Tuesday, July 31, 2018

spain oddity.

Been tidying up the scary cupboard and came across my copy of the craptastic Ghosts of Sherwood hidden under a pile of old copies of Titbits magazines yesterday.

As I held it fondly in my arms I remembered back to my review and how I thought I'd never seen a movie quite so shockingly awful ever again.

But guess what?

I was wrong.

So terribly, terribly wrong.

Total Retribution (aka Earthkiller, 2011)
Dir: Andrew Bellware.
Cast: Robin Kurtz, Walter Barnes, Joe Beuerlein, the directors family and friends, your dad.

“humanity will end itself”



The time?

The future (sometime just after lunch possibly),

The place?

High above a children's sandpit.

The audience attention grabbing situation?

Well that'll be the sight of a milky thighed woman falling from the sky as the words “humanity will end itself” play out in a loop.

Now I'm intrigued.

Especially seeing as she's a ginger.

Crashing to earth in a burst of special effects of the kind not seen since I last booted up my Atari 2600 our mysterious heroine is soon found by two portly gypsies dressed in their dad's work overalls (and their little sister's Harry Potter cosplay capes) who appear to have an unhealthy interest in the huge chocolate coin she's wearing around her little bird-like neck.

It can't be that they're hungry so it must have another significance.

It's like a nursery school adaptation of Hardware but with pound shop glitter and glue replacing, well everything really.

Here come The Belgians!



Jumping forward two hundred years (well that's what it says on the caption) we find the very same woman now completely naked and standing in what seems to be a stationary cupboard aboard a high-tech space station that appears to have been rendered by a hook handed child on a V-Tech look and learn tablet.

Luckily she still has the chocolate coin tho.

The woman (whom we discover is named Helen and portrayed with all the charisma of a - fairly - annoyed geography teacher by Robin Kurtz who, truth be told is the nearest the movie will get to having a bona fide actor on screen so make the most of it), bored with standing around shivering in the obviously cold set (trust me you can tell) decides to have a wee peek outside the cupboard just in time to see a guard shot herself in the head amid a pile of Kwik Fit overalled corpses.

There's no time to rest tho' (or even admire the shoddily constructed cardboard sets) as no sooner has the poor woman's head hit the ground when a rag tag couple of military types turn up to wax lyrically about death and 'the scriptures'.

As you do.

Sauce.

With the set not being that big - and with Helen being fairly tall - our naked pal is soon forced out of hiding and into a playground style Mexican standoff with the soldiers before everyone involved gets bored and goes their own way, the duo off into a darkened corridor and Helen straight ahead giving the director a chance to linger on her brightly lit - albeit frighteningly skinny - arse.

It's not all religious chat and nudity tho' as Helen is soon back to her old hiding tricks when she stumbles across a couple of over enunciating maintenance men deep in conversation about some existential rubbish before one of them turns into a zombie and punches the other to death.

No really.

20 minutes in and with her nudity clause fully fulfilled Helen decides to head for the nearest locker room in order to find some clothes suitable for battling the great space undead.

Or at least stand a chance of winning third prize at a Resident Evil fancy dress parade.

And only then if the judges were blind.

As a plus point the 'Helen gets dressed' scene is probably the most dramatic thing you will see in the movie and get dressed she does in a fantastically futuristic ensemble that includes a black boob tube, some saggy arsed spandex cycling shorts, a sad, single child's skateboarding kneepad, a pair of orthopedic boots and a realistic leather effect belt like the one your granddad wears.

Nice.

"Freedom for Tooting!"



She's barely had time to adjust her crotch when the pal-punching zombie from earlier turns up (you can tell he's a zombie because he has red felt pan round his eyes and a mouth covered in strawberry jam) in order it seems to carry on his frankly mundane musings from earlier.

Perhaps the zombiefication is caused by an airbourne virus that reacts to how much bollocks you can spout in a 5 minute period?

Well it'd make as much sense as the rest of the movie.

Helen has no time for chat tho' and quickly dispatches the zombie by shooting him in the stomach.

Twice.

Which as we all know is the only way to kill the undead.

Not wanting the plot to be the only thing that's meandering, Helen wanders deeper into the space station before coming across (if only) a harsh-faced girl who is luckily on hand to explain the plot to those of us who haven't drunk themselves into a coma/slashed their wrists by now.

So pay attention, here's the science part:

It appears that Helen is actually an android and that the space station is the staging ground for a final battle between The Terran Special Forces and the stations very own Allied Airborne Battalion.

Why? I hear you cry.

Well the scientists aboard the station have discovered a process by which they can turn folk (but only the really unattractive and untalented ones by the look of it) into scribble faced zombies.

And if that wasn't enough it seems that the process can also be used to turn them into massive robot dogs.

Obviously the people of Earth need to put an end to such frankly ludicrous shenanigans as soon as.

Makes perfect sense when you think about it.

If the director can't be arsed then I'm not wasting my time thinking up an amusing caption.



Now you'd think that'd be enough to keep even the most dedicated hero busy but no there's more as the scientists have also aimed a massive laser at the planet too.

And not just any old laser oh no, you see this one is specifically designed to create wormholes in time and space.

Tho' why you'd threaten to destroy the only place that you can get subjects for your robot dog/zombie hybrid experiments isn't explained.

Or maybe I'm just too thick to figured it out.

And so begins a race against time - and good taste - for our trim tummied terminatrix as she desperately tries to discover her reason for being onboard and her connection to the project before the earth is destroyed.

"Are you looking at my bra?"


Cue 40 minutes of arse-prolapsing dialogue (including a frankly bizarre conversation about Helen's undies), Nintendo 64 quality 'special' effects, the same animated GiF of gunfire used over and over, random blood splash photoshop effects whenever anyone gets shot and the biggest collection of badly painted pound shop Nerf guns ever committed to videotape.

Imagine Alien: Resurrection remade by a group of fish-eyed schizophrenics with only the contents of their dads garage for props and with a script written in shit by a club footed insomniac in exchange for a collection of vintage underwear ads and you'd only be half way to understanding the whole sorry mess.

But who do we thank for it?

Well that'd be writer/director/composer/actor/binman Andrew Bellware - the man who gave the world the definitive discourse of that famous Dane with his New York based 1997 version of Hamlet (no me neither) as well as such straight to torrent site shite as Prometheus Trap, Alien Uprising and Clone Hunter who with this brings us a film so inept, so threadbare and so mind numbingly awful that it managed to not only give my DVD player cancer but caused me to go blind whilst watching.

And it's not just that it's badly made, ill-conceived and horribly realised but the fact that none of it makes any sense and that no-one involved seems to care.

The 'actors' (save Kurtz) seem to be wandering around in a self conscious, charisma free daze - all that is except the thick-necked blonde space marine lady who delivers her lines with all the skill and charm of a menstruating traffic warden with delusions of godhood and unfortunately the mouth of a stroke victim -  almost as if they've been forced at gunpoint to appear in this travesty as some kind of sub-Saw revenge plot.

Come on....they can't have all fucked the directors dog so god knows what they did to end up in this.

If I'm honest I'm kinda worried at to what punishment Bellware will dish out to me if he reads this.



This makes me really sad.

It's not all bad tho' - no hang on it is actually tho' I will admit that had I not had the misfortune to sit thru this I would have missed how utterly woeful (re: fucking abysmal) the robo/dog/zombies actually are.

I'd try to describe them but a screengrab will have to suffice and not even that can do them justice:

No really, just fuck off.


Yes my friends I'm actually recommending that you do indeed sit thru this steaming pile of cinematic shite just to experience the absolute joy of this perfect example of computer-aided arse first hand.

I doubt you ever find anything else that even remotely comes close.

The cinematic equivalent of being clumsily arse-fingered by a jaggy nailed tramp, Total Retribution is less a piece of low-brow cinema entertainment more an evil endurance test designed by an insane sadomasochist with a spandex fetish.

But don't take my word for it see for yourself......

You know you want to.

Monday, July 30, 2018

kure kure takura.

Getting excited about seeing human testicle Jason Statham fight a bloody big shark in The Meg soon so myself and the boychild (the laydees are away at dance school.....very Suspiria) are preparing by watching as many sensational seabeast-based movies as we can.

Oh yes, we also (re)watched....

Octaman (1971).
Dir: Harry Essex.
Cast: Pier Angeli, Kerwin (The kids school fees are HOW much?) Matthews, Jeff Morrow, David (Tahiti, I have loved your sunny rain and your rainbows. Tahiti, all your flowers sweet and cool when the rain goes; And the hum of happy people on the island, And the drumming of the seas upon the reef.) Essex, some other folk I can't be arsed listing and a big octopus thing.



Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket
Alien or Mutation...Man or Reptile...utter or Shite?


Suave suited yet scarily bewigged do-gooder ecologist Dr. Rick Torres (Kerwin 'Sinbad' Matthews) is busy researching radioactive pollution and stuff in and around the lakes of a pre-wall Mexico, which may sound pretty cool but is, in fact dead boring, you see he's discovered absolutely fuck all during the past six months except how to get rid of the symptoms of cock rot using only a bottle of Jack Daniels and a nail file.
Coming to the end of his studies our heroic doctor is fairly surprised one morning when his science-type buddy turns up carrying a bucket containing an octopus with 'intelligent eyes'.

No idea what this means, sorry.
The geeky pair decide to spend the morning just staring at the freaky octopus thing lying in it's bucket, laughing as it tries to crawl out to the water then pushing it back in again (as men do) but their fun is curtailed by the arrival of Torres hot, pointy bra-ed girlfriend Susan (comeback queen, pre-teen crush  and all round Italian 'bombshell' Angeli) who promptly suggests they let the nearby university take a look at it.





"look into my eyes...not around
the eyes but into my eyes..."

Grabbing his jacket and the bucket Torres heads off to the aforementioned  university, leaving his science pal to find something else to poke (not Angeli unfortunately) which luckily for the plot is another, slightly bigger octo-thing that they come across (not literally) minding it's own business whilst sunbathing on a rock.

Returning to the lab, Torres geeky pals soon get bored with the old octopus in a bucket game so decide that it'd be much funnier to dissect this one instead.

Unbeknown to them tho' the terrifying Octaman (or is that Octomum?) is watching ready to take revenge on mankind.





"Grrrraaaarrrrrr!"

After being greeted at the university with a resounding "Get to fuck that looks shit!" from the principal and having spent his entire grant on whores and paint stripper, Torres turns to his wealthy 'yee-haw!' rancher pal Johnny (Morrow) for the cash to examine the beast further.

I should point out that I misheard this bit and thought he was actually talking about Johnny Cash and got a wee bit excited as I imagined the man in black battling an eight foot rubber octopus.

Now would be something to behold.

But I digress.

Anyway, Johnny says "Hell yeah!" reckoning that an intelligent looking octopus would make a top rodeo attraction (?) and so they grab a few bottles of cheap brandy and head back to Torres lab.

On their arrival tho' they discover everyone has been slapped to death, the only evidence is the strange love bite like marks over all their bodies.

Just like the ones your mum used to be covered in after 'Uncle' Peter visited.

It appears that Octaman has acquired a taste for slapping humans and is currently stumbling around the bushes behind the lab looking for victims.

Before long - it's a very short film - he's (it's?) found a couple of guys from the local village who, in an act of drunken stupidity have caught yet another bog eyed octopus thing and popped it in a Tupperware container with thoughts of selling it to the local fish-monger.

Enraged at such a callous act Octaman kicks one of the poor men to death before tossing his companion off.

A cliff that is, I don't mean he gently caressed his throbbing, swollen manhood before slowly bringing him to climax, his warm, salty seed gushing forth over Octaman's leathery, puckered chest.




"Grrrraaaarrrrrr!" (again).

Being quite clever Torres has soon figured out that every time someone puts an octopus in a bucket they invariably end up dead, so he decides to see if he can replicate the experiment's results without either the octopus or bucket.

I'd like to point out to anyone else confused that we still have no idea what this 'experiment' actually is, seeing as up till now all him and his mates appear to have done is poke the slimy buggers with a pen whilst wrinkling up their noses.

Octaman has other ideas tho' and after becoming scarily obsessed with happy slapping the locals has decided to become a full time hooligan and is soon smashing thru' the window and delivering a few good back handers (tentaclers?) before grabbing Angeli and legging it off into the bushes.

The swine.



Angeli: Far too lovely for this blog.



Desperately trying to figure out what interest the Octaman could possibly have in the shapely, breathless and incredibly milky thighed Susan* Torres decides it'd probably be best if they just rescued her rather than stand about discussing it.

Surprisingly they manage this with ease only to have the by now horny Octaman sneak in that night and kidnap her again.

And again.

And again.

Part of me is beginning to think that Susan is actually quite enjoying all this octopoid attention and is just too embarrassed to admit it.

I mean girls used to do that to me all the time and compared to Octoman I'm practically a male model.**

Getting bored with the hours spent chasing after Susan (and getting a wee bit jealous of all the saucy fun that the Octaman is getting) Torres reckons it'd be a good idea to make a circle of petrol around Octaman and set light to it next time he comes visiting in order to "burn up all the oxygen around him!"

Which is nice.

And strangely enough exactly what my parents tried to do to me on my 9th birthday.

Our heroes lie in wait for our multi-suckered chum to come a calling before hitting him on the head with a spade causing him to promptly collapse in an embarrassingly rubberish heap before tying the beast up in a fishing net and lighting a makeshift bonfire around him.

Not bothering to hang around to check this plan will work (and why should they?) Torres and co. head home to crack open the booze and start celebrating.

Unfortunately they end up drinking so much that Octoman manages to escape by hiding inside a giant cake after disguising himself as a kissagram.

Probably.

I'll be honest I'd gotten a bit bored by this point and went to make a sandwich.



 "Eye son!"



Getting a wee bit fed up with a big rubber monster taking the piss out of them, the gang decide to call it a day and drive back to the nearest town in order to sober up with a few cakes and a round or two of naked ping-pong in order to formulate a plan that isn't shit but the pesky Octaman has other ideas and sneakily blocks the road with a tree.

Which means it's either a really big tree or a really small road.

Whilst everyone stands about scratching their heads (their own, not each others) friendly gringo Davido (singing star and professional dusky Gypsy Essex) spots Octaman sniggering at them from behind a bush before getting bored and wobbling off into the distance.

Davido decides to follow him to his spooky cave before going back to fetch the others.

Tho' why he didn't just get them all to go with him the first time and save himself a journey I'll never know.



 "Sucky sucky? five dollah?"

Carefully exploring the cave our heroes seem surprised when Octaman pops out from behind a rock to confront them (it's almost as if they'd forgot why they were there in the first place) but they're saved from his mighty bitch slapping skills by a convenient rock fall.

Phew.

However when the smoke clears Octaman has gone.

But our heroes are trapped!

Not to worry tho' cos Davido, being the hunky woodsman type and using only his chin, manages to tunnel his way to the surface breaking ground right next to their abandoned van.

Yup, he's that good.

Helping the others out before dusting himself off , Davido runs to the back doors in order to grab his fighting shovel only for Octaman to jump out and start slapping everyone round the face before - you guessed it - picking up Susan and legging it.

Again.

Yawn.

Tho' why he was in the van (was he possibly having a nap?) and how he opened the doors with those huge floppy tentacles is a mystery is another thing that's never explained.

Getting wise to all this tentacle touching terror - and possibly getting fairly sick of having to pretend to enjoy getting her tits rubbed by a hoover pipe if her expression is anything to go - Susan has sneakily secreted a gun down her pants  and promptly shoots Octaman in the chest.

Catching up with the lovelorn (and junked up) pair the rest of the group join in the orgy of hot lead and hotter passions, stopping only when a bullet riddled Octaman staggers back to the lake to die.

Exactly like all my hopes and dreams after watching this movie.





From the man who wrote the screenplay to the greatest monster movie ever (The creature From The Black Lagoon fact fans) comes this Alzheimer's ridden old man misfire of a retread that replaces the originals genuinely creepy creature suit, top drawer acting and ominous score with a mong-headed monstrosity resplendent with vacuum cleaner pipes for arms, ping-pong ball eyes and the biggest pair of cock-sucking lips this side of Michael Gove (co-credited to Rick Baker, poor sod), bizarro stock footage pertaining to be of a Latin American fishing village yet showcasing shots of running cheetahs mixed to a frightening selection of 1960's porno quality library music courtesy of The Post Production Associates whoever or whatever they are.

Hopefully they'll get in touch to tell us that they're OK.

As a plus point at least Pier Angeli looks pretty.

In a kind of shot to fuck has my career come to this way obviously.

With dialogue that never rises above the arse-clenchingly banal and read from cue cards by an either stoned or drunk cast of international has-beens and wannadies, Octaman wants to be a mature grown up study of ecological issues, standing at the bar lecturing all and sundry but ends up like some tarted up schoolie on her first night in the pub, drinking cheap sherry till she vomits over the barmaid before getting chucked out and buggered up a dirty condom strewed alley by her dad's best mate.

Fun to watch but you wouldn't want to be her doctor at her emergency appointment.

Saying all that tho' it was originally made for TeeVee (allegedly) so perhaps we shouldn't asked for too much from it.

And definitely not it's phone number as you're getting tentacle teased  in that back alley of the mind.




















































*Tho' seeing as Angeli died of a massive drugs overdose a few weeks into shooting Octoman could possibly have been after a totally different type of crack.

Just saying.


**OK I wouldn't go that far but at least my head is normal sized.

And I wear trousers.

Friday, July 27, 2018

hand job.

Bizarrely enough a Twitter chat I was having the other night regarding the terrifying Night Of The Lepus (yes, I know) ended up as a wee bit of a Stuart Whitman love-in so in tribute to all the folk who listed the myriad of great films he made and in which he gave top notch performances I give you this.

It's just a quickie tho' cos frankly this movie isn't even worth pissing on.

Enjoy.

I must point out tho' that the film was so arse numbingly tedious that I ended up making things up for this review.

See if you can guess which bits.

Demonoid: Messenger of Death (AKA Macabra: La mano del diablo, 1981).
Dir: Alfredo Zacarías.
Cast: Samantha Eggar, Stuart Whitman, Roy Cameron Jenson, Lew Saunders, Narciso Busquets Erika Carlsson and José Chávez.

You either cut off my hand, or I'll kill you!



It's modern day - but still pre-wall - Mexico where portly porn 'tached mine owner Mark Baines (tubby teevee stalwart Jenson) is excitedly awaiting the arrival of his wife Jennifer (Eggar - desperate to pay of her rehab bill) so he can show her around the strawberry jam mine he's recently purchased.

He reckons that once it's running at full capacity it will not only solve the problem of world hunger but also net them a tidy profit.

Sorted.

Well they would be if the superstitious locals weren't too scared to work.

Or is it that they're just lazy?

Picking Jennifer up at the airport, Mark's right hand man Pepe (Romancing The Stone's Chávez) explains that according to local legend the mine is built on the remains of a Conserve cult temple and is the resting place of the ancient Jam Demon ievārījums famous for sacrificing virgins and making yummy sandwiches.

Possibly.

Not being ill-educated, superstitious common types the Baines laugh (now) at such tales deciding to explore the mines themselves to show the workers that there's nothing to fear.

Except giant ants obviously.

And the French.

Armed with jaunty torch hats and a bag of jars the couple head down into the mine to explore soon coming across the aforementioned temple as well as a small tin casket containing a severed hand.

Hmmm....could the locals concerns be justified?

Realizing that they may get a few quid for it at Cash Converters Mark pockets the casket and the pair head back to their hotel for an evening of food, wine and heavy (in Mark's case extremely heavy) petting.


"Spice Girls number one for Christmas.....MONSTA!"


As is the way when you organize a night of hot passion with a loved one Jennifer invariably comes down with a headache leaving Mark moping around on the sofa with his flaccid member in one hand and a cheap bottle of plonk in the other.

Unable to resist his urges yet filled with guilt at the thought of cracking one of whilst his wife sleeps next door Mark removes the severed hand from the casket and clumsily attempts to pleasure himself with it.

Without warning - and just before climax - the hand springs to life and attacks the couple before turning to dust as it tries to suffocate Mark leaving nothing but a dusty residue in his dribbly mouth.

And no doubt a sense of shame in all those involved.

Things go from bad to worse tho' as the next day Mark turns up at the mine and herds all the workers inside before blowing it up.

Which is nice if a wee bit unexpected.

Suddenly thanks to the magic of scratched to fuck stock footage we're in Las Vegas, where Mark has set himself up as a plaid-jacketed gambling god whilst Jennifer wanders the strip trying to find him.

Can I just point out that at no point will anyone mention the fact that he's murdered hundreds of poor mine workers.

It's almost like being Mexicans the American Government didn't really give two fucks about them.

C'mon how far-fetched is that?

His winning streak spotted by a local gambling shark and his whorish girlfriend Mark is bundled into the back of a car and driven to a remote cabin where the pair attempt to beat the secret of his gambling success from him.

"Shite in mah mooth!"


 Mark calmly - well as calmly as a sweaty fat man strapped to a table can - explains that his hand is possessed by the devil and that's how he wins so much but to no avail so to prove the fact he breaks free of his bonds and proceeds to kill the creepy couple before dousing himself in petrol and lighting a match.

Surely there are easier ways of ridding yourself of the stink of such a movie?

With his body being all burned and crispy the authorities mistake him for someone else and ship his body to Los Angeles for burial at the church run by the dippily drunken and questioning of faith Father Richie Cunningham (Whitman with a comedy 'Oirish' accent and a bad case of the DT's).

Arriving at the church Jennifer attempts to warn Cunningham that her husband's body (well his hand) was possessed by a demon and requests that he be exhumed and an autopsy be performed.

On him obviously not just on some passing stranger.

Because the best way to prove demonic possession is by getting someone to cut open your corpse.

Probably.

Look by this point the writer was obviously passed caring so why should I?

As the pair continue their heated discussion - well Eggar attempts to feed Whitman his lines as he stands swaying from side too side with a glazed look in his eyes - Mark’s severely charred and crispy corpse - in a fantastic display of chutzpah over cash - bursts from its grave and bounces down a nearby path.

Hearing the noise of breaking wood (and realizing it's not his legs) Cunnigham quickly calls the police and soon LA's finest Sergeant Leo Matson (Saunders, son of Jennifer best known for his stand out role as an orderly at Murdock's V.A. Hospital in The A Team) arrives to investigate.

Searching the grounds he soon comes across Mark's lifeless (no it really is this time) body hanging out of the police car, his left hand severed at the wrist.

"Put it in me!"

Bending down to examine the corpse (and check for loose change) Matson is surprised when the hand suddenly gooses him, causing the clumsy cop to jump up and bang his head on the car roof knocking himself unconscious.

We unfortunately are still awake.

Menacingly it crawls toward our prone police pal.

Bored with all this existentialist chat and in dire need of a dump Cunningham offers to pick Jennifer up at her hotel the next day to discuss things further, she reluctantly agrees and heads off for a good nights sleep and an angry call to her agent to see who she has to fuck to get out of this mess.

There's then a bizarre boxing match between a sweaty Whitman and the policeman that ends with Matson running away screaming from Cunningham's huge crucifix but it's kinda irrelevant to the plot so forget I mentioned it.

Like I wish I could the whole movie. 

Anyway imagine Jennifer's surprise the next morn when she opens the door to find not a sweet smelling Catholic priest but an angry Officer Matson shouting something about our heroine being a lousy car thief and how he has to take her (roughly) up the station.

Handcuffing Jennifer before bundling her into the back of his car the pair drive away just as Father Cunnigham waddles into view.

Instead of taking her into custody (or violently up the casino) Matson drives to the surgery of local plastic surgeon and part-time ice skater Dr. Julian Rivkin (Busquets famed for his portrayal of Don Indalecio in the hit show El padre Gallo) where he threatens to shoot the surgeon in the face if he doesn't remove his hand there and then.

Rivkin agrees to his demands and removes the hand which then grabs Matson's gun and shoots naughty nurse Morgan (Carlsson...look do you really care?) in the back as she tries to ring for help before jumping off a table and messily ripping the Sergeant’s face off.

On a roll now the horrible hand worms its way into Rivken's trousers and possesses him by forcing its way (two fingers at a time) up his ample arse.

"If you lie on it first it'll feel like someone else is doing it!"


Chillingly announcing that Jennifer is the true owner of the hands power Rivkin begins to chase her around the surgery brandishing a child's toy syringe, poking her with a needle at any opportunity only stopping when Cunningham and a cop turn up and punch him in the head.

Being demon possessed tho' Rivkin just laughs it off and escapes by car to the local railway station where he lays his arm on the track in order to severe the hand.

It really hasn't got the idea behind possessing and controlling people has it?

With all the exciting things that are happening it's no wonder that Jennifer is feeling a little tired so heads back to her motel room for a rest.

It'll come as no surprise to anyone that the hands follows her and sneaks in thru' the catflap wiggling it's rubbery fingers in her general direction.

Its fearful finger threats are cut short by the arrival of Father Cunningham and the pair flee to the church, which should give them plenty of time to formulate a plan seeing as they're in a car and the hand is following them by slowly crawling along the freeway but guess what? Yup it arrives almost simultaneously and cuts the power and phone lines.

How?

Does it use its fingernails?

And how does a severed hand have the leverage to do half the shit it's doing?

I was going to mention it earlier but thought I'd give them the benefit of the doubt but now I really can't be bothered.

Will good prevail or will the hand finally possess Jennifer and rule the world?

Will Whitman make it to the movie's climax without falling into an alcoholic daze?

Will the much promised gore and nudity ever surface?

Does anyone outside the director's immediate family care?




After being given this as a birthday present I'll admit that the only reason I watched this movie was on the basis of how cool the poster art was.

Scary hands, buff devils and shiny bikini wearing babes all done in an overly airbrushed 80's style.

What's not to love?

Plus we know that great cover art is always a sign of cinematic quality.

Disappointingly the version I was given was called Macabra which I then discovered features fuck all nudity or violence.

What it does feature tho' is some of the most laughable, threadbare and downright bizarre scenes ever to be committed to celluloid.

From it's shaky point and shoot and shockingly overlit cinematography to it's kindergarten quality special effects via  a visibly intoxicated lead desperate to stay upright  Demonoid: Messenger of Death is a perfect example of low budget, no talent film-making made flesh.

Everything on show is a brightly lit location, every actor a family friend and every effect seems to be pulled from a pound shop Christmas cracker.

Even the rubber hand looks embarrassed to be there.

Especially the scene where it's forced to sexily fondle Samantha Eggar's beefy knees.

Beefy.


Talking of knees - beefy or otherwise - Demonoid: Messenger of Death is at least slightly more enjoyable than the director's previous foray into horror the instantly forgettable John Saxon snoozefest The Bees so for that at least we can be grateful.

Tho' not as grateful as poor old Stuart Whitman was for the free holiday and extra drink money.

Just a pity none of it was thrown our way.

You'll fucking need it cos there's no way you'll be able to sit thru this sober.

Tuesday, July 17, 2018

smiley culture.

Been busy preparing for my annual trip to the motherland so had precious little time to watch much of late but seeing as today is World Emoji Day (no really) I thought I'd dig this up for a rewatch/re-review.

Tho' why anyone would want to update a classic 1952 Ralph Richardson movie for a modern generation is beyond me.

I'd better warn you in advance, if you're over 12 years old you might need a glossary of all the cool 'webspeak' used in the film as most of it is nonsensical.

Tho' the film is so old now as to be antiquated.

Smiley (2012).
Dir: Michael J. Gallagher
Cast: Caitlin Gerard, Melanie Papalia, Shane Dawson, Andrew James Allen, Toby Turner, Roger Bart, Keith David, Liza Weil, Jana Winternitz, Nikki Limo, Michael Traynor, Darrien Skylar, Richard Ryan, Jason Horton, Elizabeth Greer and Patrick O'Sullivan.

"I did it for the lulz"


Fake tanned and glassy eyed teen temptress Stacy (Limo, whose career now appears to be tweeting about redecorating he house, bless) is preparing to spend her evening babysitting the bunny toothed blonde poppet  Mary (Korn cover star and ex Heroes baddie Skylar) whilst her dad (a frighteningly poppy eyed performance from the pedo-faced, pube haired Traynor of Tales from the Catholic Church of Elvis! and The Walking Dead fame) is out doing something utterly unwholesome.

Probably.

Chatting about internet dating, guys they like and online masturbation (as 10 year olds and their babysitters do) little Mary mentions the famous urban legend pertaining to the sinister 'Smiley'.

Stacy is intrigued.

Well I say intrigued but I can't really tell seeing as her reaction consists of stiffly raising an eyebrow.

Could be intrigued, could be irritable bowel syndrome but more likely fetal alcohol syndrome judging by the size of her head.

#JustSaying.

Anyway it seems that the whole thing started on the (in)famous 4chan bulletin board a few months back, someone (was it you?) reported that whilst surfing an anonymous chat site they'd decided to type the phrase "I did it for the lulz" three times.

For no apparent reason it seems.

Apart from for the lulz obviously.

Sitting back to enjoy their chat-mates confused reaction they were horrified to see a bawl headed black clad bastard appear behind them and slit the unfortunate lulz receivers throat.

Which is nice if a little unexpected.

"You mean Jim CAN really fix it for me?"

Explaining to her young charge that stuff like that doesn't really happen - especially on 4chan where everyone is way too obsessed with 'cucking' and Daisy Ridley's chin to notice any killings, possibly the pair soon forget everything and move on.

Just thought I'd point out that by everything I mean change the subject, they don't actually forget everything like their names or how to breath and the like, dropping to the floor and flopping about like your gran mid-stroke.

As if the film would get that sexy that quickly.

Mary cheers up tho' when she discovers that the rumours of fat middle-aged men wanking furiously over web-camming pre-teens is actually a fact tho'.

Kids today eh?

Anyway once Mary is settled into bed our bouncy babysitter decides to relax by spending the evening online chatting to strangers.

You can see where this is going can't you?

Stacy prepares to let Jeremy Forest park his bike.

Scrolling past the freaks, fatties and self flagellants she comes (not literally) across a bespectacled geeky guy with whom she excitedly starts chatting.

By chatting I mean typing shite like "Oi speccy!" and "Fuck off fours eyes!" which as readers of this blog know is normal behaviour for pretty and popular girls because they don't even try to be nice because they are all EVIL.

Especially you Belinda Maine who cruelly snubbed me at the end of term Christmas dance in 1986, leaving me standing outside as you waltzed in with Barry from the football team.

Pity the week after he was run down by that stolen car and never walked again wasn't it?

Do you remember how all your friends laughed at me?

I've not forgotten.

I still visit their graves.

Class of '86, unfortunately some of them died. I didn't do it. Belinda is on there somewhere. Can you spot her?


But I digress.

Her smiles quickly turn to frows tho' when our glasses wearing goon types "I'm sorry but I'm going to kill you", and when Stacy asks why he would say such a thing he answers almost immediately by typing - you guessed it - "I did it for the lulz".

Three times.

Suddenly and without warning (if you discount the stabbing violins on the score obviously) a black clad figure wearing a giant crudely carved potato on his head and carrying a large knife appears behind Stacy and violently stabs her.

To death.

Cue titles if you please.

Yup, still on the same movie. Just checking.


Enter (oh go on then) our heroine for the duration of this movie, a shy, oh so fragile and slightly unstable (in the nicest possible way) girl named Ashley (Gerard best known for her co-starring role in the ABC drama American Crime) who is not only struggling with starting College but also with coming to terms with her mothers suicide.

The poor lamb, carrying so many clichés on such tiny shoulders.

Reckoning that a house share would be better than living alone in the cramped halls of residence, Ashley moves in with the groovily attired yet squint of mouthed rich girl Proxy (Endgame's Papalia, channeling early Tracey Ullman for some reason), the pair become fast friends (well the movie is only 90 minutes long) culminating with Proxy dragging Ashley along to a hip 'n' happening start of term 4chan party organized by local rich geek cum hacker cum floppy fringed fuck Zane (Allen with his patented Pretty in Pink era James Spader impersonation and a dressing gown).

And yes, that's as annoying as it sounds.

"How'd you fancy a wee bit o' girl on girl mooth shite-in?"

Nervous at hanging out with all the cool people (and various overweight and neck-bearded extras found online) Ashley starts to chat to a greasy wigged mumbler named Binder (interweb star Dawson most famous for putting a video of his dying grandmother online whilst having a shit haircut) but just as the conversation is getting interesting the other cooler members of the party start throwing beer cans at him whilst shouting "Pedobear!" in his general direction.

Contrary to popular belief tho' this doesn't mean that he's a forest dwelling beast that preys on young children but that he is, in fact a good man who reports all kinds of badness that naughty boys post on the interwebs. 

Storming huffily out of the party and leaving a trail of grease from his hair the attendant dudes and dudettes are left with no-one else to take the piss out of, leaving the speccy one to decide it'd be a great idea to freak someone out in an internet chatroom.

And how will they achieve this?

Go on, guess.

Finding an innocent victim in the shapely form of a babysitter named Stacy, our short sighted stud begins to type.

Hey...Isn't this where we came in?


"Laugh now!"


The sudden online stabbing of a big boobed brunette whilst everyone watches kinda ruins the party atmosphere for the guests so Zane sends everyone home whilst he stands around looking into the middle distance surround by beefy types saying things like "Whoa dude" and "That was radical!" a lot.

But give them their dues, this is probably the only time they'll ever appear on film outside gay porn.

Anyway, arriving home after the party Ashley and Proxy are still unsure about what they've seen.

Was it real or fake?

Well there's only one way to find out and that's to go online to try it for themselves.

Managing to find one of the less fit guys from the party Ashley begins to type "I did it for the lulz"...

More stabbing and a wee bit of throat slashing follows.

And then Smiley appears to wave at our mentalist Missy.

As if he could see her.

Creepy, probably.

Becoming even more paranoid than usual Ashley begins to think she's being stalked by the spud faced slasher, seeing him everywhere from college to her bedroom.

But how can can that be possible if he's only an urban legend? 

Has the fear of Smiley somehow released him from the internet and made him flesh?

Well, made him potato but you know what I mean.


Insert cock here.


With the death count rising but no bodies for the police to find it's a race against time for Ashley as she desperately tries to find the secret of Smiley.

Will she succeed or has she had her chips?


Smiley: Made.



Fuck knows who director Michael J. Gallagher had to blow to get this greenlit but one things for sure, he must give fucking good head if the budget - a rumoured $13 million -  of this, his first feature is anything to go by.

That's not to say that it isn't slickly made or fairly enjoyable (which it is) but it's so throwaway and ultimately silly that you begin to wonder if the title character came first and the plot was hastily scribbled around it.

But who am I to talk, this is on the big screen whilst Evil Bod is still languishing on YouTube unloved.



Anyway, enough bitterness (for now), take a deep breath and back to the review.

Probably best known at the time (and then only in the States) for his Youtube comedy series, Totally Sketch, Gallagher alongside his co-writer, the fantastically monikered Glasgow Phillips (director of Undead or Alive: A Zombedy) have taken a fairly generic slasher movie idea but attempted to give it a modern twist via the use of the internet and all it entails; from memes to 4chan via Chatroulette and throwaway mentions of Pedobear, the film is aimed fairly and squarely at the imageboard generation.

Who, in turn utterly hated the thing for seemingly trying too hard to be hip.

If Smiley does indeed turn up on 4chan then Gallagher would do well to unplug his computer seeing as his house will be the first place the /b/ board will send him.


Cock and balls....never touched the sides.


Which is a shame because as I've said the film is enjoyable enough as a curio of its time and it doesn't outstay it's welcome.

Unlike Gallagher who is now all over the internet like smeared shite.

It's just in hindsight that you realize that it doesn't do much else either.

Plus it really is abso-fucking-lutely ludicrous*.

In a fairly enjoyable, guilty pleasure way that is.

Exactly like your sister.

Unfortunately any goodwill you do have for it is pissed away by the highly implausible and frankly ludicrous ending which does nothing but cheapen any suspense built up in the previous 80 minutes.

Gallagher: fancy trainers, sucky lips.


It's not all bad tho', the cast, when not looking like other more famous people aren't too bad and there's sterling back up from the likes of the permanently grumpy Keith David and Roger Bart's almost panto-esque Professor Clayton, it's almost as if they flown him in straight from summer season in Blackpool.

And the movie is all the better for him.

Not much tho'.

Kudos also to the waif-like Caitlin Gerard who imbues the whole thing with a sense of seriousness and urgency unseen since the heady days of  Heather Langenkamp and Amanda Wyss.

Which trust me was a long, long time ago.

Smiley: Culture.


And whilst it's no Nightmare on Elm Street it never plummets down to the abysmal levels that Scream did which is no bad thing I guess.

Damning with faint praise?

Absolutely.

But when it comes down to it so-so is always preferable to utter bollocks any day and if you're one of those people that suffer from Potnonomicaphobia then this may just be the most frightening film ever made.


































*Tho' not half as ludicrous as his low budget, bootleg version of The Purge that premiered on YouTube Red a few years back. With a cast that headlines suicide baiting Youtuber Logan Paul alongside such online luminaries as Peyton List, Michael Traynor (again), Lia Marie Johnson and Ryan Newman you know it's worth looking out for.

Sunday, July 15, 2018

rainy wine house.

Almost halfway thru' the summer holidays here and the podlings are all knackered after almost three weeks of constant sunshine, heat and, ulp, 'activities'.

Whilst the twin terrors are quite happy amusing themselves making Nendoroid/Littlest Pet Shop snuff vids, Cassatron has decided that re-arranging the shelves would be a good idea and after an hour of arranging all the Joe D'Amato stuff by breast size he dragged this out from behind a pile of Shaw Brothers VCD's with a huge cheesy grin on his face.
Of course we had to watch it straight away.


It's a perfect kids holiday movie, kinda like Thomas the Tank Engine with tits.

Tho' no-one in this film has lips as kissable as Emily.



Emily: Really knows her stuff, allegedly.





Les Raisins de la mort (AKA Pesticide, The Grapes of Death, The Raisins of Death. 1978).
Dir: Jean Rollin.
Cast: Marie George Pascal, Felix Marten, Serge Marquand, Mirella Rancelot, Patrice Valota, Patricia Cartier, Brigitte Lahaie, Olivier Rollin and Noel Fielding.


Button nosed elfin-esque cutie Elizabeth (the late, great Pascal, previously seen as Carla in the fantastic I Am Frigid... Why?) is enjoying a well deserved rail holiday with her blonde haired buck toothed pal thru' the quaint French countryside. 

Taking in the scenery and giggling like a pair of schoolies, the couple are having a wonderful time until, that is, a strange French bloke (is there any other type?) with a half chewed caramel for a face bursts into their compartment and kills Elizabeth's plain friend.

Which is weird seeing as they've just won the World Football Cup or whatever it's called.


As a plus point it did mean that Cassidy didn't have to look at such a freakish woman for ninety minutes, I mean he's only 12 after all.

In an action sequence that would make Bond proud Elizabeth quickly jumps off the (slow moving) train and runs like buggery along the train tracks toward a small village she noticed a few miles back.

Will she be safe?

Well it wont spoil anything to say that upon arrival she finds herself surrounded by a whole community of chewed faced Frenchies brandishing pitchforks in one hand and bottles of cheap wine in the other so I guess the answer is no.

But thinking about it it would have made for a really short movie had she turned up, told the local copper and had Mr. Melty arrested, which is probably why my scripts end up unsold.


"Can you smell petrol?"


Deciding the best thing to do is hide till everyone in the village is too drunk to walk, Elizabeth dunks into a ramshackle cottage only to be accosted by another melted faced mentalist who, without even a hello (or a sleazy chat up line) tries to kill her.

So that's the secret of a Frenchman's success with women.

Running away (again - it's a good job she's a fit lass) Elizabeth ends up hiding out in a deserted hilltop ruin where she comes across a strangely attractive, ginger-haired blind girl (
the fluffily pillow breasted Rancelot, obviously auditioning for a part in a The Beyond tribute act) who, it turns out used to live in the village before all the crazy stuff started.


"Eye hen".


After swapping make up tips (as women do) the pair decided to head back to the village for a nosy about.

Which is when things start to get really freaky.

And I don't just mean the distinct lack of nudity - or the presence of an actual plot  - which are normally concepts quite alien to Jean Rollin.

Or the fact that seemingly out of the blue former porn star
Brigitte Lahaie turns up, all tight shirted and bouncy haired for the only reason than to crucify, then behead poor Rancelot leaving Elizabeth no choice but to - you guessed it - run away.

Again.

You see, it turns out that someone has been spraying an experimental pesticide on the grapes used to make the local wine, turning most of the French populace into scab faced, violent tempered loons.

Please note how I resisted adding a witty comment here.

Wandering around the barren hilltops looking for help, Elizabeth discovers the most disturbing thing all all regarding the infection when it appears that not everyone contaminated is affected in the same way. 

Yes there are those odd few that stumble around, arms outstretched as the lurch toward their victims but then there are others that are still able to think rationally about their condition, even going as far as feeling remorseful at what the infection is forcing them to do.

Elizabeth however has no time for touchy feely French types and just runs away screaming before they start crying on her.

Or try to run her thru' with a pitchfork obviously.


"Le cheap French Vino in mah mooth monsieur!"


Fearing accusations of being an anti-monster bigot, Elizabeth takes to also screaming at any uninfected folk that she meets too, which always seems to alert any passing madmen to their presence, meaning that these unfortunates usually end up on the wrong end of some pointy farm tool wielded by a dribbling sponge-faced foreigner.


Tho' luckily not the band.

After what seems like days of (non nude, non lesbian vampire filled) meanderings, she eventually meets up with a couple of high waisted, wellie wearing farmers who've amazingly managed to avoid the infection because, gulp, they hate the taste of wine, preferring beer instead.

How's that for a plot convenience?

But just as it seems Elizabeth’s luck is about to change and she's excitedly looking forward to a hot, dribbly sausage or two inside her, a bizarre series of coincidences and obvious plot twists happen, bringing her into contact with her (until now) unseen boyfriend.

Will he save not only the day but our oh so cute heroine too?

Look to all intents and purposes this is a zombie movie, so what do you think?



Fuck me! It's Noel Fielding!

No matter how threadbare or cheese ridden his movies are, you can't help but love Jean Rollin. 


He's like the curmudgeonly old uncle you only saw at Christmas, you know the one that always gave you Victorian Erotic postcards instead of birthday cards and, after he'd got you to admit how attractive you found the breasts on show would laughingly inform you that it's a picture of your Great Granny.

Second only to the incredible Zombie Lake,
Les Raisins de la Mort is Rollin at his most accessible and audience friendly, owing more than a nod to Jorge Grau's fantastic Living Dead at the Manchester Morgue and Romero's The Crazies rather than his Night of The Living Dead.

When it does feel the need to steal from Romero's classic however it uniquely does so in reverse, whereas Night's cast are trapped inside a farmhouse fighting for survival, Raisins Elizabeth is stranded on the windswept hilltops of rural France, the long lingering shots of Elizabeth alone and frightened make a startling counterpoint to the claustrophobic close-ups of the infected shuffling slowly from various dilapidated houses as the sun sets.


Some grapes (of death) earlier today.


Above all else tho', the film
is not only classic Rollin but classic Eurohorror to boot, pre-dating (and pissing on from a great height) modern virus based shockers like 28 Days Later by almost 30 years and finally proving that Rollin was capable of making a damn fine horror movie without having to resort to scantily clad, small chested lesbo vampires with dirty feet.

Tho' I'll be the first to admit, there is something warm and tingly about seeing them occasionally.

Especially if it's this pair:



Be seeing you.

Wednesday, July 11, 2018

adventures of a (not too) private dick.

Spent the last few weeks drawing gothic Victoriana and mixing visuals for a brand new Scots Pop music night Simply Thrilled so thought I'd take a break with a wee movie and long-term reader Mr. Ken Korda from Hackney recommended this 'dark and deadly' thriller.

True there was a big lady bottom on the cover but that didn't mean that the whole gumshoe shtick was just a cover for some sweaty rutting did it?

Will I ever learn?

Asian Noir No.6: Evil Sex Trap (2008).
Dir: David Aaron Clark
Cast: Ange Venus, Mr. Marcus, Coco Velvett, Destiny, Lana Violet, Myla Montez and Dick James.




Hard boiled (and shiny dome headed) LAPD detective Terrence Trent (the smooth sex superstar Mr. Marcus from The World's Luckiest Black Man and your Auntie Joan's bed) wakes up one evening to find himself face down of the floor of a deserted room in the wrong part of town and suffering from a really bad case of amnesia.

Tho' not I hasten to add crabs, which in his line of work should be a given.

Clad in his best Billy Dee Williams suit and with only his toy police badge and big silver gun for company, our sexy Tec is desperate to find out what has happened and why he's there.

Oh and when he can start shagging a few fit (and clean) ladies.

Suddenly his mobile phone begins to ring and, on answering our hero is bombarded with the drunken ramblings of the infamous Lady Wu herself (the flat faced, skinny arsed porn goddess that is Ange Venus from My Mom's First Black Cock and Mini-Van Moms 2), who promises to reveal to Trent but only if he makes his way to her thoroughly evil sex trap warehouse cum knocking shop (fantastically played by the directors mum's condo in north Hollywood).

His curiosity aroused, Trent has no choice but to obey.

"Excuse me...is this the way to the mooth shite-in suite?"


Arriving by taxi (via a sexy voiceover) at the aforementioned evil sex trap type place, Trent soon realises that things aren't quiet what he expected.

For one thing it's not him indulging in some of the sex with an evil looking undead Asian babe (You're On Trial singer Dick James - possibly -  and My Daughter's Fucking Blackzilla! star Lana Violet) on a nice MFI leather sofa but a strap-on wielding masked lady instead.

Oh how they tease us.

Under the pretense of being a good detective (and not you understand because he fancies a cheap thrill) he sits back and watches the show, until that is things start to get a wee bit ugly and Trent feels he has to step in.

Which is a bad move if you think about it as the whole messy (in both senses of the word) situation ends up with the strap-on lass vanishing into thin air and Dick murdered - to death - by Trent's own hand.

How's he gonna explain that to his nan?

"You're on Trial" which is sex industry slang for you're on my massive black cock bitch! obviously.

Cradling Dick's stiff in his arms Trent begins to experience erotically fueled (and tit filled) sweaty flashbacks to, um stuff that maybe important later.

Or may just be flashy porn scenes for those who get off on such stuff.

Either way it's nicely lit.

Moving deeper and deeper into the evil sex trap warehouse (yes I know it's a mouthful), Marcus comes across (literally) loads more sexual encounter between various big black blokes and a number of fairly tiny tattooed Asian babes occasionally interrupted by even more of Lady Wu's drunken ramblings.

Imagine a twelve tissue version of Lost Highway with a cast constructed entirely of silicone and you're halfway there.

Still intrigued as to why he's there (and no doubt enjoying the sight of so many jiggly jubbly jugs) our sun-kissed sex machine finds Wu's saucy suspender clad secretary Lana (fresh faced and smooth arsed Velvett from Hit Me with Your Best Squirt) bending over a filing cabinet at the end of a long hallway.

Coco Velvett: Just add water.

Deciding to fill in Trent (and us) on what the fuck is going on, Lana explains that the building is home to not only a classy brothel but also an Import/Export business and a porn studio based in the cellar.

Which is nice.

Obviously keen on seeing a few more spunk covered arses, Trent heads to the lift double quick his manly hand clutched tightly around his massive weapon just in case of trouble.

And trouble he finds, in the yumsome form of the mysterious Bella Emberg (Mini minx Montez fresh from Black Dick Too Boo-Coo 4), who frankly makes no effort at all to seduce our police pimpmiester, she basically just flashes her arse and our hero does the rest.

The Wanko novelty sofa cushion...available now!



Whilst all this bum humping is going down Lana has fallen asleep whilst going (as opposed to coming) over the clients figures and is currently having a fairly erotic cum scary dream about Trent and his weapon to a sexy sax solo.

Trust me, you can almost taste the Brut aftershave.

Finishing up by romantically wiping his cock on the curtains, Trent fails to notice that Bella has wandered off (probably to clean herself up before she starts sticking to things) but being a detective, the Trent-inator follows her snail-like trail upstairs where he's shocked (and let's admit it, if he's anything like my mum slightly aroused) to find Lana being chocked/bummed to death by a mask wearing, strap on thrusting succubus (Destiny in her motion picture debut).

"I can see your house from here Peter".

Starting to lose his cool due to all the shagging and eighties style pop vid' lighting, Trent just stands there looking bald (but still sexy as fuck) in the vain hope that someone (anyone) will explain the plot to him.

Luckily Lady Wu finally makes an appearance, floating into the room on a cloud of poppers and shame to inform Trent (after having sex with him of course) that he once committed a bad murder and that the masked strap-on succubus, Bella and Lana aren't really harsh faced porn stars but are, in fact, an trio of evil and fairly vengeful spirits hellbent on punishing Trent for his various misdemeanour's.

And yes that does include messing up the curtains.

With his memories now restored (and his huge uncircumcised penis cocked and ready) Trent realises the true nature of the evil sex trap....

but is it too late to save his (arse) soul?

Mr. Marcus: he's shagging your mum.


From the slightly Asian babe obsessed mind of the late, great David Aaron Clark comes (literally) this bizarro mix of softly lit porn, Outer Limits homage's and kinky hair whipping that would shame even the legendary Joe D'Amato and his back catalogue of horror/porn crossovers.


And probably make him green with envy at the fact that Clark could get so many fairly attractive actresses for so little money whilst he was stuck with George Eastman in a vest.




Eastman: Sweaty sac.

Coming across like a buffer, less hairy version of Richard Roundtree mixed with the sheer animalistic rutting power of Bobby Blake, Mr. Marcus (real name: Marcus Frank Spencer) gives a fairly competent performance as an amnesiac copper with a constant hard-on, spending as he does the majority of the movie wandering through a spooky building and occasionally having sex with a number of Botoxed babes.

His real talent tho' lies in the sheer number of radically different cum faces he manages to pull during his many climaxes. Each one as different as they are strangely attractive.

I for one could happily watch him rutting my mum for hours just to gaze on his furrowed brow as he expels his mighty man-muck into her every orifice.


On a downside some of the make-up FX are frankly shite and most of the editing (credited to one Hasiell Damnett who I'm fairly sure isn't using his real name) looks like it was done using scissors and glue by a boss eyed hook handed toddler, but I can probably say that most viewers will be more interested in counting Ange Venus' ribs that checking out the continuity.

Except that is for the scene where Destiny's sex-mad, strap-on wearing succubus is killing Lana that is.

I for one was shocked to see the bastard had completely ruined the scene by shoddily intercuting it with footage of (gasp) some common or garden conventional sex therefore destroying the illusion of any supernatural occurrences at all.

Big thumbs down (and one right up the shitter) to the director for allowing this to happen.

But saying that he's dead now so I reckon one of my digits up his arse is the least of his worries.