Hard Rock Zombies (1985)

Hard Rock Zombies 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 Hellgate, I was perhaps hoping to settle down to a nice, crappy movie, something more along the lines of The Paperboy. 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.

A Hard-On's Day's Night

One of the things that makes these movies so entertaining is the bands they feature--and in that department Hard Rock Zombies 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-

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. Are they really gonna play the entire mediocre song? you ask yourself. You bet your leather pants they are! This movie has more padding than a Victoria's Secret Angel bra.

"Sign me arse, guv'na?"

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: Don't play your next gig in Grand Guignol (the oh-so-cleverly-named next town on their tour). Bad shit will go down. 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, are they really going to play the entire fucking song? 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).

"I like music, skateboarding, and pantomime . . . but my real passion is being a complete cheese-dick."

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.

Someone throw a bucket of water on these guys!

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.

Mr. White Pants, we hardly knew ye.

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 Hellgate--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.

"Once I make sure my head is on straight, I'm going to make this movie suck even harder."

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 Hellgate).

"She's got le-yegs!"

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.

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. Are they really, truly going to make us listen to the entire fucking song? 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!

Nuts in White Satin.

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.

A Were-Woodchuck armed with a switchblade: The only foe worthy of a flaming hatchet.

To say that Hard Rock Zombies makes The Paperboy look like, say, The Shining would be giving Hard Rock Zombies far too much credit. Hard Rock Zombies makes The Paperboy look like some yet-to-be-made horror movie, tentatively titled The Best Horror Movie of All Time, 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 Hard Rock Zombies. There is only one rational way for me to deal with Hard Rock Zombies. 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 Hard Rock Zombies resides. Then, as Hard Rock Zombies is moving its trash cans to the curb, I will get its attention by making the following observation: "Garbage day!" Then, once Hard Rock Zombies looks up and sees me standing in the middle of the street, I will raise the revolver I hold in my hand. Hard Rock Zombies will say "no!" but I will not heed its plea. I will shoot Hard Rock Zombies 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.

We should be so lucky . . .

Hellgate (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 Hellgate--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 Hellgate, I’m not entirely sure. In either case, you’re going to want to find a good listener, plop yourself down on a comfy chaise longue, and get a few things off your chest). Since this came packaged as a b-side to a DVD double feature with the entertaining The Pit, I was perhaps hoping for too much by expecting that goodness to run over to the flipside.

"I know the answer to your question, Mister Kotter. Pick me. I insist."

Hellgate 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 The Fog. But all comparisons end there--the chick with the short hair and gaudy earrings, it turns out, is no John Houseman. The Fog delivers on its chilling promise. Hellgate 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.

I’m not going to focus on the plot because I’m not entirely sure Hellgate 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 Hellgate 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.

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?

"What do you suppose this thing does to goldfish?"

Ka-Zap!

Ick . . . as in ichthyophthirius multifilis!

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.

The Immaculate Riders divest the poodle skirt from yet another debutante.

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: Lucas Carlisle's Hellgate this, Lucas Carlisle's Hellgate that . . . 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.

The Flaming Hatchet: Mankind's Ultimate Weapon

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. Hellgate’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 Primer 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: Garbidge Dey! A selabrayshun uv oll thingz garbidg-ee . . .

Funny, I wore a similar expression while watching this movie. Bottle sold separately (but highly recommended).

Trust me, it's a stroke of mercy.

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 Hellgate, I was expecting, gee, I don’t know, perhaps a gate to hell or something. Nope, the titular Hellgate 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.

I’m convinced that I’m missing some important aspect of the big picture. Am I judging Hellgate too harshly? Truly, I believe that I am incapable of judging anything too harshly--particularly Hellgate--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 Hellgate would involve something akin to primal scream therapy and would be ill-suited to the blog form.

I watched the trailer, hoping it might shed some light. “From the creators of Hellraiser and Hellbound,” touts the voiceover. What was all this fascination with Hell? I seem to remember Hellraiser and Hellbound, though no masterpieces, being far better films. But films is all they were and all they ever will be. I believe Hellgate is something more. Hellgate is not a movie to be watched. Hellgate is an experience. It is the video tape from The Ring. 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 Hellgate and experience the terrors of Hell firsthand.

Warning: Magic Crystal may cause sea turtles to attack!


* I have every reason to believe that the June 12, 2009 switch to digital television will be the start of the real 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.