Parts Unknown #109: One Night Only

I've been watching a lot of 1997 WWF lately.  The Attitude Era was gestating, but there were still a few residual welts and pockmarks handed down by the New Generation.  Creatively speaking, this was a fantastic year, even with the company's identity crisis.  The product was somewhere in between juvenile gimmickry (see Dude Love) and scatological ECW mimicry (see Steve "The Sandman" Austin).  To be more specific, this PPV took place a mere two months before The Montreal Screwjob.  It was the last televised event to utilize the classic WWF ring/rope combo.  Man, I miss those ropes.

Oh, and we're in the UK, which means that The British Bulldog is a babyface and he is defending an accessory title in the main event.  According to manifold, ratiocinative statistical analysis (that I carefully removed from my asshole), the European Championship became 549% less prestigious after Shawn Michaels bellyached his way to a title reign.

PROS

~ The Dude Love/Hunter Hearst Helmsley match is entirely too long, but it's noteworthy for one reason.  HHH bends the rules and the referee fucking flips out.  I've never seen an official pwn a wrestler like this.  He's all, "I'm the ref!  You don't tell me what to do!"  Trips is all, "Jesus, dude.  Calm down!"  I'm all, "Woah, that was badass.  Show him who's boss, Not Earl Hebner!"  I'm sorry; I'm obtuse in the field of referee names.

~ The Headbangers retain the tag team straps against Los Boricuas.  How did Savio and Miguel (educated guess...I'm totally blanking on the second member) become the No. #1 Contenders?  That didn't deserve to be capitalized.  At any rate, this was well-paced and highly entertaining.  I can't believe that Mosh and Thrasher are able to collocate such stately pops from foreign marks.  Good for them.

~ I will begrudgingly list The Patriot versus Flash Funk as a pro.  Why?  It's so goddamn surreal.  Trial Run Kurt Angle doesn't seem to know how to respond to crowd heat.  Patriot, dude...heels aren't supposed to hulk up.  We get an athletic back-and-forth, but here again, it drags on past the point of diversion.

~ Ah, have I mentioned that I treasure a stacked tag team division?  The Godwinns rassle The Legion of Doom, and I'm the primary beneficiary.  The match itself is nothing special.  I'm easy to please.

~ Owen Hart serves as the fan favorite in a scrap with Vader.  The Rocket was so good at playing the underdog.  He is brutalized and dehumanized for twelve minutes, only to stage a dramatic comeback.  Of course, it's not enough to topple The Mastodon.  Fuck, what a match.  It would stand as my favorite on the card, but we also have...

~ Bret Hart versus The Undertaker in a Summerslam rematch.  I can't decide which altercation I prefer.  The SS bout has a better ending.  This bout might have better grappling and psychology, but it's too close to call.  Just watch both.

CONS

~ For years, I wondered why Tiger Ali Singh never found success in the Federation.  Then I saw this match.  He faces Leif Garrett (Al Snow), the surviving half of the defunct New Rockers (I'm pretty sure that Marty Jannetty had vamoosed to WCW by this point).  Apart from a thimbleful of power moves, Singh was clueless.  Amazingly, he trained in a Japanese dojo.  How is it that his professional zenith came as the manager of Lo Down?  Yikes!

~ I won't mince words.  HBK/Bulldog is an anticlimax.  Shawn is disinterested, and the finish leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.  The title shouldn't have changed hands.  I don't mean to suggest that Davey Boy was a saint, but that was his night.  Plus, the match is simply sloppy, although I'm in the minority.  Consider my shoulders shrugged.

By and large, 1997's One Night Only is loads of fun.  Check it out.  Or Los Boricuas will stare at you.

Album Cover of the Week

It was a crazy day, so I moved the ACOTD (is this important enough to abbreviate?) up a day.  I can do that.

Thanks - again - to Matt.

Matches That Time Forgot #46

Time forgot this match as soon as the pinfall was counted.  We're knee-deep in "random midcard" territory, as Gangrel squares off against The Blue Meanie (circa '99).  I've talked about Gangrel before.  I still consider him to be an underrated worker, and I'm surprised that his name isn't dropped more often.  Obviously, no braggadocio is going to exultantly hotdog about spotting the guy in public ("So I brushed sleeves with GANGREL the other day.").  I just don't understand why he isn't mentioned in casual wrestling conversations.  Fuck, maybe he is...I'm going to pretend that the bulk of this paragraph doesn't exist.  Um, The Blue Meanie!

This match occurred after Bluedust and The J.O.B. Squad.  We are way past any "success" he had in ECW.  His tiff with JBL is six years into the future, as is his conditional contract with Vince (it's a widely held belief that he was only hired by WWE in the mid-00's to stymie threats of legal action...jump to Wikipedia).  Basically, this is The Blue Meanie at his most irrelevant.  That's saying something, folks.  It's not that I dislike him per se, but how many quality Blue Meanie matches have you seen?  That don't involve The Mexicools?  I'll concede that I smirked whenever he would call Goldust Mommy.  Because I'm an idiot.

Geek Out #68

Normally, I don't like to post full movies as Geek Outs, but since the next two entries will be wrestling-related, I thought this would even things out a bit.  Please enjoy The Norliss Tapes, a made-for-TV motion picture from the 70's.  I might watch it myself.  It's hard to find on DVD for an equitable price, and it was never available on Netflix.  According to most horror buffs, this caliginous creeper is a keeper.

A small fraction of my room...

Indulge me.  I've been playing with my new digital camera, and I took a few photos of my posters (I don't have any wall space left).  Other photos were attempted, but they came out too blurry.  Eventually, I would like to have photographic evidence of my various collections.  This may take awhile, considering that my relationship with technology is rocky at best.  Bear in mind, I have to depend on someone else to take the pictures.  My mother doesn't own a computer, and my father can barely handle Facebook.  So yeah.

Anyway, here is this.  Isn't it beautiful?

And then we have a double whammy of badassitude.

And finally...Road Warrior Animal, Suicide (lay off, it was a cool gimmick), The Uso's, The Ultimate (motherfucking) Warrior and "Macho Man" Randy Savage present the Italian one-sheet for Creepshow.

Nikos: The Impaler

To the untrained eye, low-budget splatter flicks cater to a scanty, linear audience with abject standards.  I know people who assume that hardcore horror fans will lap up anything with immoderate gore, especially if the film in question was shot under destitute circumstances.  And that's true to a certain degree.  We appreciate do-it-yourself productions because in most cases, there is palpable heart behind the camera.  However, you don't get a free pass on the strength of intentions alone.  Speaking for myself, I still need to be entertained by your sanguinary shocker, and I can only hand out so many plaudits for the attention to detail shown during a scene where a disrobed sultana's bare breasts are forcibly removed.

By the way, I heard that The Oogieloves in the Big Balloon Adventure was being advertised as The Tit Ripper in Serbia.  I cannot vouch for the veracity of that claim.  Anywho, 2003's Nikos: The Impaler was directed by German gore kingfish Andreas Schnaas.  Of course, Schnaas is best known as the purveyor of the Violent Shit trilogy.  He will never be accused of misleading prospective viewers.  I've only seen the original, but that was back in my "anti-SOV" days.  I have since developed a taste for handheld horror movies, and I should probably revisit said cult classic.  Nikos was alternately titled Violent Shit 4 in a few countries.  Make no mistake; this execrable tableau has nothing to do with Karl the Butcher (the real VS4 was turned loose in 2010).

The plot is painfully simple.  A rancorous barbarian is killed in the Whateverteenth century.  He vows to rise from the dead, and sure enough, Nikos (that's his name, see) is resurrected in an art gallery.  In present day New York.  You know what that means, don't you?  Schnaas interjects plenty of reaction shots on assiduous city streets, which reminded me of Jason Takes Manhattan.  Yes, that's a good thing.  On the business end of this spiny cutlass, I would rather sit through the eighth installment of the Friday the 13th franchise than relive the finite marvels of Nikos.  There is some fun to be had.  The pace is alert, the blood is bloody and certain moments are too campy to cast aside (dig the shower scene).  But...yeah, I was somewhat let down.

Is it just me or are the special effects subpar?  The carnage looked like crud, even for a Schnaas vehicle.  Hell, Violent Shit boasted more realistic violence, and that's fucking saying something.  Furthermore, all of the characters are bitingly exasperating.  I wanted to disembowel Felissa Rose, and don't get me started on the bootless cameos.  If it weren't for the gore, Nikos: The Impaler wouldn't have much to fall back on.  I don't want to come across as a parochial fussbudget.  Splatter is alright, in my book.  It's better as a side dish.  Here, Schnaas wants it to be the main course, but he lacks the talent to pull it off without a hitch.  Robert Z'Dar says, "My jaw is always mistaken for Karl the Butcher."

Shitty Webcam Movie Review Site Update I Have Heartburn #8

I talk about comic books.

And down will come Dom, cradle and all...

Blargh!  I'm sleepy, but tomorrow, I'll post a movie review AND a new video.  Until then, I'm going to sleep.  So don't bother me.

Album Cover of the Week

Dead Links #7

Stuart Gordon's Lab Report

Charles Band really, really wants people to visit Full Moon's official website.  He is always running sales, adding new items to the store and uploading a trailer for whichever pointless sequel he happens to be peddling at the time.  I'm man enough to admit that I bookmarked the online command post (or nerve center, if you prefer) of his madness.  There is something about Full Moon.  I can't place it, but I find myself going back to those flicks time and time again.  Without reservation, I can promise that I'll be covering a few of them as we forge through a most hyperborean winter.

Band is smart.  He knew that he would need more than just a scopious back catalog of b-movies to solicit repeat visitors to his digital base of operations, so he asked horror savant Stuart Gordon to contribute a column.  Dubbed the Lab Report, this monthly (close to bi-weekly) feature relays spellbinding anecdotes involving all of the stuff on Gordon's resume.  It's fucking great.  The dude knows how to tell a story, and obviously, the content is exceedingly interesting to genre nerds.  On-set pranks, oblique factoids, memorable encounters (I loved reading about his dinner with Roald Dahl), even journalism (check out his tactful, reasoned review of Prometheus)...I could devour a Bible-sized tome of these deliberations.

Hmm, perhaps I should implore a celebrity to write a column for Random Reviews.  Yes!  I can see it now - Clint Howard: Resident Mexican Food/Dwarf Tossing Correspondent.

No Bronies Allowed

I'm slacking on the archive project, but you'll be seeing more and more underlined words appear at the top of every page in the coming weeks.  I think I'll save Parts Unknown for last.  A dispiriting endeavor, that.  There are so fucking many of them.  Baby steps, Dom...baby steps.  At least I found a "good" show to prosect for the next entry.

Have you joined the Random Reviews Facebook Fan Club yet?  You haven't?  Assjack almighty!  Stop what you're doing and click HERE!  I'm going to start posting Club-exclusive content, so drop by and find out what nonsense I've impetuously decided to plaster onto the wall today.

Hmm, I need a picture.  Here's Demolition Crush.

Blood Capsule #21

PET SEMATARY II (1992)

I didn't go gaga over 1989's Pet Sematary, but I recognize it as an above-average gallimaufry of heartfelt spooks.  This dropsical sequel exchanges heart for...more spooks.  Director Mary Lambert returns with a fistful of dollars, and most of that coinage goes to expert animal trainers and exaggerated gore effects.  Her music video background comes in handy.  There are scads of arresting visuals and ingenious camera tricks.  I'm not saying that the script is completely devoid of merit.  I wanted to warm up to Jeff, a pensive teen who witnesses the tragic death of his celebrity mother on the set of a horror film.  Unfortunately, early 90's go-to child actor Edward Furlong isn't given much to work with.  I'm a fan (Brainscan fucking rules), but here, he is elbowed into turning in a humdrum performance.

The rest of the cast is willing and able.  Clancy Brown has fun hamming it up as a prick stepfather sheriff (the worst kind of sheriff).  Character-wise, the side players are relegated to "stereotype" status.  The bullies are so paper-thin, that Roger Klotz wouldn't even associate with them.  Yeah, I went there.  Maybe it was my nervous stomach (it turns out that Calabash shrimp and strawberry-flavored marshmallows don't mix) or the off-putting cuddly critter violence (fake, yet eerily realistic), but I couldn't wait for Pet Sematary II to end.  It didn't help matters that the damn thing was never in a hurry to resolve itself.  'Tis definitely watchable.  However, there are better ways to get your Furlong fix.

Geek Out #67

I've been searching for a legit copy of this "film" forever.  I need to see it.  I'm not fucking around here.  Look at me.  LOOK AT ME!  I need to see Saurians.  Just watch this clip, and tell me it's not fucking brilliant.

Shitty Webcam Movie Review Site Update I Have Heartburn #7

Mainly just an update.

Lake of Dracula

Toho may be known for their kaiju blockbusters, but they dabbled in other areas of interest.  In the early 70's, they took a stab at echoing the Gothic chromaticity of Hammer films.  1971's Lake of Dracula is part of a loose trilogy of vampire romps that percolates through European cues.  It was an open-and-shut case of a major studio mining a proven formula.  Plagiarism will never aggregate animadversion (???).  Why come up with an original idea when you can simply crib someone else's original idea?  I realize that I'm starting this review on a fussy, captious note, but Lake of Dracula is a pleasant watch.  All the same, I want to get my bitching out of the way first.  Negativity comes naturally for horror curmudgeons such as myself.  It's my website; I can sulk if I want to!

My main issue has nothing to do with the visual aspects of this Japanese neck-chomper.  If looks could kill, Lake of Dracula would be a sniper rifle.  It's just that...well, it's forgettable.  I watched it this afternoon, and I'm sitting here trying to piece the script together.  I can't seem to untangle the chain of events that led to the third act.  I was wide awake, too.  The only images obtruding in my memory involve bland characters reacting to the most jejune, mildewed vampire cliches imaginable.  You'd think that Lake of Dracula would taste uniquely Asian.  In truth, it's an Asian person's interpretation of a Hammer flick (and by "interpretation," I mean "stock rehash").

Did writers Ei Ogawa and Masaru Takesue even bother viewing the productions that they were attempting to emulate?  Lake of Dracula has a dearth of witty dialogue, character empathy and menacing stalk sequences.  See, Horror of Dracula and Taste the Blood of Dracula came equipped with that kind of stuff.  That's why they have replay value.  This bloodletting lightweight lifts the surface atmosphere from those classics, but neglects to make room for depth.  I don't regret cramming it into my VCR, though.  There are enough positives here to justify three whole Z'Dars.

Prevailingly, the special effects are rock solid.  Lake of Dracula does skimp on gore, but we get an icky impalement to savor.  The main mosquito (I don't believe that he's Dracula in a literal sense) has a wicked, blanched countenance, as do his transfixed minions.  I spotted bats, coffins, fog banks, a creepy castle...basically, the prototypical staples that stiffen my member.  Get your mind out of the gutter; I'm talking about my cock.  Geez.  I can't say that I was ever bored.  While Lake of Dracula didn't leave a lasting impression on me, it was paced reasonably well.  Still, I'm glad that Toho kept kaiju at the top of their priority list.  RANDOM FACTOID: This movie was released on home video by Paramount.  I thought that was weird.

Album Cover of the Week

Another Dad request.

Matches That Time Forgot #45

For this match that time forgot, we travel all the way back to 2010.  Believe it or not, the landscape of the WWE was markedly different.  The Undertaker was feuding with his bald, maskless half-brother (again), the brand split was still in effect and the tag team division was dwindling with the disequilibrium of a doddering duckbill damselfly with dick cancer.  At present, tag teams are a work in progress, but give credit where it's due.  We're in the midst of an honest-to-goodness tag team tournament to determine the number one contenders for Team Hell No's straps (I was sad to see that Well Dunn didn't even advance to the first round).

This bout involves a pair of pairs who weren't allowed to get a running start before being disbanded.  The Dudebusters debuted on ECW and proceeded to loiter on Smackdown for...a year maybe?  If that?  Caylen Croft and the barely-employed-in-2012 Trent Baretta were endowed with a failsafe gimmick; they liked video games!  The Gatecrashers were only known as The Gatecrashers for a couple of weeks.  Originally ushered in by Vickie Guerrero, Vance Archer and barely-employed-in-2012 (I'm noticing a theme) Curt Hawkins quickly became a "this guy and that guy" tag team.  They were supposed to be heels, but they were about as over as the breakout superstars of NXT Season 4.

Now, this match took place in August.  Caylen Croft and Vance Archer were future endeavored in November.  But God bless 'em, they try!  This is a simmering contest with plenty of back and forth action.  The finish is sweet, as Trent executes a nasty rope-assisted DDT for the clean win.  Alas, the crowd doesn't give a furtive, facinorous frick-a-fuck.  I can understand why these teams weren't pushed straight away, but I can't understand why they weren't given a fair shot.  Hey, remember when Superstars was a TV show?

28 Years Later

Taking the day off.  It's my birthday, so I can do whatever I want.  Tomorrow, I'll be posting...actually, I haven't decided yet.  I have a strict "no thinking" rule when it comes to birthdays.

Coccarosaur

So I'm on a Godzilla kick. Technically, I've been on a Godzilla kick for 27 years (well, 28 as of tomorrow).  I can't explain it.  I've just been in a Godzilla mood lately.  I watched Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla II this morning.  I've been guilty of deriding the Heisei series, but the more I watch these flicks, the more I appreciate them.  This entry, in particular, impressed the dry roasted pistachios out of me.  The first battle between Big G and Rodan?  Holy fuckles, it's badass.  The shot composition, the art direction, the battle itself...at one point, Godzilla simply strangles Rodan with his bare goddamn hands!

I did some reading up on The Godzilla Power (half) Hour, the 70's cartoon that was co-produced by Toho and Hanna-Barbera.  Yeah, I need to watch it.  A handful of episodes stomped their way onto DVD, though it would be nice to see an official box set.  Oh, I also discovered that a Toho/Hammer co-production about The Loch Ness Monster very nearly happened.  The funding fell through and the project was abandoned.  UGH.

Terrorgram

It's time to put another obscure anthology in the catbird seat.  1988's Terrorgram is a paint-by-numbers caucus, joining three tales of terrifying...terror by the hip.  For all I know, they could have been sewn together ass-to-mouth, which wouldn't surprise me.  We are in z-grade territory, after all.  I'm not privy to concrete numbers, but apparently, the makers of Terrorgram had enough money to ensnarl a name actor.  Well, his vocal chords anyway.  The vignettes are introduced by the rumbling timbre of James Earl Jones.  He is credited as The Voice of Retribution.  Naturally, retribution is a recurring theme, and that's why I described the film as "paint-by-numbers."  Just off the top of my head, I can't think of a genre anthology that doesn't involve snide, unsavory characters being accosted by just desserts.

There should be a bakery called Just Desserts.  Hey, I should tweet that.  Right...the title is literal.  Each story finds the lead receiving a package from a mysterious delivery boy.  It's a terrorgram.  Get it?  Get it???  We aren't treated to a wrap-around narrative, but between you and me, we don't need one.  The opening segment is my least favorite.  Allow me to trot out an itemized list.

"Heroine Overdose" ~ The misspelling is intentional.  A sleazoid exploitation director storms off the set of his latest cinematic abortion.  Upon retreating to his office for a tincture of flea powder (that's street slang for shabby China White, ya dig?), he collects his terrorgram.  Oooooh!  What's in the mystery package?  His own scripts.  He is directly transported to a Twilight Zone-esque parallel dimension where gender roles are reversed.  It isn't long before he is antagonized by corrupt cops with big boobs, lecherous mechanics with big boobs and volatile bikers with big boobs.

This premonitory parcel wears out its welcome.  It takes too long for the horror to kick in, although I did appreciate the hammy acting.  There are several references to cult b-movies.  I couldn't tell if the jabs at trash auteurs were fun-loving or demeaning.  Either way, "Heroine Overdose" leaves a lot to be desired.

"Pandora" ~ A vainglorious TV reporter accidentally hits a little boy with her car.  Fearing the adverse effect that manslaughter might have on her career, she drives away from the scene of a crime.  Her terrorgram comes in the form of a jack-in-the-box, the same toy that her dead pedestrian was clutching at the moment of impact.  This is a vast improvement over the first yarn.  The gore is grisly (love the zombie make-up), the lighting is moody and the ending has "EC comics" written all over it.  We're batting .500; will Terrorgram's denouement nudge our average skyward or earthward?

"Veteran's Day" ~ Eric is a dickwad.  Years prior, he outed his friend as a draft-dodger.  Said friend would go on to perish in Vietnam, and you can probably tell where this is heading.  Eric is forced to relive his fallen comrade's harrowing demise.  The tone is much more solemn here.  I detected shades of House, but unfortunately, Big Ben was a no-show.  Again, the special effects are impressive.  I don't have any nagging complaints, so I guess this is my favorite vignette.  Eh, I'd say it's a toss-up.  If you replaced "Heroine Overdose" with something respectable, I wouldn't have a problem with calling Terrorgram a hidden classic.

Meat Loaf had a point.  Two out of three ain't bad.  Writer/director Stephen M. Kienzle is clearly talented.  Strangely enough, Terrorgram is the lone credit on his IMDb page.  I would have liked to see what else he could conjure up, but I'm afraid we'll never know.  I'm still nonplussed by the presence of Darth Vader's pipes.  James Earl Jones should have played every role in this flick.  And in Star Wars.

Shitty Webcam Site Update Movie Review I Have Heartburn #6

I talk about The Cabin in the Woods and Godzilla vs. Gigan.

Geek Out #66

Here is one-third of an unaired Elvira pilot (hit up YouTube for the rest).  It's...glorious.  Why wasn't this picked up???

Album Cover of the Week

As per my father's request.

Parts Unknown #108: Saturday Morning Slam

It took a month of sleeping past noon (I don't get along with alarm clocks), but I finally woke up in time to catch Saturday Morning Slam.  Yeah, I could watch it online.  As I said in one of my video updates, I felt that it was important to watch this show as it was meant to be seen.  Besides, this gave me an excuse (albeit flimsy) to relive my childhood.  I miss taking in cartoons and wrestling on Saturday mornings.  Who doesn't?  Being a kid is fucking killer.  The question is, did I bother with cartoons or did I forge ahead to the feature presentation?

Dumb question!  I was committed to this semblant experiment, so I watched Iron Man: Armored Adventures and Justice League: Unlimited.  The latter was a tad clumsy, but the former?  I must admit, Iron Man is tense and well-written (relatively speaking).  I imagine that it's popular with superhero votaries.  It should be anyway.  Okay, on with the program...prepare for flank speed because I'm about to revivify the pro/con format.  That's right; this is serious goddamn business.

PROS

~ Slam started out on the right foot.  They listed the Top 5 Intercontinental Champions.  I'm fine with Randy Savage being numero uno, but no mention of Bret Hart or Mr. Perfect?  Bullshit.  And you can expurgate The Honky Tonk Man.  Fuck his long reign.  That guy is one of the worst champions in WWE history, IC or otherwise.

~ Honestly, I'm on the fence as it relates to the half-hour time slot, but I'm listing it as a pro.  This show is part of a zippy, bustling block of programming aimed at children with sugar coursing through their veins.  At 30 minutes, you might be able to entertain a few brats who aren't necessarily wrestling fans.  Ideally, Vinnie Mac would dump Superstars (seriously, why does it still exist?) and extend Slam to an action-packed hour.

CONS

~ I'm cool with a kid-friendly show.  With the exception of the Attitude Era, WWE/F has always been kid-friendly.  However, Slam is too kid-friendly.  You've probably heard that the matches comply with a rule interdicting any and all moves/holds that pinpoint the neck area.  Yeah, that's fucking ridiculous.  Hulk Hogan's finisher targeted the neck area.  Y'know, the dude who said prayers and inhaled (injected) vitamins ("vitamins")?  Christ, if The Undertaker was still working a full schedule, he wouldn't be able to wrestle on Saturday mornings!  My first memory of The Undertaker took place - you guessed it - on a Saturday morning.  Oy.

~ This week's exclusive match pitted Zack Ryder against William Regal.  I won't fault them.  They tried.  Unfortunately, the match was dull because of the aforementioned rule.  Boy, nothing excites wee Cena marks quite like grappling and stalling tactics!  Get this...they cut to the commentary booth when Ryder hit his finisher (a leg-drop bulldog).  I swear to Allah.  By the way, Santino Marella was the guest color commentator.  Insult.  To injury.

~ The Miz got his own segment.

Saturday Morning Slam is rough around the edges, but I suppose it serves its purpose.  I doubt that I'll tune in next week, unless The Uso's are allotted screen time.  So basically, I won't be tuning in next week.

Vanity Scare #11

THE DARK SIDE (#90, April 2001)

This should be interesting.  I've never read an issue of The Dark Side, mainly because I don't live in the UK.  A compendiary rundown...this bi-monthly sovereign state publication emerged in 1990.  Aside from a two-year lapse in productivity ranging from 2009 to 2011, The Dark Side has maintained its pole position as the chosen fright rag of Brit...er, Engl...er, Iri...people who live in the United Kingdom.  It reads like a transoceanic answer to Fangoria.  But is it worth the extortionate subscription?  I may only have a moth-eaten relic to go on (heh, it's barely a decade old), but I'll try to reach a fair, even-handed conclusion.

- Might as well start with the cover.  It's tubular.  I'd recognize that skull anywhere.  It's lifted from the one-sheet promoting 1972's Tales From the Crypt, though it's flipped horizontally.  The left eye socket should be empty.  Fuck, I need to get laid.

- The first feature proper is an interview with Hideshi Hino, the manic chap who helmed Guinea Pig 2: Flowers of Flesh and Blood and Guinea Pig 5: Mermaid in a Manhole.  Actually, I'm just being melodramatic; Hino isn't manic at all.  As it turns out, he's an articulate cartoonist who seems genuinely shocked by the series' cult appeal.  Hats off to Jay Slater (and his intrepid interpreter, Junichi Tomonari) for conducting a breezy, yet edifying talk.

- Why haven't I seen Cradle of Fear?  I dig anthologies, I dig brazen exploitation flicks and I dig "old school" Cradle of Filth.  For the record, I'm partial to everything up to and including 2000's Midian (I do make exceptions for certain tracks on 2004's Nymphetamine).  Damn, I digress with the frippery of a vernal tween glomming onto a ruby red iPhone.  Focus, Dom!  Focus!  I remember reading about the London-lensed genre treat when it hit video shelves, but I never took it home.  Thanks to the interview with writer/director Alex Chandon, I have been shaken out of my ambivalence.  I shall add it to my rental queue pronto.

- I expected to find a wealth of reviews, but The Dark Side's backlog of film and DVD critiques is borderline overkill.  Stretched out over a couple of columns, the reviews themselves are dry and often synopsis-heavy (a big no-no, in my book).  What's more, some of the selections are arbitrary as hell.  I mean, Pulp Fiction?  Really?  The spacing is hard on the eyes.  So yeah, there are plenty of cons to countervail the pros.

- Reading Jay Slater's piece on the relevance (or lack thereof, rather) of Video Nasties in the new millennium, it occurred to me that horror fandom is/was an entirely different experience in the UK.  I can't imagine growing up in a country where it was once illegal to own a copy of Cannibal Holocaust.  Slater posits that technological advances have rendered the forbidden fruit of banned films null and void.  Bear in mind, this was written in 2001.  In concert with the pullulating immediacy of the web, the BBFC was finally beginning to slacken their ratings system.  You'd think that the value of Pre-Cert VHS tapes would have depreciated as a result, but as a card-carrying VHS collector, I can tell you that hasn't been the case.  It's pretty sad.

- Every other page spread is black-and-white.  The Dark Side alternates between banausic grayscale uniformity and resplendent thwacks of color.  It's jarring.  I don't care for it.

And that's all, folks.  This magazine could be fine-tuned as of 2012.  I don't know.  The content is certainly strong enough to recommend an online subscription.  This issue sported a few standout articles, but the page count is dreadfully low (57), considering the asking price.  Then again, I have no fucking clue how to convert foreign currency.  A pound is worth five billion American dollars, right?

Dead Links #6

Backyard Monsters

It feels weird to admit this, but I've recently slogged my way into a deleterious trap...Facebook games!  SongPop was my gateway drug.  From there, I experimented with Family Feud and Words With Friends.  I told myself that I could control this newfound addiction.  Well, I was in denial.  These habitual, unmitigated urges only intensified when I discovered Backyard Monsters.  Do I really need to explain why I was drawn to this portentous time-waster?  Hello!  Monsters!!!!!

Originally, I was going to use this column to share goofy games that I find online.  What can I say?  I get bored easily, and I need preoccupying distractions like Backyard Monsters to achieve optimal procrastination.  Without going into labyrinthine details, BM (eh, they should change the name) lets you build a base and a monster army to attack other bases.  You have to pool resources to construct pebble shiners, goo factories, sniper towers, hatcheries, monster lockers, storage silos and a litany of similar buildings.  If it sounds tragically geeky, that's because it's tragically geeky.  But it's also fun!

PS-My favorite monster is Eye-ra, a cyclops blob.  C'mon, that's rad!

Vargos

What the hell is that?  I'll tell you what it is.  It's foreshadowing.

As for today, I was too busy to write anything.  But tomorrow?  You get THAT.

Shitty Webcam Site Update Movie Review I Have Heartburn #5

The dog barks at midnight.

Blood Capsule #20

THE P.A.C.K. (1997)

Usually, I try to apprehend a screencap to consort with Blood Capsules, if only to mix things up. But The P.A.C.K. is so damn obscure, I couldn't find one. It's an incogitable miracle that I nabbed a thumbnail of the VHS cover. If I'm being honest, that's what attracted me to this flick in the first place. If I've never heard anyone mention it in all of my years as a compulsive, habit-forming horror junkie, I simply must own it. What is The P.A.C.K., you ask? Well, imagine if Syfy spitballed an "original" "film" for network television back in the 80's. I realize that sounds enticing, but trust me when I say that this is an underwhelming viewing experience. What is it with low-budget sci-fi crapcakes and acronyms?

No, really. You've got R.O.T.O.R. (somewhat badass), Syngenor (not badass), B.O.R.N. (I've yet to pick it up; please objectify it for me) and The P.A.C.K. Was this actually a trend? It doesn't matter. Despite a benign prologue of sorts where loutish rednecks are dismembered by a Prefabricated Animalistic Cybernetic Killer, this spaceship crash lands almost immediately and skids across maggot-ridden soil for the next 80 minutes. The plot is a diluted rehash of Critters. Just replace the titular balls of mayhem with a guy in a beggarly android suit and replace the faceless bounty hunters with...a guy. God, The P.A.C.K. is mundane. Even the climactic battle (pfft, a fistfight) is a fucking chore to sit through. It's an errand. It's menial labor. It's scutwork.

I do believe that I've stumbled upon a fitting simile. Enduring The P.A.C.K. is like washing the dishes and preparing a load of dirty laundry. It's the sleeper hit of the summer!

Album Cover of the Week

Thanks to my buddy Matt, the king of obscure metal. If I didn't know any better (and I don't), I'd swear that he dreams up imaginary bands and wills them into existence. Matt, you badass motherfucker, you.

Geek Out #65

I'm hoping that this will appease the gods until I crank out another edition of Panels From Beyond the Grave. "The Tale of the Ghastly Grinner" is one of my favorite episodes of Are You Afraid of the Dark? It concerns a creepy-as-fuck clown demon who jumps out of the pages of a comic book. Christ on rye, The Ghastly Grinner scarred me as a child. Of course, it seems silly as an adult, but there are still certain moments that make my pubic hairs stand at attention. If you have 24 minutes to spare, fucking watch it.

All Hallow's Eve, the first line of feminine hygiene products for witches!

A random house I found on Google.

Ah, I can practically smell it. Halloween is imminent! Every year, I try to do something epic to celebrate my favorite holiday, but this time around, I'm considering a low-key approach. I might just stay in. Well, that's my plan as of today. There is a good chance that I'll wind up throwing a party or helping out at a local haunted house. Truth be told, I haven't decided. I haven't decided what to do with this website either. Should I attempt to curate a theme week/month or would that compromise the randomness of Random Reviews Incorporated?

That is the question, dear readers. I want your opinion. Drop me an e-mail. Tweet me. Post in the official Facebook fan club. All of the pertinent links are on the right-hand side of every page. You can find them; don't be lazy.

"One day, the world will realize that every month should be October." - Dom Coccaro

Dr. Black, Mr. Hyde

I'm on a winning streak. I would hate to jinx it, but it's been awhile since I've seen an irrevocably scrimpy dud. Fuck, I jinxed it; I just know it. Let's hope my providential luck continues past Dr. Black, Mr. Hyde. This 1976 blaxploitation wassail (or wingding, if you prefer) was directed by William Crain. Ring any bells? Doubt it, but I'll forgive you...this time. Crain helmed 1972's Blacula, one of my favorite vampire romps of all time. He wasn't particularly prolific in the horror genre, though his modest contributions are well-renowned in the Coccaro household. If his terrifying talkies (ugh) are any indication, he espoused simple doctrines. Uno! Let the story do the talking. Dos! Let the actors do their job.

With Blacula, Crain was afforded the talents of a master thespian. I'm sure that having a guy like William Marshall at his disposal made principal photography relatively painless. With Dr. Black, he was lucky enough to land Bernie Casey. I shouldn't have to explicate a highly wrought synopsis. You know the score. The dispermic Castor and Pollux dichotomy that drove the original Robert Louis Stevenson novella sees a mad scientist guzzle a serum that transforms him into a grotesque monster. There. That wasn't highly wrought, now was it? Needless to say, the script does make minor adjustments to the literary classic. Dr. Pride (no, his last name isn't Black) devotes his life to researching a cure for cirrhosis of the liver.

His mother died from liver problems. She expired on the floor of a bordello where she worked as a maid. In consequence, Pride developed a deep-seated disdain for prostitutes. When an experimental drug brings out his inner beast, he targets street corners with the mortiferous tact of Jack the Ripper. Yay for dead hookers! What is it about the naked corpse of a whore that brightens a b-movie? Eh, don't answer that question. I was taken aback by Dr. Black. At this point, it shouldn't surprise me that a blaxploitation reel was written with depth and social commentary in mind. Dare I say it, this subgenre is scandalously underrated. To the writers of pictures such as J.D.'s Revenge and Fight For Your Life, these films were a cut above drive-in padding.

The dialogue is realistic. As cliched as it may sound, Dr. Black tackles sobering issues that still resonate with those who reside in impoverished areas. I was practically raised on the streets, so I know what's up. I gotta come correct. Every day, I be hustlin' and movin' pussy around the projects. Don't fuck with me, muthafucka. I said, don't FUCK...woah, sorry. At any rate, I was acutely entertained by Dr. Black, Mr. Hyde. The pace is stout, the cast is savvy and the violence is physical. Our "Hyde" could pass for an albino zombie, so that's cool. The make-up effects are superannuated. It's an old-fashioned Universal-style approach to villainy, and I appreciate the added elbow grease.

Conversely, I didn't buy Dr. Pride's transition from a straight-laced philanthropist to a self-seeking mercenary. It felt forced. That's the only objection I have. Yeah, it's implied that the injections change his personality, but in my opinion, his psychosomatic u-turn is too abrupt. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got money to collect. Bitches better have my fuckin' money!

Bereavement

I'm a little late on renting this one. Bereavement is a prequel to 2004's Malevolence, a gritty throwback to minimalist slashers. I dug Malevolence. In fact, I think it's one of the best straight-up "body count" flicks of the past decade. While I'm satiated on origin stories (not everything needs to be explained away), I was curious to see how writer/director Stevan Mena was going to embroider his indie hit. How was he going to distend his killer's childhood? For the most part, I'm content with the answers I found. Bereavement spells out a haunting, monopolizing origin story...for Michael Myers. I'm not whistling Dixie. Sure, I manage a reputable barbershop quartet (we are currently fielding offers from major labels), but I do not deal in mendacity.

As far as the plot is concerned, this would have made for a bitchin' prequel to Halloween. The Akkad clan had their chance to annotate The Shape's seemingly innate iniquity. What did they come up with? The fucking Thorn cult. A few years ago, the pumpkin-scented baton was passed to Rob Zombie. What did he come up with? I still don't know. But this Martin Bristol fellow, he has more in common with John Carpenter's Boogeyman than any recent "interpretation" of the Shatner-masked phantom stalker. I realize that wasn't Mena's intention, but that's what I want to talk about. Hey, it's my review. Moving on to pinker pastures, Martin was born with congenital analgesia. In layman's terms (I keep forgetting that I have to talk down to you plebeians...this is a heel promo, by the way), he can't feel pain.

Martin's condition works as a metaphor. When he is abducted by a moonstruck schizoid and forced to watch unspeakable murders, he learns to intercept emotional pangs before they affect him. Simply put, he doesn't feel anything. That's why he reminded me of a young Michael Myers. The kid doesn't react to being stabbed, for shit's sake. He is groomed to be heartless, inhuman even. Why couldn't this be Rob Zombie's Halloween II!??!!? Okay, it's time to assess Bereavement on its own merits. I prefer Malevolence, but this is a solid motion picture. It abdicates the standard slasher formula. If I had to toss it into a specific subgenre, I would label it - and this pains me to no end, believe me - torture porn.

We get A LOT of screaming and supine, agonizing death sequences. Bereavement is definitely a modern horror film. Now, that's both positive and negative. Positive because this is a gory, creepy affair. Negative? Eh, the production values are too clean. The heroine is profoundly stupid. I mean, she's dumber than the semen stains on my WWE-themed sheets (shut the fuck up). The climax is nearly pauperized by her inexplicable actions, which include instructing her 5-year-old cousin to go upstairs in a burning house. Thankfully, the cast is up to snuff. Michael Biehn hits all of the right notes as the concerned uncle. Alexandra Daddario's cleavage is stunning. Her performance might have been convincing. To be honest, I wasn't really paying attention.

Seriously, her boobs should win a Grammy, an Emmy, an Oscar, a Tony award, a free bag of pretzels out of a vending machine...um, Bereavement is worth a rental.

Shitty Webcam Site Update Movie Review I Have Heartburn #4

Enjoy!  Please?

Dead Links #5

www.botchamania.com

I came close to giving prominence to a different site today.  Let's face it; if you're a dyed-in-the-drool wrestling fan (and you have an Internet connection), you already love Botchamania.  It doesn't need PR promulgation.  Well, I hope not anyway.  Webmaster Maffew has compiled over 200 videos worth of bloopers, near-fatal bumps and general hilarity gleaned from every wrestling promotion under the sun.  No one is safe.  Personally, my favorite bits almost always involve WCW.  Fuck, I miss WCW.  But I digress...thanks to the inclusion of new columns and a couple of guest contributors, Botchamania has been updated on a regular basis for quite some time now.

If you're a smark, you won't be able to visit this site without laughing at least once.  SEND FOR THE MAN!

Album Cover of the Week

Blood Capsule #19

THE VINEYARD (1989)

James Hong might be God.  He's everywhere.  Don't believe me?  The man has amassed close to 400 acting credits, and he has directed a couple of chintzy cult favorites.  He wrote and directed The Vineyard, an ostentatious b-bauble about a winegrower who has found the secret of eternal youth (and it's goddamn electric).  For those playing at home, said secret involves off-color libations and ritualistic bimbo butchery.  I had a field day with this flick.  Any schlock maven would.  We get random zombie outbreaks, a gnarled witch insulated in an attic and James Hong being a fucking pimp.

Drawbacks?  The villain is so cool ("Kill the eunuch!"), that the protagonists become racking nuisances.  I wanted all of the characters to meet their respective makers, but sadly, there are quite a few dullards left standing.  That doesn't change the fact that you need to see The Vineyard.  Where else will you find kung fu, inverted acupuncture and a scene where a girl pukes spiders while brushing her teeth?  I hope that's a rhetorical question.

Spaetzle

Just realized that I haven't reviewed any "antique" horror films lately.  It hasn't been intentional, but at some point, I'd like to break out of the 80's and 90's.  Of course, most of the upcoming films on my to-review list are from the 80's and 90's.  Go figure.  Things that are happening within the next couple of weeks...

- Updates to the archives (Blood Capsules are on deck).
- Music reviews.
- A new contest (!).
- A Dead Link.
- A Part(s) Unknown.
- Other shit.

Matches That Time Forgot #44

This match is so epic, I'm going to have to actively try to keep myself from typing "OMFG" over and over again.  Are you ready for this?  We have Big Josh (a pre-Doink Matt Borne) and El Gigante versus Black Blood (Billy Jack Haynes bedecked in executioner threads) and One Man Gang.  I swear I'm not being sarcastic when I say that this is a great match.  I love the way they tease a stentorian collision between Gang and Gigante.  Gang, in particular, is fucking brilliant.  He acts like a legit loon poised to rape the entire audience.  And then eat them.

I'm a Borne mark, so of course, I dug the lumberjack gimmick, as senseless as it was.  The same can be said for Jorge Gonzalez.  He is reasonably healthy here, and he is downright frightening.  He actually whips out a suplex at one point.  A suplex!  Yeah, he does seem a bit lost towards the finish, but I still commend his performance.  Imagine if he was this agile during his WWF run as Giant Gonzalez.  A man can dream...