Quick note...

I realize that many, many things happened at last night's Summerslam, but I think we can all agree that the return of Io...er, Iyo Sky was the most significant moment of the evening.  We CAN all agree, right?  Just let me be happy.  I'll be honest; I didn't watch the bulk of the PPV.  Thus, I don't have much to say.  Edge's return was telegraphed, which isn't a drawback.  The fans called for him, so they should get him.  Likewise, the "WWE universe" is more comfortable with Becky Lynch as a full-fledged babyface.

It will take time for Triple H to steer his ship out of moiling, tempestuous waters, but we're already seeing the fruits of his labor.  For once, I'm hopeful.

The Anti-Review

Normally, I shun requests, but I entertained the notion of tackling 2018's The VelociPastor.  I was curious to see if it had the balls to approach its zany concept with earnestness and some degree of gravity.  It didn't.  It's still entertaining, though.  Unfortunately, it's review-proof.  The VelociPastor knows that it's a joke, so any holes I tried to poke in its pulmonary cavity would be dubious at best.  I feel like a failure!

I'm going to take a couple of days to rest my skull, but I'll return with a five-part review series that looks at...well, I shouldn't give it away.  Don't worry; it's not interesting.

Geek Out #155

You'll hear heshers defend their gatekeeping ways by insisting that you couldn't possibly understand because "you weren't there."  Oh, a hesher is a dyed-in-the-wool heavy metal adherent, usually associated with 80's thrash.  What does that have to do with The Mangler?  Well, I've often (maybe once) been asked why I've subjected myself to the film on multiple occasions.  My answer is simple, and it has nothing to do with laundry liturgy.  To be frank, you weren't there.  You weren't there, man!

1995 was the last year I can remember where flaky, ham-fucked b-movies could be given wide theatrical releases.  Imagine it.  Movies as splashy and preposterous as Tales From the Hood, Species, and Halloween: The Curse of Michael Myers (eek) were consumed on a global level.  The infestation was widespread.  Clearly, The Mangler is deficient entertainment, but it's a token from a bygone era.  And I was there.  You wouldn't understand!

This is Gwar

I consider myself to be a casual Gwar fan.  As a kid, I simply regarded them as a regular on Beavis & Butthead.  It never occurred to me that they wrote actual songs and released actual albums.  The music itself didn't skim my neurological sensors until 2001's Violence Has Arrived, a meaty millstone for the band.  They decided to get serious.  And heavy.  The end result is seriously heavy, and their subsequent sets maintained a stabbing, discriminatory level of advanced musicianship.  That's just one facet of the Gwar universe, though.  The others are explored in This is Gwar, an exhaustive documentary hosted by horror streaming service Shudder.

I knew the basics, but this film dissects Gwar's inception in blood-streaked detail.  The project was torn between the punk/hardcore scene and the humbling, opprobrious world of independent filmmaking.  It's a small miracle that the band we know as Gwar shot past those early years of enterprising struggle.  When they focused on jamming, they meted out sterling, first-rate boneshakers (I'm mainly referring to 1990's Scumdogs of the Universe and 1991's America Must Be Destroyed; the latter is a personal favorite).  Am I the only loser who enjoys 1994's This Toilet Earth?  It's a fun record full of punk pyrotechnics and the kind of bonehead riffs that appeal to my inner Beavis.

Musically, Gwar wasn't exactly innovative, but they managed to siphon fandom from all walks of life.  This doc proves it by featuring interviews with "Weird" Al Yankovic, Randy Blythe (Lamb of God), and Thomas Lennon (The State, Reno! 911).  It goes without saying that there are plenty of segments where humor spills over into the running story arc.  Surprisingly, there are just as many moments of genuine emotion.  Tearful, lachrymose recollections of both Cory Smoot and Dave Brockie take up most of the third act.  It's a bummer, man.  Disregarding death, the film ends on a defiant note, which is surely how Oderus would have wanted it.

I'll be honest.  I haven't checked out the latest Gwar offerings, so maybe I should recuse myself from any position of judgment.  I did, however, order a copy of Skulhedface on VHS.  It will kick my ass.  In summation, you don't need to be a Gwar junkie to appreciate This is Gwar.  Hell, it might prompt you to become a fan.  I'd recommend starting with Violence Has Arrived, as it served as the soundtrack to my initiation.  If it sounds like I joined a cult, it's because I...well, I joined a cult.

    

Interruption, Interrupted

Originally, this post was going to be a review for the above comic book (a banger from 1954), but then life happened.  Two days ago, I had a minor procedure to replace my trach.   I had to stay overnight to do a sleep study, which turned out to be a waste of time (long story).  So basically, blah.  The next thing I write will probably be a movie review.  Stay tuned!?

Album Cover of the Whatever

I don't listen to a lot of brutal death metal, or tech-death.  It's a silly label.  Overlooking their subgenre diagnosis, I do like Deeds of Flesh.  This is the cover of their debut release, a fine EP by the name of Gradually Melted.  I'm listening to it right now, and dude, it smacks your face off.  As for the cover, the artist implemented a comic book style that befits the music.  Do yourself a favor and put it in your ears.

Rassle Inn #30

For years and years (and years), fans have been clamoring for this moment.  Well, those prayers have been answered.  Starting on the 18th, WWE's Monday Night Raw will be rated TV-14.  The much-maligned PG era of sports entertainment has come to an end.  My question is, so what?  I hate to sound misanthropic, especially on a day when so many others are celebrating, but what does this change, aside from an arbitrary watermark?  Inferior booking is still inferior booking.  Coarse language and skimpy clothing cannot (and will not) improve three hours of bloated television.

I'll give you an example.  Fuck!  Shit!  Piss!  Does this paragraph have greater value due to its inclusion of toilet words?  Yes.  Wait, I mean, no.  No, it doesn't.  I'm wondering how this will impact the women's division.  Diva segments had become so childish and sophomoric, it took a theoretically organic "revolution" to stem the tide.  Then again, I'm not sure that anything was reduced or modified.  Several superstars have quietly undergone breast augmentation surgery.  Plus, you've got the whole "hush money" scandal.  What rating would WWE be given behind the cameras?  I don't see there being too many TV-Y7 episodes of Vinnie Mac's Long Lunch.

The Attitude Era is propped up by near-revisionists.  It was unquestionably stacked with outstanding pro-wrestling, but do you know what else was outstanding?  The roster, the timing, the simple storylines...we can't reverse the clock.  Jesus, I sound like I'm preaching the apocalypse.  I need to pepper this column with positivity.  Raw...won't get worse.  That's all I can muster.  You'll often hear me say that I prefer AEW, and I do, but it's not because Jade Cargill loves to call herself a bitch.  It's just a better show.  Ironically, Smackdown was a TV-PG product during the exalted stretch of time where Paul Heyman was in charge of creative.

Okay, I'm done griping.  Here is Terri Runnels in a bikini.

Blood Capsule #125

VICIOUS LIPS (1986)

I watched this motherfucker with a friend earlier today.  If I had watched it on my own, I'd be in Hell right now.  I'm not intimating a presumptive suicide; I'm alluding to a murder/suicide that only happened in my imagination.  The murder victim?  The above anteater, a "character" who introduced himself before throwing to an all-female rock band.  In space.  See, it was at this moment that I realized I had just wasted 80-ish minutes of my life.  My friend was a tad more forgiving, but you're not reading his review.  Ostensibly, 1986's Vicious Lips is about a girl who joins the film's forked rendering of The Bangles after winning a talent contest.

All of this happens in space, by the way.  And if your b-movie is futuristic, you can get away with a few lapses in logic.  Lips, however, takes a powder and forsakes logic in the same way that God has forsaken me by execrating my home with this heinous hydra.  It's bad enough that the pacing is, shall we say, disinclined, but nothing makes sense.  NOTHING.  Dream sequences are sprouted within dream sequences.  The snozberries taste like snozberries!  Paul (the forgiving friend) wanted me to dive deeper into the plot, but I'd rather drag my cock across asphalt.  Ahem...I did not care for this motion picture.

Mansion of the Doomed

I've never been fond of hospitals.  Even if I'm visiting someone and I'm fortunate enough to be sitting next to a gurney (as opposed to lying in it), the deceptively sterile environment blights my nerves.  The needles, the tubes, the hot nurses I'm never allowed to victimize...it's a dour, off-putting scene.  My recent stay at an Aesculapian* institution has only compounded these feelings.  It's only natural that "medical horror" flicks hit below the belt.  1976's Mansion of the Doomed is one such flick.  I charged into it expecting liberal nips of cheese.  Charles Band owns a producer's credit, after all.  But while Doomed is lined with junky Grindhouse features (the poster tells you everything you need to know), it functions as a grim, gory sliver of entertainment.

Dr. Chaney is a respected ophthalmologist.  He looks like a cross between Tom Atkins and Klaus Kinski, which I suspect contributes to his prosperity in the field.  Anyhow, a car accident claims his daughter's vision.  He doesn't seem to appreciate the irony.  Go figure.  Given the fact that Chaney is a mad scientist, he immediately begins to abduct hapless candidates for ocular transplants.  He obsesses over the procedure, resorting to crude experiments that create a small army of eyeless terrors in his basement.  Halfway through the film, he has an epiphany.  "I know; I'll just rip out their fucking eyeballs!"  I'm paraphrasing, but Christ in a shopping cart, it took him years of research to come to the realization that he could simply hollow out an eye socket???

Chaney is an awkward dude, and now that I think about it, all of the players are arranged in a clunky manner.  Nancy - the daughter in question - is more naïve than an ostrich that was born yesterday (give it time...it still won't make any sense).  The immortal Lance Henriksen is privy to the best material.  He portrays Dan, the stoic boyfriend who loses his sight to Chaney's wicked forceps.  Blindness doesn't stop him from kicking ass, though.  The supporting cast is serviceable.  To be perfectly honest, you're not going to watch Doomed for nuanced character interaction.  This thing is about atmosphere, loads and loads of atmosphere.  To that end, the title is most appropriate.

A young Stan Winston manned the special effects unit.  The make-up is genuinely disturbing, so I must tip my typing wand to Stanley's handiwork.  Director Michael Pataki wrings striking imagery out of fairly simplistic locations.  Again, typing wand tipped.  I'm surprised that he didn't continue to peg away in our beloved genre.  His only other feature?  Guess.  Go ahead.  Fucking Cinderella!  Apparently, it's a chintzy R-rated version of the fairy tale.  And I have no earthly idea how to end this review.  Mansion of the Doomed is rock solid...no, that's a shitty closer.  Oh, I've got it.  How will I end my roaming twaddle?  Guess.  Go ahead.

*Medical.  Why I had to use that flippin' word...er, learning is fun?

   

Primus happened here today...

Apropos of absolutely, positively nothing, here is...Primus!  Because.

Rassle Inn #29

It has been a fair number of months since I last retched out one of these columns.  Has the wrestling landscape changed in the interim?  Yes.  For the worse.  Look, I'm not the kind of smart mark who makes a habit out of carping and grousing on the current state of pro rasslin', but certain failings are simply glaring.  AEW won't make it out of this blurb unscathed either.  At the very least, The Fed seems to be drawing impressive numbers and feathering its nest with dollars on top of dollars.  The product is irrelevant, apparently.

On the subject of irrelevance, does it even matter who steps in as CEO?  Vince still has creative control, scandals be damned.  On the other network, the guy in charge is in over his head.  Tony Khan's callow inexperience is bleeding through to both of his television shows.  While I prefer AEW by an olympic mile, it can't be argued that the inflated roster is drowning in excess titles and a superfluity of tournaments.  The fact that the All-Atlantic Championship is being contested in Japan should tell you something.  Ask yourself; do you honestly care who wins the belt?

I understand that the recent rash of injuries hasn't helped anyone, but this should have been seen as an opportunity to focus on homegrown stars.  The casual viewer isn't familiar enough with Hiroshi Tanahashi or Kazuchika Okada.  Jay White and Will Ospreay are generational talents, but they're getting lost in the shuffle.  Okay, I'm done bellyaching.  In spite of what I deem as imperfections, I look forward to Wednesday nights.  I fucking dread Monday nights.  And then there are Friday nights.  Goddamn.  On the whole, Smackdown is watchable spurtz entertainment, but I cannot abide by Max Dupri's Male Model Cumporium, or whatever the fuck it's called.  What happened here?  What???  Happened???

Remember when Eli Drake had a credible future?  'Tis a pity.  Right now, the most consistent promotion in the United States might be MLW.  Note that I didn't say "best," but give it a looksee.  MLW's flagship show is on YouTube, and mercifully, it only runs for an hour.  Brevity is the soul of shi--er, wit.  Brevity is the soul of wit.

Werewolf of London

I've said this a million times, but I'm out of the loop, and I always have been.  Ever since my near-life experience, I've been further away from the loop than any mortal soul on Satan's black earth.  I'm speaking in relation to all modes of society (music, politics, etc.), but if you want to get particular, I'm out of the horror loop.  Teenaged Dom had his bony finger on the supine pulse of the genre.  Now?  I wouldn't know a contemporary release if it jammed a PVC pipe into my spaghetti rim and notified my legal counsel.  Sorry for the visual.  I know that ambulance chasers tend to turn the stomach.

I broach these topics to tell you why I decided to dip back into 1935 for today's review.  See, the sodomy joke had purpose and meaning.  You would never know it, but Werewolf of London is a Universal classic.  For reasons I can't quite fathom, the renowned studio doesn't tout it as a seminal windfall for werewolves.  1941's The Wolf Man hogs the glory.  Let it be known that London was conceived first, and in this writer's opinion, it towers above its successor.  The film establishes many of the plot contrivances associated with lycanthropes.  The full moon, the means of "curse transference," an exotic plant influencing the victim's piecemeal mutation...this stuff wasn't derived from a literary source.

The story is basic enough.  Brilliant botanist Dr. Glendon is off on an excursion to pin down a rare flower, the Mariphasa.  The significance of the perennial bud (NOTE: I know dick about plants) doesn't come into play until later, but apparently, it hampers the progression of...er, Werewolf Syndrome.  Upon returning home, our protagonist-cum-antagonist is bitten by a flamingo.  Or maybe it was a wolf of some sort.  One of the two.  You can write in the rest.  Henry Hull commands the screen as Dr. Glendon.  It's a shame that he didn't act in more spookshows, as his striking features suit villainous roles.  And is it just me or is he the eidetic image of Jordan Peterson?

Warner Oland is rock solid as Dr. Yogami, a compeer suspicious of Glendon.  The entire troupe is game.  Characters are developed to where they need to be, and that's dandy, but I want to discuss the atmosphere.  Director Stuart Walker brews a tempestuous amalgam of dread and dismay.  The black-and-white cinematography is handsome (yes, handsome), and speaking of the camera, I dug the action shots.  At times, they are filmed behind some obstruction, which makes the viewer feel like a distant spectator to chaos.  It's neat.  Neat-o, even.

Does Werewolf of London take any missteps?  I must say, flaws are scanty.  I'm not comfortable assigning a perfect rating, but I seldom engage in 5-Z'Dar exhibitionism.  This critter comes awfully close, though.  Seek it out and make it a Dombuster night!

    

Album Cover of the Whatever

Now with more pixels!  So why another album cover so soon, you may (not) be asking yourself?  I'm bored.  This artwork belongs to a record that I actually listened to earlier today.  The band is Famyne, a doomy hard rock collective.  The release is eponymous.  They're fairly new on the scene, and it seems like I discovered them after everyone else.  I'm detecting grunge pheromones, a most pleasant balm in 2022.  As for the cover, it would have made 7-year-old Dom cry (even now, I'm misty-eyed...keep your opinions to yourself).  What kind of nightmarish sky crone is that?  NOTE TO SELF: Check the closet tonight for sky crones.