Thursday, August 9, 2018

mental as anything.

After letting the podlings loose on this blog for a wee bit of shark-starring shock of late it's nice to have a change of pace.

With the end of the holidays fast approaching the trio of terror are well and truly knackered giving Mrs Unwell and myself a rare evening free of screams and fire starting.

So what better way to celebrate than with a nice romantic movie.

Doom Asylum (1987).
Dir: Richard Friedman.
Cast: Micheal Rogen, Patty Mullen, William Hay, Kenny Price, Harrison White, Kristin Davis, Ruth Collins, Dawn Alvan, Harvey Keith, Steven Menkin and Farin.

“Yes, I am mad, mad with hatred and revenge!”



Welcome to generic country backwoods USA where divorce lawyer extraordinaire  Mitch Hansen (Basket Case 2 star and father of Seth, Rogen) along-with his client/squeeze Judy LaRue (Frankenhooker herself and one-time Penthouse pet of the month, the milky thighed Mullen) are celebrating her divorce/his trial win with a high speed, champagne fueled trip along the winding roads with gay abandon to a really shite MOR soundtrack as they race home in order to pack off her daughter Kiki to boarding school so that they can indulge in some of the sex.

But we're not here for a legal-eagle drama or love story we're here for some copious amounts of blood and gore (with a couple of breast shots thrown in hopefully) so within minutes of this romantic scene playing out the couples car swerves out of control and crashes into a tree.

I assume it's a tree because the films budget is so low we only get some out of focus camera swirling and a scratchy sound effects LP in lieu of some actual stunt work. 

Luckily they kept a few quid back to show us the aftermath which features poor Mitch covered head to toe in strawberry jam with the arse ripped out of his trousers cradling a dirtied up and dying Judy as her severed hand lies in the grass.

Rum, sodomy and the lash.


Thanks to some top quality cutting we're suddenly at the local morgue where the studly and shaded Dr. Bob (stuntman for hire Keith obviously trying to hide his identity) and his assistant Barry (producer Menkin in a cash saving cameo) are preparing to perform an autopsy on a naked and badly burned Mitch.

But as Dr. Bob instructs Barry to start cutting away at Mitch's face the lacerated lawyer wakes up screaming and without further ado - or any reason whatsoever - proceeds to kill the pair with their own instruments before donning a labcoat and disappearing into the hospital basement where he will spend the next ten years watching old copyright free Todd Slaughter movies whilst caressing Judy's severed hand.

And wanking himself off with it.

Possibly.

Look we've all been there.

Anyway a lot has happened in ten years, including the hospital closing down and Judy's daughter Kiki growing up to be the spit of her mum (which is lucky as they can use the same actress) and she too is now driving along the same road accompanied on the journey by her indecisive beau Mike (Hay in his only film role - why am I not surprised?), geeky, trading card obsessed manchild Dennis (non-hit wonder Price), token black cool kid Darnell (White who actually went on to have a career working with such luminaries as David Fincher and Kermit The Frog), and the bespectacled beauty Jane (button-nosed Sex In The City babe and Stuff magazine's no. 42 in their 102 Sexiest Women in the World survey 2002 Davis in her film debut).

It seems that the group are retracing Kiki's mothers final journey on the anniversary of her death, first stopping off next to the tree where she died (where Kiki finds her mum's broken mirror) before heading off for a picnic at the by now abandoned hospital.

Each to their own I guess.

"How'd ya like dem apples?" - and by apples I think they mean breasts.



Approaching the hospital the group can't help but notice the strange sounds emanating from within so Darnell decides to investigate, soon coming across (not in that way tho' I'd seriously consider it) local punk legends - and real life Pizzazz And The Misfits -  Tina and the Tots rehearsing.

Not being a fan of female based industrial post-punk Darnell sneakily unplugs their sound system much to blonde bombshell Tina's (Collins, producer of the William Shatner TV show Moving America Forward) chagrin who loudly vows revenge on these musical philistines.
Before laughing maniacally.

For around fifteen minutes.

Probably THE greatest fictional band since DeJour, the incredible Tina And The Tots - emanating so much girl power that even the thought of a sly titwank would kill you.

But as Tina issues threats from the hospital roof (where the only real threat is that of her breasts escaping from her studded bikini top) the bands keyboard player Godiva (the pixie-like Alvan) gazes dreamily at Darnell and in a sequence as brilliant as it is misplaced fantasizes about the pair running thru' wheat-fields and kissing to the cheesiest library music this side of a Cheddar ad.

Rapunzel (the mysterious Farin) the Russian drummer is less impressed tho' as she stomps about shouting about politics and stuff in an accent so thick it's as if the soundtrack had been dipped in treacle.

She does have a very pretty skirt tho' so I guess that makes up for it.

Meanwhile our teen pals are busying themselves dishing out the crisp sandwiches and bottles of Tizer as the prepare their picnic and with this being an American movie the picnic also involves Kiki and Jane stripping down to their swimsuits in order to 'soak up some rays'.

Which probably wont be as absorbent as the tissues grabbed for by the audience of horny teen boys on release at the sight of Davis looking incredibly uncomfortable in probably the highest cut all in one blue swimsuit ever committed to celluloid.

It's obvious that she picked this costume - rather than the flimsy red number worn by Mullen - in order to retain some semblance of modesty, unfortunately from the camera angles used the director had other ideas.

And I wonder why she never talks about this movie during interviews?


Somewhere to park your bike at least.


But as the group settle down for some salty snacks and excited chat a strange figure is lurking in the bushes watching them....

Cue 50 minutes of fag end gore, sexy 80s goth boots, Kristin Davis' terrifying bubble perm, punk on preppy punch-ups, condom water balloons, some quick and unnecessary nudity and a running joke regarding our heroine calling her boyfriend 'mom' that drunkenly stumbles toward a climax of pure nonsensical joy.







Shot over 8 days for $168* by ex- Goldman/Sachs banker, biblical scholar or the guy behind Phantom of the Mall: Eric's Revenge depending on which Wiki entry you click on Richard Friedman in an actual abandoned hospital, Doom Asylum is at once the nadir and the pinnacle of lo-fi 80s horror from it's non-acting cast who all appear to have only recently discovered the power of speech to it's Blu-Tak make-up effects held together with piss and vinegar the whole exercise reeks of desperation and shame - and that's even when you ignore the look of utter embarrassment on poor Kristin Davis' face as she's forced to wander aimlessly around a hobo-paradise glad in an arse splitting swimsuit and a pair of wee boys trainers.

"Boiled onions!"





But at points it manages to transcend the limitations of its budget/editing/general cack-handedness to become something if not competent at least entertaining.

Especially when Ruth Collins is on-screen coming across like the results of an unholy union 'tween Tracie Lords and Tura Satana as she throws our hunky lead off a roof, attacks picnickers with condoms and beats the shite out of the villain with a big metal pole - all whilst laughing like a drain and clad in a studded bra.

Feminine perfection.

Thank fuck Linnea Quigley was too expensive for this movie.

Which is a terrifying thought in itself if I'm honest.


It's cheap and tacky with more holes than a crack addled whores duvet but to those of us of a certain (old) age  Doom Asylum is a guilt free way of reliving our teen movie watching years, peering closely at the flickering portable TV in our bedroom waiting for a glimpse of gore, our free hand on the cabled remote control as we awaited a flash of lady parts or a sexy 80s style swimsuit.

Just me then?

A must for anyone the wrong side of 40, tho' everyone else will probably think that it's just utter shite from start to finish.

































































*The extra $100 was paid to actress Ruth Collins when she agreed to flash her breasts.

True story bro.


No comments: