Sunday, December 26, 2010

how superheroes celebrate christmas (part one).

Friday, December 24, 2010

and so say all of us.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

people you fancy but shouldn't (part 24).

Especially for Master Jamie Bridle (14) of Braunton, the, um, 'lovely' Miranda Hart.


first blood.

Caught this little gem t'other day and thought I'd share.

I'll try not to give too much away because it's actually worth seeing.


Rammbock (AKA Siege of The Dead. 2010).
Dir: Marvin Kren.
Cast: Michael Fuith, Anka Graczyk, Theo Trebs, Sebastian Achilles, Carsten Behrendt , Melanie Berke, Emily Cox, Mila Gach, Harald Geil and Jörn Hentschel.

The morosely miserable Michael (the sensible jumpered Fuith, looking like cartoon dog Droopy made flesh) has recently (and unceremoniously) been dumped by his long-term girlfriend Gabi (moonfaced Graczyk whom you may recognise from Das letzte Versteck or then again, you may not) via a phone-call.


Arriving in Berlin and using the frankly feeble excuse of having to give her the house keys back as a reason to see her (and hopefully win her back) Michael is surprised to find not his true love at home but a fat sweaty builder and his young YTS apprentice Harper (Trebs from the enchanting Lilly the Witch: The Dragon and the Magic Book), who are incredibly busy moving stuff around and painting doors.

Well Harper is.

His bouncy boss appears to be trying to have sex with a radiator.

Must be a German thing I guess.

"Hello? French polishers? You might just be able to save my life..."

Michael nervously asks if either of them have seen Gabi or know her whereabouts garnering only a groovy non-committal shoulder shrug from Harper and a loud grunt from the big man followed by him tearing the radiator from the wall and trying to brain his poor assistant with it.

Yup, definitely a German thing.

Managing to wrestle the deadly decorator out of the front door and down the stairs, michael and Harper hastily barricade themselves inside Gabi's apartment just as the whole world outside seems to go to hell in a helmet.

Running to the window to see the cause of the commotion the hapless pair can only look on in horror as the building is suddenly surrounded by hordes of foaming mouthed mentalists with only one thing on their mutated minds.

Man meat.

"Oh no! Here come the Bin men!"

Finding a radio, Michael and Harper sit in shock as they listen to the news reports. It seems that this isn't an isolated occurrence and all of Germany is affected by this sudden outbreak of munchy filled madness.

Reaching for his phone to try and call Gabi, Michael notices it's not in his pocket.

suddenly there's a ringing from outside the front door. 

After much deliberation and armed only with a makeshift slingshot and a pair of rubber gloves our heroes attempt to reclaim their only link to the outside world.

And Michael's only way of contacting Gabi.


After much sneaking and shiftiness our dou manage to locate Michael's phone but not before the entire apartment is overrun by blood hungry freaks, leaving Harper and Michael trapped in the bedroom with only a wardrobe, rabbit hutch and a drinks cabinet to keep the door jammed shut.

But at least they can phone home now and tell their loved ones that they'll be late home for tea so it's not all bad.

Sticking the phone out of the window to try and get a signal, Michael notices the group of surviving neighbours across the courtyard all gazing from their balconies, desperate for information and maybe even a glimmer of hope that someone, anyone can help.

"It's Julian Assange, he says he's shagging your mum".

With food and medicines in short supply and the infected hordes moving ever nearer the survivors know they can’t remain in their homes indefinitely.

So Michael, still obsessed with Gabi's safety, hatches a plan to escape the besieged bedroom,rescue his true love and find a way of reaching the other survivors before it's too late.

Rick Melton must have been busy.

First up, please don't be put off by Revolver Entertainment's bloody abysmal, lowest common denominator re-branding/retitling of Rammbock (they must have spent all their cash on the upcoming release of A Serbian Film, it's got a booklet and everything) as Siege of The Dead, with it's photo-shopped publicity still zombie and non appearing helicopter gunships, burning buildings and the slightly important fact that the 'infected' in the movie aren't actually dead because if you do you'll be missing a really effective little movie.

I say little because having a running time of just over 60 minutes, I can't decide whether to class it as director Marvin Kren's debut short feature or his forth (albeit longer) short film.

Saying that tho' he manages to fit more action, scares, giggles and pathos into it's meagre running time than most film's twice it's length.

Or three times it's budget.

Blessed with a fantastic cast and superb pacing, particularly during the film's second half, Kren adds just enough touches of his own to the proceedings to lift it above yer normal running zombie straight to DVD fare and puts most of the UK (and US) undead output to shame.

Plus it has one of the funniest bear suit moments I've ever seen.

Up the arse from an undead Wendy Richards....every man's dream.

And whilst Rammbock doesn't re-invent the genre or stray too far from the 'under seige' formula, what it does achieve with it's tiny budget, cast and running time is nothing short of marvellous.

So basically, if you only see one subtitled film distributed by Revolver in the next few months make sure it's this one.

Right, I'd better get back to watching shite and typing laugh now....feeling all funny here.

king ink.


Saturday, December 4, 2010

compost corner.

I've been told I'm not been reviewing enough utter shite recently, meaning people are starting to think this is a serious film blog.

Well, I'll soon fix that.

Thanks to Mr. Dissolvedpaul for aiming this abomination my way.


Born of Earth (2008).
Dir: Tommy Brunswick.
Cast: Daniel Baldwin, Brad Dourif, James Russo, Randall Godwin, Jennifer Kincer and Shannon Zeller.

Five years ago, bearded behemoth Danny Kessler (the fat Baldwin, literally oozing alcohol and shame thru' the screen) witnessed the murderous mutilation of his (admittedly fairly plain) wife and kidnapping of his unpleasant looking and chronically overacting children by a group of rubbery (why thank you!) shite-covered, nappie wearing underground beasts who then disappeared into his rose bush.

The local authorities, assuming that the poor bloke had lost it, blame the killings on a rampant weasel family, leaving a distraught Kessler to leave town to try and rebuild his life.

Nothing like a happy opening is there?

"I bet you a tenner I can make this table move without using mah hands!"

Since all the killings and alongside his gin-soaked hobo lifestyle, Kessler has been researching the whole monster killing/wean kidnapping phenomena and has recently discovered that eminent Doctor of stuff, Professor Terry Niceman (Godwin from the Jeff Daniels hit Escanaba in da Moonlight) has written quite a thick (and therefore very intelligent) book on the subject.

Heading off to meet him at a nearby signing, Kessler is shocked to see how many other people share the same story (tho' why it should be such a surprised when he's spent the last five years reading about it is one mystery the movie doesn't address) and attempts to fight his way thru' the, ooh, dozens of extras queuing patiently to meet the Prof.

But Niceman's burly bouncer has been given the job of turning anyone who looks a wee bit like a nutter away.

Which counts the sweat stained Kessler out then.

Luckily he has something that no other person there has.

And no it's not a Screen Actors Guild card.

It appears that Kessler is the only person ever to have been bitten by one of these beasts and survive.

Well, whoopie fucking doo.

"Quick! to the AIDS Mobile!"

Niceman is suitably impressed, closing the signing early and taking Kessler for a coffee and a cream bun to discuss his scars in more detail.

Referring to his notes Niceman realises that it's always the same date every year that these creatures take the children and in the five years since Kessler's kids were taken the number has been multiplying at a huge rate.

Scribbling some rubbish on a napkin the professor is alarmed to discover that if his calculations are correct the creatures will attempt to abduct every child in America this very evening.

Yup, even the really fat ones.

Making his excuses, Kessler decides to finally face his demons and return to his former hometown in the hope of saving his sister-in-law Kelly (fish lipped and boss eyed Kincer from Unbeatable Harold) and her (by the looks of it) middle aged daughter Haley (the hamster like Zeller, best known for her standout performance in Shoot First and Pray You Live- Because Luck Has Nothing to Do with It).

Christ I've seen some shite.

Finishing his drink and saying something profound to his team, professor Niceman decides to follow.

"Can mooth shite-in get me pregnant mum?"

Arriving in town just before teat time, Kessler pops in to see his sis-in-law and fill her in (ooeerr) on his theories whilst Kelly, arms flailing like an epileptic windmill desperately tries to remember her lines.

Giving Kelly the book to read Kessler makes her an offer she can't refuse.

And before you asked it's not a bit part in next years Celebrity Rehab but a chance of a free night out at the funfair.

The deal is that if those pesky beasts attack they'll all be safely out of town (and sugared up to the eyeballs on candy floss) but if they don't attack they'll at least have had a nice night out.

Never one to turn down a freebie, Kelly agrees, giving Kessler a couple of hours to go visit the cemetery.

But not before he's stolen some flowers from a neighbours garden to put on his wife's grave.

No doubt he'll keep a few back to put on the remains of his career.

But not everyone is pleased to see our portly pal, as we discover when the local sheriff (Russo from Argento's Trauma and Donnie Brasco, looking like a man whose ex wife is after extra cash) interrupts a major business meeting between some cardboard Jehovah's Witnesses and the mayor (Dourif wearing one of Sylvester McCoy's old suits-as well as his wig).

The pair decide it would be best to pick up Kessler and run him out of town.


Well your guess is as good as mine, seeing as it turns out that the mayor is as much in the dark about the creatures as anybody else and his 'shady' business deal is trying to get a swimming pool for his new house on the cheap.

"Laugh now!"

As the plot screeches to a halt to allow sheriff Reeser to drive back and forth (whilst looking troubled), pick up Kessler, then question him, then getting the deputy to drive him out of town, the films major excitement revolves around Kessler's niece dating a 'punker guy' and the conversations she has with her mum regarding safe sex, guys in make-up and cannibalistic underground monsters.

But try as they do to build the tension, that prize is taken by Professor Niceman as he and his team try valiantly to find the road that leads into town before they run out of petrol.

Edge of the seat stuff I'm sure you'll agree.

"Jings an' crivens it's tha' Siiiiiiiiibearmon!"

Taken up the city limits in the back of a police car (it's alright for some), after first being shocked unconscious with a Tazer (is this A Serbian Film or what?, hang on this is fairly enjoyable), Kessler is rudely awakened by the patter of tiny clawed feet on the roof of the car.

Oh and the smell of fresh shite.

It seems the creatures have begun to rise from the earth and are looking for food.

And weans.

But on finding neither they settle on chowing down on the deputy, giving our hero enough time to steal his car and drive back to town.

Where all hell is breaking loose.

Well, I say all hell but to be honest all that's happened is that one of the creatures is eating the mayor's new doors whilst a few others are rubbing their arses on Kelly's freshly cleaned windows.

Will this excitement never start?

Brad Dourif, up the casino, Ipswich, 2008....YESCH!

Rushing to the mayor's luxury pad just in time to see him getting rendered limb from limb by a couple of shoddily superimposed tramps, sheriff Reeser has a change of heart (and character) radioing Kessler to apologise for being grumpy before heading over to Kelly's house.

Screeching to a halt on Kelly's newly mowed lawn and right next to Kessler and the prof, our heroic duo get a chance to quickly shoot some stuff before Niceman (being the voice of scientific reason) suggests that they should leave town immediately.

Obviously he's worried that if anything exciting happens the audience may not be able to cope.

Driving into the town centre, our creeped out chums can' believe the sight that greets them, for where there once stood shops, a bookies and an off license now there's only a crappily digitised photo, animated GiF fires hastily added and green-screened, mouldy tramps tottering around the bottom of the screen.

A veritable cheaply realised FX hell on (HD) earth.

Insert cock here.

Knowing that effects of this calibre wouldn't convince a dead blind man (or his wooden pawed dog), the group vote to continue their journey in the sewers.

Which are underground.

Which is where the creatures come from.

Go figure.

But not before the prof has his  face bitten off.

Lucky bugger.

Heading into the towns (very clean) sewer system our merry band of ne'er do wells must fight monsters, hackneyed dialogue and the urge to wander off for a piss (no, really) if they hope to make it to the city limits before time (and audience patience) runs out....


My word, where to start?

Well imagine, if you will all the crappier bits of Nightmare City, The Gate and Demons mixed with a smidgen of Jaws and Hollyoaks and an added touch of Tremors for flavouring. Boil until shapeless then sprinkle with a dash of shame and egg white, leaving the whole thing to fester for a month in a tramps pants and you're someway to appreciating the celluloid shite-box that is Born of Earth.

Directed (if that's the word) by horror cinemas very own big bad mama, Tommy (Thomasita) Brunswick and backed with the stiffest actors this side of a porn film, the budget can barely stretch to keeping poor Daniel Baldwin sober and watching the poor sod emote for all his worth, convinced this is his great comeback is probably the most frightening (and uncomfortable) thing on screen.

Kelly's fridge: The best performance in the film.

The rest of the cast just seem to stand around either looking smug (stand up Professor Niceman's assistant) or comatose, the exception being Sir Bradley of Dourif who just stands around being, well Brad Dourif really.

Fuck knows how Brunswick got him onboard but I for one need to see the incriminating evidence for myself because whatever she's got on him must be really bloody juicy.

To be honest she could have caught him shagging her kids but come on lady let the punishment fit the crime because no-one deserves this on their CV.

Not even Simon Philips.

As for the rest of the poor sods on show here there's much fun to be had trying to figure out just who is really the older (and most human) out of mother/daughter team Jennifer Kincer and Shannon Zeller.

What with Kincer's almost radioactive orange skin, carp-like lips and jerky body movements coupled with Zeller's hugely out of proportioned moonhead, stringy, greying  old lady hair and ruddy almost burn victim complexion, both actresses are far more terrifying than the actual monsters on show in the movies finale.

Ah and what monsters they are.

I have to admit that there's some kind of perverse genius at work from whoever decided to cast skinny homeless children as the creatures, covering them in green emulsion before tying a pair of huge grannie pants to them, shaving their heads and gluing a selection of knock-off Lord of The Rings Orc masks onto their heads.

I've heard of folk being arrested for less.

No doubt social services were busy investigating that Serbian rubbish that day.

"If you were a bottle of meths I'd drink you hen!"

To be fair tho' I did experience a kind of dirty pleasure when watching this movie. You know, the kind of feeling you get when you secretly piss in your pants when you're at the theatre or in the cinema when you know no-one will notice and for that I can only be thankful.

 Just please don't make a sequel.

I don't think my bladder (or my laundry bill) could cope.

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

the maggots have gushed forth...

Well everyone else seems to have an opinion (and a couple of those folk have even seen it) so who am I to miss a wee bit of bandwagon jumping?

On a more serious note the kids are off because of the snow so I wanted something we could watch as a family.

A Serbian Film (AKA Srpski Film. 2010).
Dir: Srdjan Spasojevic.
Cast: Srdjan Todorovic, Sergej Trifunovic, Jelena Gavrilovic, Katarina Zutic, Slobodan Bestic , Ana Sakic, Lena Bogdanovic, Luka Mijatovic and Andjela Nenadovic.

There are a load more folk too but my spell checker just had a breakdown.

"start with the little one."

Milo, former member of The Tweenies and semi-retired Serbian porn star (Todorovic, allegedly but I reckon it's really David Spade of Saturday Night Live fame) lives the good life with his beautiful wife Bela (Eastern Europe's very own council estate Famke Janssen, Gavrilovic, bless you) and their young, pretty lipped son Jake.

What he lacks financially he more than makes up for in his home life and buddy buddy relationship with his wide-faced brother, Marko (Bestic from the fantastic Serbian teevee hit Metla bez drske) , a white suited policeman with horses teeth.

Don't be too surprised to find out he's the good looking one in the family, after all they are Serbian.

But deep down our sexy friend is worried that his meagre savings wont be enough to support his family in the future and has taken to swigging Jack Daniels straight from the bottle and leaving his porn stash around for his wee boy to see.

A bit like my childhood then.

Then one day out of the blue Milo's former co-star, the frighteningly pneumatic Lejla (Zutic) contacts him with an offer he'd be hard put to refuse.

Or just hard judging by his past performances.

It appears that  bushy bearded millionaire pornographer cum artist cum in mah mooth director Max Vukmir (Trifunovic, who once made a film with Nicolas Cage) is a fan of Milo's earlier work (especially the episode where Doodles goes missing and Fizz loses her hair ribbon) and is intrigued by his legendary erection skills

Milo, it is rumoured, can keep - and maintain - a massive hard on just by thinking about it.

No big deal really, I've got one whilst I'm typing this.

"I'm shagging your weans!"

Vukmir is determined to take porn out of the gutter and into the realms of 'true art' and to this end offers Milo a huge wad of cash to be the movies star. The only rules are that Milo must remain ignorant to the films plot, never interacting with the other performers off stage as to keep his reactions 'true'.

If he agrees to these demands a car will arrive to pick him up every morning and he will be supplied with an earpiece where instructions and direction will be relayed to him.

Milo reckons that it sounds a pretty easy job for a lifetime of potatoes and Vodka (or whatever those pesky Serbians class as luxuries) so signs up straight away.

I mean none of it sounds at all sinister.

"No! I'm shagging your weans!"

A few days later (after a series of 'Rocky' still training montages intercut with shots of Marko having a wank whilst thinking of his sister-in-law) Milo is taken up the local social work offices where he's filmed reacting to a woman shouting at her daughter before being led into a room where the very same woman (I think seeing as the casting brief seems to have read 'Wanted: rough as fuck, interchangeable blonde women with builders thighs') gives him a blow job.

So far so so, if not for the fact that the room is full of giant screens showing the woman's daughter putting on bright red lipstick and sucking on a long sticky lollipop during the whole thing.

I'm assuming this has a hidden meaning but it was a wee bit too deep and intellectual for me to understand.

"And I'm watching him shagging your weans!"

Thinking to himself "Wahey! I'm getting paid to get girlie gobbles!" Milo begins to enjoy revisiting his old life until that is he's led into a room and is expected to let a battered and bruised woman touch his tadger whilst the young girl from earlier, dressed this time like Alice in Wonderland, sits and watches him.

Milo, obviously embarrassed to have his cock out in front of such a wee lassie has a major hissy fit and refuses to continue but as he goes to leave the battered bint bites down on his manhood whilst one of the crew appears from the shadows, grabbing Milo round the throat and forcing him to comply.

Milo is not a very happy chappie.

"I'm crushing your head. I'm crushing your head. Crush. Crush".

Wiping his cock on his trousers he storms off to see Vukmir, hoping to get to the bottom (fnarr) of what's going on.

It comes as a surprise to Milo (but to no-one watching) that despite the charm, well trimmed facial hair and a government contract, Vukmir is a bad man (hey! Do you think that the director is trying to say something about authority here? Maybe he's hinting that those well spoken Serbian politicians with their fancy suits and big words could really be bad men too?) and alongside his job as a minister for childcare and the like is head of an organisation that produces 'specialist porn for the more discriminating viewer.

One such project, explains Vukmir excitedly, in a scene that rivals The Mother of Tears  in it's misuse of a Baby Alive doll, involves a fat man delivering then shagging a newborn baby whilst the mother (not too surprisingly played by a rough as fuck, blonde with builders thighs) looks on approvingly.

Give me a minute whilst I fire off an angry letter to my local MP.

And Mattel.

Somewhere to park the directors bike at least.

Reeling from the shock revelation (well it's either that or he's so fucking offended that someone would attempt to pass off such a shoddy effect as being even remotely realistic) Milo stomps off to his car and drives off, not realising that Vukmir, just for a laugh, has spiked his with bull Viagra which, when given to humans (or even Serbians) creates a highly aggressive, permanently aroused sexual state that leaves the unfortunate victim open to all manner of suggestion.

No, really.

Coming over all woozy (which makes a change from having to endure shots of him coming over various, unattractive women's faces), Milo pulls over to the side of the road where almost immediately he's approached by a whorish brunette (I reckon it's the directors sister) who reaches into the car are starts fondling his cock.

Scarper! It's the parkie!"

The next thing Milo knows is that three day have passed and he's at home in his bed, encrusted in blood and semen, beaten to a pulp and with no memory of anything post the dirty bird hand job.

To most folk reading this would be a normal Saturday night, but as we've come to learn Serbia is bad (as are it's rulers, women, fashions etc.), so Milo heads back to Vukmir's pad to find out the truth.

Or at the very least find a stash of poorly hidden video tapes containing everything that's happened over the last seventy two hours.

Within minutes of arriving at Vukmir's (now deserted) house, Milo has indeed found a stash of  tapes and decides to go into the garden to view them.

Well it is a sunny day, which I gather is unusual in Serbia where it's more likely to be raining virgin's tears mixed with shame.

Armed only with a plate of egg and cress sandwiches and a weak lemon drink Milo begins his videotaped trip into terror.

High on the bull Viagra and totally under Vukmir's power, poor Milo is forced to shag the ample arse off a (you guessed it) nude yet still rough as fuck, blonde women with builders thighs (and arms) who's been thoughtfully handcuffed to a bed whilst Vukmir rants on about Serbia, Serbian war heroes, Serbian weather and Serbia in general.

Yup, I'm pretty sure all this violence is metaphorical.

This rousing speech regarding national identity is bought to a thrilling finale when Vukmir orders Milo to cut the woman's head off with a handy machete in order to allow him to experience the ecstatic joy of rigor mortis rogering.

Out of all the people in this scene she was the one I now felt the most jealous of, yes I know this poor woman has been raped and murdered but as a plus point at least she hasn't got to listen to all this teen angst political bollocks anymore.

Unlike the viewer who has at least twenty five minutes of this shite left to deal with.

Tape two consists of footage of Milo, off his tits, naked and chained face down on a sofa bed being anally violated by a hunky blond man.

So not all bad then.

Gerry McCann was shocked to find his cupboard was bare.

Pausing only to wipe the blood from his arse, Milo tentatively loads the final tape and finds himself looking at Lejla bound by the wrists and hanging in the middle of the set from Hostel, her face swollen and bloodied from having all her teeth removed.

Just like the Serbian government removed workers rights to vote on International X Factor or something.


Suddenly a granddad-panted man with a bin bag on his head enters the room and forces his cock (well an obviously rubber representation of one) down her throat until she suffocates.

Milo is visibly stunned by what is revealed on the tapes.

How could Vukmir lie about making art porn with proper plots when he's really producing so-so, been there, seen that torture porn that went out of fashion around five years ago?

But that'll have to wait as there's only fifteen minutes left and there's plenty more buggery fun to fit in before then.

His memory returning thanks to the tapes, Milo begins to remember more and more details about his missing days.

And frankly it doesn't get any more entertaining.

Or interesting.

Srdjan Todorovic, up the arse, Serbia, 2010....he fucking wishes.

 After being dragged off the street where a gang of teenagers have caught him having a wank in an alley, Milo is taken back to Vukmir's where he's given even more drugs before being taken into a huge white lit room.

The room is empty save for a big bed where two bodies, all covered save their arses, one peachy and one fairly scrawny are waiting for him.

Milo is told to take his pick.

Deciding to take the easy (and more rounded) bottom first Milo  opts for the big round one, pulling his best stroke face and grunting whilst what sounds like a disco version of the theme to The Terminator pounds from the soundtrack.

I take it that this is meant to be fairly serious and a mite disturbing then.

Oh well.

 His boots might have been made for walking but his mooth was definitely made for shite-ing in.

Finishing up with a loud squish Milo hops over and gets to work on the smaller of the two bums, whilst the mysterious Y-Fronted masked man from earlier enters the scene and the (by now soggy seconded) first arse, grinning and groaning as he humps away.

Removing his mask at the moment of climax, Milo is shocked (well as shocked as a junked up arse raper can be) to see his brother grinning back at him, but that's not the worst of it, for the bottom that both of the sleazy siblings have just violated belongs to none other than Milo's wife, off her (fairly attractive) tits on a massive cocktail of drugs administered by the villainous Vukmir.

Surely this powerful and disturbing scene shows the "monolithic power of leaders who hypnotise you to do things you don't want to do"?

Well according to the film's ruddy faced, leather box jacketed writer Aleksandar Radivojevic it does and he wrote E-Snuff and reviewed a couple of horror films once so he knows a thing or two about, erm, stuff.

My personal opinion is that he's a huge fan of Japanese guro manga artist Uziga Waita from whose work huge chunks of A Serbian Film's imagery seems to have been lifted from wholesale.

Or am I the only person to notice this?

"To me!" "To you!"

Anyways, back to the 'plot' and as Milo tries to process what he's just seen (and done) he notices the covered figure beneath him start to stir.

Slowly pulling back the covers Milo is horrified to see that he's spent the last ten or so minutes shagging his own son up the shitter in a scene that could almost be seen as a stark visualisation of the molestation of the Serbian populace by the faceless Serbian government.

Well if you listen to Radivojevic (again) I'm sure that's what he'll tell you.

And if you're easily led (and easily pleased) you'll probably nod sagely and agree with him.

Rather than telling him to get to fuck, finishing your drink and leaving.

So with Milo finally realising the full horror of the situation, his mind snapping as he's dragged kicking and screaming back to reality the full base energy of a man betrayed comes to the fore, fuelling and act of savage violence not seen since Milan Stanković performed Ovo Je Balkan in Oslo to a mildly apathetic audience in early 2010....

After months of rumours, cancelled showings, moral outrage and reviews using words like 'resonance' and 'transgressive', the cinematic equivalent of two middle-class teenagers left home alone for the weekend and deciding to amuse themselves by shouting "Cunt!" at passers-by is here.

Billed by it's distribution company, Revolver Entertainment as 'an uncompromising, artistic and political statement from a unique film-making vision' rather than the more honest 'It wants to be a wee bit like a lobotomised Old Boy but with a uniformly uglier cast', A Serbian Film is one of the few cinematic experiences that has ever left me with no feelings toward it whatsoever.

Like an angry child it tries to act and sound like an adult as it screams and shouts in the corner, it's shrill voice getting louder and louder as it demands your attention.

But on taking time out to listen you realise it really has nothing to say. 

Unlike writer Radivojevic and director Spasojevic who quite cleverly (and/or cynically) have manage to wrap their movie up in a big shitey bow made up of all the bad bits of recent Serbian history, hoping that some of it will stick to as many wannabe intellectual journalists as possible and lessen the duo's chances of getting found out as the second rate hacks they really are.

Spasojevic is quoted as saying that "You have to feel the violence to know what it’s about".

Well if this is the case then I'm sorry but he's never been kicked hard enough.

But with him being in the public eye at the moment his chance may come sooner than he thinks.

I do hope so.

Monday, November 29, 2010

video naschy.

The strangely hypnotic Vicar of VHS and his evil cohort in cinematic sin The Duke of DVD have graciously asked me to take part in the first ever Paul Naschy Blogathon that they've unleashed (from beyond the grave obviously) over at their frankly magnificent MMMMMovies blog.

And not only did they ask very politely but they said that if I agreed they would burn both the set of photo's and the negatives.

So dear reader how could I refuse?

But which film to pick?

Well, after a random, blindfolded grab at the shelf (which first brought forth Banda Darwaza, different country completely but still subtitled) I reckoned it was probably easier to put all the Naschy stuff together before picking (otherwise I'd be here all night).

With that done my sticky little paws found themselves drawn to...

Curse of the Devil (AKA Return of the Werewolf, El Retorno de Walpurgis. 1973).
Dir: Carlos Aured.
Cast: Paul Naschy, Fabiola Falcón, Maria Silva, Ana Farra, Fernando Sánchez Polack, Maritza Olivares, José Manuel Martín, Ines Morales and Eduardo Calvo.

Damn the Exorcist! The Devil won't let go!

Returning home after a busy night working as a Sir Lancelotagram, Irenius Daninsky (the late, great Naschy AKA Jacinto Molina Álvarez and the reason we are here) is surprised to come upon his evil rival in the kissing knight business,  Baron Barry Bathory riding toward him across a deserted field.

Furious at the thought of such a second rate snogger (and crap dancer) stealing his work Irenius has no alternative but to challenge the beastly Baron to a full on Knight Fight.

With the sound a cheap tin on plastic filling the early morning air it's not too long before our hero has bested (tho' thankfully not beasted) the vile Baron, taking his large comedy proportioned head as a souvenir.

But the smell of blood, sweat and shame has driven Irenius into a righteous fury that the life of one bad Bathory isn't enough to quell.

Raising (and rousing) his most trusted men he decides to march on Bathory Towers, where he is certain that the Baron's wife, the professional vixen and part-time bad girl Elizabeth Bathory (a behatted and narrow of hips yet still quite fit for an old bird Silva) is holding a Black Mass.


Just in case you forget what we're talking about.

Entering the castle just in time to catch mad Lizzie cutting an oil-covered naked gypsy girl's throat cut, our Christian crusaders waste no time in taking the whole coven into custody and, after the shortest (and by the looks of it the most legally dubious) trial in the history of Witch-Finding hanging them from the bridge at Daninsky's castle.

Which, admittedly is a good use of space which really adds contrast to the stark brickwork.

All that is except Elizabeth who, being the leader of the coven (and more importantly the only real actress in the scene) is tied to a stake and set alight.

Which (unfortunately for Irenius and his kin) give her just enough time to curse his family with what must be the most convoluted threat ever made by a burning witch.

With her dying breath she explains that one of his descendants will, at some point accidentally kill one of her descendants, thus setting the (most probably) vile curse in motion.

And you wonder why you're girlfriend wont invite you home to meet her folks?

Now the back story is done and dusted we can all flash forward a few years and meet the mournful and slightly melancholic Waldemar Daninsky (It's Naschy! Again!), the last of the Daninsky's, his roly-poly housemaid Malitza (Ana Farra but not the one from Scary Movie) and 'man-servant' Maurice (Cannibal Man's Polack).

Imagine Bruce Wayne with a third of the cash but twice the charisma, topped off with William Shatner's hair and you're halfway there.

Naschy: Dreamy.
Being a closeted, rich type, Waldemar spends his days moping around reading poetry and taking long walks in the woods While his servants try (in vain) to get him to take up a hobby or talk to girls.

Things seem to be turning round for our troubled hero tho' when one day, completely out of the blue he asks if he can join Maurice on a hunting trip.

You see, it appears that a wolf is loose around the forest scaring the local farmers chickens and it's Maurice's job (seeing as he's the only person with a gun license) to kill it.

Armed with a swanky new Chinese fowling piece (made in Birmingham, England naturally) and bedecked in his best tweed jodhpurs, Waldemar throws himself whole heartedly into tracking a wolf, letting out a loud "Woohoo!" when he finally bags the beast.

Imagine then his surprise when on closer inspection of the body he discovers that it wasn't a wolf at all but a man!

And he wasn't even that hairy.

He couldn't have been a Werewolf could he?

Well if he was his gypsy brethren (who aren't at all named Bathory oh no) aren't saying, seeing as they're too busy being huffy and refusing money from Waldemar whilst trying to sell pegs to all and sundry.

Whilst all this soap-like drama is going on the gypsy elders, hidden deep within a nearby cave, are busy summoning the Devil himself in order to set the second part of the Bathory curse, which seems to involve a spandex clad mime taking various busty gypsy wenches up the arse to see who has the sexiest cum face, into motion.

Which is nice work if you can get it.

Ines Morales, up the casino, Benidorm, 1973....Yesch!

Thru' all the grunting, groaning and cross-eyed lip biting it's Ilona (scrumptious Necrophagus star and another survivor of Cannibal Man, Morales) that comes out on top (albeit with slightly scuffed knees) and, posing as a helpless lady with a low cut dress, manages to worm her way into Waldemar's home.

And his king sized bed.

After on particularly heavy night of love making, Ilona, clad only in an old ladies chiffon nightie sneaks back into our unlucky chums room clutching a wolf skull and a pen knife.

Unluckily for Waldemar this isn't some kind of proto-Basic Instinct shagathon but the final rites in the dreaded Bathory curse.


Slitting her wrist and wiping the fresh blood over the skull Ilona plunges the little wolf teeth into Waldemar's ample manbreast before disappearing into the night.

But just to show that bad things do happen to bad people she's soon hacked to death by a passing axe wielding mentalist.

So that's ok then.

Waking up on the bedroom floor with a terribly itchy tit, Waldemar is helped back to bed by Maurice and an overly concerned Malitza.

It seems that last night was the eve of Walpurgis and being of good old fashion pikey folk, Malitza has an inkling of what may have been done to poor Waldemar.

There's no time for Malitza to voice her fears tho' as no sooner has Waldemar got up and gotten dressed than the local police type bloke turns up to inform him that the axe murderer that killed Ilona appears to have set up home in the woods and is intent on annoying the neighbours.

A prayer before mooth shite-in.

If all that wasn't enough to keep everyone interested then the fact that a famous Belgian industrialist, his blind wife and beautiful young(ish) daughters have moved into the house a the edge of the woods (tho' not at the edge of the park unfortunately) it at least cheers Waldemar up and he decides to go for a walk in the hope of coming across them.

The daughters that is, I mean if he came across the mum she'd probably think it's was just raining or something.

Tiptoeing thru' the tulips Waldemar hears a cry from in the distance and runs toward the noise only to find older sister Kinga (the permanently middle aged star of National Mechanics, Falcon) teetering precariously on a ledge after attempting to pick some flowers.

As our hunky hero helps the poor maiden down their eyes meet and it's love at first sight, much to the annoyance of the rabbit toothed yet incredibly bouncy breasted younger sister Maria (the pixie-like Olivares) who, quite understandably, fancies a wee bit of Naschy nookie for herself.

"Awight hen....who's first for a suckle?"

As the romance blossoms and the full moon rises so does the body count, the locals (and police) blaming these lunar head loppings on the murderer still at large in the woods.

So why is it that Waldemar keeps waking up with dirty feet?

Whatever Malitza knows she isn't telling.

Smiling for the first time since the film began and preparing to announce their engagement Waldemar receives a letter from his bride to be asking to meet at their secret love nest (a cottage at the edge of the woods) and hoping for a bit of pre-nup rumpy Waldemar quickly washes himself.

But he's in for a shock on his arrival seeing as that's where the axe man is hanging out.

And the note was sent by Maria, not Kinga.

It's like a less fantastical Eastenders isn't it?

Arriving just in time to see the killer attempting to stick his chopper in Maria Waldemar jumps into the fray, beating the badman within an inch of his acting ability before stabbing him with a letter opener and throwing him out of an open window.

Turning to Maria for an explanation he notices two quite important things.

1. she's naked.


2. Her breasts are indeed much perkier than her sisters.

Five fingers, never touched the sides.

It seems that far from being the flirty little whore we mistook her for (which is a shame) Maria just wants to be loved and is sick and tired of being treated like a child.


After pouring out her heart she turns to Waldemar and confesses "I came her a virgin and don't intend to leave one".

Waldemar, being a strong upstanding guy does the right thing and sticks it in her.

And before any of you start tutting we've all done it at some point or another if we're honest about it.

What we haven't done tho' (probably) is transformed into a Werewolf during intercourse and bitten the throat out of our partner.

Which is unfortunately, what occurs here.


With the room (and Maria) awash with blood, hair and semen Waldemar leaps from the window ready for the hunt, leaving Malitza to come out of hiding and tidy up the mess.

Bless her, I mean who wouldn't like a granny that did that for you?

The locals (being country bumpkins and therefore thick as pig shit) are still intent on blaming the escaped axe man for the crimes, until that is they find his corpse rotting away in a barn with a letter opener bearing the initials WD sticking out his chest.

This (fairly circumstantial) evidence couple with the man sized paw prints and hairballs scattered about immediately points to a Werewolf wandering around the place and by a using a complex method of elimination it's decided the real killer is none other than Waldemar Daninsky himself.

To prove this the villagers indiscriminately murder Maurice before heading into the woods with pitchforks aloft and shouting loudly.

As the rampant mob gather numbers, smashing letterboxes and upturning flower pots as they go Kinga realises that there is only one thing she can do to save Waldemar's eternal soul...

But does she have the courage and love to see it thru?

"Blood in mah big hairy mooth!"

Back in the days before t'internet (and, gulp even video) the only way you could find out about new (ok let's be honest here, any) horror movies was from local library books (usually written by Leslie Halliwell, a writer whose own ideas of good horror once noted that Night of The Living Dead had killed the genre and nothing of any worth had been made since) or one of the very few genre magazines available (stand up and be counted House of Hammer and on the rare occasions it got imported to a wee newsagent nearby Famous Monsters).

As a precocious seven year old force fed a Saturday night teevee double bill of Universal and RKO classics these greats of film literature were a godsend to me and I would spent all my spare time pouring over grainy black and white shots of  Bela Lugosi, Boris Karloff and Lon Chaney Jr. as the tragic Lawrence Talbot.

Bejesus and Mary Chaney.

I'll never forget tho' (I have a good memory) that one particular issue had a photo of the Wolfman I'd never seen before, true it was labelled 'the Werewolf' and although the accompanying picture of a fraught young man had a hint of Chaney about him his name wasn't Talbot.

It was Daninsky.

Like any curious kid of that age I examined the picture for a few minutes before completely forgetting about it and turning the page to reread an article on what looked like the greatest monster movie ever.

Ah Crater Lake Monster where are you now?

The love of horror stayed with me (as did the love of Universal) and thanks to magazines like Starburst information became easier to find, the Saturday night double bills sometimes featured the films of Eddie Romero alongside the old faithfuls and movies like Dawn of The Dead and Phantasm had fuelled my geek gene, forcing me to learn more about the directors and their influences.

As a teenager you can probably tell I was never asked out on dates.

The strange sad faced man with the foreign name seemed to have disappeared without a trace tho' and whilst Coffin Joe was being photographed with Christopher Lee at swanky Parisian horror conventions it would take a controversial censorship bill of epic proportions to bring the legendary Paul Naschy to the attentions of young horror fans in dear old blighty.

Yup, I hate to admit it but it's thanks to the 1984 'video nasty' furore and the inadvertent banning of Naschy's 1975 monster mash The Werewolf and The Yeti that finally introduced me to the great man's work.

And oh boy did I hate it.

Bizarrely enough, of all the films I devoured at the time this is one of those that I have only the vaguest recollections of; something about the infamous Abominable Snowman playing the bagpipes during a fight scene and being sent out of the room to get biscuits when Naschy got involved in a wee bit of threeway action comes to mind.

But the most upsetting thing about it, and I'll admit this stayed with me for years, wasn't the gore or the sex (or even the lack of decent biscuits at my nan's).

It was because this young upstart seemed to be taking all the ideas, the drama and heartache (plus the dissolve effects) of my beloved Universal movies and trying to make them his own.

How very dare he.

The second most terrifying VHS case of all time.

So being the sensible and knowledgeable film connoisseur that I was (you know, the way you can only be when you're 14) there was only one thing I could do.

Laugh loudly at the screen and flounce back to my 'serious' horror movies, tutting audibly at anyone who even mentioned that film.

Looking back I find myself dying a wee bit inside at the thought of being such a know all little brat, so caught up in my own (movie-based) importance that I totally failed to see the irony in the situation.

The whole fact that they reminded me of the Universal series was that Naschy was a fan too.

It's just that he knew how to have fun with his 'fannishness'.

And there's no better example of that than Curse of The Devil, taking as it does it's basic storyline from the Universal Wolfman (well it was written by Curt Siodmak so you might as well steal from the best), the mad witches and mysterious castles from Poe era Corman and it's copious amounts of tit and fanny shots from early seventies Hammer before mixing the whole thing together with a continental flair usually kept for high quality Euro-porn to make something so comfortable yet so unique that you can't help but fall for it's charms.

A wee bit like the ladies round the great man himself.

And talking of the great man, it's true that it looks like most of the scant budget went on styling his hair (both as Daninsky and the Werewolf) but the lack of polish and (sometimes inappropriate) use of library music only adds to the enjoyment factor.

Yes you may have seen it all before but never quite like this.

If you've never experienced the joys and heartache of  Waldemar Daninsky them I suggest you use the Christmas holidays to catch up and to Mr. Naschy a (slightly late) but heartfelt apology.

Sorry I never got the joke sir, I was too busy trying to get my head round the exploding doorknob in Suspiria at the time.

And at least I grew out of that serious geek phase.

I hope.

Monday, November 22, 2010

the twilight zone.

Prepare yourself for the greatest movie ever made.

Well, the greatest movie ever made featuring Pam Grier as a panther.

The Twilight People (1971).
Dir: Eddie Romero.
Cast: John Ashley, Pat Woodell, Pam Grier, Jan Merlin, Eddie Garcia, Charles Macaulay, Ken Metcalfe, Tony Gosalvez and Mona Morena.

Animal desires, human lust, furry rugs.

Hunky adventurer and general stud muffin Matt Farrell (Romero regular Ashley) is enjoying a well deserved scuba holiday somewhere off the Blackpool coast when he's unexpectedly man-napped by a couple of greasy foreign types eager to get a glimpse of his muscular tanned frame.

Trussed up like a (well fit) turkey and dripping with a mix of sea water and manliness our hero is taken aboard what looks like a disused (or stolen) car-ferry belonging to the blond haired, bad man Simon Steinman (Merlin, formerly of King Arthur's court), a man obviously obsessed (in more ways than I feel comfortable with) with Farrell, his arch enemy in the sexy stakes.

John Ashley: He's got something to put in you.

Steinman is in the employ of one Doctor Gordon Gordon (the potato-like co-star of Blacula, MacCaulay), eminent genetic crackpot, father to the gap-toothed vixen Neva (the curvy hipped and bomb breasted Woodell, former pop princess, star of The Big Doll House and the original Bobbie Jo Bradley on teevee's Petticoat Junction) and often described (by whom I've no idea) as the most brilliant scientist alive.

Stripped to his pants and junked up to his eyeballs on sherbet, Farrell is told that Gordon has been searching the world for a man both physically and mentally perfect and that Matt fits the bill.

Poor Gordon couldn't risk Farrell knocking him back so he hired Steinman, knowing of his love for Matt, to come up with an incredibly convoluted plan to capture our hero and bring him to the Doc's island home.

With nothing to do on the journey except get lusted over by both Steinman and Neva whilst wearing a natty collection of handmade shirts, Mike passes the time by quizzing everyone about Gordon's work, soon discovering that the mad medical man believes that the human race is destined for extinction and the only way of stopping this is to splice the human race together with various animals.

But obviously only the ones that live locally.

Or more realistically the ones that the pound shop had masks of.

You Woodell, twice.

Farrell’s first glimpse of Gordon's self proclaimed 'homo superior' is when saucy Steinman invites our hero to join in the pursuit of one of the escaped experimental subjects.

Partly to convince Farrell that escape is impossible but mainly to show off his chest and to impress Farrell with how well he handles his weapon.

Standing about in an uncomfortable silence waiting for something to happen, Steinman is just about to attempt to give Matt a reachround when a swarthy pikey with a boar's head appears out of the bushes, screeching like your mum during a particularly heavy anal session and wearing a tramps suit.

Seeing a fantastic chance to prove his manliness Steinman shoots the poor fucker in the face.

Ashley: John.

Looking down at the prone figure Matt has an inkling of what may be in store for him and fellow captive  Juan Pereira (Garcia from Beyond Atlantis, Beast of Blood and The Grateful Dead) but is frankly unconcerned, seeing as both he and Steinman know that he already has a horses cock.

But it's upon chatting about his ordeal with Dr. Gordon that things start to get confusing, seeing as everyone concerned seems to want to do something different to our heroic chum.

Nothing like a well thought out plan eh?

One one hand (tho' not Jeremy Beadle's) Dr. Gordon plans to remove Matt's brain and plonk it in a machine that will allow his consciousness to control all of the beast hybrids whilst Neva (understandably) has fallen for his rugged charms and wants to have babies with him and Steinman just wants to take Matt up the casino.

"Is it in yet?"

Much preferring to be a stone rather than a sponge, Matt decides to choose Neva as his escape ticket and after a quick fumble on the kitchen floor the buxom bombshell decides to help him escape.

But only if they can take all the manimals with them.

Farrell, thinking ahead to a career in the circus (OK then, running a freakshow) agrees but not before heading back to the house to abduct Dr. Gordon.

Luckily he manages this without a hitch seeing as Steinman and the boys have gone out for tapas, leaving Gordon alone and the door unlocked. 

So as Matt drags a tied up Gordon up the high road to freedom, Neva takes the low road (it's more scenic) to the beach alongside the most terrifying beasts ever committed to celluloid.

Yes, even more terrifying than a sweaty John Leslie serenading you from the foot of your bed.

Leslie: Sweat.

Ladies and gentlemen quake in fear as you are introduced to Ayesa the she-panther (the legendary Grier, in tiny black undies, facepaint and a comedy Jew beard), Lupa the wolf (smooth thighed Moreno in mini skirt and Chuckle Hounds mask), the pant wettingly bizarre Darmo the bat (a chest rug wearing, orange peel toothed and cardboard winged Gosalvez of I remember Bataan
fame), the stunning Kuzma the mantelope (a horned and bowl haired Metcalfe from TNT Jackson, looking all the world like Ed Begley Jnr.) and last but by no means least, Primo the horny ape (not credited so I'm assuming it's a real ape man).

Darmo: half man, half bat, all shite.

With Steinman, aided and abetted by a motley group of uninterested local extras in hot pursuit of Matt's much envied manass it's down to Neva and her amazing animal band to cause enough distractions to allow Farrell time to catch up.

Unfortunately the manimals, being out of their cages for the first time ever, all seem to have one thing on their mind.

Yup, it's rutting season on the farm.

Which is OK for Luma and Kuzma who seem to be a match made in (furry) heaven and Darmo who is busy rubbing himself inappropriately against a tree.

Ayesa on the other hand is too busy trying to bite everyone to care about sex which just leaves poor old Primo who, in his best drunken uncle way tries in vain to stick his simian sausage in Neva.

Suffice to say she's not impressed leaving Primo all flustered and a nasty sticky stain down the back of Neva's trousers.

Kate and William: He so horny.

But there's no time for Kleenex as Steinman is quickly catching up on Matt and Ayesa the she-panther is getting stroppy because no-one will let her bite Kuzma.

Will Neva be able to rally the beasts into some kind of competent fighting force before Sexy Steinman finds Matt?

Will Luma and Kuzma finally consummate their relationship?

And will Matt's ass escape unharmed?

"Teeth in mah mooth!"

From the legendary Eddie Romero, the hardest working director in the Philippines (47 films and still going) and creator of the famous 'Blood' saga comes this frankly mental hybrid of The Island of Doctor Moreau and The Most Dangerous Game really has to be seen to be believed.

Like a throwback to an earlier, more innocent age of mad doctors and wacky science The Twilight People is played straight by the cast (well if you can call anything Jan Merlin does straight), especially Romero regular Ashley and surprisingly Pam Grier, given that she spends the entire movie in a shammy leather mini dress, false nose and comedy teeth whilst miming to a dubbed on cat screech whilst the movies bonkers idea's regarding human evolution coupled with it's threadbare budget give the film an almost feckless charm that wins the viewer over in much the same way as you warm to a drunken, piss-stained tramp dancing in a street on Christmas Eve.

And that's even before I've mentioned the maminal make-up.

"You chase me now!"

 In a triumph of vision over practicalities, it veers wildly from the subtly  restrained like Kuzma whose body language and basic nose/antler prosthetic make him a fairly convincing human/antelope hybrid to the comedic genius that is Darmo the bat-man.

Worth the purchase cost alone, you'll find it almost impossible to believe that when the director was confronted with such a monstrosity as an actor who'd been blacked up, dipped in tea and rolled around on a barbers floor before ave a couple of hastily cut out bin bags stapled to his arms he didn't have a screaming fit or top himself but decided to give this creation centre stage.

Romero I salute you sir.

And to those of you who have never experienced the absolute joy of The Twilight People I can only say you're in for a treat.

Drop what/who you're doing and go get it now.