Less a series of reviews, more a thinly disguised cry for help... "We are indeed drifting into the arena of the unwell."
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
people you fancy but shouldn't part 33.
Well I admitted it earlier so here goes...
The lovely Jamie, as played by Danyi Deats in the classic Rivers Edge.
Look, don't judge me I was only 16 right?
drop dead gorgeous.
Only just gotten round to seeing this (slow I know) after being put off by the sub Diablo Cody style cover design and that fact that it sounded a wee bit like Teeth.
Only with a full female body not just a rubber fanny.
Ah, I love being one of those 'new men'.
Dead Girl (2008).
Dir: Marcel Sarmiento, Gadi Harel.
Cast: Shiloh Fernandez, Noah Segan, Andrew DiPalma, Eric Podnar, Candice Accola, a dog and Jenny Spain.
Rebel without a clue Rickie (Fernandez channelling Vincent Gallo) and his 'bud' JT (the Skeet Ulrich-lite Segan) are the obligatory tattooed badboys at the local high school, hated by the cheerleaders and pummelled by the jocks on a daily (nay hourly) basis.
Think Grange Hill with better teeth.
Rickie, being the floppy fringed sensitive one, is totally obsessed with the big headed blonde JoAnn (Ex-Miley Cyrus backing singer Accola), his first kiss in grade school and his one true love.
Awww.
Unfortunately not only is she one of the schools golden girls but she's also engaged to star football player and owner of the slickest hair known to man, the monobrowed Johnny (DiPalma, a man constructed entirely of right angles).
Deciding to skip class and go drinking rather than study and get some exams leading to a good job (listen to Uncle Ashton kids!) our dour duo head over to a handy abandoned mental hospital just up the road.
Creeping around the eerily empty wards JT does his best to freak his pal out before deciding it'd be more fun to chug weak American beer, jump about shouting "Woah!" and smash some windows.
As you do if you're a teen.
Everything is going swimmingly (well drunkenly) until a large hairy (and possibly very horny) dog turns up and chases Rickie and JT down a dark, damp corridor, up some stairs, passed the bins before finally losing our pissed up pals in the big scary basement.
Deciding to explore the room for another exit rather than face the full arse tearing wrath of the mad dog our friends soon come across (not in that way, well not yet) what looks like a naked dead girl, spread-eagled, chained to a slab and wrapped in plastic.
So far so Lynch.
Having a good poke around under the plastic sheet, JT is surprised to see that she's not dead at all, only sleeping - oh, and dribbling, moaning and trying to bite chunks out of anyone who gets too close.
Just like a normal girl then.
Rickie freaked out by the discovery wants to tell the police but JT has other plans.
Namely to keep her locked in the basement and have sex with her whenever he fancies, telling Rickie that it'll be "their little secret”.
What a lovely guy.
Cue ninety minutes of Rickie staring wistfully at JoAnn, sighing as his drunken stepdad talks about life and occasionally heading over (and down) to the basement to check on JT, who's quickly morphing from lank haired druggie to a comedy drunk, underpants wearing, slick-headed Pimp-Meister.
A Pimp-Meister with an eager new accomplice, long haired and behatted Wheeler (lead singer/songwriter of the band Falling Still, Podnar).
Unfortunately Wheeler can't help but brag about the 'sex slave' they have locked up in the hospital and it's not long before Johnny and his posse have bullied their way into the basement intent on tasting some undead arse for themselves.
Coercing Johnny into popping his cock in her mouth (as opposed to shite-ing in it obviously) whilst his buddy has the proper 'vaginal sex' (Johnny doesn't want to be unfaithful to JoAnn, bless him) with the dead girl, it's only a matter of time before there's a case of nob-nibbling ahoy and muchos manly screaming ending with a wee bit of baseball bat and dead head interfacing.
With half the football team now knowing about JT's zombie pimping service and with Johnny's cock going a funny green colour it's only a matter of time before JoAnn comes a calling, desperate to find out what happened to her boyfriends penis.
Unfortunately for her the copious amounts of beatings and penetrations inflicted on our undead sex kitten are beginning to show (plus she's starting to smell like a cheese factory) but JT has the answer.
If he can get her to bite another woman, then the victim will turn giving him a brand new sex slave.
In parts playing out like a particularly nightmarish version of Lemon Popsicle, Sarmiento and Harel's Dead Girl owes more than a nod to Tim Hunter's seminal movie of teenage alienation, the undisputed classic of the genre River's Edge.
Both films deal with the teen protagonists curiosity and pre-occupation regarding sex and death, and one that finally grows uncontrollably and violently as the stories reach their conclusion, questioning both our own and societies morals and beliefs along the way.
The only real differences are that Rivers Edge has by far the sexier corpse in Jamie, played to perfection by Danyi Deats - oh how I would sit and drool over her as a shy sixteen year old, the video remote cradled in my free hand - and also has quite possibly the greatest cast ever assembled for a film.
Whereas - and I'm sorry to have to say it - but Dead Girl is populated by actors that remind you of other actors and a zombie that looks like a young Adrienne Barbeau.
But without the frighteningly pneumatic breasts obviously.
On a plus point it does try to do something different with the undead genre and surprisingly (given the subject matter and advertising designs) actually underplays quite a few of the films more explicit scenes.
And for that we can all be grateful, in lesser hands this could have had all the makings of a cheap and tawdry sex-shocker (tho' I'm not saying that wouldn't have been enjoyable too) so kudos to all involved for staying true to the genuinely dark premise and although after much soul-searching and meta-textual musings on life, love and death the best they can come up with is 'males are nasty' they at least did it in a far more entertaining way than the utterly abysmal Teeth.
As it stands Deadgirl is the perfect first date film with something for the most jaded viewer; love, life, sex, death and the consequences of shite-ing your intestines out of your arse are all covered here, giving you loads to chat about as you enjoy your coffee and do-nuts afterwards.
Only with a full female body not just a rubber fanny.
Ah, I love being one of those 'new men'.
Dead Girl (2008).
Dir: Marcel Sarmiento, Gadi Harel.
Cast: Shiloh Fernandez, Noah Segan, Andrew DiPalma, Eric Podnar, Candice Accola, a dog and Jenny Spain.
 |
| "JoAnn, I love you". "Fuck you. Grow up". |
Think Grange Hill with better teeth.
Rickie, being the floppy fringed sensitive one, is totally obsessed with the big headed blonde JoAnn (Ex-Miley Cyrus backing singer Accola), his first kiss in grade school and his one true love.
Awww.
Unfortunately not only is she one of the schools golden girls but she's also engaged to star football player and owner of the slickest hair known to man, the monobrowed Johnny (DiPalma, a man constructed entirely of right angles).
Deciding to skip class and go drinking rather than study and get some exams leading to a good job (listen to Uncle Ashton kids!) our dour duo head over to a handy abandoned mental hospital just up the road.
 |
| Thru' The Keyhole with John Leslie. |
As you do if you're a teen.
Everything is going swimmingly (well drunkenly) until a large hairy (and possibly very horny) dog turns up and chases Rickie and JT down a dark, damp corridor, up some stairs, passed the bins before finally losing our pissed up pals in the big scary basement.
 |
| Twilight for pikeys. |
Deciding to explore the room for another exit rather than face the full arse tearing wrath of the mad dog our friends soon come across (not in that way, well not yet) what looks like a naked dead girl, spread-eagled, chained to a slab and wrapped in plastic.
So far so Lynch.
Having a good poke around under the plastic sheet, JT is surprised to see that she's not dead at all, only sleeping - oh, and dribbling, moaning and trying to bite chunks out of anyone who gets too close.
Just like a normal girl then.
Rickie freaked out by the discovery wants to tell the police but JT has other plans.
Namely to keep her locked in the basement and have sex with her whenever he fancies, telling Rickie that it'll be "their little secret”.
What a lovely guy.
 |
| "And this is where you plug your MP3 player in!" |
Cue ninety minutes of Rickie staring wistfully at JoAnn, sighing as his drunken stepdad talks about life and occasionally heading over (and down) to the basement to check on JT, who's quickly morphing from lank haired druggie to a comedy drunk, underpants wearing, slick-headed Pimp-Meister.
A Pimp-Meister with an eager new accomplice, long haired and behatted Wheeler (lead singer/songwriter of the band Falling Still, Podnar).
Unfortunately Wheeler can't help but brag about the 'sex slave' they have locked up in the hospital and it's not long before Johnny and his posse have bullied their way into the basement intent on tasting some undead arse for themselves.
Coercing Johnny into popping his cock in her mouth (as opposed to shite-ing in it obviously) whilst his buddy has the proper 'vaginal sex' (Johnny doesn't want to be unfaithful to JoAnn, bless him) with the dead girl, it's only a matter of time before there's a case of nob-nibbling ahoy and muchos manly screaming ending with a wee bit of baseball bat and dead head interfacing.
With half the football team now knowing about JT's zombie pimping service and with Johnny's cock going a funny green colour it's only a matter of time before JoAnn comes a calling, desperate to find out what happened to her boyfriends penis.
Unfortunately for her the copious amounts of beatings and penetrations inflicted on our undead sex kitten are beginning to show (plus she's starting to smell like a cheese factory) but JT has the answer.
If he can get her to bite another woman, then the victim will turn giving him a brand new sex slave.
 |
| "Shite in mah undead mooth ya jock bastard!!" |
In parts playing out like a particularly nightmarish version of Lemon Popsicle, Sarmiento and Harel's Dead Girl owes more than a nod to Tim Hunter's seminal movie of teenage alienation, the undisputed classic of the genre River's Edge.
Both films deal with the teen protagonists curiosity and pre-occupation regarding sex and death, and one that finally grows uncontrollably and violently as the stories reach their conclusion, questioning both our own and societies morals and beliefs along the way.
The only real differences are that Rivers Edge has by far the sexier corpse in Jamie, played to perfection by Danyi Deats - oh how I would sit and drool over her as a shy sixteen year old, the video remote cradled in my free hand - and also has quite possibly the greatest cast ever assembled for a film.
Whereas - and I'm sorry to have to say it - but Dead Girl is populated by actors that remind you of other actors and a zombie that looks like a young Adrienne Barbeau.
But without the frighteningly pneumatic breasts obviously.
 |
| As a 16 year old, this was my perfect girl....nuff said really. |
On a plus point it does try to do something different with the undead genre and surprisingly (given the subject matter and advertising designs) actually underplays quite a few of the films more explicit scenes.
And for that we can all be grateful, in lesser hands this could have had all the makings of a cheap and tawdry sex-shocker (tho' I'm not saying that wouldn't have been enjoyable too) so kudos to all involved for staying true to the genuinely dark premise and although after much soul-searching and meta-textual musings on life, love and death the best they can come up with is 'males are nasty' they at least did it in a far more entertaining way than the utterly abysmal Teeth.
 |
| "Is it in yet?" |
Saturday, September 24, 2011
earth 52 and a third.
After the head fuck that is DC Comics total relaunch let's travel back to a time when anyone could pick up any issue and follow the storylines.
let it snow.
Sorry (again) for the lack of recent rants.....been busy working on the tie-in strip for the movie The Snowman.
Enjoy this sneaky peek at page 4.
Enjoy this sneaky peek at page 4.
Monday, September 19, 2011
by george!
From the pages of Variety, a collection of movies that George A Romero didn't direct during the eighties.
Enjoy!
Enjoy!
Monday, September 5, 2011
come as you are.
those of you with long memories and short fuses may remember how gutted I was to miss this classic at this years Fright Fest in Glasgow, especially after being told how fantastic it was.
As you'll all be aware, Britain has a long and golden history when it comes to the genre of portmanteau horror, from Dead of Night to The Monster Club it's a tradition of which we can all be proud.
Until now obviously.
Little Deaths (2011).
Dir: Sean Hogan, Andrew Parkinson and Simon Rumley.
Cast: Scott Ainslie, Luke de Lacey, Mike Anfield, James Anniballi, Holly Lucas, Siubhan Harrison, Kate Braithwaite, Tom Sawyer, a huge rubber cock, some Bisto and few dogs.
After some so hip it hurts titles, director Sean (can't be arsed looking up anything else he's done, sorry) Hogan introduces us to Richard and Victoria (the fantastically weasely and permanently sweat soaked de Lacey and the scarily school ma'm-like Harrison); your average God bothering 30 something, Tory bastards; all big cars, crap hair, plummy voices and an overwhelming sense of their own self worth.
So far, so hateful.
Well, they would be if Victoria was so luscious lipped, I mean if any actress alive has a mooth just begging for a shite-in it's her.
In a totally non-sexual way obviously.
In an attempt to give something back to society our caring couple like to invite the occasional homeless girl back to their humble abode for a relaxing bath, hearty meal and a wee bit of bondage buggery and nipple badgering.
Which is nice.
After a few days stalking a likely candidate in the form of the tussle haired and dirty pillowed Sorrow (Holby City star and daughter of Star Wars director George, all milky thighs and sexy eyebrows), Randy Richard decides it's time to invite her home for food, fun and a little forced entry hi-jinks.
With everything seemingly going to plan it's only when the fucking starts good and proper that our mental man and wife realise that sorrow will indeed blight their lives.
And we're not talking the David Bowie song either.
Tho' that would be far more original than the re-heated and comedy toothed 'Eat The Rich' bollocks that we get here.
Embarrassingly derivative, offensively stereotypical and totally predictable from start to finish, 'House and Home' (as 'in eat you out of', clever eh?) is prove enough that just because you (or mummy and daddy) have the cash to make a movie doesn't mean you have to.
Spare a thought for the three leads tho' who even when forced to utter some of the most banal dialogue ever written, give 100% with their performances.
Which is a good 100% more than this shite deserves.
Shocking.
And not in a good way.
With little time to breath, let alone escape to the bar or remove your own eyes, Andrew (not the disease) Parkinson’s disappointingly average Mutant Tool rears it's bulbous, circumcised head.
There's really nothing you can say concerning the plot cos frankly it doesn't have one, what it does have tho' is a few terrific ideas idly pissed up against the wall with such a lack of grace and effort that most of it ends up down the front of the directors trousers.
Which to make things worse are light brown corduroy.
From the market.
I mean come on, how on earth can you make a movie about a tall skinny man chained up in a hospital basement whose 3 foot long genetically engineered Nazi penis constantly leaks it's conscious altering man-muck into a rusty bucket and make it so bowel tearingly boring that you start to tear out your own, then other peoples eyelashes in a vain attempt to stay awake?
The most annoying thing about the whole sorry mess tho' is the fact that they couldn't even be arsed to make the big cock shudder and shake when it ejaculates, it just limply sits there, dripping like an old wrinkly man with a cold.
Unforgivable.
With two down, one to go and the will to live fading fast it's time for Simon (director of some films, one featuring transvestites) Rumley to let his Bitch loose on an unsuspecting (and by this point unconscious) audience.
The permanently scowling and granite chinned Claire (Braithwaite) and her pube haired, permanently bemused beau Pete (literary legend Sawyer) have a troubled relationship.
Although Pete loves Claire and Claire loves Pete, she just happens to love violating his arse with a big black strap on whilst he crouches on all fours, naked except for a shoddy dog mask even more.
This relationship, you see is built on power and Claire has it all, from slapping poor Pete for not sharing his fish fingers to shagging his best mate via illicit trips back in time to mid-eighties goth nite clubs, Claire is as hard and harsh as they come.
But like all villains she has a chink in her armour.
A morbid fear of dogs.
As Claires actions become meaner and meaner and Pete withdraws deeper into his own world, you can tell that it'll only take a little thing to make the poor sod go over the edge.
And in this case it's a comment about his penis size.
Or lack of.
Pete has had enough, refusing to sleep with Claire or let her touch his bum, he spends his whole time wandering the streets buying dogs and big tins of gravy.
What could he possibly be planning?
I couldn't possibly say just in case anyone reading this has never, ever seen a film in their lives and therefore wont possibly be able to guess the ending.
Tho' it does involve Claire spread eagled and sobbing on a bed with her (admittedly really peachy) arse covered in Bisto, which quite honestly is one of the most erotic scenes I've experienced in recent memory so it's not all bad.
By not all bad I mean that the acting from the two leads is, again, far better than this script deserves and the 'shocking' twist, like the other two stories, is so obvious as to make you expect that it has to be a red herring and something so mind-spunkingly brilliant is going to happen.
But no, like that leopard print clad, varicose veined middle-aged barmaid that you always end up doing in a dirt sodden back alley during your weaker moments you know exactly how it'll turn out.
Only in the case of this movie it definitely makes you feel a helluva lot cheaper.
As you'll all be aware, Britain has a long and golden history when it comes to the genre of portmanteau horror, from Dead of Night to The Monster Club it's a tradition of which we can all be proud.
Until now obviously.
Little Deaths (2011).
Dir: Sean Hogan, Andrew Parkinson and Simon Rumley.
Cast: Scott Ainslie, Luke de Lacey, Mike Anfield, James Anniballi, Holly Lucas, Siubhan Harrison, Kate Braithwaite, Tom Sawyer, a huge rubber cock, some Bisto and few dogs.
 |
| "I wouldn't normally allow sorrow in my house" |
After some so hip it hurts titles, director Sean (can't be arsed looking up anything else he's done, sorry) Hogan introduces us to Richard and Victoria (the fantastically weasely and permanently sweat soaked de Lacey and the scarily school ma'm-like Harrison); your average God bothering 30 something, Tory bastards; all big cars, crap hair, plummy voices and an overwhelming sense of their own self worth.
So far, so hateful.
Well, they would be if Victoria was so luscious lipped, I mean if any actress alive has a mooth just begging for a shite-in it's her.
In a totally non-sexual way obviously.
 |
| Victoria prepares to suck plumbs thru' a tennis racquet earlier today. |
In an attempt to give something back to society our caring couple like to invite the occasional homeless girl back to their humble abode for a relaxing bath, hearty meal and a wee bit of bondage buggery and nipple badgering.
Which is nice.
After a few days stalking a likely candidate in the form of the tussle haired and dirty pillowed Sorrow (Holby City star and daughter of Star Wars director George, all milky thighs and sexy eyebrows), Randy Richard decides it's time to invite her home for food, fun and a little forced entry hi-jinks.
 |
| I don't know what's more terrifying; those man-breasts or that wicker chair. |
With everything seemingly going to plan it's only when the fucking starts good and proper that our mental man and wife realise that sorrow will indeed blight their lives.
And we're not talking the David Bowie song either.
Tho' that would be far more original than the re-heated and comedy toothed 'Eat The Rich' bollocks that we get here.
Embarrassingly derivative, offensively stereotypical and totally predictable from start to finish, 'House and Home' (as 'in eat you out of', clever eh?) is prove enough that just because you (or mummy and daddy) have the cash to make a movie doesn't mean you have to.
Spare a thought for the three leads tho' who even when forced to utter some of the most banal dialogue ever written, give 100% with their performances.
Which is a good 100% more than this shite deserves.
Shocking.
And not in a good way.
 |
| He's the lucky one, at least you can't see his face. |
With little time to breath, let alone escape to the bar or remove your own eyes, Andrew (not the disease) Parkinson’s disappointingly average Mutant Tool rears it's bulbous, circumcised head.
There's really nothing you can say concerning the plot cos frankly it doesn't have one, what it does have tho' is a few terrific ideas idly pissed up against the wall with such a lack of grace and effort that most of it ends up down the front of the directors trousers.
Which to make things worse are light brown corduroy.
From the market.
 |
| Spunk in a bucket....nuff said. |
I mean come on, how on earth can you make a movie about a tall skinny man chained up in a hospital basement whose 3 foot long genetically engineered Nazi penis constantly leaks it's conscious altering man-muck into a rusty bucket and make it so bowel tearingly boring that you start to tear out your own, then other peoples eyelashes in a vain attempt to stay awake?
 |
| Possibly the only way the film makers will get anyone to sit thru' the whole film. |
Unforgivable.
 |
| Admit it, she's no Megan. |
With two down, one to go and the will to live fading fast it's time for Simon (director of some films, one featuring transvestites) Rumley to let his Bitch loose on an unsuspecting (and by this point unconscious) audience.
The permanently scowling and granite chinned Claire (Braithwaite) and her pube haired, permanently bemused beau Pete (literary legend Sawyer) have a troubled relationship.
Although Pete loves Claire and Claire loves Pete, she just happens to love violating his arse with a big black strap on whilst he crouches on all fours, naked except for a shoddy dog mask even more.
This relationship, you see is built on power and Claire has it all, from slapping poor Pete for not sharing his fish fingers to shagging his best mate via illicit trips back in time to mid-eighties goth nite clubs, Claire is as hard and harsh as they come.
But like all villains she has a chink in her armour.
A morbid fear of dogs.
 |
| The worlds first natural pillow birth, shown live on Channel 4 last Tuesday. |
As Claires actions become meaner and meaner and Pete withdraws deeper into his own world, you can tell that it'll only take a little thing to make the poor sod go over the edge.
And in this case it's a comment about his penis size.
Or lack of.
 |
| Shite in mah mooth? No! Bisto on mah buttocks! |
What could he possibly be planning?
I couldn't possibly say just in case anyone reading this has never, ever seen a film in their lives and therefore wont possibly be able to guess the ending.
Tho' it does involve Claire spread eagled and sobbing on a bed with her (admittedly really peachy) arse covered in Bisto, which quite honestly is one of the most erotic scenes I've experienced in recent memory so it's not all bad.
By not all bad I mean that the acting from the two leads is, again, far better than this script deserves and the 'shocking' twist, like the other two stories, is so obvious as to make you expect that it has to be a red herring and something so mind-spunkingly brilliant is going to happen.
But no, like that leopard print clad, varicose veined middle-aged barmaid that you always end up doing in a dirt sodden back alley during your weaker moments you know exactly how it'll turn out.
Only in the case of this movie it definitely makes you feel a helluva lot cheaper.
 |
| How I felt watching this movie. |
Little Deaths has been called 'the future of British horror' and if that is in fact the case we might as well unplug the life support machine and go home now.
It'd be a mercy killing.
