Thursday, March 25, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Thanks to Jazzy Jay B. for pointing me in the direction of this effective little chiller from 'The Canada' (yes you can), can't give too much away for fear of ruining what's one of the best thrillers this side of the last one I raved about.
Dir: Bruce McDonald
Cast: Stephen McHattie, Lisa Houle, Georgina Reilly, Rick Roberts, Hrant Alianak, Boyd Banks, Tony Burgess and Rachel Burns (but only toast).
Cowboy hatted radio shock-jock Grant Mazzy (sterling supporting stalwart Mchattie in a main role for once) has lost his job at a big city radio station, relegated to reading local news and drinking whiskey from a church basement cum local radio station in the arse end of nowhere town of Pontypool (Ontario not Wales, tho' I don't know which would be the more frightening).
Constantly berated by his producer, Sydney Briar (Mchattie's real life wife Houle), hero worshipped by her assistant, Laurel Ann (cutesy bunny Brit-chick Reilly) and forced to pretend that the 'reporter in the field', Ken Loney (Roberts) is really in a helicopter and not a second-hand van, our beleaguered broadcaster thinks that things can't get any worse.
The early morning shift begins like any other with Mazzy insulting everyone and Sydney getting defensive until that is the stations phone lines are inundated with reports of strange occurrences across the town, there's a silent protest outside the local Doctor, Jeff Mendez's (Alianak) clinic, people are beginning to talk to themselves and behave erratically and to top it all there are reports of the military attempting to quarantine the town.
Bemused by all this town based nonsense Mazzy continues to light heartedly report the bizarre happenings but gradually finds, in part through Loney’s 'on the spot' reports and eventually through an impromptu phone call from the BBC, that the towns folks actions are becoming more and more freakish.
And not to say violent.
As the news gets scarier and the locals get loopier a perturbed Dr. Mendez arrives at the station looking for safe refuge and someone to spout philosophical discourse and chaos theory at.
Obviously Mazzy's the man.
As the good doctor excitedly expounds his outlandish (yet scarily believable) ideas regarding what is happening to the town of Pontypool it becomes clear that what they're dealing with is no conventional virus and, if Mendez is correct, nothing can stop the unique way it spreads.
Meanwhile in the confusion, no-one notices that yummy Laurel Ann has started rocking back and forth in a creepy manner whilst mumbling to herself in the corner...
got a laugh (now) at office parties.
Playing out like a particularly tense (a what done it rather than who done it) stage play or the Rod Serling classic that never was, Bruce McDonald's Pontypool is a taut little gem of a movie that plays cheekily with audience expectations of the genre, twisting their cinematic knowledge to breaking point before delivering a pay off which you'll either appreciate as sheer genius or laughably ridiculous depending on the amount of brain cells you possess.
Tho' worry not, 'cause if you read this blog it'll no doubt be the former.
Taking the source novel to heart, the first forty odd minutes of the film are effectively a three hander between Mchattie, Houle and Reilly as the listen to callers on air and read aloud the local police reports, the only first hand news they trust coming from Loney's sporadic and increasingly jittery on the spot rants and raves.
The audience sees nothing of the town or the events being described for the films entire running time, forcing them to imagine their own interpretation of events as they unfold.
And this is where the film truly shines.
It's a rare thing these days to find a horror movie that leaves anything to the imagination so hats off to McDonald for treating his audience with the intelligence that most of them (well a few) deserve.
The cast are perfect, especially Mchattie who imbues Mazzy with the dulcet and throaty tones of a sixty a day smoker whilst cleverly keeping the characters fucked off and angry persona just this side of lovable old git ably supported by Houle whose straight laced station manager is one of the most well rounded female characters in horror since the heady days of classic Romero.
The rest of the tiny cast, from the aforementioned Reilly to an almost pitch perfect Richard France impression from Hrant Alianak via the fantastic voice only performance of Rick Roberts are spot on for summer.
Big man hugs and much kudos to McDonald for bravely stretching the horror concept as far as it can go without it springing back all limp and lifeless like your Grans knicker elastic after a torrid OAP Christmas party.
See it, love it and thank God for low budgets.
We've waited and waited for Sir George of Romero's latest undead opus to hit our screens (almost as long as we waited for a proper title) and when it finally arrives the thing is shoddily shat out by Optimum Home Entertainment with absolutely no special features (I'm surprised they even bothered putting a menu on it) and a cover illustration draw by a blind, wooden handed boy in crayon.
A cover so shockingly bad even Arrow turned it down.
Bodes well for their 'special edition' of A Lizard In A Woman's Skin.
And here was me joking that they were going to steal one of my limited edition Giallo postcards for the cover.
Of which there are a few sets still available at a mere £5, Paypal accepted.
Anyway, back to the matter at hand.
Survival Of The Dead (2010).
Dir: George A. Romero.
Cast: Alan van Sprang, Kenneth Welsh, Devon Bostick, Kathleen Munroe and Athena Karkanis.
design by the look of this.
It's six days since the undead mysteriously (if you don't count that pesky Venus probe) began to rise from their graves and the survivors are struggling not only to keep the ever growing zombie hordes at bay but to come to terms with what the situation actually means to humanity as a whole.
Off the coast of Delaware is the island of Plum, home to a couple of annoyingly accented, scab hatted Oirish clans with a history of drink fuelled feuding named (quite originally) the O'Flynns and the Muldoon's.
Their latest disagreement revolves around the fact that the Santa-bearded terrible tinker Patrick O'Flynn (Twin Peaks' very own Windom Earle, Welsh) wants to shoot all zombies on sight whilst pie loving, pig carrying Shamus Muldoon (RoboCop: Prime Directives Fitzpatrick) reckons that domesticating them is for the best.
And meanwhile, in an underground bunker just outside Pittsburgh, Richard Liberty's body begins to spin.
hands on mah lucky charms!"
Into the middle of all this shooting, fecking and potato guzzling comes the flame haired, boss eyed Jane (teevee stalwart Monroe), Patrick's non silly accented daughter and local voice of reason who, within the space of a few minutes manages to stop her dad being shot (persuading the manbreasted Muldoon to exile him instead) and look good in knitwear.
Which as fans of George will know is important as far as female characters go.
Back on the mainland, chain smoking tough guy (and part-time dirty looting bastard) Sergeant Crockett (Tom Arnold alike Van Sprang, reprising his role from Diary of The Dead) and his merry band of AWOL National Guardsmen are busying themselves shooting zombies, masturbating (a fantastically realistic performance from Karkanis), watching teevee and stealing armoured cars from red necks as they attempt to head north (to Canada?) and carve out a new life for themselves as a kinda travelling Hogan's Heroes comedy troupe.
All this changes tho' when upon finding a wee emo boy (Degrassi: The Next Generation's Bostick) held captive by bad men, they discover an Internet site, run by our old pal O'Flynn, offering the chance of a new life on the fine isle of Plum.
Arriving at the docks to get the ferry to freedom, Sarge is surprised to find that Patrick has his own reasons for inviting everyone to join the island community.
Not us tho' I mean he's Irish and therefore cannot be trusted.
Yup, he's been fleecing all the would be travellers of their valuables, false teeth, lunch money and even in some cases their shoes.
As he sees it, there may be a global catastrophe happening all around him but why shouldn't he make some cash on the side?
Sarge, finally happy to meet a three dimensional (if fairly clichéd) character, immediately bonds with twinkly eyed old Patrick and head off to the island determined to kick Muldoon's ample arse.
Chugging along to the island our merry band make a horrifying discovery, it seems that Muldoon has been good to his word and rounded up all the dead folk in order to train them to do menial tasks.
And if all goes to plan maybe, just maybe get them to eat something other than humans.
Back in deepest, darkest Pittsburgh, Richard Liberty's body is spinning fast enough to create it's own gravity field.
Survival of The Dead, Big George's sixth Zombie movie (yet first direct sequel-to 2008's Diary of The Dead) finds the director appearing to embrace 'reboot' mode, almost as if the original 'Dead saga' which began in that gloomy graveyard way back in 1968 ends with the hope of some sort of peaceful co-existence at the climax of Land of The Dead.
But Survival, when watched back to back with Diary (yes, some of us are that sad) feels as unrelated to the original four as they do a part of a bigger story.
A new, lo-fi Dead saga for a more cynical age?
The island setting, the community at odds at to what to do with the undead and the water based zombie shenanigans make it seem that Big George still hasn't gotten his original, unmade script for Day of The Dead from way back in the early 80's out of his system, with ideas and characters featured in it surfacing in Land of The Dead and with the same applying here making the movie appear more of a prelude than an actual story in itself.
It's almost as if George is getting cold feet about finally finishing the story, retreading ideas regarding the feeding and domestication of the undead and concentrating more and more on the philosophical debates the litter the quieter moments of his original vision.
The problem this time is that although the original Day of The Dead is basically chat and debate culminating in mass bloodshed you never forget that the zombie hordes are there, shuffling and waiting, their moans filling the caverns, echoing thru' the underground bunker and chilling the viewer to the bone.
With Survival, there are times when you almost forget that you're watching a Romero zombie movie, with genuinely chilling ideas such as the undead postman moaning loudly as he posts and reposts his letters and the horrifying sight of Muldoon's undead wife, literally chained to the kitchen sink as she attempts to cook dinner quickly glossed over in favour of more chat and
Sarge's wise-cracking one liners.
And the movie's shock revelation as regards to what the undead will eat, which in any other Romero movie would have you gasping with surprise, passes you by with a 'hmmm', so engrossed you are with spotting the similarities to Day and humming the John Harrison score to the very same movie as the zombie's break out of Muldoon's shed.
Survival is one of those rare films that although enjoyable on some levels is really difficult to like.
Which is a genuine shame.
Criticising Romero feels a wee bit like criticising your kids school report when you know they've lazed their way thru' a term, you know what they're capable of and feel crushingly disappointed when they fail to deliver, we all know that there's at least one final great dead movie in George.
By the looks of it tho' it's the one that never got made.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Those in 'the know' are calling it so bad it's good.
I'll just say it made me shit blood such was my bodies attempt to stop me viewing it.
Ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourselves for...
Birdemic: Shock and Terror (2008).
Dir: James Nguyen.
Cast: Alan Bagh, Whitney Moore, Janae Caster, Adam Sessa, Colton Osborne, Patsy van Ettinger, Tippi Hedren (on video) plus lots of other unfortunate folk who will remain nameless.
Generic stud muffin, green activist and travelling salesguy Rod (Bagh, most famous for his role as 'party goer' in the movie version of Rent), taking a well deserved break from punting environmentally friendly nose-hair clippers and computer type stuff to old men, stops off for a bite to eat at a cosy diner where inbetween chowing down on lobster and fries glimpses the toothsome and skull-headed beauty that is Wallmart catalogue model Nathalie (Moore) sucking the grease from a hobo's coat at the other table.
Heading home to get showered Rod notices that a few birds are flying backwards and using their pooh to write abusive graffiti on windshields.
Our hero thinks that this may be something to do with global warming but instantly forgets about the whole thing as soon as he pulls into his drive way.
Changing into his dad's shirt and tie he meets up with Nathalie for a slap up Happy Chef meal (but no starter, the budget isn't that big) leading to what seems like a three hour long vomit inducing romance montage involving them kissing each other goodnight, chatting to their friends, Rod selling stuff (but unfortunately not his arse) and talking about inexpensive solar panelling with Nathalie's grossly overweight mum.
Meanwhile on a nameless beach an eagle dies.
After a particularly tasty McDonald's Happy Meal (with a free Transformers window dangler) Rod and Nat decide that rather than going back to one of their comfy and well furnished apartments that it'd be more fun to have a shag in a filthy, run down motel in the middle of nowhere.
Who says romance is dead?
Seductively (by seductively I mean really uncomfortably, like having to watch your sister pole dance) Nathalie strips to her (non matching) underwear whilst raunchy Rod stands about like a discarded mannequin decked out in a pair of tramps pants and socks before easing himself onto the flea infested bed for a night of hot passion.
Thank fuck the camera fades to black before we get to see any of it.
Come to think of it the film's been on for an hour so far and we've yet to see anything of consequence.
But lo! As if by magic something happens as we're treated to the sight of some 1980's style computer generated birds suicide bombing the local city and exploding for no apparent reason.
Back at the motel Nathalie is rudely awakened by a mix of vaginal itching and loud banging coming from outside and, after opening the curtains (and sharing with us the horrific sight of her almost anorexic-ally skinny bum cheeks hanging limply from between her thong string) announces to a groggy Rod that they are under attack.
By kamikaze eagles.
Striking a heroic pose Rod drags the semen stained bed over to the window to create a makeshift barricade before giving up, pulling his trousers on and hiding behind the TV.
Sick of having to sit quietly staring at Nathalie's knobbly knees for an hour our hero announces that the birds must have got bored and gone to lunch and that now would be a good time to make a break for the car.
Leaving the motel room they soon come across an equally unattractive and badly dressed couple, Gordon Ramsey (Sessa - like it matters) and his beast-like missis Becky.
Tho' from the look of her it might be his mum.
Armed with bird-bashing coat-hangers and a bottle of cheap gin, this gruesome pair of would-be abortionists offer our heroes a lift in their minivan.
Beating off the birds (but not in that way, it'd be far too much fun for this movie) as they fight valiantly to get to the van, Ramsey pulls out a kiddies toy M-16 machine gun from under the passenger seat managing to kill all the birds before the fantastic foursome drive off into the countryside and, after (more) chat about global warming, try to bring some much needed excitement to the movie by trying to run over a couple of pug faced children.
Being a complete arse tho', Ramsey can't even manage this which means we now have to suffer the robot-like non-acting of a pair of pig nosed pre-pubescent pains as well as everyone else.
More chat, driving and random bird murder follows.
Stopping for a picnic the stodgy sextet discover an eminent bird doctor standing on a bridge wearing an ill fitting suit and a decorators mask looking for all the world like a would be child molester with a Billy Goats Gruff fetish.
In a perfect world this would be Donald Pleasance but (luckily for him) he's dead so in his infinite wisdom the director goes for the next best thing.
A lard addicted derelict in a dead man's moth eaten jacket.
But try not to laugh too much because he has something important to tell us.
You see, it's not the poor birds fault it's ours.
Yup, all of our loud music, cars and motel based shagging has sent the worlds birds mad and now they want revenge.
And a big bag of seed and beak.
you feathery bastards!
As the shock realisation that the world as we know it has gone mad slowly sinks into the casts thick craniums, thoughts turn to survival.
Or in Becky's case where she can go to have a big shit in safety.
Will our motley band of wanna-be's and ne'er were's find a safe haven to rebuild their shattered lives?
Will Nathalie ever get a pair of undies to match her cheap (and frankly whorish) bra?
And, most importantly, will this ever end?
What can one say about Birdemic that a thousand websites haven't already?
Hailed as a work of self-knowing cinematic genius by some and a Plan 9 From Outer Space for the 21st century by others, soon the entire internet will have been overrun by opinions about this movie.
Saying that tho' none of them seem to have gotten to the crux of the matter, seeing the truth behind the hype and publicity surrounding this one man phenomena.
That Birdemic isn't big and definitely isn't clever but is quite frankly complete and utter shite.
James Nguyen, you poor, misguided man, I don't care how much you soak in the rave reviews and celebrity endorsements, winking knowingly as you bathe naked in the torrent of salty fanwank that soaks you to the skin, you didn't set out to make an amusingly self aware post modern epic - you set out to make an environmental horror movie.
And failed miserably.
I can't blame you for enjoying your new found celebrity status but you seem to forget that you originally took this mess to Sundance as a serious contender for competition.
Didn't the mass walkouts and audience suicides tell you anything?
It's not as if there's even a great film hidden beneath all the horrible mistakes and technical defects (everything from audio dropouts, badly recorded and muffled dialogue, jumpy editing to the use of free animated Gifs as birds), there are just the results of a delusional egotist (and self proclaimed Master of Romantic Thrillers TM) with more money than sense.
If you think I'm being a wee bit harsh you have to remember that Nguyen financed the movie, wrote the script, appears in it and also produced and directed so who else is there to blame?
And bad boy who ran away?
at the bus station yesterday.
Maybe I'm being too harsh (moi? never!) as many people have pointed out that what the film lacks in budget, style and technical expertise it more than makes up for due to Nguyen's obvious enthusiasm, ambition and vision.
Fair enough but saying that, I'm really enthusiastic about my dream to invade Poland using an army of transgendered robot geese bolted into bronzed battle tanks but I'm honest enough to know that this is never gonna happen.
At least until I figure out a cheaper way of plating the amour.
No doubt you'll watch this anyway just because all your friends have so I have to ask (in my best Daddy voice), would you jump under a bus if they did?
Hmmm, thought so.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Back to normal after the last few weeks of drawing and terror, found this whilst perusing one of the local charity shops.
As you can guess, it was so needed.
And the best thing?
After pointing out that it was a NTSC tape I got it for free.
Couples do It Debbie's Way (1988).
Dir: N/A but I'm putting money on porno God John Dark due in part to the incredible amounts of Debbie crotch shots.
Cast: Debbie Reynolds, Richard Hamlett, Tom and Patricia Carr Bosley, and Dick and Pat Van Patten.
So here it is, the Holy Grail of sexy and sweaty work out videos, the little seen sequel to the fantastic Do It Debbie's Way, that 1983 hit that featured not only the curvaceous Ms. Reynolds in a tight fitting day-glo leotard but such top tottie as Teri Garr, Rose Marie, Dionne Warwick and blonde bombshell Terry Moore (amongst others) bending and pouting like your Grannie never did.
Or ever should.
ski down yet a face of utter fuckness).
This time round dishy Deb's has decided to show us that 'working out' is more fun with two and has invited not only her (then) silver fox of a husband, real-estate developer Richard Hamlett but a gaggle of famous(ish) couples to join them.
Yes indeedy it's man-breasts ahoy as Tom (Father Dowling, Happy Days' Howard Cunningham, that man that touched you up when you were a wee boy) Bosley and wackily wigged US teevee funnyman Dick Van Patten strut their sextegenarian stuff to all manner of cheesy big band covers in a display so terrifying that no number of tearful wank fuelled Pot Noodle sessions can ever numb the shame you'll feel after viewing.
But screw the old guys (not literally of course) cos we're here for the hot ladies and boy does this deliver.
Bosley's bubble permed, firm breasted young(ish) missis Patricia (American Gigolo's Judy Rheiman) Carr bares her midrift and barely manages to contain her ample arse in her lycra tights as she frugs out to the theme to The Love Boat whilst Pat (Karen Rubin from Nightmare Boulevard in which she appeared alongside her husband and son - Saw's James Van Patten) Van Patten goes for a demure pink and black look, topped of with a lovely pearl necklace.
Which I didn't give her before you ask.
But if you think these kings of comedy are here to play it for laughs then never fear because delightful Debbie keeps the boys at bay with her sharp tongue and slender thighs, even when the oldsters start complaining that their backs are about to snap.
Tho' I'll be the first to admit that the thought of being broken in by Ms. Reynolds is a very attractive one.
There's none of that here tho' so you'll just have to make do with the sight of Father Dowling grunting and groaning his way thru' some light aerobics whilst the divine Ms. D winks at camera a lot.
Oh and your imagination.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Only last week the title star of John Carpenter's The Thing was seen wandering Sauchiehall Street looking for a taxi.
But all that fades into insignificance this weekend when compared to the surreal feeling I got from watching the original 1972 version of Last House on The Left in the company of Krug himself Mr. David Hess during the GFT's fantastic 'Don't Go In The House!' night.
And before you ask, no he didn't touch me up.
Well, not too much.
But I'm getting ahead of myself because before the audience were treated to ninety odd minutes of rape, sweaty men and torture we were treated to a rare big screen showing of Ti West's soon to be classic The House of The Devil.
For those of you with short memories and tiny hands the full review of the home based horror is here but if you're too lazy to click on the link, here's a quick cut n' paste synopsis from my earlier review for you (unfortunately not written by Paul Alaoui who seems to have become the DVD box equivalent of the Homer at the moment).
Button nosed and boyish hipped beauty Samantha (Jocelyn 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 Dee 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 Tom 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.
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 Greta 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.
To the job that is, not just say yes randomly on the phone.
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.
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?
Just don't sit down the front next to the stinky man eating a family size bag of Monster Munch.
After a well deserved ciggie break, a non apologetic whoring of my limited edition Fulci postcard set (only £5, a few still available) and quick cup of weak lemon drink, our illustrious host, the gorgeous Calum Waddell entered stage left to introduce the evenings big treat, Wes Craven's lo-fi revenge flick Last House on The Left and it's scary star Sir David of Hess.
but in a cul de sac near Newport....
Estate agents eh? Who'd 'ave 'em?
But for those of you who haven't seen it.....
Mousy turtle-necked teen Mari Collingwood (Sandra Cassel, AKA Sandra Peabody AKA Liyda Cassell from the fairly rude Voices of Desire) is all set to celebrate her seventeenth birthday at a popular music concert (as you youngsters say) with her friend, the even mousier (yet slightly cuter) Phyllis (one hit wonder Lucy Grantham).
Her middle aged and brightly coloured jumpered parents, John and Estelle (the fantastically monikered Gaylord St James - last seen battling Chesty Morgan's Deadly Weapons and Cynthia Carr) are mildly concerned not only with their daughters taste in long haired hippie music but also her friendship with the slightly common Phyllis.
You see, John is a doctor with a fondness for plaid action slacks whilst his wife's hair appears to be constructed from straw which, in early seventies movie parlance means that they're both very posh.
For Americans obviously.
"Shite in mah mooth!"
Anyway being a pair of pushovers they decide to let her live her life her way (well, what's left of it), even giving her a market stall peace symbol necklace to show that they're still 'with it' before she leaves.
This may be important later.
As the pair drive to the concert chatting excitedly about make-up and the like a news story regarding a group of mentalist murderers is reported on the local radio station.
It seems that the mad as a bag of spanners Krug Stillo (David Hess), his wee boy Krug Junior (former Charles In Charge writer Marc Sheffler), sleazy Sadie (Divine lookalike and ex-missis Richard Dreyfuss, Jeramie Rain) and Fred Podowski (Friday 13th part 2's very own Uncle Merlin, Fred J. Lincoln) have gone on the rampage, bursting small boys balloons and tearing the 'do not remove' tags from the bottom of mattresses.
Still groovin' to the free love and peace vibe from the concert, Mari and Phyllis decide to let it all hang out as those beatnik types and attempt to purchase some of that marijuana that all the young thing smoke.
The girls soon come across (not like that you dirty sod) Junior, who takes them to the apartment where the rest of the baddies are hiding out.
Surprisingly the don't actually get the promised drugs but instead are subjected to a couple of violent beatings and a protracted rape.
Meanwhile, whilst all this sexual violence is going down, Mari's folks are busily putting up 'happy birthday' banners round the house.
Oh the irony.
Next morning, the girls are bundled into the boot of a car to accompany Krug and co. as they head toward the state line and freedom.
Unfortunately the car breaks down in the woods right behind Mari's house (what are the chances?) so the fearsome four, whilst waiting for the RAC man to arrive, decide to have a wee bit more fun with Phyllis and Mari.
Dragged into the bushes, the poor girls are forced to urinate (tho' not in each others mooths unfortunately) and 'touch' each other before Phyllis is subjected to the ultimate humiliation when she's untied and ordered to sing "I'm A Little Teapot".
With the actions.
Much hilarity ensues giving Phyllis and opportunity to run into the woods and Mari chance to escape but being lasses you know they'll both make an arse of it.
Sadie and Fred give chase, while Junior stays behind to guard Mari, who in an attempt to win the boy over gives him her peace symbol necklace.
Being a thick inbred he fails to reciprocate this act of kindness by giving her a pearl one in return.
Meanwhile, Phyllis is cornered by Fred (tho' how you can get cornered in a forest is beyond me) who quickly sets about torturing her with a bread knife before cutting off her hand and gutting her like a (fairly attractive) fish and heading back to Krug.
Presenting Mari with Phyllis' still warm severed hand as a birthday present, Fred and Sadie sit back and enjoy the sight of Krug carving his name into Mari's chest (and yes he can spell it) before shite-ing in her mooth (possibly) and shooting her in the back as she wanders away dazed.
Not bad for an afternoons work.
Changing out of their blooded clothes the gang decide to see if any of the nearby houses have a phone they can use to get the car repaired and after looking up tand down the street (and discovering that there's no one in at the first house on the right, next to the letterbox and bookies) head towards the last house on the left.
By a bizarre quirk of fate (or scriptwriting) this house belongs to Mari's mum and dad.
Being nice folk John and Estelle are more than happy to invite Krug and his buddies in, offering them a slap up meal and a bed for the night but things take a sinister turn when Estelle recognises Juniors necklace as the same one owned by her daughter...
David Hess demonstrates the fine art of punching
to broadcaster Jon Ronson (probably).
Whether you love it or hate it, you have to admit that when viewed with a twenty-first century audience, it still has the power to shock.
Which for a thirty eight year old lo-fi shocker is pretty damn good.
Tho' trying to explain this to the flat-capped and overcoated eighty year old who left the auditorium tutting and muttering "Whit wis that filth?" under his breath was a wee bit difficult.
And no, he didn't buy a postcard set.
Banging your own drum:
This portrait (especially
commissioned to celebrate Hess' visit)
is now hanging in the actors own personal
torture chamber in the basement
beneath his Colorado home.
But I'm jumping ahead of myself as before then (and after a nightmare filled sleep) the brave Glasgow audience - minus the squad of old biddies who'd inadvertently turned up the night before mistakenly expecting Little House on The Prairie) - had a little trip planned.
A trip to The City of The Living Dead.
Paura nella città dei morti viventi (AKA City of The Living Dead, The Gates of Hell. 1980).
Dir: Lucio Fulci.
Cast: Christopher George, Catriona MacColl, Carlo De Mejo, Antonella Interlenghi, Giovanni Lombardo Radice, Daniela Doria, Fabrizio Jovine, Luca Venantini, Michele Soavi and Venantino Venantini.
Welcome to the dank and dull town of Dunwich, where the depressed and fright-fringed priest, Father William Thomas (Jovine, famous for his portrayal of Yuri Andropov in the 2005 Italian teevee bio-pic of Pope John Paul II) is walking through the local cemetery lost in thoughts of death.
Meanwhile in New York a small group of high society types are attending a séance organised by the famed psychic medium Mary Woodhouse (the lovely Catriona MacColl), expert on all things ghostly and owner of a rare hardback edition of the best-selling Book of Eibon.
It gets around that thing doesn't it?
Anyway, scary Mary begins to have visions of the poor priest, watching helplessly as he proceeds to hang himself from a big tree in the cemetery whilst inadvertently opening the very gates of Hell (well one lot but more on that later) in the process.
Another, more surprising result of this Holy hanging is that Mary, whilst attempting to free herself from this ghastly and ghostly experience dies.
Her companions seem fairly calm (taking all things into consideration) with regards to her sudden demise, taking the time to make a coffee and share a few biscuits before calling the police and (bizarrely) a local down at heel reporter by the name of Peter Bell (American teevee stalwart and the Exterminator's Detective James Dalton, George).
Bell (for no other reason than to further the films freak factor) visits Mary's grave only to discover that she's not, in fact dead, merely sleeping off the effects of the séance.
Now I'm no coroner but that must be one hell of a mistake to make, I mean thank fuck they never performed an autopsy It'd be a field day for Claims Direct.
Digging her out of her coffin (well, I say digging her out but he actually just attacks the wood with a pickaxe almost blinding the poor woman in the process) the pair head of to Dunwich for an appointment with destiny.
Oh and some zombies obviously.
Meanwhile back at the town some mightily strange shit is going down, the locals are being picked off one by one by the now undead priest, the village idiot Bob (Italian horrors favourite whipping boy Radice) has been head-fucked (literally) by some girls dad and most importantly the local pub has started to collapse.
As you can guess, the townsfolk can't help but think that these things may all be related, worried as they are about how this will affect the tourist trade in the upcoming winter months.
Luckily for everyone involved (but especially the laydees watching) tidy bearded town psychiatrist and wannabe stud-muffin Gerry (horror veteran and star of Emanuelle in Prison, De Mejo) is on the case and soon finds himself teaming up with Bob and Mary who helpfully explain that the world is set to end on All Saints Day if the now thoroughly evil (and urine smelling) Father Thomas can't be stopped from doing whatever it is he's actually doing.
It's never actually explained but we can assume it's not nice.
With the clock ticking (metaphorically that is, it's a big digital one) our heroic trio are in a race against time to find the hidden grave of Father Thomas and finally put his tormented soul to rest before Dunwich literally becomes a city (well town) of the living dead.
The beginning of Fulci's Lovecraft inspired golden era that continued with The Beyond and House By The Cemetery, City of The Living Dead gives us the directors trade mark moments of starkly realistic ultra-violence but this time drops them into a dreamlike non-linear world of ghosts and magic creating a world where set pieces, imagery and co-incidence are more important than coherent storylines or logic with the actual 'concept' of horror being the prevailing point of the film, rather than an end to the means.
Frankly I reckon I'm preaching to the converted here, it's Fulci and it's fantastic and no doubt you all already own at least six various versions of it.
Which doesn't mean that you should pre-order the brand spanking new Arrow DVD release which is coming soon.
I've had a sneak at the extras and honestly it's the dogs bollocks.
I would go as far as saying that the only thing that could possibly be better than it would be the dream of a big screen showing of City of The Living Dead and then have someone like, um Catriona MacColl and maybe even Giovanni Lombardo Radice popping on stage for a wee chat about it afterwards.
What?!!? You mean to say I didn't dream it?
Frankly I'll be surprised if the GFT can get the seats clean in time for next week.
The audience, by this point lying sweaty and spent across the seats had little time to recover tho' as within minutes of our horror duo leaving the stage Mr. Waddell appeared as if by magic (or dimensional portal) to introduce the final treat of the weekend.
A film that goes beyond madness.
Beyond our ken.
It can only be....
Zombie Creeping Flesh!
No actually, it's The Beyond!
To save you any unnecessary clicking I've deleted the old review and popped a new(ish) one here.
The Beyond (AKA L'Aldilà, And You Will Live in Terror: The Beyond, Seven Doors of Death 1981)
Dir: Lucio Fulci.
Cast: David Warbeck, Catriona MacColl, Cinzia Monreale, Al Cliver, Antoine Saint-John and Mr. Giovanni De Nava.
Louisiana 1927, Tuesday week, 19:38 hrs.
As the sun begins to set and the mists linger in the cool air, an angry group of torch-bearing, Italian looking villagers are sailing towards the Seven Doors Hotel where well-known 'ungodly warlock' (and painter) Mr. Terry Schweik has been found to be residing.
When the villagers arrive they quickly make their way through the lobby (not even stopping to wipe their feet) and stride up the stairs to Room 36, busting down the door and dragging the aforementioned Terry (Antoine Saint-John) to the cellar (which is pretty clever seeing as Louisianan houses don't have cellars seeing as they're built below sea level).
But unknown to them they've just happened to kill a warlock over one of the seven gates of Hell mentioned in the (New York Times bestseller, probably) Book of Eibon.
Which is a bad thing.
Zoom forward to 1981, Liza Merril (the scrumptious Catriona MacColl) has recently inherited the old hotel from a deceased uncle and decides to move in, hoping for a change from her world of grizzly Italian horror opposite Ian McCulloch and maybe a wee bit of financial security.
His resurrection in the local hospital is just the beginning of a series of bizarre (and frankly unexplained) events; a really freaky ginger school girl accidentally spills acid on her mothers face and (most upsetting) a librarian falls off his ladder and is attacked by googly eyed home-made spiders left over from Cbeebies favourite Doodle Do.
Eibon?.....hmmmmm, sounds familiar.
Trapped in a world being slowly enveloped by Hell itself our heroes head to the (relative) safety of the hospital (if full of zombies counts as safe I guess) armed only with a cap gun and a copy of Eibon John and Liza are the only ones left who can save the whole of creation being dragged to THE BEYOND......
But is it too little too late?
Although a (semi) remake/reworking of his earlier City of The Living Dead with it's continued use of surreal themes and bizarre imagery, The Beyond boasts vastly superior direction, acting, effects and a fantastic score from Fabio Frizzi, making it by far the definitive Fulci movie.
Sure Dardano Sacchetti's script is a wee bit clunky at times, there are obvious gaffes with regards to where the film was shot (Italy) and where it's set (the good ol' USA) most notably being the hospitals 'Do Not Enrty' warning sign plus those spiders but Fulci oversees the proceedings with so much conviction that it's impossible not to get completely drawn into this tale of a world gone mad.
Especially if it's star is sitting nearby.
The movie is well served by it's lead actors, horror veterans Catriona MacColl and especially the late, great David (I'd have been Bond if it weren't for these fluffy pink slippers) Warbeck, who gives a particularly child-like performance as the city doctor trapped in a living nightmare he can barely understand.
Watching the movie again you can see the hardly contain glee in his eyes and scenes that Fulci obviously missed in editing (Warbeck loading his gun thru' the barrel whilst MacColl looks on, stifling a laugh) show how much fun the actor must have had on set.
Catriona MacColl is as wonderful (and beautiful) as ever, effortlessly going from cool and aloof to shot to fuck without so much as a bat of her eyelids, coming across as a posh country librarian stuck in an Am Dram production that she has no intention of understanding but freely admits to enjoying all the same.
Horror will always need more actresses of this calibre and I for one, miss her.
It's a pity that she never got to team up with Tisa Farrow at some point, I can just imagine the pair mud wrestling in skimpy bikini's for Ian McCulloch's attention whilst baying zombies looked on from behind razor wire as Al Cliver, clad only in a toga dances a merry jig.
Or maybe that's just me.
Kudos also to the enigmatic Cinzia Monreale as the milky eyed dog fancier (and sensible shoed agent of Hell) Emily.
As a kid I found her the most terrifying thing in the movie and would gaze at the colour pic of her in Starburst for hours trying to, um, exorcise my demons....luckily as an adult you begin to appreciate the need for tall, plainly dressed, flat heeled and blind spooky ladies from beyond in horror films and it's a travesty that there aren't more of them.
Italian effects maestro Germano (Profondo Rosso) Natali provides the expected scenes of blood and mayhem, complementing Fulci's then obsession with the eye as a window to the soul with popping, squeezing and poking as many on screen as possible.
Pity his (aforementioned) spiders were shite tho.
But it has to be said that the true make-up genius on the movie was whoever decided to get local homeless drunks to play the naked, undead inhabitants of 'the beyond' for the films frankly bonkers finale. Knowing that these derelict damned for all eternity shadows of men are being portrayed by old, piss stained jakeys, fortified by cheap wine and the promise of a pizza brings a smile to my face every time.
And somewhat appropriate for Glasgow.
Kudos to everyone involved in organising the weekend but especially big thanks to everyone who parted with their hard earned cash for a postcard set!
Normal, less syrupy posts will return as soon as possible.