Blood Capsule #12


It should be blatantly obvious that I'm a fan of campy movies.  I find that the most conducive camp is either subtle or unintentional, which is why I grimace at self-referential b-movies that shove cheese down your throat with juvenile gags and overblown comedy.  Monster High winks at the camera with the same peremptory mirth of The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra.  I didn't care for it.  It wants to be a zany cult classic for the ages, but there is just one problem...it's not funny.  It's ridiculous.  It's outlandish.  It's gratuitous.  But it's not funny.  Truth be told, it's essentially a Troma flick without the clunky, forced Lloyd Kaufman intro.

A rococo demon by the name of Mr. Armageddon (imagine a flamboyant Vegas act who is possessed by Satan...no, scratch that; a transsexual game show host cross-pollinated with a peacock) has arrived to set doomsday into motion.  The fate of the world is decided by the outcome of a basketball game.  It's almost as if the screenwriters were content to volley absurd punchlines back and forth for 90 pages.  We get a zombie, a mummy, a pair of killer shoes, a Triffid-esque marijuana bud beast and an extraterrestrial pop duo (at one point, they rap/sing about a hysterectomy).  Yep.

In the end, Monster High tries too hard.  It might have been tolerable if the characters were remotely likeable.  Seriously, I wanted to butcher every single person in front of the camera.  Thumbs way the fuck down.

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