Clear That Head

Figured I should let you guys know that I'll be stepping away from the site for a spell.  As per usual when I take breaks, I will tell you that it should either last for a week or FOREVER.  In all probability, it will last somewhere between a week and forever.  My heart's not in it, and I certainly need to recharge.  Really, I just wanna fuck off into my own little oblivion.

PS-Check out 1957's The Vampire and 1973's Crypt of the Living Dead.  They're chaste, innocuous fun.  And so spooky!

"Hey! Anne!"

I won't pretend that I venerated the Chuck Moseley era of Faith No More (I'm a Patton guy all the way), but I do enjoy those first two records.  I'm listening to Introduce Yourself right now in honor of that loopy dude.  There is no way around it.  Chuck was unique, and he helped the band send the message that they were going to do things their way.  I believe that Mike Patton was born to front Faith No More (and 907 other projects), but again, Chuck was an incredibly important ingredient in the outfit's formative stages.  What else can I say?  "Faster Disco" and "Anne's Song" are my jams.

Oh, he died.  That's why I'm writing this.  I thought you knew.  Don't do drugs, kids.  Especially if you're not cool.  Like Chuck was.

R.I.P.

Veritable Screwing Machines

Today, a pally-pal came over and we took in the weirdest double feature that I can recall ingesting.  We started with 1981's Zombie Lake, which wasn't that weird.  Okay, I guess I'm projecting.  The weirdness emanated from 1969's The Curious Dr. Humpp (sic).  This is a title you should recognize if you've ever seen the Something Weird sampler, or even the brief pastiche that announces itself before the feature presentation on a Something Weird DVD.  Something weird indeed.  Humpp was originally an hour long, give or take, but when it was picked up for American distribution, sleaze bellwether Jerald Intrator inserted (*giggles*) close to 20 minutes of softcore porn.  There is a lot of nudity in this kitty.

Look, boobs are awesome.  No qualms about bare flesh itself; it's just that there is simply too much of it.  I never thought I'd say that about any film, but director Emilio Vieyra had concocted a nice little sci-fi/horror aperitif before it was slathered in rotgut.  I went for an alcohol analogy.  Don't think it worked.  Anyway, Dr. Humpp is a charming, albeit seedy budget flick without the sex padding.  And when I say "sex," I mean "petting."  We don't see penetration, despite the X rating.  Hell, we don't see implied penetration.  Hit the brakes!  I'm not doing my job if I don't talk more about the doofy plot, which involves a mad scientist (Humppty-Humpp) extracting cum juice from the brains of post-coital nymphomaniacs.

Cum juice keeps him young?  He wants to live forever, but that's not the scrumptious part.  This picture show is stolen by the doctor's minions.  You've got his regiment of automatons (they reminded me of Putties), and they're amusing enough.  But then!  You guys!  There is...he doesn't have a name, unfortunately.  I refer to him as Blinker, as his forehead is embellished with a blinking light.  For no goddamn reason.  That's him in the above photograph, and yes, he's playing a square guitar.  HE'S PLAYING A SQUARE GUITAR.  Look at his beautiful, beautiful face!  It's a mask, but who cares?  Blinker is a mighty monster and he deserves his own franchise.  His own cereal!

I need to calm down.  So Zombie Lake.

It sucked.  I knew it would be a disappointment going in, but for some befuckled reason, I selected it for scrutiny.  Satan help me.  Zombie Lake was helmed by Jean Rollin, a last-second replacement for Jess Franco.  Rollin regretted accepting the gig.  It's easy to see why.  He loathed the script, but there was no time to change it.  Honestly, it doesn't feel like he directed half of the damned thing.  I concede, there are lithe, graceful underwater shots of zombies and naked ladies.  Yeah, we get an eyeful of unclad hotties here as well, but it's not distracting.  Perhaps I'm being hard on Zombie Lake.  Nah.  It's dismal, forgettable and don't bother trying to decipher the flashback-ridden storyline.

Blinker would have fucked those zombies up.

Album Cover(s) of the Whatever

I wouldn't call it a "Halloween hangover," but my mind is at rest for the time being.  I haven't decided where to take the site next.  One option is to dedicate the next month or two to music, which I've ignored as of late.  Another option is to take an extended hiatus.  A third and less desirable option is to maintain the status quo, updating things like I normally would.  Obviously, I'll let you fine folks (all three of you) know what I decide, but until then, I ran across a couple of SICK album covers.  I couldn't pick between the two!

Fuck yeah!  Cult of Eibon plays thrashy black metal, and honestly, I'm not goo-goo over them.  But that cover!

Acid Witch is back!  I still remember the day I discovered them.  Click HERE to read my old review of their full-length debut (it contains a goddamn MySpace link!).  For the record, I dig Evil Sound Screamers.  It's the band's heaviest, most macabre release yet, and they nailed the artwork yet again.  I'm picking up a strong "Stephen King paperback" vibe from that cover.

Halloween, Happy

Well, another October is in the books.  I never know how I should feel on November 1st.  If this year is typical, I will slide deeper into a sinkhole of depression.  It doesn't have to be that way, but what can you really do to preclude it and intercept those signals?  I'm already on antidepressants, and there is nothing I can do to change my environment or living situation.  I am writing far more than I thought I would on this subject.  For that, I apologize.  It's funny how "that was Halloween" can turn into "my brain is slowly skidding down a pathway of onyx nothingness" so quickly.  Talk about a tangent.

No, seriously.  I meant to discuss the second season of Stranger Things.  I'm glad that I watched it early, as it took several months to emplane the first season.  I don't have to worry about spoiling shit for myself, which I did with Gerald's Game (I might check it out anyway because holy fuck).

My terse, spoiler-free opinion of Season 2?  It's fantastic, though I give the slight edge to Season 1.  Maybe it was just more noticeable this time around, but I was chafed by a character quirk.  These kids are way too smart.  Mike, in particular, is mature and sophisticated beyond MY years, much less his own.  It's true that certain children are similarly advanced, but c'mon.  That's my only real grumble.  Everything that made the first season so habit-forming is still present, and I absolutely loved the additions to the cast.

This is where spoiler-free territory ends.  Please watch this show if you haven't.  It deserves success, and if you're the type of nerd - as I am - who laments the fact that mediocrity seems to be in clover, you owe it to yourself to overdose on Stranger Things.  Forget binge-watching; just fucking watch it, dude.

Fans are already clamoring for a third season.  Okay, I could get behind further adventures with The Party, but isn't the story told?  There has to be a reason for a fresh installment, an impetus for even stranger things.  If the Duffer brothers aren't careful, a third season could feel perfunctory.  I did have an idea (that will never happen in a million years).  Discard the sci-fi/horror elements.  The only "unfinished business" involves character drama.  Mike won't let Max become an official member of The Party, Eleven resents the hell out of Max, Jim and Joyce need to fuck already and Eleven's sister...Christ kicking a can, that's a whole series right there.

If it sounds like I'm suggesting that the third season of Stranger Things be a full-fledged drama, your observation skills are on point.  This show is so good, you don't even need the monsters.  And that's coming from me, the "humans are boring" guy!  Granted, the monsters pulled me in, but now that I'm in, I'm open to anything.  Speaking of monsters, The Mind Flayer is a creepy, badass chunk of Lovecraftian psychomancy (that's an actual word, but I definitely misused it).

I'm in lust with the world that the Duffer brothers have engendered.  I dig that you can raise a Demogorgon from birth and train it.  I dig that The Mind Flayer can infect you by transmutating a limb into a goddamn tornado.  I dig The Mind Flayer!  And I dig that we don't know much about it.  That's another concern I have regarding extra "sequels."  It would be easy to piss on heretofore stainless storytelling, so if we do receive a third season of Stranger Things, the Duffer brothers must be in charge.  Period.

PS ~ I caught 1922 out of curiosity.  It's sluggish.

Nosferatu a Venezia

Yes, it's true.  There was a sequel to Werner Herzog's Nosferatu.  But is it a sequel, really?  The story goes, Klaus Kinski was set to reprise his role as everyone's favorite bald, milky shapeshifter, but because he was Klaus Kinski, he arrived on set with long hair and leather pantaloons.  And that was that!  Who was going to logomachize with a master thespian?  NOTE TO SELF: Just say "argue" instead of "logomachize."  It didn't matter that the part called for a glabrous rodent of a man.  NOTE TO SELF: Just say "hairless" instead of "glabrous."  Right, so in theory, 1988's Nosferatu a Venezia is about the same fiend, but they can be viewed as separate films without much effort.

If you're up on your Kinski trivia, you know that he was a piece of shit.  Maybe I shouldn't be impudent, but then again, maybe I should.  In addition to being a director's worst nightmare, he used his post as a license to sexually assault actresses.  It was easy to get away with it in those days, especially if you were a name talent who happened to be adroit and genuinely gifted.  Let's face it; there was no #MeToo movement.  I'd be lying if I said that Kinski's behavior as it pertains to Venezia didn't hamper my viewing experience.  Still, this is a curiosity that eluded my eyeballs for, Christ, fifteen years?  I had to see it.  I am but a weak horror fan.

Vampire in Venice was helmed by five or six auteurs (!), the most popular of which was Luigi Cozzi.  Kinski himself took the reigns for a few scenes.  It's impossible to know who directed what, but it's clear as a bell that this quilt was stitched by disparate seamstresses, so to speak.  Some shots are void of color.  Others are deluged in the kind of pale blue you only find on swatches.  Despite the inconsistency, Venezia works as a cohesive unit.  Don't ask me how, but it goes down with the velvety airiness of an October sunset.

Stars Donald Pleasance and Christopher Plummer are incredible.  They're too good for the film, if we're being honest.  Plummer's Professor Catalano is allegedly the main character, yet the script drops him in the third act.  Mind you, this is going to be a spoiler, so avert your eyes if you give a shit.  Catalano fails to rout Klausferatu, so...he gives up.  Hand to Satan, he gives up.  He evacuates Venice having admitted defeat.  There is something I dig about that, but it speaks to lazy screenwriting.  Pleasance's pious cleric is entertaining in his over-the-top fidelity.  Here again, he isn't used very well, and that applies to the entire cast.

There are no real characters.  The men are authoritative, while the women are curvaceous as fuck, ready and willing to shed their feathers.  Barbara De Rossi's knockers are scientifically perfect.  I am crude to point them out, but in my defense, I wasn't excited by the sight of them when Kinski was also in the frame.  His portrayal of Nosferatu is supposed to be erotic, but it's fucking odious.  All in all, Nosferatu a Venezia delivers the grim goods for those craving simple genre delights.  The gore is spiffy, the atmosphere is Italian-Gothic and the photography shimmers.  Alas, I'm not enthused.  It doesn't compare to Herzog's original.  And yeah, the more I learn about Klaus Kinski, the less I dote on his work.

Robert Z'Dar says, "My chin was uncomfortable around Klaus."

Blood Capsule #84

THE FURY (1978)

This film could have been called Carrie II.  In fact, the role of Gillian nearly went to Sissy Spacek, but instead, it was offered to Amy Irving.  Gillian is a "parapsychic" with telekinetic powers.  So is Robin, a boy around the same age who believes his father was killed by terrorists on a beach.  It's all very 70's.  The father - a hardy, furrowed Kirk Douglas - was not assassinated, as it turns out.  He spends the generality of The Fury trying to track his son down.  All the while, he's being scoured after by the agency looking to employ these young oracles as weapons of war.  Again, it's simply 70's, and it's simply engrossing.

Aside from the obvious touchstone, I've seen The Omen and The Exorcist mentioned as cinematic barometers.  Fair enough, but I was reminded of Scanners.  You've got your convex veins, your spontaneous bleeding and your climactic bodily explosion.  I won't say who or what explodes, but it's a nice touch.  Mainstream horror was just starting to experiment with the boundaries of bloodletting, but that brings me to my next point.  If The Fury had chosen to embrace one genre, I think it would have been stronger for it.  Alternatively, it wants to be a staid drama with a sprinkling of action scenes.  Not every story can pull off the many-sided approach.

On the whole, this is filling stuff.  Do I really need to append a note on the acting?  It's good!  Go badger some other horror addict.

Ming Attacks the Earth

Slow day.  Watched a little bit of a Flash Gordon serial from 1936.  Hey, you ever catch wind of a Tornado Warning in your area and seek shelter in your closet, which just so happens to contain a piss load of genre movies on all formats?  You have???  That's a weird coincidence.  Anyhow, I spotted Ming Attacks the Earth on VHS while holed up in my closet.  I was like, "What the fuck is this?  I own this?"  As it turns out, I do own this.  It's...eh, something to watch.  I understand that serials were not prioritized by studios, but I was sorely disappointed in the ratfink budget.  BUT THEN!

That was supposed to be a cliffhanger.  I found out that Universal poured reams of chicken feed into the project, three times as much as the average serial.  So where did the money go?  I concede, they shot four hours of footage all told, and there are a couple of creature suits in the production (I didn't get to scope the gockos!).  I don't know.  I guess I was just expecting more lunacy.  You don't have to tell me; I know that I need to watch the 1980 theatrical version.  I did see incredible slices of it at the supple age of 14.  Gonzo pie, am I still typing?  This was supposed to be fluff.  Marshmallow cream!  Surf spray!

Here are some fuckin' dinosaurs.

Blood Capsule #83

HELLBOUND: HELLRAISER II (1988)

I may have only reviewed the fourth film in the series, but I do consider myself a Hellraiser fan.  Ironically, I didn't become invested in the mythos until recently.  Is that ironic?  Probably not.  Anyway, my favorite "chapter" has morphed over the years.  It used to be the recklessly reproved Hellraiser: Inferno.  As I sit before you now, it is Hellbound: Hellraiser II.  While I dig the original, it seems smoggy and shapeless, a picture more concerned with its keynote leitmotifs than its characters.  Hellbound is still mildly smoggy, but that smog translates to atmosphere.  There is a defined structure, a charred skeleton under a cloak of surreal soot.

Well, I'll be a five-striped snub-nosed macaque!  That's not a real monkey, and I'm beginning to suspect that half of the first paragraph is amphigory bunk.  I think what I'm trying to say is that I like Hellbound more than its predecessor.  It's slightly more accessible, and it's easier to sympathize with Kirsty Cotton.  We get a heftier dose of the Cenobites, swankier set designs and the villains, irgh.  There might be too many villains.  Drop Frank and Julia.  You don't need them with Dr. Channard floating through windows and fucking shit up.  Hats off to director Tony Randel for inoculating Hellbound: Hellraiser II with dread and the willies.  Yep, the willies!  Those camera angles are legit.

I bet you're glad you pointed your browser to Random Reviews Incorporated.  And to think, you hesitated.

Blood Capsule #82

THE BORROWER (1991)

I'm missing Game 6 of the ALCS (go Astros!) to write this pocket-sized review just for you, so you better appreciate it.  You did request this specific title, after all.  Didn't you?  Anyway, The Borrower is a quirky sci-fi/horror d'oeuvre.  John McNaughton directed the piece only a couple of years removed from 1986's Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer (man, I love that flick), but his distribution folded up its tent.  As a result, The Borrower was placed on the dreaded shelf for close to three years.  I have to give McNaughton credit for dipping his toes into completely different waters coming off of the success of Henry.  He could have mailed in a tepid "thriller" in the same vein, but instead, he took a SHARP fucking left turn.

An alien did something bad.  His punishment?  Earth!  I feel like that should be punishment for criminals already on Earth.  In a not-so-sly obeisance to The Hidden, our alien wears a human skin disguise.  When it's time to switch veneers, his head explodes.  So it isn't quite borrowing per se, but "the borrower" isn't exactly evil.  He's more of an asshole.  This is a funny, enterprising b-dish with a sleazy Frank Henenlotter vibe.  Rae Dawn Chong and Don Gordon play honest-to-Satan good cops (!), but we never see them do meaningful detective work.  They don't get close to catching He Who Borrows.  They almost feel as though they exist in a separate movie.  In the end, nothing is resolved, and the final frames are needlessly confusing.

The Borrower is as flawed as the Electoral College, but it's worth watching.  Don't buy or rent; borrow.

Album Cover of the Whatever

Ooh, a black-and-white cover!  Have I ever featured one of those?  This one belongs to Erebos, a Polish black metal band.  Their stuff is quite atmospheric.  It's 100% instrumental.  Faded into the Shadows is their latest release, and I fancy it, though I admit it can be hard to listen to straight through.  I don't think I was built to digest instrumental music, but I can still promote it.  Hail Satan!

Blood Capsule #81

CULT OF CHUCKY (2017)

2013's Curse of Chucky was welcomed with open doll parts (hey now), as it brought a morose tone back to the series.  From a cursory skim of IMDb, I glean that Cult of Chucky - the fresh, piping hot installment - is also popular amongst fans.  Maybe a little less, but still, a sprightly consensus.  The film relishes in keeping the viewer guessing.  Can you guess if I dug Cult?  I did, actually.  I like the fact that the plot picks up right where Curse left off.  Nica (the still-sexy, still-infirm Fiona Dourif) has been adjudicated and sentenced to a stay at a mental institution by way of her "insanity" plea.  After a few years, she has convinced doctors and orderlies that she has come to grips with reality, accepting the verity of her involvement with the murder of her entire family.

That was very nearly a run-on sentence.  If you see it happening again, stop me.  Before it's too late!  Anyhow, an unabridged synopsis would be a monotonous read.  All you need to know is that stuff happens at the loony bin.  Chucky stuff.  And man, Mr. Lee Ray has a ball this time around.  The kills are wicked.  I mean, Cult may not be as gruesome as American Guinea Pig, but as far as mainstream slashers are concerned, the barbarity peeled back is goddamn explicit.  How can you not love the "glass ceiling" bit, a lurid homage to Bride of Chucky?  Speaking of bitch--WHICH...speaking of which, the bride is accounted for.  Jennifer Tilly, man.  Jennifer fuckin' Tilly.

Performances are strong across the advisory board.  I wouldn't mind being a Dourif when I grow up.  Fiona is fine-tuned, Brad is just as sharp as ever and Nica's fellow convalescents are suited to their roles.  Objectively, I can't point to a specific thing as a defect or a failing, but for whatever reason, I prefer Curse of Chucky over Cult of Chucky.  Perhaps it's the ambiance.  Not all of the humor snaps into place, but as it stands, I'm cool with this factory-made movie.  The pace is swift and...aww, fuckity!  I want this to be a mini-review.  Keep it concise, cuckold!

Blood Capsule #80

AMERICAN GUINEA PIG (2014)

The full title is American Guinea Pig: Bouquet of Guts and Gore.  Yes, this is a western accrual of the legendary Japanese series of exploitative nightmares captured on film.  Others have been produced since, and the probability of you hunting them down is tied directly with your opinion of baseless violence.  It's fictional, sure, but this shit doesn't always feel fictional.  It would be more effective without the hokey dialogue ("I had to change my underwear.") and the substandard acting.  I did more laughing than I expected.  Maybe that's a good thing, as I came away with my sanity unscathed.

I don't mean to overstate American Guinea Pig's brutal nature, and yet, I really haven't.  The guts and gore of the subtitle are laid on thick, often within a sexual lexicon.  You're basically watching two girls being flayed, dismembered, disemboweled and worse for 70+ minutes, all while kept alive with drugs and tourniquets.  The practical effects are outstanding.  Seriously, there is no substitute for in-camera "movie magic."  American Guinea Pig has a narrow audience, but fans of the Japanese series should be pleased.  I'm not sure what drove me to view this dementia, but my curiosity is slaked.  Um, the gore is gory?  Yeah, that's my review.

Switchin' it up mid-stream, bitches!

It's fucking October.  Still!  Here in North Carolina, we wouldn't mind a few autumnal days.  Hey, summer...WHY WON'T YOU DIE?  I've been reviewing Frankenstein movies, but as with any restrictive theme, I'm feeling restless.  I want to talk about a vast assortment of horrors.  So I will!  Thing is, most (not all) of the reviews from here on out will be Blood Capsules.  They are easier to write, and I'll be able to get to more movies.  Don't worry; I plan on hitting a couple of Frankenflix.  I just wanted to hit other oddities along the way in time for Halloween.

Why Bigfoot?  I never need a reason.

Blood Capsule #79

ALVIN AND THE CHIPMUNKS MEET FRANKENSTEIN (1999)

"ALLLVIIIIIIN!  Come here, you little #1@$#!$!  I'm gonna chain you to the pole again!  That's right.  Where did I leave my handgun?"  Sometimes, I wonder if I cross the line.  Naaah.  Apparently, this was the first Chipmunks movie since the 80's.  They met The Wolfman the following year, and if the general consensus is to be believed, Alvin and the Chipmunks Meet Frankenstein is the inferior product.  Just my luck!

There isn't much to say here, folks.  If you were a fan of the Chipmunks as a tiny human (as I was), you'll dig this flick-a-dee.  It's fun, and it seems to have been made by fans of the Universal monster mashes.  Why, it's even - I can't believe I'm admitting this - cute in spots.  Simon has his teddy bear, while Frankenstein('s creation) sleeps with a Frankie action figure.  Hey, that's adorable, and you know it!  Needless to type, Alvin and the Chipmunks Meet Hitler Youth isn't flawless.  Alvin is annoying AND I'm tired of writing.  I wasn't cut out for this gig.

Forces of the North Carolinan Night

This isn't a "real" review or anything.  I just wanted to talk about the DVD I watched through exceptionally legal means.  Right.  Anyhow, I jammed out to Dimmu Borgir's Forces of the Northern Night, a live recording from five years ago.  Why did it take so goddamn long to release this thing?  Currently, Dimmu Borgir's momentum is set to zilch.  Their last full-length - 2010's iffy Abrahadabra - is a distant memory in metal's collective mind.  You'd think that if they were going to put something out, it would be new music.  Nope!

The die-hards will want to know if the content is worthwhile.  Well, the die-hards have seen Northern Night by now.  How did I rate it?  Thank you for asking.  The concrete performances are astounding.  Shagrath's vocals are tirelessly thunderous (I've read that he uses backing tracks, which is disappointing, but he himself sounds magnificent), the drums are mixed smoothly and the orchestra...fuck, the orchestra kicks unholy ass.  It must have been a nightmare to engineer this monstrosity of noise.

The setlist is boring.  Half of the tunes appear on Abrahadabra (I do enjoy "Dimmu Borgir" and "Born Treacherous") and the other half are expected.  Y'know, "Progenies of the Great Apocalypse" and "Mourning Palace."  I will never gripe about hearing "Kings of the Carnival Creation," as I believe it to be one of the best black metal compositions of all time.  Fight me.  At the end of the day, Forces of the Northern Night is an alloyed rucksack.  You might even say that it's a mixed bag.  Again, fight me.  Actually, I hate myself for that joke.  I deserve a proper thrashing.

The Horror of Frankenstein

It has been a couple of days since I watched 1970's The Horror of Frankenstein.  I will normally review a film one day later, so as to retain shade and nuance.  Believe it or not, those extra 24 hours do make a difference.  I was going to can the notion altogether, but no!  I shall power through.  In any case, this...uh, movie - yes, I'm reviewing a movie; I knew that - centers around a gynecologist?  Why am I asking?  I'm quite familiar with...could you give me just a second?  A-ha!  I'm sorry you had to wait for three months, but I was looking for...my child!  Yes!  My child went missing!  Jesus, who am I kidding?  Everyone knows that Dom Jr. died in The Great Strip Club Fire of 1989.  That I started.

You think that's bad?  He wasn't even born yet!  Alright, enough eyewash and horsefeathers.  This flick is the undesigned dissident of Hammer's Frankenstein franchise in that it doesn't follow the Peter Cushing Frankie features.  Literally.  It's a stand-alone picture, and if you want to get technical, it's a remake of 1957's The Curse of Frankenstein.  Maybe not "to the T," but that was the idea.  Jimmy Sangster signed on to direct because he saw that the project was going to suck the testicles out of a sevenstar flying squid.  He and fellow scribe Jeremy Burnham injected personality into a rigid script.  The result?  Well, it has a dodgy reputation.

Now that I've seen Horror, I can't help but feel that hardcore fans are being too fussy and captious.  Like me!  While I understand that it doesn't have the same deportment as "The Cushing Six," it's still an entertaining ride.  The added levity works.  I dig this interpretation of the doctor as a nearly amoral maverick.  He isn't the cuddliest lead character in the world, but that didn't bother me.  The constant shots of Kate O'Mara and Veronica Carlson in revealing provisions didn't bother me either.  Imagine that.  Still, there is no outright nudity, but we get a glimpse of irriguous gore whenever a limb is severed.  Lotsa severed limbs.

Sangster, my favorite Hammer-friendly writer, always had a knack for smart pacing.  Horror is almost too quick, but that's better than the alternative.  Remember Alternative Nation?  Nevermind, I'm deviating.  On the downer side, it takes awhile to get to the monster.  I realize that's the complaint of an 8-year-old, but newsflash!  I'm an eight-year-old!  What's more, I wasn't crazy about the look of Sir Creature, as portrayed by David Prowse.  He's just a guy with a few scars.  He has muscles, I guess.  Hammer was coveting a younger demographic with The Horror of Frankenstein and I presume that they succeeded.

The question is, did they succeed with ME?  Yes.  I already said that.

Wonder Woman

NOTE: This review was written a few months ago for a separate publication.  I held onto it, but today is a good day to post it.  I got nothing else right now.  My "Frankenfiles" reviews will continue next week, probably Monday.  Keep in mind, this piece was written for a completely different audience.  That's why it has an introductory tone.  No rating, but I'd give Wonder Woman 4 Z'Dars.

I'm an unapologetic nerd.  I collected comic books as a wee mutineer, but I had picky, specific tastes.  Most superheroes bored me to napalm death.  I did make exceptions for Spider-Man and Batman, but all told, I sought out the weird stuff.  That predilection for the obscure was nurtured with age.  I became a 32-year-old horror buff who brushed off the MCU, and yes, even the DCU.  I don't know why I'm talking in past tense.  I AM 32.  What a stupid age.  EDITOR'S NOTE: I'm 33 now.  That's a stupid age.

Anyway, you're not reading this to learn about me, although it will help you to see where I'm coming from.  Just where am I coming from exactly?  I'm coming from the place of an outsider, a pop culture insurgent who doesn't give a hard fuck about the mainstream. Maybe you're the same way, or maybe you feel like you would have to see every other DCU flick to absorb the finer details of Wonder Woman. Let's be candid; watching those overblown adaptations is an imposing prospect.

I have good news!  You don't have to do that kind of "homework," so to speak.  I certainly didn't, and I enjoyed the hell out of Wonder Woman.  From the onset of early trailers, it seemed to be spun of gossamer (or at least a more delicate fabric than its DCU predecessors).  I had a sneaking suspicion that it was a different beast altogether.  While the film's color palette is analogous to that of most summer blockbusters, the machinations beneath the glossy veneer zero in on pacing and character development.

Gal Gadot is functioning at an expert level as the titular hero.  She effortlessly communicates Diana's naivete, which leads to effective "fish out of water" humor.  Mind you, that's coming from someone who detests "fish out of water" humor.  Wonder Woman is simply well-written.  Each player has a purpose and no one is built too thin for their role in the narrative.  Oh, and Gadot is goddamn gorgeous. She may actually be an Amazonian warrior.  Jesus Christ.

The action sequences are set to kill.  Badass fight choreography, cool (or kewl, if you prefer) weaponry and an excellent use of slow-motion...until the ending, that is.  The last 15 minutes are mired in ostentation and cornball dialogue.  "Feel the power of love!" Really???  Are we supposed to believe that a Greek god can be trounced by the power of fucking love?  It's a trivial infraction, but I was really hoping for a killer climax.

Luckily, the rest of Wonder Woman lives up to the hype.  I don't know when this article will be published, but if this slice of the DC Universe is still playing at a theater near you, go see it.  Now!

NXT Round-Up

So there will be matches "over the coming weeks" to determine the participants of a Fatal 4-Way at the next Takeover event for the vacant NXT Women's Championship.  Cool!  I'll be curious to see if any of the Mae Young Classic competitors will appear in these qualifying matches.  I somehow doubt it, but you never know.  And I'll reserve my pick for the winner.  Too soon.  I mean, I've made my pick, but it's too soon to reveal it.

LARS SULLIVAN VS. ONEY LORCAN ~ Oney has been put over as a deranged, tough-as-nails opponent, and he got a few clean shots in.  It didn't matter.  My God, did it not matter.  This was the equivalent of Lars being shot in the head and spitting out the bullet.  As I typed a few weeks ago, there is only one direction a monster heel can go, if you're following logic.  Up!  They have invested a great deal in making Lars seem indestructible, so they'll have to tread very carefully going forward.  Post-match, Mr. Lorcan was saved from further thrashing by none other than Danny Burch!  Could my wish be fulfilled?

HEAVY MACHINERY SQUASH ~ Nothing to add.

LIV & LET LIV ~ Liv Morgan (the petite blonde hottie) squared off against Vanessa Borne.  To be clear, this is not one of the preliminary bouts to decide three of the four spots in the Fatal Four Way at Takeover: Houston.  The match itself was mediocre.  Liv still doesn't have much offense, while Borne is still green.  But they're both inexperienced.  My jury is out.

KASSIUS OHNO VS. FABIAN AICHNER ~ Ohno excels at letting the other guy "get his shit in."  And he does it without losing too much.  Aichner was an impressive lad from the Cruiserweight Classic, and he spent the bulk of this encounter on top.  Good stuff.

YOUR MAIN EVENT ~ Cole and Young tussled for 5-6 minutes, but it was nothing to write home about.  Mere storyline progression.  If you already know the basics of this feud, you can skip the match altogether.  Cole did announce the name of his squadron.  They are Undisputed.  I am Dom Coccaro.  I am tired.  Signing off!

Blood Capsule #78

VICTOR FRANKENSTEIN (2015)

This was a pleasant surprise.  It's one of the more unique adaptations of the Mary Shelley novel, as it tells the story from the assistant's perspective.  Here, the assistant is given the cognomen of Igor, a name that didn't exist in the source material or 1931's Frankenstein.  Screenwriter and social media plutocrat/catchpole (those words bear no relevance; I merely wanted to use them) Max Landis draws from a motley well of Universal horror influences, including even the farcical, yet brilliant Young Frankenstein.  But Victor Frankenstein is no comedy.  In fact, there isn't much levity to be found.  The PG-13 rating does hamper the bloodletting, I'm afraid. Those two thoughts aren't connected.  Can I borrow Victor's cables?

I haven't really arrived at my point, which is...I'm a happy customer. Victor covers its bases.  The atmosphere is appropriately goth-stained, the storytelling is concise and the acting is nonpareil.  It seems like I just finished praising James McAvoy for his robust performance in Split.  He plays Dr. Frankenstein on the rails of volatility, beautifully bouncing off of Daniel Radcliffe's prim demeanor. Everyone is in tip-top shape.  I dug the use of practical effects for the laboratory's fleshy experiments.  Lest I forget - Prometheus!  No, not the Alien prequel.  The monster looks ferocious and fantastic.  Of course, we only snoop at him during the film's closing 20-minute stretch.  And that's all we need.

Remember, this one is about the people.  Highly enjoyable.

Album Cover of the Whatever

Fuck yes!!!  In the 80's, Jag Panzer played clits-to-the-wall METAL. No filler, no bullshit, no synthesizers, no frippery, no fandangle METAL.  They still play metal, and from what I understand, most of it is quite acceptable, kind sir (I've only heard the sporadic song here and there).  But dude, their 80's output is unfuckwithable.  Strangely, their 80's output only consists of one EP and one LP.  The EP is Tyrants, your album cover of the whatever.  A big-boobed babe with a chainsaw, a full (and apricot-colored) moon, bats, a city reduced to rubble...that's METAL.

The LP is Ample Destruction, and I'm listening to it right now.  If you dig straightforward heavy/power metal from the 80's (1984, to be exact), look into this shit yesterday.  It's the most!

NXT Round-Up

Best we start at the beginning.  And yes, this is late.  Thank you for noticing.  I apologize.

GARGANO VS. SABBATELLI ~ Not much to say about this match. I did like the "subplot" of Johnny Wrestling rediscovering his...mojo? To be specific, he won the match with his submission (I think it's called the Gargano Escape).  Actual character development.  Huh.

BIANCA BELAIR VS. LACEY EVANS ~ Two of the younger stand-outs from the Mae Young Classic went toe to toe in an impressive bout.  They are both living proof that the WWE Performance Center is turning out consistent talent, and damn, these ladies can go.  I'm really digging Belair's unique finisher, a reverse powerbomb.  As for Lacey, she is future Championship material.  No doubt about it.

BLACK GETS DREAMY ~ So this was supposed to be the first time we heard Aleister address the NXT Universe.  Okay, but in my estimation, he didn't disclose anything of compelling value.  I was expecting more and then The Velveteen Dream came out to make me question my own sexuality.  This feud should be interesting.  I want to be excited, but I haven't seen Dreamy wrestle a longer match.  Can he keep up with Black?  Overall, this was a cool segment that educed female screams from the crowd, but I admit, I have reservations.

LARS SMASH ~ No Way Jose gets in a little offense, but it's no use. I kept thinking to myself how Lars literally looks like a lost Universal monster.  If that dude roams the countryside, I'm fucking moving.

MOUSTACHE MOUNTAIN VS. REDRAGON ~ First of all, give Fish and O'Reilly a name.  I somehow doubt that it will be ReDragon (it makes no sense in this context), but they need a damn name. Maybe NXT Creative has plans in store.  At any rate, great match. Duh. Sanity surprising the Ring of Honor chaps (see above) was a nice move.  It keeps the tag titles at the fore of business.  Also, Drew McIntyre versus Adam Cole will be a thing.  Sign me up!

The Brain

There was an "in memory" card at the beginning of Raw last night. In my opinion, there should have been more emphasis on paying respect to the late, great Bobby "The Brain" Heenan.  Clips interspersed with words from talent on the main roster, clips of Bobby doing his thing.  Hell, you could have even aired footage of The Weasel wrestling.  Because he could, y'know (before he realized that he had to wrestle like a manager).  He could do anything.  Ever wondered why Paul Heyman calls himself an advocate?  Because in his mind, Heenan already perfected the role of the manager.

This is where I'll sound incredibly fucking old, but KIDS TODAY have been robbed of the manager.  They don't understand why a wrestler would need a manager.  Sadder still, they don't know how entertaining a manager can be.  Could you imagine if Jim Cornette was cutting promos on a weekly basis?  On live television??? Cornette is great.  Heyman might be better.  But neither gasbag mouthpiece (I say that lovingly, of course) can match up to Heenan, and they would be the first ones to tell you so.

My first memory of professional wrestling was none other than the main event of Wrestlemania III.  I was rapt.  Now, I couldn't comprehend the gravity of that PPV at the time, but it's considered to be legendary for several reasons.  Millions watched.  The main event was a draw.  But who - aside from Vince - was the most responsible for WM3's grand success?  Hogan and Andre played their parts, but the answer is Bobby motherfucking Heenan.  In the months leading up to the event, he was the chief storyteller.  It certainly wasn't Hillbilly Jim!

Well, Gorilla and The Brain are finally together again.  We all knew that Heenan was ill, but for whatever reason, his passing hit me pretty hard.  I'll always be a Bobby Heenan guy.

Frankenstein ('31)

I realized the other day that I had yet to review 1931's Frankenstein. How can that be when I reviewed 1935's The Bride of Frankenstein at 18 years of age?  What's the fucking hold-up?  In truth, I don't get to bespeak every film I prize.  Life is stupid that way. By the by, be forgiving when perusing my Bride blurb.  Admittedly, it holds up well, but it still makes me quiver.  I shouldn't be talking about myself, though.  I have a cross-stitch of cadavers lying on my operating table, and it's motioning for my typing wand (yikes).

I don't see the point in contriving a ziggurat (word of the day; look it up, bitch) of words detailing the things that you already know.  To that end, all I can do is tell you why I love it dearly and why it's one of my favorite films of all time.  I don't remember when I saw it first, but that's a testament to Frankenstein's iconography.  At autumn's point of departure, you begin to see versions of Karloff's sunken visage everywhere.  Growing up, I saw "Frankies" in cartoons, storefronts, newspaper ads...not because this was the first adaptation of Mary Shelley's novel (it wasn't), but because it was definitive.  The tongue-in-cheek prelude warns us that the picture might shock us, but it's almost as if James Whale himself is crowing that this is what you'll think of when you hear the word "Frankenstein."

And hey, it's not bragging if it's true.  Over three quarters of a century later, it's still true.  The opening scene is an entrenched mood-setter. The good doctor quietly waits for a funeral to finish up while huddled behind a cenotaph (it may not have been a cenotaph; I don't know where the body was buried, baby).  He is shadowed by Fritz, his unstable assistant who indirectly inspired Igor (or Ygor) in dozens upon dozens of Gothic horror fables to follow.  Dwight Frye is Frankenstein's secret weapon as Fritz.  I dig his corybantic, wide-eyed performance, as it counters Colin Clive's comparatively mellow turn as Henry.

In my correct opinion, Fritz is the true villain here.  It's his fault that Henry is consigned to using an abnormal brain, it's his fault that the monster lashes out and it's his fault that my left nut is implausibly itchy.  The experiment - even with the abnormal brain - could have worked.  That's a fascinating item.  Our perceived antagonists (Dr. Frankenstein and his creation) are not antagonists at all.  Take the most hideous act in the film, for instance.  The monster tosses a little girl into a lake, drowning her.  Before that, they were tossing flower petals into the water and smiling as they floated.  He thought she would float, too.  You'll float, too.  YOU'LL FLOAT, TOO!

Oops!  I backtracked right into my review of It.  Anyway, once he realizes his grave mistake, he's visibly mortified and penitent.  To the villagers, he's just a child murderer.  The scene in which the little girl's father walks onto a revelry-soaked street carrying the limp remains of his daughter is profoundly sobering.  The look on his face. My God.  Whale had several tricks up his sleeve to ensure that Frankenstein would go down as timeless.  The tight editing, the roving camera, the expressionistic interiors of the watchtower...this is a cool flick.  I do prefer it to The Bride of Frankenstein.  In fact, I prefer it to Dracula, a classic in its own right.  Eh, I'm done here.

Geek Out #133

This is just fucking awesome.  No paragraph necessary.

Badass Birdies

Before I potentially piss people off, let me make it very clear that all in all, the Mae Young Classic was a resounding success.  It did what it set out to do, and I can't wait to see some of these badass birdies compete in NXT and/or WWE.  If Mae herself was still grabbing holds above ground, she would definitely be proud to be associated with this tournament.  Hell, she would want to be IN the tournament, senescence be damned.

I do have a problem with it, though.  It's both major and minor.  None of the matches in the tournament reached the 15-minute mark.  I think the longest bouts were...12 minutes?  If that?  Now, that doesn't speak to the quality of the matches.  There were some absolute barn burners such as Mia Yim/Sarah Logan, Kairi Sane/Tessa Blanchard, Toni Storm/Piper Niven and several others I'm forgetting.  Even the green, inexperienced girls fared well (watch out for Rhea Ripley). This is minor because, like I just said, the matches still germinated into something quite beautiful.

However, it's a major issue because of what it represents.  This whole shebang was about gender equality, was it not?  Anything they can do, we can do better?  Think back to the Cruiserweight Classic. The best matches were at least 15 minutes long.  Those guys were given time to play, time to feel each other out, time to arrive at a fever pitch and maybe toss in a few false finishes.  Folks, the finals of the Mae Young Classic failed to eclipse 12 minutes (11:54, to be precise).  In my opinion, it was Kairi Sane's worst showing in the bracket.  Am I the only fucker who noticed that she didn't bother selling her arm?  She was outperformed by Shayna Baszler.

Yeah, Baszler.  The brute bitch surprised the hell out of me, and I expect her to do incredibly well in NXT.  A lot of the MYC ladies will thrive in developmental, which is why I called the tournament a resounding success.  But shit.  If just one or two matches ran for 15 minutes (or 20-30 in the semis), it would have made a huge difference.  I leave you with Mia Yim being a smokeshow.

PS-NXT is a full hour now.  The round-up will return next week.

It (2017)

Our relationship - mine and yours - is important to me.  I value your thoughts.  I mean, they aren't nearly as precious as my thoughts (natch), but you serve a role.  No, I'm dicking around, but for this review to work, you need to know my thoughts on 1990's It.  As a wee lad, I loved it.  Strangely, Pennywise didn't scare me, but Tim Curry's priceless performance intrigued the shit out of me.  Curry (the actor, not the Indian dish) nailed every single project he attached himself to, especially It.  It always dumbfounded me how he was able to switch from whimsical to fearsome on a dime.  He disappeared behind the maquillage.

As a somewhat larger, slightly more mature lad, I regard It as a fun, yet deeply flawed skiff of nostalgia.  The second half really falls apart, doesn't it?  You can say what you want about what should or shouldn't have been excised from the novel, but that wouldn't begin to fix the overly maudlin script, much less the exaggerated acting.  If I'm ever in the mood to watch the It miniseries, I usually stick to the first half.  2017's It?  It's almost long enough to be aired as a miniseries.  Perhaps a touch too long, but the final verdict is positive. I'm mostly happy with it (y'know, It).

Good Lord, where do I start?  Let's go straight to the cast, docked by a troupe of child actors perceptive beyond their years.  Finn Wolfhard (coolest name ever) steals every non-Pennywise scene and gets the opportunity to play someone completely different from Mike Wheeler, his character from the excellent Stranger Things.  To be specific, he plays Richie, the insouciant wisecracker plagued with coulrophobia (a fear of - you guessed it - clowns).  His dialogue is sharp, but he isn't the main character.  That would be Bill, as rendered by Jaeden Lieberher.  The kid is immediately sympathetic, and you want him to win.  Everything.  That includes Beverly!

Sophia Lillis is adorable and nuanced as the female Loser.  There is one weighty drawback, though.  Did we really need to see the notorious orgy from the book?  And in such graphic fashion?  The film's momentum is ditched for FIFTEEN MINUTES while the viewer is forced to watch coral-flush baby fat flop and flap against itself.  To make matters unbecoming, Pennywise watches in the shadows and pulls his pasty pud.  They actually show his...er, its clownhood! Greasepaint prick!  He's a hung harlequin!  Okay, I'll stop now.

Now, that Pennywise.  It's hard not to compare Skarsgard to Curry, so I will.  One performance isn't "better" than the other.  They stand next to each other.  Skarsgard himself idolizes Curry's iteration of the interplanetary gagster (ew) and knew that he couldn't mimic any of Tim's affectations.  Curry's dancing clown was a pinch jocose; Skarsgard's dancing clown has jocose in his marrow (yes, I used an adjective as a noun), but he is a pinch more...sinister? What's the word?  I know.  He's fucking malignant.  Even now, a couple days removed from the screening, I still see his goddamn face.

Some of that is the performance, but some of it is the film's audio terrorism.  Egads.  I'm sorry, but there are too many jump scares, and I saw Carmike's "Big D Experience."  It's similar to IMAX where, like, the movie is in your head.  It doesn't need to resort to cheap tactics to rattle audiences.  A minor animadversion, but it was annoying.  My only other stricture has to do with the swollen running time.  The second trip to Pennywise's hideout felt unnecessary.  Still, I rate 2017's It as vastly superior to 1990's It, which I do fancy.  Both sets of kids are genial and engaging enough.  I'll tell you this much, junior; the book sucks.  I didn't read it.

I read half of it, but that's not the point.  I dig how the script focuses on the bond between the Losers.  It's paced beautifully, as it takes its time bringing these fledglings together.  A few of the kids are neglected, but look, this could have been a trilogy of trilogies.  You can't shoot all 5,903 pages of Stephen King's novel.  Personally, I thought that Andy Muschietti did a bang-up job.  With the exception of the orgy scene.  Line.  Crossed.  Amirite or amirite?