sores on the doors.

It's Wednesday and we're halfway thru' the holidays so better pick a good movie today as the brood are getting restless and talking about going to London (again) for a holiday to get away from me.

Well this should suffice.

Death Line (AKA Raw Meat 1972).
Dir: Gary Sherman.
Starring: Donald Pleasence, David Ladd, Christopher Lee, James Cossins, Sharon Gurney, Hugh Armstrong and Clive Swift.

Beneath Modern London Lives a Tribe of Once Humans. Neither Men Nor Women...They Are the Raw Meat Of The Human Race...or UKiP as we now know them.

Dirty old Tory politician - is there any other kind? -  James Manfred (professional TeeVee posh bloke Cossins) is cruising London's seedy Soho in the hope of scoring some sordid sexiness with a 'lady' after a hard day cutting disability benefit and taxing the dead.

Hang on, that's Labour under Keir Starmer isn't it?

Or is that John Swinney and the SNP?

Not that it matters tho' as even the scummiest prostitutes have told him to fuck off.

My heart bleeds.

Realizing he's onto plums (his own) Manfred sulks off to Russell Square underground to await a train home only to decide to throw caution to the wind and try to use his charms one final time on a young woman standing on the platform.

Unluckily - for him - a reply consisting of a swift knee to the nuts puts paid to that idea and leaves him stumbling about like a drunk, chinless penguin as, to add insult to injury the woman proceeds to steals his wallet.

I love her already, pity she wont be back really.

You know how they say trouble always comes in threes? - as opposed to in your mooth obviously - well in this case it's true as now sooner is Manfred back on his feet whilst gently cupping his tiny cock and balls when he's violently attacked by a stinky tramp with a fishy beard.

A bad night all round then, except for the young woman of course she's quids in.

"Hello French Polishers? Yes this is the same caption as last week why do you ask?"

It's about now that we get to meet the folk who will be our heroes for the duration of the film in the form of the groovy young couple, Alex (Ladd - annoyingly big haired and American) and Trish (Gurney - annoyingly cute brunette and English) who find the Manfred man face down on the stairs covered in blood, egg and semen.

Alex, thinking the guy is pissed ignores him tho' caring Trish insists on telling the station manager but, on returning with a policeman, Manfred has gone.

Being a prominent MP, a missing persons case is opened led by the very grumpy, tea obsessed Inspector Calhoun (Pleasence) who, being one of those typical 70s horror movie cops in the mold of the booze soaked bigot Inspector Barry B'stard in The Living Dead at The Manchester Morgue decides to blame the whole thing on Alex due to him having long hair.

Undeterred Alex and Trish now obsessed with the disappearance - well there's fuck all else for them to do - decide to start some investigating of their own, soon discovering that in 1892 the roof of a newly constructed underground tunnel collapsed trapping the (mixed sex) workers underground.

The local council, being tight bureaucratic types and in order to save cash left them all there to rot.

Where's Dominic Littlewood when you need him?

Inside Boris Johnson's mind.

In a scary twist of fate tho', a few survived and have been living in the tunnels ever since, feeding on the flesh of unfortunate travelers inbetween rutting away like pigs in the dark.

Exactly like that family that used to live at the bottom of your street when you were younger.

Unfortunately (tho' I bet the make-up team breathed a sigh of relief) years of inbreeding and a diet of tourists means that there are now only two left,  the aforementioned stinky bearded tramp man and his even stinkier (and also possibly bearded) pregnant missis.

She may look happy now but just wait till the tramp buggery starts.

Alas things aren't really going well for this 70's version of Eva Mendes and Ryan Gosling as mishap after disaster seems to befall them at every turn culminating in the poor lady-tramp dying during childbirth.

It's a wee bit like Brexit but slightly eggier.

Distraught yet still feeling - and smelling - fruity our shambly shmuck decides it's time to search for another woman to share his underground love nest.

Can you guess who he's set his sights on?

Clue: it's not Donald Pleasence.

 

 

A veritable classic of the cannibal genre, Gary Sherman's stunning debut feature is an undisputed influence on such movies as An American Werewolf in London, (the virtual remake) Creep and quite possibly every other underground-based bloodbath since.

From the (genuinely) spooky premise to the perfect moments of comedy (mostly from Donald Pleasence) this skewed American take on London life never hits a wrong note, it's at once wonderfully weird yet comfortably traditional with pitch perfect performances topped off with a proto-Soft Cell sleazy synth score from Wil Malone* that was just made for groping your gran to.

Trust me I know.

Put it in me!

And the sparkling diamond in this rough n' ready yet strangely magical mix?

That'll be Hugh Armstrong as the 'cannibal man', he takes what could be a one dimensional bogeyman and turns him into a believable and tragic victim of circumstance - his cry of "Mind the doors!" is his only way to communicate, whether it be at the tear jerking death of his mate or his fumbling attempts at seduction with Trish, the moaning broken voice is both tragic and terrifying.

And maybe, just maybe a wee bit sexy if you're in the right frame of mind.

Rats in mah mooth!

Sherman's direction is second to none - lingering and atmospheric he's not afraid to slowly build tension and confident enough to litter the movie with some fantastically macabre comic touches that he builds on in his later movies like the darkly disturbing Dead And Buried.

One of the greatest (yet most overlooked) gems of British horror.

Lovely.





































*Not Gareth fortunately.

cannibal xerox.

Just realised that there's been precious little cannibal cultness (or cuteness) in this years 31 days of horror

Unfortunately this was the first thing I could find.

Mondo Cannibale (AKA Cannibal Holocaust 2, Cannibal Holocaust: The Beginning, Cannibal World. 2003).
Dir: Bruno Mattei.
Cast: Helena Wagner, Claudio Morales, Cindy Jelic Matic, Antoine Reboul, Kevin Maxwell, Brad Santana, Michael Garland, Foster Howard, Eniko Bodnar, Zsilvia Chernel and Chan Le.

Well, somebody had to buy it.

The harsh of face yet smooth of thigh TV journalist cum Fame-hungry celebrity Grace Forsythe (Wagner, daughter of the composer of The Ring Cycle possibly) is in a dilemma.

Her hard hitting real-life reportage/review show NewsMooth has been unceremoniously canceled due in part to plummeting ratings but mainly due to its general crapness.

Five fingers, never touched the sides.

Understandably angry (and a wee bit aroused judging by the sweat on her top lip) at the decision she storms the TV station in order to confront her Tefal browed studio boss Geoff Head (played by an angry testicle) about the situation.

But as the tempers fray and the voices raise the whole thing goes from bad to worse via shouty McShoutington as Grace, whose narcissistic tendencies rival even those of ball-faced spunk-bucket Owen Jones, offers to let him stick it in her if he recommissions her show.

Classy.

"To me! To you!"

Sensibly holding out for a better offer he manages to resist Grace's bullish charm but does offer her a lifeline.

If she can persuade her ex co-presenter - and former lover - Bob 'horse cock' Manson (Poundshop Antonio Banderas, professional sexy man and star of Land of Death, Morales) to accompany her on a trip down the Amazon - as opposed to up the casino - to film a no holds barred expose of cannibal rituals he'll commission a second series.

The only rule is that she mustn't be naughty and go around faking any footage or burn any villages downs.

Just in case Ruggero Deodato sues obviously.

With her pudgy little sausage fingers crossed behind her back Grace agrees.

Five go mad on Meth.

With the contracts signed and the sun block packed our dynamic duo, along with their merry band of ratings hungry TV professionals (including the platinum princess of power - and reader of this blog - herself Matic as ace troubleshooter Cindy Blair) in tow, the merry band excitedly descend into the Amazon jungle determined to find the worlds legendary last remaining cannibal tribe at any cost.

And by any cost I actually mean any cost that doesn't go above the films £18.65 budget obviously.

But first things first and there's just enough time for a wee bit of topless sunbathing and a chance for their native guide Brian to get all hot under the collar as he nervously rubs lard all over Grace's hairy back and arse.

It's a dirty, nay sticky job but someone has to do it.

And by rights it should be the lowliest member of the cast.

Unfortunately (for us) he gets sent off to perform some odd jobs before he can get round to oiling up Cindy (bah) and so with a heavy heart, heaving bosom and slightly damp undies the lovely ladies get - slowly - dressed before rounding up the troops (which before you ask isn't a euphemism for touching each others breasts) and venture forth into the unknown.

Which is lucky really, seeing as last time they ventured fifth and only won a coconut.

I thank you.

"And when I want a good mooth
shite-in I pull THIS face!"

As the team sweat and fart their way thru' the undergrowth (or in this case the garden centre behind Mr. Mattei's house) allegedly miles from civilization, you can understand why Bob is so surprised when a group of battle hardened soldiers suddenly appear from behind a bush.

Their camouflage must be bloody effective seeing as the 'jungle' is only about as big as a school gym.

It seems that they're members of some elite UN jungle protection force charged with stopping the locals eating each other and protecting the trees from loggers and the like.

But today is Wednesday which means that they can forget all that and spend a few hours hiding in the local fauna taking pot shots and the scantily clad, pot bellied natives.

Bob is appalled by such random acts of violence and in a manly display of testosterone fueled righteous anger stamps his foot for a bit whilst tutting.

Grace on the other hand reckons that a wee bit of random violence is just what the show needs so she gives the soldiers 50 pence and a bag of Haribo Starmix each to continue shooting the 'savages'.

They greedily agree as Grace hurriedly sets up her camera. 

Best. Caption. Ever.

With a tape full of killings and a promise of more gruesome goodies to come our intrepid band of bad men and ne'er do wells bed down for the night.

Their next stop, according to the map is a village of friendly tribes folk.

Understandably Grace reckons that this might be a bit boring for the viewers so suggests that they should set fire to the place before shooting all the old folk in the face and stealing all the kids sweets, Bob however, being a world weary and cynical type, thinks that there's enough violence in the world without causing any more.

Especially in the name of TV ratings.

Right on.

Grace gently reminds Bob that he's getting paid at least £12 and all the Monster Munch he can eat for taking part in the programme so he'd better stop whining and start killing.

Thinking it over for at least a minute Bob sighs and gets to work polishing his massive weapon.

Grace sneaked away from base camp
to scoff the gangs last Snickers bar.

Meanwhile back at the studio, Geoff Head is foaming (at least it looks like foam) at the mouth as he views the incoming footage before literally exploding with unashamed delight when the viewing figures are released.

It seems that everyone on the planet bar three people in West Bromwich (who don't have a television set because they swapped it for magic beans and a Britain First hoodie) are avidly watching the groups every move.

Geoff's dad (and owner of the station) is less impressed tho' feeling that what the audience really want is less violence and more novelty dog-based acts.

After a tense board meeting the old fool is sent packing as the entire committee contact Grace to demand more murders.

And maybe a side order of violent buggery.

"Raugh row!"

Grace and company are more than happy to deliver and spend the next few days burning down villages, shite-ing in peoples gardens and parading old, shaggy breasted grannies before the cameras in between raping the odd virgin and skinning various animals, all in the name of entertainment of course.

Imagine a lower rent, slightly less patronizing version of Ant and Decs Saturday Night Takeaway (remember that?) and you're halfway there.

Everyone seems to be enjoying the ultra-violent holiday, egging each other on to commit more and more sordid and sick acts of depravity, except Cindy that is who, in a moment of clarity shouts the age old question "I wonder who the real cannibals are?" at the group as they roughly bugger a wee native girl.

As heartfelt as her question is, she really hadn't thought it thru', I mean the real cannibals are the ones in grass skirts that eat folk aren't they?

Hats.

As the violence continues unabated and the studio demands more and more shocking images (some involving goats) the film crew approach the jungle home of the infamous man-eating, Grant Morrison worshiping  'Invisibles', the most primitive and savage tribe ever recorded.

I say recorded but obviously they haven't been (yet) or there'd be not point in traveling all that way to get exclusive footage would there?

Or am I being too literal?

One sure fact about the Invisibles tho' is that you can bet that they don't give a monkeys ball about ratings.

Or cutlery.

Will our merry band survive their descent into the green inferno?

And if so, what will be left of them?

Sneakily promoted as Cannibal Holocaust 2: The Beginning in some territories (is this the most over-used title ever?), lo-fi exploitation king Mattei's homage (OK, shameless rip-off) to Ruggero Deodato's legendary mockumentary classic harks back to a more simple age of film-making when local video store shelves were stacked to bursting with low budget versions of hit movies and shit movies alongside cheap as fuck Brit movies of all shapes and sizes.

Actually they were all the same shape and size if I'm honest.

Except for the Betamax ones that were slightly smaller.

Oh yes and the Video 2000 releases which were fucking huge.

But I digress.

A meaty Matic sandwich....yum!

Like most of the late, great Mattei's horror output (from Zombie Creeping Flesh to Zombies: The Beginning), the screenplay is an almost exact copy of the source material in question (in his career the director homaged everything from Aliens to Dawn of The Dead via The Archers - possibly) but as with nearly all of his later work, cheaply and quickly made on video in the Philippines with a core band of actors and technicians that he would use until his untimely death.

Which isn't a bad thing really seeing as it meant that we got much more of the great mans work than we possibly deserved, with his final four movies being some of his most entertaining.

And not just because they introduced audiences to the wonderful Ms. Matic as well as the kick ass Ripley wannabe Yvette Yzon.

And for these reasons alone we should be eternally grateful.

"Ah fell aff mah beanstalk!"

But if you're worried that a drop in budget would somehow taint the great man's vision then worry ye not as there's plenty here to enjoy, from blood drenched breasts to flabby thrusting man ass via a tasteful pole-based abortion, Mondo Cannibale is the perfect date movie for those romantic nights in.

And who knows?

After sharing this with a loved one, you - just like the bouncy native girl chased thru the jungle by a horny Claudio Morales - may get lucky too.

acting the goat.

31 days of horror and we've not had an exorcism movie yet.

Well we may have but I've not really been paying attention.

And by the distinct lack of hits on this blog neither has anyone else.

Thanks for nothing.

L’Anticristo (AKA The Tempter, The Antichrist, Besatt. 1974-ish).
Dir: Alberto De Martino.
Cast: Carla Gravina, Mel Ferrer, Arthur Kennedy, George Coulouris, Anita Strindberg, Alida Valli, Mario Scaccia and Umberto Orsini.

"I've been waiting 400 years but I piss on that time!"

You have to feel sorry for poor Ippolita Oderisi (actress cum politician and star of the fantastic A Bullet for the General Gravina), not only does her name appear to have been pulled randomly from a Scrabble box but years ago due to her dad Massimo's (Ferrer - no introduction necessary) rather reckless driving her mother was killed and she's now confined to a wheelchair.

Tragic I know and her sad story gets even worse when you realize that on top of this she's cursed with wiry, pube like ginger hair.

Poor girl.

Joining the story ten years on from the aforementioned accident we discover that just about every doctor in Italy (including Giovanni Frezza and Dr. Butcher MD no doubt) have given her the once over and not a single one of them can find anything wrong with her spine (her haircut is another story however) yet she can barely lift herself out of her wheelchair and has to stand with the aid of a cane.

Did I say poor girl?

Sorry I obviously meant lazy cow.

Massimo, fed up with being made to feel guilty over his daughters indolence (oh and killing her mum whilst pissed) decides to take her to a wee church deep in the countryside where a frighteningly butch (and bright blue for someone unknown reason) statue of the Virgin Mary is reputed to have miraculous healing powers.

Sounds legit.

Surrounded by a throng of scarily praying tinkers and filled with the love of God Ippolita attempts to stand only to almost immediately fall flat on her face.

Wonder! Wonder! Wonder Wheels!

Her dad is understandably mortified (as a plus point at least the locals are grateful for such a good laugh first thing in the morning) but Ippolita seems almost nonchalant about the whole thing, almost as tho' she expected God to ignore her.

But why would she think such a thing? I hear you cry.

Well there in hangs a tale.

You see it appears that she's recently been having fairly blasphemous - and incredibly saucy - thoughts.

Mostly about a really pervy painting of Jesus, resplendent with a huge 14 inch cock and balls leatherier than Sean Connery's manbag.

And how do we know this?

Well apart from me being the one that painted the Jesus picture Ippolita has confessed as much to her uncle Brian who, it turns out,  just happens to be the local bishop (another top turn from everyone's favourite drunken Oirish man Kennedy).

Beware Beadle's wanking hand!

And if that wasn't enough, she's also taken to having nasty violent thoughts about her dad's new squeeze Greta (big boned Strindberg from Fulci's classic Lizard in a Woman’s Skin).

Turns out that Ippolita is insane with jealousy at the mere thought of her father showing affection toward anyone but her.

It's like The Jeremy Kyle show but with better teeth.

Or Christmas Day with my family as I call it.

Fuck the satanic possession....check the nightie.

It's not long (thankfully - there's only so much angry cripple tripping I can take in one film) before nearly all of Ippolitia’s family (and even the maid) are mightily pissed off with her frankly childish behavior and come to the conclusion that she needs locking up.

Luckily her uncle knows a good psychiatrist, the smooth handed Dr. Marcello Sinibaldi (Orsini the camp as pants 'star' of Diary of a Cloistered Nun) whom he invites to a big bash at the family villa, the idea being that he can check out lil' miss mentalism without her being any the wiser.

As well as drink as much free booze as he can handle.

Sneaky.

Unluckily for them - but a huge surprise for us it must be said - Ippolita has psychic powers enabling her to see right through the pairs plan.

But not alas their clothes.

In a change to her normal angry reaction to every little thing she doesn't throw a stroppy fit for once.

And why is this?

Well it seems that she's vaguely interested by Sinibaldi’s claim that her paralysis is really psychosomatic and that he can cure her of both it and her mentalism with a wee dose of hypnotic regression.

I'm convinced.

"Tongue in mah mooth".
(But luckily not up a goats arsehole).

Ippolita, being well up for a wee bit of hypnotic regression (but aren't we all?) excitedly turns up - well, wheels up if I'm honest -  to the dishy docs office the very next day and is quickly put under his spell.

Let's be honest here he is quite dreamy.

Anyway after the obvious pretend you're a sheep and eat this onion it's really an apple gags something interesting happens.

For the first time so far in this movie I hasten to add.

You see, it turns out that one of Ippolita's ancestors was burned at the stake for witchcraft some 500 years ago.

Well I say witchcraft but according to the foggy flashback it was actually for eating a toad and - I kid you not - rimming a goat.

No really.

We get to see it played out on screen.

And in glorious technicolour no less.

Unluckily the uncovering of this deep, dark family memory inadvertently triggers a case of demonic possession.

Ain't that always the way?

That's your dad that is.

Starting with the obvious (you know talking in a deep, sexy voice in various languages - or is that just the abysmal dubbing?) she soon moves onto more impressive stuff like psychokinesis - well, she moves some plant pots and a chest of drawers - and, most amazing of all, walking!

And how does she use her new found mobility?

Well as anyone in this situation would, she uses it to sneak out of her villa to seduce (then snap the necks of) young Germans.

Sinibaldi tries his best to think up a reasonable scientific explanation for everything that's going on but is frankly stumped whilst Irene (the aforementioned nanny/maid/hired help) secretly phones the local expert in the art of folk magic Big Tony (The Perfume of the Lady in Black's Scaccia - no me neither).

Pity then that everyone in the movie is a devout Catholic meaning that they just stand tutting and umming at the very mention of so called 'magic', reckoning that any such power can - and will - ultimately be linked to the devil himself.

The upshot of this is that all of Tony's flashy words and wizardy tricks are totally useless.

You do have to wonder why they really bothered with this plot thread.

Maybe Mario Scarria owed the director some cash?

Your mum in her best clothes on a night out.

Finally, the bishop (who's obviously taken so long to get to the phone because he can only move diagonally) rings professional demon fighter for hire Father Jeff Mittner (The Woman Eater's Coulouris).

A man whose credentials, it appears, seem to consist of being the only person in the film who's not only seen The Exorcist but also made extensive notes, seeing as the movies ever building climax is lifted almost wholesale from that film.

But if you're gonna steal you might as well be honest about it.

Can he sort out the pesky demon once and for all?

Cue a frighteningly long and wordy exorcism complete with a floating lady, vomit, seductive glances, green facepainted nipples and an utterly terrifying Tefal headed, Rod Stewart wigged Ippolita swearing.

 A lot.

"Sorry Father....I farted."

But being a cut-price Eurohorror The Exorcist isn't the only movie to be violently buggered for ideas here as - in a shocking turn of events - the film suddenly becomes a (very) cut rate Rosemary’s Baby, with the shocking reveal that the true purpose for Ippolita’s possession is for her to carry the baby Antichrist.

In her tummy that is, not in a Moses basket.

Will the might of Catholicism be enough to avert the birth of the devil himself?

Seriously, what do you think?

Alberto De Martino's fantastically crass retread of The Exorcist (to name but one 'influence') boldly goes where other cheap Euro' rip-offs fear to tread.

Whereas most cash-ins cut back on expensive effects, name actors and the like L’Anticristo positively revels in it's cut price glory, featuring as it does not one but two Hollywood has-beens and some brilliantly conceived (and not to mention insanely bonkers) stand out set-pieces.

Kennedy and Ferrer give us more ham than a butchers market and in an attempt to outdo Linda Blair floating above a bed, L’Anticristo has Gravina not only rising out of her wheelchair, but gracefully gliding out of an open window before entertaining us with an airborne dance number.

Well, it's not just John Wayne who's big leggy.

But the movies greatest scene must be when Ippolita's possessed right hand floats across the room and starts to strangle the white wizard man.

Unfortunately the film is scuppred by DiMartino’s desperate direction — you can almost feel his ultimately futile attempts to make an honest to goodness scary movie collapse around him.

Luckily he had the amazing Aristide Massaccesi working as his Director of Photography to help save the day.

And who the hell is Aristide Massaccesi?

Well, as regular readers will already know he's none other than the cinematic god also known as Joe D’Amato.

So it's probably him we have to thank for the classic devil worshiping scene, featuring as it does kinky naked orgies, the eating of a toad and the aforementioned goat/tongue/arse interface.

And for this we salute him!

And the ass saw the angle was
slightly wrong for a good photograph.

Oh, and De Martino, you did not bad yerself big fella.

Top-notch thrills for lovers of devil movies, harsh ginger birds and goat sex everywhere.

Which is probably just me thinking about it.

An essential Halloween treat (if not a wholly legal one).

meet is murder.

Saw and reviewed this not long after its original release 10 years back and am pretty shocked that no-one else seems to have ever seen it because it's quite brilliant.

No idea what it's doing here then.

Meet Me There (2014).
Dir: Lex Lybrand.
Cast: Lisa Friedrich, Micheal Foulk, Jill Thompson and Dustin Runnels.

When Ada's (Friedrich, looking for all the world like a perfect splicing between Gaylen Ross and Sarah Polley which, trust me, is a good thing) deep seated sexual anxieties begin to impact on her relationship with her loving boyfriend, Calvin (Foulk, sans Hobbes), the cutesy couple decide to attend counseling sessions where it becomes worryingly clear that Ada has almost totally forgotten anything related to her childhood.

Concerned that she may have suffered some kind of filthy fiddling as a child her counselor suggests that the best way of overcoming the intimacy- based issues is trying to re-connect with her past.


Which is much better than the "kill them all to save yourself" advice that my counselor gave me.

And much less messy.

Being a thoroughly nice bloke, Calvin offers to take Ada on a cross state road trip to her home town of Sheol (think the West Midlands with a shallower gene pool and cheaper trousers) in the hope that it may trigger some memory that will help Ada overcome her fears and enable Calvin to finally come over her.

Sorry that was uncalled for.

Anyway after a creepy run in with a boss-eyed petrol station attendant things go from bad to Lynch upon arrival in the town, firstly Calvin is threatened with a shooting for attempting to buy bottled water and when they finally get to the location of Ada's childhood home all that they find is a tree.

True enough, it's a very nice tree but not the place you can imagine anyone raising a family.

Unless they were Ewoks obviously.

"You did WHAT in your cup?"

Making the best of a bad situation they decide to visit Ada's slightly sinister Aunt Lindsay (a fantastic turn from comics scribe Thompson) in the hope of spending the night - reckoning it'd be safer than spending it in the car - but fail to reckon with her overwhelming love of God and her overblown loathing of tattoos.

This obviously leads to an oh so slightly uncomfortable evening made worse after bedtime when the couple are kept awake by Lindsay and her hubbie shouting abuse at each other.

A wee bit like when I go home to visit.*

Waking bright and early the next morn the couple decide to take advantage of the sunshine and take a leisurely walk around the town, partly to see if they can actually find Ada's old home but mainly to see if there are any normal people around.

Or at least ones that aren't related to each other.

Or have the right number of toes.

Yup, it's definitely like my home town.

It's not too long (it's a short movie) before they come across (not in that way but judging by Calvin's frustrated demeanour it wont be long before he can help himself) the local church and it's even more local Preacher, Edward Woodward (A genuinely unsettling performance from ex-wrestler Runnels) who, after inviting them inside for a chat and a chocolate Hob Nob calmly suggests that they should both kill themselves.

Which is a wee bit unexpected.

Mulder and Scully....the hairy years.

Between this, the trigger-happy locals and Aunt Lindsay's warts The pair decide that it'd probably be for the best if they just grab their stuff and head home now (which seeing as they're from Texas gives you some idea of how fucked up the place is) unbeknown to them tho' Ada's mad uncle has torched their car leaving them no choice but to attempt to fight their way back  home.

It seems that the locals take the story that people only visit Sheol when they're ready to die very seriously indeed.

Similar in style to Jay Dahl's fantastic There Are Monsters, director Lex Lybrand alongside writers Brandon Stroud and Destiny D Talley - on who’s personal experiences the film is based, spookily and allegedly) is that rare beast that takes a much used horror cliché - this time the stranger-baiting small town - yet delivers something unique and unexpected despite - or because of - this oft-used formula.

In a rare and somewhat bold move, the majority of the films running time is taken up with exploring the characters of Ada and Calvin and their relationship with each other  before suddenly dropping us - and them - into the terrifyingly real threat that the townsfolk pose.
And what of our lovelorn leads?

Well Lybrand seems less concerned with the acting skills of Friedrich and Foulk and more about keeping their reactions real and it's credit to the pair that the approach works so well.

The entire film hinges on the believability of their relationship and both pull this off with aplomb.

I've not been this worried about a characters fate since Andrew Sensenig's sensitive performance as a grieving dad in the sublime We Are Still Here and thinking about it you can see this movie as a kinda punky, art school little brother to that.

Intense, unsettling and strangely compelling, Meet Me There is everything you could want from a low budget movie and shows that you don't need to splash out the cash to dole out the scares.

A little gem.

Shit, I better find something awful to watch soon before folk start to think I've gone soft in my old age.....










































*Or at least it used to be seeing as last time I went down to visit it turned out that my folks had sold the house and not told me....had to spend 3 days sleeping in the new owners shed.

mummy's boy.

Our local pound shop has become a veritable Mecca when it comes to top quality movies for the whole 31 days of horror thing.

And I bet they're all really good too.  

Especially this one.

Resurrection of The Mummy (2014).
Dir: Patrick McManus.
Cast: Stuart Rigby, Lauren Bronleewe, Bailey Gaddis, Sarah Schreiber, Alena Savostikova, Elizabeth Friedman and Jessie Paddock.

"He's my Dad!"

“let’s hope so. You can never really know for sure who anybody is.”

Somewhere in a disused quarry quite near to director Patrick (birthday parties a speciality) McManus' house, gangle-limbed amateur tomb raider cum part-time arse bandit Professor Terry Tralane (Rigby from Meet the Spartans) is taking time out of his busy schedule to admire a plastic scarab brooch he's just gotten out of one of those lucky dip machines you find in- supermarkets.

Unfortunately this tour de force of teeth baring brilliance is cut short when our poor professor suddenly begins to cough up some badly rendered CGI stones that soon whip up a scary sandstorm that engulfs the guy whole.

Which is nice.

Meanwhile in Egypt (or thereabouts) his ball-faced beauty of a daughter Maggie (BBQ Pitmasters star Bronleewe) is excitedly awaiting her fathers arrival so that she and her toothy team of airhead archaeologists can get down to the business of excavating the infamous Tomb of The Nameless One.

Or Anankotep as the Professor keeps referring to him.

Mousy.

 

It's not gonna be all fun and games tho' as their official government guide Mr. Walter Madu has also turned up with some grave news.

It seems that due to a general air of badness at the dig site he's decided to revoke the parties work permit (but not alas their Equity cards) and refuse to take them anywhere.

Not even up the casino.

Which by the look on Tralane's face is the most upsetting part of the story.

Luckily tho' our creepy archaeologist has other ideas and just before settling down for a night of tearful masturbation and copious Pot Noodles he mutters a few bizarre incantations which cause poor Mr. Madu to stab himself to death with his car keys.

Ouch.

So the next day and with a group of swarthy Arab types in tow (well in nightshirts and their mum's tea towels on their heads but you get the idea) Tralane and the girls - armed only with some cut off shorts and a couple of flasks, no spades or shovels for them! - head off to find the infamous tomb.

Seeing as the films running time is just shy of 75 minutes they do this fairly quickly which means we get a wee bit of extra time to not only learn more about the characters (Kelly - horse faced, nice ponytail, Ronnie - human/chipmunk hybrid, Sara - hieroglyphics expert and council estate Jane March and Grant - distinguishing characteristics include a big face and a pink t-shirt that reads, “I run like a girl – try to keep up” in big shiny letters) but also wonder what excuse Russian 'super' model Alena Savostikova - as pot-headed pixie Daw - had for being so late for shooting the movie.

You see up until this point she hasn't appeared in any single scene or even had anyone speak to her out of shot.

She literally just appears from nowhere and starts handing out drugs whilst complaining about Croatian death squads.

Looking back in the cold harsh light of day there may in fact be one more but I'm fucked if I know for sure.

If I've missed anyone out I'm sorry.

But thinking about it you've probably had a lucky escape.

Savostikova: Somewhere to park your bike.

Anyway back to the 'plot' where Maggie, using her incredible powers of deduction has figured out that the frustratingly complex and confusing locking system sealing the tomb door can be bypassed by sticking your fingers gingerly into a paper-mache beetle, which would be cause for celebration if a group of evil Libyan soldiers hadn't just turned up and shot the guides leaving our merry band no alternative but to hide inside the tomb, shutting the door behind them.

Can you see the major flaw in this plan?

Trapped inside an ancient Egyptian cupboard (well it's either that or this Anankotep bloke really tiny) and with no hope of rescue - for them or us - Tralane decides to have a little scout around (easy tiger) and almost instantly comes across  a small passageway (which lets be honest, is much more preferable to firing your muck over any of the cast - except maybe Elizabeth Friedman but only if she kept the hat on) which he heads off to investigate.

Sara, either bored with the constant complaining or just fancying a wee bit of rough goes with him and the pair soon uncover the fabled sarcophagus of Anankotep and excitedly open it.

I foresee bad things happening.

"Tonight Matthew I'm going to be hung from my testicles and beaten like a dog...."

But before that there's just time for an excruciatingly awful - and hellishly misplaced - pot-induced soliloquy about the trials and tribulations surrounding being a child in Eastern Europe.

Suffice to say there won't be any acting plaudits heading Alena Savostikova's way any time soon.

Tho' judging by the pic below there might be some casting calls for dog food ads.

"Look at the dog!"

As we all know tho' drugs are for mugs and Kelly after only one suck on Daw's massive blunt begins to experience vision of a ghostly Anubis-like figure in the distance.

Which if I'm honest is much better than enduring Nigel Wingrove's nun-centric Visions of Ecstasy.

But not much.

Frightened by such a chillingly realistic representation of the Egyptian God of The Underworld Kelly runs screaming into the tunnels where she's promptly squashed by some bits of polystyrene.

 

Which isn't as bad as it seems as it leaves Tralane and Sara to examine the burial chamber whilst Maggie and Ronnie  race towards (well take a leisurely stroll - the sets not that big) the sound of Kelly’s screams which culminates in a scene which gives us the treat of seeing a well-manicured hand covered in jam.

Tom Savini, no doubt, is currently on suicide watch.

Heading back to Tralane and Sara, the delectable duo discover that the passageway has been mysteriously sealed so attempt to break it down with a toffee hammer one of them had in their bag.

Unbeknown to them the Professor has begun mumbling something slight and incomprehensible under his breath whilst Sara looks on in the manner of a pound shop nodding dog.

Albeit one with frankly stunning thighs.

"Here....I found your talent down the back of the sofa..."

I must admit that at this point I popped out for a vape so could only view the next couple of scenes thru' a rain-lashed window (no I didn't pause it....do you think I'm fucking insane?) but did get to see what I think was Ronnie being overcome by an Atari 800 quality mummies bad breath before coughing up some Marmite and poor Sara attacked by some bandages  that gives the director the chance of sneakily showing her cleavage as a piece of oily rag snakes up her shirt.

I wont slag it off too much but let's just say I'm glad it was raining as otherwise nothing would have cooled my ardor.

With only Maggie, Grant and Daw left alive (well they're opening and closing their mouths whilst moving about) our terrific trio have soon found an escape route and stumble out into the sunlight only for Maggie and Grant to decide to head back inside to rescue the Professor.

Daw being a cowardly foreigner elects to sit on a rock and get shit-faced.

Which all things considered is a fairly sound plan.

Or it would be if minutes later she isn't mysteriously transported back into the tomb before having her soul sucked out leaving her  dead-eyed and used up only fit for smizing blankly on catwalks whilst parading around in more and more outrageous outfits. 

So no change really.

"I am not a number I am a Friedman!"

Things look even grimmer for Grant tho' (if that were possible) when she falls into a hole before being buried alive by a group of stagehands frantically emptying the contents of a kids sandpit onto her  leaving only Maggie standing.

Probably on a box to keep her in shot with her dad.

Will our chubby cheeked heroine save her dad and beat the undead despots curse?

Will previously dead cast members re-appear at some point to get stabbed in the face?

Will anyone outside the directors close family care?

"Cotton wool in mah mooth!"

From the diseased mind of writer/director/icon defiler Patrick McManus, the man who gave us 2012's Dracula Reborn comes this second chapter in his magnificent cinematic assault on the Universal Monsters back catalogue.

"You ain't seen me right?"

With a poster stolen from Brendan Fraser, a cast kidnapped from the checkouts at Aldi, a plot stolen from The Pyramid and special effects supplied by a hook-handed child on a ZX Spectrum, Resurrection of The Mummy is less a triumph of ideas over budget but more like a thinly veiled attempt to introduce a new form of torture on the world.

Pixelated grey squares stand in for empty casing ejecting from machine guns as a variety of animated flame GiFs are substituted for the gunshots, hastily painted woodchip wallpaper stands in for the walls of a centuries old tomb and characters change height and positioning depending on how the director was feeling that day.

For all it's faults (and they were legion) at least Dracula Reborn had Victoria Summer* in it.

And for that I can forgive it most of its sins.

Summer: Lovin'.

True, it's great to see folk producing a feature on such a slight budget but not when they show so much contempt for those watching. 

No time, no talent and no mercy, Resurrection of The Mummy is the cinematic equivalent of a bored, back alley handjob, ultimately pleased with itself for just being there with no interest at all in the viewers pleasure.

A wee bit like your mum.















































*Who bizarrely went on to play Julie Andrews in Saving Mr. Banks, a 2013 film about the making of Mary Poppins.

Victoria Summer: Just because.