Thursday, June 28, 2012

dead in japan.

George A Romero, Japanese style.

Sunday, June 17, 2012


I felt it was my duty to share this sad tale with you.

Now Let's be careful out there.

Sunday, June 3, 2012

people you fancy but shouldn't (part 41).

With pseudo-Alien prequel Prometheus being released it's time to celebrate the second sexiest star of the Aliens saga.

Look we all know who has the number one slot.

Yup it's the spunky flygirl herself Corporal Ferro, played to slick haired perfection by the latter day director of SingLondon, Colette Hiller.

reckless eric.

The Dead Want Women (2012).
Dir: Charles Band.
Cast: Jessica Morris, Ariana Madix, Lord Eric of Roberts, J. Scott, Robert Zahar and Jean Louise O'Sullivan

Welcome to Hollywood USA, to the age when the talkies were about to become the biggest thing to happen to movies since, well since they invented movies probably.

Enter bowl headed, silent movie star Rose Pettigrew (Gingerdead Man 3: Saturday Night Cleaver's O’Sullivan in what I hope is a wig) who to celebrate her first starring role has organised the party of a lifetime (well as big a party as you can get on this movies minuscule budget) at her glamorous home.

Hair of Lego and a chin Joe Dredd would kill for.

Bored with all the sycophantic guests upstairs our movie moll soon retires to the basement for a wee bit of a fanny flicking, tittie touching orgy alongside her pals the fat funster 'Tubby' Fitzgerald (Scott from the upcoming Zombies Vs. Strippers), inconsequential baldy Erik Burke (Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers villain Zahar) and kinky cowboy star Sonny Barnes (Roberts, nuff said).

Cue ten minutes of softcore titillation for all the basement dwelling virgins watching.

And fans of Eric Roberts' peachy arse obviously.

Remember when your girlfriend said she at her sisters?

Unfortunately before you can reach for the tissues  a skinny studio exec turns up to inform raunchy Rose that sound tests of her voice have been causing horses to vomit and that her contract is cancelled.

Tho' obviously listening to it in a modern day setting is alright tho'.


Never one to over-react, Rose first shoots the messenger before shooting her fellatio loving fellas and slashing her own throat.

Unfortunately the movie doesn't end there and with the majority of the budget gone on 20 style lampshades it's time to screech forward to 'the modern day' where botoxed beauties, bessie buds and real estate partners Reese (Morris, blonde and fresh faced) and Danni (Madix, blonde and sultry) are celebrating selling an Hollywood mansion for top dollar.

Can you guess which one?

If this picture was any more vapid it would fade from view completely.

Anyway, our toothsome twosome head up to the house to clean up and, whilst waiting for the buyer to show get a wee bit drunk too because that's what professional estate agents do obviously.

Unfortunately the buyer (he's probably read the script) never shows up, instead we're treated to a return performance by Sonny, Tubby, Erik and Rose (cunningly disguised in cardboard zombie masks cut out from the back of cereal packets) ready for a raunchy rave from the grave.

And Jack the lad need not apply.

Roll on twenty five minutes of chesty chases, pervy possessions, lesbian lustings, zombie rape and Eric Roberts (in full undead mode) pretending to do one of the estate agents up the arse.

WARNING: Nothing this erotic happens at any point during the movie.

Poor Charles Band, do you remember the good old days when he produced some of the greatest films ever made? Stuff like Trancers, Laserblast, Puppet Master and Robot Jox? not to mention his forays into teevee with such classics as Josh Kirby: Time Warrior (Corbin Allred where are you now?).

If you're too young to remember trust me when I tell you that any (all) self respecting horror/scifi/fantasy fans growing up in the eighties were practically raised on Band's direct to video goodness.

I even saw Laserblast at the cinema on it's original release.

Which is what makes viewing The Dead Want Women all the more painful.

I mean it's like watching your favourite auntie, riddled with dementia lying in a pool of her own urine whilst gingerly fingering the ring of a Bassett Hound as she hums tunelessly to Cher Lloyd.

Lloyd: Bassett bothering.

And you've got to feel for the great Eric Roberts when even his God-like presence can't lift a movie above the level of an irritating STD, I mean the film promises so much; zombies, soft-core lesbianism, a fat man in a hat and the aforementioned great man himself threatening to show his bum in glorious Blu-Ray goodness.

I never felt so confused as to what to do during a movie, get aroused by Eric, feel ashamed at the girl on girl fondling, attempt to suckle on the fat man's breasts or just feel slightly burned that I actually paid  five English pounds for this?

In the end I just felt violated and very confused.

And not in a good way.

Can someone call my mum?

Friday, June 1, 2012

great moments in comic history.

ghost in my house.

More mockumentary madness from beyond the grave and this time they're apparently remaking Ghostwatch.

But without the child molestation.

Or Parkie.


Apartment 143 (2011).
Dir: Carles Torrens.
Cast: Kai Lennox, Michael O’Keefe, Gia Mantegna, Rick Gonzalez, Fiona Glascott and Francsec Garrido.

Meet the White family, normal in every way except that since Mrs White (not Betty) died they have been trapped in a violent turmoil of bizarre paranormal activity.

Poor dad Alan (Kex Eurythmics singer and D2 The Mighty Ducks star Lennox) looks like he hasn't slept (or washed) for six months, his pert arsed daughter, Caitlin (Mantegna) blames him for her mothers death whilst his young son Benny is convinced that dear old dead mum is haunting them.

It's like a Christmas day episode of Eastenders but without the sodomy.

Even moving house hasn't helped with the hauntings not only continuing but seemingly increasing in intensity.

Caitlin: Just begging to have the willies put up her.

Enter our terrific trio of paranormal investigators, sexy scientist Dr. Alcass Helzer (Caddyshack's O’Keefe), token Oirish camera operator Ellen (the librarian-esque Glascott) and super cool Paul tech-guy (Gonzalez) who within minutes of arriving at the apartment are experiencing slamming doors, ghostly farts and all manner of pipe banging badness.

If this wasn't stressful enough for Alan to cope with, Caitlin spends her time either locked in her room shouting or wandering about the house in tiny hotpants whilst calling her dad an arse.

Teenage girls eh?

Can't live with 'em, can't keep them locked in your basement.

Being a nice man, Doc Helzer does his best to give Alan a wee bit of support whilst his erstwhile crew monitor, record and comment on everything happening around them.

But with both the ghostly entity and catty Caitlin going from bad to worse, Helzer has no choice but to call in the big guns.

And no, we don't mean Craig Charles.

A séance is planned and with the help of enigmatic medium (tho' to be honest he looks an extra large) Heseltine (Garrido, last seen in your mom's bed) and a couple of phone books the ghost finally materialises.

Unfortunately tho' it materialises inside Caitlin's sweaty, young, nubile body; screaming and shouting abuse before smashing a few pictures and disappearing out of her arse.

It'd be like mouth fucking a furry bowling ball. Probably.

All this dad-based badness leaves Helzer thinking that there may be more to Mrs White's death than meets the eye.

With Benny away at his granddads house and Caitlin sprawled on her bed listening to One Direction, the Doc has ample time to lean on Alan in order to get the truth.

I say lean on but what he actually does is shove a camera in his face whilst shouting "Tell me the truth you gangly bastard!" until Alan breaks down and reveals that his wife was a man hungry, cum guzzling slut who when not sucking on a cock was busy slurping vodka from a saucepan.

Alan, catching her in bed with the local fire brigade one night (whilst poor Caitlin stood in the corner watching) bitch-slapped her and drove away with the kids.

Off her tits and covered in yellowing man juice Mrs White gave chase before wrapping her car round a tree.

Which is nice.

And when I filmed something similar I got arrested.

With all the information to hand Dr Helzer comes to the conclusion that just like her late mother, Caitlin suffers from schizophrenia and that this alongside her burgeoning womanhood has manifested as your classic case of poltergeist activity.

Luckily in these modern times all this can be cured with a couple of aspirin and a good mooth shite-in.

The Jade Goody Ringu remake, less Sadako more sadagetthisdeadracistbitchoffmyteevee.

Relieved to finally have an answer the investigators, kooky Caitlin and dad prepared for a well deserved sleep but the happiness is short lived as without warning all Hell breaks loose as the spirit begins to not only destroy the house but trap poor Caitlin in her bedroom, throwing the child around like a soggy biscuit.

Welcome to fright night!

"Put it in me!"

 After the abysmal Devil Inside and the cinematic abortion that was The Amityville Haunting, Apartment 143 is like a breath of fresh(ish) air.

It's well acted, relatively short, is pain free and has a nice - if predictable - twist at the end (yes William Brent Bell, a film with an ending!) plus it's got the added bonus of having Gia Mantegna grumpily stomping around in next to nothing.

God bless teen girls and their 'fashions'.

Mantegna: Relax guys, she's legal...and not dead. Sorry Megan.

 First time Spanish feature director Carles Torrens alongside screenwriter Rodrigo Cortes make the best of their limited cast and locations, turning out an enjoyable little thriller that wouldn't be out of place as one of those much loved BBC ghost stories that were a staple of Yuletide teevee during the 80's.

A pity then that Stephen Volk's Ghostwatch got there first.

As a plus point tho' the teen girl in this is slightly hotter.

But if you can resist shouting "It's in the machine!" and "He's touching me!" at the screen every five minutes you'll be rewarded with a creepy, if inconsequential 90 minutes of fun.

Which frankly is better than a fist to the balls.

Or Kill List.