The Three B's

On a total whim, I watched Blood, Boobs and Beast earlier today, a documentary about cult maestro Don Dohler.  'Twas enlightening.  I didn't expect it to tug at my heart strings, but it most assuredly did.  I was also flooded with tidbitoids recounting the productions of The Alien Factor (man-o-man, I heart this supreme b-movie), Nightbeast and Blood Massacre.  Highly recommended!

PS-I didn't have much access to my laptop yesterday, so the TON review is still forthcoming.


Magic Dragon of the Week

Currently listening to World Coming Down.  Review forthcoming.


Demon Warrior

NOTE: There is no note.

The Native American burial ground...it's a fixture that we're all familiar with as horror hounds.  It's a common appurtenance.  It's genre gingerbread.  It's terror tinsel.  Man, I need to watch myself; I'm only allowed so much alliteration per review, and I fear that I may have already burned through my annuity.  My gratuitous gratuity?  Knock it off, brain.  So!  Dead Indians.  There is a weird little clique of movies that makes use of evil redskins.  Eek, can I say that?  It feels racist, but if it were truly offensive, Robert Griffin III would be a Washington Polecat or a Washington Tree Apron.  Anyway, this caste of cinematic tomahawks (I'm uncomfortable) includes 1980's Ghost Dance, 1975's Johnny Firecloud, 1978's The Manitou and 1983's Scalps among others.  You could even toss in 1990's Grim Prairie Tales, if you were so inclined.  In terms of plot, 1988's Demon Warrior is most comparable to Scalps.

Incidentally, I haven't seen Scalps.  What's up with that?  In the context of this campfire story, a "demon warrior" is an ancient spirit deputized to pay a visit to an explicit strip of land every ten years.  It has to do with a curse placed on the property in response to the plundering ways of our main character's grandfather.  Goddamn white people.  The grandson decides to be typical and invites his buddies (both fuck and platonic) to go hunting on the hexed tract.  Would you believe that it's the tenth anniversary of his uncle's insoluble death?  You would?  Would you believe that I have a penis for sale?  It's the size of a pony truss bridge.  Er, I didn't tell that joke correctly.  Something about selling a bridge or exchanging gullible genitals for money.  A gangplank maybe?

Needless to say, the cracker youths (I'm still uncomfortable) are executed one by one.  The weapon of choice is a bow and arrow.  That's pretty nifty.  I can roll with it, but the kill sequences are disagreeably edentate.  With the exception of a near-obligatory scalping, there is a shortage of gore.  Nada.  Zot.  Nada and zot.  I'm cool with the titular villain, though.  Motherfucker is built, and that mask is begging to be stocked at Spirit Halloween.  I expected to drown in boredom at some point, but the pace was industrious enough to keep me cognizant.  If I'm being honest, the acting was passable, too.  Remember, this is a film called Demon Warrior.  Standards have been adjusted to fit your screen.

The ending is beyond goofy.  If you don't want it spoiled (wtf lmao), stop reading...now.  Ricky "The Dragon" Steamboat's doppelganger enters a trance state to dovetail and synchronize with an electrical storm.  Telepathically, he fries the devilish spirit slicker via controlled bursts of lightning.  And that's how Demon Warrior wraps itself up.  Hey, if you chance upon the tape at a flea circus (a flea market will work as a stand-in), swipe it.  It's as sharp as a haversack of wet leather, but when it comes to b-fuckery, I've weathered worse.  Robert Z'Dar says, "The bitch who plays the callgirl.  With the tits.  If I were her father, my soul would be burning right now."


Album Cover of the Week


Paul Fucking Heyman

I just watched Ladies and Gentlemen Long Title, a documentary DVD released by WWE.  Obviously, it traces the career of former ECW figurehead and current Brock Lesnar advocate Paul Heyman.  I am here to tell you that it's worth checking out.  For starters, it's goddamn inspiring.  You see how he got tangled up in the wrestling business despite not being a wrestler himself.  It's a candid breakdown of his personality, and it doesn't pull any punches.  Mr. Dangerously never tries to hide the fact that he's a flawed specimen.  If you're worried about overlapping anecdotes (maybe you know everything there is to know about ECW), don't.  I descried (sic) a wealth of mint, supplementary information.

Renee Young is featured as one of the interviews.  She looks tantalizing in a spring dress.


Spending the day in bed...

Hold all my calls.


Picnic at Hanging Rock

I watched this movie once.  Ideally, I would watch it again before reviewing it, but who has that luxury?  I do, actually; it's just that I'm busy.  Try not to ask too many questions.  That's a prudent nugget of advice to follow, and it applies to 1975's Picnic at Hanging Rock.  This is an inscrutable grabber that involves the disappearance of schoolmarms and day-pupils at the turn of the 20th century.  Hanging Rock is a real geological formation, a mamelon (pronounced "land lump") forged by volcanic lava spillage.  Hanging Rock (you know I'm referring to the film because it's bold) is entirely fictional, however, despite author Joan Lindsay's claims that it might have been based on historical facts.

That's right.  We're dealing with the adaptation of a novel.  From what I gather, Lindsay left the ending open to interpretation.  Screenwriter Cliff Green and director Peter Weir take the same approach with the motion picture, but in my supplicatory opinion, the mystery isn't supposed to be a mystery.  Huh?  If you send out a probe for a sampling of other reviews, you will come across a mess of far-reaching theories and cherry-picked conjecture.  The girls fell into a wormhole!  They were suspended in time!  They were raped by gypsies!  They were abducted by unidentified flying fucking saucers!  Okay, those are plausible scenarios.

But does it matter what happened?  I mean, really?  To me, Hanging Rock is about the outgrowth and backwash of tragedy.  It's about how seismic loss changes the lives of those affected.  Whether the apprentices at a finishing school were deflowered by raiders or stolen away by intergalactic pillagers, their loved ones are still left with a void.  It causes them to do irrational things.  I really, really like the way the script examines these issues.  Weir looks at shock and grief from a sideways glance, as most Australian auteurs are apt to do.  Oh, did I not mention that Hanging Rock is a wad of Ozploitation madness?

I've been beefing up on Australian horror flesh-ticklers, and I've noticed a linking plot mechanism.  They're all...hazy.  Distant.  Accessibility plays second fiddle to gonzo ambiance.  I tend to get frustrated when edible storytelling is low on the totem pole, but in the case of Picnic at Hanging Rock, it definitely works.  Visually, it's a dream.  The camera movements are supple, the scenery is striking and Anne-Louise Lambert is cute.  She portrays Miranda, the lass on the poster.  The only character who sours my milk is Edith, the dumpy crosspatch lacking an inside voice.  Motherfuck, she grated my bones.  The rock didn't even want her!  Yogi Bear can be seen standing behind her in a phantom frame aiming a musket at her skull.

Why Yogi Bear?  It's a picnic, people!  C'mon!  Blimey, did the ants carry your sense of humor to their hill?  NOTE: My rating is somewhat conservative.  I have a hunch that it will climb after repeat viewings.


Geek Out #115

Gearing up for the next review, an Ozploitation classic.  It's not End Play, which I have yet to view.  The more Ozploitation flix I consume, the more I realize that...um, you Aussies are fucked up.