Slice THIS!

That's fuckin' Sting.  This past Wednesday night, I was approximately 40 feet away from the man, the same bloke I watched every Saturday morning as a tyke.  It was hard to process in the moment.  I hadeen to one AEW event before, but this time around, I was ringside (a few rows back, granted).  There are a few other pictures, but it wouldn't look orderly if I slapped all of them beneath this text.  My plan is to upload them to Facebook.  Afterwards, I'll edit a LINK (click that sumbitch) into this jeremiad.

Traffic was ludicrous.  I was convinced that we would arrive late, but through some sort of sortilege, we were able to catch most of Dark: Elevation.  Since the return to touring, I was wondering how the hell tapings of both Dark and its high-rise sibling fit into, y'know, the allotted window of time.  Pretty easily, as it turns out.  The Big Sh--er, Paul Wight came out to provide color commentary for Elevation, Dynamite exploded, and finally, the crowd was sent home happy with oodles of Dark matches.  It should be noted that we left just as Dynamite went off the air.

I keep saying "we."  Remember, I'm a nerd (in a wheelchair, no less).  Thus, I was accompanied by my mommy!  In all seriousness, I couldn't have enjoyed this little trip without her.  Pardon me if I repeat myself (she joined me when I caught a Ring of Honor show in 2017), but she's a champ.  Wrestling isn't her bag, although she does like certain guys/gals.  I can say with conviction that she did NOT care for the garbage violence.  L.  O.  L.

Blood doesn't bother me, but I've never been impressed by madcap backyard daredevils.  Nick Gage is...um.  Look, I understand that he can wrestle without muskets and harpoons (now that would be a fucking match), but personally, I'm not a fan.  I'm honestly surprised by the sheer number of fans this guy drew to the Bojangles Coliseum.  I don't get the "psychology."  Fuck Domino's, though.  Their pizza sucks anyway.

I don't have much else to type on the matter other than holy shit, Adam Page is over.  Tony Khan needs to strike while the iron is hot.  Because dude, it's hotter than Anna Jay and Penelope Ford spending seven minutes in heaven.

Album Cover of the Whatever

This one was released last week.  Craven Idol (badass name) sports a sound that sits squarely between thrash and black metal.  There are traces of war metal, but it's not that kind of record.  Check it out.  Most metal goons are salivating over Forked Tongues.  It didn't click with me, but I'm a choosy, captious old man of 407 years.  Or thereabouts.  That's a sick cover, though!

Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust

I have seen one anime film in my life as a nerd.  It was Miyazaki's Princess Mononoke, recommended by a friend.  I thought it was alright, but it didn't set alight a fervent enthrallment with the medium.  I didn't feel a pull to check out other anime titles, or even other Miyazaki vectors.  Ventures?  No, I'm positive that "vector" is the appropriate word.  Don't look it up.  Well, I have now seen two anime films.  I've been familiar with Vampire Hunter D for nearly two decades and I have come close to buying it on occasion.  Why didn't I?  Eh, I'm just not an anime type.  It's hard to explain.  I'm averse to the animation style, for starters.  Simply put, I couldn't see myself relating to the characters and losing myself in a plot thread.

If I were to cozy up to a ration of Japanimation, I knew that this 1985 leech scoop would most likely be my huckleberry.  We follow a vampire hunter (no shit) as he endeavors to run his sword through Count Magnus Lee.  Lee serves as our Dracula, and no, the name is not a coincidence.  Apparently, much of D's gothic trappings are meant to mirror those of Hammer outings.  Hideyuki Kikuchi, the author of the source material, was a big fan of Christopher Lee."

Why the quotation marks?  Because I am presenting the above block of text as a curiosity, a peek into another dimension.  Also, I'm a fucking idiot.  Allow me to explain.  Last night, I watched Vampire Hunter D online.  Or so I thought.  Today, I began my review and I got precisely that far (*points at the second paragraph*) when I realized that I didn't watch Vampire Hunter D.  Between the words that I was reading and writing, something was erroneous.  Glitched up, if you will.  I watched 2000's Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust, the sequel.  How the shit did that happen?  I'm pretty sure that I know, but it's a long and ultimately superfluous story.

Of course, it still holds true that I'm not an anime guy.  The synopsis reads differently, though.  Heh, I was wondering why Count Magnus Lee didn't ring a bell.  Have I mentioned that I'm a fucking idiot yet?  Here, D (the character, not the movie) is paid a handsome amount of gravy tender to retrieve the prized daughter of a rich invalid.  The old financier paid a group of outlaw bounty hunters for the same reason, so I guess it's a race?  In any event, there are obstacles aplenty and it's made all the more complicated when the bird taken hostage decides that she genuinely loves her fanged captor.

Camera angles, shading, framing...the cosmetics are spot-on.  I can't say that I love the overall style (I'm still too American), but Bloodlust is a slick picture.  The script never goes off the rails.  That said, gloomy atmospherics take over when the scaffolding isn't structurally sound.  A main villain is introduced in the third act.  And I do mean "introduced," as her name isn't uttered in the first hour.  That's a no-no.  The only other failing is Left Hand.  If you've seen Bloodlust, you probably know why I detest Left Hand. Fuck Left Hand.

Seriously, fuck Left Hand.  Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust is a cool action/horror anime, and I can see why it (and its predecessor) is often proposed as an approachable film to show someone from another fandom.  Have I been converted?  No.  Robert Z'Dar says, "Tentacle rape or get the fuck out!"

   

What if Death looked like Elmer Fudd?

I got a wicked Space Jam toy at McDonald's today.  Yeah, I called it wicked.  It's a little basketball hoop with Elmer Fudd's face as the backboard.  IT'S AWESOME.  If you make a basket, his hat pops off!  I've been ejaculating for hours, I tell you.  Actually, the reason for this update is to explain the dearth of content this week.  Family's in town and I was busy all day for completely different reasons (mind your own business).  Does that excuse any indolence on my part?  No.  Wait.  Yes, it does.  Fuck you.

I do have the next two "pieces" lined up.  Wait a few days, kitten.  And listen to Sarcofago.

A Cripple Faps at Night

I don't have "write a review" time today.  I do have "write a little something" time lobbed atop a scintilla of "fap violently" time.  I kid, I kid, I tell the truth, whatever.  One of the episodes of Joe Bob's Last Drive-In (renew that Shudder subscription) gives prominence to 2014's A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night.  This Iranian block of vampire noir received a squillion accolades upon its release.  I'm just now catching up with it and...yeah, it definitely exists.  I did love the black-and-white cinematography, the focused cast, and the unique mood.  Really, the key word is "unique."  A Girl doesn't feel like any other film I've seen in recent years.

All of those lovely provisions cannot atone for a pace slower than an octogenarian wearing ankle weights.  Couple that with a fairly skeletal plot and cut to me zonking a snooze.  The 101-minute runtime doesn't help.  I can see why A Girl made waves, but she didn't move me much.

Dead Review Collection #5 - VILE!

I don't know if anyone is reading these things.  Is this all for naught?  Am I alone in the universe?  If so, Cannibal Corpse wouldn't exist.  That would suck.  Besides, I feel like I've talked to people, and if that's the case, my adoration for George "Corpsegrinder" Fisher is floating through the ether, a quark scouring the firmament.  Space debris!  I'm already beginning to wander, but all you need to know is that I'm a huge fan of the silo-necked vocalist.  After Chris Barnes was expatriated from the line-up, Fisher stepped in and screamed down at those who dared to challenge his ascendancy.

Of course, Vile opens with The Neck's mighty roar.  Imagine a demonic baby being pulled from his mother's loving snatch and greeting the world with a stertorous, bedrock-flaying wail that scalds all friars within a 5-mile radius...that's roughly how he sounds.  Reportedly, it took a few takes for George to nail the scream, on account of nerves.  He never fucking looked back.  This isn't a solo release, though.  The rest of the band is hungry, and you can tell from the zig-zag pulse of the rhythm section.  And you bet, the riffs!  These riffs are pissed off.  The main run of notes that opens (and infects) "Orgasm Through Torture" is a personal favorite.

It's almost poetic that the closing chug of "Monolith" is a close runner-up, as it's the last piece of muzak we hear on Vile.  Goodness, there is still much to cover.  For example, the cover!  It's a classic(k) lamina, a slate so repulsive, it made my putz bristle with distress.  My poor, poor putz.  Stepping back a bit to survey the character of the album's chemical composition, there aren't too many traces of The Bleeding.  The dalliance with technicality remains, but by and large, songs are leaner.  Quicker!  We don't hear a rudiment of groove until "Disfigured," the fourth track (I'm not counting transient breakdowns).  Since I brought it up, I don't care for "Disfigured."  Or "Puncture Wound Massacre."

These lesser bangers don't fail for specific reasons; they're just not as memorable, says the author of this review.  It's subjective.  At least they don't bore me, which is a peccancy we'll encounter later in the "collection."  A couple of random findings, if I may...the vocal patterns are killer.  If I were presenting evidence in a court of law, I would cite the chorus of "Mummified in Barbed Wire" as Exhibit A.  Appetizing melody shows its head on "Eaten From Inside" and "Orgasm Through Torture."  I dig "Relentless Beating," an instrumental that goes as hard as the non-instrumentals.  Finally, I refuse to watch the remake of Black Christmas on principle alone.

I can't bring myself to assign a perfect score to Vile.  I heart it (aww), but other CC records are better yet.  Hey, I totally get why some fans rank this maggot-saturated steamroller as George's finest hour as a Corpse.  It's a fun listen, no doubt.  I'm currently listening to Created to Kill (the Vile demo featuring Barnes at the microphone), and while it's far from being an embarrassment, you are woefully mistaken if you believe that the member switch was misguided.  The guy who wrote "Bloody Underwear" and "Amerika the Brutal" does not deserve to front Cannibal motherfucking Corpse.  All hail The Neck.

    

Album Cover of the Whatever

Working on the next review, so until it's ready (damn life getting in the way), here's a wacky thrash cover from 1994.  The band is Hellraiser.  They labor out of Russia, and apparently, they're still active.  I have to say, when it comes to metal collectives named after horror films, I prefer Poltergeist.

Rassle Inn #19

I'm in the mood to write about wrestling, so that is precisely what I'll do.  I don't want my metal-inclined readers to worry (I think I'm safe); my next thesis will be particularly vile.  Back to the main topic!  There isn't a specific event or athlete upon which I was called to confabulate.  Things are simply...interesting.  WWE's Raw has pulled in record-low ratings for two consecutive weeks.  Does Vince McMahon care?  That's a genuine question.  If I'm basing it solely on the content of Raw, I would say no.  Emphatically.  And I would use my outside voice.

At three hours running, WWE's flagship battlewagon (?) is an endurance test.  It's fucking terrible.  I'd almost consider tagging it as "torture porn."  You might be asking yourself why I still watch the show if it's as inept as I claim.  I don't!  I'll read the results out of curiosity, but hand to Satan, every time I tune into the USA Network on Monday nights, it's a rigorous, harrowing venture.  It's beyond stale.  Each card is stacked with matches we've already seen.  The same does not apply to AEW's Dynamite.

Even if you loathe the promotion, you can't argue the fact that Tony Khan manages to present fresh bouts week in, week out.  I say "manages," but when you have a sundry jumble of a roster, it's not that hard.  That's why the sterile flavor of Raw blows my mind.  Knock it off with the brand separation bullshit.  It kinda-sorta made sense when WWF absorbed WCW/ECW talents two decades ago, but in 2021, it's superfluous.  Do you realize that there are less than five female superstars on Smackdown?  Some division.  Don't get me started on WWE's tag team situation.  Don't, I said!

We're seeing more and more wrestlers defect to AEW.  The skeptical among us are reminded of TNA's most vital period (which wasn't terribly vital), but this feels different.  Vince's cast-offs have a wider lagoon of options to choose from and the "direct competition" offers a more stable base of gainful (not to mention lucrative) employment than TNA ever did.  Malakai Black?  Fuck yeah, my dude!  I don't understand why his wife went back to WWE, but hey, that's her business.  Personally, I just signed an extension with Smoky Mountain Wrestling.  I'm in it for the long haul!

Geek Out #150

Jake "The Snake" Roberts and The Ultimate Warrior on a German TV show in 1993???  Apparently, they were both working a tour for World Wrestling's Superstars (post-WWF, obviously).  Get this!  The sword that Warrior is brandishing isn't just for show; he played The Swordsman in an action flick called Firepower.  It looks fucking insane.  Yes, I need to own it.

Blood Capsule #111

TWINS OF EVIL (1971)

I don't usually follow movie reviews with more movie reviews, but I caught an unearthly peregrination (sorry, I just got back from a spelling bee) into vampire lore that bonked my fancy.  We're in Hammer territory.  As a rule, things don't veer off into squalor here, so I know that I'm in capable hands.  Surprisingly, I had not seen this Peter Cushing vehicle, a fanged film about identical twin sisters who go to stay with their zealous uncle.  That would be Cushing, and he has taken it upon himself to cleanse his principality of witches.  It's a Salem situation, but this isn't the typical horror spiel where dozens of pretty peasants are burned at the stake.

Okay, that does happen, but Twins of Evil's nerve center is drained by vampires.  They even have a suitable Count.  And no Lee in sight!  This v-movie (admit it; that was brilliant) works because it's powered and propelled by its plot.  An absorbing story supports the fun embroidery that we love.  Boobs, impressive gore, and a killer atmosphere all make an appearance, but without substance, you're left with frills.  I mean, you would still get boobs.  Courtesy of the Collinson sisters.  Their Playboy pictures may or may not be a Google search away, not that...you've already left, haven't you?

Geez.

Blood & Flesh: The Reel Life...

When a friend recommends a film for review, I shut them out of my life.  Who has time for that kind of meddlesome behavior?  I don't.  Of that, I can assure you.  If that seems harsh, you should know that I've acquiesced in recent years.  Troy Harrison recommended that I rent Anaconda in seventh grade.  They never did find his body.  Again, I find myself tempering my stance.  I've heard the scuttlebutt; I've seen the glowing, near-berserk praise in chat rooms (hehehe).  People are digging this documentary.  I'll fess up and concede that I haven't put many of Adamson's pictures in my holster.  Why doesn't the world call movies "pictures" anymore?  It's cool!  Isn't it?

Blood & Flesh: The Reel Life & Ghastly Death of Al Adamson looks at the auteur's bold career and features interviews with dozens of relevant faces.  For the most part, this is a frolic for cheese connoisseurs.  I had fun learning about the man and his filmmaking philosophy (I can't believe that Roger Corman didn't come up in conversation, so to speak).  And then WHAM!  The viewer hits a wall.  The wall isn't bad from a critic's perspective.  How do I word this?  Aliens.  While doing research for a documentary on UFOs, Adamson dropped the project after his probing groundwork (hey, no smirking) came a little too close to the government.

Roughly a year later, he was dead.  Was he snuffed out by a man in black?  No.  The UFO bit is wedged in a strange spot, but there was little that director David Gregory could feasibly do about it.  He literally documented Adamson's life.  The sequence of events was out of his hands.  So how did the manic mastermind responsible for The Naughty Stewardesses perish?  By the way, I don't feel like these are spoilers per se.  If you disagree, all I can do is offer my condolences to you and your family.  In lieu of flowers, please accept tasteful photographs of my dick.

The third act is jarring.  I'm not sure if the shift in mood is handled with care.  On one hand, a film should carry a flowing lilt, a consistency in tone.  Contrarily, what is more jarring than death?  From an artistic angle, it makes sense for the final chunk of Blood & Flesh to be more grim than every other chunk combined.  Perhaps the scaffolding is perfect.  The Reel Life & Ghastly Death of Al Adamson echoes the life and death of Al Adamson.  Isn't that the whole point of a documentary?

NOTE TO SELF: Check out Nurse Sherri, Blood of Ghastly Horror, Doctor Dracula, Satan's Sadists, Cinderella 2000, and CB4.  Adamson had nothing to do with that last one.  I just want to see it.