Yes, I'm totally aware that doing a post like this makes me that guy. So be it. I am a guy, and certain things are just unavoidable, one such thing being a reason to post a lingerie shot of a Megan Fox type. And yes, I do realize that the chances of newly-single Megan Fox and I ever getting together are about as likely as Eddie Murphy ever making a funny comedy again. When you've living perpetually (and involuntarily) single, the thought of chicks such as this also sharing in your single-hood is a bit of solace. Take what we can get.
Besides, she's been needing to drop that Brian Austin Green herb for some time now. Good to see she's come to her senses. To salute such an awakening, here's one more pic:
In my search to find the most suggestive picture of her that I could, there's a "Jackpot, baby!" if I've ever seen one.
Is Megan Fox the sexiest woman alive, the pinnacle of hotness that pop culture is trying to make her? Certainly not. I'd take Eliza Dushku or even Emmanuelle Chriqui over her any day. She's still steamier than most, though, and worthy of ogling. I defy you to rebut otherwise.
Let's give the movie stuff a rest for a second, shall we? Good.
Nothing much to say about this video. It's star is a clone of Spuds Mackenzie, that old beer spokesdog that I loved so much as a kid that my mom sent me a birthday card from Spuds himself, signed by him and everything. Of course, I wasn't even past the 2nd grade yet so I assumed that Spuds had in fact figured out how to hold a pen and neatly, legibly sign a birthday card for some little loser in suburban New Jersey that he didn't even know existed. Was 2nd grade a bit too old to believe such a thing, you ask? Wanna fight about it? And this Spuds doppelganger has a unique bark that sounds an awful lot like it's saying "Mama," and then some weird Euro trance beats kick in, and you're ready to put a leash on this bitch and take it to Pacha for some dancing.
Come to think of it, there actually is a way I can relate to this film.
The way this pooch says "Mama" instantly reminded me of the enigmatic '80s horror turd Spookies, specifically the beginning of the nonsensical end climax where that pudgy zombie pops up in front of our heroine and calls her "Mommma! Mommma! Maaaaaaaa!" See for yourselves at the 1:50 point of this Spookies ending clip, and compare/contrast:
God what a piece of feces Spookies is. But oh how I do love it.
Finally, some full Watchmen clippage that doesn't have me expecting the worst. Feels like they've gotten this Rorschach stuff right, which is rather comforting.
When I was interviewing filmmaker Jody Hill (writer/director/producer of stuff such as Eastbound & Down and The Foot Fist Way) a few months back, he went on and on about his love of older cinema. We're talking flicks from 15 years back or more, the films that played by no rules and had no qualms bombarding the senses with images and characters that defied morals and decency. Stories didn't play their cards safely. Endings didn't have to be pleasant. Hollywood couldn't give two shits about good taste.
And all was right in the world of moviemaking.
Hill's sentiments mirrored mine quite closely, though I'm a few years younger than he is. Like him, I'm an addict of renting the films of yeateryears to play catch-up, mainly because I know that I'm in for something I've never seen before, or at least predecessors for things that modern-day films try to pass off as their own. The vow that Hill made was to inject unhealthy doses of this nihilistic approach into the comedy genre, and as evidenced by Eastbound & Down and the red band trailer for his upcoming Seth Rogen vehicle Observe & Report, he's remaining a man of his word thus far.
In our chat, Hill kept referencing Taxi Driver as a prime inspiration, but I'm willing to bet that Abel Ferrara's Bad Lieutenant (1992) is right up there next to Travis Bickle's time under the New York City streetlights. Bad Lieutenant, starring Harvey Kietel at his most badass-est , an no-blinks character study of the nameless Lieutenant, a Queens police head who regularly snorts drugs, solicits prostitutes, poorly runs his dysfunctional family, gambles on Mets games, and engages in other random acts of bad behavior who (finally) begins questioning his world after a nun is viciously raped in the middle of a church.
Pretty much the worst lieutenant ever conceived, and exactly the kind of despicable, zero-saving-graces protagonist that somebody like Hill (I hate to keep dropping his name here, so bare with me....he just drives home the point of this post tightly for me), and myself, seems to gravitate toward for inexplicable reasons. It digs deeper than just pure entertainment value, or admiration for a steroid-strong acting performance. Characters like The Lieutenant never stop fascinating from Fade In to End Credits, mostly because they represent the type of person you'd never want to spend more than two minutes with in real life; yet, when seen through the disconnect of television screen, they're like magnets. Undeniable in their compelling nature, and effective messengers of life's fucked-up facets that go otherwise glossed over as "taboo."
Late into Bad Lieutenant, there's an emotional climax that would send religious activists and closed-off thinkers into panty-bunched hissies. It's such a great scene, because it demonstrates just how morally corrupt Keitel's character is even in his rare "sympathetic" moments. [Spoiler Warning] After some drug-induced soul-searching, he confronts the raped nun in her church as she's praying. He tells her that he's going to say "Fuck the law" and kill the deviants who raped her, for her. She, however, informs The Lieutenant that she's already forgiven the rapists, which sends The Lieutenant into a rattled, confused frenzy. Even when he thinks he's avenging his own sins and cleansing his soul through vengeful intentions, he's defying the higher power. It's a can't-beat-my-darkness pickle. Jesus himself approaches The Lieutenant once the nun exits, and all our our shattered man can do is call Jesus a "rat fuck" and question why he wasn't there for the nun in her time of protective-need.
Religion is treated as both a necessary form od redemption and a cause of constant grief. When was the last time you saw that kind of double-sided coin morality in a flick?
There's a modern-day extension of this great flick currently in the works, a New Orleans-set new installment for Bad Lieutenant starring Nicolas Cage. Now a believer in the power of Abel Ferrara's original, I can say without hesitation that a new spin with Cage in the driver's seat is a shitshow waiting to happen. Maybe I'll be proven wrong, since the venerable Werner Herzog is behind the camera, but there's just no way that 2009-era Nicolas Cage will even come within miles of Harvey Keitel's 1992 work. It's not even worth attempting, so go and make another National Treasure film, sir Cage.
My hope, and call me a pessimist all you want, is that Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans sucks as much as I'm anticipating. Because if it doesn't, my head might pull a Scanners due to "Have I been wrong all this time?" self-analysis. I'm convinced that skeevy, thoughtful, uncompromising character descents such as Bad Lieutenant can't be duplicated or even approached-by-a-long-ways today. And as long as that remains the truth, I'll forever have older gems to seek out and ponder.
Unwrapping stuff like this flick never loses its luster. Up next in this particular conquest will be early Robert Deniro's The Panic in Needle Park, and I'm sure I'll more than enjoy. Until then....
This scene is certified NSFBE (Not Safe For Baby Eyes):
Because these sorts of things excite me much more than they really should, how's about I post the first two stills from REC 2, eh? Yes, I'm probably the only person who visits this blog of mine (Do I mean that I frequently log on to my own site, like a loser who IMs himself? I'll leave that for you to decide) who has actually seen [Rec], or even heard of the film prior to reading about it here, but this is my world, and REC 2 is an important part of my things-to-look-forward-to.
Zero plot has been divulged about REC 2, but this first still shows that it'll clearly be a direct continuation of the first flick. How can I tell? Well, that's my man Manu right there being (unsuccessfully, I presume) subdued, all infected and still thirsting for sexy-ass Angela Vidal, and the interior design seen here looks just like the inside of the apartment building that [REC] so awesomely staged itself.
This second still seems to promise a younger cast of protagonists, or at least a few teens mixed into the bunch. Fine by me. I'm more excited that this still directly references the coolest moment in [REC] ---- that shot from the top of the staircase before Angela and the cameraman haul ass into the mad-satanic-scientist's apartment. If you're still reading all of this despite having no idea what in sam-hell I'm talking about, I must salute your loyalty, by the way.
Here's to Angela Vidal (played by Manuela Velasco), infected or not, showing up in Rec 2. There's no such thing as "too much Manuela Velasco," as far as I'm concerned. I mean, just look at her:
Finally, the Academy Awards have come and gone. All of the endless pre-show speculation, predictions, follies, oversights, and lazy reporting can be tucked into bed and fed Nyquil through a tube. The winners were announced in exactly the way we all expected, including Sean Penn (Really, the Academy was never going to give Mickey Rourke a statue....too risky, too unpredictable. He may shouted out that girl he calls Gap Tooth again, for crying out loud!). As much as I love anything Hollywood-news-related, the tireless Oscar blogging and forecasting began running dry weeks ago, since anyone with half a film-brain knew that Slumdog Millionaire was on the verge of strong-arming the festivities. Which is precisely what happened.
My one glaring question concerning this year's Oscars, though, remains unanswered --- where the hell was Che during all of this?
I've done a bit of brain-refreshing research, and all signs point to Steven Soderbergh's behemoth-in-size yet intimate-in-approach biopic as an Academy Award qualifier as far as release dates go. So why zero nominations? And not just total omission amongst the Oscar lists, but pretty much every other awards events? Not saying that Che should've been a Best Picture contender. Best Actor and Best Director, however? Sure. Even a cinematography nod would've been welcome.
As much as I love Brad Pitt as an actor, there's no justifiable way anybody can say that is Benjamin Button performance is tops over Benicio Del Toro in Che. End of debate there. The other four remaining Best Actor fellas (Penn, Rourke, Richard Jenkins, Frank Langella) all feel right, so I won't question their inclusions. Let's just leave this at "Del Toro over Pitt any day." Same goes for Steven Soderbergh, Che's director, over Ron Howard (Frost/Nixon). Look, I loved Frost/Nixon as much as the next surprised fan, but Howard's work in it, though impressive, is more about letting his actors do the work as he tightly paces the action. Soderbergh does pretty much the same thing with his observer's-eye approach to Che, but then he also mixes in some truly striking action/battle sequences and other subtle but seriously-effective visual touches (the final shots seen from the dead eyes of Che Guevara's corpse are especially powerful).
This isn't something that I'm defiantly crying "Bullshit!" over, but just an issue that I'd love to hear some closure on. All of the necessary elements were in place ---- epic biopic (check), acclaimed director (double check), strong lead actor (triple check). Che is an arduous task to watch, but one that I found myself gaining newer, deeper appreciation for as days went by and I was further removed from it, left to understand just what Soderbergh and company really meant to accomplish, which they have in spades.
Odds are, I'm missing some vital morsel of behind-the-scenes information here. Could it be some sort of bad-luck-charm curse at the hands of IFC Films, the company that picked Che up for theatrical distribution, which is also currently playing the Italian Mafia critical darling Gomorrah, another Oscar cold-shoulder recipient? Maybe my calendar combing was faulty and Che didn't qualify, or perhaps Soderbergh and company didn't campaign for it well enough. Most likely, though, the film was met with more apathy than I'd initially comprehended. A shame, really.
In the opposite-spirit of the Academy Awards (which concluded an hour or so ago and brought with them only one minor-surprise, that being Sean Penn unfortunately besting my dude Mickey Rourke), I've followed the "elegant," celebratory broadcast by watching the a film that Oscar would hate me for: The New York Ripper (1982). Why, you may ask? Well, it's quite simple, really----everybody and their aunt will be writing their post-game Oscar reactions, frustrations, agreements, etc, if they haven't already, and it'd be pointless for me follow the obvious road. Which is why I also refused to do any "live Oscar blogging," like every other unoriginal movie site has been doing for the past four hours. Just go on Twitter instead. It's equally as lame while doubly as unfortunate.
Like a fucking duck!
Sorry, a bit of momentary Tourettes there.
No, I've opted to watch and discuss a film that opens with a Lassie clone playing fetch with a severed, totally-fake-looking human hand. Something must be wrong with me. Because I can't resist a bad horror film, and because it's from one Lucio Fulci, who, like Dario Argento, has a long resume that I've vowed to conquer sooner than later. Seeing all of Fulci's films is something that one could either brag about or wisely keep unspoken; none of his movies are "good" in any real stretch of opinion, only deemable as "worthy of attention" due to the man's gleefully over-the-top scenes of splatter. If ever an opportunity arises for mutilation, gut-spilling, close-up shots of flesh being ripped open, or agonizing female death, Fulci goes in, almost sadistic to the point of "This feels like something I shouldn't be watching voluntarily." So, of course, I watch his shit voluntarily.
The New York Ripper, however, is a whole other league of wrong for Fulci. The Fulci flicks I can admit to truly enjoying are pure fantasy bullshit---his Dawn of the Dead jackoff Zombi, namely, which combines some of my favorite horror movie music with tons of head-scratchingly awesome moments (zombie fights shark underwater) and inventive kills (the splinter-in-eyeball gag that lasts an eternity). I'm also fond of his The Beyond, one of the most confusing films ever made that's saved by some wild imagery, and City of the Living Dead, another zombie puke-fest. In these films, Fulci kept both feet firmly planted outside of reality, which made all of the good-taste-free work go down much easier. None of what you see is meant to disturb you on any human level. The New York Ripper is an exception, though. The killer is a living, breathing creation from Fulci's sick mind, and the rampant naked-girls-defiled-and-bloodied fetish Fulci seems to be massaging just feels ickier than a raw sewage facial.
This is a really bad movie. Laughably poor, and never once scary. Painful-to-endure dialogue, a weakly-constructed "who's the killer?" mystery. The New York Ripper is a "giallo," a murder mystery seeped in elaborate death scenes and an overarching whodunit subplot that guys like Fulci and Argento cashed many a check thanks to. Argento's giallos make Fulci's seem like hack student films, though. Argento's mysteries genuinely surprise, and there's real tension to be had in stuff like Deep Red and Tenebre. On the other hand, Fulci's filmography drips with meandering scripts, zero character development, and misogynistic undertones upon undertones. The guy loved to film beautiful women meeting horrible ends, which isn't necessarily as twisted as Argento's repeated scenes where his daughter, Asia, is raped in some fashion, I guess, but that's a whole other point.
Lucio Fulci, probably describing a dream he had in which some Sophia Loren-lookalike was being raped by a demon and then gutted open in extremely-tight close-up shots and scored with '80s porno music.
The New York Ripper is easily the worst Fulci film I've seen yet. Rather than break down every bad aspect at play here, though, I'll mention only one element that defies logic---the killer, for no understandable reason whatsoever, talks in a Donald Duck voice. No shit. "Quack quack" and all. Early on, an eyewitness tells a policeman that the killer talked like a duck, but I figured this was a mute point that wouldn't come to realization. But literally five minutes later, we have our first murder, and, unfucking-believably, Donald Duck opens his beak and The New York Ripper goes from already-bad to that little piece of shit that won't totally flush. Who knows, maybe Fulci was pulling a Punk on horror audiences and meant for this to be a comedy. How else can you explain a killer who talks like a goddamn duck?! Like a fucking duck!
It's my own fault, really. I borrowed this DVD from a friend at work who warned me about the duck voice and how bad this movie is, but I still wasted 90 minutes of my life sitting through it. Another night of going to sleep at 2am because I was suffering through a sleazy horror show. Certain movies I can watch, accept the fact that I'm a bit tetched for watching, but then still recommend them to friends. I enjoy being a harbinger of fucked-up cinema. The New York Ripper isn't one of those films. Honestly, me writing about it on a blog that is available for all of the world to read is pretty counter-productive. Now that this is written and out on the Interwebs, somebody could very well seek this dreck out and watch, thinking, "I wanna see what all of Matt's fuss was about." But then, said fool will see The New York Ripper's drawn-out female public masturbation scene in a seedy Manhattan peep show, and the part where a girl is tied to a bed as the killer slices off her breast with a tiny razor. And I'll be to blame, and said person will most likely look at me with a permanent screwface from that point on.
Really, Fulci should've just called this The New York Stripper and went full-on porn. Then, at least, you could perversely revel in the smut. But any time you start enjoying this shit on a smut-peddler level, that Donald Duck bastard flies out of nowhere on some "Quaaaacckkk!" ish and digs some sharp object into the hot chick you've been ogling, and we're not talking any sexual entendre here. Like fucking Donald Duck!
The New York Ripper really doesn't deserve to exist. There's not one positive thing to be said in its respect. Being a Fulci flick, you'd hope that I could at least sing the praises of its gore effects, but even those fall short in this one. Apparently, The New York Ripper is held in some high regard by horror die-hards, which, if true, gives a horror die-hard such as myself a bad name. There's seriously a scene where a dude "toes" (think "fingers," but with toes) a women inside an open restaurant/bar for a good two minutes. Again, in The New York Stripper that could've possibly worked, but no dice here.
Terrible movie. I should've just watched Quarantine again like I'd initially planned. Or, better yet, the Let the Right One In screener I proudly own. Damn you, Donald Duck.
In all fairness to anyone who might actually watch this clip, be warned: though totally fake-looking, there is much bloodshed and Duck-fuckery to be seen/heard. Donald Duck's wrath just needs to be heard to be believed.....and don't mind the Italian speech. It's actually better than the shitty dubbing job done for the DVD version I watched. Just hang in there 'til the Duckman cometh:
....or....
Riddle me this: How is The New York Ripper like a duck? It's wack, wack, wack, wack, wack, wack.
True Story --- In terms of pure entertainment value, the Independent Spirit Awards trump the Oscars. If you've never watched the IFC Channel-found ceremonies, I suggest you start making a habit of it come next February; it always airs the day before the Academy Awards, and, being that it airs on cable, it's a million times more raw than your boy Oscar. F-bombs fly from the mouths of people you may have deemed "sophisticated" at other censored, stuck-up awards programs. Filters are off. Small, sadly overlooked jewels that Oscar is to sadiddy to fuck with, such as The Signal and Wendy and Lucy, are honored.
The aspect of the Independent Spirit Awards I actually like the best is how they always put me on to a few obscure, little films that deserve my attention, and I'm yearly-thankful. Yesterday's broadcast has me hunting down Medicine for Melancholy, and further wishing I could somehow see Ballast, which looks just great.
But here's the hands-down highlight of yesterday's awards....the man himself, Mickey Rourke, giving the best acceptance speech I've seen in years. I'm currently watching the Oscars, fingers tightly crossed that Rourke takes home the gold in t-minus two hours, and counting. One, becaue The Wrestler is astounding still, and was totally robbed of a Best Picture nod, and Rourke is just a force of owned-in human emotions in it, and two, I'm dying to hear what he'll say on Oscar's big stage, with the censors on guard and the band ready to play his long-winded ass off.
It's Mickey Rourke's world now, snitches, and we're just all being thoroughly entertained in it.
I remember reading a magazine story/set visit on Zack Snyder's Dawn of the Dead remake, and Sarah Polley said something to the effect of, "Every movie should have a zombie in it." Well, I think every awards show should have Mickey Rourke, winning something at least once every 20 minutes. Fuck Hugh Jackman dance numbers and a 1930s-vibe; just toss Rourke a mic and watch the magic ensue.
On my catch-up quest to watch all of Dario Argento's films, I've just come across one of the best canine actors that cinema has ever produced. In the Italian horror icon's Tenebre (1982), there's this totally badass sequence where this dog-shit-crazy Doberman randomly chases after one of the doomed female characters, and this bitch (assuming its a female dog, for the word-usage-here sake) stops at nathan. What makes the scene so wonderful is that Tenebre has nothing to do with killer dogs, at all. It's about an author on a book-tour in Rome whose latest hit murder mystery novel has inspired some psycho to kill a slew of Italian girls in ways written in the book, also titled Tenebre.
Tenebre, this actual movie, is a hands-down winner. Not as stellar as Argento's Suspiria, and mere inches behind Deep Red in coolness, but still victorious. The way the movie is paced, you know when a girl is going to be hacked and slashed instantly, because Argento lingers on an otherwise-insignificant female character long enough to ensure she'll be dead within ten minutes. Being that I sign on to Argento films to watch beautiful people die even-more-beautiful, exquisitely-staged deaths, this is a good thing. Gets right down to business. As it should be.
So this dog in Tenebre serves absolutely no purpose other than provide some extra tension, and that it sure does. The first victim is bothered and chased down by a dirty hobo in a similar fashion to how this dog gives this girl the bad-business, and that's the only aspect of this sequence that rang somewhat purposeful, to possibly beat home the idea of "this girl is totally fucked, so don't worry if she escapes this first assailant." Indeed.
It also helps in bulk that the dog actor here is dynamite. Relentless, athletic, menacing. You'd think this chick was packing some Snausages in her pants pockets.
Enjoy:
And after surviving all of that, she ends up catching a couple axe-swings into her gut five minutes later. Should've just let the dog use her for rawhide instead.
Does anybody make comedies as re-watchable as Judd Apatow? Not to sound like a fair weather lame here or anything---I've been a fan of the guy's stuff since I caught Freaks & Geeks episodes back during the show's all-too-brief TV run. I'm jut sitting here wondering if I could sit through comedy films as repeatedly as I can with flicks like Knocked Up, Superbad, Anchorman, Pineapple Express, and 40 Year Old Virgin, all Apatow-stamped. Any time one of these comes on cable, or in Pineapple's case any time the DVD catches my eye within my collection, I'm caught hook, line, and sinker, always laughing just as much as I did the first time I watched in theater.
The man has a gift for making laughers that endure, mainly thanks to his films' everyman quality that makes "I've been there before" roll of the tongue without force. "Never with as much wit and snappy dialogue, of course, but the situation rings true to life." Superbad being a prime example, a film that the 16-year-old me could've totally related to, yet would have wished his life could be scripted by Seth Rogen, Evan Goldberg, and/or Apatow. I never would've said something along the lines of "Nobody has gotten a handjob in cargo shorts since 'Nam'" on my own, but I certainly discussed the magical world of under-the-pants stimulation at the hands of a female.
All this leads to the point of this Apatow rant.....this first trailer for his next writing-directing effort, Funny People, starring Adam Sandler, Seth Rogen, and tons of other Apatow regulars (plus The Rza, which is just amazing). It's a whopping 3:32 long, meaning way too much plot is revealed, which is an issue. And this isn't the funniest trailer I've ever seen. In fact, it's really not the LOL-worthy at all, but that doesn't mean I don't like it. Funny People has a much more somber tone than any of Apatow's past work, and that alone intrigues me, equally as much as a personal look into the fascinating (to me, at least) world of stand-up comedy. Part of me has always wished I was funny enough to do stand-up, but then the whole "fear of public speaking" angle slaps me back into reality.
Give it a look. It's always welcome to see Adam Sandler dropping bullshit like Bedtime Stories once in a while to prove that he can indeed act well. The pairing of Sandler and Rogen seem made-in-chemistry-heaven, and Leslie Mann remains one of the sexiest funny-women in the game. Though this trailer isn't super-funny in the slightest, something tells me we're in for an unexpectedly profound real-life experience with this one.
It's been tons of calendar turns since I've anxiously anticipated seeing this (as word has it) gruesome, cerebral, provocative French horror cult-classic-in-the-making. So what better way to bring the talk back then with news on its rapidly approaching DVD street date. Like Inside, Martyrs is said to be so damn raw-dog that no American theater would ever screen it, hence it's straight-to-DVD release plan (it comes out on April 28, so expect me to unsuccessfully plan screenings at my apartment). As long as I can see the film in its uncut glory, that's cool with moi.
The DVD cover art:
"Extras include a 55-minute behind-the-scenes documentary called Chroniques Organic: The Making of MARTYRS....." = superb. I love bonus feature documentaries, especially ones that exceed nine skimpy minutes. Yet another reason to purchase this one on sight.
Pop Quiz: Am I a Quentin Tarantino... A) fanboy for his films and his unfathomable, inspirational cinema obsession B) apologist who looks past the man's faults and occasional creative follies with a blind eye C) admirer who sees the guy's homage-paying yet still all his own talent as a diamond in Hollywood's rough D) supporter-in-arms who feels that all those who get off on slighting him these days need to a male private part
If you thought to yourself, "Hmm, he's really, E) all of the above," then go grab an Oreo and congratulate yourself because you're spot-on.
What all this means, really, is that you can expect me to post any and every bit of Inglourious Basterds news, images, trailers, clips, interviews, related misspelled words, etc. Today, three new posters for the film surfaced courtesy of The Weinstein Company and Universal, and they're expectedly cooler than beer-stacked fridge in the Hoboken bodega I'll be raiding later tonight.
My personal favorite being:
The other two, much smaller here (obviously):
To see all three posters in bigger size, head over to: Empire Online
Early yesterday, I posted a clip from Late Night with Conan O'Brien from his winding-down trip through memory lane, in honor of his final Late Night show tomorrow (*tear*). In it, I mentioned how he'd put together a compilation of the best "Satellite TV Channels" segments, and how it was divine comedy. Fortunately, NBC has uploaded it onto their site, so I must share.
Doesn't get much silly-funnier than this:
Since I'm in the mood to laugh today, here's quite possibly the best thing Late Night has ever done, which Conan replayed last night.....Triumph the Insult Comic Dog roasting the uber-nerds waiting in line for one of George Lucas' shitty Star Wars prequels, Attack of the Clones.
Easily one of the funniest things I've ever seen in my 27 years of living:
Both my little "Post-Screening Thoughts" entry here and then the angry column I threw together for the KING website clearly displayed my ever-growing hatred for this new Friday the 13th film. As the distance grows, I continue to despise more and more. I've been a bit nervous, however, in a sense of "Am I a bad horror lover for hating this film?" Several of the genre writers, critics, and fansites have been praising the film; not total fawning, but enough positive words that I began wondering if I was being too harsh a critic.
Sorry dude.....your movie sucks.
There's really no question: My Bloody Valentine 3D > Friday the 13th (2009)
Thankfully, the best podcast on all of the Interwebs, "Dinner for Fiends," over at Dread Central, has a new installment that's solely dedicated to bitch-slapping the new Friday the 13th. And the four guys heard in this podcast are all horror experts and know way more than I could claim to know, but would love to rival them at some day (Lord knows I'm trying). One of the guys was involved in the making of this new Friday documentary His Name Was Jason, while another is actually one of the dudes who offers insight throughout the docu. So they're legit, and the fact that damn near every damning point they make in this new "Dinner for Fiends" reflect every point I've made to date makes me feel all warm and validated inside.
The points they raise near the end about how these new Hollywood-made horror flicks are pumped out for the lowest-common-denominator audience, not those of us who truly appreciate horror, is spot-on. In no way I'm a horror elitist, but I'm confident enough to declare myself as a dude who really understands the genre and knows the good from the bad.
Enjoy. It's not only informative and well-argued....it's as hilarious as always (choose the "Click here to listen to Dinner for Fiends on your computer" option):
After months of development crawling and hear-say throughout the horror fansite community, one of the cooler-sounding film ideas in ages tragically became just "another one fo' the fire." Yet another cinematic "Ben." The unmade corpse was known as Trailer Trash, a feature length movie comprised of all fake trailers, in the vein of Grindhouse's intermission, that came from the mind of Grindhouse participant and overall walking horror encyclopedia Eli Roth (Mr. Hostel himself). It was a brilliant concept, a smorgasbord of campy, retro exploitation saluting written and shot by a slew of genre favorites, including Edgar Wright and Quentin Tarantino.
An example entry that Roth was flirting with (which he revealed during a celeb-interviews-celeb sitdown he did with Josh Brolin for Myspace): Farmageddon, which would've taken place on a farm, naturally, starred talking animals, and would've been a big-budget Michael Bay-like production. Just imagine how many more tongue-in-cheek winners could've been.
Who knows, maybe some day Roth will actually put this dream project together. Until that happens, though, at least I'll have a new website to visit, where I can tap into my love for throwback movie previews for films I either never knew existed or love but wasn't breathing at the time of its release, leaving the preview unseen. "Trailers From Hell" is the site, overseen by filmmaking vet Joe Dante (Gremlins, amongst other films), and all the site is is a place for various filmmakers and Hollywood heads to handpick their favorite trailers for mostly obscure flicks and provide an on-camera commentary. A co-worker friend of mine who shares my affinity for horror and schlock put me on to it earlier today, and I feel the more complete for it.
Endless fun to be had here. For now, I'm going to post a few examples that spotlight films that I personally love. It's pretty cool to hear respected filmmaker types spitting praise on to films that I've long admired, sometimes feeling as if I'm the only person I'll ever know who enjoys them. No longer the case.
1) 3) Mary Lambert (Pet Sematary director) discusses 1962's creepy-as-hell Carnival of Souls, one of the few horror movies that genuinely scares every time I watch it....the final setpiece in the carnival is the stuff of surrealistic nightmares (the clip of this one at Trailers From Hell is defective, though, always stopping at the one-minute mark. Still want to put you on to Carnival of Souls, so here's its trailer, sans Mary Lambert):
Like nearly every other passionate lover of Alan Moore's Watchmen work, I've been fawning over each new trailer, behind-the-scenes clip, and movie still released, in awe of the attention to detail and overall magic captured. As a result, my calendar has been checked off daily in anticipation of the film's March 6 street date (or whenever I can slide my way into an early media screening, knock on wood). I've even interviewed director Zack Snyder (Dawn of the Dead remake, 300) about the project, and was immediately won over by the guy's know-it-all perspective on Moore's story and the tireless efforts he and his team put on. Plus, Snyder is one of those great interview subjects who says shit like, "The studio didn't give a rat's ass," and "The people in charge behind-the-scenes are clueless," and you got to love that.
I've been figuring, Nothing can ruin Watchmen's chances of rocking the shit, right? It's practically failproof. Prematurely, though, I'd forgotten about the one crucial factor that had yet to be seen: the acting. Sure, it's a special effects superhero spectacle in one way, but Watchmen is ten times more about the story and the deeply-drawn characters than any other traditional comic book situation. Poor performances could derail the film into fireballs, no matter how amazing-looking the film is on a technical level. I'd also forgotten about Snyder's overindulgent use of slow-motion, and just how much the man could possibly be tempted to slow the movements down in a film that'll clock well near two-and-a-half hours long.
And now, several clips have made their way onto the Intertubes, and I'm officially worried. Not one of the clips I've seen has impressed me on any level other than, "Yeah, the costumes and that set sure look cool enough." The exchange between Nite Owl and Rorschach is awkward and unconvincing, the rampany slo-mo in the scene with Silk Spectre II and the building fire is off-putting beyond belief, Adrian Veidt's voice has some unexpected inflection that needs work (possibly the actor, Matthew Goode's natural accent, but still...), and the musical choice in the scene where The Comedian jumps down (in slo-mo, of course) onto the street is quite hokey.
Fuckity fuck fuck. See for yourselves, and quiver in anxiety along with me now:
I guess it's just time to bring the expectations down to realistic levels, is all. Bubble partially burst.
I could seriously watch the pre-interviews portion of Late Night with Conan O'Brien all day, everyday. The other night, as part of this whole "Greatest Moments" in honor of his final Late Night show this Friday night, they did a retrospective of their favorite "Unseen Satellite Channels," and it was magical. Inappropriate! Hopefully, they'll do similar compilation for "If They Mated...." and "Exclusive Made-For-TV Casting News" by week's end. I'd enter this weekend more than content.
Conan and his writing staff better not water their sophomoric-yet-brilliant comedy sensibilities down for The Tonight Show. I can think of no greater tragedy. The 11:35pm audience needs to experience the TV-faced Arnold Schwarzenegger and his "Holiday classic: Jiinggell All Zee Vay!"
Rather than flub this post and act like I'm some kind of expert on these guys, I'll just be Frank (like my dad's first name): I know nothing about the Hudson Brothers other than their work in this film. My parents have said that they were a reasonably funny trio of comedic siblings, also reasonable in their level of fame at that time. I guess, think the Caucasian, lesser-numbered '80s equivalent to the Wayans Brothers, this being their Scary Movie. (Imagine if they'd made an '80s equivalent to White Chicks? It would've been called Black Girls, I'd fear to assume, and would've made C. Thomas Howell's racially-sketchy Soul Man seem like a NAACP-film-production.)
As far as I know, and/or really care, however, they're the shameless dudes behind 1983's pretty-much-forgotten Hysterical, an uneven-at-best horror spoof that'll forever hold a warm place in my heart, even if its universally deemed a $5-footlong shit sandwich.
Oddly enough, I can't even recall how or why I initially watched Hysterical. If I had to guess, my dad must've put me on to it back in my grammar school days, knowing my fanatical love for the rated-R Night of the Living Dead and thinking that the PG (I believe) Hysterical featured a final setpiece full of zombies, yet it had the right hint of comedy so that he could watch it with me. Whether that was the case or not is meaningless here, anyway, because I fell in love with the grated-cheese that is Hysterical and frequently watched the final 20 minutes like an addict getting his zombie horror fix. No wonder I adored Shaun of the Dead from the moment I first set eyes on it alone in a theater on opening night, when none of my friends would expand their minds enough to tag long. Lames.
The story concerns a writer who moves into a spooky lighthouse, hoping the peace and scenic quiet will spark his next great novel. Of course, it doesn't, and instead the spirit of a ghost-lady takes over his body. Two knucklehead drifters, who resemble poor-man's-Indiana-Jones-wannabes, stumble onto the situation and try to exorcise the writer's demon, but all hell breaks loose and soon the townsfolk all turn into poorly-made-up zombies. In the process, tons of horror in-jokes pop up: you get the Friday the 13th-like creepy hobo elder who repeatedly warns the protagonists "You're doomed!" at every chance he gets; a slapstick exorcism straight out of (you guessed it) The Exorcist; a stubborn mayor willing to conceal a potential disaster in order to secure tourist profits, a la Jaws; and a final act that's equal parts The Fog and Night of the Living Dead. Hell, there's even this totally random, pointless Taxi Driver dig seen in the following clip:
Unfortunately, Hysterical is one of the many deserving films that has yet to receive the DVD treatment (right next to Night of the Creeps and Whiteboyz....yes, I said Whiteboyz; any film that features a scene where a corny-ass wigger gets stomped out for being a corny-ass wigger is worth a purchase). Actually, I think it's actually available on DVD, but only buy-able through used vendors who overcharge for it. "Out of print," in other words. Last year, however, I was able to retrieve the old dubbed VHS from my parents' basement. I watched it, instantly. The laughs just weren't as potent, sadly, and a piece of my childhood died on the spot. I've come to realize, though, that Hysterical's charms were purely products of the time I originally enjoyed them....my pre-teen years.
Back then, my sense of humor was hardly even juvenile. Shit, I found Jeff Goldbum's/Ed Begley Jr.'s Transylvania 6-500 to be comedy gold, and that's a horror-spoof even flimsier than Hysterical. Though, one deserving of a post entry similar to this one in the future, undoubtedly. Hysterical didn't have to genuinely be "funny," or even slightly intelligent. It just needed to include some big zombie setpieces (Check), jokes that even young horror heads could appreciate (Double Check), and not exceed 90 minutes in running time, to meet my immature attention span (Check Cubed).
Not even sure what brought Hysterical to mind tonight. Maybe because I just finished watching Quarantine on DVD, and pseudo-zombie vibe brought the undead to mind. Or, maybe I just need some feelgood laughter, something that early-year memories the likes of Hysterical can always register.
Excuse me while I indulge my inner 16-year-old boy....
As terrible the statement I'm about to make is, I must go on the record with it: Eric Nies was a godsend during my adolescent years. Not the man himself, exactly; as a dude, he seemed cool enough, but always carried this air of douchebag-ery that was immovable. Like your boy Dan Cortese, who never struck me as the most knowledgeable pseudo-jock yet was deemed by MTV as their say-all, end-all sports man. Nies, though, did have one thing going for him back in the mid-1990s---he came off as a guy who could genuinely bag any female of his choosing. An awesome ability to possess, obviously, and one that came into play conveniently while he was his MTV-serviced "office," a T&A haven better known as "poolside" or "faux-nightclub stage" where he'd act as host. The general housing of either workplace locale being known as MTV's The Grind.
Without The Grind, my early teen years would've been quite dreary. If memory serves me justly, The Grind aired every day at 4:30pm, a perfect window for me to be able to get home from the nervous social anxiety that was school and park my ass on the couch to watch some unbelievably-sexy ladies shake their stuff to the latest beats. Too young to enter a nightclub and too antisocial to care at that point, my daily ritual of watching The Grind met the "must watch women shake that ass" quota nicely, not to mention introducing me to the wonders of "lust" and "longing." Full of dancing beauties and Guido-ish guys (but we'll forget about the male distractions here), it was like forbidden fruit cooked into edible eye candy. Teeny-weeny bikinis, sun-drenched flesh, sweaty hourglass curves. That douche Eric Nies running the whole show, later being replaced by a pillar of sexiness during these years for me, Idalis De Leon. The Grind was 30 minutes of sin, minus having to perform any debauchery myself.
I look back on the scope of females I've found attractive over the years, and dated, or wish I'd dated, and nine times out of then they resemble the type of woman who would've been seen on The Grind. Meaning, I'll say without any shred of doubt that The Grind is hugely responsible for shaping the "type" of girl I go for, attraction-wise. The evolution of the "rap video chick" can be similarly held accountable in this case, but The Grind came first, therefore it's mostly responsible. Funny to think that some disposable piece of hormonal programming fluff could have such a profound impact on one of the more crucial aspects of a guy's life.
A prototypical female-of-interest....made so by The Grind
I remember there being three, maybe even four, specific Grind girls that I'd tune in specifically for, and boy were they forces of sexual nature. One was named Natasha, and she was a lightskinned piece of visual perfection blessed with curly hair and thickness for months. I have no clue what the other three dancers' names were, but, really, it doesn't matter, or mean two shits anyway. That was part of the show's hook---feeling like you're kicking it with some beautiful minx, yet not having to know anything about her other than the facts that she can dance her tight-ass off and that she's yours for 30 minutes a day, five days a week (and sometimes for extended playtime on the weekends, if reruns would allow such additional indulgence).
No strings attached. No questions asked. There was The Grind's one downside, though: tuning in was just foreplay, sadly going nowhere past the point of "the tease." Even worse than a strip club, truthfully, and I'm probably one of the only heterosexual men alive who'll flat out say that strip clubs do nothing for me, other than offer nice things to look at and subsequent "Never Gonna Get It" spins in my head, and not even that fine En Vogue video along with it. Just wasted money, inflated dreams that'll quickly fizzle, and even furter reminders of the caliber of female-sex-machines that are out of your league. Fuck all that.
This past Saturday night, some friends and I were at some club in the Manhattan, called The Imperial. Not a bad spot. Played a good-enough mix of songs, though tragically lacked The Dream's monstrous "Rockin' That Thang Like..." The girls in attendance were looking fetching, and I was intoxicated to a sufficient level. Guard was down, inhibitions mostly scrapped.
As I watched the ladies do their collective thing on the dancefloor, I couldn't help but think back to the days of sitting on that comfy couch, clicking on MTV, and passing 30 minutes by in the company of Natasha and her lady-friends. Only now, I was inches away from the dancers, able to reach and touch some if my nerves felt up to the task. Of course, that'd be grounds for a chick slapping the shit out of me, so I employed my usual approach: wait for eye contact and that "come hither" smile, and slowly move my way toward her before acting out the lyrics to Next's "Too Close."
As per usual, my luck materialized at least once. Ended up behind a curly-black-haired cutie at the urging of her friends. Proceeded to move our bodies simultaneously to the music. Grabbed each other's hands, kinda-passionately guiding the locked digits up and down the front of her body. Bringing things full circle, as if The Grind's Natasha had taken the form of the equally-gorgeous gal I was intertwined with.
She didn't look like this exactly, but I sure wish she did.
The only problem being, this wasn't poolside in Eric Nies' company, or even on the indoor soundstage close to my boo Idalis De Leon. No, this was The Imperial, smack dab in my reality, and the girl I was dancing ever-so-closely with turned out to be merely 18 years old, and was promptly removed from my vicinity by her older sister once they found that I'm nine years the girl's senior. How the fuck did her 18-year-old ass get into the club, anyway? Buzz...killed.
A cot-damn shame. But a necessary wake-up call. It wasn't The Grind; it was real life. Two totally different realms, one vastly superior to the other in its total land-of-make-believe nature.
Apparently, tougher than AP Calculus (Seriously, how did I ever pass that class? Mr. Dawson was a teacher sent from most sympathetic gods imaginable), because so few DVD-makers seem to be able to get it even somewhat right.
This is something I should've addressed months back, but for whatever (lazy) reasons I've taken my sweet-lolly-gagging time. One of the DVDs hits stores today, though, and then the other was brought to my attention earlier by a co-worker, so my anger toward the following two DVD covers has been re-ignited to maximum boiling. For every awesome DVD cover, such as Frank Darabont's The Mist's two-disc special edition, or either Grindhouse film, there comes triple the amount of poorly-conceived, misleading, film-raping designs such as these, and it's truly inexcusable.
Culprit Number One: Quarantine (which hits stores today, and I suggest you rent it)
The same unbelievable problem that I had with the film's in-theater posters and commercial advertisements is at hand here, since this is exactly the same shot---why in the hell would the dumbasses over at Screen Gems show the film's [SLIGHT SPOILER ALERT] final shot on the fucking poster?! And if you recall the film's all-too-revealing trailer, this image was the last one seen in that, too! I'm at a loss for words, really. Sure, you can say that people haven't seen the film yet, so they won't know that this is the last shot, but then you'd be a total airhead. What this does, in argument against such a stance, is begs viewers to groan and moan as the final credits roll---"Are you kidding me? That's the ending? They showed that in the damn commercials!" I saw Quarantine three times in the theater (because I'm a tool like that), and I heard at least ten people uttering that very sentiment as they exited the theater.
Oh, and how about that Photoshop hack-job on the left side of Jennifer Carpenter, the generic ghoul/creature that never even shows up in the film? Are you kidding me? Is he trying to look scary/intimidating, or just waving at prospective buyers? As if to say, "Hey, look, I'm a creepy-looking ghoul and I'm in this movie, too! You know you want to buy this shit now, right? How can you resist a ghoul that looks like every other ghoul you've seen in horror movies, even if I'm not in this one?" The Screen Gems folks behind this cover should collectively blow me where the pampus is.
It basically undermines the entire film, and the work put in by the talented cast and the filmmaking Dowdle Brothers. I'd be willing to bet a couple stacks that the Dowdles had no say in this matter, and being first-time major studio filmmakers they just grinned and endured. The movie still received largely positive reviews, thankfully, and even made a nice box office profit, but those positives don't make up for the absolutely-abysmal marketing team behind the film.
Don't even get me started on how this poster completely slaps all those who had seen and loved Quarantine's Spanish original, [REC], and already knew how the almost-shot-for-shot American version would end. Remember, fools at Screen Gems: in a case like this, when you're redoing a beloved foreign property, the mission is to soothe the original's rabid fanbase, not anger them even further.
Culprit Number Two: The Last House on the Left's latest special edition (timed with the remake's release next month)
Just when I'd thought that no DVD cover could infuriate me more than Quarantine's....this debacle of immense proportions surfaces, and baffles my mind to degrees that require at least five Tylenol tablets.
What we have here is nothing more than a blatant attempt to make a sleazy, depraved, low-fi '70s classic appeal to today's spoon-fed, mostly-brain-dead generation of moviegoers that actually made the Prom Night remake a resounding success. This artwork basically makes Last House on the Left look like a straight-to-DVD Prom Night sequel, and just imagine how bad such a film would be. If not for that little mention of Wes Craven's name at the top lefthand corner, I'd have no reason to believe that this wasn't some half-assed DVD-only remake meant to compete with the good-looking, Craven-supported one hitting theaters in early March. First of all, that looks nothing like the house seen in Craven's actual film. Secondly, the girl's face is clearly that of a modern-day actress, and doesn't even try to appear as if from a 1970s-era movie still.
Now, you may think it's pointless and a bit corny of me to get so worked up over something as infinitesimal as a lame Last House on the Left DVD cover, but then you must not know me very well, if at all. This is precisely the kind of useless shit that does grind my gears, because I'm a fella who takes his movies very seriously. To a fault, I'm sure. Besides, I defy you to watch this Last House on the Left trailer, then look at the above DVD cover, and think to yourself, "My, that is one effective, genuine-looking DVD cover":
You want to know what the ironic, and somewhat sad, part of this is: I've already bought that Quarantine disc, and plan on grabbing that Last House on the Left one soon. So much for me taking a stand, huh? The movies found beneath the gross packaging remain the same quality viewing experiences as I loved once before, so it's pretty much a mute tirade. But one that, if I'd just kept my mouth shut instead of airing my thoughts out, I'd feel a bit less proud.
I should really just designate a new "post category/label" to Horror Anthologies, being that I've discussed examples of and declared my undying love for the genre sub-set repeatedly on this here site. For those who need a refresher course, a horror anthology is a base project that houses multiple stories under one roof; think Creepshow, or Tales from the Hood, or television classics the likes of The Twilight Zone, Night Gallery, Tales from the Crypt, and Tales from the Darkside.
I'm currently on a mission to see every single one ever made. So far, the plan is moving along nicely. The main one that I've yet been unable to track down, though, is a made-for-TV film from 1975, Trilogy of Terror. Made infamous by two key characteristics: first, the same actress, Karen Black, starred in all three of the entries, and second, one of the stories featured an African Zuni fetish doll that preceded Child's Play's Chucky in the reigning scary doll standings.
How awesome does that little bastard look?
Overall, Trilogy of Terror is supposed to be tons of cheesy yet capably-creepy fun, but it's unavailable on DVD as far as I can tell, and pretty much never airs on the tube-of-cable-options. Aside from its anthology aspects, a huge reason as to why I'm dying to see it is that the largest writing contribution falls to one Richard Matheson, who---for those who read this site regularly should know, meaning all five of you---is a writing giant in these here parts.
For now, however, I'll have to settle with having only seen its two-decades-later sequel, Trilogy of Terror 2. Directed, like the original, by Dan Curtis, its regarded unanimously as inferior, and riddled by too much cheese and not enough meat. Sadly, I'm here to report that such a negative reputation is justified, because it's pretty much a snooze from story one, the irrtatingly predictable and derivative "The Graveyard Rats," right through to story tres, "He Who Kills," which has earned a slightly warm spot in genre heads' hearts for marking the return of the 1975 flick's bloodlusting Zuni doll. None of the three stories are particularly good, not even Matheson's contribution, the second tale, "Bobby." Granted, there are a few moments of shameful viewing glee to be had here, but ultimately its resting at the bottom run of Horror Anthologies that I've seen thus far. Shit, it's even worse than the bulk of NBC's recent shitshow Fear Itself, and boy did every one of those episodes disappoint to excruciating ends.
Trilogy of Terror 2 is so below-mediocre that I don't even feel compelled to dissect it in extensive measure, so I'll just breeze through all three parts. First up, the opener "Graveyard Rats," which tells the awfully-uninventive narrative of a young hottie (played by total-hottie Lysette Anthony, who gets her 1975-Karen-Black on here by starring in all three parts) married to a prick of an elder millionaire. She's having an affair with her "cousin," who is also a prick (she can really pick them, I guess). Short story even shorter, she and her lover devise a scheme to kill the old coot so she can gain his inheritance, only it turns out that some codes needed to unlock his assets have been buried with him. So the widow and her male-jumpoff do some graverobbing, but are thwarted by terribly-fake-looking overgrown rodent puppets that gnaw off Anthony's pretty face. The end. Saw it coming light years away, and it sucked. Although, the truly-bootleg feel of the rodents' attack is quite entertaining in an awesomely-bad way.
Two pricks for the free-price of one. Prick squared.
The second story, "Bobby," is either one of the weakest Richard Matheson stories ever, or a marginal one that's butchered in page-to-screen translation by director Curtis. Whatever the case is, though, "Bobby" is extremely dull, and made head-achingly annoying thanks to the Bobby character himself: a pre-teen kid brought back from the dead, Pet Sematary style, by his grieving mother (Lysette Anthony again, looking even hotter with pitch-black hair). Of course, he comes back far from his old self, this time a demonic slasher playing the most boring game of hide-and-seek with his "frightened" mother. Bobby's taunting dialogue ("Where are you, Mommy?! Aren't you glad you brought me back, Mommy?!") is poorly acted and badly written, busting past the point of nails-on-a-chalkboard, and making you hope that his mother will just kill the little asshole and end this segment immediately. The story's kind-of-a-surprise ending is good in theory, but misses the mark in this incarnation.
Looks a helluva lot like Yellow Rat Bastard from Sin City, actually.
The last entry (thank God....definitely can't handle more than three turds in one serving), "He Who Kills," follows up Trilogy of Terror '75's "Prey," a Matheson work that introduced the world to that cool-ass Zuni doll. Anthony plays a doctor given the responsibility to inspect the Zuni doll, found at the scene of a double homicide. The badass Zuni comes to, naturally, and makes a couple of museum security guards (one of whom is unconvincingly played by the same guy who was David Spade's dumbass, meathead frat brother in PCU, film lovers) bleed their ways to the afterlife. It then engages in a little toy-vs-sexy doctor battle royale, which I've read pales in comparison to the Karen Black/Zuni throwdown from the first film. I'd sure hope so, because the Zuni's stalk-and-attack here isn't anything remotely special, save for the fact that the Zuni is a great-looking antagonist. Anthony's doctor character makes too many "what a dumb bitch" mistakes, ones so blatantly moronic that even the biggest of belief suspension (and trust, I had mine suspended to maximum capacity knowing that I was watching a killer Zuni fetish doll) can't hide the stupidity. Zuni doll appears to be dead inside a locked suitcase, so why not open the suitcase to check, right? Or, our Zuni friend has been incinerated in a vat of acid (but not totally burned to crisps, strangely enough), so how about you open the vat and check again? You fool. By the time the Zuni overtakes her body and she goes all ax-wielder on a detective for the final reel, I was left thinking, "That Zuni did this dumb chick a favor. Seriously."
Rgardless of Trilogy of Terror 2's lack of success, though, somebody should've given the tiny bastard his own film franchise by now; if that fucking Leprechaun can get one, why not this guy:
It's funny: I watch something like Trilogy of Terror 2 and suddenly my always-flimsy confidence soars a bit. If shit like this gets made and remembered over the years, I can definitely come up with some Horror Anthologies of my own, right? It's a life's dream/goal of mine, and something I'm developing in the head on a daily basis. Sure, the only reason this shit was even made was that it rode the 20-year-old coattails of a respected, Richard Matheson-heavy work, which is something I'll never be able to claim.
But why not a Matt Barone-heavy work that's celebrated equally at some point? A dude can aspire, can't he?
Call me a lapdog for Michael Bay's robotic brand of explosion-ridden heartlessness if you must, but I can't shake this loving feeling. This new Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen trailer is precisely what a "giant alien robot movie directed by Michael Bay" is supposed to be---nothing but money shots, expensive effects, total devastation, incoherent anarchy, and a reminder's glimpse that Megan Fox is still down.
Toss in a seemingly darker, angrier tone, and you've got my vote for "Most Anticipated Flick for Summer '09." This coming from the same guy who swears that The Wrestler got robbed of a deserving Best Picture nomination, and that Let The Right One received similar snubbery out of the Best Foreign Film slot.
I'm like the 2Pac of cinema-junkies....a walking contradiction, just as apt to put my thinking cap as I am to bask in juvenile absurdity. Obviously I don't mean that as anything more than a joke. Let's be real. As a matter of fact, Grandma's Boy is on cable right now, and that's a foolish gem I never miss.
****BONUS
Here's another newly-unleashed sequel teaser, this time for the incredible Spanish horror whirlwind known as [Rec], obviously titled [Rec] 2. Absolutely nothing in the way of plot is revealed here, which makes it a sort of foreign-horror kindred spirit to the above Transformers one. But the actual finished product will be from the original's same two directors-writers, and [Rec] itself benefitted from an early miniscule teaser such as this, so...so far, so good.
I'd love to know how they're approaching this one story-wise: investigators looking into the apartment building from the first? the infection spreading itself throughout the city, past the building's quarantine zone?
I'm guessing American won't be seeing a Quarantine sequel any time soon (the film performed well, but not blockbuster-y enough to warrant a new chapter), so for Quarantine lovers, this is most likely the closest you're going to get.
The funniest bit of Christian Bale-spoofing yet, of course coming out of Family Guy. This is the last Bale joke I'll ever post here (related to his now-legendary tirade), but again, it's Family Guy, so I felt somewhat of an obligation to do so.
One of the best horror films of the post-2000 breakdown (which wouldn't feel out of place within the top five), Neil Marshall's The Descent totally holds up. Always vicious, always incredibly claustrophobic. Still shows off some of the genre's most patient and carefully drawn character development in years. Earns its tragedies and painful-to-watch deaths. The last act remains as white-knuckle as it gets.
Not to mention, it never feels less than "just right," story wise. Ends on the best possible note (I'm referring to the uncut original ending here). So the fact that there's an unnecessary sequel on the horizon isn't the most comforting news. Marshall is only involved on the production end, but then again, one of the sequel's screenwriters is James Watkins, who really impressed me with his writing-directing victory Eden Lake, a sadly underappreciated brutality-exhibition. And I've always preferred sequels that directly continue the story established in their predecessors, as this one seems to do.
This newly-dropped trailer looks much more solid than expected, too. Looks like my pessimism is being called into question now. I mean, this could very well end up sucking and only proving my initial doubts to be valid, but I'm all for giving this one a fair shake.
The Descent 2
Most joyous aspect of this part-two: The first film's secret weapon has returned, gloriously....Natalie Mendoza, as "Juno." No clue how they'll explain her still being alive and all, since The Descent's ending clearly showed that she was about to enter You're Fucked City. But after seeing The Descent, though, I'd developed one hell of a thing for the woman; unfortunately, she's yet to pop up in anything else since.
I welcome her back with open arms....and a double shot of love. No Ikkis.
