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So I won't be able to write the final "mainstream series" review. Yes, it was Jason Goes to Hell: The Final Friday and yes, I'll try to cover it next year. Sorry, guys. I tried. Between the move and a recent bout of depression, I wasn't able to pull it out. This is officially the LAST post for...a month maybe? Trust me; when Random Reviews returns, the entire webby-web will be put on alert. Hopefully, I'll be in a healthier headspace by then.
Again, I'm as sorry as can be, but life goes on. Later, fucks!
The reason why the site has been sporadic lately is because we're packing shit. I'm moving this weekend, and when I do, RR Inc. will go on hiatus. Things will return to normalcy once we have settled in. I'm guessing before Thanksgiving, but it could be longer/shorter. I've been needing a break anyway. But have no fear! I have two more items to post before my self-imposed hibernation (and yes, one of them is an edition of The Shitty Webcam Show that was supposed to go live today...it's a doozy, trust me). Stay tuned.
Hindsight can make anyone a judicious oracle of sapience (a what of what?). In hindsight, we know that giving The Ultimate Warrior the brass ring wasn't a sound decision. It didn't yield favorable results long-term, but when you watch an early Warrior bout, you can't blame Vinnie Mac for pushing the fucker to Saturn. How was he to know that Jim Hellwig was a flake in waiting? Look at the reaction he gets in today's match that time forgot, a six-man tag from 1988. Relatively speaking, Warrior was a wishful apprentice. He was as green as a turtle's undercarriage, but the crowd fucking loved him.
Watch as he teams up with The British Bulldogs to accost Mr. Fuji and Demolition. The crazy son of a bitch doesn't even need the other five participants to entertain the attendees. I'm not convinced that he realizes it's a tag team match. That's our Warrior! He botches a gorilla press slam towards the end, but who cares? The shrill, deafening fans clearly don't, and that's what matters.
I first saw John Carpenter's Halloween when I was a prepubescent waif. Throughout my teenaged years, I maintained that it was overrated. As I plowed into my 20's, my deportment softened a bit. I mellowed out. To tell you the truth, I like to think that I was beginning to mature as a horror buff (tee-fucking-hee). I still didn't see the film as a singular masterclass in nail-shitting suspense, but I was able to enjoy it. Fast-forward to last night. My father and I attended a screening of Halloween at my local multiplex (heh, I make it sound so exclusive). I will avow that the piercing audio and the sight of a 9-foot Donald Pleasence made me appreciate The Shape's exploits on a more discerning level.
But only slightly. Is it an effective slasher? Without question. The best of all time? That's a negative. I am left with many of the same reservations that I held as a teenager. Halloween didn't actually pioneer anything; it was merely the first successful stabshow to trot out a masked killer and yecchy POV shots. A part of me resents it for dwarfing the fortunes bestowed upon Black Christmas (and to a lesser extent, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre). That may never change, but I can't rightfully blame Halloween itself for being an overachiever. It's a tight, crafty watch, and it's not responsible for the mistral of knock-offs that it spawned.
Maybe it's the seasonal weather, but for whatever reason, this picture's pros have become readily apparent to my erudite eyeballs (speaking of my peepers, they're just peeled grapes...don't tell the trick-or-treaters). Carpenter knows exactly how to bottle the Halloween (the holiday, that is) spirit and release it in front of a camera. He should reduce it to a rarefied broth. A petrifying potage. A vile vichyssoise. Okay, I'll stop. The atmosphere might be my favorite aspect of Halloween. My second favorite is definitely the iconic score, as it always manages to gift-wrap my brittle bones in goose flesh.
With the exception of a dazed Nancy Kyes (seriously, what did she smoke before each take, and where can I procure a bag?), the cast is on point. Obviously, Pleasence steals the screen, but how fucking adorable is P.J. Soles? Totally! I can't believe that I was lucky enough to meet her a couple of years ago. The pace drags in the paunch of the second act. C'mon, you have to admit that the death sequences are stretched out beyond comprehension, but hot damn, the finale is peerless. That's how you end a slasher, folks. Carpenter wrote the book on capping a climax. It's called Capping A Climax: I Wrote This Book.
Above all else, Halloween is fun. I can accept it as an authentic classic. I do feel that my rating is fair, though. I'm not blinded by nostalgia or franchise loyalty, nor am I oblivious to flaws that strike me as egregious on occasion. Also, I'm right.
Soon, I'll be reviewing a film that I was lucky enough to catch on the big screen. No hints! You'll have to wait in terrible suspense.
In retrospect, I'm surprised that Hellraiser: Bloodline is as cohesive as it is. The film's bedeviled production history is well-documented, but if you've been living 'neath a puzzle box for seventeen years, I'll give you the cardinal footnotes. Special effects czar Kevin Yagher signed on to direct Pinhead in Space. After countless scuffles with studio heads, he capitulated in disgruntled dissatisfaction and abandoned the project (his credit went to "Alan Smithee," Hollywood's go-to pseudonym for embittered filmmakers). Halloween 6 marksman Joe Chappelle interceded to wrap principal photography. I don't need to remind you that he was no stranger to Dimension's meddlesome infractions, so I'm sure he knew how to use his juke swerve to avoid certain landmines.
Three, maybe four cuts of Bloodline exist. There were rewrites up the rectum, and in terms of box office staying power, the sequel/prequel hybrid left a crater the size of a phytophagous chalcid wasp in its wake. I don't suppose it would help put things into perspective by mentioning that said wasps are microscopic little shits, would it? Well, they are. I don't even remember seeing TV spots for a fourth Hellraiser entry. As a matter of fact, I was under the impression that it was a direct-to-video release until we acquired our first dial-up modem in 1999. But none of this minutiae speaks to the quality of Bloodline itself. Considering the circumstances, I find it to be a visceral triumph over a vested bureaucracy.
Crude tampering be damned, this is a well-groomed horror picture. Is it too ambitious? Possibly. Is the acting patchy in spots? Affirmative. Are there bizarre plot specifics that are never addressed? Holy clit Jesus, yes. And yet, I was sated by an epic-as-fuck storyline that was easy to follow and introduced a multitude of vibrant, prismatic characters. You have to be willing to suspend disbelief to enjoy Bloodline. Deep thought is forbidden as soon as you press play. Yeah, the original Hellraiser is quite cerebral (the same goes for Hellbound), but we're in goddamn outer space here.
Clive Barker traditionalists did not take kindly to Pinhead's foray into futuristic science fiction. Most fans are quick to slander this flick to shreds, and I understand their ridicule. Our lead cenobite is less reserved and more...Krueger-y. Hellraiser: Bloodline is content to be a popcorn thriller. I'm cool with that, seeing as how I don't have any sentimental ties to the series or its source material. I approve of the rampant gore, I approve of the raw sexuality (Valentina Vargas can execrate my soul anytime) and I approve of the accelerated pacing. What can I say? I'm easy to please, especially when it comes to soda and beef jerky.
