night of the creeps.

Please, for the love of God make it stop.

Peeping Blog (2010).
Dir: Creep Creepersin. 
Cast: Ariauna Albright, Creep Creepersin and Elissa Dowling.

Welcome to the wild and wacky world of 'Peter The Peeper' (director Creepersin, AKA Skrotar the Conqueror...no honestly), a softly spoken yet scarily sausage fingered voyeur who spends his days (and nights) following a short skirted, fairly harsh faced young lady named Ethel (Albright from Platoon of the Dead and the classic Caged Lesbos A-Go-Go) around town then writing about it on his blog.

Nothing like me and Megan Stewart then.

Everything is going swimmingly for our peeping pal until Ethel's sister (Dowling, sister of Big Brother's Brian and the star of Bloody Bloody Bible Camp) turns up in an even shorter skirt for a surprise visit.

Hiding behind the coat-stand Peter continues to film his intended victims.

Luckily for him tho' they both appear to be blind (and deaf) making the whole thing that wee bit easier.

I mean there's no other way these two girls could fail to spot a hugely overweight, bearded asthmatic with a camera hiding behind under a raincoat in the corner of the room is there?

"Laugh now!"

But it's not all plain sailing tho' as very soon (tho' not soon enough) poor Peter desperately needs a wee, leaving our Peeper with a difficult choice.

Should he piss in a nearby pot plant, leg it and risk getting caught by the fuzz (a painful experience or so I'm told) or should he give the sexy siblings a nice surprise by jumping out of the wardrobe and tie them up before threatening them with a massive rubberised dildo?

Can you guess which?

Your mum hard at work yesterday.

Can I just say here and now that I'm all for underground film making, the fact that these days it's even easier than ever for any Tom, Dick or Harvey to get access to a camera, cast, crew and editing software enabling them to make their own movie is a fantastic thing.

Most of the time at least.

But for every Gareth Edwards or Carlo Ledesma there are a dozen talent-less myopic hacks with more money and self importance than sense violently forcing their entertainment free and cheese tasting celluloid spunk down our throats like some particularly sadistic cinema sex beast determined to infect everyone they come into contact with with their own brand of cinematic-ally Transmitted Diseases.

you know who you are.

I wouldn't want one of them swimming up my arse.

Less of a movie and more like a straight to DVD dose of anal warts, Peeping Blog is desperate to want to be seen as some kind of real-time art house thriller but with its muffled dialogue, endless POV shots of a car sitting at traffic lights alongside interesting views of store front and random women drinking coffee.

Obviously wannabe Warhol Creep Creepersin is aiming squarely at the chin-stroking crowd with this beauty, unfortunately tho' it's so brain numbingly awful that it ends up more arsehouse than arthouse, a film so energy drainingly boring that I not only lost the will to live whilst watching it but actually lost the ability to shit too.

Seriously, I've been unable to pass a single stool since viewing this and believe me, it's really fucking uncomfortable.

Big plastic cock in mah mooth!

The human race is doomed and the earth finished.

Don't forget to turn the light off on your way out.

people you fancy but shouldn't part 32.

Sally Bercow, ex pot smoking, booze guzzling and shag crazy wife of House of Commons Speaker John Bercow.

gotta catch 'em all.

Finally after years of searching the internet, charity shops and my dads cupboard my Doctor Who collection is complete.

 Obviously I only have these for completist value.

A wee bit like K-9 & Company.

everybody in the house of love.

Sorry about the lack of updates of late, been stuck in the middle of school holibags trying to juggle evil podlings whilst drawing sexy were-ladies and caped vigilantes.

It's a dirty job etc.

The Silent House (2010).
Dir: Gustavo Hernández. 
Cast: Florencia Colucci, Abel Tripaldi and Gustavo Alonso.

It's a lovely Autumn eve in downtown Uruguay (I think), the sun is setting, the birds are tweeting and the painfully hatchet faced Laura (Colucci, looking like a healthier, slightly less pie obsessed Sonia Jackson from Eastenders) is accompanying her grizzly Edward James Olmos-ish father (and collector of Henrik's department store staff lottery money) Wilson (the director of Rompenieblas, una historia de psicoanálisis y dictadura himself, Alonso) to their pal Jimmy Néstor’s (Tripaldi, misspelt brother of Peter) run-down old house, where they plan to spend the night for no other reason than it looks a wee bit creepy.

Oh and silent, obviously.

Néstor, being a nice guy, has bought along a couple of fluorescent lamps (you know, the ones bright enough to use a video camera with), a tinny off-tune medium wave radio and a few dog blankets for his friends to help them thru' the night.

No Bovril, booze or biscuits tho' the tight bastard.

Settling down on a couple of big dusky chairs for the night and with some frankly appalling Spanish language country music to help them get to sleep, Laura is soon (well, soonish I mean we have to put up with ten minutes of her aimlessly wandering the house and giving us a quick glimpse of bra strap first) disturbed by the sound of shuffling coming from upstairs.

"Look at the dog! Look at the dog!"

Finally waking her dad from his pneumatic breast obsessed dream he reluctantly heads upstairs to have a nosey about leaving Laura downstairs quivering like a very thin jelly.

A sudden bang followed by a manly scream informs Laura (and the viewer) that something nasty has happened to Wilson.

Well it's either that or he's tripped over an old paint pot but where would the tension be in that?

Cue an hour of Laura investigating every single inch of her immediate surroundings (and more) even after she discovers he dad's dead and bound body, revealing that there is every possibility of a mad mentalist murderer being in the house with her.

Women eh?

Laura visibly shocked by her dad's black trouser, brown shoe combination.

But don't fret tho' cos these aimless meanderings are often interrupted by the odd tin falling off a shelf, birds flying out of cupboards and big beefy hands grabbing for our heroine who, after about forty minutes of re-enacting cut scenes from Resident Evil, runs off screaming only to come across Néstor on his way back to the house with some pasties for supper.

Yum.

Given the choice between going to the local police station or heading back to the house our kooky couple decide on the latter (as you would if you still had another twenty odd minutes of film to fill) giving the director even more opportunity for some scary jumps, Polaroid  flash fun featuring ghostly girls and ketchup covered killers and finally a bedroom wall covered in saucy pics of Laura, Néstor and her dad.

Yikes.

"It's the Gonch!"

It seems that young Laura and her dad's pal have a history of doing the (very) dirty together and with, it seems Wilson's blessing.

It's all like a slightly less entertaining episode of Jeremy Kyle.

But with more teeth obviously.

With her fathers body gone, Néstor missing, a ghostly girl wandering the hallways and only a few minutes left to build to a satisfying climax what will happen to poor Laura?

Will she be the killers next victim?

Is it all imagined?

Or will the director treat his audience like idiots and reveal that what we've just watched unfold in real-time is all actually utter bollocks and that Laura's been killing everyone off because Néstor made her get rid of their baby?

They wouldn't do that would they?

Fuck me Cheryl Cole's let herself go.

The biggest shock surrounding this movie is that it's from Uruguay, a country more famous for being the ninth "Most livable and greenest" country in the world and it's cannibalistic rugby team than for it's cinematic triumphs and judging by The Silent House's distinct lack of internal logic, any kind of consistent characterisation and a total disrespect for it's audience's intelligence it'll probably stay that way.

Florencia Colucci, possibly the one from the film, possibly not.

It's selling point as a one-take, real-time thriller is a lie (I spotted at least two edits in the first twenty minutes) as is it's purported 'based on a true story' credentials (possibly). In fact there's nothing here that we haven't seen a thousand times before.

Best of all tho' is the movie's post credits coda where, just to show how mental Laura actually is (because having her murder her dad and lover with a scythe obviously isn't enough) we get ten minutes of her skipping thru' the woods with an imaginary child whilst waffling on about canoes.

If you think I'm being a wee bit harsh (what? me?) it's only because that with a little more care and a lot more thought this could have been a great little spook flick.

As it is now it's just bloody annoying.

Well at least we have the remake with the Olsen Twins younger sister Elizabeth to look forward too.

people you fancy but shouldn't part 31.

The Bronte Sisters.

Especially Anne.

 

And who says this blog isn't cultured?