Dead Review Collection #9 - GORE!

I really, really don't want to rank all of Cannibal Corpse's studio albums.  I fear that in time, I may have to bite that bullet.  I'm going to stall as long as humanly possible.  I can't use my feet, but I can drag them!  Heh, I made a funny.  Right, so I have no idea where I would place 2002's Gore Obsessed in formation.  It's a favorite, yet I have said the same for five or six CC records.  Confound it, I believe I've even referred to Outback Steakhouse as a damn fine outing from the death metal stalwarts.  The Bloomin' Onion is no joke, friends.  The trick is to interlace the petals with bites of your steak.

Great, now I'm drooling.  As for the seasoning, the dish is never too piquant--oopsy!  I momentarily forgot what I'm reviewing.  Following Bloodthirst, it's clear that the objective was to obviate sterile production.  "Coffinfeeder," for instance, sounded so sanitary, I wouldn't be opposed to dining on the mixing board that was used to capture those unsullied riffs. Obsessed doesn't sound sullied per se; it's beefier, and devotees of Alex Webster will be merry to learn that it's bassier.  I dig the production (as twiddled by Neil Kernon), but some of the choices made pursed my temples.  The guitar solos are pushed way back when they should float atop the rhythm tracks.

Bassier?  Probably not a word.  At any rate, let's dissect the songs.  The songs!  "Savage Butchery" is a shot of epinephrine to the sinoatrial node that sets the metal in motion.  And look, if you're wanting a definition for every single medical term that I deploy, I'll be here all day.  Speaking of ill health, I remember "Hatchet to the Head" being an instant classic.  The addictive chorus drives George's near-staccato delivery into your skullcap.  This is also one of the more technical numbers, what with tempo shifts bobbing up at vital ticks.

"Pit of Zombies" is about a pit of zombies.  It's cool.  It was bound to be cool, on account of its title and the band playing it.  I suppose you could say that the album tromps over a downswing in the middle of its runtime, a slight slump in momentum.  You could say that, but I won't.  Cuts such as "Compelled to Lacerate" and "Sanded Faceless" are fucking fun, and I haven't mentioned the jerky, spurtive drumming in "Hung and Bled."  I swear, Paul must have lost weight pounding his kit for these sessions.

I'll touch on Corpsegrinder's throat-rending screams in greater depth when I launch into The Wretched Spawn, but I did want to highlight the neverending wail towards the end of "Mutation of the Cadaver."  Yes, I tried to mimic it in my bedroom (I was seventeen...Daddy said I was too young, but I was old enough for Kip).  Yes, I nearly blew out my voice.  The trials and tribulations of being a Cannibal Corpse freak, y'know?  In summation, Gore Obsessed is killer.  It's undervalued, which is a shame.  The mid-period of George's era is worth a look, if only to prove that this band is more than Kill and Tomb of the Mutilated.

    

Rassle Inn #23

In late August, CM Punk concussed the wrestling world into a jouncing vibration when he debuted on AEW's Rampage.  It was big.  Big enough, in fact, that if the two leading promotions engage in a real war to secure their perch (and the adjuvant eyes of viewers) in the marketplace, the press will circle his debut date as the cannonade that opened said war.  And no, there is no war yet.  Give it a couple of years.  It's going to get bloody.

So four matches later, here we are.  As a wrestling nerd, I can tell you that all of Punk's skirmishes have been awesome.  There was a speck of rust, but it disappeared with a flick of his taped wrist.  I'm loving it.  However (don't roll your eyes), these columns I write tend to be transmissions from the command post of Satan's advocacy council.  You get it, right?  I'm playing the Devil's advocate?  Forget I brought it up.  Anyway, I was wondering...the die-hards who clamored for Punk to return to WWE, the same adherents who chanted his name during lulls (or otherwise disastrous segments) on Raw...are they satisfied?  How many of them tune into Dynamite or Rampage each week?

They probably became fans of Punk because he was the rebel standing up to authority.  Of course, I'm not talking about the folks who watched him in Ring of Honor.  I'm not even talking about the folks who latched onto him because of shared beliefs (straight edge, the DIY punk aesthetic, etc.).  I'm talking about the - sorry, I hate this term - marks who found themselves captivated by the "Summer of Punk."  If they decide to give AEW a shot, they will not find a sweeping storyline that pits Punk against corporate evils.  It's a completely different booking style.  Thus far, Punk has wrestled one-off matches, half of which have been against fellow babyfaces.

Like I said, it's a different style, but I didn't say it was better or worse.  Me, I'm cool with it.  I'm not the casual mainstream fuckhead, though.  How will fuckheads - er, I need to use a less degrading designation; how will non-nerds (there we go) take to this flavor of professional wrestling?  I'm playing the Devil's advocate, but in all candor, I think it will work out alright.  I simply don't have an intellectual reason for believing that.  Call it a gut feeling.  Punk's next bout?  Bobby Fish.  I'm already fangirling.

Halloween Kills

I wanted to have this review up earlier, but I was sick and bedridden all day yesterday.  That's not an excuse; it's...no, it's definitely an excuse.

Is there a general consensus on Halloween Kills yet?  I haven't found one, so I don't know which viewpoints to rail against.  No, I'm only joshing.  I have my own personal consensus, but in truth, reviews for this scrappy, pitiless sequel are mixed.  They are, shall we say, interdenominational in a panoptic way.  On second thought, let's NOT say that.  It's hard to believe that this isn't the final film in the franchise.  Characters have done everything to Michael Myers.  The Shape has been hacked, cleaved, set ablaze, severed, snapped, and downright demolished.  Yet our coterie of protagonists seems resigned to the fact that they cannot kill the bastard.

So what's left for Halloween Ends?  This speaks to a problem I had with Kills.  Well, the latter half of Kills.  It runs out of steam and relies on repetition.  The first half felt different.  Again, this is just my perspective.   I haven't seen too many fans share my attitude.  It actually feels like the film was directed by two people.  The opening fifteen (or thereabouts) minutes are framed beautifully.  The credits?  Badass.  The flashbacks?  I was convinced a couple of times that they crammed unused footage from 1978 into this bubbling cauldron.  Masks off to director David Gordon Green and...well, the whole damn crew for taking every measure to preserve the picture's timeless qualities.

As Kills nears its denouement, it loses a great deal of its visual flair.  Action and dialogue take precedence over prismatic pizzazz.  Maybe I need glasses.  This isn't even a big deal, but it becomes conspicuous when the pace slows and the script protracts the inevitable.  I mean, we know what's going to happen.  Either get there quicker or throw a gnarly curveball into the mix.  Man alive, this review is more negative than I had intended.  I dug Halloween Kills!  I'm giving both movies three and a half Z'Dars, but I do prefer the 2018 original by a cowlick.  Can everyone define "cowlick" or is that a southern thing?  Ack, look it up.

Mr. Myers is an incensed, forcefully vehement motherfucker, and I wouldn't change him for the world (aww).  The kills in Kills are brutal.  I can't remember for certain, but I'm pretty sure that I used the same adjective to describe the obliteration in 2018's Halloween.  Dude is not fucking around.  Of course, I appreciated the nods to previous installments.  If only they existed in this cinematic universe.  The atmosphere is ghostly, the acting is adequate, and the first half...I'm not kidding.  If Kills could have stayed the course, I would be gushing plaudits and proclaiming this to be the best Halloween picture show ever.  I know, right?

Alas, it trails off.  At some point, I'll give Halloween Kills a second whirl, and hey, who knows?  I may form a brand new opinion.  I must confide, this is easily the sharpest Rob Zombie joint since The Devil's Rejects.  I barely recognized Sheri Moon as Laurie Strode.

   

Blood Capsule #115

GONJIAM: HAUNTED ASYLUM (2018)

I'm going out of town for a wee bit this weekend, so I wanted to tide you over with a capsule.  Of valerian root laced with chloral hydrate, but I decided to write this instead.  Gonjiam: Haunted Asylum made boys and ghouls scream in South Korea.  We heard the startled, tremulous bellows all the way from America.  We had to know ~ okay, I'm going to drop "we" ~ I had to know if this "found footage" caboodle was worth the heightened hurly-burly of grapevine reviews.  Remember, evidence via hearsay is not admissible in a court of law.  "Well," you impatiently articulate.  "Were you scared?  Did you leave a wheelchair-shaped hole in the wall behind you?"

First and foremost, I'm not a fucking cartoon.  And I can't say that I was frightened because I haven't been stricken with genuine terror by a movie since I was a kid.  I'm not trying to sound macho; it's the Satan-honest truth.  However, I can avouch for Gonjiam as a fun, creep-a-minute jaunt.  Without divulging key plot details, a popular horror website picks three ordinary civilians to tag along on an excursion into the titular asylum.  It's a real location, by the way.  The cast and crew were prohibited from shooting there, so the sets were exact facsimiles of the real McCoy.  The art direction is phenomenal.  I never would have guessed that Gonjiam was pieced together inside of a fabrication.

The acting is spot-on.  I particularly dug Je-Won Moon as the budding Hollywood starlet.  The ghosties are ghostly, but this is where I touch on a dour, unfortunate cloudburst.  Um, I can't place a name...the central specter (nice save) who assails one of the few remaining girls with rapid whispering is just dumb.  Dense!  Took me right out of the moment.  Axe her, as the other final boss is infinitely more effective.  I typed too much.  Shit, I'll wrap it up by recommending Gonjiam: Haunted Asylum.  It's atmospheric, suspenseful, and it's perfect for Halloween parties.  That's coming from a genre nerd who doesn't care for "found footage" spooks, as a general rule.  Have a grim weekend!

Did you hear that?

Babe, I heard something.  Get up and check!  It could be a spooky phantom.  Or a serial rapist.

As you may have noticed, I added a tiny widget to the site.  Nothing major, but it does play spoooooky sounds.  I turned off autoplay out of respect for you, my dear reader, but of course, I recommend checking it out at least once.  Loop it to add atmosphere to your Random Review reading experience.

Halloween ('18)

Five.  Counting Season of the Witch, the Halloween franchise has five timelines.  Which one is considered canon?  Well, I guess the current docket would have 2018's Halloween listed as the second chapter in the official series, following the original.  This is cinematic perjury.  I mean, I'm pissed off.  Hollywood doles out these psychologically ruinous falsehoods (i.e. movies) that are shifty and isochronal in nature.  You know what they are?  Those producer types?  Those suits?  Wascally wabbits!  I didn't want to use that kind of language, but here we are.  My biggest problem with this Halloween flick is the fact that it exists.  Seriously, will any horror icon be able to rest in peace?

I tried to judge this film on its own merits.  It wasn't easy.  In my opinion, the 106 minutes of digital celluloid attempting to pass itself off as the "real" sequel to Carpenter's humble classic were no more dignified than Jamie Lee's endorsements for Activia.  She can sell yogurt, but she cannot peddle an autumnal slasher whose success hinges on the theory that the viewer will efface their memories of ten entire motion pictures.  I get it; I'm dwelling on minutiae.  Hear me out!  The sibling dynamic between Laurie and Michael that served as the backbone of this saga?  Gone.

I realize that Carpenter never envisioned a link tying The Shape to his victims.  No motive.  Just evil.  But if any residue from the sequels actually clabbered as canon, it was the revelation that Laurie was Luke's father.  Hardy har-har, but no, hear me out (again).  What if George Lucas sanctioned a sequel to Star Wars that negated Darth Vader's pedigree?  Maybe it turns out that Luke's daddy is goddamn Chewbacca.  You're telling me that wouldn't bother you?  Granted, it's a different set of circumstances, but is it really?  I need to change the subject.  For me, it was important to illustrate where I'm coming from in relation to the Akkads' handiwork.

For the record, my favorite entry is Halloween II.  The first Halloween II (urg)!  I'm not sure where this episode will rank, but it's more than serviceable.  My nerd rage did not blind me to verifiable truth.  Director David Gordon Green crafted himself an attractive genre package.  At times, the wrapping paper bests its contents, but that's bound to happen when you're dealing with the copper sunlight of fall and the lovingly garish kitsch of Halloween decorations.  The shots of Mikey walking amongst trick-or-treaters are a spruce callback to the original.  Y'know, THE original.

The acting is solid.  I'm honestly surprised that Curtis agreed to tackle the project.  I'm not seeing what she saw, but her performance is murderously firm.  Derivative of Linda Hamilton and Sigourney Weaver?  Maybe, but character-wise, she has earned her "badass bitch" stripes.  Andi Matichak is bland as Allyson.  She's adequate, but she isn't terribly memorable, and I thought her rapport with Laurie could have been explored.  In regards to the interplay between roles, I'll be lenient, as this is the first part of a trilogy.  I'm nervous.

Other stuff I dug...the gore (kudos for the head explosion), the score, and the brutal death of an innocent child (I need to start seeing a therapist).  Stuff that rubbed me the wrong way...the "new" Loomis (his homicidal tendencies were way out of character), the vapid ancillary players, and THE FACT THAT THIS THING EXISTS.  And yet, I liked 2018's Halloween.  Will Halloween Kills kill me?  Thanks to Peacock, it won't be long before I find out.  Just in case, tell my wife that she's a whore.

   

Woof

Boy-o-boy, I'm doing something super special for Halloween this year on the site.  I've done it before, but I think...I think I can hack it again.  So what am I doing?  Nothing!  Well, that's not entirely true.  I do want to hit more movies, but I'm not watching a flick per day.  That's goddamn lunacy.  You loons.  As with every year (ideally), I want to enjoy the season.

Currently, I'm working on the next review.  Then I continue with my Dead Review Collection.  Busy, busy, busy!  Give me chocolate!

Blood Capsule #114

THE VAST OF NIGHT (2019)

I'm glad that I decided to spend an evening with this quiet, minimalist sci-fi film.  An Amazon Original, The Vast of Night is set in 1958 in the fictional town of Cayuga, New Mexico.  A switchboard operator and her disc jockey buddy are faced with a strange signal, a dismaying frequency that obstructs radio transmissions.  They labor to get to the bottom of it, and they do, but very little actually happens until we make it to the resolution.  By hook or by crook (or perhaps by gobbledygook), that isn't a bad thing.  I was so immersed in the arcane plot and nimble dialogue, that I wasn't nonplussed by the lack of action.

First-time director Andrew Patterson must be a wunderkind.  Vast is visually sublime, especially those night-time exteriors.  The long takes are flipping brilliant.  I loved the "scene" where the camera roves around all of Cayuga.  Apparently, it was accomplished by sewing four shots together with CGI, but what do I care?  The cast is terrific.  Almost everything is terrific.  I'm raving, but this isn't a perfect picture.  The bits with the elderly woman feel pointless in hindsight.  She didn't add layers of intrigue to the storyline, and that's what the inclusion of her character seemed to promise.  Eh, you can't win 'em all.  You can watch The Vast of Night, though!

Album Cover of the Whatever

Polish death metal!  Fuck yeah!  It kicks ass!  It's funny how each country's metallic crop has its own distinct flavor, its own twang.  By the way, what do you call country pussy?  Poontwang!  I apologize.  Sincerely.  I--hold on a second; my phone is ringing.  Okay, I just sat back down in front of my computer.  The call was from the magisterial brass at Blogger, the host of this very "blog."  Apparently, my blue joke offended eleven people in Arkansas.  Random Reviews Incorporated has been axed.  It's been real, gang!

God, can you imagine?  Anyshit, Deivos play technical death metal.  From what I've heard, this record isn't too shabby.  I love that impious cover.  Look, the demons' tongues are tied.  I bet they tried to say a tongue twister simultaneously.  Something like Peter porked Peggy with a pickle that he picked from a periwinkle patio garden lounge  Looks easy, but repeat it ten times.  It's...it's still easy.

Tiny Terror Con

I made a doggy friend!

It's been a hot minute since I've attended a true horror convention.  Usually, I have to schlep myself to Charlotte to feed on brazen vendors, but this one cropped up in my hometown.  It was co-organized by a friend of mine.  I'll link you to the information (see below), but of course, it's over now.  There will be a second edition next October, however.  I have been told that it will be bigger and better.  2021's Tiny Terror Con was already pretty damn rad, if I do say so myself.

This won't be a meticulously in-depth dissertation, but I did want to bluster about the cool swag I copped.  It begs the question: is it considered bragging if I spent a stupid amount of money?  I'm either broadcasting the fact that I have awesome shit OR I'm a fool who parted with *cough* $100 *cough*.  Anyway, I found an episode of Skeleton Warriors (y'know, the old Saturday morning cartoon) on VHS.  Mint condition!  I picked up issues of Eerie and Vampirella.  The latter is quite captivating; I read half of it while waiting for my chicken tenders at lunch.  I'm five.

Movie-wise, I procured 1993's The Good Son (I've always wanted to see this flick-a-dee...expect a review later in the year), 1978's Die, Sister, Die!, and 2014's Mostly motherfucking Ghostly.  Um, it's the Ghoulfriend installment.  Did I say that I was five?  I meant four.  But folks, my big ticket item is a Creepshow figure.  It's the window creep from the iconic prologue!  Fucking righteous!  Also, I am now the proud owner of a fanny pack that looks like a VHS tape.  Dreams.  These are the things that dreams are made of.  Grammar.  That was bad grammar.

All in all, I had a great time blowing my wad at Hickory's first horror convention.  THIS is their website.  Thanks to Bobby for the heads up!  I'm wiped.  Man, that birthday cash came in handy.  I figure, I might as well profit off of the encroaching sweep of mortality.  I'm still winning, sweet Death!

An actual photograph of a skeleton warrior.  This is NOT a cartoon.  This is real.  This is serious.

Geek Out #152

I recently rewatched the 2005 version of War of the Worlds (on basic cable, of all mediums).  What a fucking movie.  I remember catching it in a seedy theater, but no matter how dingy and bedimmed the environment, I was going to be swept away by the epic nature of this Spielbergian thing.  It's one of the very, very few movies to have reminded me as an adult that "Hollywood" is magical.  I'm using "Hollywood" as a denotation device for filmmaking in general.  The silver screen should evoke wonder, and even sixteen years later, War of the Worlds instilled a sense of childlike awe into my melanoid heart.

Today's Geek Out is my favorite scene.  It's, like, whoooooaaaa...y'know?  NOTE: If the video doesn't play, you may have to click through to YouTube.

Hideaway

Maybe it's because 1995 was my peak year (don't ask), but I seem to dig everything that was churned out in said year.  True, '95 was the last time I remember being 100% happy.  No real cares.  But that couldn't be it, could it?  I apologize for imbuing this review with notes of dismal despondency, but it's something I did wonder.  Is it a coincidence that I can even find leniency in my heart for The Mangler and Jack-O?  1995, folks.  It's a chronological set of beer goggles for yours truly.  I may not drink, but if your film was released during that precious span of time, I will go home with it.  Inhibitions?  Fuck it; I'm spreading.

I felt compelled to address the reputations of both Hideaway and its year of origin.  I was a kid when this quasi-medical thriller hit theaters, so I had no idea how it was received.  Well, blow me down!  SIDENOTE: Do you think Olive Oyl was sexually satisfied?  I can totally see Popeye as a well-meaning, yet selfish lover.  Perhaps delicate.  In my opinion, Olive fancied being plowed by the brusque, discourteous Bluto.  He would risk snapping her goddamn spine in the heat of the moment.  Yeah, she loved pain.  AHEM.  I didn't realize that the majority of moviegoers held Hideaway in disfavor.

Based on a Dean Koontz novel (the author hated it, too), our yarn begins...you know what?  I don't want to write a synopsis.  There is no need to dilate the plot with a verbose pandect or dramatize what is already dramatic dramaturgy.  I'll give you the sum and substance of it.  Jeff Goldblum plays Hatch, a poor bastard with a psychic link to a serial killer.  Turns out, the bastard and the killer were resuscitated by the same doctor.  Alicia Silverstone is here to be jailbait in distress.  I was okay with ogling her, as she was legal at the onset of principal photography.  I did the fucking research.  Don't look at me.

Honestly, I was entertained by Hideaway.  The climax slips up, but it was still entertaining.  I'm referring to the godawful special effects.  Director Brett Leonard also helmed 1992's The Lawnmower Man, and yes, the visuals are similar.  Egads.  Digital blotches appear in the first act as well.  The shit resembles diabetic retinopathy.  Macular degeneration?  Strabismus?  I'm citing a list of eye disorders; pick your favorite.  Leonard manages to build tension in spots.  I didn't want bad stuff to happen to Jeff Gol--Hatch.  I didn't want tragedy to befall Hatch, so that's a point for Hideaway.

Now, was I invested in atch because he looked and sounded a lot like Jeff Goldblum?  It's a fair question to ask, but no!  I wasn't.  Actually, I thought that Lindsey (Hatch's wife, as portrayed by Christine Lahti) was the more empathetic character.  For whatever reason, the ticks and quirks one associates with Goldblum are dialed down.  I'm willing to accept that I'm wrong, but to me, his performance suggests temperance.  It's as if he's either bored or restrained.  By all means, it's a strong showing.  This is Jeff Goldblum I'm fellating, for the love of Christ.

Goodness me, I haven't mentioned Jeremy Sisto's exquisite turn as Vassago.  What a villainous name!  He's sly and fiendish, yet vulnerable when the role calls for it.  Do I understand how Vassago is alive?  Not really, but the slack story didn't get in the way of my enjoyment.  Hideaway is a popcorn movie.  It tries to be classy and airtight, but popcorn.  Buttery.  Do they still make Blasto Butter popcorn?  Robert Z'Dar says, "I fucked Olive in the 70's.  Cut her in half with my dick."

   

37

On Tuesday, I'll be turning...a number.  It's the number of years since I was born.  You could call it my age.  It's too high of a number, and I can't think of a way to subtract from it.  Fortuitously, I have amassed a few cool items on account of this "birthday" contrivance.  It could take awhile to arrive, but I will finally own a Mournful Congregation shirt.  It's about damn time.

In part because of this event (lol), I've been laying low all week.  I do have a movie review coming up.  Extreme Rules is tonight, and I suppose I'll grab an eyeful of some of the matches.  I can handle WWE's PPV's, but I haven't been viewing Raw or Smackdown at all lately.  With an Extreme Rules or a Summerslam, there is only wrestling.  Television comes equipped with awful promos and awful storylines.  If you haven't guessed, I've been on an AEW bender.  Tony Khan doesn't do everything right, but if one were to keep a tally?  Say, two points for a satisfying segment?  Sweet Quaker, mercy rules would have to be invoked.

But I don't want to write about wrestling.  I want to kick back, eat tacos, and watch wrestling.  And a movie!

Dead Review Collection #8 - LIVE!

Yep!  I'm even hitting the live album.  Ain't I great?  This will be less of a review of the material presented and more of a story about how I came to love The Corpse.  Believe it or not, this was my first Cannibal Corpse record.  Actually, I'm referring to the (literal) home video version.  That's right, you leaf-tailed fringehead fuckers.*  I picked up a VHS copy of Live Cannibalism before hearing a note of the band's studio output (apart from the Ace Ventura soundtrack, but that was eight solar revolutions prior).  Why the hell did I make such a rash, frivolous decision?  Eh, a couple of reasons.

Foremost, I knew that I was on the verge of diving into extreme metal.  I could just sense it.  It was going to be my preferred style of muzak for a decent while, so this was a judicious investment.  Reason number two?  Morbid curiosity.  As a kid, Cannibal Corpse spooked me a bit, and that was before I learned their lyrics/songtitles.  Death metal was foreign to my ears.  "How is he growling?"  For all I knew, Chris Barnes was a veritable, unvarnished demon.  I read that there had been a singer switch, but my eagerness to demystify these musical monsters remained steadfast.

The back of the box was goddamn intimidating.  A bloody font, a plain black background, the words "Stripped, Raped and Strangled" staring at me...I was fourteen, but I suddenly felt nine.  What if Mom and Dad see this?  Will I be grounded?  SODOMIZED?  Anyway, I eventually watched the tape.  It wasn't shocking or deplorable at all.  It was badass!  If you own this fine product, you know it starts with Alex Webster delineating his (and by extension, their) daily schedule.  Y'know, life on tour.  Alex is such a nice, conspicuously normal guy, it was a jolly jolt to my system.  I don't know if that makes sense, but once my guard was down (so to speak), I was able to loosen up and appreciate CC's masterful performance.

And I do mean masterful.  There is a rectitude, a well-schooled professionalism to the group's stage activity.  Perhaps it's derived from road-weariness.  They are intense and workmanlike.  Corpsegrinder announces the next number (via his infernal gnarl), the number is played (this includes bionic headbanging), and after slippery seconds of repose, the cycle is repeated.  Banter is kept to a minimum.  This is a "meat and potatoes" death metal show, which could be perceived as a slight.  It's not!  I promise!  You will want to be at this gig.

I've already said that I wasn't going to prioritize critiquing the songs.  I mean, why bother?  I will tell you that this motherfucker sounds brutal.  The audio-only rendering (it was released on something called a compact disc) is missing "Devoured by Vermin" and "Fucked With a Knife," though you get the same mix.  Each instrument is at the right volume.  Setlist complaints?  I don't have many, seeing as how I wasn't familiar with CC's "hits" when I discovered this artifice, let alone their hidden gems.  Live Cannibalism leans on meaty cuts from Bloodthirst, their most recent album at the time.  Fine by me!

* That was a lizard reference.  Listen, I don't know why I researched different species of lizards.  Okay?  I don't visit your workplace and question your burger-flipping methods.  That may seem like a parting shot, but I respect our nation's burger flippers.  You're doing God's work, especially if you work at Wendy's.

    

Malignant 2: Taken Aback by Terror

Insert other back puns here.  Look, I'm going to spoil Malignant.  I would love to write about it without yielding to the ruddy, lethiferous elephant in the room, but that would only result in an angry tusker flinging a power chair through the fourth dimension.  And that...doesn't make sense.  Booyah!  Malignant doesn't make a lot of sense.  I don't have time right now to deliver a proper review, but I did feel compelled to jot down a couple of musings.

The obvious point of reference is Basket Case.  I've seen so many fans call the film's villain a conjoined twin.  No, no, no.  Doctors explain that "Gabriel" is a teratoma, a cancerous tumor.  How this growth drinks electricity and throws his voice to FM speakers is anyone's best guess.  By the way, I didn't realize that it was commonplace for families to listen to FM radio.  Then again, I wasn't checking out Malignant for a sense of realism.

It's incredible that this Grindhouse-with-a-budget reel made it to theaters at all.  Don't take a viscous curveball for granted.  Malignant is troubled, but it feels fresh in a landscape choking on its own riskless, generic self.  I don't think it was produced as a prank; rather, I think James Wan attempted to craft a mindless monster flick in the same vein as Basket Case or Castle Freak.  Eh, I wish I could type more on Wan's resume.  Maybe in the future?  Let's do lunch?

Album Cover(s) of the Whatever

That's right.  You get two sweet album covers for the price of eighteen.  Don't worry; I'm still bringing my wisdom to you for free, you pleonectic piker.  Never been called that before, have you?  Anyway, I wanted to offer something substantive today, if only to hold you over until my next review (I haven't forgotten my Cannibal Corpse discography series).  This Stratovarius cover comes courtesy of Matt Hill.  He has inspired previous Album Covers of the Whatever.  I don't listen to these power metallers, but I know wicked artwork when I see it.

Speaking of bands I don't enjoy (man, I need to buck this trend), this is Eternal Blue, the upcoming debut by Spiritbox.  They're one of those "heavy" groups with a female vocalist.  Of course, she screams, and OF COURSE, dillwads on YouTube act like a girl screaming is the most novel concept in the history of concepts.  It pisses me off that the incumbent generation (whatever they're called) seems to believe that all of this started with Jinjer.  I don't hate Jinjer, but geeeeez...oh, the cover.  I just love those fucking colors.

"Death runs in my family."

Didn't I just write one of these for Daffney?  I had a tremendous amount of respect for her, but I'll admit that she wasn't my favorite female wrestler on the planet.  For my money, Norm MacDonald held the top spot in his field.  I don't cover comedy on this site.  It can be a boring topic to skewer as a "critic."  I don't even like most comedies (TV or film), but in my opinion, Norm was the funniest motherfucker alive.  His voice was one of true rebellion, true "edginess" in a trade constantly on the butcher block for offending someone.  Why?  Because he didn't give a shit about being cool.

He was a Christian conservative, though you wouldn't guess it from sampling his stand-up routine.  Simply put, he saw the world in a unique way; his way.  If I learned that there was a new Norm special on Netflix or any of the other umpteen streaming services, it was Christmas morning in my head.  Sure enough, it would be hysterical.  I can't single out a bit or a line from his days on Saturday Night Live.  I can't single out an interview from his short-lived podcast, nor can I single out a chapter from his part-fictional autobiography.  Norm pervaded every medium with his dry-as-kindling, distinctly Canadian sense of humor.  He had more funny to share with us, goddamn it.

Over the next few days, I'm going to revisit his mind.  The book, the movies, the skits...I advise you to do the same.

Rest in peace, Norm.

Blood Capsule #113

THE SEVENTH CURSE (1986)

No, that's not a ghoulie or a munchie.  It's nothing of the sort, although I don't believe that I can describe it with human words.  I'll try!  It's affixed to an effeminately-voiced sorcerer who pulls it out from behind his back and prompts it to larrup anyone foolish enough to oppose his worm tribe.  This movie...I can't describe the plot with human words.  I'll try!  A man is burdened by a "blood spell" while studying abroad, and one year later, he is faced with his own mortality when he learns that he must return to the jungles of Thailand to ameliorate his sickness.  It's a time-sensitive matter.  If he doesn't find the cure by a certain date (he has, like, a goddamn day), he will become extinct.

The Seventh Curse is a Hong Kong production in the grand tradition of The Story of Ricky and the works of the Shaw brothers.  My reasons for mentioning Ricky are twofold.  Fold #1 ~ Both films were helmed by Ngai Choi Lam.   Fold #2 ~ Both films are fucking bent.  Curse is teeming with outlandish monsters, raging gore, and a general sense of folly-tinted giddiness.  While this is a b-flick without question, the special effects are remarkably deft.  For the most part, I couldn't figure out how the gags were achieved on the cheap.  Peppy fight choreography keeps the pace above a dangerous level.  I didn't have to worry about the bus exploding--I mean, falling asleep.  I didn't worry about falling asleep.

Last I checked, The Seventh Curse is available to rent on Amazon Prime.  Fork over the cash.  It's a frugal investment.

Vanity Scare #14

WCW (January 1993)

Oh, the unintended joys of wrestling magazines.  After reading a back issue of WCW Magazine, I want more.  This thing was sexually satisfying.  I mean, it turned me into a heaving, lecherous animal.  Silly kayfabe?  Fuck yeah, baby.  A crossword puzzle using only wrestler names and neologisms related to the business?  My undergarments are aqueous.  You do not want to know the fluids to which I'm referring, nor do you want to know the source of said fluids.  Didn't see this write-up starting out on a boorish note, huh?  Get your eyes checked.

This was an interesting read.  I'm going to track down a similarly-dated WWF rag to circumstantiate my notions, but the differences between the two major promotions are clearly outlined and fun to consider.  "Fun" is a peculiar word to use, I guess.  I'll stick with "interesting."  On our TV sets, Monday Night Raw and WCW Saturday Night were strikingly disparate programs.  In terms of tone, they were poles apart, discordant even.  The Fed offered Max Moon; Ted Turner's diaconal dojo offered Brad Armstrong.  I don't mean to suggest that WCW palmed off cartoonish, over-the-top gimmicks.  That's obviously not true, but an effort was made to present a fairly realistic overture to the viewer.

The proof is in the tapioca.  Between the slabs of typical branded bubble gum content (which I adored), you get deeper articles about the competitors.  No piece is too long or turgid.  I strongly doubt that the interviews were legitimate, but they sound casual enough.  Ricky Steamboat pondered his short run with the WCW World Television belt, reasoning that his loss could have been influenced by many factors.  He was sure to put over the victor, as it was fellow babyface Scott Steiner.

The talk with Dustin Rhodes is so solemn, I had no choice but to giggle.  He was trying to ascertain why his tag partner - Barry Windham - soured on respectful combat and turned his back on The Natural.  Everything is treated with the utmost gravity.  This is serious shit, ladies and gentlemen.  Of course, my favorite bit is the cover story.  It was written mere days ahead of the formation of The Hollywood Blonds, one of the best tag teams of the 90's.  If they had not been prematurely dismantled, they would have gone on to become one of the best tag teams of all time.

This issue features the last gasp of Paul E. Dangerously.  His Alliance had dissolved, but he still talks it up in his own column.  It's funny stuff, and it does ring as his own verbiage.  Finally, holy everfucking shit, I need all of the merchandise advertised in this bad boy.  Do Sting sunglasses entice you?  Maybe an El Gigante shirt?  AN EL GIGANTE SHIRT!!?!??  I'm storming eBay as soon as I publish this Vanity Scare.  So now, basically.

Rassle Inn #22

Every noted wrestling critic (i.e. the Meltzers of the world) has deemed last night's PPV the best of its kind.  Ever!  I'm even hearing that the tag team bout between The Young Bucks and The Lucha Brothers was the best cage match in history.  People, calm yourselves.  I watched AEW's All Out and yes, it was kind of phenomenal.  I'm reticent to jerk a knee and label it the most supreme wrestling event since the advent of sliced electricity.  I mean, can we wait a few days?  Why do so many journalists feel the need to rank a product as soon as it sees the light of day?

It should be satisfying enough to say that you enjoyed the damn thing.  Again, I enjoyed All Out.  And my head hit the pillow before the main event (I'm old).  Tony Khan should approach the coming months with caution.  His roster is at risk of becoming top-heavy.  He could administer a moratorium on signing new talent for a calendar year and his bottom line wouldn't recede an inch.  Ratings, buys, merch sales...there wouldn't be a single dip, I'm telling you.

On the other hand, maybe it's a shrewd idea to detonate all of these free agent bombs within a stone's throw of each other.  They're almost contiguous.  It has made an impact, no pun intended.  The hubbub simply cannot be ignored.  I didn't think a review was necessary, but if you're curious, I'm of the mind that none of the matches were bad per se.  Paul Wight's thrashing of Q.T. Marshall was dispensable filler, though.  Punk/Darby was just right.  Speaking of which, I dig Punk's new ring gear.  Where does he go from here?  Where does Christian go?  Where does Adam Cole go, bay-bay?

Intriguing questions.  Hey, I don't know about you, but I can't wait until the marriage between Indi Hartwell and Dexter Lumis.  The superfly NXT logo?  Why, it's the talk of the town!  I'm not being sarcastic at all!

Scream it ain't so...

At this point, the panegyrics have been written by those who knew her best.  As a mere fan, I always feel strange writing memorial pieces about "celebrities" who pass before their time.  For starters, I'm usually late to the funeral, so to speak.  I need time to gather my thoughts.  And to put it blankly, I didn't know Daffney.  I won't say that I loved her because that can sound off-putting, especially to someone who legitimately loved her.  I certainly admired her work.  She punched the clock as a pro-wrestler, and if you weren't privy to that scrap of information, good grief.  Just leave.

I wasn't watching WCW when Daffney joined the roster, but retroactively, it's apparent that she was a bright spot hidden in Nitro and Thunder during a sepulchral era in sports entertainment (well, sepulchral for one promotion anyway).  Apart from The Daughters of Darkness and GLOW's Heavy Metal Sisters, she sported the first "goth chick" gimmick in rasslin'.  Of course, I don't know if you could even call it a gimmick.  For all intents and purposes, Daffney was a true-to-life extension of Shannon Spruill.

I caught up with her in TNA.  She kicked ass, in this writer's opinion, but her value was squandered and frivoled away.  Injuries sustained under Dixie Carter severely retrenched her career.  It was out-and-out bullshit.  I can only echo the obvious, as Daffney's story is fairly easy to string together from testimonials and biographies online.  Twitter alone has been inundated with love for The Scream Queen.  SELF-SERVING NOTE: Daffney teamed (and briefly feuded) with MsChif, a similar goth/metal goddess type.  I.  Love.  MsChif.  That is all.  I'm praying to the big man downstairs that she comes out of retirement.  Alright, I'm done digressing.

Rest in peace, Daff.

The Snorkel

Today, we look at a Hammer film!  As the Halloween season ramps up, I develop a voracity for certain fixtures.  I want to see Christopher Lee caracoling around a deathly castle; Peter Cushing threatening chambermaids if they dare enter his laboratory; buxom babes...being buxom.  1958's The Snorkel is a Hammer production that doesn't beseem the horror genre.  It was a late B&W entry, one of the last paperback-style sticklers they issued before embracing test tubes and full moons.  And I fucking loved it!  Foremost, I do believe that The Snorkel would appeal to the majority of fangbangers.  At its core, this is a slasher with an oddball gimmick.

What struck me about the film is that it has a surprisingly mean-spirited streak cascading down its spine.  Normally, that can be a viewer paraquat* (I saw this word on the local news and had to find a place for it), but the bile is limited to one character.  I'm referring to the dude behind the snorkel.  It dovetails with logic for him to be a mean-spirited fuck.  He's the killer, after all.  Don't worry; that's not a spoiler.  This motion picture is not a whodunit.  From the first frame, we know who did it, but co-writers Peter Myers and Jimmy Sangster find other sources of ventricle-rattling, milk-curdling suspense.

Sangster is one of my favorite screenwriters of all time.  Not that I curate a list, but whenever I see his name in the credits, I know that I'm assured an intelligent script dressed in believable dialogue.  Such material probably gives way to better acting, no?  While I'm on the subject, the cast is tremendous.  Mandy Miller delivers a keen, smashing turn as Candy, a discerning orphan forced to live with her stepfather.  Man, her stepfather gives Terry O'Quinn a run for his money in the "domestic amorality" department.  A quick note, if I may; our lead is a teenager.  She is played...by a teenager.  Refreshing!  By the way, my use of the semi-colon is officially gratuitous.  It wasn't your imagination.

Peter van Eyck is a cold, yet circumspect heavy.  He could plot the end of civilization before your eyes and it would look like he was selling you insurance.  Earlier, I noted that he was a mean-spirited chap.  For evidence, I present a dead dog.  He kills a little girl's fucking dog!  Named Toto!  The Wicked Witch of the West would have at least hesitated or sermonized a final warning.  The fact that our villain is so deplorable just makes the final fifteen minutes that much more gripping.  Seriously, what a goddamn climax.  Post-coital, I had to ask myself, "How is this movie so obscure?"

Were there any components of The Snorkel that creased my quills?  Nope!  I can recommend it without any compunction.  As for how you can snatch up this breathing apparatus, I'm pretty sure that it's on a box set alongside auxiliary Hammer titles.  In addition, it may have been uploaded to a popular website that hosts user-submitted videos.  Perhaps.  I'm clearing my throat.

*It's an herbicide.  A repellent!  I guess it could also be slang for a paralyzed asshole.