tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32621531432571127862024-02-19T20:49:08.329-08:00Garbage Day!A celebration of all things garbage-y! By "all things" we pretty much mean movies and books.Samantha Willowshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13077210651620865080noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262153143257112786.post-83695547887599508322009-03-27T13:10:00.000-07:002009-03-30T09:26:16.137-07:00Xtro (1982)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitWyZuEXO-8fcYQaKjFWNF2qaFSuBYkPp3q5nNMzMsMw4_aZ4_Nkqn_5ZrfpRvM6Tb-yaa7_q5eyEL2DHaaxBBP70_JkC44KR6eDhGAeXggvsP-1EERd1JTsQaBLI_0fmfxJkiQEVALOY9/s1600-h/vlcsnap-325974.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitWyZuEXO-8fcYQaKjFWNF2qaFSuBYkPp3q5nNMzMsMw4_aZ4_Nkqn_5ZrfpRvM6Tb-yaa7_q5eyEL2DHaaxBBP70_JkC44KR6eDhGAeXggvsP-1EERd1JTsQaBLI_0fmfxJkiQEVALOY9/s320/vlcsnap-325974.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317996935430469746" border="0" /></a><br />A friend and I stumbled on this oddity not long ago. He was clicking around on the web as I was watching in a half-distracted manner when he found a creepy little clip of a couple driving down a secluded road. The headlights of their car light up a monster walking across the street in a strange, inverted way. We found out that the footage was pulled from a movie heretofore unknown to us, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0086610/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Xtro</span></a>, a video nasty that had been banned in Britain due to a shocking scene in which a woman gives birth to a full-grown man (more on that later). What tickled my friend (and sent him on a fevered mission to call every store in town in hopes of scoring us a copy) was that <span style="font-style: italic;">Xtro</span> was not only a horror movie, but a SCI-FI HORROR movie that featured aliens--he’s an incurable devotee of all things extra-terrestrial. I’m not so much, but the clip was more than enough to pique my interest and reminiscent of an earlier favorite of mine, John Carpenter's <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0113409/"><span style="font-style: italic;">In the Mouth of Madness</span></a>. It was shaping up to be my favorite kind of discovery--an old movie I have never heard of that, through some serendipitous turn of events, suddenly appears in my life. When it turns out to be a gem, the feeling derived is nothing short of, at the risk of using a tired metaphor, unearthing buried treasure.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIfSn4ZnpnHTfNDppdgzC8HbDUeMm51PMSA9WOrExyO0ISf-yj2fmkgqYlB29lzM1oEvI9ci4zZegm5SSr45khgeMnqPTRrFGpm_bZ2AnZ0wda2e3qZ-PRshsAizS3KUQ8HmR5UGfytVhw/s1600-h/vlcsnap-328228.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIfSn4ZnpnHTfNDppdgzC8HbDUeMm51PMSA9WOrExyO0ISf-yj2fmkgqYlB29lzM1oEvI9ci4zZegm5SSr45khgeMnqPTRrFGpm_bZ2AnZ0wda2e3qZ-PRshsAizS3KUQ8HmR5UGfytVhw/s320/vlcsnap-328228.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317996948380913682" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">A still from the clip that inspired the search.<br /></span></span></div><br />My friend’s telephone canvassing of the city turned up nary a copy. With all possible avenues exhausted, we would be forced to wait. I jumped on eBay and scored two copies on the cheap. It was in the hands of the U.S Postal Service. Was <span style="font-style: italic;">Xtro</span> worth the wait?<br /><br />My buddy’s girlfriend joined us for the first screening. Despite our palm-rubbing anticipation of the viewing, we made a couple of mistakes. First of all, we started the movie too late in the evening--it was pushing midnight. Secondly, we had stocked up on beer, otherwise known as “go night-night juice” when coupled with the late showing of a movie (falling asleep during a movie for me is no indication’s of its quality; I’ve been known to watch some of my most favorite movies over a span of two or three nights). For the first half an hour our eyes were riveted to the screen, the beers were riveted to our hands, and I can only imagine the this-is-awesome facial expressions we wore on our faces.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbOXyF0nk_bDJoehX4VDn0DT_9xSGJckzcSCnPCjahxi6BzLnEZnvCwd3flUyqClwelZn5M0y2Hq560lwgY8qu8hVoAC2y8cXQzDUdxkgaZDyzjfl8Sn2THpwOYql5QSeXFUCyp9PTJl0x/s1600-h/vlcsnap-329219.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbOXyF0nk_bDJoehX4VDn0DT_9xSGJckzcSCnPCjahxi6BzLnEZnvCwd3flUyqClwelZn5M0y2Hq560lwgY8qu8hVoAC2y8cXQzDUdxkgaZDyzjfl8Sn2THpwOYql5QSeXFUCyp9PTJl0x/s320/vlcsnap-329219.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318000454919699874" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >A still from the 1995 Fox special "Alien Dentistry (Fact or Fiction?)"</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Xtro</span>’s strength in the beginning comes from its piling on of shocking, surreal images. Shot on a shoestring budget, the bizarre abduction scene works on a so-jarring-I'm-gonna-have-to-believe-it level. Sam Phillips (Phillip Sayer) is in the yard, playing with his son. He tries to throw a stick over the house, day snaps to night, a strange light appears in the sky, a harsh wind blows, and that’s the last we see of daddy for three years. Tony (Simon Nash) is left with some abandonment issues that not even Analise, his French nanny (played by the lovely Miriam D’abo,) can alleviate. There’s also the freaky alien by the roadside that had originally enticed us, as well as the footage that got <span style="font-style: italic;">Xtro</span> banned in the first place--the alien rape scene which results in the victim giving birth to a fully grown Sam Phillips. This isn’t a traditional rape; the victim, a la Alien, finds herself with a rather gross and slimy alien appendage attached to her mouth as a means of impregnation. The woman then goes through the shortest gestation period ever captured, a shortcut which she more than makes up for with the mother of all painful births--something we see echoed onscreen twenty years later with Takashi Miike’s surreal Yakuza flick <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0361668/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Gozu</span></a>.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBKF4XWutnKNEgoomq2w44k2ABzR_Xwq9Y3iTuoUiV9rmdSyySIQf7wYWxEGRCxLx6wonbo1c3p5SePUoPyskyZ9ehiZKV_F8Wny1-G4yZF7gdjBaeylFB2Cb9r1M-QIa5olqeOCvv6GMO/s1600-h/vlcsnap-330396.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBKF4XWutnKNEgoomq2w44k2ABzR_Xwq9Y3iTuoUiV9rmdSyySIQf7wYWxEGRCxLx6wonbo1c3p5SePUoPyskyZ9ehiZKV_F8Wny1-G4yZF7gdjBaeylFB2Cb9r1M-QIa5olqeOCvv6GMO/s320/vlcsnap-330396.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317996953478382610" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">An </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">au pair</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"> to draw to.<br /></span></span></div><br />I should add that Analise gets the only witty line of dialogue in the entire film. When young Tony awakens in the middle of the night covered in blood, a doctor is summoned. Finding no sign of injury, he hints that Tony might benefit from psychiatric help. This fiesty frenchwoman rushes to Tony's aid, making it clear that the doctor's suggestion is not a welcome one. "All that a doctor can think of is another doctor," she scoffs.<br /><br />The film comes apart a bit once the action slows down and we get into the exposition. When Sam tries to rejoin the family, he is met with resistance [partly because he can offer no explanation for his three year walkabout, partly because he has been displaced by a photographer vying for the love of Rachel (Bernice Stegers,) his wife].<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw8vMWst0OnwtNDxYhb9WuiflYqNzGMZ9GXNT77hUzToKWZ5-0NqD1enbDN6NjsmbwbHnVZA87PTajC5cdNP_Ho4qSlsc9vWFioLFuE8fsLrM38OrvZ5uG215iPkYvLa7J5XeOLYh6kaEF/s1600-h/vlcsnap-331615.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw8vMWst0OnwtNDxYhb9WuiflYqNzGMZ9GXNT77hUzToKWZ5-0NqD1enbDN6NjsmbwbHnVZA87PTajC5cdNP_Ho4qSlsc9vWFioLFuE8fsLrM38OrvZ5uG215iPkYvLa7J5XeOLYh6kaEF/s320/vlcsnap-331615.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317996962068615922" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">A peek behind the scenes of the glamorous world of foot modeling.</span><br /></span></div><br />Sam confides in his son Tony (who bears an uncanny resemblance to yours truly when I was a lad, and, I should add, plays a mean game of Connect Four, a perennial battleground between my sister and I when we were kids) that he has returned for him. He chases Tony down and sucks on his shoulder, leaving a nasty, exaggerated mosquito bite. This, he tells him, will prepare his body for life on the new planet. It was at around this point during the first screening when the three of us opted for a nap on the couch. On second viewing, I can see that the beer and the late hour weren’t entirely to blame, because the story starts to go slack here. Details about the alien planet and the aliens’ reasons for abducting Sam are glossed over. It’s also unclear as to why they’d make the interplanetary voyage once again so that Sam could pick up his little boy. All facts point to the aliens as being a predatory bunch, with little regard for human safety or fuzzy feelings, so this little trip to unite father and son seems far-flung.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2uKm9XoQcVAbcjFfPzUsqPV0EZZsE_Fd1Ar8DHxdIqLQRyanHADClVEKz7LyMQIJE0qlOMbPSOi62W9QTBxfLvD3_fuH-3hh9JPm7Yv9mxRMBRt8jhMdWLvdHHC9xgFGaHaJJXyBN_tVw/s1600-h/vlcsnap-332443.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2uKm9XoQcVAbcjFfPzUsqPV0EZZsE_Fd1Ar8DHxdIqLQRyanHADClVEKz7LyMQIJE0qlOMbPSOi62W9QTBxfLvD3_fuH-3hh9JPm7Yv9mxRMBRt8jhMdWLvdHHC9xgFGaHaJJXyBN_tVw/s320/vlcsnap-332443.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317997365448631730" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Go for the glory, go for the score. Go for it: Connect Four!</span><br /></span></div><br />Tony’s exploration of his nascent powers also alter the tone of the film too much for my taste. Particularly the scenes in which he brings to life some of his favorite toys. I found that they took up too much time, particularly his clown companion, who I kept wishing would just get the eff out of the film. I’m not a fan of clowns--I’m not one of those people who fashionably claims to be afraid of them--but I don’t much care for their aesthetic . . . Especially when shoehorned into what could otherwise be a serviceable little sci-fi horror flick.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEof7u-WbnCF3I7gukI-vwRSymAbLCxix8p0wWpST6QYa6wEhyphenhyphen7bHes6wJvNpp01mEvgHHbwrISLKwWB8Gf-zvY5TvCVmXRqaUeKDbVwgpl3cNSuzphe4HXKFjrFmEz9QwzC_PiOnuEtvt/s1600-h/vlcsnap-334071.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEof7u-WbnCF3I7gukI-vwRSymAbLCxix8p0wWpST6QYa6wEhyphenhyphen7bHes6wJvNpp01mEvgHHbwrISLKwWB8Gf-zvY5TvCVmXRqaUeKDbVwgpl3cNSuzphe4HXKFjrFmEz9QwzC_PiOnuEtvt/s320/vlcsnap-334071.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317997374834648402" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">There is something about this picture that I find inherently repellent, so much so that I may not be able to revisit my blog until subsequent posts have pushed it off the main page.</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></div><br />Though a good deal of the steam has been dispersed by the conclusion, it does pick up somewhat, though not enough to redeem it entirely. There is some good imagery as father and son are picked up by the spacecraft and the coda at the end in which Rachel discovers a tub full of pulsating alien eggs has a nice oneiric feel. All in all, it was worth the two bucks plus shipping I spent, but, ultimately it leaves me with the feeling that it could have been so much more.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBtwK3OR1Lj-WpT36ZlC3BjapU6zSEK26F1CLiWR1rFznjKilVGW85uBgRZraniONa_orTfIucVhs8-LISTgVgJF94EYdn2rhxy07qpbTw-ETyvqyK9YVq-IYeNXRNpOEbTAQeTrIX1JBh/s1600-h/vlcsnap-335977.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBtwK3OR1Lj-WpT36ZlC3BjapU6zSEK26F1CLiWR1rFznjKilVGW85uBgRZraniONa_orTfIucVhs8-LISTgVgJF94EYdn2rhxy07qpbTw-ETyvqyK9YVq-IYeNXRNpOEbTAQeTrIX1JBh/s320/vlcsnap-335977.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317997380690278722" border="0" /></a><br />So, while the viewing left me puzzled, I was glad to have written the bulk of the review before visiting the DVD extras. In a fifteen minute long interview, director Harry Bromley Davenport did not have many nice things to say about his own movies (he directed two sequels as well). Since<span style="font-style: italic;"> Xtro</span> was his first film, he admits that in the excitement, he and his collaborators went a little apeshit when it came to adding story elements--particularly the black panther that appears a few times in the movie. Turns out it was one of the producers, I believe, that insisted on it, much to HBD's dismay (because of the expense, and, also, like what the hell is a black panther doing in an alien movie set in Great Britain?). While these diversions ranged from puzzling (as in the case of the panther) to downright irritating (as in the case of the clown) they weren't enough to merit a pan. <span style="font-style: italic;">Xtro</span> does suffer from some sloppy plotting, though, for the most part, a coherent story can be extracted from the film. Rather than the panther, the clown, and the toy soldier come to life--none of which really add to the scare count because effective scares in the movie are all directly related to the extraterrestrial--I would have like to have been given more detail about the more fascinating aspects of the story (i.e. why exactly Tony's body would have to be altered for life on another planet, what life on that other planet is like, why was it important to go back for Tony, etc.). It's easy to understand why the film has earned a modest cult following. The stretches of weirdness are enough to keep any viewer amused between the scare scenes that become increasingly fewer and further between.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQyqFoFKBCXOTEUgqdG0G0m4wIP57fDX7gfhvUTUhn9_YZcmSt_aZ6FGdRN6jQa1l2BmNFqyvCQOBFm74IV33-NrXVzXdIwtP48m9cY1q6JgYszzhjfvSJihEy5g0GAXkWDFK3S-P0E94i/s1600-h/vlcsnap-338217.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQyqFoFKBCXOTEUgqdG0G0m4wIP57fDX7gfhvUTUhn9_YZcmSt_aZ6FGdRN6jQa1l2BmNFqyvCQOBFm74IV33-NrXVzXdIwtP48m9cY1q6JgYszzhjfvSJihEy5g0GAXkWDFK3S-P0E94i/s320/vlcsnap-338217.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317997392750688834" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This could be a kick-ass scene in a <a href="http://garbagedayagain.blogspot.com/2009/03/black-roses-1988.html">Black Roses</a> video, but in </span>Xtro<span style="font-style: italic;"> it just plain don't work.<br /></span></span></div>Ricky Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821840542920611852noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262153143257112786.post-24255030069599878832009-03-21T13:17:00.000-07:002009-03-22T17:41:05.291-07:00A Snake of June (2002)This is my first foray into the work of Shinya Tsukamoto, probably most famous for his body-horror classic, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0096251/">Tetsuo</a> (1989). I started here for no better reason than the copy on the back of the DVD box has always intrigued me, though for some reason I kept putting off watching it. Tsukamoto has a reputation for weirdness and <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0330904/"><span style="font-style: italic;">A Snake of June</span></a> (<span style="font-style: italic;">Rokugatsu no hebi</span>) has more than a little--though at times I found myself wanting more. The more surreal passages of the film tend to come and go quickly and we are spirited back to the gritty, rain-soaked land of the film’s story. While the basic story arc is more realistic, it is hardly pleasant territory.<br /><br />Rinko (Asuka Kurosawa) is a young woman working as a counselor for a suicide prevention hotline. She is quick to prescribe such advice to her callers as “find what you want to do in life” as a remedy for vanquishing thoughts of self-immolation. She lives at home with her husband Shikehigo (Yuji Kohtari,) a man who could easily be mistaken for her father. The couple live a kind of sexless existence--they do not even sleep in the same room. In fact, I was convinced that Shikehigo was Rinko’s father until an envelope shows up for her, with a warning stating that it should be kept secret from her husband.<br /><br />Inside the envelope are a series of photographs of Rinko, dressed in a very short skirt, gallivanting about the city--a venture that ends with her presumably masturbating in a fountain. Soon thereafter the calls start and the blackmail begins.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwy3s-Ue3q2E1xMo-7LuqvHWqGrcpHeOoSV_JGNuWJ7M3woXX0S6sAL7m9jL-Uy5-1xOhQ9kq1I2ctAOUWDNYyA4piffagZCmF6ydKM1bDjwBjUaczX9K57OijPDvvyQOF6GhYyIWV_uBH/s1600-h/vlcsnap-11902535.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwy3s-Ue3q2E1xMo-7LuqvHWqGrcpHeOoSV_JGNuWJ7M3woXX0S6sAL7m9jL-Uy5-1xOhQ9kq1I2ctAOUWDNYyA4piffagZCmF6ydKM1bDjwBjUaczX9K57OijPDvvyQOF6GhYyIWV_uBH/s320/vlcsnap-11902535.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315757497017635954" border="0" /></a><br />The blackmailer insists that Rinko more or less recreates the events in the photographs, which Rinko swears was an isolated incident, if he is to turn over the negatives. There are a couple of cruel twists that the blackmailer adds. The scene in which Rinko walks through a shopping mall in her short skirt can be rather difficult to watch--the woman is obviously suffering as she attracts more than her share of unwanted attention. The camera tends to linger closely on Rinko's sweat-dappled face, giving the sequence an uncomfortable, claustrophobic feeling. And greater indignities follow.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjfgwKpuZKNjiflThRjc3QVJXGOzaNtPpkWGoTktc2rga0N3eTYHcGjRv5KOgr8-aBDOHfksdFPm3m0EZwBTOELXm-C1mUgrd1seKSMZ4utiz31gcX6q8tmhuJGQyXpfl124r4FJzAdGuz/s1600-h/vlcsnap-11896457.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjfgwKpuZKNjiflThRjc3QVJXGOzaNtPpkWGoTktc2rga0N3eTYHcGjRv5KOgr8-aBDOHfksdFPm3m0EZwBTOELXm-C1mUgrd1seKSMZ4utiz31gcX6q8tmhuJGQyXpfl124r4FJzAdGuz/s320/vlcsnap-11896457.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315757166656340194" border="0" /></a><br />Once Rinko’s ordeal is over, Shikehigo must face his own trial at the hands of the blackmailer. It is here, at about the film’s forty-five minute mark, that a turn for the weird is taken. At a few points in the film I found myself wondering if what I was seeing was actually happening in the world of the film or if they were projections of a character’s imagination. But as I stated earlier, these deviations from reality are short (but not necessarily sweet).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCpvfOROCO_gMvP02KVX9BNdF95rtaTEcBhTFwlHJsv7xoboW0yxqKGnhrkp8as7Bj2OScjhWPPG0R_w6ewhssqORgJ7NpUQDXxMXQCzTwb566wuMuPakVmAHPmxqovIUMXJ4_MBDgiy66/s1600-h/vlcsnap-11899009.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCpvfOROCO_gMvP02KVX9BNdF95rtaTEcBhTFwlHJsv7xoboW0yxqKGnhrkp8as7Bj2OScjhWPPG0R_w6ewhssqORgJ7NpUQDXxMXQCzTwb566wuMuPakVmAHPmxqovIUMXJ4_MBDgiy66/s320/vlcsnap-11899009.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315757196650280642" border="0" /></a><br />There are many more revelations, minor and major, but for now I’m going to leave the plot dangling right where it is because I don’t want to spoil too much. I think there’s a lot to chew on thematically here. Rinko, though she leads a life of work and sexual repression, lets her wild side come out--and for that she is roundly punished. What was first a turn-on for her is transformed into a humiliation when the blackmailer forces her to relive the events on his terms. He claims he is doing her a favor by getting her in touch with what she really wants--in a sense, he’s force-feeding her own advice to the would-be suicides right back to her and, while it makes perfectly good sense, this medicine isn’t always so palatable as it’s going down--there’s no spoonful of sugar here. Advice is easy to dispense but hard to follow.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVXzfcID_dkcnQGss_5xeTR49t4A3627EvT9o4Gbye8K3DKnExLxyd_Gzw3FdjflQduLU9J5Y7eAT30zY4YkWDJ_Yg6P0lCCPBq-1XdIMlm8j1gCJDdpp3kktJhAtKhDl-t8rJ4mOPbchk/s1600-h/vlcsnap-11899772.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVXzfcID_dkcnQGss_5xeTR49t4A3627EvT9o4Gbye8K3DKnExLxyd_Gzw3FdjflQduLU9J5Y7eAT30zY4YkWDJ_Yg6P0lCCPBq-1XdIMlm8j1gCJDdpp3kktJhAtKhDl-t8rJ4mOPbchk/s320/vlcsnap-11899772.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315757466212915410" border="0" /></a><br />It’s impossible to write any more without dealing with the small abnormality on Rinko’s breast that the photographer/blackmailer notices before even Rinko’s husband does. He urges her to go to the doctor. A diagnosis of breast cancer is confirmed, and we learn that the blackmailer himself is dying as well, presumably from stomach cancer. When Rinko’s cancer goes untreated, the blackmailer becomes enraged and administers a vicious beating to Shikehigo. Perhaps it’s the blackmailer after all who has Rinko’s greatest interests at heart. He challenges her to get in touch with her deepest desires (this movie should be of great interest to Freudians or anyone interested in psychoanalysis) and to undergo the surgery that will mar her beauty but ultimately save her life. What Rinko really does want out of life is greater sexual freedom . . . and because she can’t fulfill those desires with her husband, she is forced to get her fix in other ways.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRcn55IO7v7S2Rzzhnh8gb9rWIAU-ugrVg04AXdjW8gOVLJ71Ae7f4q7pwAZVZq2OASiVWEoqJvnOcZeFPLKFiQ8TjBLspH3SQHQzIudQuTeC2-TIyn_PiTm7rtbAZVfVrJzLX7elKTNUd/s1600-h/vlcsnap-11897450.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRcn55IO7v7S2Rzzhnh8gb9rWIAU-ugrVg04AXdjW8gOVLJ71Ae7f4q7pwAZVZq2OASiVWEoqJvnOcZeFPLKFiQ8TjBLspH3SQHQzIudQuTeC2-TIyn_PiTm7rtbAZVfVrJzLX7elKTNUd/s320/vlcsnap-11897450.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315757180035765074" border="0" /></a><br />Rinko and the blackmailer have been handed a death sentence and this mortality salience causes them to act in different ways. Rinko puts her timidity on a shelf on her subsequent short-skirted outings. She is now a confident woman, a bombshell that draws the eye of everyone in the vicinity. The blackmailer, well, he has become a blackmailer, someone willing to commit horrendous crimes against an otherwise timid young woman. The realization of death, then, causes people to act on their darker impulses, you might say. It may seem this way--just look at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terror_management_theory">terror management theory</a> from social psychology. But when you look again, you have to admit that the blackmailer may care more deeply about Rinko than her own husband does. And Rinko having a sex drive is certainly no crime--the real crime is in that she, as a woman but also as a human being, has been taught over and over again to not act out on her sexual impulses. The irony, or perhaps the beauty, in all of this, is that these strange and criminal events do force Rinko and Shikehigo into each others arms so that they can engage in some good old-fashioned screwing.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_cPjbcMQfXKU9xBtbtl-8BdCRTI07q6sak5fhns286rheufMz_D71Nj1tJPA5vWUZQ_CI474lNtaqkhcbW3sL4vCN4lw40_i_NFRUVm2g6UKXyjGASHHNrQttL4aEytvmocNQOnOSX8N7/s1600-h/vlcsnap-11901046.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_cPjbcMQfXKU9xBtbtl-8BdCRTI07q6sak5fhns286rheufMz_D71Nj1tJPA5vWUZQ_CI474lNtaqkhcbW3sL4vCN4lw40_i_NFRUVm2g6UKXyjGASHHNrQttL4aEytvmocNQOnOSX8N7/s320/vlcsnap-11901046.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315757493121691666" border="0" /></a>Ricky Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821840542920611852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262153143257112786.post-10784826542097631932009-03-13T09:45:00.001-07:002009-03-14T12:58:24.087-07:00Black Roses (1988)<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcW_ylEngMJ_X7oyPxF90bIA094TXFy6dqUYwFKYWoQxu3C-ztJfJhDWQIdILdgrPYocgtjvCwxfZrLQ_JitzBT29e-Zf9zcx3g3smKa7E2vk1uRola2SQ6tVS_j6hAU4U46XfT8guQzEQ/s1600-h/vlcsnap-10373667.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcW_ylEngMJ_X7oyPxF90bIA094TXFy6dqUYwFKYWoQxu3C-ztJfJhDWQIdILdgrPYocgtjvCwxfZrLQ_JitzBT29e-Zf9zcx3g3smKa7E2vk1uRola2SQ6tVS_j6hAU4U46XfT8guQzEQ/s320/vlcsnap-10373667.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312716764305785314" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This just in! Rock 'n' Roll Horror reviews continue with </span>Black Roses<span style="font-style: italic;">.</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPl7O9Sec5GZyro1TE1MMZ4auE3L6-EUMqJMsDgCtbuqg22FMfDlbxRHVqUnXFBaiRrp43oBUFbbNUxNO5OYXeKXMkFsq8JqDo-C_WX1GqakXgDptHYuL51g3snOAplfhpXFW7UJZbuX_H/s1600-h/vlcsnap-9605592.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPl7O9Sec5GZyro1TE1MMZ4auE3L6-EUMqJMsDgCtbuqg22FMfDlbxRHVqUnXFBaiRrp43oBUFbbNUxNO5OYXeKXMkFsq8JqDo-C_WX1GqakXgDptHYuL51g3snOAplfhpXFW7UJZbuX_H/s320/vlcsnap-9605592.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312714854331846018" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0094752/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Black Roses</span></a> begins<span style="font-style: italic;"> in medias res</span>--<span style="font-style: italic;">in medias res</span> of one of the lamest rock concerts ever committed to film, featuring a coterie of wailing demons with guitars and microphones delivering a bass-drum-thumpin’ rendition of the Black Roses megahit, “Me Against the World” as a throng of musical-appreciatingly-challenged fans go ape-poopy. How did the world devolve into such a state in which demons are an acceptable form of entertainment? More puzzlingly, how did music of this foul stripe ever become popular outside the realm of fiction? Now that your brain is sufficiently tickled, the filmmakers rewind the narrative, to the Lamborghini-powered arrival of the Black Roses to the blink-and-you-miss-it Podunk shithole town of Mill Basin.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMynqkn5W0DN7v3uk0yUN-RJfWoV_LZbuD3HLMPfIPYwWhUpHcUOm_Mk6kWY-dTFKMFBJ0Q1yrmRqI0KFpLK2-qYSuJfNzOPcG9kkjlMLwYfqXpbjRhZrVSThVvJ8h3GQHt3kljNgjj0Ph/s1600-h/vlcsnap-9559458.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMynqkn5W0DN7v3uk0yUN-RJfWoV_LZbuD3HLMPfIPYwWhUpHcUOm_Mk6kWY-dTFKMFBJ0Q1yrmRqI0KFpLK2-qYSuJfNzOPcG9kkjlMLwYfqXpbjRhZrVSThVvJ8h3GQHt3kljNgjj0Ph/s320/vlcsnap-9559458.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312714837657087586" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"Tie a yellow ribbon 'round the old oak tree . . . "</span></span><br /></div><br />What does <span style="font-style: italic;">Black Roses</span> have going for it that <span style="font-style: italic;">Hard Rock Zombies</span> doesn’t? Well, let’s take a look at the featured bands. The Black Roses are better than the band in <span style="font-style: italic;">Hard Rock Zombies</span> for two reasons: 1) The Black Roses went through the trouble of naming their band. 2) They are slightly better musicians. In fact, I can easily imagine Black Roses being played on the radio alongside acts such as Poison and Motley Crue--that is to say that they blow muledick.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje54RhtLAhcxNoOuBWUw7wQB1QhfiVq_VFyF9iT9BSRJeFlqhc5qJ7bPUIbzrtfWtISe2kBV42Q6hMNQcXgSEox3y3dnFgap9DHmgW75Sb0e4hPHqL_dAQs-mqDz-v9CNIYR522xblTzna/s1600-h/vlcsnap-9610295.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje54RhtLAhcxNoOuBWUw7wQB1QhfiVq_VFyF9iT9BSRJeFlqhc5qJ7bPUIbzrtfWtISe2kBV42Q6hMNQcXgSEox3y3dnFgap9DHmgW75Sb0e4hPHqL_dAQs-mqDz-v9CNIYR522xblTzna/s320/vlcsnap-9610295.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312715854480594658" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"Check out my hairy pits!"<br /></span></span></div><br />As far as story is concerned, Black Roses is more coherent, although there is a great deal of fuzziness in terms of the intent of the band. They seem intent on evil, sure, by I for one wanted to know a bit more (well, actually I wanted to know quite a bit less, but that would hardly have suited the purpose of this review). It goes a little something like this: The Black Roses bring their leather-clad brand of mayhem to Mill Basin and the parents get their panties in a bunch over their corrupting influence. A meeting is held to try and stop the rock, and it seems as if the concert is going to be called off. The voice of reason comes not in the form of Jello Biafra, but the Mayor of Mill Basin, who reminds the lynch-mob-in-the-making that all rock and roll is rebellious and that the teens of Mill Basin are not being exposed to anything other than an updated version of Chuck Berry or Buddy Holly (which is true, if the word “updated” means “infused with vast amounts of suck”).<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7y72lrtaOC2TLpAdIejSvNMbEYe6DtDItyQhyphenhyphenig3cLCJNjnFyuH4emHqjhRDGvcYEQrE2O5pLdrnBwrp9ls7eavL7Wt9AGKOL-rGH-9bO65rUDEZKAXmnM7h-gfI1Zo2orq-4E1_jjfnb/s1600-h/vlcsnap-9608847.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7y72lrtaOC2TLpAdIejSvNMbEYe6DtDItyQhyphenhyphenig3cLCJNjnFyuH4emHqjhRDGvcYEQrE2O5pLdrnBwrp9ls7eavL7Wt9AGKOL-rGH-9bO65rUDEZKAXmnM7h-gfI1Zo2orq-4E1_jjfnb/s320/vlcsnap-9608847.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312714890732341570" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The International Symbol for B.J.<br /><br /></span></span></div>Caught in the middle of this generational battle is Mr. Moorhouse (John Martin), a man of such hunky proportions that he could easily replace Brawny on a roll of paper towels and consumers would nary bat an eye. He’s also a veritable wunderkind with his students--he’s the cool teacher that isn’t afraid to toss around terms like “bass-ackwards.” He is universally loved by his students because he isn’t afraid to “talk turkey.” Every joke he cracks is met with a chorus of laughter in which every single student is a participant. He is heavy into writers such as Whitman and Emerson and, while his lessons start out with a seemingly valid premise, they quickly detach themselves from the flat earth upon which they were founded and float away into an ether of nonsense and detours (one can imagine Mr. Moorhouse as being of the type of teacher whose lesson plans were easily derailed by students who posed questions designed to lead him away from the curriculum).<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZCXyV_-VFF4AsRyQ-SK-9RESghrddmmDRdoaZNRMgyu53Zmalrc7fdThd2leWYL4IK_Ay_Gbsr1VoIPUcYYAAVIcytRFUgjARm5PnJFCq4BpuXBEhBwIBPrpWzSQ5C8GZ70OD8feujK1X/s1600-h/vlcsnap-9606737.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZCXyV_-VFF4AsRyQ-SK-9RESghrddmmDRdoaZNRMgyu53Zmalrc7fdThd2leWYL4IK_Ay_Gbsr1VoIPUcYYAAVIcytRFUgjARm5PnJFCq4BpuXBEhBwIBPrpWzSQ5C8GZ70OD8feujK1X/s320/vlcsnap-9606737.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312714866373057634" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">How could I possibly detract from this man's beauty with a caption?<br /></span></span></div><br />While it is doubtless that Mr. Moorhouse cares deeply about his students, I’m not entirely sure that he’s much of a teacher. Student Johnny Pratt (Frank Deitz) is bursting with an incredible amount of youthful angst and exuberance for a twenty-eight year old--this is perhaps exacerbated by the questionable relationship between Moorhouse and Johnny’s love interest, Julie Windham (Karen Planden). In a scene strangely reminiscent of West Side Story, Johnny hangs off of lampposts and pours his heart out to Julie, jibing her for her crush on their dreamy hunkboat of a teacher. Johnny proclaims that the best way to deal with the nebulous swarm of emotions churning within his heart is to “paint the town red.” He then steals a can of red house paint and begins to apply it to the middle of the street. Now, either Johnny was sick the week that Mr. Moorhouse gave his lesson on metaphor or Mr. Moorhouse just plum forgot to teach it. At any rate, Johnny has shown himself to be the perfect candidate for hard-rock fandom.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLpHAx27D0hrHXwMYz7wCGO5aNp3SSieYuFjg7QmxCaT3eYSkxYi2NpAkFTVoGTDoWddtCP_ba1uBo7r_90Q2Vmhh37tRi1JvGor_mVOF8FgLIv7Yd8C4QzL9mDs__MPEOFtVh_y07bHqs/s1600-h/vlcsnap-9608163.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLpHAx27D0hrHXwMYz7wCGO5aNp3SSieYuFjg7QmxCaT3eYSkxYi2NpAkFTVoGTDoWddtCP_ba1uBo7r_90Q2Vmhh37tRi1JvGor_mVOF8FgLIv7Yd8C4QzL9mDs__MPEOFtVh_y07bHqs/s320/vlcsnap-9608163.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312716800355086514" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"I'm sorry but I'm incapable of abstract thought. Hand me the brush, will you?"</span></span><br /></div><br />The youth of the town get their way and the Black Roses are permitted to perform. The local chapter of the PMRC shows up to monitor things and Damien (Sal Viviano--I know, Damien, right? What an original name for a dude that turns out to be evil!) looking like an incredibly wholesome rocker who matches milk consumption and hairspray application ounce-for-ounce, takes the stage and says something terribly innocent such as, “I’d like to sing you all a little song about my hometown.” The axeman begins an arpeggio through a heavy chorus effect, and the schmaltz begins. Satisfied that the Black Roses are nothing more than a bunch of cuddly hairdos in blousy shirts, parents, teachers, and all other authority figures leave THIRTY SECONDS INTO THE FIRST SONG. This proves to be a bad idea because the band breaks into “Rock Invasion,” and “Rock Invasion” is a much better song, because it casts some sort of wacky spell on the teenagers in the audience.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpaKcfaZxRXePkAw1C71BoQP8G3OyVQTYrnwHNPSx5i8wSO9yTrW89AF20Kutt0mtm6EYDWlygU7ZXVFf_m_8OFkmGp5OTSNrCVtzBwrujx3iS19tiVDHS2J8wZURoQ2qin-H6oawkDueZ/s1600-h/vlcsnap-9609694.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpaKcfaZxRXePkAw1C71BoQP8G3OyVQTYrnwHNPSx5i8wSO9yTrW89AF20Kutt0mtm6EYDWlygU7ZXVFf_m_8OFkmGp5OTSNrCVtzBwrujx3iS19tiVDHS2J8wZURoQ2qin-H6oawkDueZ/s320/vlcsnap-9609694.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312716787438648306" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"And now I'd like to kick off the set with an entirely non-demon-related song."</span></span><br /></div><br />From what I could gather, this spell does a few things. It makes unattractive, middle-aged men desirable in the eyes of teenage rock fans (and, yes, chalk this one up as another movie featuring a game of strip poker). It also causes teenagers to become all gross looking and murderous. Most frighteningly, it causes teenagers to become fans of the Black Roses.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_5fA-3lMFdq_-3AyYpYlrjJTvuf1iK98z04kaLALgdCqo6KI6WTF6BWiRii7cAyQQac9E7H-JGPTU6xljsUGA2_PLlSQtLY2PfiHJFHPdbm32Dizsuu98NMbPhyphenhypheny1nhmLzi7RxqrRNO3_/s1600-h/vlcsnap-10371888.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_5fA-3lMFdq_-3AyYpYlrjJTvuf1iK98z04kaLALgdCqo6KI6WTF6BWiRii7cAyQQac9E7H-JGPTU6xljsUGA2_PLlSQtLY2PfiHJFHPdbm32Dizsuu98NMbPhyphenhypheny1nhmLzi7RxqrRNO3_/s320/vlcsnap-10371888.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312716781003073570" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">I just can't decide who's prettier . . .<br /></span></span></div><br />The rest of the movie features Mr. Moorhouse locked in an epic struggle between good and evil, hoping to rescue the souls of his students. Some highlights: Vincent Pastore (of Sopranos fame) plays some dude’s father and delivers what I have got to believe is his first onscreen “va fangul.” Julie, fed up with Moorhouse’s lecture on Whitman delivers this little gem: “Why do we have to study all of these dead writers? I mean there’s a poet alive today that writes rings around them: Damien.” (For some reason, the idea of song lyrics presented as a form of poetry has always made me cringe. Certainly there are good song lyrics to be found--certainly not from the Black Roses--but when you strip the melody away, they almost never could stand on their own as something you’d want to read). There is a conversation between Damien (Sal Viviano) and Moorhouse in which Damien says, “I’ve known your soul for a long time.” Are these mortal enemies or is Damien trying to get Moorhouse into the sack? Perhaps my favorite scene takes place between Mr. Moorhouse and his girlfriend Priscilla. He shows up at her house and, without provocation, she immediately lights into him for his love of his students and for doing nothing more with his life than being a high school English teacher. Naturally, an argument ensues and Mr. Moorhouse delivers this parting shot: “I’m going home.” (Turns away, pauses, turns back to Priscilla) “Or maybe to a bar. Yeah. Whichever I pass first.”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHA5PjWQy7LEYS63lECRyCY1BX2dMItSPwgGlroi0CZZcIdFj1OSRQTx5EW6MpWyrq9r1wbYjrqUrZRG-BLIuQvuLR_sRo4iPyIUnsXyJUTBsxsSM4KDn0xHqjPwLW_GcOgQifUKs1auoF/s1600-h/vlcsnap-9612555.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHA5PjWQy7LEYS63lECRyCY1BX2dMItSPwgGlroi0CZZcIdFj1OSRQTx5EW6MpWyrq9r1wbYjrqUrZRG-BLIuQvuLR_sRo4iPyIUnsXyJUTBsxsSM4KDn0xHqjPwLW_GcOgQifUKs1auoF/s320/vlcsnap-9612555.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312715873864720962" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">A demon with a taste for Pussy.<br /></span></span></div><br />Why do I love this scene so much? Part of the reason is undoubtedly because Mr. Moorhouse, the Mozart-listening, poetry-appreciating, renaissance man, seems to be far too chill to ever allow himself to become tethered to such a harpy as Priscilla. Finally we are allowed to see the fallible, human side of Mr. Matt Moorhouse.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuG8rIDSwlE7WRHULqdsEtzRPryYwToDEfDsMwNUpDAVuzqtw6SOqnloCEAefj5h7crksG-fHat_Em3yZRUf0sOUE3QyTx-XKRa6bhTAAI5AG-A5cLWYf-lhbnyDoEEBk0qPZDTYrev4kc/s1600-h/vlcsnap-10372097.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuG8rIDSwlE7WRHULqdsEtzRPryYwToDEfDsMwNUpDAVuzqtw6SOqnloCEAefj5h7crksG-fHat_Em3yZRUf0sOUE3QyTx-XKRa6bhTAAI5AG-A5cLWYf-lhbnyDoEEBk0qPZDTYrev4kc/s320/vlcsnap-10372097.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312715891341596370" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"Hey, Moorhouse. Tom Selleck called. He wants his aesthetic back."<br /></span></span></div><br />Even as the action of Black Roses picks up, I found myself becoming bored. The exposed puppet rods and corny costumes could not hold my interest. Mr. Moorhouse is the best thing that this movie has going for it. The horror elements (as weak as they are) could be stripped away entirely and this movie could instead be a character study of Matt Moorhouse, a denim and flannel kind of guy with a big comfy mustache, a man who indeed could achieve greatness in the larger arenas of life, but who is content to teach his class in Mill Basin, his little chunk of paradise. For Matt Moorhouse, it’s all about the kids.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3i85W9kcBbh5meMd-99UMXDPopzaOZeNc2_7mg6yL5FdaCMgIGx65Hjqsvo5MSkhoJANqBbtskpSG_IY0LSr6-snk8qURuIXH2VFB3G-u4sI4CPssQKdZgydRDdlLpqGYEDHN8eRKCMrZ/s1600-h/vlcsnap-9614034.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3i85W9kcBbh5meMd-99UMXDPopzaOZeNc2_7mg6yL5FdaCMgIGx65Hjqsvo5MSkhoJANqBbtskpSG_IY0LSr6-snk8qURuIXH2VFB3G-u4sI4CPssQKdZgydRDdlLpqGYEDHN8eRKCMrZ/s320/vlcsnap-9614034.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312716813395882562" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Are<br /><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjezZVyHCPjPTkY_aGqoi7afmV4FijVKQx_NWLphx20AoboJAxUOT1ZUb4mKtAJcZfzzvTOjjlL64mbrR0Kw6E1HAOVzXscn3YhwBSSD2KtfPbvqiVIcP19k0bUKr8BMkX9dcEutQ03qXrd/s1600-h/vlcsnap-10372966.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjezZVyHCPjPTkY_aGqoi7afmV4FijVKQx_NWLphx20AoboJAxUOT1ZUb4mKtAJcZfzzvTOjjlL64mbrR0Kw6E1HAOVzXscn3YhwBSSD2KtfPbvqiVIcP19k0bUKr8BMkX9dcEutQ03qXrd/s320/vlcsnap-10372966.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312715900502575250" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">you</span></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmcWn50BNEoM5VxtX542JmOLd0XiHCE0pNcjluQJVj-rBKpF_NL3AsFxr1u_6VuaVxEJgROekCZtZLEVd2p0tLWnkhiWNkyd8hz5kWFi1GySG28ZljrTmmZay5ldxU6a-ODGtIaYWyzPBP/s1600-h/vlcsnap-10369106.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmcWn50BNEoM5VxtX542JmOLd0XiHCE0pNcjluQJVj-rBKpF_NL3AsFxr1u_6VuaVxEJgROekCZtZLEVd2p0tLWnkhiWNkyd8hz5kWFi1GySG28ZljrTmmZay5ldxU6a-ODGtIaYWyzPBP/s320/vlcsnap-10369106.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312715878373789842" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">serious?</span></span></div>Ricky Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821840542920611852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262153143257112786.post-41711767417839342782009-03-08T13:40:00.000-07:002009-03-10T02:40:15.553-07:00Sole Survivor (1983)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl20tM9UKwlDEyH_7feIbEf26X1YYiHlMcgPfEJ3RCWBbIcu7oTKw0r_URE4DDUEJ2PlforAq2CO2vCHADKziUQEmkmttI1IBO9v3eNzQTnFfe5j69xIqLpc3-pabB-z0sK4kLjn7VG1Z5/s1600-h/vlcsnap-5602547.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl20tM9UKwlDEyH_7feIbEf26X1YYiHlMcgPfEJ3RCWBbIcu7oTKw0r_URE4DDUEJ2PlforAq2CO2vCHADKziUQEmkmttI1IBO9v3eNzQTnFfe5j69xIqLpc3-pabB-z0sK4kLjn7VG1Z5/s320/vlcsnap-5602547.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310920928575313058" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0181012/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Sole Survivor</span></a> does more than an adequate job of conveying a sense of loneliness throughout the opening sequence. The montage of empty streets, traffic lights winking red and green, and desolate window displays is quietly unsettling and puts the viewer in the proper mindset for what is essentially a quiet picture, punctuated by moments of terror. Denise Watson (Anita Skinner, who is really good at looking seductively to the side and has a nice Gaylen Ross-like quality about her) finds herself unscathed after her airplane goes down, taking everybody else on board along with it. What seems to be an incredible stroke of luck turns soon into a nightmare. It seems that she has been overlooked on Death’s laundry list, and that he’s sending his minions, in the form of the newly-dead, out to get her. (Comparisons to the much-later-in-arriving <span style="font-style: italic;">Final Destination</span> are inevitable--a similarity that the manufacturers of the DVD are quick to point out on the box art.)<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdfuftEBbhe0ZXPtYKb3ZghyphenhyphenHfAzd4ISH5S5oR7N6iB2dIkunpyE9lAWlaieBg_3H0ekToZevRaerEYqe_uJ_LLZx0BzNfm-urGP47eaBs-6uDYJdF22EyUwJaNbQfCQaq1nzUR3ZCPWWP/s1600-h/vlcsnap-5604242.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdfuftEBbhe0ZXPtYKb3ZghyphenhyphenHfAzd4ISH5S5oR7N6iB2dIkunpyE9lAWlaieBg_3H0ekToZevRaerEYqe_uJ_LLZx0BzNfm-urGP47eaBs-6uDYJdF22EyUwJaNbQfCQaq1nzUR3ZCPWWP/s320/vlcsnap-5604242.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310927965424333714" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"At least now I won't have to fight for these armrests."<br /></span></span></div><br />Overall, I must say that I was impressed with the film. The dialogue, especially that coming out of the mouth of Denise, is strong. She is an assertive woman, quick-witted, and--once she has brushed off the dust of the plane crash--doesn’t hesitate to ask out her dreamboat of a doctor (played by Brian Richardson). There is a seeming lack of introspection on her part; she is quick to get back to work, producing coffee commercials reminiscent of the Taster’s Choice variety so prominent in the early 80’s.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCUJu31-vdchXZrpuYimzH9Y22R1-pL4yWSbUaaWwYyacdEl9HvBS2fESRL8iNv4n_8pus08JI1OgIw8Y_YM8GUhxVfDFI2vWWiwvOAIWUlAB2aO1UnCmdcC5V-Zvx50sAWyUP8qW4QizX/s1600-h/vlcsnap-5608107.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCUJu31-vdchXZrpuYimzH9Y22R1-pL4yWSbUaaWwYyacdEl9HvBS2fESRL8iNv4n_8pus08JI1OgIw8Y_YM8GUhxVfDFI2vWWiwvOAIWUlAB2aO1UnCmdcC5V-Zvx50sAWyUP8qW4QizX/s320/vlcsnap-5608107.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310926762643869250" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">"You're going to feel a little prick."<br />"Doctor, I hardly know you."<br /></span></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipRilF29RI3S3qE5NXP0kpiB1VvzbsuzzMByaqf3_I_kggoN-ijlUTD4VF_DlJpsgfyqHhMovnzCu6k2bqvnPw0U_LqwGcxuLSTx7_SmnJT4TkwcLXNKR7K3TI4VQafVyHkrXSVM63Q6P6/s1600-h/vlcsnap-5615977.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipRilF29RI3S3qE5NXP0kpiB1VvzbsuzzMByaqf3_I_kggoN-ijlUTD4VF_DlJpsgfyqHhMovnzCu6k2bqvnPw0U_LqwGcxuLSTx7_SmnJT4TkwcLXNKR7K3TI4VQafVyHkrXSVM63Q6P6/s320/vlcsnap-5615977.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310926810960629554" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">"Taster's Choice? You're soaking in it."</span></span><br /></div><br />Cast in the lead of Denise’s java ads is Carla Davis (Caren L. Larkey). Carla is an aging fading beach movie starlet who no one takes seriously. Complicating matters, Carla has psychic powers--she understands Denise’s predicament perhaps better than anyone else, and is roundly met with resistance. When dead people start showing up and try to shuffle Denise off of the old mortal coil, Denise is at first unwilling to heed Carla’s warning--she is written off as a former prima donna unable to cope with her waning stardom. But the dead keep coming nevertheless, and when the full import of Carla’s warning finally dawns on Denise, it is too late.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7VjArx5ACe5Bv3JeSRiuKibnXf6q8QfCrc65dArxL8MPsTf5NmbMoRBk5fT-UJ3mx0xQ27qJbMbyhFMuHqVBl7iGh3pZYNqsK6GjeMNeXtnxpgLxvZsKNoOlwIlsx4IQgXoQy15g84WAR/s1600-h/vlcsnap-5612396.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7VjArx5ACe5Bv3JeSRiuKibnXf6q8QfCrc65dArxL8MPsTf5NmbMoRBk5fT-UJ3mx0xQ27qJbMbyhFMuHqVBl7iGh3pZYNqsK6GjeMNeXtnxpgLxvZsKNoOlwIlsx4IQgXoQy15g84WAR/s320/vlcsnap-5612396.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310926765984806290" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Seriously, I should be flogged for even considering using "I see dead people" as a caption.<br /><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP3rhwKZQwHvBP0K5wEZw1BTF3McnUVkJ1S3Q5IgpzP73PtvZsukN5oDatLiySawoBJTP0Xl8LALGXhTJmdge87MRf9tu_7EUi03Q48BHRbhPMbEtJ-LbYA69lb7XXMkRnm3kNIoQSAp4w/s1600-h/vlcsnap-5612649.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP3rhwKZQwHvBP0K5wEZw1BTF3McnUVkJ1S3Q5IgpzP73PtvZsukN5oDatLiySawoBJTP0Xl8LALGXhTJmdge87MRf9tu_7EUi03Q48BHRbhPMbEtJ-LbYA69lb7XXMkRnm3kNIoQSAp4w/s320/vlcsnap-5612649.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310926778882766002" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"Seven days! Oh, sorry, wrong number . . . "<br /></span></span></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Sole Survivor</span> is not a perfect film. The dialogue that I found so fresh in the beginning deteriorates after a half an hour or so--as if the screenwriter ran out of steam and lost some control over his craft. There are some 80s movie cliches as well: A round of strip poker (this would be an interesting study, Strip Poker in Horror Movies and Sex Comedies of the 1980s. The 70s were all about streaking, but the 80s belong to strip poker) and Denise’s over-sexed party-girl neighbor and her new-age valley girl sidekick (who probably thinks Denise’s problems have something to do with bad vibes) detract from the tone of quiet menace that pervades Sole Survivor. It’s obvious these secondary characters are included to up the body count (and perhaps to tack on some minutes to the running time,) but part of me wishes it had been handled differently. Denise and her neighbor seem an unlikely pair. Denise is a career woman and Kristy (Robin Davidson) is far younger and preoccupied with teenage things--which, like a guilty daughter, she tries to keep hidden from Denise. I wondered what in their relationship kept them together . . . But perhaps I’ve just answered my own question in that these people are driven together by loneliness, that they are all marking time until death.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5d0Op38YfHEU-cYy-i02Hsmp7Mki2wMOlI60Kue9MyQAOH1-COpLaLe0nsMREym5NzxzzYRdAJ55Pk4LnhmqCbfIQ9EFQHa-7n-HcnttPgfK12FgaLDk3QwDj5UsqqA36_p5o2R8ICWoR/s1600-h/vlcsnap-5619039.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5d0Op38YfHEU-cYy-i02Hsmp7Mki2wMOlI60Kue9MyQAOH1-COpLaLe0nsMREym5NzxzzYRdAJ55Pk4LnhmqCbfIQ9EFQHa-7n-HcnttPgfK12FgaLDk3QwDj5UsqqA36_p5o2R8ICWoR/s320/vlcsnap-5619039.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310927269639859426" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"Don't mind Randy. He's always horny."<br /><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdlEO4iq8UK3keZkcUHWcqf_DhhvSg_YxrlmlKKo0E0e-Yc9H_ZqCiLMnDoo5fjhTLotUPnd5uO5l4w_-36MbvfRmt7yWrDRqtjFE1DGupFWPO3EtMJPl3ryYwJ96TGl8s4T6zgjZUepEH/s1600-h/vlcsnap-5613610.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdlEO4iq8UK3keZkcUHWcqf_DhhvSg_YxrlmlKKo0E0e-Yc9H_ZqCiLMnDoo5fjhTLotUPnd5uO5l4w_-36MbvfRmt7yWrDRqtjFE1DGupFWPO3EtMJPl3ryYwJ96TGl8s4T6zgjZUepEH/s320/vlcsnap-5613610.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310926794891446770" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Valley Girls outshone by a sweet-ass clock.</span></span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS_dEGgDijGjPPFoYBn_n9ZK33t3aiUUROsO_HKuO5dBbZQ3yZ8S-XySjsmSkH3Gx01rR44CYRBuNwRKpRVjrkTS_QJVXwpWQjqVF-FRfFfQVMLpsV0m82Hoe78_nXAD4GQzB9oIw6C2TW/s1600-h/vlcsnap-5620109.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS_dEGgDijGjPPFoYBn_n9ZK33t3aiUUROsO_HKuO5dBbZQ3yZ8S-XySjsmSkH3Gx01rR44CYRBuNwRKpRVjrkTS_QJVXwpWQjqVF-FRfFfQVMLpsV0m82Hoe78_nXAD4GQzB9oIw6C2TW/s320/vlcsnap-5620109.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310927285915016274" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Who knows what you'll find in McGelligot's Pool!</span></span><br /></div><br />The scares in the movie are few but nicely handled. My favorite comes early, in the form of a slow, silent tracking shot through the wreckage of the airplane. Bodies are strewn about, Denise sits unscathed in her seat, plane parts and fires punctuate the landscape. The camera lingers on a man torn in half. As the dead man inexplicably opens his eyes and alarm clock rings loudly and we see that we have been in the dreaming mind of psychic Carla Davis. It’s no cheap smash-cut, but a slow atmospheric build, a combination of sound (or lack thereof) and pictures, that builds to the unexpected. And I for one will take that any day.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPwqIsD_ItR2gF47wr6zFDd7J88AzjcUk2cYAGb3Ih8UYOOerQ5fSDZDqtxF4-29zz38jAGWZcBRnjBEz8ju4wuEfJxaBr680zYr02W-m371D_ssaOvNr5hTuLCpYH180znlUgpggjfTko/s1600-h/vlcsnap-5603323.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPwqIsD_ItR2gF47wr6zFDd7J88AzjcUk2cYAGb3Ih8UYOOerQ5fSDZDqtxF4-29zz38jAGWZcBRnjBEz8ju4wuEfJxaBr680zYr02W-m371D_ssaOvNr5hTuLCpYH180znlUgpggjfTko/s320/vlcsnap-5603323.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310920959060008722" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzCu-5smcwT7_ztTEiiYbLcj3C2_3CBw78E3MXqtO8a8NSQiEff3i6F_zivndlof3sDYqhov86QSTCOLprzRggty5Kupph59pbSTDLMuhRI1tOR6773rtXVz5CFkWkwl5JSF3GUFquHBoB/s1600-h/vlcsnap-5602999.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzCu-5smcwT7_ztTEiiYbLcj3C2_3CBw78E3MXqtO8a8NSQiEff3i6F_zivndlof3sDYqhov86QSTCOLprzRggty5Kupph59pbSTDLMuhRI1tOR6773rtXVz5CFkWkwl5JSF3GUFquHBoB/s320/vlcsnap-5602999.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310920936558053026" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC1ANGmhVfJexRqD6eQxJnkpLuu_oxQyJLO3RKDCE7q1kMOID3QXl3fryu86VKxkgTep-Qg_eY4e3bs9u6ci0v-riOaJHyPtnINutMcCX_MGTPUVQbsGPyd38WGViG20n3ia3Kft_y9OkY/s1600-h/vlcsnap-5624613.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC1ANGmhVfJexRqD6eQxJnkpLuu_oxQyJLO3RKDCE7q1kMOID3QXl3fryu86VKxkgTep-Qg_eY4e3bs9u6ci0v-riOaJHyPtnINutMcCX_MGTPUVQbsGPyd38WGViG20n3ia3Kft_y9OkY/s320/vlcsnap-5624613.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310927299698693346" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Gallery of Creepy-Ass Mannequins</span></span><br /></div><br />All in all, I’ll chalk this one up as a success. The film was shot for little money with a cast of virtual unknowns--it is quite obviously a labor of love rather than a product of the studio system. I’m no judge of acting, but I found that most of the cast turned in pretty decent performances (with the obvious exception of the morgue man). I was sad to see Denise go. She was a perfect example of death denial, so ready to jump back into her life after the mother of all wake-up calls. Perhaps the best that we can do is form whatever relationships we can and hope to press on. To push away the idea that the end is near is all that we can do if we want to lead a happy, productive life. And if you ever have a near-miss, be sure to watch your back for a while, just to make sure that the bullet you dodged really didn’t have your name on it. Then you can get back to selling that coffee.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMxpyj5r_kb11CCpBQ8l4QSiz8iGTZIwVfs0n40O1Tl3Q32oBjKR_L3mtkFdfM3Hh0oZK9OtAToVHiRFtFzCrpi3ITXDieUJWr6chebaZzfblXUGrLgQbkjsVBukfY8YsScvxjCslBEQFO/s1600-h/vlcsnap-5625885.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMxpyj5r_kb11CCpBQ8l4QSiz8iGTZIwVfs0n40O1Tl3Q32oBjKR_L3mtkFdfM3Hh0oZK9OtAToVHiRFtFzCrpi3ITXDieUJWr6chebaZzfblXUGrLgQbkjsVBukfY8YsScvxjCslBEQFO/s320/vlcsnap-5625885.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310927321869838034" border="0" /></a>Ricky Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821840542920611852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262153143257112786.post-32681302626760329622009-03-03T13:40:00.000-08:002009-03-10T13:56:38.631-07:00A Bit of Aw-Shucks, Just-Folks, Home-Spun Philosophisin’It may be true that all of my snark and shit-talk is nothing more than an elaborately-woven suit of chain mail worn to protect a sensitive soul. This particular form of expression, blogging about creative works that could bear the <span style="font-style: italic;">highly-frickin'-subjective</span> label “garbage,” did not at first seem to me to be a viable means of self-discovery (as opposed to, say, keeping a journal, writing poetry, or depicting traumatic moments from your childhood in the medium of Crayola on paper,) but here I go a-self discoverin’. What brand of masochist would thrust upon himself the onus that I have chosen? Some days I feel that this project is a form of self-flagellation and that I should stop it altogether and, say, learn to love myself or something. Sure, it can be fun to tear movies to shreds, but I’d be lying if I said that I did not press on with this sometimes rather frustrating task bearing a small flicker of hope that I will stumble upon a gem. These gems can appear in one of two ways: 1) A movie will be so godawful that it will provide the viewer with buckets full of unintentional comedy. 2) A movie will actually be good. I’ll take the latter any day (especially since I don’t always have the luxury of watching these with a couch full of friends and a fridge full of beer--I love my <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dc9u_OBjdV4">dog</a>, but she doesn’t always get my jokes . . . And try to get her to pay attention to anything in which rabies or werewolves don’t figure heavily into the plot). Laughing at some of these movies sometimes makes me feel as if I’m picking on someone less fortunate--it’s like giving a dyslexic a hard time for having trouble reading. It’s just not cool. Give me a good movie any day. I’m only human--who doesn’t love a pleasant surprise?<br /><br />And while it is true that I do seek out material for the blog in the lower reaches of the high-art/low-art dichotomy, I do not sit down to watch every movie with Garbage Day in mind (Bresson’s <span style="font-style: italic;">Pickpocket</span>, which I watched recently, may not be my favorite movie in the world--I did like it--is obviously not appropriate subject matter for Garbage Day. Number one, it’s a respected and influential film. Number two, I certainly wouldn’t, in this particular instance, go against the general consensus and slap the label “garbage” on it). I guess like anyone else I need time to switch off, to watch simply for the sake of watching . . . I am by no means a workaholic, but I sometimes marvel at my decision to turn something that has every potential to be a passive, mindless activity into a form of responsibility and work.<br /><br />I have a tendency to skew toward negativity. It’s only natural that I see this blog as a facet of this trait. I think of D.T. Suzuki’s interpretation of Zen Buddhism, that it is a means of negating everything until only one thing remains--an affirmation. It is a means of experiencing the positive through an ongoing negation--of cutting through the bullshit and getting down to the nitty-gritty. Destroy everything and see what remains . . . a difficult concept to grasp, perhaps, especially because it’s easily misinterpreted as being a form of nihilism. Absolute negativity is certainly not the aim of zen, nor is it the aim of Garbage Day (if you look at Samantha’s reviews you’ll soon see, sweetheart that she is, how quickly she’ll recommend a book or movie in spite of its tremendous shortcomings). Let’s not forget that eternal positive waiting at the bottom. This is, after all, a <span style="font-style: italic;">celebration</span> of all things garbage-y, although I must admit that I may not be as quick as Samantha to throw on the party hat and start tossing confetti (but, in my defense, <span style="font-style: italic;">Hellgate</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Hard Rock Zombies</span> back-to-back was one hell of a test of my stamina). There is something beautiful, something exquisitely human, in the reach and miss, in the way that what we accomplish is never quite exactly what we set out to do--this little essay is no exception. All creative endeavors are of one degree or another an exercise in vanity. Sometimes it adds to the charm (like John Fasano’s balance of bad rock and cheesy horror in his self-penned <span style="font-style: italic;">Black Roses</span>--are we seeing flashes of Fasano in the hunky, literate Mr. Moorhouse?) and sometimes it just goes over the top (as in John Fasano’s direction of Jon Mikl Thor’s self-congratulatory and falsely clever script for <span style="font-style: italic;">Rock ‘n’ Roll Nightmare</span>--we are definitely treated to a more than a heapin’ helpin’ of the psyche of Mikl Thor, who plays the role of hero, rock star, and godlike weaver of metaphysical mind-fucks all rolled into one). It’s a fine line, but sometimes there’s nothing quite as satisfying as not pulling any punches when it comes to punishing such breaches of filmmaker-viewer etiquette.<br /><br />All right . . . that’s enough navel-gazing for now. More reviews are on the way--including (you guessed it) a positive one!Ricky Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821840542920611852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262153143257112786.post-64973167272753408352009-02-20T08:18:00.000-08:002009-03-14T13:23:53.729-07:00Hard Rock Zombies (1985)<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0089254/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Hard Rock Zombies</span></a> is jump-kicking off a series of rock 'n' roll horror movie reviews here at Garbage Day! I consider this particular subgenre is a petri dish smeared with a culture that is more than conducive to producing mass amounts of, well, garbage. After all, what could possibly be worse than movies? Music! Put the two together and you're booked front row center for a two-night engagement at the Suckdome, located in the heart of smoggy Unpleasant Viewingville, USA. After revisiting the nightmare that is <a href="http://garbagedayagain.blogspot.com/2009/02/hellgate-1989_13.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">Hellgate</span></a>, I was perhaps hoping to settle down to a nice, crappy movie, something more along the lines of <a href="http://garbagedayagain.blogspot.com/2009/02/review-by-ricky-caldwell-first-of-all.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Paperboy</span></a>. No masterpiece there, in fact an utter piece of crap, but a piece of crap that does the viewer the service of following one basic premise to an organic, Canadian conclusion.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXgdfhuG_Mbe454c8bLUYwRDtL6GTh2r9zzQP7aicT5jXsvchnbjK0fno2by29H0vd7YwnRDBuOgJLy4dcCMGHxpotL_ttT04n-za7uNBYtTAFHaxYwIlgUVpClWo6m1uqBAMDuOsA6y4/s1600-h/vlcsnap-15213615.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXgdfhuG_Mbe454c8bLUYwRDtL6GTh2r9zzQP7aicT5jXsvchnbjK0fno2by29H0vd7YwnRDBuOgJLy4dcCMGHxpotL_ttT04n-za7uNBYtTAFHaxYwIlgUVpClWo6m1uqBAMDuOsA6y4/s320/vlcsnap-15213615.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302773525635385442" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">A Hard-On's Day's Night<br /></span></span></div><br />One of the things that makes these movies so entertaining is the bands they feature--and in that department <span style="font-style: italic;">Hard Rock Zombies</span> does not fail to deliver. A cliched group of 80's cheese-rockers takes the stage and tears it up in grand we-look-like-early-Dokken-but-<div id=":5s" class="ArwC7c ckChnd"><wbr>sound-like-Bob-Seger style. "Shake, shake, shake," purrs the smoky-voiced and velvety-mustachioed frontman Jessie (E.J. Curse). "Shake it, baby," he adds. We are not spared one second of the song--it's like one of those music videos before they became cinematic, back when it was good enough to have a band on a stage lip-synching to their record in a venue packed with extras. <span style="font-style: italic;"> Are they really gonna play the entire mediocre song?</span> you ask yourself. You bet your leather pants they are! This movie has more padding than a Victoria's Secret Angel bra.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxKWu6d2EIXEnzbNxdk4GclowxLUyeeie8ESX-iAircuL2bBXLVLfnoQ-r7z22jAXBVxn7XvBTZQWzElxwuZkJZqW1osGdA6ku4AXUMi9ZF2IA9VXHpBUhkjHsg08szwaXnuepzkZM9H8/s1600-h/vlcsnap-15202501.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxKWu6d2EIXEnzbNxdk4GclowxLUyeeie8ESX-iAircuL2bBXLVLfnoQ-r7z22jAXBVxn7XvBTZQWzElxwuZkJZqW1osGdA6ku4AXUMi9ZF2IA9VXHpBUhkjHsg08szwaXnuepzkZM9H8/s320/vlcsnap-15202501.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302773531434693986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">"Sign me arse, guv'na?"<br /></span></span></div><br />After the show, the band is mobbed by some of the most unenthusiastic fans ever put to film (fortunately, they are willing to let the members sign various naughty parts of their anatomy). One of these methadone cases takes the lead singer aside and delivers a dire warning: <span style="font-style: italic;">Don't play your next gig in Grand Guignol </span>(the oh-so-cleverly-named next town on their tour)<span style="font-style: italic;">. Bad shit will go down.</span> But the band is determined to press on in the name of rock 'n' roll, and for that you cannot help but give them mad respect--especially when they roll into Grand Guignol and we see that the town is such a blink-and-you-miss-it Podunk shithole that any band with an ounce of self-respect would avoid it like a groupie with a case of crotch crickets (and perhaps it is this self-loathing, buried so deeply beneath the band's sleek, sexthletic exterior, that I find so endearing--think of a Woody Allen soul trapped in a a Sammy Hagar body). The town, filled with the requisite rubes and yokels, does not take kindly to the band's appearance. But our heroes are unfazed and, determined to let their freak flags fly, stage an impromptu rock parade straight through the center of town. It is here that the talents of one of the band members (who I shall refer to for the purposes of this review as Mr. White Pants) really shine. Mr. White Pants is a skilled juggler, skateboarder, and pantomime. (Again, the viewer is forced to wonder, <span style="font-style: italic;">are they really going to play the entire fucking song?</span> You bet your microphone stand with bandanas tied all over it they are! In the first fifteen minutes of the movie alone no fewer than six have been dedicated to musical numbers that do nothing to advance the plot).<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiExop6o6KtzCxP-w5dmApy55tF3hVzov8q_WtN1SXm3YtvJ48_0JMI87rptil8LnQL2UsJ_fUshyphenhyphen82BluYoBdAcXh5DOcFT8QWO6ZBeyAlvefrjqyD8TmR27ijAFm1Kw6_DGoX_8vjhZU/s1600-h/vlcsnap-15204534.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiExop6o6KtzCxP-w5dmApy55tF3hVzov8q_WtN1SXm3YtvJ48_0JMI87rptil8LnQL2UsJ_fUshyphenhyphen82BluYoBdAcXh5DOcFT8QWO6ZBeyAlvefrjqyD8TmR27ijAFm1Kw6_DGoX_8vjhZU/s320/vlcsnap-15204534.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302774382610068818" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"I like music, skateboarding, and pantomime . . . but my real passion is being a complete cheese-dick."<br /></span></span></div><br />When the show does eventually go down, it does so in a rather improbable venue--they are booked to play outside of a large, dilapidated house (with only a handful of the local weirdos in attendance). It's clear that the band needs to do two things right away: 1) Fire their manager. 2) Stop sucking. Preferably in reverse order.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjVqu1nXRuIk_YKrJFG9hyphenhyphenDuYk4FyYwqojm-i0E4BPLlHAIMn-4syvxzNB67vqwgqbPIk2ddV8daTzmdAs0D-h4UYtqwhWK83kqchLwCtV3n3M2JyDjSB2CHVkxs7of77jHp1w93V5-T8/s1600-h/vlcsnap-15208053.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjVqu1nXRuIk_YKrJFG9hyphenhyphenDuYk4FyYwqojm-i0E4BPLlHAIMn-4syvxzNB67vqwgqbPIk2ddV8daTzmdAs0D-h4UYtqwhWK83kqchLwCtV3n3M2JyDjSB2CHVkxs7of77jHp1w93V5-T8/s320/vlcsnap-15208053.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302775096985914082" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Someone throw a bucket of water on these guys!<br /></span></span></div><br />Fortunately the performance is sabotaged and the band is electrocuted during their performance. Unfortunately, they survive. Fortunately, the young groupie's prophecy comes true and the band members do end up being murdered one by one. Thank god we won't have to put up with any more of their antics. Oh, wait--if this movie is going follow through on the premise put forth by its title (there has been little to indicate thus far that it will) we haven't seen the last of these butt-rockers.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9F65f-fB3ukW7OlokacyLcXm6mqjmA5QzhzyIf2YmMuz99xQ4eyYEiq1iD87EtVs8hbrqSqFXs4AX3TZtb_z3-Yli5MTtzt9ImASAsybg-7weV38Nn2_Gwpo2VzpnRRcrJanQkhLv9DI/s1600-h/vlcsnap-15211372.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9F65f-fB3ukW7OlokacyLcXm6mqjmA5QzhzyIf2YmMuz99xQ4eyYEiq1iD87EtVs8hbrqSqFXs4AX3TZtb_z3-Yli5MTtzt9ImASAsybg-7weV38Nn2_Gwpo2VzpnRRcrJanQkhLv9DI/s320/vlcsnap-15211372.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302776133480558098" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Mr. White Pants, we hardly knew ye.<br /></span></span></div><br />The problem that a movie like Hard Rock Zombies poses in its scattershot plotting is that it makes writing a structured review a nearly impossible task. It suffers from the same plot problem as <a href="http://garbagedayagain.blogspot.com/2009/02/hellgate-1989_13.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">Hellgate</span></a>--it goes off in a million directions, unsure of what type of movie it really wants to be. There's so much that I want to point out, like the ridiculous reveal that takes place forty-two minutes in--that the old man who heads the creepy household is none other than a reanimated Adolf Hitler. Yes, folks, Hard Rock Zombies is also a Nazi zombie flick, and a terrible one at that.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsIDLe8b70RqudMAOO6Aylb9GGqS8Tu_ADyz7Nu_txbYnWApLib782cfIOcQNCzMuUbxLHoJzQOBsQFqVm1NHzQJ_89wfgyKX_ZkQVM38gcka33L1J-GuGCkmF5zEysMB-h9Q4pAxAW5Y/s1600-h/vlcsnap-15201652.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsIDLe8b70RqudMAOO6Aylb9GGqS8Tu_ADyz7Nu_txbYnWApLib782cfIOcQNCzMuUbxLHoJzQOBsQFqVm1NHzQJ_89wfgyKX_ZkQVM38gcka33L1J-GuGCkmF5zEysMB-h9Q4pAxAW5Y/s320/vlcsnap-15201652.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302776458908121442" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">"Once I make sure my head is on straight, I'm going to make this movie suck even harder."</span><br /></span></div><br />There's also the great ZZ-Top-video-style camera work of the hitchhiking woman that appears at several points throughout the movie (and plays a role similar to the ghostly hitchhiker who seduced Ron Palillo in <span style="font-style: italic;">Hellgate</span>).<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmW_TSzrIocSHeCQrhLKWXATr8vgBt1ykYeS80JNwR6_jT_R1uV8FfbQuwFrPyxHLWTyZtQP0WEWpZTL_q1-Tjgc7xODhIcHHmQhKQtwzJKPyW6pqXibbvQYEXLLauk_9j7CheuFxP4X8/s1600-h/vlcsnap-15199500.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmW_TSzrIocSHeCQrhLKWXATr8vgBt1ykYeS80JNwR6_jT_R1uV8FfbQuwFrPyxHLWTyZtQP0WEWpZTL_q1-Tjgc7xODhIcHHmQhKQtwzJKPyW6pqXibbvQYEXLLauk_9j7CheuFxP4X8/s320/vlcsnap-15199500.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302777316110693986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"She's got le-yegs!"<br /></span></span></div><br />And once the band crawls out of their shallow graves (there's seriously only like two inches of dirt thrown on top of these clowns,) they emerge and walk in a sort of rhythmic, jerky shamble, as if marching to some kick-ass Bonham drum beat from the beyond that only zombies of the hard rock variety are permitted to hear.<br /><br />And what self-respecting cock-rock band's repertoire would be complete without a cheese-dripping ballad? The viewer is treated to the band's latest panty-moistener, "Cassie," named after the frizzy-headed bearer of bad tidings and subsequent love interest of the lead singer. <span style="font-style: italic;">Are they really, truly going to make us listen to the entire fucking song?</span> you, in spite of your dawning realization that they haven't felt the need to rein in their musical numbers in the past so why should they start now, ask yourself. You bet your bottomless can of Aqua Net they are!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilwZwPKXIuY0iMgvckb33mq_DaNkGcY-n9sGHjeLVqZqhOO-ntlsvv2CIKuWBaOq33dV1ayaUZEdPcATlqU6D9vjpCn9jOyiIsUeNh3BYlziHGnYigvZzWT-j8e18Z9ifEvJc88J5R2xc/s1600-h/vlcsnap-15209764.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilwZwPKXIuY0iMgvckb33mq_DaNkGcY-n9sGHjeLVqZqhOO-ntlsvv2CIKuWBaOq33dV1ayaUZEdPcATlqU6D9vjpCn9jOyiIsUeNh3BYlziHGnYigvZzWT-j8e18Z9ifEvJc88J5R2xc/s320/vlcsnap-15209764.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302776893150858722" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Nuts in White Satin.</span></span><br /></div><br />Odds 'n' ends: Early in the film there's some sort of Were-Woodchuck in a rocking chair that the director is awfully fond of smash-cutting to for no good reason. The gratuitous use of a midget. Creepy old people sex scene where the grandchildren ask to watch, and are allowed. The town hall meeting that abruptly shifts the tone of the film to satire (of the type that falls flat on its face). The band also seems to have two bass players, the lead singer and some dude who just plays bass. There's often no sign of a guitarist.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSOdwnTB8qGlrfoaR6983RZ9c0-8zaPGGEUg-3bq4IauUqKHCnLDvi6M-YXdAprzA8kHe6KHyTABkXMM4fQ7OHR_mUidu4FyUTmw2QAvlokiFJCSV3rsch6zNXguPwrvLliHe6013WJSU/s1600-h/vlcsnap-15210289.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSOdwnTB8qGlrfoaR6983RZ9c0-8zaPGGEUg-3bq4IauUqKHCnLDvi6M-YXdAprzA8kHe6KHyTABkXMM4fQ7OHR_mUidu4FyUTmw2QAvlokiFJCSV3rsch6zNXguPwrvLliHe6013WJSU/s320/vlcsnap-15210289.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302777321077408226" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">A Were-Woodchuck armed with a switchblade: The only foe worthy of a flaming hatchet.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></div>To say that <span style="font-style: italic;">Hard Rock Zombies</span> makes <span style="font-style: italic;">The Paperboy</span> look like, say, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Shining</span> would be giving <span style="font-style: italic;">Hard Rock Zombies</span> far too much credit. <span style="font-style: italic;"> Hard Rock Zombies</span> makes <span style="font-style: italic;">The Paperboy</span> look like some yet-to-be-made horror movie, tentatively titled <span style="font-style: italic;">The Best Horror Movie of All Time</span>, that will feature well-developed, believable characters, will be beautifully photographed, well-scripted, immaculately paced, and, most importantly, will scare the bejeezus out of any and all who dare to watch, from the nubilest of newbies to the most jaded veteran of the genre. I hate <span style="font-style: italic;">Hard Rock Zombies</span>. There is only one rational way for me to deal with <span style="font-style: italic;">Hard Rock Zombies</span>. I will wait until Tuesday of next week. On that day I will get up early in the morning, put on my best blue sweater, and walk down the suburban street on which <span style="font-style: italic;">Hard Rock Zombies</span> resides. Then, as <span style="font-style: italic;">Hard Rock Zombies</span> is moving its trash cans to the curb, I will get its attention by making the following observation: "Garbage day!" Then, once <span style="font-style: italic;">Hard Rock Zombies</span> looks up and sees me standing in the middle of the street, I will raise the revolver I hold in my hand. <span style="font-style: italic;">Hard Rock Zombies </span>will say "no!" but I will not heed its plea. I will shoot <span style="font-style: italic;">Hard Rock Zombies</span> down. Then I will take a minute to admire the gun in my hand and laugh. There is something funny about this metal object, something funny about what I am doing, something that has to do with something horrible that happened in my past. I will look at the gun and laugh. I will laugh.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5GKOXoC6ZO3Ep9YL8VRtPslgFX7xEFa338EBcmFFR_t95d0ixceLQIrfCC22ZcwUTWXbvtXLoAA_4iDeTVIVEe_Ojm_PMORMwwCv2naAgokjK_xP21RGFtMiDMVvpShRzERpMkFV1t8U/s1600-h/vlcsnap-15205304.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5GKOXoC6ZO3Ep9YL8VRtPslgFX7xEFa338EBcmFFR_t95d0ixceLQIrfCC22ZcwUTWXbvtXLoAA_4iDeTVIVEe_Ojm_PMORMwwCv2naAgokjK_xP21RGFtMiDMVvpShRzERpMkFV1t8U/s320/vlcsnap-15205304.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302777329698915730" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">We should be so lucky . . .<br /></span></span></div><br /></div>Ricky Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821840542920611852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262153143257112786.post-68094346596082039762009-02-19T18:01:00.000-08:002009-02-26T08:58:01.947-08:00Dead Silence<div align="left"> Much like some people are such complete assholes that it’s difficult to picture them as babies or toddlers, coddled by adoring parents, it’s hard to imagine Dead Silence in any form that would make anyone want to get behind it, financially or otherwise. Try as I might, I can’t envision some supportive roommate, agent, whoever, looking at a draft of the screenplay, then calling the writer up to say, “This movie about the ghostly ventriloquist? I <em>really</em> think you’ve got something here.” </div><div align="left"><br />Dead Silence opens with a young married couple, Jamie and Lisa Ashen, spending a quiet evening at home. We know immediately that they are doomed because it is apparent from the first frame that they are sublimely happy. Lisa giggles, talks in cute little voices, and wears a manic grin right up to the minute the camera zooms into her screaming throat. Everything is super great until a knock at the door alerts them to the delivery of a surprise package. It’s a ventriloquist’s dummy, perfectly preserved in a velvet-lined box. “Oh my God, that reminds me of that poem from when we were kids,” Lisa says. “Beware the stare of Mary Shaw . . .” but she can’t remember the rest. As we find out later, the poem in question is:<br /><br />Beware the stare of Mary Shaw<br />She has no children, only dolls<br />And if you see her in your dreams<br />Be sure you never, ever scream </div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="left">Ok, so it sounds silly now, but if I had heard that as a child and was told that Mary Shaw lived in my town and would come to me in my dreams and cut out my tongue, I sure as hell would remember the entire poem well into my adulthood. But Lisa can’t remember the rest of it and isn’t bothered by the dummy’s sudden appearance, so she sends Jamie out for some takeout and stays at home alone.</div><div align="center"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304677048594468786" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; height: 176px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMHS7_jRmminJfd04jC-CKR2SK9TzN-S-JC4NgBvsBdf1ZLk-G2nqvkO4U-P-DffZkmRsRvX5W3slEDg1brqdSovnNXFXcFnIBQxoRZpGRKCeYttKeGpJfHOLnfpkmIeJnaW1rnBdKZIY/s320/lisa_looking_dummy.jpg" border="0" /> <em><span style="font-size:85%;">Beware the stare of . . . Oh, shit . . . Something about killer dolls . . . Ah, fuck it. Let's get some takeout.</span></em><br /></div><br /><div align="left">Jamie returns, carrying a red rose he plans to give his perfect wife to celebrate their eternal happiness, only to do a Risky-Business-style slide across the hardwood floor on a pool of fresh blood. Lisa, propped up on their bed with her tongue ripped out, was brutally murdered, and Jamie knows that Billy, the dummy, had something to do with it.<br /><br />After being taken into police custody, Jamie is interrogated by a wise-cracking cop, the film’s attempt at comic relief, played by Donnie Wahlberg, formerly of New Kids on the Block. Naturally, Donnie blames Jamie for Lisa’s death. In undoubtedly my favorite line of the film, Jamie earnestly explains to the cop, “Where I come from, a ventriloquist’s dummy is a bad omen.” As if a dummy, like a black cat or a cracked mirror, is one of those irritating things you might come across at any moment, and whose mysterious appearance outside your door would cause you to mutter, “Oh, for Christ’s sake. What next?”, not to shriek “What the fuck?!” and start kicking the thing down the hallway and away from you as hard as you can.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304677265119098578" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; height: 134px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS0yFMOEVshTy8v-cfGpM6t1eD5yukmGtppUpq-rK2G6D40syya82aWrfKBmKZ8EFCm9Tu5hTXxeCKqL8Au6qDzja3C_nryLlgoIyUrhWBqKGpQIp9W3Jdu7Fpwi0OOngtlkGSoMpHYYQ/s320/dummy_box.jpg" border="0" /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">A killer dummy at the door? Oh, Christ. Today of all days!</span></em><br /></div><p align="left">Upon his release from custody, Jamie returns to his apartment to get Billy and the two embark on a road trip in a glossy red Mustang convertible. It is beyond me why Jamie would drive a convertible. He exists in a world of gloom, perpetually bathed in the gray-green light that has been so popular since “The Ring” came out. Jamie and Billy drive out to Ravens Fair (creepy enough for you?), where Jamie was born and raised, and get a motel room. It isn’t clear why Jamie has brought Billy along for the ride, considering that he believes the doll is responsible for his wife’s death, but I don’t think he has anything to worry about. From the way Billy keeps shyly stealing glances at Jamie from the passenger seat and awkwardly sidling up to his bed at the motel room, it appears that Billy has a plan for Jamie, one that might very well involve tongues but definitely does not include murder. </p><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304677662950963538" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; height: 178px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNA81lXD7RXeznaCSO51C8T_UHZnPcmNmCtBCCfGABv8Choq3MbbuzEQ6-QVBls9zCZckxJ-W9SJXYltsNuKRE5Na0hiz4xyH39q0HBusqLnc3Alml62kZTdppW8KTMEczrsjVDZ0dUZI/s320/Billy+car.jpg" border="0" /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Dead silence turns to awkward silence during the drive to the motel.</span></em><br /></div><p align="left"><br />From there, they visit Jamie’s father and new stepmother. His father, always a neglectful asshole, has suffered a stroke and is now confined to a wheelchair but has become a genuine, loving person. Ah, the healing powers of a debilitating stroke. Jamie also visits with the local mortician, with whom he seems to be on a first-name basis, to hash out the details of Lisa’s funeral.<br /></p><p align="left"><br /></p><p align="center"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304677829139419570" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; height: 231px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKict0Aljiyz2xk2guueZIpCIjGe_1ysL8Yv0IEhEJTtgwxRWVaXWDjl6nntHwTbzPreAydYSDwhWmoVW-ERtZoZnGiUpBCLaCPJBrTLG14AfszzNUg0giFzAHaPy3DDLIMQK7MzvWapU/s320/Jamie+3.jpg" border="0" /> <span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Jamie is shocked to learn that an open-necked shirt is not appropriate funeral attire.</em></span></p><p>Through hushed conversation with his father and the mortician, Jamie discovers that according to Ravens Fair lore, in the 1940s a ventriloquist named Mary Shaw ran the local theatre. She was a beloved figure until a small boy mouthed off to her during a performance. The boy disappeared, Mary was blamed, and the townies dragged her into the woods, forced her to scream, and ripped out her tongue. Now she gets her revenge by cutting people’s tongues out and stealing their voices. Oh, and she had 101 hand-made dolls that were all buried alongside her in miniature coffins. She also wanted to be turned into a doll when she died. Though the locals were sufficiently enraged to murder and mutilate Mary Shaw, they apparently cooled down long enough to follow each bizarre edict of her will.<br /></p><br /><div align="center"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304681304564085074" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; height: 134px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRXeIvBzl_VcbHONwfZdijVIKJ3bb9AY-i9DzhztXcqJbzVewM4P0emBanwckpqorSeF7LeAPZ1QoQAttKL6H2cxnzKzF0PCYXUa1fUD2iBFZC00LFoi8XRYKNo_NM2oLBbI-KQHFU8-s/s320/mary+tongue.jpg" border="0" /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">There's something about Mary. Maybe it's her wicked awesome tongue.</span></em></div><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em><br />Once Jamie determines that Mary Shaw is behind Lisa’s murder, he heads out to her former home, an old Victorian theater situated on Lost Lake (with a prime location like that, who would have thought things would go so very wrong?). Lucky for him, there is a Convenient Rowboat waiting to take him across the lake to the rotting old theater, and a Convenient Oil Lamp to light his way. Mary’s possessions, though covered with dust and cobwebs, are still perfectly preserved. A quick flip through her scrapbook reveals that the young boy Mary Shaw murdered was none other than Michael Ashen, Jamie’s great-uncle.<br /><br /><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Yes, it’s true. Jamie’s father explains that the people who killed Mary were Jamie’s ancestors, and that after the murder, they were all found with their tongues cut out. This is a family curse, one that would affect not only the killers, but “their children, and their children’s children.” He fails to explain if the curse affected their children’s children’s children, or how Jamie and his father came to be if all of the Ashens were killed by Mary Shaw. I think I know the answer to that first question, but even after two viewings I’m not really clear on the second one.<br /><br />Ryan Kwanten, who plays Jamie, is cute and adorable but, it must be said, wears basically the same facial expression all the time. Killer dummy, family curse – it’s all the same to him. In any other movie, I would chalk that up to poor acting, but I have to tip my hat to anyone who can keep a straight face through this kind of material. He does it through more or less the entire film, and should receive some sort of award – maybe not for acting talent, but for perseverance and triumph over adversity. </div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304684311030534610" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; height: 246px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXZzqxcsQGLO1Bs7yWi5zJRe_HBgqyxMBjy8rm3dgpGUA2Cd6KOHDAjZCOZafNdwc6W6Thomp9SRQzXzYNQr3U6nvT4Kzzx1UQNHFNgs5VBD3AxIInkIEZuV427bdk5P6MLOnFEYn5KzA/s320/Jamie.jpg" border="0" /> <p align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Jamie is devastated to learn that his entire family is doomed.</span></em><br /></p><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Once the family curse is revealed, things move along pretty quickly. Jamie buries the doll, someone digs it back up, there’s a fire, a bunch of empty coffins, a clown in a wheelchair who sticks his tongue in Jamie’s ear, and a bunch of other scary shit too. Most importantly, though, there’s a shocking finale, and it’s worth sticking around for. Forget suspension of disbelief – this one requires suspension of all rational thought. It did make me feel a little bad for Jamie. The guy can’t catch a break. But something tells me he’ll take it all in stride. </div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304681977712521394" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; height: 132px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHx-I55lNEJxiGMXtYBm4tRXyOQg8eTyauNWXOw0nMxPRXX4i5WGpdLTqBmjpWuOFDETx264kTigkzeD1GvbXXMYvBUzOYdYsmmK4EiHcz0miaCKCbZgDM5dOl_Q2LAPyGX9BE7jDOEUU/s320/Donnie+Falling.jpg" border="0" /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Hey Donnie Wahlberg, not hanging quite so tough anymore, are you? Douche bag.</span></em></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left">Most horror films by nature are illogical. Whether through the storyline, relatable characters, even the setting, the successful ones satisfy a viewer’s need for plausibility with at least minimal grounding in reality. At the very least, a decent scary movie is so unsettling that you aren’t motivated to weigh the logistics of every scene. Dead Silence meets none of these criteria. It’s not scary, and it makes no fucking sense. For one thing, this is supposed to be a <em>family curse</em>, directed very specifically at the Ashen family. But Mary Shaw takes out whoever she feels like, including the mortician, who poses no threat to anyone. She has a right to be pissed off, I suppose, but can't she take revenge within the parameters of her own unreality? </div><br /><div align="left"></div>Dead Silence is a nasty-ass casserole of scary movie leftovers, but it still gets my highest recommendation. Ok, it’s not scary, but you’ll be up all night anyway. You’ll be lying in bed thinking, <em>Wait a second, why are all the businesses in Raven’s Fair closing</em> now? <em>Didn’t all that shit take place in 1941?</em> Or, <em>Why does Jamie’s father have his ex-wives painted out of the family portraits? Why doesn’t he just take the paintings off the wall?</em> Or, <em>Does human flesh really take seventy years to decompose?</em> Or, <em>If Jamie is such a loving husband, why did he bury his wife in the world’s creepiest cemetery?</em> You get the idea. Throw down seven dollars for any other movie, and it might leave your consciousness the minute it’s over. Spend a couple bucks on Dead Silence and it will stick with you for days. You’ll definitely get your money’s worth.Samantha Willowshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13077210651620865080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262153143257112786.post-65184019518403114692009-02-13T18:06:00.001-08:002009-02-26T08:56:18.449-08:00Hellgate (1989)If you’ve ever found yourself wondering what it would be like to see Arnold Horshack go down on someone, look no further than <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0097498/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Hellgate</span></a>--and, for the love of Bog, seek help. (Whether that’s my indictment of anyone who would ever fantasize about Ron Palillo’s bony white ass, or my extrapolation on the inevitable effects of witnessing such a foul waste of celluloid as <span style="font-style: italic;">Hellgate</span>, I’m not entirely sure. In either case, you’re going to want to find a good listener, plop yourself down on a comfy <span style="font-style: italic;">chaise longue</span>, and get a few things off your chest). Since this came packaged as a b-side to a DVD double feature with the entertaining <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0086113/"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Pit</span></a>, I was perhaps hoping for too much by expecting that goodness to run over to the flipside.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiezEDO1FnpZPWN1bCtxcReGuxyfX9oE7AIbfkp0Q_jmMs_UFVNqsqM4-7AHOJm5xv_LQCTcgwtcCwq1b1KvHFl3zx2Dl7fr1TuAS8bYWCKURdIZuLMtRBsFRFA0j5H_YQ6QkFR5u-xlc/s1600-h/Picture+16.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiezEDO1FnpZPWN1bCtxcReGuxyfX9oE7AIbfkp0Q_jmMs_UFVNqsqM4-7AHOJm5xv_LQCTcgwtcCwq1b1KvHFl3zx2Dl7fr1TuAS8bYWCKURdIZuLMtRBsFRFA0j5H_YQ6QkFR5u-xlc/s320/Picture+16.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302470270692020274" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">"I know the answer to your question, Mister Kotter. Pick me. I insist."</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Hellgate</span> even starts out somewhat promisingly, with a bunch of people in a cabin by the fire swapping scary stories. For some reason--perhaps because I feel I missed out on something by never having gone to summer camp as a kid--when a movie begins like this it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, as if I’m about to be treated to a chilling yarn spun by a master raconteur. I mean, hell, it worked in <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0080749/"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Fog</span></a>. But all comparisons end there--the chick with the short hair and gaudy earrings, it turns out, is no John Houseman. <span style="font-style: italic;">The Fog</span> delivers on its chilling promise. <span style="font-style: italic;">Hellgate</span> on the other hand, gets more and more muddled, going off in a number of directions, each one more inane than the one before it.<br /><br />I’m not going to focus on the plot because I’m not entirely sure <span style="font-style: italic;">Hellgate</span> has a plot. In lieu of this, I will discuss certain elements of the movie. I would use the term plot elements, but, you know, that would imply that the movie has a plot--all right, I will admit that the movie does have a plot, I’m sure someone with a reasonable amount of intelligence and patience could point it out to me. What I’m trying to say that <span style="font-style: italic;">Hellgate</span> does not have a coherent plot, or (in the remotest case that someone could prove me wrong by pointing out a coherent plot,) a plot worth following.<br /><br />Element number one: The dumb-ass crystal. At some point in the movie a crystal is unearthed. The crystal seems to be an important part of the story--it’s found underground and it makes bad stuff happen. It does a couple of remarkable things, seemingly at its own bidding rather than that of its bearer. The crystal shoots a blue laser beam that 1) Brings the dead back to life, 2) Makes stuff explode, or 3) Brings the dead back to life and makes it explode. Handier than a Swiss Army Knife, eh?<br /></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZlGrX4su8uw0HxwoOXBjJfououZfYqQ50kBtbALyv4OnlUc_UYC4yMOGFQ6Uh-BYnUXEIo5dSktH42aMJtzpev9pYrhyphenhyphenLNIkKzJgQ_7eWicXo-Aww0fSIYxbSvlIhGyHYR2CmQJhTK1E/s1600-h/Picture+11.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZlGrX4su8uw0HxwoOXBjJfououZfYqQ50kBtbALyv4OnlUc_UYC4yMOGFQ6Uh-BYnUXEIo5dSktH42aMJtzpev9pYrhyphenhyphenLNIkKzJgQ_7eWicXo-Aww0fSIYxbSvlIhGyHYR2CmQJhTK1E/s320/Picture+11.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302469836927597986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">"What do you suppose this thing does to goldfish?"<br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzdmLgxHdY_Ql-5la0cHi4aRFTV9SoJjaAJiKWC7Pybjsq5NVC9RsaAx2QUhWkcmfDccIj1oQMg31AtpiSA8135afa_GnS60xy3lRmV1yedx0QiB2XOb1jQocSa8BQw2RHqV_YiDPfIv4/s1600-h/Picture+17.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 228px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzdmLgxHdY_Ql-5la0cHi4aRFTV9SoJjaAJiKWC7Pybjsq5NVC9RsaAx2QUhWkcmfDccIj1oQMg31AtpiSA8135afa_GnS60xy3lRmV1yedx0QiB2XOb1jQocSa8BQw2RHqV_YiDPfIv4/s320/Picture+17.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302473008476715058" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Ka-Zap!<br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJywnIHV1kPhvNjFp1t8oehEOiU2gUwhmKNpQ_4kVESIeAYEqttvggzdVoeVLpZ6iTHV_rZmEwRVYLkXQYxrD7eRmBAsZ11mWSSgFSq2ealal8RJskcDNuwYYOMp1u00XnuxNQfrsxCYI/s1600-h/Picture+12.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 230px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJywnIHV1kPhvNjFp1t8oehEOiU2gUwhmKNpQ_4kVESIeAYEqttvggzdVoeVLpZ6iTHV_rZmEwRVYLkXQYxrD7eRmBAsZ11mWSSgFSq2ealal8RJskcDNuwYYOMp1u00XnuxNQfrsxCYI/s320/Picture+12.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302470266256060594" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Ick . . . as in </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >ichthyophthirius multifilis</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">!</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: left;">Element number two: The cleanest motorcycle gang in history. These guys are great. It’s totally obvious by the spotless, shiny denim (guess they couldn’t afford to spring for leather) jackets of the riders that they had never been worn prior to shooting. Never mind the two-thousand miles worth of road grime any other gang would accumulate, these fun-loving sociopaths are spotless. I love how they show up, intimidate all of the other diners into leaving the restaurant (without settling their bills,) and then the waitress waltzes up to take their order as if nothing at all had happened.<br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvEm3fub2dsU2fe6HW4SZprdmp9hkahheW5c0BGoo_pawIlbHyuil6wKgvPXBtJuxIUolRjQQASMKaBcnZsQtyvKfoTxSwlvIcK6p2ooP8LjeXVY67L39_caFtJQ15_pS3IelnqWzciYQ/s1600-h/Picture+9.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvEm3fub2dsU2fe6HW4SZprdmp9hkahheW5c0BGoo_pawIlbHyuil6wKgvPXBtJuxIUolRjQQASMKaBcnZsQtyvKfoTxSwlvIcK6p2ooP8LjeXVY67L39_caFtJQ15_pS3IelnqWzciYQ/s320/Picture+9.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302469832814376610" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >The Immaculate Riders divest the poodle skirt from yet another debutante.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: left;">And, most annoyingly, element number three: the confusing-as-hell setup. The frame story structure creates too much noise. The story the young woman tells takes place in the doo-wop 1950s. When the freshly-laundered motorcycle gang absconds with the young woman, they head for Lucas Carlisle’s Hellgate (a clunky phrase the storyteller insists on repeating throughout the film: <span style="font-style: italic;">Lucas Carlisle's Hellgate this, Lucas Carlisle's Hellgate that</span> . . . I honestly had no idea who this Lucas Carlisle person was. My best guess, since the third billed character on IMDB is named Lucas, that it is the person who turns out to be the crystal-wielding villain), an 1890s-themed ghost town tourist trap. The result of this chase and the run-in with the girl’s father results in some of the movie’s most hilarious moments. For instance, the slow-motion hatchet-and-chain-tossing battle between the gang’s leader and the abducted girl’s father, a sort of poor man’s John Astin. Many of the movies violent scenes are shown in slo-mo, but as the film drags on it loses its humorous effect and just becomes tedious.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjgHbK_1P-DSixRmJvCvo7Yy7otjE90qCbYl_PRuGidfhyphenhyphenerUfjkrGMWcOktd4oHE5I9Ih54XzGlwydy6YUpnb9tYeTwDPs4BT26D8BwtlLgBEy2S_WhpR7NDswAhTcz506jHJtar4cks/s1600-h/Picture+15.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 236px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjgHbK_1P-DSixRmJvCvo7Yy7otjE90qCbYl_PRuGidfhyphenhyphenerUfjkrGMWcOktd4oHE5I9Ih54XzGlwydy6YUpnb9tYeTwDPs4BT26D8BwtlLgBEy2S_WhpR7NDswAhTcz506jHJtar4cks/s320/Picture+15.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302470267401081330" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Flaming Hatchet: Mankind's Ultimate Weapon</span></span><br /><br /></div>So what we basically have are a bunch of people in dated late 1980s fashion sitting around telling a story that took place in the 1950s--though in large part in an 1890s themed ghost town. Then the storyteller and her friends join the action, revisiting the diner (which looks exactly the same even thirty-plus years later--must be one of those 50s retro joints,) and Lucas Carlisle's Hellgate. Are you following all this? Because I sure as hell am not. Just by watching it I felt as if I had been involved in some sort of mix-up with a time machine--did I plug my coffee maker in wrong again? Was Philip K. Dick transcribing my mindfuck from the great beyond? By mindfuck I do not refer to the type in which a great light is shed, providing insight, in which all past events cohere into a sphere of shimmering clarity, rewarding the viewer tenfold for his patience with a something akin to a low-grade satori. <span style="font-style: italic;">Hellgate</span>’s mindfuck is the type that drags you deeper and deeper into the mire of its own ineptitude. You’ll feel worse for the wear, as if you had just spent a week on the couch with a bong, a self-replenishing bag of potato chips, and a remote control with a sticky channel change button. On the eight day, you run out of pot, spill the bongwater into your bag of chips, and the Great Digital Television Switch* renders your set useless. What the fuck happened? you ask yourself. Make no mistake about it--this is no time travel flick, but if you think <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0390384/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Primer</span></a> left you with a case of the wobblies, treat yourself to this cubic zirconia-studded turd. I found myself fearful that I’d step on a butterfly at some point during my viewing experience and at my next login be faced with the banner:<span style="font-style: italic;"> Garbidge Dey! A selabrayshun uv oll thingz garbidg-ee</span> . . .<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiWCNIBEk-F4S3S7sLt_hR6fuEO5-zEynjT4OHWciBe5OmEhNoqkvHT1GJcF_QvDfIdzRbxVS4JExnMcZzi2d5Z00wwyQ1KyORGOtObbowGI9g0SK3wW2vSnWrE35DcqFwg81ps-B8qMY/s1600-h/Picture+4.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiWCNIBEk-F4S3S7sLt_hR6fuEO5-zEynjT4OHWciBe5OmEhNoqkvHT1GJcF_QvDfIdzRbxVS4JExnMcZzi2d5Z00wwyQ1KyORGOtObbowGI9g0SK3wW2vSnWrE35DcqFwg81ps-B8qMY/s320/Picture+4.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302469825381036898" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Funny, I wore a similar expression while watching this movie. Bottle sold separately (but highly recommended).<br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVCsRbrRM_MMDrrrjCCz55MogeHISM5XA-xVGBBqkX_aMhkXWvTUoEiVJRObLQOvn_DoSDl2nZmLuPI65-vP9ug_gbbQ_ECRmDj2rqngWIrlzOJGLjwJnwiPfL1QnNNZtMxvnsAgJ1Kog/s1600-h/Picture+7.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVCsRbrRM_MMDrrrjCCz55MogeHISM5XA-xVGBBqkX_aMhkXWvTUoEiVJRObLQOvn_DoSDl2nZmLuPI65-vP9ug_gbbQ_ECRmDj2rqngWIrlzOJGLjwJnwiPfL1QnNNZtMxvnsAgJ1Kog/s320/Picture+7.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302469831271927602" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Trust me, it's a stroke of mercy.</span></span><br /><br /></div>It seems this movie was thrown together in order to utilize every set the filmmakers could get their hands on. It's part ghost story, part zombie flick, part haunted house tale, part love story, part sideshow, part vaudeville, part Western, part road movie, part crystal fetish porno, part roman-a-clef . . . well, maybe not the last thing. There's a little bit of everything and the end result is an artlessly crafted chirashi bowl that will keep you on the toilet for a week if you’re foolish enough to take a bite. Perhaps what bothers me most is that, since the movie is called <span style="font-style: italic;">Hellgate</span>, I was expecting, gee, I don’t know, perhaps a gate to hell or something. Nope, the titular<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>Hellgate</span> is nothing more than a reference to Lucas Carlisle’s Hellgate. Yes, a bunch of bad shit does go down there, but if it is in fact supposed to be an actual gate to an actual hell, the filmmakers do nothing to make it clear.<br /><br />I’m convinced that I’m missing some important aspect of the big picture. Am I judging <span style="font-style: italic;">Hellgate </span>too harshly? Truly, I believe that I am incapable of judging anything too harshly--particularly <span style="font-style: italic;">Hellgate</span>--and that the words the English language has provided are indeed inadequate. They are like a silencer put on the gun barrel of my hatred; they can only dampen the report of my rage. A proper review of <span style="font-style: italic;">Hellgate</span> would involve something akin to primal scream therapy and would be ill-suited to the blog form.<br /><br />I watched the trailer, hoping it might shed some light. “From the creators of <span style="font-style: italic;">Hellraiser</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Hellbound</span>,” touts the voiceover. What was all this fascination with Hell? I seem to remember <span style="font-style: italic;">Hellraiser</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Hellbound</span>, though no masterpieces, being far better films. But films is all they were and all they ever will be. I believe <span style="font-style: italic;">Hellgate</span> is something more. <span style="font-style: italic;">Hellgate</span> is not a movie to be watched. <span style="font-style: italic;">Hellgate</span> is an experience. It is the video tape from <span style="font-style: italic;">The Ring</span>. It is the gaze of the gorgon Medusa. It is the dizzying nausea of which Jean-Paul Sartre had only scratched the surface. The DVD itself is the gate. Yes, ladies and gentleman, watch <span style="font-style: italic;">Hellgate</span> and experience the terrors of Hell firsthand.<br /><br /></div></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilaKbLg-rUDHgHTWQpGbs1EEfbEmJfasW_9g-4My2MXKM2S8K-kUZ74-qoz-mWuJsHviyWE7I28mOhAwRopoUskmE_MkByO37GOXqTCEbVtUzFhA_ciSZzcUsqEgFVBscRMnTZxyht-QE/s1600-h/Picture+18.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilaKbLg-rUDHgHTWQpGbs1EEfbEmJfasW_9g-4My2MXKM2S8K-kUZ74-qoz-mWuJsHviyWE7I28mOhAwRopoUskmE_MkByO37GOXqTCEbVtUzFhA_ciSZzcUsqEgFVBscRMnTZxyht-QE/s320/Picture+18.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302470272212281794" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Warning: Magic Crystal may cause sea turtles to attack!</span></span><br /><br /><br />* I have every reason to believe that the June 12, 2009 switch to digital television will be the start of the <span style="font-style: italic;">real</span> Y2K catastrophe. Enjoy your remaining months of life-on-earth-as-we-know-it. Do all those things you ever dreamed of doing (I'm reachable via email). And remember: You heard it here first.Ricky Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821840542920611852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262153143257112786.post-22015888672794621782009-02-11T17:54:00.000-08:002009-02-17T19:12:55.315-08:00Good Girl Gone Bad; or, Her Anus TightenedOf all the great volumes that line the shelves in my study, my most valued is a leatherbound first edition of Karin Tabke’s “Good Girl Gone Bad.” “Good Girl” is the story of ostensibly brilliant investigator Philamina Zorn and her sexy lieutenant boss, Ty Jamerson. Their names, like the book’s dialogue and plot twists, are about as subtle as a slap in the face with Ty’s dick.<br /><br />Phil, formerly an Internal Affairs officer, is assigned to work undercover at a strip club to investigate a series of kidnappings. Before taking on her new assignment, she’s just like any other hardworking cop who’s gorgeous and has huge jugs. Phil is completely repressed and has a textbook’s worth of sexual problems, partially due to having been date-raped as a teenager, but after a few nights of stripping, her confidence comes rushing back. As the title implies, the virginal-yet-sexy Phil takes to the job with enthusiasm, and soon she’s doing lap dances in the back room. The book’s climax (heh heh) takes place when she does an onstage strip dressed in – get this – a police uniform. Dude!<br /><br />You’re not going to believe this, but although supervisor Ty is a hard-bodied stud on the outside and a hurt little boy on the inside, Phil is immediately attracted to him. Despite their love/hate dynamic and feverish power struggle, Ty returns her feelings but he is incapable of maintaining a committed relationship. Why would an attractive, intelligent, adult male who’s so successful in other arenas be a failure in his romantic life? Fortunately, the author provides a sensitive, nuanced analysis of a man torn to pieces by forces both internal and external. Wait, I’m sorry. I was thinking of a different book. Ty’s mom was a slut – that’s why he’s so fucked up. But once he starts boning a repressed, neurotic woman, all of his problems are solved – just like in real life!<br /><br />Throughout the book, I found myself hoping Ty, or maybe Ty’s dick, was behind the kidnappings. That was not the case. I don’t want to spoil the ending, but there are only two major characters in “Good Girl” besides Ty and Phil. Solving the mystery doesn’t present much of a challenge, even to those of us without a background in criminal justice.<br /><br />For that matter, Phil seems like kind of a lousy cop. Why has she only been assigned to one case? She’s more like that person you work with who walks around with file folders in hand and stands at the copy machine but doesn’t seem to really do anything. Sure, she has a subscription to “Cop Talk” magazine and she sorts through file boxes once in a while, but she has an awful lot of down time for a Bay Area cop. It didn’t surprise me that Phil came to zero conclusions on the kidnapping case, stumbling upon the offenders in a very silly ending reminiscent of old Scooby-Doo episodes. I was surprised the culprit didn’t rip off a mask, shake his fist, and bellow “If it wasn’t for you snooping cops . . !”<br /><br />The story itself is lame, but nothing is as cringe-worthy as the writing. The dialogue in this book is so bad, you can see stink lines rising from the pages. Phil’s favorite pickup line is “Fuck me till the cows come home.” Of course it’s a huge turn-on for Ty, but in real life a line like that would cause, at best, the giggles, and at worst, permanent impotence. Some other choice phrases:<br /><br />Ty: I can give you more than my dick, Phil.*<br /><br />Phil: Please – I’m working.<br /><br />Ty: You’re working, all right – working me into a lather.<br /><br />While “Good Girl” doesn’t disappoint in the unintended hilarity department, my biggest letdown was how dirty it wasn’t. The cover says, “Even good girls can be bad . . . very bad.” Well, maybe they can, but not in this book. Phil doesn’t even have sex with Ty until page 263, and despite their alleged psychological / relationship problems, they form a stable, monogamous relationship. They don’t even do anything kinky – they’re like an old married couple. I’ll admit I was shocked when “Phil’s anus tightened” on page 326, but that was because I didn’t think it was possible for her to be more of a tight-ass.<br /><br />But I don’t care – it’s funny. There’s the part where Ty looks like “liquid danger.” And then there’s Phil’s “traitorous nipples.” And then there’s her lips, which Ty wants to “suck right off her face” (hot!). And then there’s the part where he sucks on her breasts “like a starved babe.” Actually, there’s a few times where he’s likened to a starved babe. And then – oh, Jesus, go read it. You won’t be sorry.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcJfxS1YE167JQ0f0CUMGlLFZwm1kdqICrZfogeYOCcIJ6vP10FkmTptSa4MLbYGYvaYeyu0K6BzYSbhqXYi0F1zYs47kr_3276BJp4O8ln_RnBc7vLGaUYsRPispelbiVCPAEPS89VZI/s1600-h/Picture+11.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 205px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcJfxS1YE167JQ0f0CUMGlLFZwm1kdqICrZfogeYOCcIJ6vP10FkmTptSa4MLbYGYvaYeyu0K6BzYSbhqXYi0F1zYs47kr_3276BJp4O8ln_RnBc7vLGaUYsRPispelbiVCPAEPS89VZI/s320/Picture+11.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301945392979714034" border="0" /></a><br /><br />*He doesn’t, though.Samantha Willowshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13077210651620865080noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262153143257112786.post-35250661049384577282009-02-10T13:41:00.001-08:002009-02-26T09:00:56.902-08:00The Paperboy (1994)First of all, in order to avert any possible confusion, IMDB lists this Canadian chiller as<span style="font-style: italic;"> The Paper Boy </span><span>(note the space)</span>. I’m not sure whether this reflects the proper Canadian terminology for a person who delivers newspapers or if the original story was in fact about a young man made out of paper and along the way some fat-cat Canadian producer butchered the screenwriter’s original vision beyond recognition, changing it into the story of an eleven year old boy with a paper route who occasionally murders people. I can only speculate, but I will say that the story of a boy made out of paper has far greater potential for thrills than those contained in the ninety-odd minutes to which I have recently subjected myself.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgavLAr96h_pADS3QLXyUbokBTZro2XUXdwere7NJ3Hp7oDRXxp6gcpFkKFs6SYBhF7ObonSC7j4k2JzcmrxnkXI9CHXMSChneycdpzOQoBDR4QOlqm26Z-ePLJRZ-RF2geCYZXx4jgug8/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgavLAr96h_pADS3QLXyUbokBTZro2XUXdwere7NJ3Hp7oDRXxp6gcpFkKFs6SYBhF7ObonSC7j4k2JzcmrxnkXI9CHXMSChneycdpzOQoBDR4QOlqm26Z-ePLJRZ-RF2geCYZXx4jgug8/s320/Picture+1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301288372079117378" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">He couldn't possibly be a killer with a charming, old-timey font like that!</span></span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The Paperboy</span> starts strong. I was expecting a slow, Canadian build, but within the first two minutes our villain with the sing-song silly name Johnny McFarley (Marc Marut) has dispatched an elderly woman by suffocating her with a plastic bag. From his idyllic Canadian neighborhood we cut to a stock shot of the Boston skyline and from there into the classroom of the attractive Ms. Thorpe (Alexandra Paul). It isn’t long before we realize that the murder is a cruel ploy concocted by Johnny McFarley to draw Melissa Thorpe northward to her Canadian homeland to deal with her mother’s estate.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLVGPWZ4toq_ML1YkHcWu5U3BvLZ7DdbczJ-7d0poeueh6nPw5SguIzF41wDBQdbKjfyHdML_-6BivZUyJTPbxqb9okOQKU10QgGg9_dPTjq72ILJLnq2YoNcV1-Hbd7yVhGomfpxjSqg/s1600-h/Picture+8.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLVGPWZ4toq_ML1YkHcWu5U3BvLZ7DdbczJ-7d0poeueh6nPw5SguIzF41wDBQdbKjfyHdML_-6BivZUyJTPbxqb9okOQKU10QgGg9_dPTjq72ILJLnq2YoNcV1-Hbd7yVhGomfpxjSqg/s320/Picture+8.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301293871904122818" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Beauty, thy name is Ms. Thorpe.</span><br /></div><br />Johnny is a considerate killer, if nothing else. He does Ms. Thorpe the service of suffocating her mother on the last day of classes, so that she can enjoy an extended stay in her mother’s home without it interfering with her teaching job. Ms. Thorpe brings her daughter Cammy along for the journey (I can only assume she’s named after her mother’s favorite lace camisole). We learn through a conversation between Cammy and her cousin that her mother is divorced and that her father lives in Italy. “Where’s that?” the cousin asks. “On a map,” Cammy replies. This is only one example of the three or four gems of sharp dialogue strategically placed throughout the film.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw99tAudSe8_43LK1WRjlKK9DR-f5HKlj_8H635ijPaL1fVEIgTI_zvcRr30sJkyA1Ptf0qUGbIdTp-N4qO1pVB1LTE3FU8ZWbzkK_NHOFrVPzP89UFb3HZEDpq-fFSW4dZFw7m57fyfw/s1600-h/Picture+2.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw99tAudSe8_43LK1WRjlKK9DR-f5HKlj_8H635ijPaL1fVEIgTI_zvcRr30sJkyA1Ptf0qUGbIdTp-N4qO1pVB1LTE3FU8ZWbzkK_NHOFrVPzP89UFb3HZEDpq-fFSW4dZFw7m57fyfw/s320/Picture+2.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301289766112484450" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >"'Lo, mum. Johnny McFarley's me name!"</span><br /><br /></div>From here the plot unfolds at a breakneck pace. Johnny, the perfect archetype of the smarmy Fauntleroy that instantly fills one with disgust and admiration, quickly ingratiates himself into the family by putting on the guise of a helpful, caring little twerp. (“The eagle scout has landed,” quips Ms. Thorpe’s sister at Johnny’s sudden appearance.) There is a genuinely creepy moment at the funeral as Johnny, in a phony show of bereavement, leans over the corpse and kisses it on the cheek, only to be pulled back by Ms. Thorpe.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLaZSN6tOr8raelNeRiun49hqUcPeSTDcw5fF0iovb6a_REvOCwsAnPq7UxuHPNSuSYKFJ_Eub3qXhu_cL58PK2GxJ9rAmn8Qz7meKIucY4v11gDNEbe4udnQamG5lQHAmi8KWOYMBX5E/s1600-h/Picture+10.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLaZSN6tOr8raelNeRiun49hqUcPeSTDcw5fF0iovb6a_REvOCwsAnPq7UxuHPNSuSYKFJ_Eub3qXhu_cL58PK2GxJ9rAmn8Qz7meKIucY4v11gDNEbe4udnQamG5lQHAmi8KWOYMBX5E/s320/Picture+10.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301588558170368866" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Grody to the max!<br /><br /></span></span></div>Johnny seems to inhabit the house next door alone. We learn that his mother passed the year before (I’m sure it would shock you to learn that there is some mystery surrounding her death) and that his father travels a lot, selling “golf stuff.” I wondered if in fact Johnny had also offed his father until, somewhat later in the film, his dad drives up to the house with a trunk full of . . . golf stuff.<br /><br />We've all heard the old saw, "You can pick your friends, but you can't pick your family." Well, Johnny McFarley's not having any of that noise! Johnny’s plan becomes clear rather quickly. He is trying to piece together the perfect family, with Cammy as a sister and Ms. Thorpe as his attractive-yet-nurturing mother. Enter hunky, bearded Brian (William Katt, of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Greatest American Hero</span> fame) a high-school football star who dated only cheerleaders back in the day (though, he confesses, Melissa’s debate club stylings were not of such dowdy magnitude to keep him from harboring a crush on her while he nailed every girl on the pep squad). Brian is quick to pick up on Johnny McFarley’s ulterior motives and the wedge he drives in the relationship between Johnny and Melissa results in two broken plates with hissy fits to match. I should note that whenever Johnny gets angry, the pre-pubescent tone of his voice is ramped up to such an extent that it would be utterly comical if not for its fingernails-across-the-blackboard quality.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgojoj6Lcxdb9bMiQuSGlgS8PId9H9DnObyJY0wg54jzsiSVi7l8Xhgov_EYOu3nOxPxUcYdzYsDylsouY14E-WGHOW3NyIkFu-o3FbHNnBkuahSnFINnkkndY-WxK6rfPHxIrLHBRpjc/s1600-h/Picture+9.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgojoj6Lcxdb9bMiQuSGlgS8PId9H9DnObyJY0wg54jzsiSVi7l8Xhgov_EYOu3nOxPxUcYdzYsDylsouY14E-WGHOW3NyIkFu-o3FbHNnBkuahSnFINnkkndY-WxK6rfPHxIrLHBRpjc/s320/Picture+9.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301294470348117410" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"I may have traded in my cape and tights for a modified argyle sweater vest, but I still kick ass!"</span><br /></span></div><br />Johnny soon embarks on a killing spree, offing anyone who stands in the way of his plan to recreate his idea of the perfect family. Some of his plots are rather ingenious: He deprives the elderly Mrs. Rosemount of her inhaler, then stages a traumatic experience in order to trigger a fatal asthma attack. (But here, as an asthma sufferer, I must digress. Why is it in movies that asthmatics are over and over again portrayed as sickly individuals walking around with their inhalers constantly clutched in their hands? What’s even more ridiculous is that they are puffing them in every shot in the movie, thus giving themselves a massive dose that goes far beyond the boundaries of safety. It just seems cheap and lazy to me. In some instances it’s used for comic relief--asthmatics are nerds, we get it, ha ha. And I must admit that in this movie it’s a valid plot point . . . But, still, it’s overused. I’ve been told by doctors that if you’re using your rescue inhaler more than once a week, you really should be seeking some other form of treatment. Establish that someone has asthma, sure, but don’t have them sucking on their inhaler every time they’re on camera. Christ, I keep expecting an onscreen o.d.!)<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5InBOEq9zKFefTT8ixBHwWerGsKW8lZc31eMb-hq59R-nh0wERWrrifssoyAlAqzYW8Af32xUzFdJChukXvevEoJsTxQukdpuYAPXhD4TCCNZ4UUqRrEetjC59hq7URniCKK_x6g39YE/s1600-h/Picture+7.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5InBOEq9zKFefTT8ixBHwWerGsKW8lZc31eMb-hq59R-nh0wERWrrifssoyAlAqzYW8Af32xUzFdJChukXvevEoJsTxQukdpuYAPXhD4TCCNZ4UUqRrEetjC59hq7URniCKK_x6g39YE/s320/Picture+7.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301291488091227122" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Keep suckin' it down, granny.</span><br /></span><br /></div>Where was I? Oh, yeah. Johnny’s murders. For every ingenious murder he commits, there are two that are just plain sloppy. Poetic justice aside, Johnny offs his father by giving him a solid whack on the head with a putter. Then, to make it appear as if his father is on one of his golf-stuff selling business trips, he parks the car in the garage! Genius! Later, to cover up his bludgeoning of the irresistible Brian, Johnny douses his workshop with gasoline and throws a road flare onto the puddle. That ought to fool the police: <span style="font-style: italic;"> It seems that this man died of massive head trauma inflicted by an accidental fire. Case closed.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdezdtV_h4EIuyyGDGTbLhS76_CBfQBmDV_SQoDro-Fb0cZzBpIroT11AEM4RgeKsswOdwzN4u-796-A1qOPtHYUbGH8KvGGDyFtrwtuevY2G1NAiEtmcQwgonXi6XtGGPY_Ujdy96ZOE/s1600-h/Picture+5.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 245px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdezdtV_h4EIuyyGDGTbLhS76_CBfQBmDV_SQoDro-Fb0cZzBpIroT11AEM4RgeKsswOdwzN4u-796-A1qOPtHYUbGH8KvGGDyFtrwtuevY2G1NAiEtmcQwgonXi6XtGGPY_Ujdy96ZOE/s320/Picture+5.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301290681309434290" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Live by the golf stuff, die by the golf stuff.</span><br /></span></div><br />One aspect of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Paperboy</span> that I found particularly funny was Johnny’s sudden, brief religious awakening one hour and ten minutes into the movie. Though there had been no previous allusion to the Bible or any religious inclination in Johnny’s past, one solitary scene, in which Johnny catches Ms. Thorpe in a lie, is replete with religious dialogue: “Thou shalt not lie. That’s the ninth commandment, remember?”, “My mother’s in heaven because she’s good!”, and, finally, “Jesus doesn’t take bad people.” This particular facet of Johnny’s character never comes up again. This either 1) reflects the consummate skill of the screenwriter in showing us exactly how fragmented is the psyche of young Johnny McFarley, or, 2) reflects the consummate lack of skill in a crappy screenwriter who just threw this scene in for the heck of it, perhaps in the hope that it would give Johnny depth or make him more creepy.<br /><br />Despite his ability to turn on the false charm like it’s water from the tap, Johnny gets his comeuppance and is dragged kicking and screaming (and protesting in his grating, girly voice) into the backseat of a car belonging to some of Canada’s finest (It would have been much cooler if the Royal Canadian Mounted Police showed up and, like, tied him to a horse or something, don’cha think?) I don’t want to give too much away, but I will say this: What kind of fool thinks that he can kill The Greatest American Hero? (Such an oversight perfectly illustrates the limited scope of the Canadian mind.) You have to give young Johnny McFarley some credit, however. If you’re going to nurture a sick oedipal complex, go out and get yourself an attractive mom. You may as well do it in style.Ricky Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17821840542920611852noreply@blogger.com1