Monday, November 23, 2009

devil gate drive.

It gives you a warm fuzzy feeling inside when people go out of the way to suggest things (other than to fuck off obviously) to you, so on the recommendation of the lovely Screamstress and the manly Mr. Dissolved I popped this little gem in my film slot t'other night.

The House of The Devil (2009).
Dir: Ti West.
Cast: Jocelin Donahue, Tom Noonan, Dame Mary of Woronov, Greta Gerwig, AJ Bowen and Dee Wallace.

I spy Norman Price's handiwork.

Button nosed and boyish hipped beauty Samantha (Donahue, last seen covered in dirt in the JT Petty classic The Burrowers) is just a normal, everyday college girl trying to make her way in life, juggling with her coursework and saddled with a man-faced whore of a room mate whilst trying to make ends meet.

But an end to her flatmate troubles may be in sight when Samantha finds a perfect house for rent. It's homely and the landlady (the fantastic Wallace in a blink and miss it cameo) is desperate to give Samantha a chance.

The only problem is that she can't afford to pay the rent.

Aw, it's heartbreaking I know.

Heading back to campus with a heavy heart (and a nice line in knitwear) Sam notices a flyer advertising for a babysitter pinned to the notice board.

It doesn't pay much but it'll help towards her dream house (note: dream house, not devil house) so Sam calls the number.

The phone is answered by the softly spoken Mr. Viv Ulman (genre giant Noonan from The Monster Squad, Manhunter and Robocop 2 amongst others) who quickly accepts her offer and arranges to pick her up so she can get acquainted with the wee bairn within the hour.

Nothing like being keen I guess.

Rushing excitedly to the front steps of the building Samantha sits and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Being nice but dim it takes our heroine about 4 hours to realise that she's been stood up by the mysterious Mr. Ulman but being a sassy kinda gal, Samantha cheers herself up by sharing a pizza with her best bud Megan (indie chick type Gerwig who, for once is fully clothed and not playing the trumpet in a bath).

Heading back to her smelly, semen encrusted room and prepared for a night of study and soda, Samantha is surprised to find that Ulman has left her a message apologising for the earlier mix up and is wondering if she's still free for babysitting.

That very night.

It seems that Mr Ulman and his long suffering wife Tracy (Amazonian uber-MiLF Woronov) have some very important business to attend to that can only be done during that evening lunar eclipse. Their regular babysitter has let them down and they'd be more than happy to double Samantha's pay if she'll say yes.

To the job that is, not just say yes randomly on the phone.

"Hat on mah heid!"

Samantha quickly phones Megan for a lift (the Ulman's live in the middle of nowhere, what a surprise) and seeing as she has no pressing nude scenes that night, she agrees to take her pal to the Ulman residence.

Once at the house the girls are met by the peg-legged Viv who, after some stilted small talk about pizza and the price of cheese makes a strange admission.

You see it appears that when Mr. Ulman said he needed a sitting for his wee baby what he really meant was that he needed someone to sit in the house and listen out for his mother in law who, after a stroke (of the non sexual kind obviously) has been left bedridden (sort of) and occasionally requires a cup of tea taken up to her (probably).

"But don't worry" coos Viv, "you won't actually have to make her drinks because she's asleep, so you can spend the night watching teevee and eating pizza".

And on that bombshell he offers Samantha 400 bucks and a Kinder Surprise from the attic.

Beard of evil.

Hesitating whilst she weighs up the pros ($400, free pizza) and cons (this bloke's a nutter, he's insistent that Megan goes home) Samantha is finally persuaded to take the job when Mr. Ulman starts crying and jigging about on his good leg.


But saying that, what could possibly go wrong?

A house (of the Devil) yesterday.

Take a smattering of goodness from the frequently overlooked late 70's/early 80's Demon possession genre, mix with a smidgen of babysitter under siege and marinate with a healthy dose of video boom nostalgia and you're someway to creating something as creepily enjoyable as Ti West's horror love sonnet The House Of The Devil.

Given his previous track record (Cabin Fever 2, a movie that not even Lion's Gate can be arsed releasing? how scary is that?) I'd have usually given a film like this a (very) wide berth had it not been for the wise words of the two aforementioned folk who's choice of films (if not in Mr. Dissolved's case his choice to wear his dads grey Hush Puppies when his feet are sore) I don't baulk at.

And I'm glad I did.

Shot in a perfect copy of that stark cold eighties style, West's genuine admiration for that particular time in film making is obvious from the first frame, capturing as it does (and in perfect detail) the whole look and feel of that bygone time without once descending into kitsch or parody and with neither a wink nor nudge.

It's like a breath of fresh air blowing away the rancid belch breath of Hollywood horror.

"Is that a knife in your hand or
just a strange shaped erection?"

Starting quietly and slowly building toward it's climax, The House of The Devil is more about the nail biting tension and the uncomfortable mood created by the journey rather than the destination and whilst the pay off is somewhat obvious from the start, it's played with enough conviction by the cast as to not really matter.

"Blood in mah mooth!"

A freaky flashback to times gone by for all of us on the wrong side of 30 and a fantastic lesson in minimalist chills for all those poor youngsters force fed a diet of Hostel clones and Halloween remakes.

Friday, November 20, 2009


Perusing my local charity shop again today and I came across (quite literally) this for one measly quid.


As an aside, who knew Bonnie Langford had such a great arse?

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

hungary like the, um, snake?

From 1987, the first part of the Hungarian bootleg Cobra comic adaptation.


Obviously it helps if you speak Hungarian.

Friday, November 13, 2009

yellow peril.

Another year, another Argento film released to mild audience apathy and a hostile reaction from the critics.

Unfortunately my 'press credentials' (a cut out Daily Bugle card stuck in the side of a trilby and a cardboard box painted up as a camera) weren't enough to get me in to see it at it's Edinburgh premiere earlier this year, so I've had to wait with baited breath for a screener to arrive.

Well, was it worth the wait?

Giallo (2009).
Dir: Dario Argento.
Cast: Adrien Brody, Emmanuelle Seigner, Elsa Pataky, Valentina Izumi, Linda Messerlinker, Taiyo Yamanouchi, Giuseppe Lo Console and Byron Deidra.

The cosmopolitan city of Turin, where two foxy girls about town, the teeny tiny Keiko and her man chinned pal Marjorie are enjoying a (fairly stilted) night at the opera.

Realising that this is an Argento movie and that watching a fat bird sing is, in this situation a fair way to get killed (or at the very least shat on by crows) they decide to bid their farewells and hit a local discotheque instead, hoping to find some hot tunes and even hotter men.

Fat chance of that seeing as the place is full of greasy haired, tight t-shirted 80's throwbacks dancing badly to cheesy Europop, including one poor sod wearing a t-shirt with a suit and bow tie printed on it.

If anyone in this movie deserves to die then it's him quite frankly.

Nice legs, shame about the imminent face cutting.

When Keiko manages to pull the only bloke in the place under fifty, Marjorie reckons she'd have better fun with the wobbly plastic pal she keeps under her pillow so decides to head back to the hotel.

With brightly lit rain pouring down in that heavy, Suspiria fashion and Marjorie having a high, hairsprayed bonce, she quickly flags a passing taxi and jumps into the comfy back seat, little realising that the cab driver is a notorious kidnapper and mutilator of fit young birds.


"Teeth in mah mooth!"

It's not long before she's being taken down a deserted alley (which is, I must admit better than being taken up the casino) and jumped on by the driver.

Which is nice.

Tho' not as nice as the beautiful catwalk (as opposed to Airfix) model Celine (Beyond Re-Animator's Pataky), who is counting the hours (and pretty frocks) till she can head home to see her older, harsher sister Linda (Mrs. Roman Polanski, Seigner), recently arrived from America on a visit.

Wouldn't you know it tho' but on her way back to her apartment, Celine has the bizarre misfortune of hailing the same taxi as poor Marjorie, soon finding herself injected in the face with drugs, her expensive shoes stolen and a final indignity waking up in a dirty, egg stained, spunk encrusted basement owned by a Mister Tony Yellow.

A moon faced slobbering beast of a bloke so named because of his yellow jaundiced skin.

Before we move on I'd just like to point out that Mr. Yellow is portrayed by one 'Byron Deidra' (which could be an anagram of the lead actors name if I'm not mistaken) in a frankly magnificent tour de force performance the like of which hasn't been since Lord Udo of Kier fondled a sheep's innards during Flesh For Frankenstein.

Showing us all just why he won nine awards (including an Oscar) for his heartbreaking turn as Wladyslaw Szpilman in The Pianist, Brody (wearing a fat suit, dirty vest and a Bo Selecta! Mel B. mask) brings a truly subtle sense of realism to Yellow. Whether he's mumbling profanities at various chained women or simply having a sly wank whilst staring at photographs of his victims, the performance is truly terrifying.

No, really.

It's as if that Brody, for a giggle during rehearsals decided to do a drunken Robert DeNiro impression to amuse the crew and, not wanting anyone to steal his crown as the giallo joker, Argento called his bluff and told him that it would be a perfect way to play the villain.

Obviously neither of them wanted to admit defeat so the performance stayed in.

"Laugh now!"

Anyway back to the plot.

When Celine fails to return home, a worried (I think she's worried, tho' she does spend a fair amount of the film frowning) Linda heads over to the local police station, where she ends up interrupting an important pizza delivery much to the annoyance of the desk sergeant who hurriedly sends her off to the cellar, hang out of the maverick no nonsense inspector Enzo Avolfi (Brody).

Moody, mysterious and armed with a sexy beard (and with a great line in 1980's blouson jackets), Avolfi is a cop on the edge, haunted by the death of his mother at the hands of the bald bloke from Do You Like Hitchcock? and obsessed with finding the maniac responsible for this recent spate of murders.

"Wahey! Stop starin' at me tits mon!"

"Kiss kiss no more... wakey wakey!"

But time is running out for Celine and as more and more bodies begin turning up in the city, the only clue to the killers identity is a word whispered by a dying Japanese victim....


"This is the most extreme case of
mooth shite-in I have ever seen!"

After the cinematic abortion that was the final ten minutes of The Third Mother and the pantomime villainy of The Card Player you'd be forgiven (by some people but not me) for thinking the the master of the home haircut, Mr. Dario Argento had lost his mojo.

I say lost but from the evidence it seems more likely that it was violently removed from his chest with the same rusty nail scissors he cuts his fringe with.

I'll be the first to admit that the performances veer wildly from the kite flying, crack fuelled excesses of Adrien Brody to the almost narcoleptic lows of Emmanuelle Seigner and yes, the labyrinthine Argento plots of old have been replaced by characters randomly shouting out facts for no other reason than to get the story done and dusted but what the Hell I loved every minute of it.

Coming across like a cut price, lobotomised version of Tenebrae, it's true that it lacks that certain 'something' that made Argento's earlier such a joy but how much of that is down to the director and how much is down to the well publicised studio interference?

"I can see your house from here Jesus!"

But come to the film with the right mindset (or a head full of red) and there's plenty to enjoy.

Including the earlier mentioned masturbation scene, which is well on the way to becoming the greatest cinematic wank since Harvey Keitel cracked off a Barclay's in The Bad Lieutenant and, on a more serious (if less sticky) note, Frederic Fasano's lush cinematography coupled with the Danny Elfman-esque score from Marco Werba.

Guilty pleasures don't come better than this.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

sports for all.

I've never been the sportiest of folk so I must admit I do love a chance to take the piss out of misguided attempts to make the idea of big muscled men kicking balls about and showering together cool......

Way back in 1992 there was a vaguely amusing Nike commercial featuring Godzilla and a giant-sized Sir Charles Barkley (or was it a normal sized Barkley, a man in a rubber suit and a miniature cityscape?) playing basketball in the streets of Tokyo.

As funny as it was (slightly at best) God only knows why Dark Horse decided to stretch it out to 48 arse numbing pages in this full colour one off.

Tho' as a plus point it did feature Godzilla wearing a pair of trainers 'slam dunking' (as those pesky Americans say) a ball.

Marvel obviously had to go one better.

Nuff said?

spider (non)sense.

No idea why but it made me chuckle.....

Monday, November 9, 2009

the parahandy experience.

Everyone and their dog seems to have an opinion on Paranormal Activity right now with camps split between 'it's class' or 'it's pants' - and with a tragic few more interested in the size/shape of the lead actresses arse.

Yes, I did say actress because, contrary to what some sad individuals on IMDB think, it's not real.

The film I mean, I'm assuming the arse is.

Reportedly made for just $11,000 over a period of seven days, does scarily monikered Oren Peli's debut feature live up to the horrible hype or is it just some kind of phantom menace?

Welcome to fright night!

Paranormal Activity (2007).
Dir: Oren Peli.
With Katie Featherston, Micah Sloat, Mark Fredrichs, Ashley Palmer and Amber Armstrong.

What happens when I sleep?
farting mainly.

Young, upwardly mobile (and sickeningly loved up) couple Katie (shelf shouldered, trailer park Katie Perry-alike Featherston) and Micah (rat toothed, bowl headed Sloat) have recently moved into a rather palatial house together after dating steadily for a few years.

Hang on, it's no' one o' them lassies films is it?

Luckily the paint isn't even dry on the walls before the couple begin to experience strange paranormal type bangs and crashes around the house, you know the score; lights blinking on and off, doors slamming, toilets flushing etc.

Micah, like any normal guy rushes out and buys a huge, fuck off camera in the hope of:

A. Getting some evidence of the spook on camera

and more importantly

B. Filming Katie with her kit off.

"I kissed a girl then was damned to Hell".

It turns out that poor Katie is no stranger to world of the strange, having had the willies put up her for the first time as an podgy ickle eight year old, when she had a shadowy night time visitor who enjoyed nothing more than scaring the shite out of her and her wee sister.

This came to an end tho' when the family home mysteriously burned to the ground.


Ever since then, the mysterious 'presence' has followed chisel chinned Katie wherever she goes, making itself known by standing over her bed and breathing heavily.

A bit like your dad used to do to you when drunk.

Obviously Micah is oh so slightly annoyed that she never told him any of this before they moved in together but soon comes to see the possible haunting as a new hobby, taking over from his usual masturbation based, Pot Noodle sessions in front of his big teevee whilst watching Pimp My Mooth on MTV, which can only be a good thing really.

"I'm Katie, come sleep in mah bed".

Katie, getting slowly more shot to fuck as the film progresses (you can tell because her shorts keep getting tinier and tinier) persuades Micah to let her invite an eminent ghost-science type, Dr. Jeff Psychic (Bayouth from Wristcutters: A Love Story) around to check all this strange shit out.

Micah, busily nibbling on cheese and dodging next doors cat agrees to the visit but is understandingly shocked when the doctor decides that what they’re facing isn’t a ghost at all but a nasty demon, intent on dragging Katie to Hell.

Hang on, that's another movie sorry.

Recoiling in horror from the flock wallpaper (yet cunningly blaming on the evil energy in the house) Jeff makes his excuses and leaves but not before giving the hapless couple a few useful tips regarding demon possessions (as in if you're possessed by one, not how to take care of their pets, clean their shoes, water their plants etc).

And the phone number of his best mate, Professor Emilio M. Demonologist.

This tips, if you're interested include:

Don't run screaming from the house to a nearby hotel, if you do the spirit will just follow you and possibly shit in the Jacuzzi.

The Demon feeds off negative energy so under no circumstances start swearing at it whilst indulging in a spate of manly posturing.

And most importantly don’t even think about buying (or borrowing) a Ouija Board and trying to contact it, cos if you do, much badness will follow.

Seems easy enough to remember so it's just a pity that mousy Micah was too busy running around in a wheel to pay any attention then wasn't it?

By now Katie is shaking like a jelly and has given up on shorts completely, preferring a large pair of grey granny pants, whilst Mighty Micah, being manly and all, has decided to handle the demon in his own studly manner.

Yep, he's taken to wandering round the house in his boxers shouting "Is that all yo' got fucker?" whilst making fist gestures at the ceiling.

Hmmmm.....I have a feeling that this isn't going to end well at all.

"Fuck me! It's John Leslie!"

Made way back in 2007, Paranormal Activity seemed to appear from nowhere a few months back, hyped to buggery and with a poster quote from Steven Spielberg to boot.

The squinty eyed bearded one, (most famous for taking absolutely no responsibility for Vic Morrow's death at the hands - and rotor blades - of coke monster John Landis, even tho' he was the producer in charge of Twilight Zone The Movie, oh and directing some films as well), reckoned it was the most disturbing movie he'd ever seen (tho' I'd have thought this would come close), not only that but it was reported how his toilet door would mysteriously lock itself after he'd viewed it.


Or Hollywood bullshit?

Well, whilst in no way 'one of the scariest films of all time', Paranormal Activity still manages to deliver some finely realised chills by cunningly exploiting the universal fears of the dark and of things unknown in the shadows, cleverly concentrating on the subtle and unseen, strange noises and sounds and the effects on the couples relationship rather than on cheap scares and chills.

And whilst I can appreciate how our American cousins have gone crazy for the film, being as it is an antidote to the seemingly endless glut of anaemic remakes and teen friendly horror fodder blocking up the cinema cistern at the moment, British fans may find the whole thing disturbingly familiar to the classic BBC Halloween spooktacular Ghostwatch broadcast way back in 1992.

Roland Rat and Kevin the Gerbil:
The mooth shite-in years.

from the stories structure and setting, thru to the way information is leaked to the viewers via the use of a 'spooky' area of the house where vital evidence is found (in this case the attic, replacing the Ghostwatch 'glory hole') both are frighteningly similar in both style and substance.

Tho' Ghostwatch, climaxing as it does with it's cross dressing pedo poltergeist molesting a pyjama clad pre-teen in a cellar has the edge over it's American counterpart.

Oh, and it's also got the chat-tastic Michael Parkinson in it too, possessed by the aforementioned spook and whispering nursery rhymes to the viewers.

No competition really.

If there's any criticism of Paranormal Activity it's that after such a slow, atmospheric build up, the shoddily added subplot regarding Micah finding a Youtube video of a previous possession by the same demon jars hideously with the realism of the rest of the film.

The 'secretly' shot film with it's hastily face-painted demon girl and fake severed limbs is laughable at best but at worse goes a long way to destroying the air of tense foreboding that the director had managed to build during the previous hour.

Then there's that ending.

Rumour has it that the film actually has three (the original, a test screening one and a cinema ending), the one that I viewed, with a possessed Katie killing Micah (offscreen) before returning to the bedroom to sit and silently rock herself is fine as it stands but the addition of a couple of gun-happy coppers bursting in and shooting the poor cow seems just too much.

Like the rest of the film, director Peli should've remembered that less is more.

The same goes for the hype and PR surrounding Paranormal Activity because, sadly this nice little scare movie that should have been a surprise Halloween treat has been blown out of all proportion and couldn't possibly live up to the publicity attached to it.

Which is a shame.

So forget the hype, leave it for a year or so then surprise yourself with it on DVD.

Just don't watch Ghostwatch first.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

super fly (poster) guy.

Found these on my (internet-based) travels and had to share (a wee bit like I would if I had crabs).

Pay attention, here's the history part.

In the dim and distant 1980's the uprise in video cassette technology gave birth (not literally in a kind of David Cronenberg way - that would be sick) to the mobile cinema phenomena in the West African country of Ghana.

These touring cinema's (
usually created by hooking up a TV and VCR to a portable generator) would travel from village to village using large barns or even tents as temporary venues.

In order to promote these showings, local artists were hired to create large advertising posters of the films. These were usually painted on used canvas flour sacks with the artists working from very little - and in some cases no - reference materials at all meaning that they often added elements of their own baring no relation to the actual movie.

The mobile cinema craze sadly began to decline in the mid-nineties with the greater availability of television and video to the countries populace and, as a result the groovy painted film posters were replaced with shoddily photocopied versions of the actual covers and advertising artwork.

So here, for your enjoyment are a few examples from that bygone age.


I shall stop now before anyone begins to mistake this for one of those 'proper' film blogs with well researched posts etc. I mean, I'd hate you to come away from here thinking you'd learned something.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

the tedious footsaw massacre.

Staunton Hill (2009).
Dir: G. Cameron Romero.
Cast: Kathy Lamkin, Cristen Coppen, David Rountree, Kiko Ellsworth, Christine Carlo, Paula Rhodes, BJ Hendricks and Charlie Bodin.

It's 1969 (OK?) somewhere in a part of America that has loads of trees and stuff and where group of faceless and fairly interchangeable friends - hunky behatted Cole (co-writer and drummer with Blur Rountree, best known for appearing in the Britney Spears Oops, I Did It Again video), the token politically minded black dude Boone (shiny browed co-producer Ellsworth) and his granite jawed missis Raina (star of Nora's Hair Salon, Carlo), teeny tiny Trish (actress, composer, writer tho' obviously no judge of quality Rhodes) and the terrifyingly toothsome Jordan (Coppen, I can't be arsed looking her up) - are busy hitch-hiking their way to Washington D.C. for a rally of some sort or another.

By the year we can assume that it's either to protest against the war in Vietnam or to demand equal rights for someone, seeing as that's all folk did in the sixties.

The writer obviously doesn't care enough to give a specific reason so why should I be bothered to think of one?

Not having any luck finding a ride (tho' you'd need a bus to carry all of them) they decide to stop at a roadside garage, store for no other reason than to give the writer the chance to have a pock-faced Hick use the word 'nigger' (shocking) and to introduce car driving cut-out Quintin (Bodin, all pube beard and ticks) so he can offer them a ride.

So far so clichéd.

"Hello, I'm bad".

Well would you believe it, halfway down the road Quintin's truck breaks down, leaving our party stranded in the woods with a storm brewing and no shelter.

But wait, didn't they pass what looks like a deserted farm a few miles back?

Maybe they could stay there till morning.

I mean what's the worse thing that could happen?

Heading off thru' the trees and over a hill (the sound of thunder and local traffic rumbling in the background) our merry band of cipher's take refuge in a big barn and bed down for the night.

I feel that I have to interject right now to point out that it's taken about 35 minutes of the movie to get this far.

Yup, a third of it's running time is over and absolutely fuck all has happened.

No character development, no suspense, no hope of a quick and painless end to the viewers suffering, nothing.

Waking the next morning (which is more than my arse had done by now) the friends come across (and I so wish I'd been literally) hulking, moonfaced inbred Buddy (another co-producer and living potato BJ Hendricks) raping a cabbage patch.

Actually the last bit is a lie but I'm trying to brighten up the review in a way the writers didn't bother with the film.

"For Gods sake somebody throw a pie!"

Buddy's (like all big boned movie mentalists) response to Cole's friendly greeting is to hit him in the face with a spade.

Cue some slow fighting and staged wrestling till the farms owners - wheelchair bound alcoholic Geraldine Staunton (Weston) and her lard loving daughter Louise (Lamkin, playing exactly the same role that she did in the Texas Chainsaw remake) arrive in time to break it up, apologise and invite their guests to stay for a big meaty breakfast.

Cut to lots of long, lingering close ups of Buddy actually cooking the said brekkie followed by even more shots of the cast eating it, intercut with close-ups of Quintin calling the chef a retard.

Realizing that the movie has almost finished yet no-one has died yet (except me, inside) our cardboard crew decide to head out to the fields in an attempt to fix the families van in the hope of borrowing it to travel to the next town or something tho' Trish, desperate for a wee stays behind to look for a toilet.

"That was a damn fine bit
o' mooth shite-in there boy!"

Wandering aimlessly (and whining annoyingly) around the farm she first stumbles across Buddy having a sly Barclay's whilst looking at pictures of Tiny Tears dolls (which isn't as funny as it sounds, I mean the cast are so uniformly unattractive that given the choice I'd probably choose to crack one off over your gran than anyone on offer here) before taking a wrong turn and ending up in a scary (re: filthy) operating theatre built onto the back of a shed.

Taking it all in her stride (tho' unfortunately not in her mouth) Trish tiptoes around opening every door and cupboard in the hope of finding a loo (or a bucket - she's been needing a piss for what seems like days) just as Buddy, brandishing a hammer, turns up and beats her to death before cutting her throat and skinning her.

I'm no medical expert but I'm sure that if you needed a slash (of the wee kind, not your throat) so badly then at least a little bit would come out at the moment of death?

But not to complain, at least we finally get a killing.

Pity it's so boringly directed really.

Which, if I'm honest wouldn't be that bad if we actually gave a toss about any of the characters.

"Hole in mah neck!"

It's not long (thank fuck) before the surviving friends find themselves being hunted down by bad boy Buddy and his family and discover the true horror behind the seemingly random acts of slaughter.

Which (as far as I can gather seeing as my finger was permanently attached to the fast forward button) seems to involve them running an illegal severed foot farming operation led by Quintin (the ex medical student brother of Buddy) out of the converted coal shed behind the house.

Yes, really.

Beard of evil.

Those regular readers of this fine blog will know that this is the point where I usually wax lyrical about the movie in questions production, cast etc. in a cutting yet oh so amusing fashion
adding clever observations and sometimes scandalous lies for the enjoyment of those childish enough to find references to 'mooth shite-in' and the overuse of the comedy catchphrase 'laugh now' the height of cinematic criticism.

But frankly when it comes to Staunton Hill the only thing that comes to mind are three little words over and over again.

Absolute fucking pish.

Look, I'll show you what I mean:

Direction: Absolute fucking pish.

Acting: Absolute fucking pish.

script: Absolute fucking pish.

And so on and so forth.

It's as if the movie has somehow fallen thru' a crack in space/time from some bizarro world where good plotting and character development have no place, it's as if someone decided to remake the Frederick Friedel classic Axe but without any of that films suspense and tension (for any American's reading this is what we Britfags call irony).

I can imagine Cameron and his buds sitting around drunk after reading the script and saying "Hmm, you know what, this script seems a lot like The Texas Chainsaw can we make it different and unique?".

"Well, that film's got Leatherface in it, so named because he has a mask made from human skin..."

"Gee you're right! Every major horror movie villain has a trademark look; Freddie with his hat and finger knives, Michael Myers with his Quick Fit overalls and William Shatner mask and Jason with his hockey mask and machete!"

"Let's give the folk watching a real fright...let's make our killer fat and ginger..."

"And almost myopic from constant masturbation!"

"But what can we call him....His name needs to strike fear into the hearts of cinema goers everywhere..."

Scratching his head Cameron glances over at his record collection catching glipse of the Chesney Hawkes hit 'The One and Only".

"I got it! how about Buddy?"

The only way you'll get viewers to
sit thru' this crap till the end.

Cameron Romero, hang your head in shame and George, if I were you I'd get a paternity test done as soon as possible because if this is the kind of shite your 'son' is producing then I'd check your missis wasn't playing around with John Russo behind your back.

It's the only explanation I can think of.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

just a thought...

Is it just me or does Gaylen Ross get hotter the more shot to fuck her nerves get in Dawn of The Dead?

Just curious.