behind the mask.

And for those of you who've still not seen Predators or are planning to see Splice (tho' fuck knows why) we present the patented Adrien Brody cut out and keep face mask to wear with pride.

Don't forget to send in photo's of you and your friends wearing them, there's a prize for the most original.

the brody bunch.

Just back from a testosterone fuelled boys night out to catch the worlds greatest actor (TM) punching a big rubber monster with a vagina for a mouth whilst scrabbling around a kiddies sandpit.

Yup, it can only be...

Predators (2010).
Dir: Nimród Antal.
Cast: Sir Adrien of Brody, Alice Braga, Topher Grace, Oleg Taktarov, Danny Trejo, Walton Goggins, Mahershalalhashbaz Ali, Louis Ozawa Changchien and Laurence Fishburne.

"Hmm... 5 O'clock... Bitch rapin' time."

Enjoying an afternoon kip on the sofa, beak-nosed bad ass mercenary Ross Royce (the magnificent Brody, star of some of the greatest movies of all time, oh and Splice) is woken by a cold draft down his back and is fairly surprised to find that he's no longer sitting in his conservatory listening to Radio 4 but plummeting to earth with a kiddies lunchbox strapped to his back.

Normal start to the day then.

Luckily the lunchbox contains a groovy glider cum parachute and soon enough Royce is rolling about in the mud, looking all mean and moody whilst trying to recover his dignity.

Within seconds landing tho' Royce is even more surprised (there's a lot of it about) to find himself being machine gunned by a mental Hispanic drug dealer named Cuchillo (the legend that is Danny Trejo), who also seems to have mysteriously parachuted in to this strange and exotic jungle.

Well, I say strange and exotic but it just looks as if they went down to the local park, if you look closely you can actually see the swings in the background.

Only the Brody.

Being hard nosed bastards the pair indulge in a wee bit of manly bitch slapping before being attacked (hmmm....there seems to be a pattern forming) by a brick-built Russian soldier named Nikolai (Taktarov, star of loads of stuff that I haven't seen and Bad Boys II which I have) carrying what looks like a giant hedge trimmer that spits bullets.

More manliness ensues.

All this slapping and scuffling tho', plus the smell of sweat and piss has attracted the attentions of another military type stuck in the jungle.

Enter (from behind roughly if you're that way inclined) the sexy Israeli sniper Isabelle (button nosed Braga from City of God), whose calm demeanour and smart fringe almost instantly calms the situation and soon enough the merry band are traipsing towards the petting zoo looking for other recently arrived folk.

Knowing that we're here to see some top monster vs. Brody action and not just to watch a bunch of sweaty folk walking thru' a country park it's not long before the rest of the cast are assembled, including Mombasa (Ali) a Sierra Leone bad lad, cool bare foot Yakuza Hanzo (Changchien), death row rapist Stans (Goggins) plus clumsy comedy doctor Edwin (Grace).

As each are introduced they're allowed a few minutes of swearing and of flexing their muscles in an attempt to define their characters.

All except Edwin that is who gets to fall out of a tree in a vaguely amusing Chuckle Brothers manner.

The girl, the Brody and the pill.

Being the only Oscar winner amongst the cast Royce soon takes charge, deciding that if they walk far enough in the same direction they'll find the park gates or at the very least a climbing frame to stand on so they can shout for their mums.

Everyone agrees and dutifully follows our hero past the rockery (with water feature) along to a big clearing where they're all shocked and stunned to see, not the sky but a huge toddlers drawing of some planets and stuff shoddily hung in front of them.

Are they in an alien adventure playground or are the FX team fucking with the movies budget?

There's unfortunately no time to discuss this as out of nowhere (well the bushes) some spiky headed CGI Shetland ponies appear and start to chase our heroes in a terrifying frenzy of pixelated bloodlust and computer game level tie-in madness.

Seemingly impervious to bullets (sometimes) it's down to Brody's patented five knuckle fist-fuck to render the beasts unconscious.

The good, the bad and the Brody.

Putting two and two together (then dividing by monster horsedogs before subtracting originality) Royce figures out that they been kidnapped by aliens then deposited on some kind of intergalactic game preserve to be hunted down like wild animals.

Albeit wild animals with big guns and balls of steel.

And that's just Isabelle.

From now on in it's a battle for survival as Earth's meanest mutha's take on the fanny faced ferocious Predators in a fight to the death.

Or a reheated rehash of the original with a skinny Oscar winner in the place of the pug faced Austrian oak.

Probably.

Brody of evidence.

Hired by behatted producer Robert Rodriguez (because he was cheap and because Paul WS Anderson was busy probably) to bring his boyhood dream of a halfway decent sequel to the 1987 Schwarzenegger original to the screen, Nimród (Armoured, Vacancy and Kontroll) Antal's boy's own, big(gish) budget 'B' picture is as inoffensive as it is at times annoying.

Looking like it was shot in the producers garden with Playstation quality special effects, Brody seems to be under the impression that he's in Saving Private Ryan whilst a bizarro cameo from a drunken, bloated Laurence Fishburne seems to have been edited in from a completely different draft of the script.

And if you're gonna put Danny Trejo in a movie for fucks sake don't kill him off twenty minutes in.

And then off screen.

Luckily Alice Braga pitches her performance as the hard bitch with a great arse perfectly but you know that when Topher (Venom/Eddie Brock from Spider-Man 3) Grace gives a movies best performance that you're in trouble.

Thankfully tho' before the entire thing falls apart or you start to think too much about the script, Adrien Brody takes his top off, smothers himself in mud and has a fist fight with a tall man in a rubber suit and a string vest.

It's then that it somehow makes it all seems worthwhile.

Brody and (Mrs) Doyle:
"Go on, go on, go on".

Pedestrianly directed, pantomimely acted and with special effects as rough as your mum, Predators is far better than the cinematic quagmire that is AvP (1 and 2) but never scales the testosterone and piss stained epicness of the original.

But did anyone honestly think it would be?

Bizarrely enough tho' Predators is still a must see.

And not just for the sight of Adrien Brody's serious actor persona nosediving quicker than the character of Royce in the films pre-credit sequence.

something fishy.

Especially for one of our regular readers, Mr. Pol Daniels, here are some fantastic(ally) shite Japanese shark film VHS covers!

Megumareru!

Can YOU name them all?

george diablos.

All the way from sunny Argentina, some rather spiffing George A. Romero cover art.

Enjoy!

moro comico el filtho.

return of the living ned.

Always willing to give a helping hand to the little people (plus almost as many non-Lilliputians) and to give a push to projects that tickle my fancy (or pay me to do so), I recently came across this little gem online that I thought I'd share with you all.

Well share with the odd few that can actually read here and don't just pop by to see if there are any dirty pictures.

Starting life as a series of sketches based upon the notion of the sunny city of Glasgow (that's Scotchland, Europe near London for our overseas readers) being overrun by the undead, StoneDEAD has taken of an (after) life of it's own as a (soon to be completed) six episode web series accompanied by a handful of one-off 'minutesodes', a real sounding yet totally fictitious way of saying 'sixty second vignettes'.

Crikey.

Cheesy, cheerful and cheaper than your mum, creators Zan Phee, Allan Groves and Jamie Lamarra have crafted, well throw together really (which they freely admit so no slagging me off for being bitchy) an almost Beckett style tale of hope, loss and friendship (with assorted gore gags and sweary words) that brings to mind not only the bleak, avant-garde writings of the aforementioned writer but also share a pedigree of relationship based comedy that stretches back as far as Steptoe and Son and up to the underrated Nightingales.

"Shite in mah Beckettesque
mooth you undead bastards!"

Co-writer Phee (an interview with whom shall appear on these very pages soon), taking a break from slaughtering puppies to use as shoes for the zombie extras told us that "StoneDEAD started as a few sketch ideas based in zombie Glasgow. As the idea spread (in our heads) it become a 6 episode season about finding humour in this made-up Glasgow based zombie tragedy."

Which sums it up rather nicely methinks.

Interested?

If so check out the official webshite here and the groovy Facebook fanpage here.

And don't forget to mention who sent you.

No other reason than I like to see my name in print.

connecticut four.

The Haunting in Connecticut (2009).
Dir: Peter Cornwell.
Cast: Virginia Madsen, Kyle Gallner, Elias Koteas, Ty Wood, Martin Donovan, Sophi Knight and Amanda Crew.

"It's okay, ma'am, I'm a Reverend!"

Homely Catholic mum of three Sara Campbell (the frankly amazing breasted star of 80's computer based rom-Tron Electric Dreams and cult criminal caper Reservoir Dogs Madsen) spends her days caring for (and listening to the constant nasally whining of) her cancer-riddled (yet still buff and fairly handsome, must be cancer of the acting gene) teenage son Matt (Gallner from Jennifer's Body).

Living in another state whilst having to commute back and forth for Matt’s treatment is taking its toll on the family tho' so they (Sara, ex alcoholic dad Peter, buck toothed ball headed son Billy, messy haired moppet Mary and cousin or something Wendy) decide to relocate closer to the hospital so that he can participate in some special cancer trials.

Well I say it's the stress of her child being ill that's causing all the trouble but I'm putting the strain down to the fact that Matt spends most of the time sprawled across the back seat of the family car in a pool of his on vomit whilst coming out with lines like "The cancer's not your fault mom!" and looking teary eyed into the middle distance.

I mean it's enough to wear down the best of us, self obsessed arse.

Virginia Madsen sweeps up the
remains of her once proud career.

While searching for a new home (and I mean that quite literally seeing as the film features loads of shots of her driving about and squinting at streets intercut with footage of a topless Matt having injections as bland music plays. Endlessly), Sara stumbles across a huge, olde worldy house that seems way too good to be true.

Especially when the owner only asks for five pounds for the whole thing.

Being notoriously tight (as well as careful with money, phnarr) Sara signs on the dotted line and excitedly tells the rest of the family the news.

Arriving at their new home and weighed down with those tea chests you only see in films, Matt freakily claims the basement as his bedroom and, surprise surprise, within minutes of dumping his load in the corner of the room he starts seeing dead people.

Sara, being a good Catholic mum, fondles her crucifix and blames his visions on his current treatments.

But Matt, in his own dreamy way, isn't too sure.

What he (and his more and more shot to fuck mum) is sure of tho' is the fact that if he reports it to the hospital he'll get kicked off the drugs programme and surely die.

No great loss then.

"What have I told you about
wanking over the sideboard?"

Between smashing plates, vomiting and seeing all manner of spooky stuff in and around the house Matt is surprised to discover that there's a fully working embalming room behind a stiff door in the corner of the basement.

This unusual (well unless you live in the Gorbals area of Glasgow) discovery is the final straw for poor Matt (and it has to be said most of the audience) and the annoying little shite begins his dark descent into cancer drug fuelled madness.

Sweet.

Too afraid to reveal his visions to his family and far too stupid to realise that the house is haunted Matt wanders around the house with a look of mild concern on his smug, square face until one day whilst undergoing some more 'treatment' (which seems to involve him sitting sweatily in a chair whilst watching teevee) he's befriended by a Catholic priest named Jeff Popescu (professional bridesmaid Koteas).

More interested in Matt's problems than in his peachy, tight arse, Popescu explains that it's the teens proximity to death that makes him more receptive to supernatural occurrences.

Well that's that sorted then.

Before Matt leaves the priest offers him his card in case he feels like discussing his ghostly problems.

Or fancies a wee bit of religious themed sodomy obviously.

"Watch as I lift the table
without using my hands!"

As his visions become more and more terrifying, Matt must discover (with the help of Wendy and the local library-yup, it's that easy) the origins of the horrific happenings in the house if he hopes to save not only his soul but the souls of his family before it is too late....

"Psychic shite in mah mooth!"

Allegedly based on true events (insofar as someone once purchased a house in Connecticut), director Peter Cornwell takes every well worn cliche of the haunted house genre and drags them naked, kicking and screaming in front of the cameras before throwing buckets of warm shite and them, dowsing them in petrol and finally lighting a match.

All in serious teevee movie of the week earth tones and that horrible speeded-up David Fincher directing Sesame Street style that had become boring as far back as 1997.

The script throws originality, common sense and any semblance of suspense to the wind in an attempt to out bore (and out po-face) even the original and abysmally earnest Amityville Horror and viciously drag the genre back to it's darkest pre-Ghostwatch days whilst stealing (then badly botching) dozens of the most memorable scenes from the horror classics back catalogue.

From The Exorcist to The Sixth Sense via Kubrick's The Shining, nothing and no-one is safe from the mucky paws of Cornwell and his 'writer' chums Adam Simon and Tim Metcalfe, who between them have already spoiled us with such classics as Revenge of the Nerds IV: Nerds in Love and Carnosaur.

Need I go on?

Head: Wood.

Credit where credits due tho' there is something genuinely terrifying in the movie that gave me sleepless nights for days afterwards.

Unfortunately it's the balloon faced, tombstone toothed visage of young Ty Wood that caused my sleeping troubles, I mean forget concentrating on the plot just gaze in wonder at how such a tiny frame can support such a huge head without snapping.

The things they can do with special effects these days eh?