born to be wild.

Whilst tidying Cassidy's room today I came across a dusty old Betamax copy (ah Prism Vision where are you now?) of this behind his bed.

At first I put it down to the fact that he has a lion obsession.

Well it's either that or he's already punting my stuff down Cash Converters to get money for booze and burds.

I'm must admit to being slightly angry tho', not because he nicked it but because he actually kept hold of it.

Yes, it is that shite so I'll try to be quick.

Wild Beasts (AKA Belve Feroci. 1983).
Dir: Franco Prosperi.
Cast: Lorraine De Selle, John Aldrich, Ugo Bologna, some wild geese and an angry polar bear.

It's another sunny day at The Zoo of Frankfurt (16 Alfred-Brehm-Platz, opening times: 9AM-5PM during winter, 9AM-7PM in summer, price: Adult: 11 DM, child 5+ 5 DM), the zoo-keepers are busy feeding the animals and cleaning up the huge mounds of shite, the gift shop is re-stocking it's shelves and the polar bears are looking longingly at the dolphins.

Just a normal day then really.

Well, not quite (it'd be a pretty abysmal - well even more abysmal, movie otherwise) because during the night some mad mentalist bastard has put Phencyclidine (PCP, angel dust, supergrass, killer weed, sherm, shi-moo or rocket fuel for those street wise readers) in the zoo's water supply.

Within minutes of the gates opening and various parties of pensioners and school kids entering the zoo the animals have started to go a wee bit strange.

The elephants turn first as they attempt to stand on the keepers head, swiftly followed by the rats(?) who escape into the car park looking for convertibles to steal whilst the polar bears just stand around with their normal pained expressions.

No change there then.

"I wanted a Scottish flag hen!"

If that wasn't enough of a downer for a Monday morning it then appears that the sweat and drool from the junked up animals is infecting the local population's pets too.

Yup, the cats are eating babies, guide dogs are tearing the throats from their owners and border collies are madly licking meat paste from the naked bodies of middle-aged spinsters.

Or is that a different film?

A middle-aged spinster
(minus border collie) yesterday.

Only one man can save the city, enter (and by the look of his porn 'tache he wouldn't complain) world renowned zoo veterinarian Dr. Rupert Berner (Aldrich in his only film role outside gay tramp porn and snuff movies) who, aided by his scientist girlfriend Laura Schwarz (genre whore De Selle who's been in everything from House on the Edge of the Park and Cannibal Ferox via your dad's bed) and local hard nosed (yet scarily flaccid) cop, Inspector Natalie Braun (Nightmare City's Mr. Desmond himself, Ugo Bologna) must try to discover a way to stop the anarchic animals before they destroy the world.

But not before we've seen the frankly impressive sight of a cheetah racing an open-topped VW beetle in an attempt to eat the overweight driver.

Will our heroes find a cure that doesn't involve locking all the animals in tin sheds with bowls of chicken soup before the PCP tainted water finds it's way into the local school causing the kids to go mad too in an attempt to give us a shock ending?

Or will they think fuck it and just torch the poor beasts?

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

Ah Franco E. Prosperi you bad, bad man.

After quite literally spewing forth (alongside fellow hack Gualtiero Jacopetti) the whole 'Mondo' genre and giving us the racistastic Addio zio Tom, Prospero obviously reckoned that it was time to head back into animal murder mode and decided that a film about man's inhumanity to other creatures via the world of the zoo would be a good enough excuse to kill some rodents (and cows and cats) live on screen.

That polar bear is attempting to fuck a man....must be a bipolar bear then.

Obviously influenced/enamoured by the 1949 Georges Franju documentary/drama recounting the lives of Paris slaughterhouse workers Le sang des bêtes (a film that David Lynch admitted inspired Inland Empire), Prosperi realised that the chances of him making a halfway decent movie starring Lorraine De Selle that used a zoo as a metaphor for Nazi extermination camps was pushing it somewhat, so in his wisdom he decided to junk the majority of the Franju's stark imagery and symbolism and just stick to the animal killings.

Which makes it kind of difficult to take the film's almost child-like (and naively childish) ecological message at all seriously.

De Selle happy in the fact that at least
her pussy wont get beaten
black and blue on screen.

The most shocking thing about the film tho' isn't the copious amounts of scenes of rats being burnt off windscreens and tigers let loose in cow pens but the fact that Prosperi's director of photography Franco Delli Colli seems to have decided to shoot the entire thing thru' a film of mud.

No taste, no talent, no mercy.

Tho' it is nice to see Lorraine De Selle getting enough cash to pay for he detox treatment.

lost in france.

Day 4 of that 31 days of horror thing.

Anyone else bored yet?

Seven Women for Satan (AKA Les week-ends maléfiques du Comte Zaroff. 1976).
Dir: Michel Lemoine.
Cast: Michel Lemoine, Nathalie Zeiger, Howard Vernon, Joëlle Coeur, Sophie Grynholc, Robert Icart, Stephanie Lorry, Patricia Mionet, Emmanuel Pluton, Maria Mancini and Nathalie Zeiger.

Please welcome dear readers the studly French businessman Boris Zaroff (writer/director and general show off Lemoine) -  a self made millionaire whose success is all down to hard work and a good dose of old fashioned morals.

Just imagine a sexier (and by default greasier) version of Lord Alan Sugar.

If that were possible.

But unlike Shugsy poor Boris hides a family secret.

You see his dad, the late (as in dead not crap at time keeping) Count Zaroff was a sexually corrupt mentalist who liked nothing better than to hunt unfortunate ladies around his vast estate before torturing them in his deadly dungeon of, um, death upon capture.

And if that wasn't enough the family butler Karl (Jess Franco regular and human rodent, the late great Vernon) made a blood pact with the Count on his deathbed to teach young Boris about the pleasures and pain of 'the flesh'.

Saucy.

Well it would be if Boris wasn't such a prude.

"Oh no! I have a woman's period!"

You have to feel for poor Karl, spending his days continuously inviting large breasted burds to the house in the hope that his master will stick something in them.

By this point you can tell he wouldn't mind if it was his cock, a knife or a hamster.

But Boris just can't get the hang of it, sitting as he does in a dribbly, hypnotic state at the first sign of a decent pair of bristols.

All this embarrassing sexual failure is about to change tho' when Boris - whilst out for one of his early morning drives - picks up Stephanie (Mancini, probably not the one that was one of Cardinal Mazarin nieces* or the type of cigar), a young, voluptuous hitch-hiker and invites her back to his castle for an evening of champagne fueled sexiness and a sausage roll or two.

As the booze flows the sight of the sausage grease glistening on Stephanie's chin stirs something in Boris and the pair retire to the bedroom for some quality Eurocentric sexiness.

Waking the next morning and stuck for conversation (as well as being stuck to the sheets) Boris offers to escort his new beau around the castles grounds.

Aw what a sweetheart.

Well he would be if halfway round the cabbage patch he didn't try to strangle Stephanie then feebly attempt to convince her that she had a wasp on her neck.

A bird in the bush yesterday.

Panicking that he may have made a wee faux pas Boris decides to break the uncomfortable atmosphere by punching his new love in the face, pinning her down an attempting for force feed her dirt.

Which as you can probably guess doesn't impress Stephanie too much, so she decides it'd probably be best to leave.

Pavement in mah mooth!

Boris, rightly worried that he's messed up his one chance of true love gives chase in order to apologise but Stephanie, having the legs of a gazelle is too quick for him so Boris (with a confidence that only French men have when seducing ladies) decides to catch her up by using his car.

By catch her up I really mean run her down like a dog and hide her body in the boot.

As you do.

Karl, after standing in the shadows and witnessing the whole sorry event can't believe his eyes.

After years of trying to get Boris to follow the family traditions he's overjoyed to see his hard work finally pay off.

Your mum's party piece.

Cue ninety minutes of bonkers Boris picking up busty babes, shagging, chasing then torturing them in a variety of sleazily eurotrash ways.

And if you think that's not enough to entertain you there's also a heart breaking love story between batty Boris and a sexy lady ghost.

What's not to love?

Runner up of the Gerry McCann lookalikey
competition 2008.

Orson Welles wannabe Michel Lemoine's naively heartfelt yet still intellectually challenging discourse on humanities eternal struggle to reconcile the wants of the family with the needs of the individual is quite possibly one of the best movies with the words seven, Satan and women in the title ever committed to celluloid.

Lost for decades after the French authorities (who were probably too busy burning British beef, sinking Greenpeace boats and worshiping at the altar of Jerry Lewis at the time to truly appreciate it) banned the film for being 'too bouncy', Seven Women for Satan has never received the praise or cult standing it truly deserves and is only available now thanks to Lemoine himself having a not too knackered copy lying about in his cupboard just waiting for someone to have the vision to release the thing onto an unsuspecting public.

Which means we can finally forgive Mondo Macabro from punting the terrifyingly bad Queen of Black Magic onto us a few years back.

With it's deceptively linear storytelling, Lemoine's film comes across as a kind of junior Jess Franco aimed at the under 12's (my wee boy Cassidy will testify to that), especially the one's who like their victims a wee bit more on the curvy (and not to say massively bushed) side.

Any of your kids got a party coming up soon because that's the only excuse you need to get this.

And trust me, little Jimmy or Jennifer's friends will love it too.








* For those of you that don't know, Anna Maria (Marie) Mancini (28 August 1639 – 8 May 1715) was the third of the five Mancini sisters; nieces to Cardinal Jeff Mazarin who were brought to France in order to be married off to some rich blokes.

Along with two of their female Martinozzi cousins, the Mancini sisters formed a proto-riot girl group and played a number of low key gigs at the court of King Louis XIV of France under the name "The Mazarinettes".

And they say this blog isn't educational.

criminalising kinkiness (part 2).

Not often I get to have a good old rant on here (well not about anything of importance) but I couldn't let the governments new digital economy bill pass without at least a few words.

Which is a shame but hey ho.

Readers with long memories (and glass dolls) will no doubt remember my previous moans aboutthe likes of Christopher Tookey and barmy Julian Brazier (there's more but frankly I really can't be arsed trawling thru' the links to find them) as well as the infamous ambulance chaser and buggerer of beefcake Keith Vaz regarding their thoughts that 'Explicit and extreme video games and films are fueling a tide of violence in Britain' from a few years ago and their ongoing attempts to ban anything and everything that they don't like.

Vernon: Your dad's cum face.

Obviously - thanks no doubt to my fantastic journalistic skills) - their puritanical pursuits came to naught  and we all got to live happily ever after, that is until professional witch-woman and part-time internet voyeur Theresa May came to power and decided that it was up to the government to decide what kind of sexy stuff we can enjoy.

Being more of a mindless violence than a kinky sex fan (look I have Aspergers I'm going to side with the less sticky pursuit - I hate mess) I gave the matter no thought, knowing that is that Zombie(s) Lake could in no way be construed as a sexual fetish, until that is a friend (yes I have one) pointed out that under the new legislation those occasional YouTube videos I post of me dancing provocatively whilst wearing a Howard Vernon mask could be seen as too kinky and therefore illegal.

It was at this point that my pervy pal delivered the killer blow.

Ooooer.

It seems that part of the bill is aimed at regulating things like menstrual blood, urination and 'mooth shite-ing'.

I'll let that sink in for a minute.

Yup, this blog will be well and truly screwed.

Hopefully then they'll remember to stick to the bizarre “four-finger rule” when they do it.

And what is this rule? I hear my overseas readers cry.

It's a part of the bill which limits the number of digits that can be inserted into an orifice for sexual stimulation.

No really.

We have food banks, a rise in racist attacks on the street and a country in post-Brexit turmoil and this is the most important thing our government can think about?

We are indeed drifting into an arena of the unwell.

Theresa May: Haunted beachfront cave.

For more information follow the link here, it's for The Guardian which may be a wee bit left-leaning but as a plus point the type is quite large and they don't use too many big words.

Which for readers here is a Godsend.

Talking of random film-based sex acts regular readers may have noticed that The Arena has been a wee bit obsessed with sexy seventies superstar Robin Askwith of late, culminating in me finally getting round to obtaining his classic 'Confessions' series on shiny StevieDee allowing my to confine my bulky VHS collection to the bin.

Imagine my surprise then when on going to watch them I realized I'd actually acquired the slightly inferior Barry (Mind Your Language) Evans 'Adventures' set by mistake.

Never mind I thought, It'd be a pity not to share....

Adventures of a Taxi Driver (1976)
Dir: Stanley Long.
Star: Barry Evans, Judy Geeson, Adrienne Posta, Robert Lindsay, Liz Fraser, Diana Dors, Anna Bergman, Stephen Lewis, Ian Lavender, Henry McGee, Stephen Riddle, Brian Wilde, David Auker, Angela Scoular and Beatrice Shaw.

The place: London, the time: the really unfashionable bit of the seventies where greasy haired, bowl cutted Joe North (Evans) - a busty burd obsessed (not a busty burd himself, obviously) taxi driver - spends his time using his cab as an impromptu shag palace to get away from his mundane everyday existence, from ditzy dollies to frustrated, saggy boobed bored housewives, every woman he meets seem to fall for his lost little boy charms.

And pleasant smelling cock obviously.

We first experience his uncanny (some would say ungodly) luck first hand when one of his passengers asks to be dropped off on a bridge so she can jump off.

She's heartbroken, the poor lamb.

Being a nice guy Joe convinces her not to toss herself off but to allow him to drive her home.

Probably after leaving the meter running and charging her extra tho' - you know what cabbies are like.

Upon arrival she surprisingly takes off all her clothes and jumps on our crap Casanova.

Suffice to say that just as they're about to get down and get with it (luckily for the viewer not before we've seen Evan's pale, shriveled penis), her boyfriend turns up unexpectedly leaving Joe no choice but to climb out of the window and leg it to his cab stark bollock naked.

Blimey.

He needn't have bother tho', turns out that this blokes missis is a raving nymphomaniac and uses the old suicide trick to pick up fellas all time.

Hi-fucking-larious I'm sure you'll agree.

"Oh no! It's John Leslie!"

The good thing is that all this sex is that it helps take Joe's mind of his hellish home life, dominated as he is by his moaning (but not in that way) peroxide headed mother (Dors....who wouldn't want to be dominated by her?...well not now obviously) and arguing constantly with his spotty teenage brother whilst trying to find an excuse to escape his clingy, marriage obsessed girlfriend Carol (the ball-faced, bewigged Posta, who also performs the films theme song 'Cruising Casanova').

It's not too much of a surprise then to find poor Joe finds at breaking point so he decides to move in with his best mate Tom (Lindsay).

Cue even more oh so amusing sexual shenanigans.

"Excuse me, you've shut my cock in the door".

Over the next forty five minutes we're treated (in much the same way as you treat syphilis) to a veritable comedic tsunami of sexual hi-jinks featuring faceless seventies totty and a hilarious escapade with Joe's pet python named....wait for it.....Monty.

Oh.

My.

Aching.

Sides.

"Is that a snake in your pocket or is it just
that your cock is particularly scaly and flexible?"

If this wasn't enough to get your pulse racing, down on her luck former Bond girl (and pube haired temptress) Angela Scoular gets her kit of in possibly the film’s most amusing moment (and that's not saying much) when her geeky accountant husband, who has unexpectedly come home early, surprisingly fails to notice that Joe is lying underneath his wife in a soapy bath.

Scoular: pube haired but still lustable.

Add to this the wonderful Judy (Inseminoid) Geeson playing a stripper (who scarily keeps her clothes on throughout), the comedy gem of Joe mistakenly picking up a transvestite and the bizarre last third of the film which forgoes any shagging to concentrate on Joe getting involved in a jewelery heist gone wrong and you have a movie to challenge Nativity 3: Dude Where's My Donkey? in the charm stakes.

Yes, it really is that good.

Watch out! it's Leslie Grantham.

So what else is there to say about this movie?

Well, Stanley Long's direction is, um, well it's in focus and he makes sure the camera doesn't wander off at the boring bits, whilst the 'script' co-written by Suzanne (Groupie Girl) Mercer from an idea by Long is simplistic at best, clichéd and predictable at worst.

Cast wise, the late (almost great) Barry Evans is fresh faced and agreeably cocky enough to worm his way into the audiences affections whilst Robert (Citizen Smith) Lindsay and Judy Geeson give sterling support as his best pal and best pals missis respectively.

The film also boasts a plethora of cameo's from some British comedy legends including Diana Dors, Liz (the one that wasn't in The Cocteau Twins) Fraser, Ian (Dads Army) Lavender, Stephen (On The Buses) Lewis and Brian (Last of The Summer Wine) Wilde.

Liz Fraser: The one that doesn't get
her tits out in British smut movies.
Pity.

Being kind tho' the films tiny (£130,000) budget is put to good use shooting in and around London (that's in England, Europe for any Americans reading) mostly without official permits which gives it a grittier edge than it's more famous Confessions cousins.

It's just a pity the film as a whole doesn't live up to it's guerrilla origins.

Worth a look if you like smut of a not too rude kind.

Or have a thing for huge seventies pants.

Which as I said earlier, the way it's going may soon be illegal.

boddy hell.

Experience the ultimate in crayon-based horror when 5 seventies kids teevee icons meets terrifying tree based terror as the cast of Bod go on holiday to a little cabin in the woods.

Ladies and gentlemen I give you the full, uncut (and un-restored) version of The Evil Bod.

Click on the pic to view (obviously).

sad single women - an apology.

In my review of Cool for Cats I mistakenly wrote the phrase: Shoddily made shite for sad single women when in fact I obviously meant to write Shoddily made shite for single women's sad cats.

My inbox have been literally overwhelmed with complaints from hundreds of obviously not at all sad single women (some with cats) so I'd like to not only apologize for any hurt or insult caused but also present my handy visual guide to women with (and without) cats.


Enjoy.

Normal lady with cat (not sad).

Sad cat.

Sad lady (with bag cats).

Sad lady (without cat).

Bat-Cat (without lady, he works alone).

Normal lady (without cat) yesterday.

Hope that clears everything up.

dick strangelove.

...or how I stopped worrying and learnt to love the hom.

Welcome to the wackily right wing world of conservative cartoonist Dick Hafer,  best known for his controversially archaic Christian comics, where MAD style artwork sits uncomfortably alongside the most overblown anti-gay rhetoric and fascistic moral bullshit ever written.

It's enough to make Hitler baulk.



But don't just take my word for it, enjoy for yourselves:

And frighteningly enough there's more where this came from.

bugger lugs.

The Human Centipede 2: Full Sequence (2011).
Dir: Tom Six.
Cast: Laurence R. Harvey, Ashlynn Yennie, Vivien Bridson, Maddi Black, Bill Hutchens and a shit load of folk from the Islington job centre.

"Great blow job but I'd rather be fucking that retards arse".

Baw headed sweaty London manchild Martin Lomax (Harvey) when not spending his time working as a car park attendant in Tooting enjoys nothing more than sitting in his booth masturbating furiously to a copy of The Human Centipede, the pleasures of his clammy little palms relieving much of the tension he suffers as a result of being buggered on a daily basis by his jailbird dad as a child (tut all you want but he does have a really peachy arse for a fat bloke), having to live with his abusive mum Fanny (the skeletal yet scarily sexy Bridson, just imagine Super Gran portrayed as a foul mouthed aged stripper) and the constant hard core dance tunes being played by his large, gay upstairs neighbour.

Add to his troubles a habit of poohing the bed, a weirdy-beardy psychiatrist  (Hutchens) who's more interested in sucking his cock than soothing his pain and a pair of nipples like hairy plates and you can see that poor Martin is one of life’s losers.

He probably even reads this blog.

Nah, he's not that sad.

"I love you....could it be magic?"

Anyway, back to the plot where Martin has decided that it might be a good idea to try and make a human centipede of his own using the various folk who use the parking garage as his test subjects.

Cue an hour of head smashing, knee-capping and baby bothering violence intercut with scenes of our bald pal getting felt up by the doc, his mum shouting at him and the aforementioned gay neighbour destroying the Lomax family dinner table.

Despite all these inconveniences tho' Martin bravely struggles on, even going as far as phoning the actors from the first film in an attempt to lure them to London for a 'special show'.

And surprisingly one of them, the pointy of face yet smooth of thighed Ashlynn Yennie, actually turns up.

Posh and Becks: the Vimto years.

But before our beautiful Hollywood starlet can become the main attraction in Martin's scientific wonder there's still the small matter of killing his mum to deal with.

I mean come on, she did rip up his Human Centipede scrapbook and tell him he stank of shit.

With mum out of the way, Ashlynn tied up in a warehouse alongside all his other 'volunteers' and the noisy neighbour in the back of his van Martin is finally ready to make medical history.

"Shite in...well someone elses mooth I guess".

With only the Eye Spy Book of Medical Facts to help, Martin gathers a veritable potpourri of kitchen utensils, DIY tools and assorted household junk to aid the construction of his medical marvel; a human centipede consisting of 12 hastilly sketched stereotypical clichéd characters.

He's got something to put in you.

Finally after an hour and a quarter of some of the most bizarrely delivered dialogue and arse-clenchingly experimental acting-styles ever committed to celluloid it's time for a wee bit of hammer based tooth removing, mucky mouth slicing and rectum ripping fun, shot entirely in glorious black and white and backed with the dulcet tones of mental Martins girly giggles.

Using a handy staple gun to attach each of his victims face to the person in fronts arse, Martin chooses Yennie to be the acceptable face of this new and improved human centipede, partly so her make-up wont be ruined by the constant mooth shite-ing but mainly because she's by far the most attractive member of the cast.

After much prodding, poking and pissing Martin, clad in a labcoat and with his obvious erection barely kept under control in his shit stained underpants, can finally marvel at his creation as it stumbles around the room making gurgling and farting noises.

But something - and it's not the self respect on the part of anyone involved surprisingly - is missing.

Yup, you've guessed it; no-one has started shite-ing in each others mooths yet.

"Laugh now!"

But not to worry because Martin has come prepared.

And no doubt in his pants.

You see, right after feeding Ashlynn some tasty tomato soup and tinned peaches, Martin quickly forces a family sized bottle of quick acting laxative down her pretty tanned throat, causing each member of the centipede to violently evacuated their bowels into the mooth of the person behind them.

The length of the chain also gives our medical mentalist time to wrap his throbbing member in barbed wire, run to the end of the centipede and violently rape the last person in lines filth covered arse thru' a sea of ever flowing shit.

As you would in that situation.

As is always the way with these things, everything is going swimmingly (shittingly?) until one of the centipede parts spoils everyone’s fun by choking to death leaving Martin in tears and a tarpaulin covered pregnant woman, whom he thought was dead, time to suddenly regain consciousness and run screaming to Martins minivan.

With Martin distracted the centipede breaks into two and attempts to escape whilst our poor, misguided mad man stands confused not sure whether to chase the mum to be or regain control of his creation.

As the situation escalates from nutty to fruit loops a tiny bit of poo drops from Martins bottom.

Will our hero calm the centipede?

Will our escapee accidentally crush her newborn baby whilst trying to find reverse in a strange motor?

Will anyone live to tell the tale?

And if so, how are they gonna explain it to my nan?

Hopefully it wont turn out to be just a dream...

Or will it?

I ignored the first Human Centipede for a variety of reasons, one being that there was no chance of it actually living up to the premise and another being that for some bizarre reason director Six hadn't cast Udo Kier in the Dr. Heiter role but mainly because if anyone was going to make a movie full of mooth shite-ing madness and mentalist German doctors it really should have been me.

Anyways, jealousy aside I didn't Tom Six did, it caused a wee bit of controversy before released before finally opening to a loud "Wuh?" and much viewer apathy.

Because frankly we only get upset by fox hunting bans and people lighting upg in non-smoking areas in the UK.

Dunkirk spirit and all that.

But that wasn't enough to stop our cowboy hatted pal from unleashing a sequel onto an unsuspecting world and upsetting the mighty BBFC in the process who regarded the film as being "sexually violent" as well as possibly being in breach of the Obscene Publications Act.

Demanding 32 cuts (totalling 2 minutes and 37 seconds) before granting it a certificate the film is is finally with us and despite losing some references to sandpaper aided masturbation, forced mooth shite-ing and newborn baby crushing the movie still manages to be the funniest, most hellzaboppin' comedy I've seen since Cannon and Ball's one and only big screen outing The Boys in Blue.

"Rock on Tommy! There's mooth shite-in about!"

It's almost as if director Six has somehow channelled the journalistic genius of the great Charlie Brooker (or locked him in a cellar) into purposely writing a movie that's aimed fairly and squarely at readers of the Daily Mail* and no-one else, just to watch their collective heads explode as they try to comprehend it.

I mean, where do you begin when summing up such genius?

The acting, as mentioned before is excruciating to watch but perfectly pitched, giving a spot on portrayal of the kind of performances usually seen in this type of movie.

Special mention has to be given to the neighbour who's delivery of lines like "I'll play my fahkin music as loud as I like you fahkin retard!" are so stiltedly delivered, his walk so laboured as to give his scenes an almost cinéma vérité feel seldom seen in the modern horror genre.

Every shot, every action, every scene of the film is so recognisable and so clichéd that to see them de-constructed then presented back to us in such a perfectly re-rendered way is mind blowing in it's simplicity.


Never has the idea of the metanarrative been so successfully used before now in an attempt to actually fuse the audience members (as it were) into the story telling technique. Our knowledge and appreciation of the differences between good and bad cinema have never been so fully utilised by a director before, making us as much a part of the story as Martin or even the mooth shite-in.

Jean-François Lyotard would be wanking himself silly in his grave at the thought of it.

If he still had a cock obviously.


But is that so surprising for a wonderfully metaphorical work such as this?


I think not.

Unfortunately it seems that precious few of the folk who'd actually appreciate all this meta-textual bollocks have been arsed going to see it.

And rather than come out and agree with me, Tom Six seems to be staying silent.

I mean at this rate the whole point is gonna be lost and I'm going to end up looking like an arse who's been duped into reading way too much into something that in reality has very little cultural or cinematic worth other than to shock.

And don't you just hate it when that happens?

Lyotard: Clever clogs. And French.

*For those of you outside the UK the Daily Mail is a British 'news' paper written exclusively by, and for ex-Nazi's and their families. Famously pro-Hitler during the 40's, latter day classic cuts include advocating abortions for babies with Autism,  describing Stephen Gately's death as a little sleazy due to him being gay and that every crime and benefit fraud in the country is committed by 'Johnny Foreigner', who even tho' has been welcomed into our country with open arms refuses blankly to turn his skin white.

And that's just articles by Jan Moir.