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.

"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.


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.

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.


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!

 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.

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.

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