Voo the Doo

The Blood Capsules page!  It has finally been re-archived!  Check it out!  Sorry, I shouldn't be screaming.

PS-Sugar Hill is top-drawer blaxploitation.  Check that out, too.


Blood Capsule #48


Julian Sands enjoyed a prolific run in the early 90's, starring in a strand of mid-level genre films ranging from the cordially crass (Warlock: The Armageddon) to the duteously fatuous (Naked Lunch).  He's popular among horror freaks, and it's easy to see why.  Dudes respect his bold chops, especially as a villain.  Chicks get off on the vulnerability he brings to a character.  That sounds boorish, but ladies, you know it's true.  I don't mind telling you that he made my undergarments curl in jocundity as Alex, a vampiric centenarian who develops a sexually tense rapport with a grieving lass.  She is the spitting image of a lost love, a lost love who may have been involved with more than one creature of the night.

We're talking about Tale of a Vampire, a modest movie that must have had foresight.  It prognosticated the pseudo-romance we find in today's weepy, lachrymose epics where an unbelievably handsome wolf of a charmer lights up a sad girl's vagina.  As a general rule, I don't care for those pictures.  But this puppy has Julian Sands.  And it's shot incredibly well.  Unfortunately, it's slower than a glacier wearing ankle weights (hmm).  I mean, it's really, really fucking slow.  No kidding.  I'll go ahead and recommend it anyway if you're big on pale gentlemen and fruit bats.



Taking the day off, sucka.  That's how you celebrate Batman Day.


Take As Needed For Pain

I haven't been able to review all of these records, and with the Type O Negative tribute forthcoming, my Abbath ratings will be preoccupied.  But check it...

DOWN - IV: Part II
CROWBAR - Symmetry in Black
GOATWHORE - Constricting Rage of the Merciless
EYEHATEGOD - Eyehategod

Four "NOLA" bands released music this year, and all of it kicks your ass.  You need to hear it.  Just wanted to point that out.


The Slayer

I wanted to fancy 1982's The Slayer more than I did.  I've been hoping to land it on VHS for the longest time, but I eventually caved in.  Since I don't have throwaway money these days, I am acceding to the palpable reality that I'm going to be leaning on the Internet as I sideswipe adulthood.  Goddamn adulthood.  Hey, I don't feel wonderful when I hit up ossified slashers on YouTube.  It is what it is.  War-ravaged maroons in Gaza City couldn't begin to understand the special truss of Gehenna that my trunk is tied to.  That's guilt, man.  I'm pretty sure that I just misused at least two words and downplayed a grave conflict in the Middle East.  That's pooh-pooh, man.

I'm going to take a break from jabbering inappropriate jokes to slay The Slayer.  It's not bad per se.  The vast majority of sicko cinephiles enjoyed the mulch out of it.  I enjoyed bits of it.  And pieces.  The premise is spring-loaded with latent excellence.  An artist named Kay is plagued with intense nightmares.  Her husband prods her into vacating to a remote island with her brother and sister-in-law.  The nightmares never cease, however.  Kay sees her compeers dying in her dreams, and almost as if it were scripted (hahaHA!), they begin to die off in the waking world.  Who or what is stalking these archipelago-bound motherfuckers?  I'm scared!

To the film's credit, I was itching to discover the root of The Slayer's tumult, but the payoff did not varnish my snoopiness.  I needed a better answer than that.  Hell, the script barely gave me an answer at all.  Was the toothy monster fellow supposed to represent Satan?  How was he controlling Kay's night terrors?  Did he broker a mutually beneficient deal with Freddy Krueger (or perhaps the dream demons)?  We only get one glimpse of this toothy monster fellow, but I will say that he looks fucking cool.  Why couldn't he play a more explicit role in the narrative?  If you would like to meet him, his countenance "videobombs" the trailer.

The gore effects are ace.  The version on YouTube is uncut, so I was able to catch the bloodiest of the bloody.  I can't bitch about the acting either.  Sarah Kendall is superb at portraying a jittery, ascetic manic depressive, although I wish she was allowed to explore her range.  I met her yesterday at a Chinese restaurant (no, I didn't), and we discussed The Slayer for hours (no, we didn't).  So this flick isn't horrid, but it's detained by a cadaverous pace.  There are too many instances where nothing happens.  Apparently, that's the calling card of a body count pic(ture) from the early 80's.  It doesn't help that the body count is distressingly low.

My advice?  Stick with the trailer, which I was kind enough to attach.


Let's Get Miserable

I haven't done a series review since late last year (something about puppets).  Well, I'm ready to try another one, but I'm having too much goddamn fun picking random flicks from random decades.  So!  Why not try muzak?  Starting this week, I'm going to review every full-length Type O Negative studio album.  I guess it's my way of paying tribute to Peter Steele and his blackened brethren.

We're going in chronological order.  It's worth noting that I'll be skipping over The Origin of the Feces and The Least Worst Of, at least with regard to long, wordy reviews.  I might do simple blurbs since those records still rule.  Stay fine-tuned!


Album Cover of the Week

Decapitated Christ!  Sure, the typeface is crude, but c'mon...that is a charming piece of art.


Matches That Time Forgot #62

I'm beginning to think that everyone has wrestled everyone.  I mean, I had no flippin' clue that The Iron Sheik worked with David Heath.  Who is David Heath?  Salted wrestling historians already know, but he eventually morphed into Gangrel.  Yeah.  That doughy, ugly-as-hagfish-ejectamenta* oof** found success as a Lost Boys-style vampire.  Go figure.  His early appearance here is surprising, although I was more surprised to learn that Sheiky Baby was employed by Ted Turner.  My crack research team tells me that he wrestled in WCW for a few seconds.  Actually, he was there long enough to challenge Sting for the United States Championship.

Heath would waft over to Stampede Wrestling where he became a Blackheart.  If you haven't been acquainted with The Blackhearts, my God, scan through a powdering of their matches.  My God.  Oh, and run a quick search for The Black Phantom, jobber to the stars of WWF's New Generation.  My God.

*Shit.  Feces.  Excrement.
**An oaf, only simpler.