This may be the first time I've ever woken up visibly rattled from a dream.
Came back from a Barone family reunion (real good times, good food, good people), back here to my parents' house, and possibly because I was up dumb late watching Blood and Black Lace, I was fucking pooped. Continued to read my latest book (blog about it to come), but then started dozing off so I just 'F it' and took a napparoo.
Almost instantly, I became engulfed within this really bizarre sequence of events in dream-form. All taken place outside, near some sort of swampy area. A handful of people I knew, such as my mom, some of my cousins, a couple celebrities, and my dog Zoey, were present throughout.
All of the episodes teetered toward the macabre spectrum of tone. I don't clearly recall each, most are a bit foggy. One I kinda remember being about a miniature Me, all six or so inches of me, being stuck within some cupboard as a giant was coming to find and kill me. Don't ask. All I know is that this scene abruptly ended and bled into the next one.
This final one was the episode that did me in, in terms of waking up in a bit of a breathless panic. There were four of us in my mom's Durango, she herself may have even been driving. Although God I hope not. Whoever the driver was, he/she insisted on being a daredevil and speeding toward this gross, nasty-looking swamp, which began like the ocean-break on a beach, and he/she kept speeding toward the swamp-beginning. None of us others in the Durango were pleading with he/she to stop or anything, which made it all the more off-putting.
I was seated in the back part of the truck, where you'd typically put bags and boxes and coolers and shit. But, of course, this was all being seen my from POV, so as the truck submerged into the swamp, the driver tried cutting the tire violently, turning the Durango to the left. Yet, "turning" is an exaggeration, being that it was hardly shifting, instead sinking deeper and deeper into the swamp.
Then, the lights in the car shut off. And then I could hear the engine giving out. And my breath began cutting short. Gasping. Yet none of us were screaming. Or crying. Or yelling to the heavens above for help. We were just taking it.
But then, suddenly, the lack of oxygen forced me to look up, as in "Holy shit, I can't breathe!" And as I looked up, I noticed that I was back in my bed. Lights off in my room. My book lying next to me. Phone blinking because of three missed calls.
And I was back in reality. Breathing comfortably. Safe. Swamp-free.
Damn, that dream kinda fucked me up.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Netflix Fix #4 -- Blood and Black Lace
Really tired right now for some reason....it's a Saturday morning, 10am, which is an ungodly hour for yours truly on a Saturday morning, mind you. Have a family reunion picnic to hit in like an hour; otherwise, I'd be coutning dozens of sheep right now, or rather, I'd be in the midst of some dream that I won't remember at all after waking up. It's strange. Maybe like once every two months do I have a tangible dream. Does that have any significance, or underlying meaning? Aren't you supposed to remember your dreams? Aren't they somewhat important? Ahh, nevermind.
At least I didn't dream of that creepy-ass end shot from Sleepaway Camp. Sheesh. I thought that crazy bitch Angela and her little surprise would show up in an uncomfortable nightmare, for sure. Oh well, there's always tonight. Or tomorrow night. A boy can dream, can't he? Wait, actually, hopefully no, he can't. At least not about Angela's disturbed self.
Anyway....another reason why I'm bit fatigued at the moment is that I was up 'til about 2am watching Blood and Black Lace, an Italian "giallo" flick that I've been wanting to see ever since it made the Bravo channel's "100 Scariest Movie Moments" special from a couple Halloweens ago. I have that special on VHS, by the way. Fucking love(d) it. It put me on to so many unique and dope movies I may have otherwise never even heard of. Blood and Black Lace a primo example.
Made way back in 1964, directed by "the great" Mario Bava. I put that adjective in quotations only because I've yet to see all his films (a sad fact that Netflix will eventually change), even though he's regarded as a God of Italian horror and genre ish. So I can't fully call him that without knowing firsthand, just how I see such praising. But after watching Blood and Black Lace, I'm definitely excited to catch up with his entire catalog, because this flick kinda rocked. Not a hands-down masterpiece, by any means, but one that I'd imagine was hugely influential on any filmmaker who made horror, namely "slashers," during the 1970s and 1980s.
There's this serial killer, who looks exactly like No-Face from the Dick Tracy movie (the enigmatic force who ended up to really be Madonna's lounge singer character, remember? Dick Tracy ruled, by the way)in a mask that seems like a woman's stocking and a black hat/black overcoat combo.
This killer is stalking and shortening lifelines of a group of models, hot chicks who all convene in some sort of studio and fashion-house on the daily. There's this diary floating around, too, that holds secrets and treachery that's gone down within this crew, and the killer is hellbent on finding said truth-holder. So naturally, six people die in the process, all pretty graphically.
First off, the positives, and there are many here. To get the morbid out of the way, the death scenes are all very, very well done. Tight close-ups of victims faces; framing shots that hide the killer from the audience's view; prolonged tension, but not so long that interest is sacrificed. You get one girl's face burnt off by a piping-hot lamp, another's face jabbed forcefully by a glove with three rusty metal spikes sticking out (ouch!), another smothered by a pillow after having burnt-face chick fall on top of her....this flick has a reasonably high bodycount, worth noting only because it was made back in '64. Extensive corpse pile-ups are something most commonly associated with '80s horror, at least for me. So I could go out on a limb and say that without Blood and Black Lace, we'd have no Friday the 13th, Halloween, good ol' Sleepaway Camp, Prom Night, etc. I could be wrong, though; Psycho is more influential, I'd imagine, but still. Bava definitely broke some ground here.
Also worth mentioning....typically, the actresses in older movies aren't that hot. Maybe it's the fully-clothed style of garment worn back then. Who knows, but I'm rarely turned on by old film actresses. There's exceptions, granted, but not often. Blood and Black Lace, however, has some en-fuego beauties. Most stripped down to their underwear during the money shots. As Peter Griffin would say: "That was freeaakinn' sweeet!"
The use of color in this film is really something to see, too. Lavish, rich, bright shades of red, yellow. The blood, especially in a scene where one gal is submerged in a bathtub, face first, until her breathing abilities are finished, reminded me of the "gorgeous red" shade seen in Suspiria. That bathtub scene is actually one of the pics I posted above. The most red of all here, though, are the mannequins found in the fashion-house. Not sure why these dummies are so crimson, but the fact that they are strangely adds to the creep factor.
Now, on to some negatives. The majority of the music heard is this live band sounding jazz stuff, which takes away from the tension and creepiness rather than adding to. Music in horror is crucial, and when used right, like in Halloween or Psycho, it can make a slasher's kill scenes unforgettable. Here, you feel like getting up and doing a bit of a jig during a couple of the death scenes, scenes that are otherwise brilliantly shot. Secondly,
and this isn't really Bava's fault, but more to blame on whoever packaged the DVD version, there's some horrendous voice dubbing afoot. Akin to those Godzilla flicks, there's hardly any effort made to match the English dialogue to the mouth(s) of each Italian thespian. It's laughable, at times.
But, for me, the biggest issue is a large one indeed: Blood and Black Lace isn't scary. At all. Sure, some scenes have a nice bit of tension, and mostly all the death scenes are very effective. But this plays like more of a crime noir than a slasher horror. Not knocking that, one bit. I just went into the film thinking it was a pure creepshow. But on further investigation, before watching, I learned that it's actually an Italian "giallo," which is a term used for films covering crime fiction and mystery blended with horror elements.
The identity of the killer is pretty well covered, so in that respect the mystery factor works. I didn't guess who the killer was 'til pretty late in the game, and usually I'm good at doing so.
In all, Blood and Black Lace is a really strong flick...not as scary and horrific as I was anticipating, but once I accepted that it wasn't a full-on dread affair, I eased into enjoyment. It's pretty damn bleak in its own right, and groundbreaking in its direction and willingness to escalate the corpse count. I'm really looking forward to seeing what else Mario Bava has to offer. In time, I'm sure I'll be taking those quotations away from "the great."
Now, off to the Barone family reunion picnic. I hear chicken teriyaki is on the menu. My stomach is ecstatic.
At least I didn't dream of that creepy-ass end shot from Sleepaway Camp. Sheesh. I thought that crazy bitch Angela and her little surprise would show up in an uncomfortable nightmare, for sure. Oh well, there's always tonight. Or tomorrow night. A boy can dream, can't he? Wait, actually, hopefully no, he can't. At least not about Angela's disturbed self.
Anyway....another reason why I'm bit fatigued at the moment is that I was up 'til about 2am watching Blood and Black Lace, an Italian "giallo" flick that I've been wanting to see ever since it made the Bravo channel's "100 Scariest Movie Moments" special from a couple Halloweens ago. I have that special on VHS, by the way. Fucking love(d) it. It put me on to so many unique and dope movies I may have otherwise never even heard of. Blood and Black Lace a primo example.
Made way back in 1964, directed by "the great" Mario Bava. I put that adjective in quotations only because I've yet to see all his films (a sad fact that Netflix will eventually change), even though he's regarded as a God of Italian horror and genre ish. So I can't fully call him that without knowing firsthand, just how I see such praising. But after watching Blood and Black Lace, I'm definitely excited to catch up with his entire catalog, because this flick kinda rocked. Not a hands-down masterpiece, by any means, but one that I'd imagine was hugely influential on any filmmaker who made horror, namely "slashers," during the 1970s and 1980s.
There's this serial killer, who looks exactly like No-Face from the Dick Tracy movie (the enigmatic force who ended up to really be Madonna's lounge singer character, remember? Dick Tracy ruled, by the way)in a mask that seems like a woman's stocking and a black hat/black overcoat combo.
This killer is stalking and shortening lifelines of a group of models, hot chicks who all convene in some sort of studio and fashion-house on the daily. There's this diary floating around, too, that holds secrets and treachery that's gone down within this crew, and the killer is hellbent on finding said truth-holder. So naturally, six people die in the process, all pretty graphically.
First off, the positives, and there are many here. To get the morbid out of the way, the death scenes are all very, very well done. Tight close-ups of victims faces; framing shots that hide the killer from the audience's view; prolonged tension, but not so long that interest is sacrificed. You get one girl's face burnt off by a piping-hot lamp, another's face jabbed forcefully by a glove with three rusty metal spikes sticking out (ouch!), another smothered by a pillow after having burnt-face chick fall on top of her....this flick has a reasonably high bodycount, worth noting only because it was made back in '64. Extensive corpse pile-ups are something most commonly associated with '80s horror, at least for me. So I could go out on a limb and say that without Blood and Black Lace, we'd have no Friday the 13th, Halloween, good ol' Sleepaway Camp, Prom Night, etc. I could be wrong, though; Psycho is more influential, I'd imagine, but still. Bava definitely broke some ground here.
Also worth mentioning....typically, the actresses in older movies aren't that hot. Maybe it's the fully-clothed style of garment worn back then. Who knows, but I'm rarely turned on by old film actresses. There's exceptions, granted, but not often. Blood and Black Lace, however, has some en-fuego beauties. Most stripped down to their underwear during the money shots. As Peter Griffin would say: "That was freeaakinn' sweeet!"
The use of color in this film is really something to see, too. Lavish, rich, bright shades of red, yellow. The blood, especially in a scene where one gal is submerged in a bathtub, face first, until her breathing abilities are finished, reminded me of the "gorgeous red" shade seen in Suspiria. That bathtub scene is actually one of the pics I posted above. The most red of all here, though, are the mannequins found in the fashion-house. Not sure why these dummies are so crimson, but the fact that they are strangely adds to the creep factor.
Now, on to some negatives. The majority of the music heard is this live band sounding jazz stuff, which takes away from the tension and creepiness rather than adding to. Music in horror is crucial, and when used right, like in Halloween or Psycho, it can make a slasher's kill scenes unforgettable. Here, you feel like getting up and doing a bit of a jig during a couple of the death scenes, scenes that are otherwise brilliantly shot. Secondly,
and this isn't really Bava's fault, but more to blame on whoever packaged the DVD version, there's some horrendous voice dubbing afoot. Akin to those Godzilla flicks, there's hardly any effort made to match the English dialogue to the mouth(s) of each Italian thespian. It's laughable, at times.
But, for me, the biggest issue is a large one indeed: Blood and Black Lace isn't scary. At all. Sure, some scenes have a nice bit of tension, and mostly all the death scenes are very effective. But this plays like more of a crime noir than a slasher horror. Not knocking that, one bit. I just went into the film thinking it was a pure creepshow. But on further investigation, before watching, I learned that it's actually an Italian "giallo," which is a term used for films covering crime fiction and mystery blended with horror elements.
The identity of the killer is pretty well covered, so in that respect the mystery factor works. I didn't guess who the killer was 'til pretty late in the game, and usually I'm good at doing so.
In all, Blood and Black Lace is a really strong flick...not as scary and horrific as I was anticipating, but once I accepted that it wasn't a full-on dread affair, I eased into enjoyment. It's pretty damn bleak in its own right, and groundbreaking in its direction and willingness to escalate the corpse count. I'm really looking forward to seeing what else Mario Bava has to offer. In time, I'm sure I'll be taking those quotations away from "the great."
Now, off to the Barone family reunion picnic. I hear chicken teriyaki is on the menu. My stomach is ecstatic.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Batshit Crazy, Which Means I Kinda Love It....
....on the glorious Monsters HD channel, I just watched that cult classic of slasher genericness, Sleepaway Camp, from 1983, I believe it was.
A really shitty movie, at the end of the day. Some terrible acting, laughable dialogue, pointless characters, ripped-off elements from the original Friday the 13th. But still, there's this intriguing tone of "what the fuck" going on throughout, some sort of sleazy macabre effectiveness that can't be denied. Some of the murders are pretty creative, but nothing, and I repeat, NOTHING, can prepare you for the final moment (assuming it's never been spoiled for you, or you haven't seen it already). Holy shit. I forgot just how bonkers the final shot is....part cardboard cutout of our disturbed main character, Angela, part dirty porno. All sadistic weirdness.
I won't spoil it here, I'll just implore that everybody go out and rent this flick ASAP. Trust me.....you'll never see an ending like it again. I promise.
Wow. Just wow. Needs to be seen to to believed....
A really shitty movie, at the end of the day. Some terrible acting, laughable dialogue, pointless characters, ripped-off elements from the original Friday the 13th. But still, there's this intriguing tone of "what the fuck" going on throughout, some sort of sleazy macabre effectiveness that can't be denied. Some of the murders are pretty creative, but nothing, and I repeat, NOTHING, can prepare you for the final moment (assuming it's never been spoiled for you, or you haven't seen it already). Holy shit. I forgot just how bonkers the final shot is....part cardboard cutout of our disturbed main character, Angela, part dirty porno. All sadistic weirdness.
I won't spoil it here, I'll just implore that everybody go out and rent this flick ASAP. Trust me.....you'll never see an ending like it again. I promise.
Wow. Just wow. Needs to be seen to to believed....
Where's The Love? Part 1: Celeb Chicks, Man Part 1
Some things in life, whether celebrity related or everyday man related, baffle my mind in their underrated-ness (that's tons of "ateds," huh). I've always been a champion for underdogs, so I've decided to do some blog entries where I'll be spotlighting my fave neglected things, by categories.
First up, my favorite Sleeper Female Celebs....obviously, in the looks department. There'll come a time when I do one on actresses based off talent, but these here are for physical first. Though, they're all actually talented in their own right, but that's not the matter at hand. These don't require many words to back them up, so I'll keep my written thoughts brief, to the point. So, without further delay.......hopefully this will wake some sleepers up about these gals' uber-sexy.
Mary Elizabeth Winstead
Quite possibly the most underrated "sexy actress" in the game right now. Maybe I love her so because she's largely done genre flicks: some shit good ones (that Black Christmas remake was fucking atrocious), the occasional one that surprises me in its quality (Final Destination 3), and then the downright awesome (Quentin Tarantino's Death Proof). Her next big project is Scott Pilgrim, based off a comic book series I'm dying to read and starring Superbad/Juno hot-boy Michael Cera and directed by the dope Edgar Wright. Should rule. And hopefully should wake motherfuckers up to the fine that is Mary El.
--
Emmanuelle Chriqui
I'm pretty sure Ms. Chriqui and I first fell in (one-sided) love during Snow Day, an otherwise lame kiddie flick in which she played the generic "hot girl who our nerdy lead secretly loves" role. Eye candy, basically. But then she popped up in the pretty-cool Texas Chainsaw ripoff Wrong Turn (alongside another gal who'll appear later on this here list), wearing a skintight blue tank top, and acting a bit promiscous, and I was smitten. Instantly. Flawlessy-cute face....nice tan skin...airtight body. That blonde troll on Entourage is in way above his head with her....she needs a fella like me to relieve him of his duties.
--
Eliza Dushku
The other actress who was in Wrong Turn with Chriqui....I first fell head over heels for Dushku during my Buffy The Vampire Slayer fanboy days (I admit it....the first three seasons rocked my world). I was all about Sarah Michelle Gellar until Dushku jumped on the scene as the meaner Faith, which instantly converted me. I gotta have Faith, I thought during every episode. Since Buffy, she's done a couple things, but sadly she's basically forgotten by men's magazines, casting agents, etc.....but thankfully, she's starring in a new TV show called Dollhouse, meaning I'll have a new show to watch this season. Hopefully it lasts for a few seasons, if not for only to see Dushku weekly. I've been patient....it's time to collect, now.
--
Christina Ricci
No, this was not an excuse to post this new pic of Ricci wearing the shit out of that bikini. Although, it's worth mentioning again: Ricci is killing the beach-going game right there. But anyway....Wednesday Addams herself has always been high on my crush list. Perhaps its because she's a bit of an eccentric, a quality I find oh-so-endearing in a dame. She chooses really unique and unexpected roles, and always gives a strong performance. I personally liked Speed Racer, even though it was certainly way too long and confusing, but I still enjoyed. Largely because Ricci was so button-cute as Trixie. She's one that I actually don't mind being slept-on in the looks dept....it adds to her allure, really.
--
Ashley Judd
True, she's much older than I am, but I didn't want this list to only include ladies around my age or so. Judd has always been the "older woman of my dreams" type.....gorgeous, elegant. She's not only underrated as a sex symbol, she's brutally slept-on as an actress.....so many great performances, but my personal favorite is last year's also-slept-on psychological weirdfest Bug, in which she gave an award-worthy showing. If only pseudo-horror flicks were award fodder, that is. But whatever. She's insanely beautiful in my book. Always has. Always will be.
--
And with Judd, this batch of sleepers has drawn to a close. I know I'm not alone here. All five of these ladies rock my world, and surely the worlds of many others who've seen the light. But on a bigger scale, I still must ask:
Where's the love????
---------------
M.B. NOTE: Had to add one more. I'm currently skimming through the new Fall TV Preview issue of Entertainment Weekly and came across a blurb on that show Lipstick Jungle, which I don't watch, but one of its stars is....
Lindsay Price
Can't off the top of my head name what movies I know her from, but there's definitely a bunch. She's one of the sexy ladies who pops up in random projects I'm watching, and I'm always bitten by the lovebug, but never know her name or anything about her....but a couple issues ago, somebody at Esquire magazine had the genius idea to shoot her naked (no nips or anything seen, of course....it's not Playboy now) for their annual "My First Time...." feature package, and it was quite a shot to see.
Actually.....here, see for yourself (as seen in Esquire):
........exactly.
So, again.....where's the love?????
First up, my favorite Sleeper Female Celebs....obviously, in the looks department. There'll come a time when I do one on actresses based off talent, but these here are for physical first. Though, they're all actually talented in their own right, but that's not the matter at hand. These don't require many words to back them up, so I'll keep my written thoughts brief, to the point. So, without further delay.......hopefully this will wake some sleepers up about these gals' uber-sexy.
Mary Elizabeth Winstead
Quite possibly the most underrated "sexy actress" in the game right now. Maybe I love her so because she's largely done genre flicks: some shit good ones (that Black Christmas remake was fucking atrocious), the occasional one that surprises me in its quality (Final Destination 3), and then the downright awesome (Quentin Tarantino's Death Proof). Her next big project is Scott Pilgrim, based off a comic book series I'm dying to read and starring Superbad/Juno hot-boy Michael Cera and directed by the dope Edgar Wright. Should rule. And hopefully should wake motherfuckers up to the fine that is Mary El.
--
Emmanuelle Chriqui
I'm pretty sure Ms. Chriqui and I first fell in (one-sided) love during Snow Day, an otherwise lame kiddie flick in which she played the generic "hot girl who our nerdy lead secretly loves" role. Eye candy, basically. But then she popped up in the pretty-cool Texas Chainsaw ripoff Wrong Turn (alongside another gal who'll appear later on this here list), wearing a skintight blue tank top, and acting a bit promiscous, and I was smitten. Instantly. Flawlessy-cute face....nice tan skin...airtight body. That blonde troll on Entourage is in way above his head with her....she needs a fella like me to relieve him of his duties.
--
Eliza Dushku
The other actress who was in Wrong Turn with Chriqui....I first fell head over heels for Dushku during my Buffy The Vampire Slayer fanboy days (I admit it....the first three seasons rocked my world). I was all about Sarah Michelle Gellar until Dushku jumped on the scene as the meaner Faith, which instantly converted me. I gotta have Faith, I thought during every episode. Since Buffy, she's done a couple things, but sadly she's basically forgotten by men's magazines, casting agents, etc.....but thankfully, she's starring in a new TV show called Dollhouse, meaning I'll have a new show to watch this season. Hopefully it lasts for a few seasons, if not for only to see Dushku weekly. I've been patient....it's time to collect, now.
--
Christina Ricci
No, this was not an excuse to post this new pic of Ricci wearing the shit out of that bikini. Although, it's worth mentioning again: Ricci is killing the beach-going game right there. But anyway....Wednesday Addams herself has always been high on my crush list. Perhaps its because she's a bit of an eccentric, a quality I find oh-so-endearing in a dame. She chooses really unique and unexpected roles, and always gives a strong performance. I personally liked Speed Racer, even though it was certainly way too long and confusing, but I still enjoyed. Largely because Ricci was so button-cute as Trixie. She's one that I actually don't mind being slept-on in the looks dept....it adds to her allure, really.
--
Ashley Judd
True, she's much older than I am, but I didn't want this list to only include ladies around my age or so. Judd has always been the "older woman of my dreams" type.....gorgeous, elegant. She's not only underrated as a sex symbol, she's brutally slept-on as an actress.....so many great performances, but my personal favorite is last year's also-slept-on psychological weirdfest Bug, in which she gave an award-worthy showing. If only pseudo-horror flicks were award fodder, that is. But whatever. She's insanely beautiful in my book. Always has. Always will be.
--
And with Judd, this batch of sleepers has drawn to a close. I know I'm not alone here. All five of these ladies rock my world, and surely the worlds of many others who've seen the light. But on a bigger scale, I still must ask:
Where's the love????
---------------
M.B. NOTE: Had to add one more. I'm currently skimming through the new Fall TV Preview issue of Entertainment Weekly and came across a blurb on that show Lipstick Jungle, which I don't watch, but one of its stars is....
Lindsay Price
Can't off the top of my head name what movies I know her from, but there's definitely a bunch. She's one of the sexy ladies who pops up in random projects I'm watching, and I'm always bitten by the lovebug, but never know her name or anything about her....but a couple issues ago, somebody at Esquire magazine had the genius idea to shoot her naked (no nips or anything seen, of course....it's not Playboy now) for their annual "My First Time...." feature package, and it was quite a shot to see.
Actually.....here, see for yourself (as seen in Esquire):
........exactly.
So, again.....where's the love?????
Life-Defining Moments -- Memory 2
At the time, grades Kindergarten through 8th didn't feel like the dark, connection-less labyrinth of emotions and self-questioning that I now realize they were. I was just a straight-A student, who wanted to do right by my parents and consistently brinh home 100% test papers, the kid with the happy and calm parents on every "parent/teacher" night. The kid that other parents wish could rub off on their own a bit. The kid who scored over 1,000 points in his four-year Interparochial League basketball career (stats don't lie, somewhere in my parents' basement lies the scorebooks to prove it).
I hardly hung out with "friends" outside of school, but that didn't make me sad or ashamed. Maybe once a week or so, I'd go over to one friend in particular's house to shoot hoops and watch ESPN highlights, chit-chat about our mutual hero Michael Jordan. See, back then I was a big jock-in-training. Movies and music were vices, as well, but sports was biggest bag. And without sports, I would've made zero friends. Nada. Could've ended up being a depression case, even. Who knows. But that's neither here nor there. I DID have sports, so all was well.
Well, well enough. You see, I was living a sort-of secret life for the first half of my time at St. Catharine's elementary school, in Glen Rock, Jerz. The school was as preppy as any grade school could ever be. Fucking kids actually had Billy Joel fan clubs, or Nirvana fan clubs (okay, a Nirvana fan club isn't bad at all....but Billy Joel? Keep in mind, these kids were no older than 12. I bet their parents would even laugh at the idea of a Billy Joel fan club). There was another group who they all loved at the time, but the group name escapes me. Their album was called POCKET FULL OF KRYPTONITE, though, I do remember that much. Maybe somebody out there can recall....I could always just do a simple Google search right now, but fuck it. Too lazy.
The point of all this being....I was scared to admit to my "friends" that I was a huge, mega fountain of hip-hop love and knowledge at the time. I'd go home, and while riding the bus, I'd have Wu-Tang's 36 CHAMBERS, or Gang Starr's HARD TO EARN in my cassette player. I'd go home and call the local bookstore every first Tuesday of the month, hoping that a new issue of The Source had dropped, and then would demand that my parents drive me there to scoop it up. Every time a new Source dropped, was like Christmas for your boy. I was the kid who called Coconuts every day for a week straight obsessively, asking if Group Home's LIVIN' PROOF album was in stock yet. (My timeline may be off, in terms of what grade I was in when these things happened, but this was my mindstate back then regardless, so work with me here).
But I battled with the fearful notion of revealing my "hip hop jones" to these kids on a daily basis. Then one day, in my 5th grade term, I grew a pair of balls and did the unthinkable: I walked the halls of St. Catharine's, where old bitchy nuns roamed and close-minded youth walked, in a Public Enemy tour jacket. All black; giant PE symbol on the back (the red bulls-eye with the guy wearing a hat and crossing his arms standing within the scope). Unsurprisingly, many a head turned, many a jaw dropped. Matt Barone, the quiet straight-A student who seemed to be sweeter than sugar was wearing a jacket that had a semi-automatic weapon's bulls-eye blasted on the back. (sidenote: my uncle is the man....he hooked that jacket up for me, knowing I loved PE much....he had some industry connects at the time).
Shockingly, however, nobody seemed to really care. A couple teachers and nuns questioned it, but I guess my reputation was in such positive standing that a meaningless coat could do little to crumble what I'd indirectly built for years prior. And shortly after that, I started listening to my cassette player during lunch break, rather than waiting 'til I was off-campus on the bus. And one day, my teacher asked me what I was listening to, which would've been whatever if it were any other day. This time, I had Onyx's BACDAFUCUP tape playing, stopped on the track "Black Vagina Finda." Imagine if I'd let my teacher--a 50-something year old White broad--listen to Sticky Fingaz dictate his affinity for Black girls' snatches. Heart attack caused, much? But I simply said, "Oh, a rap group called Onyx," and then switched the subject to whatever test we had on the horizon. Well-played by yours truly, I must say.
While these events didn't cause the initial uproars I had anticipated, they gradually made my grammar school experience one of isolation and discomfort. My peers slowly distanced themselves from me, in subtle ways, but looking back on it, I should've noticed the rifts tenfold then. Especially when my school comibined with some schools from Paterson, merging into an "Interparochial" establishment. Before you knew it, I was connecting with the kids from Paterson (who, yes, happened to be Black) more so than any of the "friends" I'd had for the years before. I was able to more openly address my love for rap, to kids who shared the same interests and wouldn't look at me like a weirdo or a wannabe.
Still, though, those awkward years were the first times I noticed that, at heart, I'm an extreme introvert. And it all stems back to the feeling that my interests could be looked down upon as a bit strange. Grounds for being outcasted. Of course, these days his has died down, and I wear my geek flags proudly. But growing up, my eccentricities were the cause of much grief, much insecurity, and, honestly, much tears in the privacy of my bedroom. All will be told here in the future. This is just the jumpoff point.
El fin. For now.
I hardly hung out with "friends" outside of school, but that didn't make me sad or ashamed. Maybe once a week or so, I'd go over to one friend in particular's house to shoot hoops and watch ESPN highlights, chit-chat about our mutual hero Michael Jordan. See, back then I was a big jock-in-training. Movies and music were vices, as well, but sports was biggest bag. And without sports, I would've made zero friends. Nada. Could've ended up being a depression case, even. Who knows. But that's neither here nor there. I DID have sports, so all was well.
Well, well enough. You see, I was living a sort-of secret life for the first half of my time at St. Catharine's elementary school, in Glen Rock, Jerz. The school was as preppy as any grade school could ever be. Fucking kids actually had Billy Joel fan clubs, or Nirvana fan clubs (okay, a Nirvana fan club isn't bad at all....but Billy Joel? Keep in mind, these kids were no older than 12. I bet their parents would even laugh at the idea of a Billy Joel fan club). There was another group who they all loved at the time, but the group name escapes me. Their album was called POCKET FULL OF KRYPTONITE, though, I do remember that much. Maybe somebody out there can recall....I could always just do a simple Google search right now, but fuck it. Too lazy.
The point of all this being....I was scared to admit to my "friends" that I was a huge, mega fountain of hip-hop love and knowledge at the time. I'd go home, and while riding the bus, I'd have Wu-Tang's 36 CHAMBERS, or Gang Starr's HARD TO EARN in my cassette player. I'd go home and call the local bookstore every first Tuesday of the month, hoping that a new issue of The Source had dropped, and then would demand that my parents drive me there to scoop it up. Every time a new Source dropped, was like Christmas for your boy. I was the kid who called Coconuts every day for a week straight obsessively, asking if Group Home's LIVIN' PROOF album was in stock yet. (My timeline may be off, in terms of what grade I was in when these things happened, but this was my mindstate back then regardless, so work with me here).
But I battled with the fearful notion of revealing my "hip hop jones" to these kids on a daily basis. Then one day, in my 5th grade term, I grew a pair of balls and did the unthinkable: I walked the halls of St. Catharine's, where old bitchy nuns roamed and close-minded youth walked, in a Public Enemy tour jacket. All black; giant PE symbol on the back (the red bulls-eye with the guy wearing a hat and crossing his arms standing within the scope). Unsurprisingly, many a head turned, many a jaw dropped. Matt Barone, the quiet straight-A student who seemed to be sweeter than sugar was wearing a jacket that had a semi-automatic weapon's bulls-eye blasted on the back. (sidenote: my uncle is the man....he hooked that jacket up for me, knowing I loved PE much....he had some industry connects at the time).
Shockingly, however, nobody seemed to really care. A couple teachers and nuns questioned it, but I guess my reputation was in such positive standing that a meaningless coat could do little to crumble what I'd indirectly built for years prior. And shortly after that, I started listening to my cassette player during lunch break, rather than waiting 'til I was off-campus on the bus. And one day, my teacher asked me what I was listening to, which would've been whatever if it were any other day. This time, I had Onyx's BACDAFUCUP tape playing, stopped on the track "Black Vagina Finda." Imagine if I'd let my teacher--a 50-something year old White broad--listen to Sticky Fingaz dictate his affinity for Black girls' snatches. Heart attack caused, much? But I simply said, "Oh, a rap group called Onyx," and then switched the subject to whatever test we had on the horizon. Well-played by yours truly, I must say.
While these events didn't cause the initial uproars I had anticipated, they gradually made my grammar school experience one of isolation and discomfort. My peers slowly distanced themselves from me, in subtle ways, but looking back on it, I should've noticed the rifts tenfold then. Especially when my school comibined with some schools from Paterson, merging into an "Interparochial" establishment. Before you knew it, I was connecting with the kids from Paterson (who, yes, happened to be Black) more so than any of the "friends" I'd had for the years before. I was able to more openly address my love for rap, to kids who shared the same interests and wouldn't look at me like a weirdo or a wannabe.
Still, though, those awkward years were the first times I noticed that, at heart, I'm an extreme introvert. And it all stems back to the feeling that my interests could be looked down upon as a bit strange. Grounds for being outcasted. Of course, these days his has died down, and I wear my geek flags proudly. But growing up, my eccentricities were the cause of much grief, much insecurity, and, honestly, much tears in the privacy of my bedroom. All will be told here in the future. This is just the jumpoff point.
El fin. For now.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Martyrs Watch -- I Hate Not Living In France At The Moment
Fuck me.
Some excerpts from yet another glowing review of my current Holy Grail of cinema, Martyrs.....from the horror titans of Dread Central:
"Although Martyrs will undoubtedly be compared to Inside in terms of its intensity, the film is a bastard unto itself that manages to surpass its comparisons on all levels. Director Laugier has presented an experience that is both cinematically stunning, yet emotionally devastating, and with all the subtleties of a barbed wire enema."
.....
.....
"While we’ve recently run through the torture gamut from Eli Roth’s pedestrian Hostel series to Jack Ketchum’s The Girl Next Door, it would be completely wrong to compare Martyrs to films of this ilk. The majority of these torture flicks were flawed in their intent, as they irresponsibly allowed the viewer to harmlessly act as a voyeur without having to bear any actual feeling or empathy towards the victims on screen. Pascal Laugier has created a movie that will elicit an authentic response in many and will present itself as a true emotional ordeal. While the latter movies focus on exploitation, it is Laugier’s intention to have the audience honestly share in communion with his film, step-by-step in the pain, hope, and eventual liberty of the victims onscreen. Even the most jaded hardcore genre fan will fail in walking away from this flick unaffected."
.....
.....
"While many will point at films such as Salo: 120 of Sodom and Aftermath as points of reference in comparison to Martyrs, the movie will stand alone for many years to come in terms of its intense emotional honesty ... and infamy. This is a film of absolutes. For something of this caliber there will be no varying degrees of opinion. You will either despise what you've experienced or support Pascal Laugier in creating a masterpiece that transcends the genre and leaves the viewer drained and breathless."
So yeah, this review is acting like a kerosene on an already-burning bonfire.
Fuck me.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Netflix Fix #3 -- Peeping Tom
Next up on my Netflix junkie watch is a controversial and oft-overlooked British psychological thriller called Peeping Tom. Made back in 1960, it's one of those special films that shocked and angered so many people upon its initial release, that it subsequently became taboo and was virtually swept under cinema's rug, in hopes that it'd be forgotten like a bad virus. Problem was, though, that it's critically looked at with praise, and greats such as Martin Scorcese have stated their love of it and how influential it was in their careers. Peeping Tom caused such a negative fuss, however, that it left an permanent stain on director Michael Powell's up-and-coming reputation, one that hindered his career as a result. Poor chap.
All of that into consideration, it was clearly a flick I needed to see for myself, and up until the 'Flix (yeah, that's how I'm going to abbreviate it....wanna fight about it?), the only I would've seen it was by dropping a cool 20-spot to buy the DVD, fortunately my better instincts prevented me to do so. Having just watched it, I can't say that I'd ever want to own it. It wasn't bad by any means, and I can totally understand why it was such a groundbreaking experience back in 1960. It's just that, Peeping Tom is a film that hasn't aged very well, at least to me. There's very little tension, and in the wake of endlessly-jarring films since 1960, the effect it must've had on audiences back then is not felt in the slightest today.
I can only imagine how sick and disturbing it must have been for British audiences in that debut year. The stuff that goes on and the underlying themes explored are far from the mature humor of most early British cinema. This is pretty bleak and demented stuff.
Marc is a reclusive, tormented wannabe filmmaker. No matter what time of day or where he is, he always carries his trusty camera, complete with a tripod of stand-up legs. This sick fuck isn't videotaping nature for harmless hobby, though; he uses this camera to lull piece-of-ass women into false sense of curiousity, before removing the bottom of the center leg to reveal a blade that he jams into the gal's throat, all while filming for his own twisted enjoyment. Yeah, like I said, sick shit, right? Of course, being made in 1960, there's no blood seen at all, and the kills are mostly implied through the facial expressions of the victims, but what's suggested is pretty daring.
The opening scene is perhaps the film's most effective. Like the jumpoff sequence in the original Halloween, its all seen in first-person, this time through Marc's camera lens as he takes a prostitute up to a private room in the middle of the night, where he proceeds to poke a hole clear through her neck (wonder how much hookers charge for that in London?). Maybe it's because I'm fucking weird, but I always find first-person kills to be especially effective. It's the feeling of actually committing it, perhaps, or even the interaction between you and the victim as you're watching it on screen. In Halloween, it was seen through a Halloween mask, and turned out to be an 8-or-so year old Michael Myers killing his slutty older sister. For sake of debate, the way John Carpenter executes it in Halloween is a bit more unsettling than how director Michael Powell handles it here in Peeping Tom. But Powell still gets major points for creativity, considering his films was made nearly 20 years before Carpenter's.
Sounds like I'm all about Peeping Tom up 'til this point, huh? Well, here comes the hate. First off, there's not one likeable character in the entire film, and that's never a good thing. The main guy/villain, Marc, is so socially awkward that you want to feel sympathy for the sick fuck, but every time he opens his mouth, you're irritated by how much of a whiny fruitcup he is. "Just shut the fuck up already, and stop your bitching you pussy!" That's what I was thinking the whole time.
Or, better yet, I was thinking, "Just fucking kill somebody already!" There's only three deaths in the entire movie, one being SPOILER ALERT Marc himself, in a delusional bit of suicide at the end. Not to sound all morbid, but a higher body count would've worked wonders here. Pretty much everybody who steps foot on screen deserved to die, just off sheer annoyance factors alone. There's the naive, far-too-innocent redhead neighbor, Helen, who flirts endlessly with Marc, not realizing that he's madder than a French hair. The scenes where they awkwardly flirt are about as touching and romantic as a vasectomy. You're supposed to feel for her, how she's falling for a man who isn't responsive, and how she's so blind to the fact that her dream-lover is in fact a sexually-depraved deviant with homicidal festishes. Don't you hate when that happens, ladies?
And then, the most god-awful character of all, some Paris Hilton-in-the-face-looking model who never shuts the fuck up and complains and deserves a beatdown by another girl (I don't condone men hitting women, of course), is killed entirely off screen. Not even off screen, actually....the scene completely fades to black right as Marc stands over her, camera-impaler in hand. Fuck you, Michael Powell!! The least you could've done was show that annoying twat get offed. I was highly peeved, as you can tell.
In hindsight, there is one character who isn't entirely deplorable. Marc works as a cameraman on a movie production, one which has a mean and insulting director. He has little screen time, but does manage to fire off one gem of a line: after the female star discovers her stand-in's corpse in a toy chest during a scene, she lets out a yelp and falls to the floor. The director, not knowing what she saw, yells, "That silly bitch! She fainted in the wrong scene!" I LOLed there, for sure.
In the end, Peeping Tom is definitely a groundbreaker, and an important film. Some of the camera techniques are pretty slick, and you can certainly see how it could've been influential on a number of filmmakers (Stanley Kubrick, perhaps, in a couple moments...aforementioned John Carpenter in others). And the idea that Marc gets off on the fear he sees in his victim's faces is pretty clever, in a sick way. And, the way he offs himself is rather effective.
I just wish I could've seen it back in the '60s, when it's polarizing and stunning effects would have definitely been felt by yours truly. Having seen some of the most grotesque and shocking films ever made, such relatively-tame stuff as the images in Peeping Tom just can't chill me. They can impress me, as most do. Just can't make me shiver. Or even flinch. Damn shame.
But for film buffs and genre heads, Peeping Tom is one you should certainly try and peep at some point.
Life-Defining Moments....Memory 1
Lately, I've been putting the past 26 years and 9 months of my life under a personal microscope, trying to learn more about myself. I figure, nobody can teach me who I am, it's all on me. And lord knows there's tons of layers left on M.B. to unravel. Just this past year I found myself questioning a few things about yours truly that I had always taken to be constants, not momentaries. This'll be one hell of a journey, I know, but for now, I've decided to single out specific moments in my life, points in time when a major shift in my existence kicked into gear.
These won't be in any sort of chronological order, they'll just be hitting me randomly and I'll jot them down as they come to mind. This blog acts as a journal of sorts for me...a place where I can put down thoughts and feelings and excitements that would otherwise have no home. And, in the process, those who give a shit can learn a bit more about M.B., if they so choose.
---
One memory that has always rang bells in my mind dates back to 4th grade, when I was a quiet, timid, insecure, straight-A student at St. Catharine's Interparochial School in preppy-ass Glen Rock, New Jersey. Tight-panted uniforms that pulled up past the ankles while seated, full-on flood pants. Sweater vests, button up shirts and ties of the clip-on variety.
I rolled with a pack of kids really nothing like me, save for an interest in sports and a strong affinity for Michael Jordan. If not for sports, particularly basketball at that time, I'd have most likely ended up a hermit who later became a total bookworm in his later educational days and went on to make a shitload more money than I do now. But I'd be miserable at heart, so what I make now is better than that regardless. But anyway....
We had this nasty, bitch of a librarian named Mrs. Mueller, a real witch who seemed to thrive on torturing young kids with boring literature and zero kindness. Well, actually, she was somewhat kind to me, being that I was all grade-As and all obedience. The rest of the boys in my class were true sons-of-bitches, the type of pains who'd do shit such as unraveling paper clips and throwing around the library as Mrs. Mueller would read us stories such as The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe.
On one particular day in library class, my fellow male classmates must have littered the carpet with over 30 straightened paper clips, and Mueller had a fucking cown. Fuck that, she had an entire cattle. Rather than pulling out a machete and slicing every boy's head off, then spiking each on top of stacked paper clips as some sort of faux Pagan ritual, she made all of us (yes, me too, being that I'm of a the boy gender, she didn't want to exclude me from the shame, now, even though I didn't touch one fucking paper clip) sit in the back of the library while the chicks in my class kept on nodding off to that Narnia bullshit. We weren't told to simply sit in silence, however; no, we had a writing assignment: scribe a narrative essay, with only the working title of 'A Day In the Life of a Paper Clip' as our starting point. From there, we had creative control over the plot, conflict, characters, etc.
Me being a lover of fantasy and an avid watcher of film, even back at that ripe age (about 10, 11, or so, I guess), I saw this as a prime opportunity to let the imagination run amok. So when the 15-minute time period was up, Mrs. Mueller decided to further the public humiliation and read each of our essays aloud to the entire class. Masochist old hag that she was.
The first couple were, at the most, 30 words long. "I am a paper clip. I was made in a paper clip factory. I held papers together in Saint Catharine's. The end." Some shit like that, real pathetic attempts at storytelling. After about six or seven awful stabs at this from my peers, it came to read mine aloud.
"A Day in the Life of a Paper Clip, by Matthew Barone," began Mrs. Mueller. Of course, I was the only goodie-goodie who actually titled my piece as such. Then, Mueller's face dropped a bit, as she realized that I had written three pages', front side and back side of each, worth of tale. I'd named the protagonist paper clip (Billy, I believe), thought up a whole central conflict (he was separated from his paper clips parents at the factory on one sad, fateful day, causing parallel plotlines of his efforts of reuniting with his 'rents and the 'rents' episodes of depression and despair).
There was adventure (Billy mad dash through the library as a vacuum cleaner sucked everything in its path up, nearly inhaling our brave Billy Boy on at least four occasions); suspense (Billy is picked up by one bastard student, who slowly begins unraveling him as Billy squeals in agony, only to be saved as the librarian reprimands the student/assailant); and even hints of romance (Billy develops a crush on a female paper clip, one colored pink, though I forget her name at the moment).
Keep in mind, I was in 4th grade.
By story's end, Mrs. Mueller literally walked over to me and shook my hand, and called in our homeroom teacher to share the tale of Matthew Barone's amazing paper clip epic. Perhaps she was most intrigued by the fact that my story had a dark, unhappy ending (just as Billy's parents are taken out of the box-of-clips in the library, they see poor Billy being unraveled as his one end extends to them in some sort of reach-out for help), and me being a wee lad, she couldn't imagine such tragedy being executed. Or maybe she was just creeped out by that point.
But looking back on that day, I truly feel like that was the genesis of my wanting to become a storyteller. A writer. The response "A Day in the Life of a Paper Clip" was met with from those faculty members and a select few peers was a bit surprising, and it felt damn good. After that, I went on to write several more stories in my spare time, at home in notepads and bound journal-meant books. Those will all be written about here in the near future.
So from now on, when you routinely use a paper clip to hold some pages together, take a second to stop and look at it, and listen closely. It could very well be just like poor Billy, crying for compassion and freedom.
These won't be in any sort of chronological order, they'll just be hitting me randomly and I'll jot them down as they come to mind. This blog acts as a journal of sorts for me...a place where I can put down thoughts and feelings and excitements that would otherwise have no home. And, in the process, those who give a shit can learn a bit more about M.B., if they so choose.
---
One memory that has always rang bells in my mind dates back to 4th grade, when I was a quiet, timid, insecure, straight-A student at St. Catharine's Interparochial School in preppy-ass Glen Rock, New Jersey. Tight-panted uniforms that pulled up past the ankles while seated, full-on flood pants. Sweater vests, button up shirts and ties of the clip-on variety.
I rolled with a pack of kids really nothing like me, save for an interest in sports and a strong affinity for Michael Jordan. If not for sports, particularly basketball at that time, I'd have most likely ended up a hermit who later became a total bookworm in his later educational days and went on to make a shitload more money than I do now. But I'd be miserable at heart, so what I make now is better than that regardless. But anyway....
We had this nasty, bitch of a librarian named Mrs. Mueller, a real witch who seemed to thrive on torturing young kids with boring literature and zero kindness. Well, actually, she was somewhat kind to me, being that I was all grade-As and all obedience. The rest of the boys in my class were true sons-of-bitches, the type of pains who'd do shit such as unraveling paper clips and throwing around the library as Mrs. Mueller would read us stories such as The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe.
On one particular day in library class, my fellow male classmates must have littered the carpet with over 30 straightened paper clips, and Mueller had a fucking cown. Fuck that, she had an entire cattle. Rather than pulling out a machete and slicing every boy's head off, then spiking each on top of stacked paper clips as some sort of faux Pagan ritual, she made all of us (yes, me too, being that I'm of a the boy gender, she didn't want to exclude me from the shame, now, even though I didn't touch one fucking paper clip) sit in the back of the library while the chicks in my class kept on nodding off to that Narnia bullshit. We weren't told to simply sit in silence, however; no, we had a writing assignment: scribe a narrative essay, with only the working title of 'A Day In the Life of a Paper Clip' as our starting point. From there, we had creative control over the plot, conflict, characters, etc.
Me being a lover of fantasy and an avid watcher of film, even back at that ripe age (about 10, 11, or so, I guess), I saw this as a prime opportunity to let the imagination run amok. So when the 15-minute time period was up, Mrs. Mueller decided to further the public humiliation and read each of our essays aloud to the entire class. Masochist old hag that she was.
The first couple were, at the most, 30 words long. "I am a paper clip. I was made in a paper clip factory. I held papers together in Saint Catharine's. The end." Some shit like that, real pathetic attempts at storytelling. After about six or seven awful stabs at this from my peers, it came to read mine aloud.
"A Day in the Life of a Paper Clip, by Matthew Barone," began Mrs. Mueller. Of course, I was the only goodie-goodie who actually titled my piece as such. Then, Mueller's face dropped a bit, as she realized that I had written three pages', front side and back side of each, worth of tale. I'd named the protagonist paper clip (Billy, I believe), thought up a whole central conflict (he was separated from his paper clips parents at the factory on one sad, fateful day, causing parallel plotlines of his efforts of reuniting with his 'rents and the 'rents' episodes of depression and despair).
There was adventure (Billy mad dash through the library as a vacuum cleaner sucked everything in its path up, nearly inhaling our brave Billy Boy on at least four occasions); suspense (Billy is picked up by one bastard student, who slowly begins unraveling him as Billy squeals in agony, only to be saved as the librarian reprimands the student/assailant); and even hints of romance (Billy develops a crush on a female paper clip, one colored pink, though I forget her name at the moment).
Keep in mind, I was in 4th grade.
By story's end, Mrs. Mueller literally walked over to me and shook my hand, and called in our homeroom teacher to share the tale of Matthew Barone's amazing paper clip epic. Perhaps she was most intrigued by the fact that my story had a dark, unhappy ending (just as Billy's parents are taken out of the box-of-clips in the library, they see poor Billy being unraveled as his one end extends to them in some sort of reach-out for help), and me being a wee lad, she couldn't imagine such tragedy being executed. Or maybe she was just creeped out by that point.
But looking back on that day, I truly feel like that was the genesis of my wanting to become a storyteller. A writer. The response "A Day in the Life of a Paper Clip" was met with from those faculty members and a select few peers was a bit surprising, and it felt damn good. After that, I went on to write several more stories in my spare time, at home in notepads and bound journal-meant books. Those will all be written about here in the near future.
So from now on, when you routinely use a paper clip to hold some pages together, take a second to stop and look at it, and listen closely. It could very well be just like poor Billy, crying for compassion and freedom.
Remote Control.....You Can Finally Take A Breather
Holy shit......
....how come nobody had alerted me about this glorious channel before? If not for my brother, I'd have never known that there's actually an entire television network dedicated to playing horror movies all day, every day.
Monsters HD is the coolest channel to ever grace an idiot box. Hands down. I mean, c'mon....last night, I saw Day of the Dead for the first time ever on a TV network (seen it over like three dozen times on DVD, but never have been able to just click on to it, 'til now). Right now, I'm checking out Pumpkinhead for the first time ever (a movie I've heard tons about but haven't seen, 'til now).
Old black-and-white flicks, popular and obscure; cheesy '70s and '80s gems; new-wave offerings. This ish has them all....thank god my roommate's father hooked our living room up with the kick-ass flat screen, HD tube. Now I just gotta hope that my roommate comes home late every night from here on out, because he doesn't fuck with my kinda cinema, and Monsters HD isn't available on my humble mini-TV in the bedroom.
I'm off, now, to continue watching Pumpkinhead. No clue why the monster is called that...certainly doesn't look like no jack-o-lantern. But hopefully I'll know by film's end. Or, maybe not. Maybe it'll be one of those bizarre little gems that never even tries to make a shred of sense. It was directed by the late great effects king Stan Winston, his lone directorial effort if I'm not mistaken. That alone makes it one I have to watch.
Monsters HD, bitches!
....how come nobody had alerted me about this glorious channel before? If not for my brother, I'd have never known that there's actually an entire television network dedicated to playing horror movies all day, every day.
Monsters HD is the coolest channel to ever grace an idiot box. Hands down. I mean, c'mon....last night, I saw Day of the Dead for the first time ever on a TV network (seen it over like three dozen times on DVD, but never have been able to just click on to it, 'til now). Right now, I'm checking out Pumpkinhead for the first time ever (a movie I've heard tons about but haven't seen, 'til now).
Old black-and-white flicks, popular and obscure; cheesy '70s and '80s gems; new-wave offerings. This ish has them all....thank god my roommate's father hooked our living room up with the kick-ass flat screen, HD tube. Now I just gotta hope that my roommate comes home late every night from here on out, because he doesn't fuck with my kinda cinema, and Monsters HD isn't available on my humble mini-TV in the bedroom.
I'm off, now, to continue watching Pumpkinhead. No clue why the monster is called that...certainly doesn't look like no jack-o-lantern. But hopefully I'll know by film's end. Or, maybe not. Maybe it'll be one of those bizarre little gems that never even tries to make a shred of sense. It was directed by the late great effects king Stan Winston, his lone directorial effort if I'm not mistaken. That alone makes it one I have to watch.
Monsters HD, bitches!
Monday, September 1, 2008
Good Ol' Trailer Trash
There's a really wordy, in-depth, emotion-filled post concerning the impact that last year's Rob Rodriguez/Quentin Tarantino double feature masterpiece Grindhouse had on my life in this blog's future, but for now, I just couldn't resist posting two totally-neglected components of its theatrical version.
If you've been catching either Planet Terror or Death Proof on Starz , you're fucking up. This was the quintessential "theater going experience" movie, hugely because of the fake trailers that played in between the two flicks. One was funny and did a nice job opening the bill (Machete) one (Rob Zombie's Werewolf Women of the S.S.) was effective yet totally bodied by the other superior trailers....
....and then the other two were pure genius. First is Don't, directed by Edgar Wright, who rocked the shit with both Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz. Don't is so dope because of how well it captures the gothic-creepy-confusion of old British horror flicks, like the Hammer studio's arsenal as examples. A whole bunch of creepy and bloody (both in the gore sense and in the "what the bloody hell" sense) stuff happened, very little of it made any sense and/or worked into the central plot, but it was all great fun to watch. Just like this faux trailer, which I love to piece:
Second is Thanksgiving, directed by Eli Roth, the really arrogant dude behind the Hostel films. I'm no Roth hater, but I do think dude started feeling himself way too much, and being that Hostel 2 was a bit of a dud, hopefully he'll return sooner than later with something as insanely good as Cabin Fever. But this, here, is amazing, especially in how it feels like an actual flick that would've been considered a "video nasty" back in the '80s. Extra cool points go to Roth for sliding in the soggy organs used in Creepshow. Nice touch:
"White meat. Dark meat. All will be oarved." Love that shit....."It's blood. [Other guy] Son of a bitch!" Also love that shit.
Seeing Grindhouse on opening day will forever remain a life-altering experience in my life. And one day, I'll fully explain why. It'll be an extra-long blog, I'll tell ya that much.
If you've been catching either Planet Terror or Death Proof on Starz , you're fucking up. This was the quintessential "theater going experience" movie, hugely because of the fake trailers that played in between the two flicks. One was funny and did a nice job opening the bill (Machete) one (Rob Zombie's Werewolf Women of the S.S.) was effective yet totally bodied by the other superior trailers....
....and then the other two were pure genius. First is Don't, directed by Edgar Wright, who rocked the shit with both Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz. Don't is so dope because of how well it captures the gothic-creepy-confusion of old British horror flicks, like the Hammer studio's arsenal as examples. A whole bunch of creepy and bloody (both in the gore sense and in the "what the bloody hell" sense) stuff happened, very little of it made any sense and/or worked into the central plot, but it was all great fun to watch. Just like this faux trailer, which I love to piece:
Second is Thanksgiving, directed by Eli Roth, the really arrogant dude behind the Hostel films. I'm no Roth hater, but I do think dude started feeling himself way too much, and being that Hostel 2 was a bit of a dud, hopefully he'll return sooner than later with something as insanely good as Cabin Fever. But this, here, is amazing, especially in how it feels like an actual flick that would've been considered a "video nasty" back in the '80s. Extra cool points go to Roth for sliding in the soggy organs used in Creepshow. Nice touch:
"White meat. Dark meat. All will be oarved." Love that shit....."It's blood. [Other guy] Son of a bitch!" Also love that shit.
Seeing Grindhouse on opening day will forever remain a life-altering experience in my life. And one day, I'll fully explain why. It'll be an extra-long blog, I'll tell ya that much.
Martyrs Watch 2008, The Genesis Post
[Like I've done with Quarantine, I'm kicking off a series of posts centered around the upcoming French horror ish Martyrs, another film, like Quarantine, I'm dying to watch....and another that I've written about here extensively already....so I figure, why not dedicate a special series to it now? Here goes...]
Another day, another Martyrs review read without my having seen it yet....fuck me. Twas another reaction from the Toronto International Film Festival, and yet again talked the flick up as some sort of "film festival classic."
Now it's at the point of pissing me off to no end....the stage of "excitement and anticipation" has subsided. Been reading about this movie for like four, five months now. Just want to see the damn thing already. If all of these viewers are saying that its BETTER than Inside, after simultaneously praising Inside, we most certainly should have a winner on our hands.
I'm thinking of running up into the Weinstein Company's offices and demanding that they show me a print pronto, or else I'll stop promoting the film on a modest blog that about 17 people regularly read. One being my cousin, who by blood is obligated to do so anyway. That should make the Weinsteins ante up, no?
Besides, I'll eventually run out of movie images to post in these Martyrs entries. Even though they've all been kick-ass so far. And the two actresses in the film are beyond gorgeous, and from what I've gathered, plot-wise, they're put through the ringer and subjected to shit that'll make people leave the cinema and possibly vomit, or at least sob in compassionate sadness. Jesus, I need this movie in my life.
How 'bout one more pic, then, for good measure? The two hotties....a double-barred shooter =
Dirty Sexy Honey(s)
Sunday, August 31, 2008
The Album To Beat.....
Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you....the best rap album of 2008, thus far, and honestly, I'll be surprised-not if it remains so throughout the remainder of this 12-month-spanner.....
Elzhi - The Preface
16 songs, all great....amazing lyrics, inventive concepts, flawless beats from Black Milk....it's like how they used to make them, and it's a bit of hip hop heaven. Search for it, rap dudes and dudettes, more than worth it. I swear.
'Tis all.
Elzhi - The Preface
16 songs, all great....amazing lyrics, inventive concepts, flawless beats from Black Milk....it's like how they used to make them, and it's a bit of hip hop heaven. Search for it, rap dudes and dudettes, more than worth it. I swear.
'Tis all.
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