wee bit of selfless sacrifice before the story can start rushing toward a climax and this sacrifice comes in the form of Hathor giving Bek her protective bracelet before calling Anubis to take him to Zaya.

Cue a gaggle of boob-goosing CGI spooks that appear from the sands to drag Hathor to the underworld as Horus, realizing too late that he still loves her, stand stoically as a single tear runs down his cheek from his one good eye.

Drama doesn't get any more affecting than this.

Meanwhile back at BadMan HQ Set, now in possession of Thoth's brain, Osiris's heart, one of Horus' eyes and the wings from Irene the Goddess of protection uses a massive (in general terms) Meccano tower to attach these parts to his body like some giant, knock-off (and slightly gay - Transformer before heading off to see his dad to ask him if he loves him or not.

If he's anything like mine he'd be better of waiting at home for an abusive email or two, it's much easier on the legs and takes much less effort.

Families eh? Gotta love 'em!

Anyway back to Egypt (in a non-EDL way obviously) where Ra, upon hearing his sons frankly embarrassing whining claims that all of Set's prior mistreatments/suffering and lack of any charisma whatsoever were actually tests preparing him for his true role in life.

Which is I hear you ask?

Why to take Ra's place as the defender of the earth (defenders!) aboard the massive floating cake and spend eternity fighting against the huge cloud thing.

Come to think of it I'd prefer the massive fuck off I got if I'm honest so I'm siding with Set on this one.

Tho' setting fire to his dad and destroying the afterlife so he can be immortal is probably taking it a wee bit too far.

I don't know tho'....

Forcibly taking his dad's huge and fiery spear of power Set heads back to his favourite armchair to watch with glee as the cloud monster begins to consume both the mortal and underword realms.

Which is nice.

Let's be honest...what's more far fetched? Giant flying Bird Gods buzzing around shooting fire bolts at each other or the fact that they'd let a woman wander the streets like this in Egypt?

Back in the underworld Bek finds Zaya who, being a typical woman has now changed her mind about going to the afterlife unless her boyfriend goes with her (yes she is in fact wanting him to die with her rather than cry for a bit then get on with life) but luckily everything goes to pot before Bek can totally comprehend what she's saying due to a massive cloud smashing everything to pieces in a way that massive clouds normally don't.

Bek returns to the mortal world and has a wee chat with Horus about responsibility and the like and how Zaya - even tho' she's dead thinks it'd be a good idea if Horus quit moping about and just got on with killing his uncle.

Horus after much chin-stroking agrees setting the scene for a slightly meaningless and computer rendered fight to the death.....

From Alex Proyas, the director of The Crow, Dark City and, um, I Robot comes quite possibly the greatest giant flying Egyptian Gods movie since 2004's Immortel and a film that proudly wears it's Harryhausen-inspired heart on it's sleeve.

Unfortunately it left it's brain somewhere down the back of Michael Bay's couch.

But heyho you can't have everything.

Saying that tho' when a film features over-sized shape-shifting deities and a guest appearance by Dune's sandworms (being ridden I kid you not by bikini clad Amazonian babes) and a giant shit-encrusted cat setting riddles for no reason other than they can  alongside Gerard Butler channelling Groundskeeper Willie and probably the greatest and smoothest cleavages ever brought to the big screen (in 3-D Imax no less) then you at least have to admire Proyas' conviction to the project.

If not questioning his sanity at the same time.

Played out with the type of conviction usually reserved for Tony Blair at an arms fair and with ne'er  a hint of irony or camp Gods of Egypt is in tandem both a work of utter mind-bending genius and total ball-crushing madness that deserves to be seen, rewatched and worshipped as the pinnacle of so bad yet brilliantly bonkers movie-making.
"I've got something to put in you!"  
And don't let the internet haters put you off....it's not whitewashing when your actors are playing imaginary 8 foot high flying demigods from space and anyone who says otherwise is either very silly or very lonely.

Either way they need our pity.

What next?

Superhero movie posters being pulled for offending one of the stars of the Conan remake?

Oh right.

Cinematic gold.