wip.

A lovely (I hope) Fulci themed canvas.

A current work in progress that'd look lovely in any home methinks.

toys that look a wee bit like celebs (part two).

This Batman toy and Barack Obama.

pretty? vacant.

Amazonia: The Catherine Miles Story (AKA Cannibal Holocaust 2: The Catherine Miles Story, Captive Women VII: White Slave, Forest Slave, White Slave. 1985)
Dir: Mario Gariazzo.
Cast: Elvire Audray, Will Gonzales, Dick Campbell, Dick Marshall, Alma Vernon,
Grace Williams, Sara Fleszer, Mark Cannon, James Boyle, Peter Robyns, Jessica Bridges,
Stephanie Walters, Neal Berger, Deborah Savage and what looks like Jill Gascoine and Alfred Molina.

But probably isn't.

The local nosed and vacant eyed bimbette Catherine Miles (Audray, star of the sword and sorcery classic The Iron Master and the wobbly thigh obsessed Klaus Kinski epic Vampire in Venice) has journeyed to Brazil from her posh boarding school in London (England) in order to spend the summer holidays with her wealthy (yet spookily dubbed) plantation-owner parents.

As a special treat to celebrate her eighteenth birthday, her parents decide to take her on a scenic river tour on their luxury houseboat (tho' her aunt and uncle must stink of piss seeing as they've been forced to follow in a canoe).

Lounging in the sun and enjoying the stock footage all around her, Catherine is reminded of her happy childhood growing up in the jungle, unaware of the tragedy about to befall her family as, without so much as a scary musical cue the houseboat is engulfed in a hail of poison darts, her parents are killed and Catherine is incapacitated by a potent paralyzing frog-venom covered spear.

And no, I didn't see that coming.

Audray: She'll have no trouble here.

Lying incapacitated on the deck, she can only watch in mild discomfort as a band of arse flashing Indio warriors board the houseboat and proceed to cut off her parents heads before clumsily lifting her up and carrying off to their camp.

Her aunt and uncle (husband and wife team Gascoine and Molina) however appeared to have been spared this horror by obviously being far too stinking for the tribe to attack.

Or were they?

Catherine, awake at this point and tied to a pole like a stringy pale turkey is clumsily dropped in front of Geoff's hut. It seems that this Geoff fella is the tribal leader and he's decided to award Catherine to Tony the richest man in the village as a big pink, wobbly gift.

With a perm.

Unfortunately for Tony who's been standing around with what looks like a moldy carrot sticking out of his loincloth at a right angle whilst dribbling uncontrollably he can't actually do anything to Catherine as she's still a virgin. You see, it appears that the tribe have rule that states that a woman with an intact hymen can't be touched.

Yup, they have a special 'Hyman Go!' machine that they use on ladies during a big ceremony every second Thursday of every third month.

No, I am not making this shit up.

Tony's luck goes from bad to worse tho' as by the time it comes round to Catherine's shot on the big machine he's being challenged for her hand (and the rest of her obviously) by the sexily haired Umukai (Gonzales, taking a break from al those racist Warner Brothers cartoons).

The pair get down to a bit of slightly homo-erotic wrestling before Umukai beats the rich boy to a pulp.

"I still cannae see mah car keys hen!"

It seems that dear old Umukai has had a huge girlie crush on Catherine from the moment he first set eyes on her as she lay paralysed on the deck of her parents’ boat.

Which would be OK if he hadn't have been beheading her mum at the time.

But who said the path of true love was a smooth one?

Trying to win her round, and to get her used to the jungle lifestyle he enlists the help of his sister Janice (Fleszer, probably) who as luck would have it spent her younger years living with a group of English speaking missionaries so has a mastery of Catherine's native tongue to rival your average Glaswegian.

In return for all this girly chat about pop music and nights spent painting each others nails, Catherine repays her new friend by teaching her basic first aid (she must of been a Brownie I guess), which comes in mighty lucky when the tribe's top hunter, Barnaby breaks his leg.

Re-setting it for him (whilst mopping his brow in a concerned manner) is enough to convince King Geoff that Catherine is in fact a powerful white witch, which helps no end with her being accepted as a member of the tribe.

"I thought Vic Morrow would be taller".

With the passing of time (and bad dad gas), Catherine begins to see that Umukai really does love her (I know it's vomit enducing but I didn't write it) and eventually they learn enough of each other’s tongues (and language, snigger) to communicate with each other.

During one of their late night chats Umukai reveals a secret so devastating that it turns Catherines world upside down.

It appears that Umukai's tribe didn't start the attack on her parents boat, only joining in later because they were bored, and that the real culprits were DI Maggie Forbes from The Gentle Touch and Doctor Octopus.

Catherine is shocked by this revelation (well, I say shocked but it's more a look of mild apathy if I'm honest) and refuses to believe Umukai.

It's only when Catherine remembers that she overheard her dad telling her dear mum that his will gives her aunt and uncle total control of the plantation (and all their cash) in the event that both her parents die plus the fact that aunt and uncle had lost everything they had due to a string of Hollywood flops that everything seems to slot into place.

Jill Gascoine's attempts to stop Alfred Molina
wanking in bed had maybe gone a wee bit too far.

Catherine decides that a dose of rampant raging revenge is on the cards and luckily, her months of living with a group of head hunting cannibal savages have given her the skills and determination she needs to see it thru'....

Mario Gariazzo's slow burning everyday tale of love, severed heads and revenge against a jungle back drop is unfortunately better know for being flogged to unsuspecting German punters as Cannibal Holocaust 2 (a film to which it's completely unrelated) than for anything else, which is a shame really because underneath the interminably po-faced courtroom framing device featuring a recently returned Catherine on trial for her aunt and uncles murder, the stilted acting, wooden dialogue and copious amount of man-ass on show there's a not too bad movie desperately trying to claw it's way out.

I'm not saying it's a good movie however, far from it but compared to director Gariazzo's other work (The Brother from Space? The Sexorcist? Very Close Encounters of the 4th Kind anyone?) that you realise that the last 90 minutes could have been a lot harder to sit thru'.

Oily.

But for all it's wobbly bits, violence and (naive) attempts at showing 'the white man' as being even more savage than the great unwashed tribal folk, Amazonia: The Catherine Miles Story never amounts to anything more than an obscure entry in the (by this time) bloated tummy of the cannibal genre.

Saying that, it's way more enjoyable than Castaway (tho' Tom Hanks does have much perter breasts than Elvire Audray) and has a nicer collection of arses than 120 days of Sodom.

It's a winner by default then really.

i digress (but it's for a good cause).

Not been posting as much as I'd like recently because (believe it or not) I've been working on the cover (and a bloody good one it is) for Twitter Titters, a new collection of comedy writing created through the social networking site Twitter in support of Red Nose Day.

Feel free to go and buy it now, then come back and read the rest.

I'll still be here.

Cover illustration: Obviously the work
of a God-like fucking genius.

For those of you outside the UK or the US (which has it's own version of CR broadcast on HBO), Red Nose Day is a bi-yearly fund raising extravaganza organised as part of Comic Relief, a British charity organisation that was founded in the United Kingdom in 1985 by the 'comedy' scriptwriter Richard Curtis in response to famine in Ethiopia. Over the past 21 years Comic Relief has raised more than £600 million for charities both at home and abroad.

Mostly by members of the public dressed up as animals, or in ill fitting Wonder Woman Outfits.

Which is kinda unfortunate for me seeing as I get totally freaked out (and quite possibly over-reactionary) to people dressed up as big animals and the like during charity events.

I mean, I’ve worked in some of the roughest area’s in Glasgow (which I admit is most of it) and been confronted by masses of E numbered children, junked up on Sunny Delight and Cola Cubes brandishing permanent markers like so many steak knives (albeit smelling slightly of sweets) like a sea of testosterone fueled sports shop mannequins swaying in an imaginary breeze without breaking a sweat. But put me in a room with a balding middle aged man in a tiger suit and I’ll be cowering in the corner liked a puppy that’s just pooed on your favourite coat.

How did this all begin I hear you ask and why is he telling us on what's meant to be a crap film blog?

Well, to take things one step at a time, I was once assaulted in a pub by a stockily built and very angry woman dressed as a certain visually impaired bear wielding a bucket of small change and frankly this is by fair a much cheaper (and more anonymous) alternative to therapy.

Not the real bear and monkey,

but a mock up for illustrative purposes.

There are a few things you really must know in order to put this whole, sorrowful tale into perspective, dear reader. You see, when I’m not slaving away over a hot drawing board or trying to educate the masses in the way of the zed grade Eurotrash movie via this illustrious blog I can be found down with ‘ver kids’ (as I think Daily Mail readers call them) desperately trying to make them realize that tightrope, balloon modeling and stilt walking are useful skills to acquired if one is to have any chance of getting a job or beating that pesky drug habit.

It’s a dirty job but someone has to do it.

Anyway, after a particularly grueling ‘decorate the burnt out car with symbols of community spirit’ workshop I’d decided to retire to a local (but not that local - I’m not stupid) alehouse for a relaxing pint with a co-worker when who should enter but the aforementioned yellow bear (in case his lawyers are reading I’d like to point out again that it wasn’t the real one) clutching a dented rusty bucket depicting a famous blue children’s train and accompanied by someone dressed as a giant, gone to seed.monkey waving an inflatable banana.

In my oh very slightly intoxicated state of being it appeared, to all intents and purposes, as if the late, great Harry Corbett himself had forced (at gunpoint) the studio heads at Cbeebies to make a six part road movie featuring a down at heel, heroin ravaged Pooh Bear and one of the lesser known Tetley’s chimps (by the sound of it the one with Tourettes).

A kind of child friendly Natural Born Killers if you will.

Only funnier.

“Gorrenymoneyfirthaweans!” The bear shouted as it vainly attempted to be heard over the electronically treated voice of Noel Edmonds emitted at random intervals from the battered and rusting Telly Addicts slot machine, clumsily traversing the narrow gully of grey skinned, yellowed scalped old men their trousers at half mast as though in tribute to a thousand dead cats. As is the norm in this kind of situation, I reacted as any sane human being would; I attempted to avert my gaze by concentrating on the depths of my pint. Too late though, I’d already been spotted, the bear’s single milky eye having an almost Medusa-like effect on me.

But obviously without the turning to stone bit, which frankly would be a bit far-fetched, even for the East End of Glasgow.

I desperately tried to nudge my colleague so as to look like we were in the middle of some deep Pinteresque monologue secretly praying that the giant animals would leave us in peace and target the urine stained man leaning precariously on the edge of the cigarette machine. But to no avail.

My sly git of a workmate had already legged it into the toilets.

The deafening clank of rusted metal on wood soon brought me to my senses and I looked up to find myself gazing into the furry matted face of a monster, to my right the monkey, after haphazardly slamming the (by now drooping) banana in front of me like some ancient tribal war rite, was perched on the edge of my friends still warm seat, it’s pink, faded felt backside slightly too big to fit comfortably on the chair.

“Gizummoneyfirthaweanson”.

The bear didn’t blink.

Regaining my composure, reaching for my wallet and hoping that whatever spare change I had on my person would be enough to send them on their way I was suddenly hit with an idea so utterly nonsensical (not to say suicidal) that part of me still thinks it was someone else that did it. Almost as if, for a second or two, I’d been lifted out of my body and been replaced by some kind of mischievous Native American woodland spirit.

You see at that moment I decided to start a conversation with this bright yellow beast.

“Anything to help, you know I work with kids myself so it’s kinda funny, like I’m paying my own wages”.

I managed a feeble giggle at my own (fairly funny if I do say so myself) joke.

“Whit?” Came the bear’s slightly confused reply.

The atmosphere suddenly turned sour as the monkey leaned toward me. Putting it down to the stale mix of cheap vodka and kebab meat emanating from its toothless maw I bravely continued.

“Yeah, some of the work I do is paid for by the bear charity (name changed to protect the innocent) so I always tell folk to cut out the middle man and just buy me a pint!”

I gave my biggest friendly smile, hoping that the animals towering over me would see the funny side.

“WHIT?”

The chimp finally spoke “Are you tellin’ me that they don’t just give the money to the weans?” The pair gazed at each other then turned to face me, the bears eye appearing to glaze over, like a shark moving in for the kill.

“So I’m oot dressed like a numpty collecting cash for those poor wee kids just so you can pish it up a wall? That’s no right by the way”.

A large furry fist hit the table causing the bucket to rattle.

I don’t know why but I had a very slight feeling that I may have said something to offend her. My brain was working overtime, do I try to find a way to diffuse the situation, explain myself better or do I just glass the monkey and run?

“But they have to pay the people who come in to do the work” I explained (and you thought I’d pick the last one didn’t you?) “It’s not like they can do it for free, I mean it’s my job”.

There was silence.

Phew (or some other twee word) I thought.

Sorted.

As I lifted my glass I noticed the bear begin to slowly stand, towering over me like, well like a big yellow bear really.

“So your job is taking money outta weans mooths just so you can buy drink? D’ya think I get paid fir dressin’ like this? If ida known I wouldnae bothered!”

I really couldn’t help laughing, imagining this mad she-bears doling out cash to soot faced urchins as they zoomed around the streets in their grannies motorbility chairs, X-Boxes strapped to the sides for extra power, causing havoc as they crash into the back of buses whilst OD-ing on Frootlubes, gobstoppers and Cheese Strings.

At least I’d assumed I’d imagined it and not blurted it out loud.

The next thing I knew was that I was lying on my back with a split lip, covered in beer and coins and with the imprint of a five pence piece just above my left eye (it’s still there by the way).

The barman broke the silence by asking if I was alright whilst subtlety leading me to the door and out into the street, the steely gaze of a dozen incredulous punters burning into my back. It was the first (and only) time I’ve been barred from a pub for being punched by a bear.

That wasn’t the most humiliating thing about it though, oh no.

That was the point when, upon trying to get a cab home I realized that the sodding chimp had stolen my wallet.

crystal tits and all this gore.

Thank the maker for midnight showings and double doses of Calpol....we'd never get a night out without them.

Friday the 13th (2009)
Dir: Marcus Nispel
Cast: Jared Padalecki, Aaron Yoo, Danielle Panabaker, Amanda Righetti, Nana Visitor, Travis Van Winkle, Ryan Hansen, Willa Ford, Julianna Guill, Nick Mennell, America Olivo, Arlen Escarpeta, Caleb Guss and Derek Mears.

It's a wet and wild Friday June the 13th way back in 1980 and an hysterical, tight t-shirted camp counselor is being chased thru' the mud by a mad middle aged woman in a turtle neck sweater and a pound shop Beatles wig.

It would appear that little ms. counselor and her pals were way too busy shagging, supping booze and smoking 'the reefer' to notice that this mentalist mum's ball headed son, Jason Voorhees (Guss), had fallen into the water and drowned, leaving an (understandably) distraught Mrs. Voorhees (Visitor in a blink and miss it cameo, well to be honest it's too short for a cameo, more of a cam) to take the camps complaints procedure a wee bit too far and kill everyone using a huge machete.

Before moving in for the kill, Mrs. V decides to rant at the sopping wet poor girl a bit more, giving our plucky heroine an opportunity to wrestle the machete from her and behead the raving middle aged loon instead.

As she wanders away into the woods, her ample bum cheeks glistening in the rain, a stooping, huge head boy emerges from the bushes and takes the dead woman’s weapon....

Guss: Bawheid.

Flash forward to 'the present day' and a group of annoyingly quirky teen buddies, including the high hairlined, sensitive Whitney (Righetti, star of the hit teevee show The Mentalist, nope i've never heard of it either) are enjoying a weekend vacation getting away from it all and camping in the woods.

Two of the pals have their own agenda however. You see rumor has it that there's a huge crop of Marijuana hidden somewhere in the woods and they plan to find it and sell it, becoming richer than a fairly rich man who sells dope along the way.

Whitney, feeling even more sensitive than usual due in part to her mum having cancer (what? character development?) heads off for a walk with her equally as sensitive yet unfortunately pube haired beau Mike (Mennell, from the cinematic abortion that was, and still is Rob Zombie's Halloween remake). It's not long before they come across the battered and ramshackle remains of an empty summer camp; the name plate says Camp Crystal Lake.

Meanwhile back at the campsite the party atmosphere is hotting up, there's much flashing of stone-like fake boobs and some heavy boozing whilst the non-cool teen, Jeff Hashman tells the spooky story of the beheaded mum out to avenge her sons death and and how her son was actually still alive, watching silently as she was killed, and that he still roams these very woods.

And on that note he decides to head off (alone) to look for the Marijuana grove.

Jeff has no sooner stumbled into slacker heaven when he finds himself face to chest with a huge, hulking figure of a man, clad in filthy denim, an old pair of orthopedic shoes and wearing a recycled canvas shopping bag on his head before being impaled on a tree.

"Steven!"

Whitney and Mike are still busy exploring the summer camps dilapidated cabins when they discover a child's bed with the name 'Jason' engraved in the headboard, a collection of whistles and small locket with a photo of a huge headed wee boy and a lady in it.

Mike remarks how similar Whitney looks to the lady and places it around her neck.

Good job he didn't compare her fairly large brow to the kids melon sized head tho', I'd have found it difficult not to mention it myself.

Over at base camp the tents are swaying to the sound of sweaty shagging and even more close-ups of America Olivo's frankly terrifying fake breasts swaying solidly in the wind like two breeze blocks tied to some old, vinegary rope.

We're saved from this evil vision (which is possibly the reason for the films R rating) when the young lovers hear a rustling noise from outside.

Could it be Hashman having a sly Barclay's in the bushes?

Or is it Mr. Baghead getting ready to slaughter some teens?

Take a guess.

Wanting to impress his girlfriend the brave boy heads outside to look, quickly stumbling across the marijuana crop before discovering his pal pinned halfway up a tree.

Running back to the camp he comes a cropper in one of Jason's makeshift booby traps, surviving just long enough to see the bag-headed one lift his girlfriends sleeping back and drop it into the campfire.

Again and again, stopping only when she's well done.

"Just coming!"

While all this senseless violence is going on, Mike and Whitney are still exploring the cabin (it must be like the TARDIS in there), coming across a unique (if not slightly strange) bathroom feature guaranteed to be the talk of any dinner party.

You see, just above the sink in a candle filled shrine they find the remains of Mrs. Voorhees head.

And you complain about buying a mothers day card.

Without warning the cabin door slams shut and Mike is stabbed by a mystery man poking a machete thru' the floorboards.

Whitney can only look on and scream.....

Olivo: Fake breasts,
ickle pointed witch chin.

Cut to a few months later and there's yet another group of expendable college kids heading to the lake for a weekend break, this time at the family cabin of curly topped, snub nosed rich 'kid' (although he looks around forty) Trent (Van Winkle).

Tagging along are his cutesy girlfriend Jenna (Panabaker, famous for playing Julie Stark in the James Woods teevee hit Shark and having ginger hair and pigtails whilst appearing opposite King Kurt Russell in Sky High), their friends Nolan (Owen Wilson-alike Hansen), the square jawed, shelf arsed Chelsea (former 'bad girl of pop' Ford) and cheesy Bree (Guill) alongside token minority pals Lawrence (Escarpeta fresh from the Frankie Muniz HoopLA Celebrity Basketball Event) and geeky stoner Chewie (Yoo).

Stopping for petrol, crisps, milk and a Lion Bar they come across chisel chinned biker bad boy Clay Miller (Padalecki, Sam Winchester from that show Supernatural that everyone seems to rave about), who's in town to look for his missing sister (that'll be Whitney then). The local townsfreaks have been less than helpful, telling him that she probably fell in a big hole or ran away to join the circus and even the police seem intent on getting Clay to leave town.

Do they have something to hide or are they just pissed off with him blu-tack-ing 8x10 glossies of his sis everywhere? I mean, for fuck's sake he's even pinning them onto dogs!

Feeling his place as the movies testosterone fueled 'manly man' being threatened, Trent faces off to Clay in an exciting manbreast to manbreast showdown in the middle of a corner shop.

The winner gets served first.

Someone, anyone just kill them now and have done with it.

Ford: Somewhere to park your bike at least.

Anyway, Clay moodily rides off on his bike (but not before he and Jenna have cut each other a few smoldering looks) whilst Trent, his bullet shaped nipples and his rent a pals continue on to his dads cabin for an enjoyable weekend of 'the sex', boozing, getting stoned and possibly getting butchered by a mad bloke with a machete.

Arriving at the cabin and getting ready to 'party on' as you young things say, Jenna soon excuses herself and takes a walk outside (probably to escape from her boyfriends eggy breath) whilst Chelsea and Nolan decide to borrow Trent's boat for a wee bout of water sports down by the lake.

They may look happy now but
just wait till the mooth shite-in starts.

As Jenna is enjoying a moment of quiet calm who should come a riding past but Clay. You see he's heard that there's a tree a few miles down the road that isn't covered by pictures of his sister so he's off to sort that out right away.

Thinking he could use a drink she invites him into the cabin but as he's about to enjoy a cool glass of weak lemon drink Trent appears in the kitchen, his eggy breath instantly turning the drink sour and sending Jenna and Clay hurrying out into the garden.

Sitting in the porch listening to Clay chatting away about his recently deceased mother, bad lad past and missing sister (don't knock it, as a chat up line it seems to work), Jenna offers to help him have one last look around the woods suggesting that they should probably have a closer look at the abandoned summer camp (you remember, the one with the ball faced, bag headed mentalist living in it) too.

I mean, what could possibly go wrong?

Meanwhile Jason has gone to the local corner shop for some provisions (and maybe a new bag) but mortally offended by the distinct lack of king sized Snickers on the shelves (and the buck toothed bumpkin owners habit of licking porn mags - talk about knowing your target audience) decides to kill him instead and steal a hockey mask....

Chelsea (stripped down to a rather impressive pair of big granny pants and an ill fitting bra) and Nolan (remember them?) meanwhile are enjoying a bit of water ski-ing on the lake, oblivious to the hulking figure watching from the shore.

Well, oblivious that is till he fires a dirty big arrow thru' Nolan's head causing poor Chelsea to fall off her ski's and cry a lot.

Swimming to shore and hiding under a pier, she fails to notice that her arse is sticking out a good three foot at the side, giving Jason an easy target to aim at.

The mask obviously restricts his vision tho' as he stabs her in the head instead.

Back at the summer camp compound (try typing that when you're drunk), Clay and Jenna seem to have made a day of it as it's now gone all dark, mist enshrouded and spooky. Wondering why the police never bothered to check the place for his sister he's just about to phone and ask when a lumbering figure shambles out of the bushes carrying a corpse inside a bin bag.

Clay and Jenna hide behind a tree as the hockey-masked madman dumps the body down a trapdoor before legging it back to Trent's to warn everyone that there's a killer on the loose.

A killer with a ginormous bonce.

Jason's romantic gesture of taking a lady up the
casino failed to get the result he hoped for.

Things are also hotting up back at the party tho', Trent and Bree have retired to the bedroom for some hot (re: sweaty arses, stroke victim faces and cries of 'do me bad boy') lovin', Chewie is sitting around getting stoned and Lawrence is attempting to have a wank over a copy of TV Quick (unfortunately tho' Lorraine Kelly isn't on the cover).

Luckily for him, Clay and Jenna arrive just in time to stop him cracking one off over a picture of the cast of The Golden Girls (it's a tribute issue), Jenna follows the stale smell upstairs to Trent whilst Clay goes to phone the local sheriff.

Unsurprisingly the phones are dead and it's not long before the power goes and the body count starts a-rising...

It seems Jason doesn't take too kindly to people messing around in his bush....

Amelia's initial reaction to news of a
Friday the 13th remake.

After dry heaving up the cinematic bile that was 2003's The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (and don't forget he also made the video for Cher's cover of Walking In Memphis among other classics) Marcus Nipsel surprises us all by remaking a great film for the evil that is Michael (I might be rich but my shit stinks like no-one elses) Bay's Platinum Dunes company and it turning out not to be (too) shite.

Yep, after making such an arse of the aforementioned Texas Chainsaw Massacre, managing to make The Amityville Horror remake even more awful than the original and defiling the memory of The Hitcher as one would the body of an elderly relative they seem to have struck gold with this one.

Only problem is that it doesn't actually feel like a Friday the 13th movie till way past the halfway mark. True the cast is adequate, it's nicely shot and the kills are pretty good but it has something missing.

Yep that's it.

Jason Voorhees.

What was wrong with the lumbering, bawheided bonkers boy with the mommy complex we've all come to love and cherish over the last three decades? And whose idea was it to replace him with a reject from The Hills Have Eyes (quite literally), all quick and nimble with a thing for booby traps and underground lairs?

That'd be writers Damien Shannon and Mark Swift then, and as much as I'd love to shout heresy at the pair and accuse them of not knowing/caring about the mythos established in the previous movies it's pretty difficult seeing as they were responsible for the pretty fantastic Freddie Vs. Jason.

And more importantly doing that would make me look like a friendless, greasy horror geek.

Interestingly tho' whereas they seem to be happy enough to completely re-invent the character traits of Jason Voorhees (what? I used the words character traits when reviewing a Friday the 13th movie - spooky) for a new audience the movie is also littered (almost to breaking point) with so many references to the past as to make it look like a condensed, greatest hits package.

Which is all well and good if you're cribbing from parts one and two but gets a wee bit worrying when you're stealing wholesale from Part 3 (and not even the 3-d bits).

"Can you smell cabbage?"

Like I said earlier tho' it's not all bad, there are stand out performances from Arlen Escarpeta and Aaron Yoo who manage to make a stoner and a chronic masturbater genuinely likeable characters whilst Danielle Panabaker deserves a special mention for having such a cutesy button nose.

As for Derek (the big baldy tongue mutant in The Hills Have Eyes 2, what do you mean you couldn't sit thru' it?) Mears portrayal of Jason, well as an actor he makes a great stuntman. He has the size and the build but absolutely no screen presence, turning the scary as hell man in the mask into, well, just a man in a mask.

Iggle Piggle's not in bed....

Still it's a darn sight better than Rob Zombie's Halloween and, if you can get past the (mainly chav-tastic) teen audiences shouting "No fookin' way man" at every oportunity that seem to congregate in cinemas these days and forget you're meant to be watching the relaunch of a horror classic then there are worse ways to spend a few hours.

Or you could stay in and watch the fantastic Crispin Glover's dance moves and death by corkscrew in Part 4.

february stiffs.

Quieter than the last few months (thank goodness) but still lost some good uns.....

First up was Erick Lee Purkhiser, better known as Lux Interior lead singer of The Cramps which managed to put a downer on the whole month, as did the death (by bushfire) of Reg Evans, star of Skippy the Bush Kangaroo, Prisoner Cell Block H and Mad Max.

Anna Watt of the tartan-tastic singing duo Fran and Anna went to Falkirk last month but that didn't bring me down (Bruce) as much as the news of the death of rock god and bass player extraordinaire Kelly Groucutt from Electric Light Orchestra.

Bill Clinton's family cat during his presidency, Socks used up all nine of his lives last month but that wasn't the long or short of it as for two months in a row a Munchkin actor died. This time it was captain of the Oz Shocktroopers Clarence Swensen.

And finally it was time to say goodbye to busty shopgirl come skeleton like harridan Wendy Richard, best known for playing the smooth and silky thighed Miss Brahms in Are You Being Served? and ultra MILF Pauline Fowler in EastEnders.