When I was a wee lad, picking out my choice costume for Halloween was more important than holding onto my entire-elementary-school-career-long Spelling Bee Champion title (and that was a belt I wore with pride and vigor). Even if the final decision was far from innovative (yes, I was Jason Voorhees one year, shamefully), I made sure that my incarnation stood out from the others. For Sir Voorhees, I dabbled on tons of fake-blood smears across the hockey mask and dipped my plastic machete in the same store-bought life liquid. Not exactly a visionary tweaking, but it was something, at least.
The proudest costume in my personal history, though, was the homemade Mr. Hyde get-up I whipped together during my eleventh year. You see, Robert Louis Stevenson's classic Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde story was, and still is for that matter, a tale that I cherished, picking up copies in hardcover, pocket-size, kiddie versions, and whatever other versions Barnes and Noble concealed. My only gripe with the Jekyll and Hyde text, however: there has never been a good film adaptation in my lifeitme. Both Fredric March's iconic performance in the 1931 black-and-white version and Spencer Tracy's a decade later (each titled Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, naturally) are quality, but those was many moons before my conception; I'm talking a modern-day take on the tale that doesn't suck. To date, the top interpretation (and that word is used loosely in this case) is Abbott & Costello meet Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and that's only because my pops conditioned me to love the comedy of Bud and Lou. I want an actually-chilling 21st century Mr. Hyde on screen, though.
The source material is so ripe----a brilliant lab-man sips on a potion that unleashes his dark side, an inner madman that proceeds to murder. When word was announced a while back that Guillermo del Toro was developing a fantastical spin on the story, I felt content. del Toro can do no wrong in my eyes. But now, a second in-development Jekyll and Hyde has hit the news circuit, and this latest one is going to star Keanu Reeves......Keanu fucking Reeves?!?! Sigh squared. Yes, I love Bill & Ted as much as the next twenty-something, as well as Speed, but don't let anybody fool you into thinking that Reeves has the necessary acting chops to pull off the double-sided emotions of Jekyll and Hyde. There's a reason why I consider his emotionless alien role in that mediocre The Day the Earth Stood Still remake to be typecasting.
Reeves' film will be titled Jekyll, simply, and is said to be a "modern-day" update, meaning the original story's Victorian setting will be ditched for today's landscape. Sigh, again.
Let's see.....actors more suited to play this two-for-one character: Clive Owen, Sam Rockwell, and Michael Shannon, for starters. Keanu Reeves would place about 87th on my wish list. Sigh fucking sigh.
****In a lighter, much cooler change-of-topic, here's the first official poster for Neill Blomkamp's District 9, a film I've been writing about a bit here lately. It's a great, nice and subtle eye-opener for the flick, clearly delivering the film's "aliens are social outcasts" theme. And it makes me smile amidst that awful Keanu Reeves item.
As much as I consider myself to be a real "horror movie head," I also pride myself on the fact that I'm a realist. Not jaded by the trappings of the industry, and able to separate the good from the good-because-others-say-so-and-it-was-made-by-friends-or-colleagues. I get it, though. Working at a major lifestyle magazine for five years gives you a pretty clear perspective on politics and the influence of opinion. Doesn't make it right, but it's a reality that won't adjust itself any time soon.
For months now, I've read a slew of positive pre-release-buzz about a new slasher flick called Laid to Rest, written and directed by makeup effects veteran Robert Hall. The early word waa that the film was the next great slasher flick, one that'll reinvent the wheel and breathe new life into the stagnant horror subgenre. Similar to Adam Green's Hatchet back in 2007e major difference being that Laid to Rest is a straight-to-DVD release that's devoid of rampant tongue-in-cheek humor. Hatchet, on the flipside, was given a crickets-and-tumbleweeds limited theatrical run that only keen horror heads knew about. My biggest problem with Hatchet is that the tone of the film is way too hokey. Green worried so much about keeping the self-referential/'throwback-to-sleazy-'80s-slashers vibe intact that the film becomes more comedy than horror, and sadly the jokes are rarely very funny.
Hall's effort thankfully keeps the humor to a minimum. If I want to laugh, I'll watch a damn comedy; besides, not many can execute what Edgar Wright and company pulled off so perfectly with the horror/laugher hybrid Shaun of the Dead. Laid to Rest does have another big thing in common with Hatchet, unfortunately, and that's the feeling of "totally overhyped" it left me with as the final credits rolled. Which pains me, because Laid to Rest's trailer was an ass-kicker, a hopes-elevator that "promised" some serious carnage and style to spare. Expectations were higher than Cheech & Chong, but sadly the film let me down quicker than a concluding flight simulator. All gore, no point. Weakly drawn characters, and very little scares. A scorching-hot main girl (Bobbi Sue Luther) and a cool-looking, intimidating masked killer (called Chromeskull, a slightly-goofy yet memorable tag). Random characters wander in only to be killed off within minutes, which is fine for a slasher film but only when the entire proceedings are handled well. On the whole, Laid to Rest is not.
Chromeskull
Laid to Rest, while loaded with hardcore bloodshed and dismemberment, drops the ball more times than it scores. A few sudden murders did catch me off-guard, particuarly the death of actor Jonathan Schaech thanks to a thrown jagged-knife that splits his skull open from mouth to forehead. But nailing a few stomach-churning scenes isn't all that Hall was trying to accomplish; as heard on the DVD's "Laid to Rest: Postmortem" making-of special feature, he was looking to create a nostalgic '80s-slasher-revisited film full of intriguing characters and a strong mystery (Who is this girl who woke up in a coffin? What's her big secret, and why is Chromeskull so focused on killing her?). Could've fooled me. Laid to Rest feels more like a Saw entry than anything made two decades ago. And there wasn't one point where I genuinely cared enough about Luther's character to ponder her true identity. I'm glad I didn't, too, because the "reveal" that Hall's script cooked up is the lamest. "That's it?!" material. A tepid, forgettable ending.
It's a shame, because the moments that work in Laid to Rest show that Hall is more than capable with raw horror. Hopefully, he'll give the genre another try sooner than later and capitalize on the potential seen here.
As for this flick sparking the resurgence of the slasher genre.....mission failed. Isn't it sad that the best example of that subgenre in recent memory is Eli Roth's fake Thanksgiving trailer seen in Grindhouse? Barely two minutes long, yet Roth encapsulated all of the '80s-mood that these other full-lengths features can't completely manage. If Roth actually does make a feature-length Thanksgiving, that could be the great modern-day slasher movie that we've all been waiting for. Well, at least that I've been awaiting.
Bonus Thought: How about today's filmmakers concentrate on simply making a good slasher flick, rather than obsessing over this unnecessary need to reinstate the '80s? It's becoming such a crutch for otherwise-marginal films. Something's got to give.
As defiantly as I've been resisting the Twilight film and all of the lore surrounding author Stephanie Meyer's teenybop vampire franchise, I've been unable to shake the feeling that I'd one day give in and give the film a look. Initially, I feared that my general love for horror and bloodsuckers would leave me feeling incomplete without tasting the lowest-common-denominator. Then, suspicion turned to a much more "dating world" direction, and I began thinking that one of these date-nights the girl would suggest renting Twilight, and I'd be powerless by said girl's sexiness that I'd submit and watch Robert Pattinson's stone-cold screen presence.
Never did I think, though, that a filmmaker that I'm very fond of would attach himself to the franchise and that would be the reason I joined the Tiger Beat side. Yet, that's exactly what has happened, with the announcement today that director David Slade will be handling the third film in the series, The Twilight Saga: Eclipse. Supposedly, Eclipse is the darkest and meanest of the lot, and requires a filmmaker with more edge than most.
Erik Feig, Summit Entertainment's President of Production: "Stephenie Meyer's ECLIPSE is a muscular, rich, vivid book and we at Summit looked long and hard for a director who could do it justice. We believe we have found that talent in David Slade, a director who has been able to create complex, visually arresting worlds. We cannot wait to see the ECLIPSE he brings to life and brings to the fans eagerly awaiting its arrival in summer of 2010.”
Slade has proved his sinister sensibilities with the awesome twosome of Hard Candy (where Ellen Page's best performance can be seen....sorry, Juno) and 30 Days of Night (what a vampire film should be....sorry, Twilight), so on the surface this makes sense. But the vibe I've gotten from Slade via his interviews and taste in subject matter has never been in the same vicinity as Twilight, other than the obvious "vampire" thing. But the vamps in 30 Days of Night spoke broken English and conducted mass homicide with zero remorse; Twilight's loverboy vamps would be scared shitless of them. Odds are, dude was offered a truckload of money, and that, on top of the guaranteed box office mayhem that the film will inspire, screamed louder than any pride. Can't knock the guy's hustle, though.
David Slade
I wonder if Twilight fans realize just how impressive of a filmmaker they've got for this Eclipse installment. Probably not. They were nearly given Drew Barrymore for Eclipse, so they should be counting their lucky Edward Cullen (that's his name, right?) posters that Slade is the final choice. I won't even begin to discuss how different stylistically Slade is from Barrymore, and how Eclipse clearly doesn't have a distinct tone in mind if you consider this 180-degree shift in filmmaker. Juan Antonio Boyaga (director of the great Spanish ghost tale The Orphanage) was also rumored to be close to signing on to Eclipse, and that choice was a bit closer in tone to Slade.
Let's get one thing clear, though: I'm not saying that Slade is Scorcese or anything. He's just a talented, somewhat-new director who has already cranked out two films that I love, so anything he gets his hands on is worthy of my time. Yes, even if its a Twilight film. The way Hard Candy commands attention and dishes out suspense in bountiful amounts despite being limited to a simple one house setting is seriously impressive, and the utter bleakness and striking nighttime visuals of 30 Days of Night look better with each viewing. The guy has chops. Ironically, it was only a couple days ago that I was wondering just what Slade would tackle next. Who knew it'd be this, huh?
And to think, I was this close to avoiding this franchise altogether. Now I just need to find a lovely lady to watch Twilight with me. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.
One thing that should be made clear: I'm not expecting anything in Eclipse to even approach the level of awesomeness seen in this 30 Days of Night highlight. This is Slade at his best:
Letting that one great girl slip through my fingertips due to my uncertainty of "Am I ready to invest total energy into a relationship right now?"? Nope. Not bailing out of my workplace early enough to jump on open positions elsewhere, pre-industry-wide-hiring-freeze? Close, but not quite. Each of those personal follies had no definite resolution if I had chosen the other path. Romance could've flourished for months with her, but it could've just as easily faded away without warning. And that industry was/is so fucked that the same outcome from my former spot could've happened anywhere else. Those are mistakes that I can't dwell on much.
My biggest fuck-up of 2008, however, did present itself with a neat, closure-offering endgame, and I blew it. I would've been one of the lucky few to catch an early look at one of the most anticipated and critically-beloved American-made horror films of the last decade. But, no.
Through Fangoria magazine's website, I got myself on a list for a free Trick 'r Treat screening in downtown Manhattan back in October, and I was ecstatic. Impatiently awaited the big day for over a month. Kept re-reading every early review of the Michael Dougherty-written/directed horror anthology, smiling and giddily reacting to every fawning ounce of praise and declaration that Trick 'r Treat is "the best Halloween movie of all time." Better than John Carpenter's Halloween, they say, and a better anthology film than Creepshow. Add on the fact that pussyfooted Warner Bros. has held the film captive for about two years now, unsure how to release and market the thing when they should've just released it in one of the last two Octobers and called it a day, and everything surrounding this film had me mega-amped to see the thing.
Notice the release date on the poster: October 2007.....yeah, not quite.
On the long-awaited day (October 13, 2008), I exited the office early. Hopped on the 1 train. Arrived in the theater's neighborhood with an hour to spare before showtime. Nobody waiting outside the theater in tightly-packed procession yet. Should I be the first, front and center? Snag the best seat in the house? Would've been brilliant. I was starving, though, so the sight of a Subway prompted me to feed the beast. I figured, "There won't be that many people at this screening, so I can get there 20 minutes beforehand, no problem." There was a long line at Subway, of course, so by the time I ordered and consumed my 'grilled chicken breast on whole wheat bread, with chipotle dressing" dinner, it was 25 minutes until the movie started. Fuck, I thought, I better hustle. I turned the corner, and my mouth dropped-----there was a line down the block about 60-people deep to see the shit, and they had already started letting people into the venue. My balls were kicked. Hopes, dashed. There wasn't a chance in Hades that I was getting in ("first come, first seated"). My one chance to see Trick R Treat with a crowded audience, the way it's meant to be experienced, was botched. All because I was hungry and couldn't resist the allure of a $5 footlong. Fuck you, Jared.
At first, I was ready to bring the fury down on the douchebags at Fangoria who confirmed RSVPs for upwards of 100 people when the theater only seated about 60. But then I only blamed myself. I've never looked at a bread guest-starring-meat sandwich" Subway sandwich the same again.
Until now, when I, or any other horror/film fan in the know, would ever get to see Trick 'r Treat was uncertain. Warner Bros. press releases repeatedly flirted with the notion of a straight-to-DVD release, only to then renig and tease with a possible theatrical run. The latest news, though, feels somewhat locked-in, and that's the semi-announcement this week that Warner Bros. will release Trick 'r Treat on DVD/Blu-Ray this October. A theatrical release to coincide with? Doubtful, but you never know.
Here's the new trailer:
October can't come soon enough. And please believe, I'll be checking Fangoria's website on a daily basis to see if another free screening is scheduled. Second time's a charm.
Considering my current state of being, I'm the last person who should criticize somebody for "taking a paycheck." Accepting a gig that does little for his/her artistic sensibilities but goes a long way financially. We all need to pay the bills, keep the lights on, pad the bank accounts, rob our country blind. I get it. But for the objective onlooker, seeing people you respect do this never fails to sting. Disappointment is inevitable, not always branded with the unfair "sell-out" tag yet still looked down upon as a lapdog of sorts.
In the film world, this happens on a weekly basis. Actors and actresses you love pop up in shitty films, or obvious money-makers that you'd rather be subjected to a Lucio Fulci/Zombi drawn-out eye-gauging than ever voluntarily watch. Case in point: Leslie Mann co-starring in this weekend's 17 Again.
I haven't seen the film, nor do I ever plan on doing so. Yes, I'm aware that it currently stands at an unexpectedly respectable 65% on Rotten Tomatoes, but whatever. And I'm not blatantly hating on your boy Zac Efron here, either. Do I like the guy as a talent? Nope, but my total indifference to this pretty-boy-with-good-dance-moves-who-I-can't-sign-on-to-a-pop-culture-blog-and-not-see isn't the focal point of my 17 Again negativity. Rather, it's the tired, contrived Big/Vice Versa "age reversal" plotline. It's cheap, unoriginal, and, really, never that funny.
I'm sure that Leslie Mann will have some funny, or at least charming, moments in 17 Again, though. How can she not? The woman is naturally hilarious, one of Hollywood's funniest and most overlooked ladies. The rare case of nepotism that doesn't feel worthy of his/her success (she's married to comedy giant Judd Apatow). Just go watch Knocked Up again for proof, or even rewind back to Adam Sandler's Big Daddy, where her few scenes as the former Hooters girl all scored. She's someone who deserves a few leading roles in well-made films; granted, she seems to have one coming this summer with Apatow's Funny People, but that's simply another one with her husband. It's time that she stretches herself successfully into non-Apatow territory. 17 Again is a terrible place to start, despite the film's surefire prognosis. People will see her, laugh with her, root for her. But she deserves better.
Of course, I could be left with a pie in the face if 17 Again turns out to be universally loved. This is a kneejerk reaction, though, so if that does happen I'll totally admit defeat.
This all got me wondering, "What other talents that I love have appeared in films I had zero interest in ever seeing?" And from that inner thought comes this list of the examples that stand out most in my head. Worth noting: I've seen all of these films, which makes the bitterness all the more potent.
Chiwetel Ejiofor in Slow Burn (2005): Back in '05, the London-bred Ejiofor was on a nice track to stateside notoriety. His turns in the critically-hailed English films Dirty Pretty Things (2002) and Love Actually (2003) put him on the radar, leading to his hardly-recognizable villain work in John Singleton's well-received Four Brothers. But then came Slow Burn, a poorly-executed attempt to modernize the old "sleazy, sexy crime thriller" genre with a slumming-it Ray Liotta and LL Cool J trying out In Too Deep material again. Nothing in the film worked, and Ejiofor's "Ty Trippin" character suffered from more than just a terribly stereotypical name. As evidenced by his great work in 2006's Children of Men and 2007's American Gangster (not to mention his strong lead work in last year's slept-on Redbelt), Ejiofor has bounced back nicely. But his one major fuck-up still burns slowly in my brain.
Paul Rudd in Over Her Dead Body (2008): This one has tons in common with Leslie Mann's 17 Again. Rudd, like Mann, is an Apatow regular who always brings the goods, clocking in scene-stealers in everything from Anchorman to The 40-Year-Old Virgin. Even going back to the guy's rookie days with Clueless, Rudd has always been that co-star you can't get enough of and hope can one day become the leading man. Unfortunately, his agent agreed at the wrong time and sent him the script for Over Her Dead Body, an abysmal high-concept romantic comedy that actually co-stars American Pie's Jason Biggs, who has become a skidmark for every bad rom-com he's starred in over the last decade. In an effort to make Eva Longoria a movie-star, this piece-of-dung existed, and Rudd was its most painful-to-watch casualty. Like Ejiofor, thankfully, the man has recovered, proving he is in fact capable of picking strong lead role material with Role Models and I Love You, Man. If I were him, though, I'd find every existing print of Over Her Dead Body and stage a bonfire. Some things are best left forgotten.
Elisabeth Banks in Meet Dave (2008)/ Rosario Dawson in The Adventures of Pluto Nash (2002): Signing on to a modern-day Eddie Murphy comedy has become the ultimate "taking a paycheck" job for some of Hollywood's most gifted comedic actresses. Later this year, the divine Kerry Washington will be the guy's latest victim, thanks to his next Brian Robbins-directed turd A Thousand Words. Until then, the worst example of Murphy's magnetic suck is a tie between Elisabeth Banks and Rosario Dawson, two ladies of equal awesomeness who couldn't avoid the pull. Dawson has the misfortune of being associated with Murphy's first genuine shitshow Pluto Nash, a science fiction debacle so atrocious that the mere mention of it inspires both guffaws and gagging. Six years later, Banks' Meet Dave bombed at the box office, a sacrificial lamb meant to remind us just how far Murphy's comedy has fallen. The sad part was that Meet Dave came at a high point in Banks' career, the same year as two of his biggest roles to date (Laura Bush in W. and the second title name of Zack and Miri Make a Porno). One can only hope that Murphy seeks out Katherine Heigl for his next project and leaves the likeable women alone.
I've been thinking about the end of Observe and Report for the last few days, bouncing back and forward with my opinion. Ultimately, I've decided that I actually don't like the final resolution, though I won't spoil it here for those who haven't seen the film, since it's opening today and it's hardly 3pm.
When people do see it, though, assuming some will, I'd love to pick the last couple of minutes apart. The problem I'm having is that the entire tone of the film (despicable guy rapidly descending into self-destruction and public endangerment) is kicked to the curb for a last-second reversal of fortune that doesn't feel right. Feels cheap, out of place, pandering to the same conventions that the rest of the film so knowingly spits at. There's a scene that involved a fat flasher/pervert approaching a major female character in slow motion before being gunned down at point blank range, and that's where the film should've ended and credits should've rolled. Or, if an additional moment or two was necessary, writer-director Jody Hill would've been better served to make this scene's aftermath one of imprisonment, not fulfillment. It's a shame, since the slo-mo flasher sequence is damn great, and its climax is sudden and bloody good.
If anybody out there sees Observe and Report this weekend, please hit me so we can engage in a wee bit of debate. I'm still a big fan of the film, though. And I must warn the masses----this isn't a LOL comedy. In fact, I didn't let out a hearty laugh once, but I was engaged throughout and totally down for the cause. It's something different, and hopefully an important change-of-course for studio comedies.
All that being said, I must close this with a confession: I really want my own "Nell."
Cute as hell, sweet and personable. Pure. A smile that could melt a homicidal fool's heart. She's total "wife material." Well played, Collette Wolfe.
Now this is just sad. Upsetting. A cop-out when it could've/should've been a first round knockout. I hate to take the typical "hater" route here, but this is coming from a true Eminem fan, one who wants only for the guy's new music to be great, for both my sanity's and rap-love's sakes. And this is bad, no way around it.
Eminem's new video, "We Made You." It's here, and it's expectedly the same brand of goofy, bouncy, disposable first single he puts out before each of his albums. Part of me had this feeling that Eminem had realized that he could drop a first record produced by DJ Premier and with Jazmine Sullivan on the hook and the shit would still be a smash. He doesn't need lame shit like this anymore....or, does he? This "We Made You" does its job at reassuring fans that Em can still have fun at other celebrities expenses. But, see, the times have changed.....fuck it, watch the video first:
He must've recorded this song at the end of 2008, right? And it was just held by Interscope for time purposes, no? Samantha Ronson and Lindsay Lohan? Sarah Palin? Amy Winehouse? Jessics Alba and Cash Warren? That's just lazy, and obvious, and late. This shit makes "Just Lose It" sound like "Criminal." The main problem here is that celebrity gossip is more accessible and overexposed than ever, between your Perez Hiltons, DListeds, and TMZs; we don't need Eminem to skewer these assholes anymore. Been there, heard that. You can read jokes and slams against celebs on a minute-by-minute basis by simply double-clicking Internet Explorer---what more can Eminem say that we haven't laughed at already when it was presented with much more wit? Any fool with a Blogspot account and tons of free time can be a "first-single-minded Eminem."
Digs at Moby and Christina Aguilera were understandable; they had slighted Em in the press, basically asking for retaliation. Not one person namedropped on "We Made You" has done so; attacking them is unnecessary, kind of desperate. If there was any wit in these verses, however, I wouldn't be as agitated. Lines talking about wanting Jessica Alba's breasts on his mouth are thoughtless. I didn't wait five years for that.
Yeah, he can still ride a beat like none other, even when rapping in this annoying high-pitched British accent. But that's not good enough. This Dr. Dre beat is trash, honestly, and the references to people like Jennifer Aniston and visual jokes about a fat Jessica Simpson are as uninspired as it gets. "Rock Band is the most popular game out, right? Cool, let's have Em rapping on a Rock Band backdrop! Oh, isn't there a new Star Trek movie coming out? Perfect! Em as Spock!" The only somewhat clever idea is giving Eminem the Elvis Presley treatment, but even that comparison is old news.
Please don't tell me that Relapse is going to suck? "Crack A Bottle" still hasn't totally won me over, and now this song hits and misses. I still think that Em has tons of tricks up his sleeve that he's saving for the album, but he's 0-for-2 so far.
If there's a greater joy out there than engulfing your senses in a purely shit film that you hate to love, I can only hope that somebody points me in its direction. That one "feast of banality" can devolve a film lover into a totally blazed pothead minus any actual chronic. A fool suffering from uncontrollable laughter without the presence of a crackerjack stand-up comedian. The guilt never disappears, now, but it's a shame that you permit to wash over you like pig's blood on young Carrie White.
Appreciation for truly awful films seems to be the new black nowadays, and that's just wonderful. Last week, a notoriously terrible movie called The Room (2003) opened in downtown Manhattan for a limited run, thanks to popular demand. I wish I could've caught it; a few months back, there was this great story in Entertainment Weekly discussing The Room's rabid celebrity cult following, stars such as Paul Rudd and Kristen Bell quoting it regularly and namedropping it in interviews. And then there was Best Worst Movie, which premiered out at South X Southwest two weeks ago, which points its light all over 1990's Troll 2, another abysmal piece of wannabe-cinema that even its own cast and crew acknowledge as awesomely-bad.
Bad is all good these days. So with that notion in mind, I've decided to shed some sun on a virtually-unknown little miggle called The Video Dead (1987). The first time that The Video Dead turned me into its tongue-in-cheek slave was back in my late grammar school days. I caught it late one night on the USA Network, when Rhonda Sheer (that lovable party woman with the huge upperbody-knocks) was the host of "Up All Night." If it weren't for the title's "Dead" inclusion, I never would've givent this shit the time of day, but I'm a sucker for zombie films. Can't turn them off, must see them all.
I'd consider myself (even back in those immature years) somewhat of a "zombie film expert," so the fact that I'd had no clue that something called The Video Dead even existed was my first red flag, but, alas, I jumped aboard. From the opening scene, I was under its every command, every beckon. The flick opens up with this random old television set arriving at a humorless writer's house, and of course the dumbass signs for it. And then, in a great bit of character development, he talks to himself, declaring, "I don't even watch TV!" Screenplay written by I HateSubtlety Jones. The box only plays one program (the fictional Zombie Blood Nightmare), and within minutes the film-within-this-shitty-film's walking corpses come through the TV thanks to some special effects that look as if Gore Verbinski could've used the scene as a reference point of exactly what not to do when he shot that awesome ending for his The Ring remake.
Three months later, two annoying, cardboard, very-'80s-looking teenage siblings move into the house, prepping it before their parents arrive. The boy is introduced with a such a lame sight gag that I'm only reminded at how brilliant Shaun of the Dead is for executing a similar touch flawlessly----we see a pair of worndown sneakers shuffling aimlessly through the woods, so we're "supposed" to think that its a zombie, when, TaaDaa!, its our protagonist, Jeff (played by a corpse of an actor, Rocky Duvall, in his worst Corey Haim impersonation).
Let's make a deal: If you can watch this clip in its entirety, I'll buy you a drink, whoever you are, whenever you desire.....sound good? I'm confident that you'll tap out right after Jeff is revealed.
Jeff is hands down one of the least compelling film leads of all time----lifeless, unsympathetic. His sister, Zoe, is slightly more likeable, but not by much. Which makes their impending zombie-triggered conflict all the less interesting. A threat that, I must note, only includes five zombies. Maybe six, I could've missed one. But no more than six, total. My guess, they couldn't afford any more makeup or prosthetics, nor the $100 a day it must've taken to pay for a couple more zombie-actors.
But then, writer/director Robert Scott does something transcendent......he manages to make The Video Dead so inept, so lacking in brain cells, that the film becomes an overachiever without even trying. For somebody who can't appreciate a crap-film, The Video Dead could very well be the slowest, least-magnetic movies ever. Nothing ever happens, except for sluggish exchanges between the siblings, cold-as-ice flirtations between Jeff and the even-more-vapid blonde next door, and an appearance from the most unqualified bounty hunter/hero character Robert Scott could have ever (under)developed. I've seen The Video Dead about five times now, and during each time I've repeatedly questioned myself, "How the hell am I sitting throught this? I can literally feel my intelligence bein insulted, as if that educated side of my brain is either Bart Simpson or Millhouse and this movie is Nelson."
Really, explaining any more of the plot is pointless, since, like I said above, nothing effective ever fucking happens. The following scene is all that needs to be seen for proof: After puffing some of that green stuff, Jeff notices that the robotic buxom blonde on his TV, who is trying to evade "The Garbage Man" killer (who looks like a sloppy, larger Mickey Rooney) in some movie, starts talking to him, seducing him with her non-existent sexual charm. This chick then enters his bedroom and puts the moves on Jeff, who responds like a 12-year-old discovering his first Playboy. Then, she's killed by Sir Garbage, who provides some useless survival tips, needlessly holds the final "R" on "Mirrorrrrr!" and he's never mentioned in the film again. Enjoy this spectacle of divinity:
In a rapturous world, The Video Dead would receive its just due, just as The Room and Troll 2 have recently. I totally understand why it never will---at least those two films aren't paced with the quickness of a turtle addicted to downers. You can have some effortless kicks watching those, thanks to rapid-fire randomness; The Video Dead, on the flipside, moves along at an unbearable clip. You either have to adore zombie joints or cheesy horror, or suffer from insomnia and require a foolproof means of insta-sleep.
I fall into both categories. Thus making The Video Dead a slice of heaven atop my shoulders.
Honestly, I thought it wouldn't ever hit the movie world, but I guess I was just living in my often-all-too-comfy dreamworld. I've long subscribed to the theory that seeing a film, whether it be a dollar-sign-packed blockbuster or a frugal independent exercise, on the big screen in a packed movie theater is the best way to experience cinema. That's why I'm known to see flicks that I love multiple times in theaters, regardless of the money spent. And every time I try to sit down at home and watch a DVD with family or friends, I'm constantly in a state of unease, knowing that the slightest cell phone ring or growling stomach will beckon my co-watchers away instantly. Short attention spans, be damned. In a theater, though, it's just you, darkness, and that massive projector.
Obviously, I'm in the minority of thought. Earlier today, some crafty scoundrel leaked a clear-quality, DVD-pictured copy of X-Men Origins: Wolverine onto the Internet. The problem: the film doesn't hit theaters until May 1, and it's this summer's first major tentpole entry. This is unheard of, quite possibly the most significant example of cinematic piracy ever. Or at least in recent memory. This is the exact early-exposure leakage catastrophe that has sent the music industry (namely on the hip-hop side) into its current downward spiral. But up until now, Hollywood has been practically immune. True, movies manage to appear online not long after their theatrical release dates, but never an entire month prior.
Several theories are floating around. There's little doubt that somebody got their hands on a screener copy that was being circulated amongst studio heads and other must-see-people, post post-production, but as for exactly "who," some ideas are out there. One speculates that the person who uploaded the film did so as a "fuck you" to Wolverine's distributor, Fox; Fox is the company that nearly sabotaged the release of Watchmen for Warner Bros. when they took Warners to court over a decade's old rights issue. A second notion, this one hugely paranoid, thinks that the film was deliberately leaked by Fox themselves, as some sort of defense mechanism against a film (Wolverine) that they fear will be tank financially and be met with scathing, negative response. By leaking it themselves, they can gauge people's responses early, and turn this fiasco into a "woe is me" scenario is the movie flops. There's a heavy fear within the movie realm that the film is going to blow, but this theory seems to be a bit too conspiracy-ish for my tastes.
Me? I'm guessing that it was some overzealous asshole who was involved in the screener-disc handling process, with an axe of some kind to grind. Whatever the case, I have zero intentions of finding the online copy and watching. X-Men Origins: Wolverine isn't high on my must-list in the first place, so my curiousity factor isn't as high as most. But regardless, even if I were to see the film, I'd want to check it out on the large screen, not the tiny, grainy laptop one I'm looking at now as I type. I'd want some overpriced popcorn and a Slushee within my grasp, not a watered-down Bud Light that's been sitting in my fridge for weeks already. Especially considering that this is a special effects orgy of a film----imagine watching Cloverfield for the first time on your laptop. Or, hell, T2: Judgment Day. Or Transformers. This same stance applies to why I never buy or watch bootlegged DVDs that heads buy in subway stations. I want to see a film in its best possible sense. What do I know, though? I'm the same obsessed movie-lover who watches two DVDs a night just on carnal instinct alone.
His middle finger must be the only one sticking upward today.
Will this X-Men Origins: Wolverine leak signal more of its kind, resulting in a domino slide for future films and ultimately a similar meltdown like that of the music industry? My better sense says "Nope." I'm confident that the majority of folks are smart enough to realize the difference between downloading a movie and dloading music----regardless of whether you bought a CD or pirated mp3s, you're just going to listen to them on the same machinery; but with movies, there's always the option of seeing a film larger than life in a theater. It's a matter of whether you feel the necessity to drop $12 on the richer experience. I know I am, now and forever.
Of course, if it were, say, Sam Raimi's Drag Me To Hell that leaked, or, imagine this, Scorcese's Shutter Island, would I be reacting with the same won't-watch defiance? Shit, no. I'm man enough to admit it. But I'd still pay to see those movies in a theater on opening night. That's the difference between film and music for me these days. I haven't bought a CD in over two years, yet I've downloaded every damn album out there during that time. Yet I'd act in totally different, money-dropping fan fashion if Inglourious Basterds sprung a regrettably premature leak. No monetary questions asked.
Could there be a better job in the world than naming Skinemax spoofs? I highly doubt so. It takes a higher plain of genius to come up with gold medals such as The Bare Wench Project, or Spiderbabe. And don't even get me started on the masters who construct the accompanying screenplays. You can just color me red with envy and go on your merry way.
The latest genre knockoff courtesy of Cinemax's late night programming lords is Cleavagefield, a film so cleverly titled that I'm mad I didn't think of it before. I'm assuming, like the great Cloverfield, it's shot cinema verite style and stars pretty young people with mediocre to above-average acting skills but unafraid of excessive nudity and unnecessary sex. It premieres after hours the evening of April 1, on Cinemax.
Now, I hardly expected the monster itself to even hold the enormous jock strap of my dude Clover (I like to call the creature that), but this Cleavagefield image is a huge disappointment. Seriously....your movie is called Cleavagefield, people! How in the hell does this monster not have ginormous breasts?! Admit it, you were expecting the same thing. How could you not?
Wait for it.......
.........
.........
Is that the bastard child after-product of sex between a duck and a turtle? My three-year-old niece plays with animal toys that look better than this ish. Like it really matters, though, of course. Still, we're talking total "missed opportunity" here.
I won't even be able to enjoy the film now, thanks to this half-assed creature. Lies and fairy tales.
Whether you worship at the altar of the filmmaker's respective filmography or not, genre cinema's icons coast by on wheels of admiration, and rightfully so. Where would horror be without the early work of fellas such as John Carpenter, Dario Argento, George Romero, Joe Dante, and so on, so forth?
I wonder, though, if casting a veteran director in such a light doesn't cause people to overlook the possibility of his/her inferior skills. Case in point: Wes Craven. Earlier this week, in preparation for Dennis Iliadis' vastly-effective, better-than-your-favorite-mainstream-critic-not-named-Roger-Ebert-is-declaring The Last House on the Left remake, I rewatched Craven's 1972 original. The plan was to compare and contrast the two after I'd seen this new one, but as I sat on the train home from the early screening, all I could do was beat Craven's predecessor down peg after peg. What I officially realized while giving the DVD another go was just how shitty of a film that '72 entry is, and that even the more visceral sequences have lost chunks of their force. Sitting through them back in the early '70s must've been one hell of a right hook to the senses, and a few scattered spots throughout the desecration-in-the-woods setpiece still pack a significant punch. But too much surrounding those punches is trite, meandering, and foolish. First off, Craven's decision at the time to cut back-and-forth from the rape images to two dumbass hick cops totally undermines the power of the girls' plight, a truth that's been hailed ad naus by all film critics and lovers. It's all the more obvious while watching Iliadis handle the sequence, though, showing just how damaging the viewing experience can be when you're at the mercy of an uncompromising, widely-talented visual filmmaker. Something that Craven was not.
Disclaimer: No, I do not enjoy watching rape. Chill. What truly makes the rape sequence in this new Last House soar through the roof, for me, though, is the way Iliadias and screenwriters Adam Alleca and Carl Ellsworth preface it. From the moment the four on-the-lam deviants encounter the two innocent gals in their hotel room, the tone of what transpires improves greatly over that of Craven's film. In Craven's the four criminals are insulting, coarse assholes with zero redeeming qualities, at times coming off a bit cartoonish. So when they toss the girls into the trunk of their car, there's zero mystery about what's going to happen. When the rape scenes comes, same with the murders, it's more of a climax than a revelation. In this remake, however, the only reason why this section also resulted in a climax is that I know the source material in and out; If I were a casual moviegoer, though, with no knowledge of the original, I would've been unsure as to the villains' intentions. There's a great scene in their SUV as they're driving the kidnapped, scared girls to God-knows-where that's as much a showcase for Iliadis' directorial chops as it is a testament to the remake's superiority. You can't tell what's going to happen, if the villains are going to kill the girls, or just one of them. Krug, the crew's ice-cold leader, shows a morsel of respect toward Mary, the stronger of their prey, and you think, "Maybe he'll let her go." But then Mary acts a bit too impulsively, fucks up any hope of salvation, and the villains have a diesel motive to move ahead with rape/murder.
The Last House on the Left 2009 has a slew of narrative changes such as that, and they're all for the better, which isn't to say that tweaks in the script are my justifications for proclaiming Wes Craven to be a hack director. There just wasn't even one facet of this remake that felt lesser than its original. And I recalled myself thinking the exact same thing about Alaexandre Aja's awesome Hills Have Eyes remake. So many flaws and missed-the-mark moments are abound in Craven's 1977 Last House follow-up that Aja, like Iliadis, was given ample room for improvement.
The point surfaces: the only early Craven film that is near flawless is A Nightmare on Elm Street, but otherwise there's not a "undeniably great" film in his lot. Each is spotty, uneven. Worth merit more for its after-effects than for its actual quality. Scream, of course, is great, but I consider that a rebirth for the guy, thus rendering it "out of contention" here.
On second thought, didn't he have a hand in writing that recent Hills Have Eyes 2, or as I like to refer to it, Worst Horror Sequel of the Last Ten Years? Pretty positive he did. "Rebirth, schrebirth," I guess, unfortunately.
Lest we forget that Craven directed a little piece of shit called Deadly Friend, too, a mess only saved by the quintessential death-by-basketball scene in film history. Or that he was responsible for Eddie Murphy's Vampire in Brooklyn, a laugher-for-the-wrong-reasons that explains itself in title alone. Blacula it was not.
And back to Aja's Hills Have Eyes real quick.....look no further than the trailer-attack. One of the most intense, stomach-twisting, perfectly-paced and scored sequences in recent memory, all to the credit of Aja. I not-too-long ago watched both that scene and its companion piece from Craven's '85 flick back to back (because that's the kind of thing I like to do on my spare time, yes), and it was quite staggering just how immensely more insane and devastating Aja's is, in the context of modern filmmaking advances or not. Neither scene is particularly showy in terms of effects, so the time-frame argument feels meaningless. Aja now is just a way better filmmaker than Craven then. That simple.
Listen....I respect Craven immensely, and I'm wholly aware of how much his contributions mean to my beloved genre. I'm just the type who tries to call a spade "a spade" as often as possible. Until some well-informed film head can break down the technical prowess of Wes Craven "the director," I'm sticking to my rifles. Ironically, the person most responsible for my realization is Wes Craven himself---he produced both the Last House and Hills Have Eyes remakes, and hand-picked eye-opening foreign filmmakers to commandeer the ships. So for that, I can admire the man even more. Who knows, maybe he'd agree with me that his early career wasn't the best of skill-flashing. He's repeatedly admitted that he had no clue what the hell he was doing while making his Last House on the Left. Just sucks that it shows more than ever now.
Craven's best at what, then? As a producer, clearly. He has an impeccable eye for talent, as seen in his picks of Aja and Iliadis. The versions of his stories that he's behind-the-scenes instead of the camera for thrive much more on character and delicate pacing. The guy knows what makes for good horror, and knows how to pull it out of others. Shame that he can't do the same for himself.
I'd be lying to myself if I didn't give early Craven kudos for this, though.....from 1985's foul-tasting Hills Have Eyes 2, comes..... a dog flashback!!!:
In Best Buy the other day, I nearly dropped coin on this, the first season of Tales from the Darkside:
As I walked toward the register, some cold, hard facts began trickling into the thought box. Wait, dumbass....Tales from the Darkside's episodes are terrible overall. Why waste cash? Sure, I love television genre anthologies more than anything, but why I own every other one, so why fuck with this crap?" Common sense got the best of me, fortunately, and I set it back on the shelf, where it seemed like every single copy was available (not exactly a hot seller, I suppose).
Even the fact that the great George Romero's name was listed as a producer on the series couldn't save it from the pits. Can't say I've seen every episode, but I have watched a great deal, enough to make an educated assessment that the show was wildly uneven. For every semi-creepy horror entry there'd be a painfully-unfunny horror-comedy tale; for every bootleg special effect there'd be piss-poor acting by C-listers and other faces you'd recognize from random movies ("Hey, isn't that the Italian dude from Fast Times from Ridgemont High?).
What pains me the most about my distaste for Tales is that its "father" is Creepshow, a flick that I adore in vast ways. Imagine that, directly resulting from The Dark Knight's mondo success, a new CW channel series starring Frankie Muniz as Batman premieres and gathers enough viewers to sustain a five-year run, gradually and mercilessly beating down your affinity for the flick that started it all. That's how the truly-shitty episodes of Tales from the Darkside treat my Jordy Verrill-loving heart.
Thanks to the Chiller network, I've been able to catch up on Tales from the Darkside, which originally aired from 1983 to 1988, more than I should ever want to, and over time I've grown to appreciate the show's camp value, at least. It's never less than pretty-entertaining, even when an episode's quality leaves you wishing you were watching The New York Ripper instead. If I had to single out one problem area that pisses me off most about Tales from the Darkside than any other, it's be the elegraphed plot twists that jump the shark within the first five minutes of every fucking episode. I'd say I've watched about 40-or-so episodes thus far, and I'm not joshing when I say that I've called 40-or-so impending twists. No one man should possess such Nostradamus-esque foresight. A clear sign that the writers behind the show were either full-fledged hacks or just lazy as sin.
The only redeeming quality that deserves recognition and praise: the show's opening title sequence. A rather disorienting, haunting, sticks-in-your-head score layered with Paul Sparer's voiceover that places second after Rod Serling in the pantheon of genre anthology preambles:
If not for ever-so-generous Youtube, I might have submitted to temptation and purchased the Tales DVD just so I could rewind and re-watch that opening sequence at will. Unnecessary now, thankfully. Youtube is even gracious enough to offer some of the show's best moments for ogling consumption, such as this, from "Inside the Closet," a terribly-dated yet still cool monster-in-my-room entry directed by the giant-in-my-mind Tom Savini:
If that scared you, then you'd love Tales from the Darkside. You'd also be a pussy, but that's neither here nor there.
Wanna know the sad part? If somebody were kind enough to give me this Season One set as a gift, I'd be happier than a cat in litter. Just because something is crap doesn't make unworthy of my DVD collection. I see you, Resident Evil: Apocalypse.
Lot29 recently dropped this hoodie, for losers and uber-nerds to wear with "pride."
Seriously, if I ever see anybody I know wearing this in public, expect me to go that way. Apparently this thing is sold out online everywhere you look....there better not be any of you to blame.
Sure, I bought one of those old Scooby Doo shirts made by Iceberg off of Ebay back in college, for like $40, but did I ever actually wear it out? Hell no, Gina. Waste of money, of course. But sometimes, you gotta Doo what it Doo. In this Dark Knight case, however, I advise against such closet enhancement. Imagine if a pretty-young-or-old-thing comes over, slinks into your bedroom, and before getting it in she opens your closet doors to get a better peek at your style, and sees that mess. She'd scram with haste, and you'd be left alone with Palmela and Handgela. Sad, sad.
Is the general public even aware that the cable channel G4 even exists? It falls on channel ## 175 in my cable option, as it has for a good three years or so. For lovers of video game culture, sci-fi movies, the old show COPS, and basic nerd nirvana fodder, G4 is basically a Playboy Channel that their parents will actually let them watch. The only reason why I ever learned of its existence, though, has nothing to do with the fact that I am, at heart, an appreciator of such culture.
For me, it was all about the first time I laid eyes on Olivia Munn, courtesy of that homerun cover shoot she did with Complex mag a couple years back. Munn, a co-host on G4's comical, enjoyable nerd news program Attack of the Show, blindsided my eyes instantly; I wondered, "Who is this chick, and where has she been all my life?" Working for G4 for two of my life's years, at least. The thing that I, and all others who pledge allegiance to comic books and not-so-sexy culture, love about her is that she's a Maxim cover-worthy looker who just happens to be one of "us," a trait that she wears like a favorite shirt. Dressing up as Princess Leia, Wonder Woman, or whatever other fantasy lady character comes to mind. Spitting off deep knowledge of the Marvel and DC universes. You get the drift.
Well, since they must have nothing else to complain about for the time being, some overly-sensitive, need-to-worry-about-more-important-things-like-child-molesting-priests Christian blowhards have targeted Munn as some sort of misleading prostitute. Total, utter bullshit, of course. Here's the defense from Christwire.org:
"This female acts like she is into gaming, cartoons and nerds. What she is doing is, using this wool to lure young men into watching her and then she starts using her devil powers to expose them to breasts, uncovers legs, mouth sex acts, sexual suggestions and other unholy things. Even her website is full of scum and sin. She posts photos of her half naked and posts videos partaking in simulated sexual acts. On her 'blog' she tries to act like she is an every women, who loves regular men. We all know she is using this on youth to gain ratings and to drive traffic to her website, when in reality she is doing drugs with her high dollar pimps."
Really, going after Olivia Munn of all people? No wonder I haven't gone to church in like five years and Bill Maher's Religulous preached to my choir like spot-on lecturing. "Full of scum and sin," they say. "Her devil powers," they call her natural hotness. Seems that the dangerous minds over at Christwire have never seen a magazine rack, or turned on a TV. As if Olivia Munn is doing anything that 95% of the rest of pop culture isn't.
Why not allow reclusive, antisocial kids bask in her looks and dream about reading TKTK with her while lying in their bed with those Batman bedsheets? No girl who looks like Munn will ever do such a thing with them in real life. And isn't part of being a kid the ability to have an imagination? I know that when I was a teenager, my weekly "hangout" sessions with Sarah Michelle Gellar (Buffy the Vampire Slayer) and "Faith" (Eliza Dushku) were great ways for me to cope with the sad then-facts that the "hot girls" in school didn't give me the time of day. When you're as into shit that others could deem as "weird" or "geek," your thoughts can easily veer toward "I'm a loser," or "Nobody will ever find this attractive." So having an Olivia Munn around to give these kids the "You're cool just the way you are" cosign seems much more productive than destructive.
Don't expect to hear about me attending church any time soon, as long as nonsense like this keeps surfacing. I here at Barone's World celebrate Miss Olivia Munn. So much so that I'm about to post some of my favorite Munn pics, so that I can sit here and dream about meeting her at the AMC Times Square theater next Friday night, where we'd hold hands while taking in Watchmen on IMAX before shifting over to Red Lobster for some cheesy biscuits, then grabbing a few cocktails at whatever bar is nearest. Because she totally seems like she'd be all about such an evening.
Just to lighten things up a bit, since it feels like I wrote this from a stance of "anger" more than my true "agitated yet mostly just amused by the stupidity" vibe, let's cap this off with.....
If these are shots of her "doing drugs with high-dollar pimps," she can be my dealer any time, any day, any way.
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.
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):
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.
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.
