Thursday, February 28, 2013

even sweeter seats, slimline teats and a wee touch of cloth.

(Or Frightfest, part two).

It's 7:30 AM on a Saturday morning and I've had a restless night, my dreams invaded by impure thoughts regarding Alexa Nikolas' arse and visions of Sheri Moon Zombie riding a stuffed, sock wearing goat.

Could anything save me from this madness?

Nikolas: pissing the bed with fear.

Well if anything could it was probably the world premiere of a cleaned up, buffed and breezy, English language version of Mario Bava’s classic 1963 anthology Black Sabbath.

Those of us brave (and awake) enough to join horror god Boris Karloff, Mark Damon and the scrumptious Michele Mercier at 10:45 in the morning were treated to a mighty trilogy of terror from the undisputed master of horror featuring ghostly ex-lovers haunting beautiful women, vampiric family feuds and naughty nurses presented for the first time in a print worthy of it's reputation.

Gorgeousness abounds.

"Now here's a mooth worth shite-in in!"

Next up was more hi-jinks from Hellfjord before FF unveiled the fantastically monikered Bring Me the Head of the Machine Gun Woman, the story of geeky nightclub DJ Che who, after accidentally hearing his mobster boss discussing an upcoming hit manages to avoid execution himself by offering to carry out the killing for them.

Unfortunately the target is the leather clad, scantily panted bounty hunter Machine Gun Woman, a Hell in high heels vengeance driven vixen with the smoothest thighs this side of a butter factory.

Even just a tit wank would probably kill you.

Pity then that the main focus of the movie is the charisma free Che driving around town in a live action version of GTA: Chile rather than the titular Machine Gun Woman herself.

Although not a complete failure the movie could have done with less shots of Che bouncing around in his car and more (much more) footage of the frankly ferocious Fernanda Urrejola bouncing around whilst shooting things.

And bending over to polish her stilettos.

Whilst covered in chocolate.

Tho' if I'm honest I'd still be thinking of Ingrid Bolsø Berdal.

"la meg berøre pikken!"

More Hellfjord happenings were followed by the UK premiere director Barry (Rain Man) Levinson's take on the mocumentary/found-footage horror genre with his lo-fi eco-parable The Bay.

This chilling tale revolves around the small coastal town of Chesapeake Bay where a frighteningly high level of toxicity has been found in the local water.

Water used not only by local businesses but also by the townsfolk themselves.

A small scabby child, bleeding from her mouth, left on my sofa, alone...WITH MY REPUTATION?

With the mayor refusing to cancel the Independence Day celebrations it's not long before the population is infected by a plague of flesh-popping, tongue-chewing, mutant Cymothoa with amusing consequences for all.

Well everyone except the folk whose stomachs keep bursting obviously.

Tightly plotted with a convincing cast and a premise to leave you itching all night, The Bay was enough to satisfy even the most jaded found footage fan.

Except the wee boy outside who said it was boring because there was no sexy stuff in it like Lords of Salem.

Hopefully his folks wont be missing him.


Ginger boy: Up the shitter with a ten inch blade...Yesch!

Now it was time to head back inside still caked in blood, egg and tears and right on time to have the age old question "What happens when you give 26 directors $5000 each, four minutes run time and a letter of the alphabet to play about with?" 

The answer is the horror anthology The ABCs of Death.

Now I don't mind admitting that this was the one movie I had reservations about in regards to how successful/entertaining/sexy the whole concept could be when  dragged into reality, suffice to say I was as pleasantly surprised by the whole thing in the same way that small Filipino boy surprised me with his dusting skills last Easter.

Composer Simon Boswell, after leading the crowd in a totally tuneless (as only a Weegie crowd can be) rendition of The Jackson 5's ABC explained that the assembled directors had attempted to create the celluloid equivalent of a drunken party with something for every taste.

And to my surprise and their credit they managed it.

Frankly portmanteau cinema hasn't been this much fun since The Monster Club.

And never before has a movie appeared to plug itself directly into my Aspie addled brain and dragged my darkest thoughts kicking and screaming into reality (yes I'm looking at you Noboru Iguchi and Yoshihiro Nishimura).

Boswell entertains with his backing group Jake West, lovely Lucy Clements and Bane from Batman.

Taking in everything from claymation crappers to high powered heroin heroines via kitten killings, flatulence and every conceivable thing in-between,  ABCs is a truly one of a kind movie that does indeed feature something for everyone.

Including those with a Japanese Nazi-chick with a huge thrusting plastic cock fetish.

That'll be your nan's Christmas present sorted then.

Sexy lady + big gun = happy boy.

With a laugh a minute Q and A from a group of those sick puppies involved - Jake West, Lucy Clements, Simon Rumley, Lee Hardcastle and the aforementioned Boswell it was time for a (very) quick poo before the previous two hours of low budget genius made way for 90-odd minutes of star driven stodginess as producer, co-writer, tea-boy, stunt man, composer, combat photographer, unit milkman and star Eli ("The postage was how much?") Roth took centre stage to introduce his new movie, an arse clenching tribute to Irwin Allen and Fireman Sam style disaster movies, Aftershock.

Aftershock: No, not this one.

Set during the aftermath of the 1976 Tangshan earthquake in China, Feng Xiaogang's heart-breaking story of a mother forced to chose between which child to save went on to win the best Feature Film and Best Performance by an actor (Chen Daoming) at the 4th annual Asia Pacific Screen Awards.

Sounds fantastic doesn't it?

Unfortunately our Aftershock was a totally different film entirely.

Aftershock: No, not this one either.

In this one, Eli and his (real life) pals Ariel Levy and Nicolás Martínez are enjoying a hedonistic holiday in Chile. Hooking up with some foxy chicks (the yummy Andrea Osvárt, the scary Natasha Yarovenko and the cutsey, pantie flashing Lorenza Izzo) they head to Valparaiso to dance the last few nights of their holiday away in a groovy nightclub.

Unfortunately (for them that is, for us it's a blessed relief after almost 40 minutes of heartwarming character 'development' broken only by a fleeting appearance by Selena - not in the mouth - Gomez) a huge earthquake hits the area causing death, destruction and social unrest amongst the plebs on a massive scale.

Ben Affleck, up the casino, Blackpool, February 2013.....YESCH!

Adequately directed but with way too much time spent on character fluff - Roth and Lopez's intention was for Aftershock to start off as a buddy comedy and change into a survival flick at the halfway mark - amiable enough I guess but it doesn't really work when you know who's involved and the nature of the movie, you end up just twiddling your thumbs till the killing starts plus the dark locations and quickfire edits don't give you any sense of scale meaning that the movie ends up looking like it takes place across two interchangeable streets.

Luckily everybody gives their all acting wise (tho' there really wasn't that much to give) and looked good in mud plus the physical effects are impressive.

Pity about the prolonged onscreen rape tho'.

Surely the threat is enough without the 5 solid minutes of thrusting, screaming and soiled pants?

Just me then?

He's a rich, womanizing, world famous film director/writer/producer/actor who can't move for money or pussy. You write a blog no-one reads. Who is the more tragic?

As time began to run out (literally in my case seeing as it appeared to be seeping from my trouser leg) there was just time for a wee snippet from the third Glasgow based zombie Nazi movie, Outpost: Rise Of The Spetsnaz before the night was brought to a close with the final two instalments of the by now totally addictive Hellfjord and an incredibly serious Q and A regarding sexual health practices with director Patrik Syversen and Kobba himself, Mr. Stig Frode Henriksen.

Who it turns out during questioning contracted AIDS from my nan.

A fact for which I am eternally sorry.

Gomez: Always use the tradesman's entrance.

 So with heavy hearts and itchy pants we headed off into the chill Glasgow night (the temperature sharper than Norman Bates' kitchen knife), older, wiser and somewhat grubbier than we were 24 hours earlier safe in the knowledge that not only had we all survived another Frightfest but that they'd never find the wee ginger boys body.
Well until next February that is.

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