under. pants.

It was a friends birthday a few weeks ago so

A. being a nice man

and

B. Knowing he was a huge fan of iconic cinema God Bill Pullman

I decided to purchase him a copy of the little seen 1990 comedy epic Going Under, a kinda Hunt For Red October/Spaceballs/utter shite hybrid that seemed to sink without a trace on release.

Tho' with the ad-line When is a sub not a sandwich? When the meatballs are in control it's not really surprising is it?

Well imagine my surprise dear reader when this popped thru' my letter box instead...

Going Under (1998).
Dir: William Hellfire.
Cast: Bill Hellfire, Lindsay Loves, Chelsea Mundae (AKA Daisy DeWright), Misty Mundae, Amanda Starr and Lilly Tiger.

Anyway, I thought I'd better check it out to see if it was in any way similar to it's namesake, hoping that it would at least suffice on the jokes front.

Well at least the pompous 'Factory 2000' bumf on the back made me giggle, they see themselves as a retro 90's reincarnation of Warhol's infamous coterie of weirdos and wannabees.

But obviously without the vomit stained hair and STD's.

Oh, and talent.

Anyway, let's begin now.

Moms hair, dads coat and a drink problem
caused by constant buggery from his uncle.

Opening with two fairly attractive (well, I say fairly attractive but I mean breathing - just) young women (the pug faced, fright eyed Chelsea Mundae and bespectacled brunette rentawhore Loves) curled up on the sofa watching the latest episode of the David Jason crime drama 'A Touch Of Frost' , their evening of police based fun is interrupted when a camply dressed and horrendously overacting serial killer cum bewigged nonce (director Hellfire - not his real name) suddenly breaks into their (well, his mum and dads, they must be on holiday) house and, after what seems like days of tedious 'hip' dialogue 'forces' them to strip to their cheap market stall (and non matching) undies before making them chloroform each other in a scene of acting so wooden I swear my DVD player got dry rot.

Hankies in mah mooth!

After the poor unfortunate ladies have passed out, Mr. Hellfire (resplendent in his mums bingo coat, really thin white sports socks and a market stall Joey Ramone wig) self consciously touches them up a wee bit before strangling the pair putting both them (and us) out of our misery.

But oh no, it doesn't end there.

They have one more story of floppy tottie to thrill us with.

Happy, happy, joy, joy.

Tom Baker and Lalla Ward finalise the divorce.

A young couple (one of which is every man's guilty pleasure and professional winsome waif Misty Mundae, the other is just some guy they found down at welfare) return home after a hot date and a taco.

Asking her in for coffee (and a bloody good meal judging by the alarming skinniness of her legs) our sneaky stud sneaks another girl out of his cupboard and onto the sofa before whipping out a handy jar of chloroform and laughing menacingly.

If I'm honest I wasn't really paying too much attention at this point, finding the sensation I got from jamming a rusty nail into my scrotum far more enjoyable.

They must be watching the same movie.

Still laughing (I think he's trying to remember his dialogue) the swine forces the two girls to chloroform each other.

But not before they wrestle and squirm for a bit.

Then some other stuff happens, he touches up Misty (but then who wouldn't?) for a bit and looks longingly at her big pants whilst the cameraman tries to stifle a chuckle.

I've also heard (and read on some, less noteworthy sites) that the film suddenly twists all expectations and suddenly becomes a Hitchcockian style shocker, playing on the bizarre feelings of claustrophobia inherent in the sordid sub-culture of sexual asphyxiation and the whole sinister underbelly related to the dangers of 'stranger sex'.

Well the Hitchcock similarities could be true if it turns out that he really wanted to make amateur shlock-shock porn featuring skinny homeless teens and girls with oversized faces gurning at every opportunity.

Probably.

If I'm honest I'd have to say I'll never know seeing as I got bored and turned it off.

I mean, who wants to see Ms. Mundae throttled by a tramp (whilst, gulp, wearing clothes) when you can easily download the 24 minute snippet from the classic Dead Girls Don't Say Goodbye where Misty tells her pal about the first time she experienced girl on girl action?

At least it's short (and to the point) and luckily for us director Bill stays well behind the camera.

Fuck, my pals in for a disappointment.

comico el filtho.

More Foreign comic muck for your enjoyment!

dane wowers.

Courtesy of the fantastic DEVAG (Danish Ex-rental VHS Appreciation Group-find these and more amazing covers on facebook) enjoy these video variant visions of films we all know and love.

Can you name them all?

shite from mah mooth.

Thanks to Jazzy Jay B. for pointing me in the direction of this effective little chiller from 'The Canada' (yes you can), can't give too much away for fear of ruining what's one of the best thrillers this side of the last one I raved about.

Pontypool (2009).
Dir: Bruce McDonald
Cast: Stephen McHattie, Lisa Houle, Georgina Reilly, Rick Roberts, Hrant Alianak, Boyd Banks, Tony Burgess and Rachel Burns (but only toast).

Cowboy hatted radio shock-jock Grant Mazzy (sterling supporting stalwart Mchattie in a main role for once) has lost his job at a big city radio station, relegated to reading local news and drinking whiskey from a church basement cum local radio station in the arse end of nowhere town of Pontypool (Ontario not Wales, tho' I don't know which would be the more frightening).

Constantly berated by his producer, Sydney Briar (Mchattie's real life wife Houle), hero worshipped by her assistant, Laurel Ann (cutesy bunny Brit-chick Reilly) and forced to pretend that the 'reporter in the field', Ken Loney (Roberts) is really in a helicopter and not a second-hand van, our beleaguered broadcaster thinks that things can't get any worse.

Pontypool: not this one.

The early morning shift begins like any other with Mazzy insulting everyone and Sydney getting defensive until that is the stations phone lines are inundated with reports of strange occurrences across the town, there's a silent protest outside the local Doctor, Jeff Mendez's (Alianak) clinic, people are beginning to talk to themselves and behave erratically and to top it all there are reports of the military attempting to quarantine the town.

Mazzy attempts to eat a miniaturised Michael Jackson.

Bemused by all this town based nonsense Mazzy continues to light heartedly report the bizarre happenings but gradually finds, in part through Loney’s 'on the spot' reports and eventually through an impromptu phone call from the BBC, that the towns folks actions are becoming more and more freakish.

And not to say violent.

"Fiona! Where's mah lunch?"

As the news gets scarier and the locals get loopier a perturbed Dr. Mendez arrives at the station looking for safe refuge and someone to spout philosophical discourse and chaos theory at.

Obviously Mazzy's the man.

As the good doctor excitedly expounds his outlandish (yet scarily believable) ideas regarding what is happening to the town of Pontypool it becomes clear that what they're dealing with is no conventional virus and, if Mendez is correct, nothing can stop the unique way it spreads.

Meanwhile in the confusion, no-one notices that yummy Laurel Ann has started rocking back and forth in a creepy manner whilst mumbling to herself in the corner...

Sydney's Popeye impression always
got a laugh (now) at office parties.

Playing out like a particularly tense (a what done it rather than who done it) stage play or the Rod Serling classic that never was, Bruce McDonald's Pontypool is a taut little gem of a movie that plays cheekily with audience expectations of the genre, twisting their cinematic knowledge to breaking point before delivering a pay off which you'll either appreciate as sheer genius or laughably ridiculous depending on the amount of brain cells you possess.

Tho' worry not, 'cause if you read this blog it'll no doubt be the former.

Taking the source novel to heart, the first forty odd minutes of the film are effectively a three hander between Mchattie, Houle and Reilly as the listen to callers on air and read aloud the local police reports, the only first hand news they trust coming from Loney's sporadic and increasingly jittery on the spot rants and raves.

The audience sees nothing of the town or the events being described for the films entire running time, forcing them to imagine their own interpretation of events as they unfold.

And this is where the film truly shines.

It's a rare thing these days to find a horror movie that leaves anything to the imagination so hats off to McDonald for treating his audience with the intelligence that most of them (well a few) deserve.

Shite in mah mooth.

The cast are perfect, especially Mchattie who imbues Mazzy with the dulcet and throaty tones of a sixty a day smoker whilst cleverly keeping the characters fucked off and angry persona just this side of lovable old git ably supported by Houle whose straight laced station manager is one of the most well rounded female characters in horror since the heady days of classic Romero.

The rest of the tiny cast, from the aforementioned Reilly to an almost pitch perfect Richard France impression from Hrant Alianak via the fantastic voice only performance of Rick Roberts are spot on for summer.

Big man hugs and much kudos to McDonald for bravely stretching the horror concept as far as it can go without it springing back all limp and lifeless like your Grans knicker elastic after a torrid OAP Christmas party.

See it, love it and thank God for low budgets.

island life.

We've waited and waited for Sir George of Romero's latest undead opus to hit our screens (almost as long as we waited for a proper title) and when it finally arrives the thing is shoddily shat out by Optimum Home Entertainment with absolutely no special features (I'm surprised they even bothered putting a menu on it) and a cover illustration draw by a blind, wooden handed boy in crayon.

A cover so shockingly bad even Arrow turned it down.

Bodes well for their 'special edition' of A Lizard In A Woman's Skin.

And here was me joking that they were going to steal one of my limited edition Giallo postcards for the cover.

Of which there are a few sets still available at a mere £5, Paypal accepted.

Anyway, back to the matter at hand.

Survival Of The Dead (2010).
Dir: George A. Romero.
Cast: Alan van Sprang, Kenneth Welsh, Devon Bostick, Kathleen Munroe and Athena Karkanis.

And neither is the art of cover
design by the look of this.

It's six days since the undead mysteriously (if you don't count that pesky Venus probe) began to rise from their graves and the survivors are struggling not only to keep the ever growing zombie hordes at bay but to come to terms with what the situation actually means to humanity as a whole.

Off the coast of Delaware is the island of Plum, home to a couple of annoyingly accented, scab hatted Oirish clans with a history of drink fuelled feuding named (quite originally) the O'Flynns and the Muldoon's.

Their latest disagreement revolves around the fact that the Santa-bearded terrible tinker Patrick O'Flynn (Twin Peaks' very own Windom Earle, Welsh) wants to shoot all zombies on sight whilst pie loving, pig carrying Shamus Muldoon (RoboCop: Prime Directives Fitzpatrick) reckons that domesticating them is for the best.

And meanwhile, in an underground bunker just outside Pittsburgh, Richard Liberty's body begins to spin.

"Hoo-de-hoo! you'll never get yer
hands on mah lucky charms!"

Into the middle of all this shooting, fecking and potato guzzling comes the flame haired, boss eyed Jane (teevee stalwart Monroe), Patrick's non silly accented daughter and local voice of reason who, within the space of a few minutes manages to stop her dad being shot (persuading the manbreasted Muldoon to exile him instead) and look good in knitwear.

Which as fans of George will know is important as far as female characters go.

Back on the mainland, chain smoking tough guy (and part-time dirty looting bastard) Sergeant Crockett (Tom Arnold alike Van Sprang, reprising his role from Diary of The Dead) and his merry band of AWOL National Guardsmen are busying themselves shooting zombies, masturbating (a fantastically realistic performance from Karkanis), watching teevee and stealing armoured cars from red necks as they attempt to head north (to Canada?) and carve out a new life for themselves as a kinda travelling Hogan's Heroes comedy troupe.

Possibly.

Deleted scenes from the new John Leslie sex tape.

All this changes tho' when upon finding a wee emo boy (Degrassi: The Next Generation's Bostick) held captive by bad men, they discover an Internet site, run by our old pal O'Flynn, offering the chance of a new life on the fine isle of Plum.

Arriving at the docks to get the ferry to freedom, Sarge is surprised to find that Patrick has his own reasons for inviting everyone to join the island community.

Not us tho' I mean he's Irish and therefore cannot be trusted.

Yup, he's been fleecing all the would be travellers of their valuables, false teeth, lunch money and even in some cases their shoes.

As he sees it, there may be a global catastrophe happening all around him but why shouldn't he make some cash on the side?

Sarge, finally happy to meet a three dimensional (if fairly clichéd) character, immediately bonds with twinkly eyed old Patrick and head off to the island determined to kick Muldoon's ample arse.

Sarge farted and it was an eggy one.

Chugging along to the island our merry band make a horrifying discovery, it seems that Muldoon has been good to his word and rounded up all the dead folk in order to train them to do menial tasks.

And if all goes to plan maybe, just maybe get them to eat something other than humans.

Back in deepest, darkest Pittsburgh, Richard Liberty's body is spinning fast enough to create it's own gravity field.

"Tramp in mah mooth!"

Survival of The Dead, Big George's sixth Zombie movie (yet first direct sequel-to 2008's Diary of The Dead) finds the director appearing to embrace 'reboot' mode, almost as if the original 'Dead saga' which began in that gloomy graveyard way back in 1968 ends with the hope of some sort of peaceful co-existence at the climax of Land of The Dead.

But Survival, when watched back to back with Diary (yes, some of us are that sad) feels as unrelated to the original four as they do a part of a bigger story.

A new, lo-fi Dead saga for a more cynical age?

The island setting, the community at odds at to what to do with the undead and the water based zombie shenanigans make it seem that Big George still hasn't gotten his original, unmade script for Day of The Dead from way back in the early 80's out of his system, with ideas and characters featured in it surfacing in Land of The Dead and with the same applying here making the movie appear more of a prelude than an actual story in itself.

It's almost as if George is getting cold feet about finally finishing the story, retreading ideas regarding the feeding and domestication of the undead and concentrating more and more on the philosophical debates the litter the quieter moments of his original vision.

The problem this time is that although the original Day of The Dead is basically chat and debate culminating in mass bloodshed you never forget that the zombie hordes are there, shuffling and waiting, their moans filling the caverns, echoing thru' the underground bunker and chilling the viewer to the bone.

With Survival, there are times when you almost forget that you're watching a Romero zombie movie, with genuinely chilling ideas such as the undead postman moaning loudly as he posts and reposts his letters and the horrifying sight of Muldoon's undead wife, literally chained to the kitchen sink as she attempts to cook dinner quickly glossed over in favour of more chat and
Sarge's wise-cracking one liners.

Revenge of the disco dads.

And the movie's shock revelation as regards to what the undead will eat, which in any other Romero movie would have you gasping with surprise, passes you by with a 'hmmm', so engrossed you are with spotting the similarities to Day and humming the John Harrison score to the very same movie as the zombie's break out of Muldoon's shed.

Survival is one of those rare films that although enjoyable on some levels is really difficult to like.

Which is a genuine shame.

Criticising Romero feels a wee bit like criticising your kids school report when you know they've lazed their way thru' a term, you know what they're capable of and feel crushingly disappointed when they fail to deliver, we all know that there's at least one final great dead movie in George.

By the looks of it tho' it's the one that never got made.

turkey balls.

Everyone is talking about it (must be a slow week) and everybody is watching it, a film so bad it makes the thought of being eye socket raped by tramps seem like a fun weekend pastime.

Those in 'the know' are calling it so bad it's good.

Me?

I'll just say it made me shit blood such was my bodies attempt to stop me viewing it.

Ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourselves for...

Birdemic: Shock and Terror (2008).
Dir: James Nguyen.
Cast: Alan Bagh, Whitney Moore, Janae Caster, Adam Sessa, Colton Osborne, Patsy van Ettinger, Tippi Hedren (on video) plus lots of other unfortunate folk who will remain nameless.

Generic stud muffin, green activist and travelling salesguy Rod (Bagh, most famous for his role as 'party goer' in the movie version of Rent), taking a well deserved break from punting environmentally friendly nose-hair clippers and computer type stuff to old men, stops off for a bite to eat at a cosy diner where inbetween chowing down on lobster and fries glimpses the toothsome and skull-headed beauty that is Wallmart catalogue model Nathalie (Moore) sucking the grease from a hobo's coat at the other table.

Realising he'll never meet anyone again who can match his frightening lack of charisma and talent he gives Nathalie his number (12 probably) and arranges to meet her for a dinner date later that week.

Heading home to get showered Rod notices that a few birds are flying backwards and using their pooh to write abusive graffiti on windshields.

Our hero thinks that this may be something to do with global warming but instantly forgets about the whole thing as soon as he pulls into his drive way.

"Curses He-Man!"

Changing into his dad's shirt and tie he meets up with Nathalie for a slap up Happy Chef meal (but no starter, the budget isn't that big) leading to what seems like a three hour long vomit inducing romance montage involving them kissing each other goodnight, chatting to their friends, Rod selling stuff (but unfortunately not his arse) and talking about inexpensive solar panelling with Nathalie's grossly overweight mum.

Meanwhile on a nameless beach an eagle dies.

After a particularly tasty McDonald's Happy Meal (with a free Transformers window dangler) Rod and Nat decide that rather than going back to one of their comfy and well furnished apartments that it'd be more fun to have a shag in a filthy, run down motel in the middle of nowhere.

Who says romance is dead?

Seductively (by seductively I mean really uncomfortably, like having to watch your sister pole dance) Nathalie strips to her (non matching) underwear whilst raunchy Rod stands about like a discarded mannequin decked out in a pair of tramps pants and socks before easing himself onto the flea infested bed for a night of hot passion.

Thank fuck the camera fades to black before we get to see any of it.

Come to think of it the film's been on for an hour so far and we've yet to see anything of consequence.

It really is this shit. Just accept it.

But lo! As if by magic something happens as we're treated to the sight of some 1980's style computer generated birds suicide bombing the local city and exploding for no apparent reason.

Back at the motel Nathalie is rudely awakened by a mix of vaginal itching and loud banging coming from outside and, after opening the curtains (and sharing with us the horrific sight of her almost anorexic-ally skinny bum cheeks hanging limply from between her thong string) announces to a groggy Rod that they are under attack.

By kamikaze eagles.

Striking a heroic pose Rod drags the semen stained bed over to the window to create a makeshift barricade before giving up, pulling his trousers on and hiding behind the TV.

Sick of having to sit quietly staring at Nathalie's knobbly knees for an hour our hero announces that the birds must have got bored and gone to lunch and that now would be a good time to make a break for the car.

Leaving the motel room they soon come across an equally unattractive and badly dressed couple, Gordon Ramsey (Sessa - like it matters) and his beast-like missis Becky.

Tho' from the look of her it might be his mum.

Armed with bird-bashing coat-hangers and a bottle of cheap gin, this gruesome pair of would-be abortionists offer our heroes a lift in their minivan.

Bagh: insert cock here.

Beating off the birds (but not in that way, it'd be far too much fun for this movie) as they fight valiantly to get to the van, Ramsey pulls out a kiddies toy M-16 machine gun from under the passenger seat managing to kill all the birds before the fantastic foursome drive off into the countryside and, after (more) chat about global warming, try to bring some much needed excitement to the movie by trying to run over a couple of pug faced children.

Being a complete arse tho', Ramsey can't even manage this which means we now have to suffer the robot-like non-acting of a pair of pig nosed pre-pubescent pains as well as everyone else.

Hoo-de-fucking-hoo.

Beware the Joan Crawford dance group!

More chat, driving and random bird murder follows.

Stopping for a picnic the stodgy sextet discover an eminent bird doctor standing on a bridge wearing an ill fitting suit and a decorators mask looking for all the world like a would be child molester with a Billy Goats Gruff fetish.

In a perfect world this would be Donald Pleasance but (luckily for him) he's dead so in his infinite wisdom the director goes for the next best thing.

A lard addicted derelict in a dead man's moth eaten jacket.

But try not to laugh too much because he has something important to tell us.

You see, it's not the poor birds fault it's ours.

Yup, all of our loud music, cars and motel based shagging has sent the worlds birds mad and now they want revenge.

And a big bag of seed and beak.

Shite in mah mooth
you feathery bastards!

As the shock realisation that the world as we know it has gone mad slowly sinks into the casts thick craniums, thoughts turn to survival.

Or in Becky's case where she can go to have a big shit in safety.

Will our motley band of wanna-be's and ne'er were's find a safe haven to rebuild their shattered lives?

Will Nathalie ever get a pair of undies to match her cheap (and frankly whorish) bra?

And, most importantly, will this ever end?

Nope, not even with yours.

What can one say about Birdemic that a thousand websites haven't already?

Hailed as a work of self-knowing cinematic genius by some and a Plan 9 From Outer Space for the 21st century by others, soon the entire internet will have been overrun by opinions about this movie.

Saying that tho' none of them seem to have gotten to the crux of the matter, seeing the truth behind the hype and publicity surrounding this one man phenomena.

That Birdemic isn't big and definitely isn't clever but is quite frankly complete and utter shite.

James Nguyen, you poor, misguided man, I don't care how much you soak in the rave reviews and celebrity endorsements, winking knowingly as you bathe naked in the torrent of salty fanwank that soaks you to the skin, you didn't set out to make an amusingly self aware post modern epic - you set out to make an environmental horror movie.

And failed miserably.

I can't blame you for enjoying your new found celebrity status but you seem to forget that you originally took this mess to Sundance as a serious contender for competition.

Didn't the mass walkouts and audience suicides tell you anything?

It's not as if there's even a great film hidden beneath all the horrible mistakes and technical defects (everything from audio dropouts, badly recorded and muffled dialogue, jumpy editing to the use of free animated Gifs as birds), there are just the results of a delusional egotist (and self proclaimed Master of Romantic Thrillers TM) with more money than sense.

If you think I'm being a wee bit harsh you have to remember that Nguyen financed the movie, wrote the script, appears in it and also produced and directed so who else is there to blame?

The Swiss?

And bad boy who ran away?

'Director' Nguyen clipping for small change
at the bus station yesterday.

Maybe I'm being too harsh (moi? never!) as many people have pointed out that what the film lacks in budget, style and technical expertise it more than makes up for due to Nguyen's obvious enthusiasm, ambition and vision.

Fair enough but saying that, I'm really enthusiastic about my dream to invade Poland using an army of transgendered robot geese bolted into bronzed battle tanks but I'm honest enough to know that this is never gonna happen.

At least until I figure out a cheaper way of plating the amour.

No doubt you'll watch this anyway just because all your friends have so I have to ask (in my best Daddy voice), would you jump under a bus if they did?

Hmmm, thought so.

people you fancy but shouldn't (part 17).

The ginger goddess that is the I.T. Crowd's Jen, the yummy Katherine Parkinson.