Tammy and the T-Rex

I remember seeing 1994's Tammy and the T-Rex on basic cable in the late 90's.  It was alright.  Fast-forward twenty years and it's a cult classic...how did that happen?  I was alive during those intermediary temporals.  I was on all of the message boards.  I don't recall petitions to have this rinky-dink rom-com reissued onto Blu-ray.  No one quoted Dr. Wachenstein or asked for tips on how to complete their Helga cosplay.  You don't even know who those characters are, do you?  I didn't, and yet, I am told that Michelle and the Mamenchisaurus is a nostalgic blast from my childhood.  Eh, I'll give it this much; Denise Richards is crazy hot in her starring debut.  NOTE TO SELF: Edit a fucking dinosaur into Wild Things.

Reading about the film's production history, it's glaring that a picture analogous to Tammy would never splash the big screen in the modern day.  It was yielded for a meager million.  Director Stewart Raffill had access to a fully-functioning animatronic dinosaur before a line of the script was written.  Make no mistake, dearhearts; this kitschy commotion is the backwash of b-movie magic.  I want to be clear about something.  I derided 2019's Scare Package for its ham-fisted approach to comedy.  Here, the cackles are congenital.  They are basted into the root concept so that you know where you're heading.  The tone is consistent throughout, and yes, that makes a difference (to me anyway).

If it's not obvious, I had fun with this viewing of Amelia and the Allosaurus.  I was willing to play ball, so to speak.  That doesn't mean that every punch lands.  There are sundry one-liners that are hideously outdated.  The gay jokes...I mean, I won't cry offense, but my God, they're about as funny as the current state of Paul Walker's career.  See?  Not funny.  The plot holes are baffling.  It's hard to mount any legitimate critical attack on narrative detours, seeing as how this is a movie where a girl performs a striptease for a brain casserole (you had to be there).  You pick your battles, y'know?

The special effects range from resourceful to embarrassing.  Again, how hypercritical can you be?  It comes down to how much you enjoyed the regalement at hand.  Personally, I'd give my "handicapped parking" placard of approval to Tammy and the T-Rex.  It's a barrelling watch, most of the laughs serve their purpose, and you get the feeling that the cast actually wants to be there.  A cult classic?  Sorry, but no.  Conversely, this is a successful merger between farcical camp and gore-cushioned science fiction.  Speaking of which, the decapitations are sweet up in dis (sic) prehistoric bitch!  Now that I've written the worst sentence of all time, I'm going to end this review.

   

Album Cover of the Whatever

I love it when a band isn't afraid to embrace bright colors.  At some point, the members of Terminal Nation were presented with this candy apple of a cover and said, "Yep!"  Granted, it's still very metal.  If it's a candy apple, it's one thrumming with worms.  Sickly, bilious worms half-decayed from gangrene and sparkling water.  I can't be the only one turned off by sparkling water.  "Yeah, I want soda, but I don't want the yummy taste of soda.  Just give me carbonation!"

If you're interested, Terminal Nation play a riff-centric brand of death/grind.  They excel at slowing everything down to a skull-churning groove.  Decent stuff.

Rassle Inn #6

It's not uncommon for wrestling promotions to drag celebrities into their glop of sideshow pageantry.  Recently, AEW has attempted to court Mike Tyson (poorly, I might add) into engaging in fisticuffs with Chris Jericho.  That makes sense.

Tyson has name value and he does have experience cross-fertilizing with sports entertainers.  Hell, he played an integral role in kickstarting the Attitude Era.  A couple of weeks ago, NXT launched an angle where Adam Cole flipped his proverbial lid on The Pat McAfee Show.  He even used salty language!  Shoot!  Heat!  Conflict!  So here we have another instance where wrestling is trying to piggyback on the luster of a dignitary from the "straight world."  This does not make sense.

Keep in mind, I'm not picking on WWE.  I've already established that I wasn't crazy about the way AEW utilized Tyson's personage.  But tell me this...who the hell is Pat McAfee?  It just so happens that I'm familiar with McAfee, and as a matter of fact, I quite like the guy.  I watch too much ESPN in the morning, so I'm apprised of his work as a gasbag.  He's affable and has natural charisma with a microphone in his hand.  That's the thing, though; most people don't watch too much ESPN in the morning.  Most people have never heard of Pat McAfee.

Truthfully, the dude is a natural fit for the squared circle, either competing in it or commentating around its perimeter.  He will hold up his end of the bargain.  However, the only reason you would book this collision is to attract more eyeballs to your product (in this case, NXT).  McAfee nets you a hike of zero viewers.  Was that pun intended?  You bet your heart-shaped ass.  Is "zero" lowball ciphering?  It may be an exaggeration, but the actual figures won't be too far off from an absence of quantity.  I wouldn't be so peeved if McAfee's appearance on NXT (it's in bold because I'm referring to the TV show) this past Wednesday was effective.

I won't go bullet-by-bullet, but in brief, Cole and McAfee butt heads during a match for the NXT Tag Team Championships.  The whole scenario is predictable.  ReDragon (Fish and O'Reilly) are seriously one of the best tag teams on the planet.  They don't deserve this shit.  The match itself was reduced in priority, prominence, and goddamn significance.  And it was the main event!  Again, I'm cool with McAfee, but this is a lukewarm feud that has McMahon's fingerprints all over it.  Which McMahon?  Pick one.  I could have ranted on "Raw Underground," but I'm running low on my blood pressure medication.

Scare Package

Tropes are tropes for a reason.  They have been used countless times.  Movies about tropes have been made...yes, countless times.  I never thought it would happen, but the "nostalgic video store" is a trope, and it bleeds nerd juice all over the screen.  In Scare Package, the store is Rad Chad's Horror Emporium and of course, Rad Chad is a foaming fanboy.  Y'know, even without a pandemic, a place like this wouldn't exist.  It would be forced to close its doors after a couple of months, unless it was owned by a billionaire.  I'm sorry for sounding so prickly and choleric.  This is the kind of horror/comedy hybrid that turns my stomach.  Ugh, I hate being a defeatist doomsayer, but I didn't hate Scare Package altogether.  Let's pull this tape off the shelf, shall we?

Produced last year, Scare Package is a Shudder exclusive that mines the anthology format to varying degrees of success.  Some of these vignettes are tied to the Horror Emporium in clever ways; others just start without warning.  If you're going to commit to a theme, fucking commit to it.  "Cold Open" is exactly that, only it doesn't make a world of sense.  At the very least, it tells us that we are operating under rules similar to that of Cabin in the Woods, which was a much more filling take on "meta-horror."  Scare Package doesn't spend enough time establishing its unique universe.  Like, how is the thrust of "Horror Hypothesis" possible?  I don't know.

I'm poking holes in the concept, but narrative fidgets (narrative neurasthenia?) would be negligible concerns if this omnibus was tonally consistent.  "Girls' Night Out of Body" and "So Much to Do" are relatively pokerfaced, while "One Time in the Woods" sends the very notion of parody way over the rail.  It's a cartoonish pastiche of badinage and slapstick gore.  Christ, that was almost a French sentence.  I need to get it together.  How about this for irony?  "Woods" is one of my favorite segments, despite the fact that it doesn't match half of its counterparts.  It's pretty funny and the simple effects work.  Speaking of the giggles, Scare Package is a hit-and-miss hodgepodge.

As I said earlier, I'm not fond of this brand of black humor.  The jokes feel forced (too much winking).  Look, either craft a comedy or don't.  "Cold Open" falls somewhere in between.  Blah.  "M.I.S.T.E.R." is succinct, so it's not too problematic.  This flick does have its heart in the right cadaver.  There are fun moments, but I wasn't primed for a goof-a-minute bloodbath.  You'd think that at some point during the creative process, the team behind Scare Package would have realized that the fright reels they grew up apotheosizing were not comedies.  Ingenious title, though!

  

Shudder to Think

I don't think this counts as an announcement, but I'm announcing it anyway.  I'm jumping back on the movie-reviewing monorail with a Shudder subscription.  What does that mean?  It means that the next...however many...films that I appraise will be available to watch on Shudder.  At least five.  No more than ten.  So I've narrowed it down!

PS-Does anyone else remember Shudder to Think, the alternative rock band from the late '80's/early 90's?  No?  Oh.

Best (Heavy) Music of 2020 So Far

Most metal journalists will split the year in half and give their Top 10 of said year so far.  I am not a paid metal journalist, and as you may have noticed, we are past the halfway point of 2020.  However!  It's close enough.  I have opinions, and while I'm only enumerating five records, I thought you needed to know them.  Let's burn through this shit before the NBA season starts again!?*

5. Kvaen - The Funeral Pyre

A one-man black metal battalion charring the earth all the way from Sweden.  Because of course this stuff is Swedish.  Kvaen deals in speedy, antagonistic BM a la Panzer-era Marduk.  The riffs are charged up and ready to quarrel.  That's not why Pyre is currently a Top 5 release (we'll see how it fares in January when I compile my Top 10); no, I love it for its divaricate approach.  The music is pissed, but it's also nuanced.  Infernal blasting is forked with thrash-inspired guitar solos.  The leads, man...the leads!  Closing instrumental "Hymn to Kvaenland" mirrors Opeth in its dour delivery.  So fuck yeah, this is a Top 5 release.

4. Esoctrilihum - The Eternity of Shaog

I've featured Esoctrilihum on this here website before.  I was magnifying the cover art, but I can't remember what I said about the music itself.  This is yet another one-man black metal project.  Ringleader Asthaghul hails from France, and I can't believe he plays every damn instrument.  By the way, that includes piano, violin, maybe a harpsichord...I'm hearing a harpsichord.  The production is full-bodied.  Dude has upped his songwriting game to the point where each track has its own flavor.  Shaog is the fifth Esoctrilihum LP in three (!) years, so granted, some of my interest is colored by disbelief.  You're going to want to keep your eye sockets fixed on this prepossessing racket.

3. Caligula's Horse - Rise Radiant

I don't know when exactly, but a little over a decade ago, Australia decided to weaponize prog rock and nuke the rest of the world (in the best way possible).  In my estimation, Caligula's Horse is the best of the bunch in the absence of Karnivool.  Not to divert my own attention, but where did Karnivool go?  Are they fucking hibernating?  Anyway, Radiant is salaciously technical (my pants just tightened), orgiastically melodic (my breath just quickened) and those tits!  I mean, what?  Caligula's Horse is simply a band whose configuration exhibits a master at each post.  Guitarist Sam Vallen, in particular, has quietly become unequaled in his field.  More like Rise Radikal, am I right???

2. Psychotic Waltz ~ The God-Shaped Void

Reunion albums are a dicey jumble.  I had zero expectations for Void, as it was the first Psychotic Waltz recording in 24 years.  I would have forgiven them for sounding a tad rusty and out of practice, but they put any fatalistic forecasts to bed with these proggy pyrotechnics.  Sorry, my cheap alliteration is dishonorable.  The guys are swinging on all cylinders.  Buddy Lackey's vocals are as smooth and catchy as ever.  Brian McAlpin's goddamn geetars are astrophysical.  I'm sensing a theme as it relates to the twiddle-fiddle.  If you cherish crystalline leads, guitar harmonies, and finger-lickin' licks, you're tapping the right vein.

1. Inexorum - Moonlit Navigation

Speaking of guitars that sparkle, this melodic black metal gem is the mother to end all fuckers.  Layers of rainwater chords (there are only so many adjectives to buoy this kind of music) converge to craft tunes that enter one ear and stay there.  Somehow, Moonlit feels simultaneously morose and uplifting.  The hooks hit you like a cool, vernal breeze.  I've replayed this album more than the other four selections, if that informs you of its nobility.  There are even a couple of instances of lucid clean vocals.  It's still brutal, but it coats your stomach before the acids take effect.  Also, take acid.

* Go Raptors!

Matches That Time Forgot #68

If you've been watching AEW for several moons (even if you just watch Dark), you know of a deranged fellow by the name of Luther.  Commentators told us that he has a history filled with death matches in Japan.  And that's true!  After doing some research, I found that he trained in the infamous Hart Dungeon and made his debut for Stampede Wrestling.  That has very little bearing on today's match that time forgot, but I thought it was interesting.  Apparently, he used the name Mad Jack precisely once.  It was for an episode of WCW Worldwide (deary-dear) in 2000 (shitty-shit).

I love watching old episodes of Worldwide for this very reason.  No, not to prop up a dying, moribund column; I dig them because the matches are so random and so...well, random.  That's the word.  I've featured Vampiro here before (suck my link), and while I'm certainly a fan, I had never seen this well-hidden bout.  It's standard fare.  Toward the finish, you can plainly hear Lut--er, "Mad Jack" calling spots.  His skull is drilled into the mat for the 1-2-3!  Spoiler?  On a sidenote, holy shit, Vampiro is over like gangbusters.  And he was coming off of his tonally bizarre feud with Sting.  It's almost as if the office wasted his superstar potential or something.

An Unreview of "The Wind"

What is an unreview?  Well, it's where I'm mentally enervated and bereft of the time necessary to devote to a proper critique of a film.  This won't be a recurring column.  I just want to document the fact that I've seen 1986's The Wind.  It's exceptional.  Directed by Nico Mastorakis, it's a suffocating chiller that finds Meg Foster fending for herself in a luxurious Greek locale overlooking choppy, imposing ocean water.  She plays an author of crime pulp, and wouldn't you know it?  She is being stalked by the caretaker.

Oh, the caretaker.  I didn't know it when I purchased the Blu-ray, but our villain is Wings (fucking) Hauser.  Fuck to the yeah!  He's pretty much perfect here.  The entire cast earns high marks, with Steve Railsback turning in a medium-sized, yet no less memorable performance as a...sailor/detective?  Okay, so his character is vague, but it works.  The Wind is all about atmosphere anyway.  The cinematography is breathtaking.  If you're curious, this is a 4-Z'Dar banger.  I'm off to watch sports.

Album Cover of the Whatever

Originally, I was going to hold off on posting an album cover of the day/week/fortnight, but then I saw this beauty.  The inky, disquieting nightmare fuel before you is Valdur's Divine Cessation, an oppressive death metal centaur.  I'm listening to it as I type.  To be honest, it's...passable.  I'm getting old, folks.  This is definitely heavy, and in technical parlance, it's a "pissed off motherfucker."  Going back to the imagery, that's how I see 2020 - a beryl-hued vision of the end.  See, the apocalypse can be pretty!

Blood Capsule #97

ALIENATOR (1989)

Full disclosure!  I saw this flick dissected on Best of the Worst and felt compelled to own it.  I have the new episode (the return of the dreaded Wheel) open in a separate tab.  Frankly, I just want to watch it instead of writing this Excedrin-incited stricture.  Half of you are probably not familiar with "BotW," but that's your problem.  Leave me out of your life.  What the hell is Alienator?  It's an insufferable mishmash of RoboCop and The Terminator.  Oh, and Critters on account of an alien bounty hunter.  The cast is peppered with cult icons, but neither Joseph Pilato nor Robert Quarry can emancipate this rubble.

Man, I need to revisit Count Yorga, Vampire and tap Day of the Dead while I'm at it.  That's what Alienator did to me, dear readers; it made me think of other things, better things.  I was foolish to postulate that Jan-Michael Vincent talking about sectors and executions would cheer me up.  Truth be told, there isn't much b-mileage here.  Gore is non-existent.  Nudity?  Nope.  In a Fred Olen Ray film!  That guy spread so much smut around video stores, his girlfriends had to pay late fees if they thought they were pregnant.  That was a layered joke.  Let it marinate.  So yeah, Alienator is a flunkee.  For your information, Teagan Clive (the platinum-haired heavy) played BimboCop in Vice Academy Part 2.  You're welcome.

What has Dom been up to?

~ Squiggly line.

~ I've been watching scores of Hayabusa matches.  If you're not in-the-know, Hayabusa was a supremely badass Japanese wrestler who was forced to retire in 2001 after a botched dive left him paralyzed.  Sadly, he passed away in 2016 less than a year after regaining some use of his legs.  I didn't mean to dump depression into your lap.  The main takeaway here should be Hayabusa's wicked mask, his wicked rope work, and the wicked, yet short-lived tag team he formed with Jinsei Shinzaki (WWF's Hakushi).

~ The goddamn Oxford comma.  Motherfucker.  I was taught in school NOT to use it, and shitpiss, it doesn't look right to me.  Still!  But after much deliberation, I submit that it's grammatically correct.  Starting with this entry, I will adopt the fucking mutant thing into my writing.  It won't be easy.  I won't like it!  Goddamn it.

~ Lists!  Or listicles, if you prefer.  I'm open to suggestions on lists that I could compile for the site.  On second thought, this may require a separate post to reach as many eyes as possible.  If your eyes do see this block of text, then by all means, send me your ideas.  I'll steal them.

~ I love bands such as Veruca Salt and Letters to Cleo just as much as I love atmospheric black metal.  You didn't think it was possible to be that cool?  Friend, you have been proven wrong.

~ Seriously, I'm awesome.

~ I hate myself.  Well, "hate" is a strong word.  I'm dissatisfied in my "lot" in life.  I feel beyond hopeless.  It's hard to see into the future without seeing alarm.  What am I seeing exactly?  A cross between nothing and frenzied pain.  My brain lets me down at every turn, and I struggle with overpowering...well, my fucking brain.  It fucks with me.  I'm 35 years old.  I should be at a different juncture in life.  I question whether I should include this unctuous stanza or not.  For one, it's UNCTUOUS.  Secondly, people are going to try to help me, and I can only help myself.  Pity is annoying, unless sex is offered.

~ Hey, Oxford comma.  Fuck you!

~ I'll get cracking on a Blood Capsule.  It might be a horror film.

Japan, ladies and gentlemen...

What do we have here?  Good question.  I was going to call this a Geek Out, but it's more of a Match That Time Forgot.  I'm saying "fuck it."  This belongs in a miscellaneous folder.  W*ING was a Japanese wrestling promotion that lasted from 1991 to 1994 (not counting one-off reunion shows).  It was shepherded by FMW defects.  If you don't know the score, FMW was a hardcore promotion that popularized "death matches," especially contests that snarled up barbed wire and explosions.  Anywho, W*ING was goddamn daffy.  Their roster interpolated the talents of...wait, this needs a new paragraph.

Ahem!  Freddy Krueger, The Crypt Keeper, Boogie Man (Eddie Gilbert in a Michael Myers costume), Leatherface, Jason the Terrible (a guy in a hockey mask), Kamala, The Moondogs, Wahoo McDaniel (!?), Goliath el Gigante (fucking Kurrgan), and of course, a host of Japanese wrestlers.  It was madness.  The match I cherry-picked for your viewing pleasure represents a scant share of said madness.  It's a three-way fight between Boogie, Jason and Grave Digger.  Research has told me nothing about this Grave Digger fellow.  I can only shrug my shoulders.

W*ING should have been called W*TF.  Case in point, there is a post-match run-in made by ECW's Sandman and The Pitbulls.  What?  The?  Fuck?

Rassle Inn #5

Last week, I fought my inhibitions and won.  I posted an image of...erm, some guy to adorn this column.  This week, it's business as usual.  Candice LeRae is hot as a heel, and I'm loving the purple-silver locks.  It's ironic that I'm using a current NXT talent as the frontispiece, as I preferred night two of AEW's Fyter Fest to what the Great American Bash delivered.  NXT didn't suck.  Needles to say, the wrestling was more than competent.  The presentation was just bland.  I don't care at all about Keith Lee or Johnny Gargano or Bronson Reed or Dexter Lumis or even the luchador stable that will be buried by this time next year.

The women's division is stronger, but in my opinion, it's the only thing that WWE/NXT can hang over Tony Khan's head.  Fyter Fest felt consistent for two hours.  I was highly skeptical on the main event, but Cassidy and Jericho made it work.  I knew that Le Champion was going to reign victorious.  Or did I?  There were a couple of moments where I wasn't so sure.  The eight-man tag was boffo.  I loved every second of it, and I can't wait to see where these teams soar next.  I mean, fuck.  That's a tag team division.

PS-I wasn't shitting on AEW's ladies.  They're kool (yes, with a "k"), but they aren't featured quite enough, and as fate would have it, a few of their best workers are on injury reserve.  At least they have found a way to include an infirm Britt Baker.  She is truly America's roll model (sic).

Trapped Alive

1993.  The year that Monday Night Raw made its debut on the USA Network.  Those early episodes are fucking golden.  Don't let anyone tell you that a show where "Macho Man" Randy Savage AND Doink the Clown might appear isn't golden.  Those people...they are bad people.  Anyway, Doink--wait, fuck!  I have to review Trapped Alive, don't I?  I don't have to, but whatev(er).  This wintry, niveous knuckle-duster was actually shot in 1988, but it was condemned to the shelf for five years.  Because.  Eons ago, I saw the trailer and for some reason I have yet to ascertain, I decided that I longed for Trapped Alive.  This has not been a tidy movie to track down.  Thankfully, Arrow has given it the Blu-ray treatment, and fuck-flavored semen berries, it didn't deserve such stately, resplendent treatment.

I almost went with "semen-soaked Scooby snacks."  I'm a writer.  The plot involves a pair of giggly girls being carjacked after leaving a Christmas party.  This wasn't just any Christmas party.  It was attended by Cameron (goddamn) Mitchell!  He appears for two minutes total.  Not even worth mentioning, but here we are.  The carjackers have just escaped prison, and I'm sure they had grand plans of dereliction.  Unfortunately, the car they jacked skids into a mine shaft.  We're underground, folks.  You know what that means.  If not, I'll spell it out for you.  The viewer's eyes are privy to darkness, near-Cimmerian lighting and more darkness.

That could be a huge piss-off, but Trapped Alive is a well-cobbled production.  Don't get me wrong, kid; the budget is low, so low that it impairs the film in other ways (more on them later).  However!  Director Leszek Burzynski keeps everything crackling on a professional tip.  I like his camera spacing.  A bizarre, random compliment, but yeah.  The action isn't too far away, nor is it too close to the camera.  Yeah.  Several cast members have this grotto gathering listed as their only credit, but on the pothole (get it???), the acting is solid.  Sullivan Hester fares well as the cute final girl.  Oh, you'll never believe this, but one of the villains is a giant, toothless oaf named Mongo.  Wrestling fans will appreciate that, although he meets his end in the first act.  Inexcusable!

Speaking of villains, I haven't said much as it relates to the main heavy.  Technically, he's a monster, but he's painfully human.  You can pretend that he was created in a laboratory, I suppose.  Still, he's fucking dull.  The death sequences?  Dull.  The worst thing you can say about any genre flick is that it's untenably dull and that's precisely how I would paint Trapped Alive.  It has its moments.  Thanks to Arrow, the colors are gorgeous, but that's the veneer.  I don't see anyone jumping for joy over the product itself.  It needed more Cameron Mitchell.  And Doink!  It needed more Doink, "the most evil clown that ever lived."  That's a Savage quote, by the way.

  

Album Cover of the I'm Lazy

It's not that I'm lazy; I just...took the weekend off?  Yeah, that sounds alright.  That's why you're getting another Album Cover of the Whatever.  This time, it's Teitanblood's Purging Tongues EP.  Superlatively evil, and it stands out like a motherfucker.  I'm going back into my cave of wonders to churn out the next movie review.  Brace your stitches!

Rassle Inn #4

Do you know how hard it was for me NOT to use a picture of Penelope Ford?  I'm trying not to be a scumbag.  It would be easy to view today's topic entirely through the "male gaze," but again, I'm trying.  I may fail later in this very tract.  Oh, that's Wardlow.  He tagged with M.J.F. against the Jurassic Express in the fun opener of last night's Fyter Fest.  Obviously, there was a lot of wrestling to absorb.  WWE fast-tracked the yellow brand's Great American Bash, and I must say, AEW took the prize on night one.  The ratings disagree.

I dug NXT's show.  But I...oyk, I didn't want to break down each and every match.  Look, here's the nutshell version of my opinion: With Fyter Fest, I don't have any substantive grouses.  With GAB, a couple of matches didn't sit well with me.  The strap match...why the gimmick?  What is the actual feud?  Is this the best way to utilize Roderick Strong right now?  And the handicap match.  I found it to be entertaining, but it was way too long.  It's pathetic because Robert Stone was poised to become a formidable manager overseeing a formidable stable.  At present, he's a punchline whose only client is Alayhiaalyala.

I'm shockingly old (I refuse to believe that I'm only 35), so my eyelids were weakening against the tremendous strain of gravity during the Fyter Fest main event.  It wasn't the product's fault.  I admit that I'm not a softhearted proponent of Best Friends, but all in all, they crafted an engaging contest with Omega/Page.  My favorite fyte of the nyte (perhaps on either show) was the AEW Women's World Championship match between warrior queen Hikaru Shida and emulous challenger Penelope Ford.  This one took me by surprise.  I already knew that Shida kicked ass, but Ford milked the most out of a great opportunity.  Hell of a showing.

My precious Io Shirai did battle with Sasha Banks in what should have been a killer 20-minute brawl, but it felt like simple angle advancement.  Don't get me wrong, dude; shit was solid, but it was used to prop up other titles.  And it was the main event!  It was cool to see Io and Asuka "reunite," as it were.  Next week, we get more Fyting and Bashing.  Will I write about it?  Depends on the ratings.  If my column doesn't do a number, I may have to introduce new characters.  To kill off.

Busy night...

I shall post my impressions tomorrow!

Blood Capsule #96

THE CARPENTER (1988)

The Carpenter is a threadbare slasher and a wry, oblique black comedy collimated as one chief constituent.  It doesn't quite know how to enmesh the genres.  Horror and comedy merely play "hot potato" with the script and you never get the sense that you're watching a cohesive whole.  I'm not throwing this b-lumber under the bus (or into a proverbial woodchipper...man, I should have just went with that awful joke).  No, I had a decent time with The Carpenter, and yes, the plot is as gangly as it sounds.  A couple is renovating their home, but the bulk of the carpentry work is completed at the bewitching hour by a phantom artisan.  Is it Jesus Christ or is it Wings Hauser?  Same difference, stupid!

If the titular madman were played by anyone else, this flick wouldn't have eked out a passing grade.  Wings Hauser is so--let me rephrase myself.  Wings Hauser fundamentally Wings Hausers the fuck out of this thing.  He steals all of his scenes.  Through cruel mockery of God's animus, he even steals scenes that he does not appear in (i.e. filler).  You haven't lived until you've witnessed Wings Hauser woo and butter up a forlorn housewife while frazzling the intestines of a corpse with a power drill.  It's charming!  Unfortunately, half of The Carpenter is a shambolic study in stagnation.  For a bloody ordeal where circular saws and belt sanders are weaponized, it's pretty damn sleepy.  Wings Hauser, tho!

Album Cover of the Whatever

Technically, the is the reissue artwork, but who is counting?  That's just badass!  Evil, evil, evil!  Yay!

Panels From Beyond the Grave #34

THE X-FILES: HALLOW EVE (Annual #1, 1995)

Towards the end of the vernal springtide, I became immersed in The X-Files.  I always liked it.  I could even name a couple of episodes that stuck with me from childhood to adulthood ("Humbug" is a keeper).  And yet, I was far from an expert.  For some metaphysical reason that perhaps only Mulder can explain, I wanted to binge the whole damn series.  It's taking time, as my routine is not conducive to true, millennial-style binging.  Hell, I finished season eight just last night.  What's my point?  My point is that I fucking love The X-Files!  It was only a matter of time (and space) before I scarfed down an x-comic.

Released through Topps, the inaugural series contained an Annual (a special double-sized issue) one-shot entitled "Hallow Eve."  It basically serves as a "monster of the week" episode.  You don't need prior knowledge of the television program's core arcs to enjoy it.  That's a hearty plus, in my estimation.  When it comes to the TV show, I prefer the M.O.T.W. serials that exist independently of Mulder's search for his sister or muddled, labyrinthine government conspiracies.  Not that those storylines are entirely without merit.  I'm simply into...y'know, monsters.

Our script was penned by Stefan Petrucha.  At first, the dialogue felt rustic and rudimentary, but like a tight rhythm section, the words found a groove pocket.  That's a dumb way of saying that it got better as it went along.  Petrucha does seem to understand the characters.  It's a comic, so you have to meet it halfway.  I mean, it has to be frustrating writing for such complex people with very limited room to stretch.  Talking about word count.  Ain't talkin' 'bout love.  My love is rotten to ANYWAY.  Mulder and Scully are assigned to an offbeat case wherein an archaeologist is murdered and the suspect has extraneous ties to the mitochondrial DNA of Eve.

This shit would make for a great concept album.  Definitely prog rock.  At any juncture, the plot throws a nice amount of twists at you in a manner similar to that of The X-Files (the show, obviously).  It's quite clever, especially the dour ending.  Customarily, I don't have bounteous groans as it relates to the artwork.  There were two or three panels where I couldn't figure out what was happening or where a character was standing.  Perception?  Look, I'm not an artist.  I try to mention my ignorance in comic book reviews because I need to give the artist (in this case, Charles Adlard) the benefit of the doubt.  Again, me not artist.  Me bad at draw.

Overall, "Hallow Eve" was totally worth seeking out online.  I should pick up more X-Files comics.  If you're wondering (you aren't), I have viewed most of the tenth season, including the series finale.  It wasn't unsullied, but I'm glad that they ended up together.  You know who.  I'm such a fangirl.

X

This is foreshadowing!  I'm exhuming an old column tomorrow.  Aren't you excited???

A Band: The Ruins of Beverast

I don't know exactly how obscure The Ruins of Beverast are/is (it's a one-man project), but I feel confident in saying that this German black metal composite deserves a signal boost.  Simply painting Beverast with the "black metal" brush doesn't do the music justice.  I'm currently listening to 2009's Foulest Semen of a Sheltered Elite (dude's title game is strong), which incorporates doom, blackened ambiance, and of course, atmosphere.  Fuckin' loads of atmosphere.  I haven't put much effort into decoding the lyrics, so all I know is that this is creepy stuff.

Look at that artwork!  The Ruins of Beverast reminds me of being a kid mystified by Tool (heh) because I didn't know anything about them.  I'm divagating from the trail.  Vocally, you will hear growls, pained squawks, chants and baritone cleans.  The songwriting never forgoes accessibility.  In other words, ringmaster Alexander von Meilenwald avoids burying the actual music.  The fact that he plays every single instrument is soul-boggling.  Take 2017's Exuvia, for instance.  It sounds fucking massive, and all of that stridency comes from one human.

Beverast has featured on two splits this year, one apace with Mourning Beloveth (doom/death) and the other in company with Almyrkvi (cosmic black metal).  Listen to them both.

Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark

I rented Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark from a Redbox kiosk.  It marked the first time in five-ish years that I rented a movie outside of the Internet.  Didn't have the same pizzazz as a Blockbuster rental, but it tickled the same tract in my brain.  And that...has nothing to do with the film itself.  Man, how many centuries had we been promised a cinematic adaptation of these anthology books?  Personally, I never read them.  I thought they looked cool.  I possessed the knowledge that the illustrations were materially and altogether smacktabulous.  But I never read them, dag-nab it.  Okay, liberal use of words such as "dag-nab" and "smacktabulous" are hereby prohibited for the rest of this review.

Technically, Scary Stories is a period piece.  We open in 1968 where a shy girl named Stella discovers a tome in a tall, caliginous mansion on Halloween night.  So at least the atmosphere is sweet.  The narrative is unique in the way that it unspools each story.  Clearly, this isn't a traditional anthology furnished with a connective wrap-around segment.  I dig how the tales are essentially death sequences.  If there exists another fright flick with this exact gimmick, I can't place it.  This particular VDM (Vignette Delivery Method...my secretary is filing the copyright paperwork this very second) allows Scary Stories to avoid a common anthology pitfall.  Usually, pacing becomes stale as you flip pages, so to speak, from one short to the next.  Here, we are spared a handful of expositions.

Am I making any sense?  I just thought it was refreshing to see an entire story relayed in a spurt of dialogue.  "That monster is looking for her missing toe."  Done.  That's all you need to know!  It keeps things bristling at a perky step.  Of course, the actual monsters are divine, provided that they manage to sidestep shady digital effects.  I was pleasantly surprised to find moments of creepy menace.  The PG-13 rating doesn't take the teeth out of this ghoul, but I want to make sure that I don't send the wrong message.  I'm not gaga over Scary Stories to tell in the Dark.  I haven't seen any other reviews complain about the acting, but Zoe Margaret Colletti (Stella in the flesh) comes off as stagy.  To me!  Ugh, I feel like I'm being mean.

Plus, she's a fucking whore.  That was a joke.  I mean, she's fine most of the time.  She loses me when the script goes the simpering, dewy-eyed route, which it does in the closing ten minutes.  The climax has a perfunctory vibe to it.  As I was watching it, I couldn't help but ask, "Is this the ending of a different movie?"  I get bent out of shape when villains turn out to be good-natured people who were abused into being evil spectres.  Haven't we been through this enough already?  Fuck, "spectres" is underlined in red.  It's not misspelled, you shitheel.  That's the British spelling.  I'm British!

Family

Family, family, family!  Basically, I'm being inundated with family gatherings, as family is in town.  Family!  Just letting you know, I probably won't write anything substantial until after the family thing has run its course.

Iooooooo!

Originally, this was going to be an edition of "A Band," but that can wait.  Haven't you heard?  Io Shirai has become the NXT Women's Champion!  Last night, she fought in a three-way dance against Rhea Ripley and Charlotte Flair.  I'm an Io mark.  I wanted her to win.  Going in, I knew that she had the least chance of winning because this was presented as enmity between Rhea and Charlotte.  That was the story.  Io was the third wheel, the potential wrecking ball.  If booked properly (...), a cool program can spring forth from this perceived "upset."

But that's the thing.  This hasn't been booked properly.  Right now, I don't care.  My girl won.  She has deserved to be the champion - of any brand - for roughly 18 months.  The fact that Asuka and Kairi Sane beat her to the punch in America did count against her.  Plus, you have the language barrier.  God, that's another post altogether.  Maybe someday, I'll analyze the way that minorities are treated (read: booked) in WWE.  That day is not today.

Respect The Ace of Stardom!  Respect The Genius of the Sky!  Respect Io Shirai!

Blood Capsule #95

STAKE LAND (2010)

What do you do when you're in a pandemic and riots erupt all across the country?  You watch a movie!  Hey, I'm doing my part.  By sheer coincidence, the plot of Stake Land bears striking similarities to life in 2020.  A vampire contagion has reconditioned the guts of America, and from where lead protagonist Martin is standing, the apocalypse has arrived.  Watching the news, this place certainly feels apocalyptic.  Oh, I'm talking about reality again.  For you HTML nerds out there, I need a synopsis tag to denote when I'm dipping in and out of "plot summary" mode.  {story} Just as precarious as the vampires, sects of religious fanatics continuously stymie efforts to find peace (not to mention a dry, warm bed). {/story}

Y'know, something like that.  Anyway, Stake Land is a tense, portentous joint.  The atmosphere is grim, and director Jim Mickle does an admirable job of reminding the viewer where his fare falls on the genre spectrum.  It's a rather particular affection, but I like it when horror proudly avouches, "I'm horror!  Spooky, spooky!  Boo!"  It probably wouldn't use those words, huh?  You know what I mean, damn it!  But I digress...again.  The acting is sharp.  Connor Paolo is subtly multitudinous as Martin.  I dug how he pulled off his character's arc, as the development felt natural.  Co-writer Nick Damici kicks ass as Mister, a stoic, yet ass-kicking ass kicker.  The pacing is fine.  Essentially, everything is fine, though I hear that the sequel mucks it up.

Join us next time when we found out if Dom reviews Stake Land II.*

*He doesn't.

s02e02

Wrestling night!  And I've had no time to write.  Only fellow X-Files fans will get this joke, but it seems like when I have a productive week, it's just a...

Geek Out #139

The rare music-related Geek Out.  Look at Sebastian Bach's fucking hair!  I don't mean to single him out; every band member here looks ridiculous (the lady guitarist less so).  Jeepers, Madam X had plans.  I suppose that Baz was destined to front Skid Row, not that I believe in fate.  Back to the germane point - look at the fucking hair!