Thursday, March 25, 2010

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?

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

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.


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.

Friday, March 19, 2010

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

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

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

smell the leather.

Was out perusing one of the local charity shops and - quite literally - came across this.

As you can guess, it was so needed.

And the best thing?

After pointing out that it was a NTSC tape I got it for free.


Couples do It Debbie's Way (1988).
Dir: N/A but I'm putting money on porno God John Dark due in part to the incredible amounts of old lady crotch shots.
Cast: Debbie Reynolds, Richard Hamlett, Tom and Patricia Carr Bosley, Dick and Pat Van Patten.

Which I presume is up the shitter.

So here it is, the Holy Grail of sexy and sweaty work out videos, the little seen sequel to the fantastic Do It Debbie's Way, that 1983 hit that featured not only the late, great Ms. Reynolds in a tight fitting day-glo leotard but such top tottie as Teri Garr, Rose Marie, Dionne Warwick and blonde bombshell Terry Moore (amongst others) bending and pouting like your Grannie never did.

Or ever should.

Debbie Reynolds: Nice flat tummy, thighs you could
ski down yet a face of utter fuckness).

This time round dishy Deb's has decided to show us that 'working out' is more fun with two and has invited not only her (then) silver fox of a husband, real-estate developer Richard Hamlett but a gaggle of famous(ish) couples to join them.

Yes indeedy it's man-breasts ahoy as Tom (Father Dowling, Happy Days' Howard Cunningham, that man that you wished had touched you up when you were a wee boy) Bosley and wackily wigged US teevee funnyman Dick Van Patten strut their sextegenarian stuff to all manner of cheesy big band covers in a display so terrifying that no number of tearful wank fueled Pot Noodle sessions can ever numb the shame you'll feel after viewing.

"Cake in mah hand".

But screw the old guys (not literally of course) cos we're here for the hot ladies and boy does this deliver.

Bosley's bubble permed, firm breasted young(ish) missis Patricia (American Gigolo's Judy Rheiman) Carr bares her midrift and barely manages to contain her ample arse in her lycra tights as she frugs out to the theme to The Love Boat whilst Pat (Karen Rubin from Nightmare Boulevard in which she appeared alongside her husband and son - Saw's James Van Patten) Van Patten goes for a demure pink and black look, topped of with a lovely pearl necklace.

Which I didn't give her before you ask.

It'll never touch the sides.

But if you think these kings of comedy are here to play it for laughs then never fear because delightful Debbie keeps the boys at bay with her sharp tongue and slender thighs, even when the oldsters start complaining that their backs are about to snap.

Tho' I'll be the first to admit that the thought of being broken in by Ms. Reynolds is a very attractive one.

There's none of that here tho' so you'll just have to make do with the sight of Father Dowling grunting and groaning his way thru' some light aerobics whilst the divine Ms. D winks at camera a lot.

Oh and your imagination.


Tuesday, March 2, 2010

ignorance is bliss.

The Barras Market in sunny Glasgow, £5.


Monday, March 1, 2010

weekend at wee burnies.

Well, with Glasgow's very own Frightfest well and truly over and having (almost) recovered from what felt like my first anal raping ever by a movie I reckoned it was about time I started pretending that this was a real film-type blog and write a little report, even giving a wee synopsis of the films and stuff, just in case you fancy any of them.

Don't worry tho' I wont give too much away.

So I think I should start with a little bit of scene setting.

Welcome to Glasgow, a city of smoke and fog, science and superstition, of shite football teams and track-suited, piss stained neds (two of which will later be ejected from the cinema for attempting to steal a Kit Kat from a girls bag, inadvertently causing something interesting to happen during Peter A. Dowling's snoozefest Stag Night).

Glasgow, birthplace of Taggart, heroin, Irn Bru and Bible John.

And for the last weekend in February, home to Frightfest, an off-shoot of the larger London event held at the world famous (and oft mentioned around here) Glasgow Film Theatre, a quaint and perfectly preserved 850 year old cinema and gladiatorial complex slap bang in the heart of the cities underground mining area.

Entering the building via one of it's many utility lifts I arrived at the screening suited, seated, clutching a flask of weak lemon drink and a bag of Wine Gums, ready and waiting for some blood drenched fun.

First up (after a bizarre yet instantly forgettable Curling/zombie short) was Adam (Hatchet) Green's latest snowbound chiller.

Frozen (2010)
Dir: Adam Green.
Cast: Kevin Zegers, Shawn Ashmore, Emma Bell, Adam Johnson, Ed Ackerman, Rileah Vanderbilt, Chris York and Peder Melhuse.

Best buds 'Steeley' Dan (Zegers - tall dark and hunky) and Kenny Lynch (Ashmore - blond and geeky) are all set to hit 'ver slopes' (as you youngsters say) for their traditional boys only ski weekend but much to Lynch's chagrin Dan has invited his harsh faced, piggy eyed (and non ski-ing) girlfriend Parker (Bell) along as well.

now there is a mooth made for shite-in in.

After a wee bit of character defining/building bitching, Parker shows her worth by conning a fat, bearded resort employee out of a cheap chairlift ticket and our teen trio head up mountain for a day of ski-ing, sexy banter, snowboarding, silly hats and cool MOR sounds.

After retiring for pizza and man-chat (which is overheard by Parker - oops), Dan decides to make it up to Lynch by joining him on one last run on the big boys slope before bed.

Parker, feeling guilty for making them hang around all day with a safety helmeted girl who keeps falling over offers to come too.

Rushing over to the bearded man (who even after a few hours has got considerably fatter) the pals persuade him to let them have one more ride to the mountain top before bedtime, slowly heading upward toward ski-central, excitedly preparing to race each other all the way back down.

And this is where the fun begins as due to a series of unfortunate misunderstandings and events beyond anyone's control, our merry trio inadvertently end up stuck halfway up the mountain when the lift is shut down and all the employees head home for the week.


Rum, sodomy and the lash.

Trapped on a windswept chairlift and in desperate need of a toilet, Dan, Lynch, and Parker face a fight for survival against not just the biting cold and the local wildlife below but also the fears and prejudices the hide from each other...

Adam Green's second feature Frozen is a gem of a movie to be relished and a truly inspired choice to open the festival.

Never has a movie set in such an open and wide environment had such a crushing sense of foreboding and claustrophobia, the three actors (almost constantly on screen for the films entire running time) are totally believable, eliciting a real emotional response to the situation as the bickering, bitchy buddies, always staying just the right side of punchable.

I can't really say much else except see it.

Next up was a film from a man of such standing, talent and general niceness that after a few minutes of speaking to him a lame man was able to walk for the first time ever and a leper was cured just by standing next time.

And I'm not just saying that cos he's commissioned artwork from me.

Ladies and gentlemen I give you Lord Tim of Sullivan's...

2001 Maniacs: Field of Screams (2010).
Dir: Tim Sullivan.
Cast: Bill Moseley, Lin Shaye, Christa Campbell, Kathryn Le, Katy Marie Johnson, Asa Hope, Ahmed Best, Andrea Leon, Nicola Rae, and Trevor Wright.

Sick of having to make excuses every time a group of Northerners get themselves killed whilst visiting Pleasant Valley, the local sheriff decides to close the detour used by the cannibalistic townsfolk to ensnare victims into their twisted revenge plan.

Obviously Mayor GW Buckman (Moseley) isn't too pleased with this turn of events so, after first despatching the aforementioned law enforcement agent in a big spike-lined barrel decides to take the towns special brand of hospitality on the road like some twisted, (even more) inbred Partridge Family.

Nice firm breasts, face of utter fuckness.

Meanwhile, airheaded heiresses Tina and Rome Sheraton (Johnson and Hope) plus their (motley) Teevee crew are ready to kill (and in some cases shag) each other as a result of spending weeks trapped in a semen stained, hash stinking van whilst travelling cross country making the hit reality series Road Rascals.

But thanks to a miss timed blow-job and a burst tire, our Hollywood pals end up surprise guests of Buckman's celebrations.

Celebrations that will culminate in an orgy of sex, blood, cannibalism and political in-correctness gone mad.

I'd scream if my bra and pants didn't match too.

What can you say about Sullivan's Looney Tunes inspired sequel to his earlier love letter to Herschell Gordon Lewis apart from that it's crude, lewd and drop dead funny featuring as it does more taboo breaking bits (and general bits breaking) than any movie since, well the first 2001 Maniacs.

Plus this time we get added bestiality, some studly hunks for the laydees plus the wonderful Lyn Shaye delivering a doozy of a masturbation tip.

As the director himself so eloquently put it:

"If the original didn't secure me a warm spot in Hell, this one sure will!”

Which leads us nicely to Stag Night, which will no doubt get director Peter Dowling a one way ticket to Hades.

Just not for the reason he was expecting.

Stag Night (2008).
Dir: Peter A. Dowling.
Cast: Kip Pardue, Vinessa Shaw, Breckin Meyer, Scott Adkins, Karl Geary, Sarah Barrand and Rachel Oliva.

New York nice guys Karl Mike and Joe (Pardue, Geary and Adkins) are enjoying a drink fuelled (yet very polite, I mean these are modern men) stag night when ne'er do well sibling (I can't remember who to) Tony (Robot Chicken stalwart Meyer) gets them chucked out a nite club due to his loutish ways.

Heading home for bed via the subway, Carl decides to try and chat up a lovely laydee (well, drunken whore type) he met earlier that evening but his chances of true love are dashed by Tony who not only offends her pal by calling her a bitch (oooh he's a bad 'un) but gets the group pepper sprayed for their trouble.

Vinessa Shaw realises too
late that this isn't Deathline.

For no other reason than to further the plot the group force open the train doors and end up standing around arguing on an abandoned platform that hasn't been used since the '70's.

Round about the same time this plot first surfaced.

To everyone's (except the viewer and the two drunks fighting down the fronts) surprise the train pulls away leaving this merry band stranded and bickering.

All that is except that is for Nick who's finally managed to finally pull the aforementioned drunken whore.


Leaving the loved up pair behind so they can rut in peace on the filthy, shite encrusted platform ( romantic) the others (as in other ciphers/characters not the Christopher Eccleston movie) make their way down the subway tunnel in the hope of finding help.

Or a half decent plot.

Breckin Meyer, up the casino, 2008.

Eventually coming across a couple of tramps raping a drinks machine, the pals (and the nice non whore) are horrified to then witness the long haired, fish bearded pikeys slaughter a subway guard using nothing but some rusty tins and their sharp rat like teeth.

Yup our heroes soon realise that they're about to be hunted down like (and with) dogs by a crusty, subway dwelling cannibal clan.

Shaky-cam, scrappy editing and shoddy plotting ensues.

The directorial debut from Peter A. Dowling, the writer of the Jodie Foster film Flight-Plan (of which he seemed uncomfortably proud), one audience member remarked that the movie came across like Creep (the Chris Smith snoozefest that managed to make the yumsome Franke Portente look plain) on steroids.

I beg to differ.

It was more like Deathline with Alzheimer's.

Cliche riddled, lazily plotted with a been there done that attitude that showed nothing but contempt for it's audience, the director deciding that migraine inducing camera work is an acceptable substitute for a good story or scares.

Oh and that surprise shock ending (one of them is still alive!) was rubbish too, tho' director Dowling seemed to be under the misapprehension that it had never been done before.

Bless him.

Contemplating the next days viewing.

Saturdays feast of fun began with what was advertised by Optimum releasing as the first ever showing of their remastered, complete and uncut (and not to say definitive) version of the Lucio Fulci giallo classic A Lizard In A Woman's Skin, tho' as it turned out this was a lie of Suspiria showing proportions.

As the wee girl from Optimum pointed out, between her homework and paper-round she'd not had time to finish putting it all together yet and add to that she'd run out of glue to stick the subtitles onto it.

Or something.

Then proceeded to show a DVD copy of a VHS rip of a puppet show version of the film before promising that the new version would be better and come in a box with a picture on the front and everything.

If they could scrape the money together for photocopying that is.

"The new print fell aff a beanstalk!"

A Lizard In A Woman's Skin (1971).
Dir: Lucio Fulci.
Cast: Florinda Bolkan, Stanley Baker, Silvia Monti, Jean Sorel and Leo Genn .

Saucy socialite Carol Hammond (bouncy bad girl Bolkan) is suffering from sixties style, sleazy sex dreams centred around her decadent neighbour Deborah (Monti).

Her psychiatrist (who, if he isn't cracking off a few to her sordid fantasies should be) insists that there's nothing to worry about but when the nymphomaniac neighbour is murdered during an LSD fuelled sex orgy things start to get complicated.

You see Carol had already dreamt that this would happen.

And the she herself would be holding the knife.

"Is it in yet?"

Is Carol really capable of murder?

Is she being framed by her wandering eyed husband?

Or by someone else?

And what secret does the ginger hunchback hold?

A perfect piece of giallo goodness that sets out to do exactly what it says on the tin.

But if you read this blog you'll already know that.

Next up was the film that everyone had been waiting for, Helene Cattet and Bruno Forzani’s loving tribute to the giallo genre that perfectly recreates the age of the classic Italian thriller.

A virtually dialogue free fable of sexual obsession and black, leather gloved murders played out to a classic soundtrack score of Eurohorror themes.

The one, the only Amer.

Unfortunately I was in the bar so I missed it.

Unlike the Spanish spook sequel [Rec]2, Jaume Balaguero and Paco Plaza's follow up to their real-time roller-coaster of terror [Rec] (obviously).

Pay attention, here's the science part:

[Rec]2 (2009).
Dir: Jaume Balaguero and Paco Plaza.
Cast: Manuela Velasco alongside Leticia Dolera, Ferran Terraza, Juli Fabregas, Pep Molina, Oscar Zafra and Alejandro Casaseca.

Beginning seconds after the original movie ended with toothsome cutie Manuela Velasco being dragged kicking and screaming into the darkness by a giant possessed child, whilst down in the lobby a small group of anti-terrorism police are charged with taking a government scientist into the building to discover the cause and maybe even a cure for the outbreak.

But how do you cure a virus borne of evil itself?

"Oh no! it's the Ninky Nonk!"

Whilst never reaching the dizzy heights of the original (but did we think it would?), [Rec]2 is still a thrill-a-minute, non-stop suspense ride that packs more imagination and scares into it's first ten minutes than in the whole of the next movie.

I still feel violated.

Splice (2009).
Dir: Vincenzo Natali.
Cast: Adrien Brody, Sarah Polley, Delphine Chaneac, Brandon McGibbon and diddy David Hewlett.

Groovy science types Clive and Elsa (the obviously skint Brody and pretty Polley, still paying penance for the Dawn of the Dead remake), after genetically engineering a big brown turd that can be harvested for aspirin or something, decide to go one better and splice together human and animal DNA in order to create a new life form that may hold the cure for cancer.


After messily popping out of a huge birth sac in a flood of KY jelly and warm milk, Dren (as she/it will come to be known) rapidly grows from a little pink and floppy CGI mong-headed cat thing into a bald (and still pink) CGI chicken child (with a cleft palette throw in for good measure).

"Laugh now!"

So far so po-faced.

Anyway whilst all this super accelerated growing is going on there are some boring sciencey type things happening whilst Brody (in a Patrick Troughton wig and wee boys clothes) talks endlessly about ethics, in between trying to kill Dren and trying to have sex with a positively middle aged looking Polley.

The Jade Goody clone was finally revealed.

It's not too long tho' (it just seems like it) before Dren has morphed into a saucy (yet still bald) CGI augmented winged chicken woman with a poisonous tail and long thin turkey legs.

Oh, and shiny plastic nipples.

Not too surprisingly, Brody decides not to try and kill it but to have sex with it instead.

It was at this point that I started shaking uncontrollably and sobbing like a baby, which was a little unfortunate seeing that I'd been mistakenly seated in the 'reserved for guests' section and had found myself in a very drunk and totally incoherent state, sat next to one of the films producers.

This may have come about after my impromptu art signing session at the main guest table the night before so if anyone was wondering who I was can I just apologise and say a nobody.


She mistook my alcoholic state for sheer terror at the movie unfolding before me and leant over to ask if I was OK.

This had the effect of rousing me from my nightmarish slumber and caused me to inadvertently soak her with Lucosade whilst shouting 'Mum! what is it?' in a child-like voice.

Suffice to say she wont be offering to produce Anne Frankenstein any time soon.

I really don't have the words to sum up how utterly arse clenchingly bad Splice is, just that I haven't been this upset by a film since waking up during a midnight showing of Communion just in time to see the aliens were bum raping Christopher Walken.

Is that a recommendation?

Who knows?

Gunnar Hansen: Mmmmmmm Bop!
(or is that Ssssshite mooth?).

It'd be nice to say that they saved the best till last but unfortunately  Harpoon: Reykjavik Whale Watching Massacre was saved for us instead.

Harpoon: Reykjavik Whale Watching Massacre (2009).
Directed by Júlíus Kemp.
Cast: Pihla Viitala, Nae, Terence Anderson, Miranda Hennessy, Aymen Hamdouchi, Carlos Takeshi, Miwa Yanagizawa, Halldóra Geirharðsdóttir, Guðlaug Ólafsdóttir, Snorri Engilbertsson and Gunnar Hansen.

A group of (one dimensional) tourists, so cardboard that it's a wonder that they don't blow off the pier in the wind and float away to sea, embark on a sightseeing trip aboard an ex-whaling vessel captained by the Santa-like Pétur (Gunnar - Leatherface, leatherier balls - Hansen) and co-piloted by a would-be rapist bad boy who you can tell is a bad 'un as we see him punch a disabled man in the films opening scenes (the rapist angle tho' is only there so that the director has an excuse to include some shots of Pihla Vitala's breasts later on which is nice) to go see these magnificent creatures in their natural environment.

But the merry bands plans go awry thanks to a drunk passenger (Hamdouchi) who manages to spear Pétur to the deck and causes Johnny Rapist to sail away in the boats rubber dingy.

But not before smashing the radio and spunking in the sugar bowl.

Shite in mah, well shite everywhere really.

Luckily (well for the plot I guess) it's not too long before the day-trippers are rescued by a local fisherman who (due to a big storm approaching) doesn't take them to port but to his hidden whaling vessel where his brother and mum are lying in wait to kill the whole damn party.


Something to do with Greenpeace and tourism or something.

The plot may be wafer thin but it's an excuse for poor old Pihla Viitala to get her tits out again.

And this time they're covered in fish oil and paint.

Iceland's first foray into horror movies (not counting those Kerry Katona ads) has all the hallmarks of an exploitation classic yet its unsure tone, wildly random subplots and lack of any real meaning torpedoes the idea somewhat leaving it dead in the water.

Twelve year old boys will love it but for the discerning horror fan it came across as lacking in depth, leaving it scuppered and listing heavily toward starboard.

And yes, I do realise the last bit makes no sense.

Saying that tho' you have to give kudos to a director who decides that although he obviously can't afford to film the movies Killer Whale versus American screamer on a life-raft ending, that he's going to do it anyway.

Even if the effect is achieved by an all too obvious wooden fin and grainy stock footage.

Hang on did I say kudos?

I meant a kicking.

So there you go, Glasgow Frightfest 2009.

Where else on Earth can you get eight films, dozens of trailers, sneaky peeks and the unforgettable sight of a former Oscar winners pale buttocks thrusting upon a computer generated chicken for only £40?

Cheaper than your mum and twice as much fun.