Blood Capsule #129

HELLRAISER (2022)

Pinhead was the last slasher icon that had successfully counteracted the remake bug.  A most honorable stonewall, that.  But not even Hell priests are immune to Hollywood dogma.  If you existed for a past generation, you must exist for the next generation.  No exemptions!  I wasn't sure what to expect out of David Bruckner's Hellraiser, as the reviews have been as mixed as the contents of my colon.  My only question is, how is this any different from a Hellraiser sequel?  A morally disharmonious character (in this case, a struggling alcoholic named Riley) runs afoul of the Lament Configuration.  Cenobites dismantle her loved ones, she is faced with grievous questions, certain friends are revealed to be reprobates, etc...

It's a Hellraiser movie alright.  I guess I was hoping to learn more about our pierced villains.  Actually, I was hoping to learn more about anything.  2022's Hellraiser is business as usual, and it doesn't have the visual flair of the original.  Where are the bold colors?  Where is the consummate shadow play?  Where is the everloving panache?  Jamie Clayton makes an adequate Pinhead, but I don't think the team behind this film was striving to be described as "adequate" in any department.  Meh.

Corpsepaint by Numbers

This editorial has been stewing in my paunch for several months now.  There are a couple of reasons why I've delayed the publication of my little article (aww).  For one, I'm broaching a touchy, controversial topic, so it's imperative that I choose my words carefully.  Secondly, I was chucked out of commission by a profusion of health problems, and I didn't have a nuanced "thinkpiece" in me.  It's very possible that I have no business approaching the proverbial bench as it relates to contentious black metal bands.  Wait, strike that.  I'm just an asshole on the Internet; I can say anything!

Let's get specific.  Obviously, I'm not here to discuss the merits (or lack thereof) of traditional black metal staples such as Mayhem or Emperor.  They court their own controversy, but roasting churches and committing murder are dowdy, antiquated transgressions.  I mean, it's so 1993.  I'm covering a deleterious trend that is alive and well in the metal community at press time.  You are probably familiar with National Socialist black metal (NSBM is the preferred shorthand).  If not, these are easy groups to spot.  NSBM is a genus of extreme music that espouses fascism and white supremacy, among other lovely tenets.

99.8% of metalheads are cool motherfuckers.  For instance, you won't find many racists at your average metal festival.  But of course, there are rapscallions poised to flutter on the fringes of every fandom.  A quick tangent, if I may...I've developed a habit of watching "collection update" videos on YouTube.  These are folks with monstrous album collections, though I suspect that similar videos exist of nerds (no judgment) with Star Wars collections or whatever the fuck.  The appeal is...well, rad records.  You also get to know the people themselves.

"Dom," you whisper in your vampish chicken suit.  "What does that have to do with NSBM?"  I can tell you that I didn't give you the key to my apartment, so I don't know how you are standing in my bedroom.  Additionally, I can tell you that these metal scavengers are divided into two camps, those who buy NSBM merch and those who don't.  Note that none of them are racists.  Some metalheads can look past the troubling lyrics; some can't.  Where do I stand on the issue?  That was the impetus behind scribbling this essay of sorts.

I look at things on a case-by-case basis.  I don't believe in blanket generalizations.  Each situation is different, and the two bands I've decided to spotlight couldn't be any more different from each other (both musically and, um, socially).  Inquisition!  Originally based in Colombia, Inquisition peddles a unique brand of black metal that favors atmosphere over curt, unceremonious aggression.  I've been a fan for years.  At one point, we learned that Dagon (lead vocalist/songwriter) was found guilty of an unlawful display of sexually explicit material.  Basically, he had underage porn on his computer.  This information made me take a serious step back and reevaluate my interest in Inquisition.

Since then, I've read into the case and I'm not convinced that the guy is a pedophile.  Certainly, you can draw your own conclusions.  But the details are not so black-and-white.  There were Neo-Nazi allegations thrown at Dagon as well.  It seemed to be based on hearsay, but what do I know?  Personally, I feel okay listening to Inquisition, especially considering that the lion's share of the lyrics deal with Satan in space.  What about Burzum?  Here's a clown dick who straight-up admitted to killing someone in "self-defense."  Here again, I did the research and I'm not sure that his argument holds any water.

Those are just two examples out of way, way too many.  The kicker?  I have yet to confront NSBM that I dig on a purely artistic level.  You'll read gushing reviews for Arghoslent and Grand Belial's Key, to name but two relevant outfits, but I'm not hearing it.  And no, Burzum doesn't do it for me.  Am I missing something?  Because there is better stuff out there that wasn't composed by human excrement.  Hey, listen to what you want.  Don't give someone a tablespoon of codswallop for avoiding NSBM on sheer principle alone, though.  That would be silly.  You don't want to be silly, do you?

The Vortex Void of Inhumanity

Man, it has been a week.  I'm not articulate enough to sum it up in 4,007 words or less, but suffice to say, I haven't had the time or motivation to write comprehensible sentences for this, my illustrious website.  However, my mind has settled into a more commodious living space.  I'm planning on drumming up an opinion piece later today, as a matter of fact.  What does Mayhem have to do with anything?  Well, bookmark this baby and find out!

Rassle Inn #33

I'll be perfectly honest.  I don't feel like writing.  I do feel like bitching.  So...eh?  My anxiety is being unreasonable about A) this hurricane and B) an upcoming surgical procedure.  The details are not important enough to mention.  Suffice to say, I'm going through some shit, but so is literally everyone on planet Earth.  To drag this editorial of sorts back into a realm of relevance, I watched last night's Dynamite to divert my attention.  For me, it was just there.

I have a couple of bones that I'm breathlessly zealous to pick with Tony Khan.  Okay, the card flaunted two matches featuring talents who have never drawn air on American television.  If you missed the show, I'm speaking of Juice Robinson (formerly NXT's C.J. Parker; he has done well for himself in Japan) and Bandido (pictured above).  From the very beginning, I have belabored the point that one of Khan's chief goals should have been cajoling the average viewer, baiting the common fan.  To most people, Juice is a goddamn nobody, whereas Bandido is a nobody wearing a cool mask.

Was there any build to these debuts?  Maybe an anticipatory vignette?  Nope.  What's worse, this isn't the first time that Khan has pulled this gambit.  Ask yourself, when was the last time you saw Jay White or Will O'Spreay on either Dynamite or Rampage?  And they are two of the best professional wrestlers active today!  It's no surprise that ratings dropped.  Currently, AEW is apprehending just under a million pairs of eyeballs on a weekly basis.  There are mild fluctuations, but folks, that number hasn't seen a significant increase since the first sighting of CM Punk.

My second grievance has less to do with Tony Khan and more to do with wrasslin' in general.  Every match is virtually the same.  Open with matwork, do a high spot (dive outside or it doesn't count; be sure the supposed opponent is stationary and waiting to catch unidentified flying assholes), do an unnecessarily dangerous apron spot, chop the shit out of each other, stage ten false finishes, hit your real finisher, and presto.  You've got yourself a modern wrestling match.  The chops, in particular, are old hat.  Am I desensitized?  Have I seen too much of this stuff?  Yes and yes.  But I'm a fan.  I'll probably tune in next week.

I need a sombrero.

The Great Yokai War

Over the past few weeks, I've posted reviews of all three films in the Yokai Monsters trilogy in the Random Reviews Incorporated Fan Club (join us, join us...!).  If you're not in the know, these ditties are Japanese folk tales bolstered by fanciful, quixotic special effects.  They are fun to watch on a Saturday afternoon.  I gave them a gander knowing that I would follow the original trilogy up by beaming at Takashi Miike's 2005 remake.  Miike is one of my favorite directors on the planet.  While I didn't expect The Great Yokai War to have the sinuous malignancy of Audition or Ichi the Killer, I did expect to see traces of Miike's oddball sense of humor and his uncanny ability to marry seemingly discordant genres.  Needless to squeal, my expectations were met.

I'll try to piece together a semi-lucid plot summary.  At a small festival, a little boy named Tadashi is chosen to be a "kirin warrior," a guardian and abettor of all things good.  Concurrently, a demon randomly appears "whose mystical powers are born of his rage at the annihilation of Japan's local tribes."  Or at least that's what IMDb claims.  I'm not proud of my sources, but this is an enormous ball of twine to unfuck.  Tadashi represents the heart of the story.  I was moved by his relationship with Sunekosuri, a furry critter akin to a hamster.  Without resorting to spoilers, that is one angle that takes a ballsy turn.

Simply put, this is an entertaining horror/fantasy/adventure.  I want to make my position plain because I'm about to contravene and grouse about it.  I dig Miike's Great Yokai War, but for 2005, the digital effects leave something...well, everything to be desired.  At times, I felt like I slipped a copy of 1998's Virus into my VCR.  NOTE TO SELF: Watch Virus.  Also, the narrative is riddled with craters.  Here are a number of questions that I asked during the climax: "Who is that guy?"  "How does he know the girl with green hands?"  "Why in the holy hell does that girl have green hands?"  "Is that one of the friendly monsters?"  "Why can't I piss Fanta Orange?"

The jury is still out on that last conundrum.  It's a real cryptogram.  The script tosses too many characters in the air for Miike to catch.  Admittedly, the titular war is a satisfying brouhaha.  I'm cool with the practical effects, and as I hinted at earlier, Ryonosuke Kamike (the timid, yet gallant Tadashi) is a compelling lead.  The Great Yokai War would be a sweet appetizer in a Miike double feature with, say, Dead or Alive.  I need to work more of the guy's filmography into my diet.  There are only 303,459 titles left to consume.  I'll get there sooner or later.

  

Blood Capsule #128

GRAVE ROBBERS (1989)

I've always maintained that I don't review every film that I see.  In order to ramble on a certain topic, I need to have something to say.  There are movies, however, that refuse to meet me halfway.  Take Grave Robbers, for instance.  It's a Mexican slasher that you'll often find paired with 1985's Cemetery of Horror, a zombie romp directed by Ruben Golindo Jr.  Ol' Ruben also conducted this diapason.*  And it's...decent.  See, that's the problem.  This diabolic diversion is the cinematic equivalent of Bunny bread.  I dig Bunny bread, but outside of being a slice of leavened dough, what does it offer?  It's just fucking bread.  Grave Robbers is just a cut-and-dried monster mash.  Make of that what you will.

After the occult-flavored prologue, we meet our cannon fodder.  It's a pitiable prospectus of faceless characters who are stalked by the sprightly corpse of an irritable Satanist, a necromancer of sorts bent on...um, ending the world or some shit.  The death sequences are charming.  And I suppose that the production values are sharp, considering the modest budget.  It's nothing innovative.  Honestly, I'm surprised that I've wrested this many words out of such a routine flick.  Two and a half Z'Dars.  Four Z'Dars for my alliteration.

*It's a musical term.  Yeah, I don't know.

A Band: Acid Witch

This website has already passed its 10-year anniversary without much fanfare.  For those curious, I started Random Reviews Incorporated in late 2009.  I mention it because it wasn't much later (early 2010) that I posted a random (natch) squib about Acid Witch.  Don't bother looking it up.  I'll probably repurpose some of the adjectives I used to describe this gnarly band.  You may be wondering why I'm choosing to spotlight their fiendish grooves when I've already yapped about them in the past.  Well, they're still hovering just below obscurity, and in my illustrious opinion, they are poised to become a group that every horror junkie spins at or around Halloween.  I'm calling it!

It's strange to think that Acid Witch - comprised of members appropriated from Shitfucker and Temple of Void, among others - has been active for nearly fifteen years now.  They came roaring out of the gate with 2008' Witchtanic Hallucinations, a killer record that I opined was "tailor-made to serve as a backdrop to spooky movie marathons and costume contests."  The isochronal samples seal it.  2017's Evil Sound Screamers uses a clip from Mister Rogers' Neighborhood to inaugurate the proceedings.  Of Course, the audio is distorted whenever our yellow-clad friend mentions candy laced with drugs (gotta watch out for those fentanyl lollipops) or apple cores harboring razor blades.

At their inception, Acid Watch didn't steer too far away from meat-and-potatoes hard rock, bestial growls notwithstanding.  Later albums weaponized heavier riffs, however, to the point where I would expect the next long player to traffic in rarefied death metal.  What else can I say?  Acid Witch is just fucking cool.  How cool?  2018's Midnight Movies EP features covers of tunes from 1986's Trick or Treat and 1988's Black Roses.  They are set to release a single in October (actually, it might already be available) and I've heard that a new album is in the works.

Let's hope that the mercury drops outside so that I can wear my badass Acid Witch hoodie.  They have a shit-ton of merch, by the way.  Buy all of it.

Album Cover of the Whatever

Just a quick little album cover (of the whatever) to tide you over until the next pamphlet I decide to write.  I know my fans, and I know that they are foaming for new content.  Heh.  Honestly, I know very little about Infernal other than they are a Colombian black metal band.  It's very likely that this record rips in addition to sporting snazzy artwork.  Listen to it.  Enjoy it.

WNUF Halloween Special

I love Halloween.  I know, I know...what else is new?  I don't understand why it can't be a year-round deal.  Goddamn it, I'm sick of--woah!  Sorry.  I'm passionate when it comes to our (yes, our...we might as well claim ownership) ghoulish celebrations, and as 2013's WNUF Halloween Special demonstrates, I'm not the only one.  You may have heard a faint clangor about it resounding throughout the web.  The makers of WNUF launched a rather brassy advertising campaign to call attention to their mockumentary, even going so far as to distribute copies onto random tables at genre-adjacent conventions, sans label.

The horror community responded in kind.  I referred to WNUF as a mockumentary, but truth be told, that classification requires some explaining.  It actually doubles as a "found footage" flick.  But wait!  Before I lose your interest altogether, this isn't your typical camcorder patchwork.  It purports to be a slice of local television, or to be specific, a Samhain-inspired special wherein WNUF (the ersatz channel in question) airs field pieces that cover topics such as trick-or-treating safety and the vociferous tantrums of faith-based groups who believe that All Hallow's Eve fosters the devil's deeds.  Shit, was that a run-on sentence?  My deepest apologies to those I've offended with my careless, inconsiderate grammar.  It ain't right.

I could sell you on the plot, but WNUF's crowning features have precious little to do with ghouls and broomsticks.  Sure, the Halloween appurtenances are gobs of fun, and I would be first in line to see Sarcophagus (a fictional mummy movie set to premiere on WNUF), but I'll remember other aspects of this spook-a-minute simulacrum above anything else.  Like the dead-center adverts.  Man, these commercials are scary accurate.  From promos for rug emporiums to werewolf hotlines to church bake sales.  It's all here to serve as breathers in between broadcasts of the news and reporter Frank Stewart's probe into a gravely haunted house.

Flanked by paranormal investigators and a circumspect priest, Frank (played by a game Paul Fahrenkopf) is keen on exorcising this spectral dwelling.  The whole situation leans on camp, but the circumstantial comedy works.  Sadly, the fabricated bits are dampened by stagy acting.  I wanted to believe that I was watching a 100% legitimate videotape from 1987, but a handful of lazy performances took me out of the atmosphere.  What's more, I felt that the ad breaks, while entertaining, arrived too frequently.  Eh, these are negligible annoyances.  Make no mistake, I'm recommending the hell out of WNUF Halloween Special.

PS-Be on the lookout for Out There Halloween Mega Tape.  Yep, there is a sequel!  I can't find a release date, but I know that it's currently surfing the festival circuit.

   

Book of Zoinks

How about some family-friendly spooks?  Actually, the video you see before you is pretty funny if you watch it with the right frame of mind.  Seemed appropriate for a clarion, yet thermogenic Friday afternoon (don't mind me...that's just a stupid way to say it's hot and sunny).

Rabid ('19)

Years ago, I was quick to profess my love for the Soska twins.  They were critical darlings in the independent horror scene, but more importantly (this could get me in trouble), they were hot.  I enjoyed See No Evil 2 for what it was.  As for American Mary, their breakout character study of a come-hither mortician (is there any other kind?), I haven't even seen it.  I'm not proud of this fact, but I met the girls through interviews.  They were spunky, sweet-tempered, and yes, violently voluptuous.  I'm lucky that they didn't pry into my feigned fandom when I met them at a convention.  It's not that I deplore their directorial resume.  From what I've discerned, they do have a knack for conjuring slick, shuddersome visuals.

But this isn't a review of the Soska twins as people; this is a review of their remake of 1977's Rabid, David Cronenberg's ode to contagion and armpit vaginas.  I didn't realize it before pressing play, but this was the first (and to date, only) movie that Sir David has allowed to be remodeled.  My choice of words is premeditated.  The Soskafied Rabid takes place in the world of fashion.  Rose, a fledgling, enterprising designer would kill for her sketches to be noticed by the eccentric Gunter (more on him later), but before she can make any headway, she is damn near splintered by the bumper of a wandering car.  The result is a hideous mouth wound.  Unwilling to wait for cosmetic surgery, Rose seeks the care of an experimental clinic.  I think you can see where this is heading.

The operation is a success, but the side effects involve harrowing hunger pangs, a stomach for human flesh, and random tentacle flare-ups (understatement of the century).  As you may have noticed, this is not a shot-for-shot retelling of the original.  I hate to use this term, but the modern day Rabid is basically a reimagining.  Laura Vandervoort gives a focused, broad-spectrum performance as Rose.  Credit the Soska-penned screenplay for proffering their lead a three-dimensional role to embody.  The rest of the cast is fine, but I'd be remiss if I didn't mention CM Punk.  He enjoys wrangling a throwaway part - a stewed sleazebag - and his wife joins in on the fun as a journalist.  That's right; A.J. Mendez has attained "call sheet" status.  If you include the Soska cameos, you've got yourself a threesome joke that I'm much too dignified to disclose.

The pacing is balanced.  Going further down the "body horror" checklist, I am happy to report that the gore reaches near-extravagant levels of butchery.  Apart from a singular instance of CGI, the special effects unit was clearly up to the task at hand.  Now for the mishaps, or to sound all objective about it, the trials and tribulations.  The storyline is easy to follow up to the icky finale, but the more our antagonist explains the particulars of Rabid's chief epidemic, the more convoluted everything becomes.  The guy creates plot holes out of thin air.  Plus, some of the characters come across as ridiculously exaggerated.  Case in point, Gunter.

Don't get me wrong; I love Gunter, but only because of his unintentional comedic value.  To give you an idea of his absurdity, one user review on IMDb (accurately) compared him to Will Ferrell in Zoolander.  I shouldn't be picking up those kinds of vibes from Rabid, whether it be this rendition or the 1977 version.  Due to the underwhelming resolution, I shuffled away from the film with a sour taste in my gallbladder.  The person I watched it with (Paul...you know Paul) felt that I was being too generous with my rating.  I thought I wasn't being generous enough.  If a Soska sister is reading this, I told Paul to go fuck himself.  You hear that, Paul???  Remind me to kick your ass!

  

Album Cover of the Whatever

While I stall until the next movie review, please enjoy the teal-soaked cover of Tideless's Adrift in Grief.  They're a death/doom band, and to be completely honest, I find them to be middling.  And I'm a sucker for dismal death/doom metal.  It is what it is.

Rassle Inn #32

Earlier today, I was listening to Smashing Pumpkins' Melon Collie and the Infinite Sadness.  Fucking great collection of songs.  "Jellybelly" careened into my neurotransmitter when I was reminded that Billy Corgan - of all people - was one of the better wrestling promoters in North America.  A large percentage of his fans probably don't know (or care) that he divides his time between recording studios and the squared circle.  Am I being audacious by proclaiming him to be a practiced promoter?  Maybe, but from my perspective, it's true.

Corgan has mastered the very thing that WWE and AEW often overlook.  Obviously, I'm talking about supernatural stables that cause unearthly, numinous blackouts in the arena.  I kid; no, I'm speaking of simplicity (gratuitous italics denote salience).  Everything featured on NWA Powerrr makes sense.  It's also fun.  I'll give you an example.  A recent episode pitted NWA World Junior Heavyweight Champion Homicide against a scrappy challenger in the form of Ricky Morton.  Yes, that Ricky Morton.  It was a short match, but it was quite enjoyable seeing the tested veteran sell for a contemporary wrestler.  Dude can hang.

You can watch NWA Powerrr on YouTube for free every week.  I promise that I'm not a paid sponsor.  I don't know that I could campaign for a show that calls Velvet Sky one of its commentators anyway.  Aww, she's not so bad.  Should I interpose my opinion on the whole CM Punk debacle?  Irony be damned, my sentiments are - say it with me - simple.  We don't know what happened behind closed doors.  In fact, we don't know why Punk and The Elite are at paradoxical odds with each other.  Give me specifics.  You can't!  That's precisely my point.

I'm dumbfounded by the amount of people who have designated Punk as the bad guy when they have never even grazed his shoulders at a convention or volleyed funnel cake at his gimmick table.  Um, I don't know why I chose funnel cake as a hypothetical concession weapon, but my point stands.  If you don't know, you don't know.  I will contend, however, that his injury-prone physique leaves a crater in Tony Khan's long-term plans.  It doesn't do much for the short term either.  And now I want funnel cake.  Shit.

Repose

Yesterday, I watched 2001's Beneath Loch Ness for potential review.  It was so dull, it gave me precisely nothing to dissect.  Honestly, I'm not in the best "reviewing" state of mind.  I made an appointment with my shrink to address my undiagnosed ADD.  It takes quite a bit of my brain.  Even now, I can feel it pulling my mind in different directions.  There is a slight possibility that I'll write up a fan club review for a monster mash I took in this morning.  Have you joined my fan club yet?  If not, what are you waiting for?  If so, join again!  Click HERE.

The Sick, the Dying, and...the Dead!

I'm on the rebound from Covid, so you won't be seeing any content for a bit.  Just a bit!  I did listen to the new Megadeth album today.  It's...a Megadeth album.  Nothing grabbed me, but this sickness has stolen all interest from my already weathered spirit.  I don't even care about watching movies.  Or writing, much less writing about movies.  Until then!

Blood Capsule #127

BLACK RIVER (2001)

Koontz Bloody Koontz has ended with a whimper.  I don't know what I was expecting out of Black River, but the listed plot summary should have tipped me off.  It's a multiplex entanglement, so try to stay with me.  "A writer visits a town that isn't what it seems to be."  Quite the morass.  Jay Mohr performs as the writer in question.  He's about as perfervid and impassioned as...well, remember his seasons of SNL?  Yeah, that's the kind of excitement we're working with here.  His character is manipulated by shady customers, but these nefarious powers don't actually do anything.  Their bedevilment amounts to nothing more than a few mysterious phone calls.

The anticlimax hits like a dismantled bomb.  Ugh, I've written too much about this made-for-TV thud.  Thanks a lot, Koontz!

Rassle Inn #31

Lyme disease is a vector-borne malady spread by ticks.  Common symptoms include rash, headache, fever, and fatigue.  Sorry, my mind has been occupied my medical factoids for the past couple of weeks, as I've been incredibly sick, maybe the sickest I've ever been in my life.  I don't mention it for pity.  I'm slowly, slowly getting better.  Recent episodes of Raw have reminded me of ticks, in particular, an old episode of House centering around the parasitic arachnids.  Remember House, the show about a hobbled, pill-popping genius who solved bizarre cases each week?

If I recall correctly, the second season featured a mystery where a little girl fell ill from a presumed tincture of Lyme disease.  Only one problem...they couldn't find the tick!  It was definitely still attached, but where?  In the eleventh hour, the girl's vitals were dropping when House followed a hunch and reached into her snatch.  No, really.  Tick found.  Tick removed.  Child healed.  Are you beginning to see the parallel I'm making here?  Vince McMahon is the tick in our scenario.  Triple H is House, and he has successfully extracted an infection from the snatch of sports entertainment.  For the love of all that is holy, sterilize those tweezers.

Look, it's still not a perfect show.  There are no flawless promotions, unless you're watching through the lens of nostalgia.  The first item on the docket should be to axe the third hour.  I don't even think that sporting events should last three hours.  At least with a football game, you get a breather in the form of halftime.  Wrestling fans receive no such luxury.  And I would probably unify every title, but that's a minor quibble.

So far, the smartest decision that Triple H has made is promoting Io Shirai to Raw (name change notwithstanding).  I'm biased, but you know I'm right!  At house shows, Io has been working with Asuka in singles bouts.  Yes, yes, YES.  That's all I've ever wanted.  Years ago in Japan, they teamed together alongside Mio, Io's sister.  These ladies have chemistry on top of chemistry.  I mean, if I had my druthers, they would main event Wrestlemania.  Then again, if I had my druthers, I would be Io's mouthpiece.  If that sounded salacious, it's because it was salacious.  I will not stand down.

Album Cover of the Whatever

I swear to Lucifer, you are looking at a goatman surfing on the backs of skeletons.  This might be the damndest album cover I've ever seen.  The band in question?  Mactatus.  They play slightly orchestral black metal.  I'm sampling this record - Provenance of Cruelty - right now, and I'm impressed.  Are those female vocals I hear?  I'm working under the assumption that those skeletons were session musicians.

Big Nostalgia

A few days ago, I was at the (decaying) shopping mall.  I hit my usual spots.  Soft pretzel with cheese sauce...check!  Pontificating on the sucking void that is my soul while waiting for my mother to rifle through every single rack at Belk's...check!  Hit up Hot Topic to remind myself why I never need to darken that doorstep ever again...check!  See if Spencer's has any Halloween stuff out yet...they don't, but this is where my tract actually begins.

1988's Killer Klowns From Outer Space is a trendy intellectual property.  Did you know that?  I thought it was a cult classic.  Y'know, a movie!  God, I sound like such a gatekeeper.  Hear me out.  I first saw the film in the late 90's.  Believe it or not, it aired on the Syfy Channel.  Naturally, I was blown away, so much so that I hopped on our dial-up modem to order a VHS copy.  As the years passed, I failed to meet anyone offline who had ever heard of KKFOS.  Today?  Merchandise galore at a mainstream brick-and-mortar retail establishment.  I'm torn.  Vacillated!

A part of me wants to reject a clear example of base marketing.  Pennywise, Chucky, Jason, and all of the "horror heavies" are suffering the same fate.  But remember, I'm torn.  I own Freddy Krueger socks and while I was at the mall, I bought a swank KKFOS t-shirt.  It was blue!  How was I supposed to resist?  On one level, peddling nostalgic wares does keep horror alive.  You never know.  Some kid at a Spirit Halloween might be introduced to cool shit because of what I call "big nostalgia."  The downside is the inevitable proliferation of - say it with me - posers.  I guarantee that most of the consumers who invest in a Child's Play fleece throw blanket haven't seen the original film.  Maybe they've seen Chucky.  Jesus, I haven't seen Chucky.  

This treatise was needled by the announcement of the Killer Klowns From Outer Space video game.  That's dandy, but how about a sequel instead?  The fans have only waited for roughly 25 years to see KKFOS2.  Okay, I'm done carping.  Now where did I leave my Pennywise coffee mug?

Whispers

And so our trip through Koontzville (a commonality adjacent to Weinerville) continues with 1990's Whispers, a direct-to-video trinket directed by the same auteur who brought us 1994's The Paperboy and a short entitled Why Men Rape.  Yep.  I'll be honest.  This review may not be coherent or particularly articulate.  Over the past five nights, I've had one night of decent sleep.  My head is swimming with murk and ground clouds.  We're going to try melatonin tonight.  Failing that, I'll get sloshed on Vanilla Coke and treat myself to a viewing of Rosemary's Baby.  Swear to God, that flick makes me conk out every single time I try to watch it.  I've still never finished the damn thing.

Oh, Whispers.  Right.  Victoria Tennant stars as a woman being macerated by her ex.  The fucker comes very close to dispatching her within the first ten minutes, and again ten minutes later.  Man, this chum is a real wiseacre.  We see blurry flashbacks to his childhood, but nothing is clarified until the stomach-churning finale.  Without spoiling anything, it involves cockroaches.  I will say, for a film with a meager budget, it does develop tension in certain spots.  Director Douglas Jackson (y'know, the begetter of paperboy rapists) spins a gnarly web of distress and consternation.  The gore is light.  In fact, I would surmise that Whispers was a made-for-TV project if it wasn't for the prurient sex scenes.

Prurient?  I sound like a fusspot.  A fuddy-duddy!  I can't wait to eat dinner.  I'm having penne rigate tossed with shrimp and smothered in Caribbean jerk sauce.  See, I told you that my mind was a bit erratic.  Oh, Whispers.  Right.  Chris Sarandon turns in as a sympathetic cop who wiggles his way into becoming the love interest.  In my eyes, he looks bored out of his skull.  The role doesn't require much of him, and yes, he played the exact same character in Child's Play.  Hell, Tennant even resembles Catherine Hicks.  The pace is boggy in fits and spells.  In other words, this chiller-thriller lost its grip on my attention span on a number of occasions.

Don't get me wrong; this is a fairly gross, engrossing scare picture.  It ends at just the right point, whereas my review has loitered on past its date of departure.  Yeah, I left a long, looong time ago.  So who is typing?  Dean Koontz, most likely.  PS (or whatever) - I scanned Whispers on YouTube.  It's a cool VHS rip that includes a pair of trailers.  I am now looking forward to Moon 44 and Repossessed.  Fuck, why didn't you tell me that my copy of Rosemary's Baby is twenty-eight years late at Ballbuster???  There goes the kid's college fund.  I'm glad I killed him.  Oh, Whispers.  Right.  It's so-so.

  

Geek Out #156

Here we have a Halloween episode of Headbanger's Ball hosted by Alice Cooper.  Man, I wish I could find full episodes including the videos, especially from 1994 or 1995.  Make it happen, MTV.

Blood Capsule #126

WATCHERS III (1994)

If you've seen Predator, you have seen Watchers III.  Hell, if you've seen Xtro 3: Watch the Skies, you have seen Watchers III.  This project never had a chance.  The cast is crowned by Wings Hauser, so I was hopeful, blithe even.  Blithe!  He plays Ferguson, a convict chosen to squire a covey of military grunts into the jungles of South America to capture The Outsider.  If you've been following along at home, you know that The Outsider is a monstrosity created to engage in combat apace with our troops.  You also know that a golden retriever was designated with the ability to guide its heinous counterpart into battle.  The plot is so ridiculous, it comes close to carrying Watchers III across the finish line single-handedly.

Hauser could persuade me to drive my wheelchair through a wall of conflagrant cinder blocks.  It goes without saying that he delivers a fine-tuned performance (I imagine that absinthe was involved), but his cohorts come off as limp and abstracted.  I expected more from Gregory Scott Cummins, the furrowed star of Hack-O-Lantern.  I'm a fan of the creature suit.  And the gore is saucy, but that's all I can say in favor of this languid sequel.  Man, I need to watch Hack-O-Lantern again.

Sweet Starchild o' Mine

Woah, it's been a few days since I last saw you.  I didn't fall off the edge of the world.  Promise!  I've been busy with a couple of side projects.  Does "buying nerdy habiliments" count as a side project?  Today, I slipped inside of a gnarly comic shop that was new to me.  I left with a stack of horror books and a KISS-themed magazine from 1985.  80's KISS is unfairly maligned.  Sure, their sound was homogenized, but those are infectious records.  If you don't sing along to the chorus of "Tears Are Falling," you have a serpentine soul.  And Paul Stanley is a sex kitten.

I'm not quite ready to officially announce it, but I've started a band with a buddy of mine.  Time is working against us, as we can only record on weekends.  However, we might have something you can sample in the next month or so.  Don't worry; I'm still planning on sailing the river Koontz.  I'm stretching the margins of this particular review series by including a sequel.  Feel that?  That's anticipation.

Watchers

I'm a dog person.  That's important for you to know because my opinion may be colored by my affinity for cute canines.  I mean, I turn into a barmy, foaming twit whenever I see one in public.  Try as I might, I had a similar reaction to Furface, the hyper-intelligent pooch in 1988's Watchers.  Indulge me as I piece together a semi-coherent synopsis.  Scientists developing weapons of war chance upon precipitance when their research laboratory erupts in flames.  Two experimental subjects manage to escape unscathed.  Guinea Pig #1: A snuggly golden retriever described as a homing device.  Guinea Pig #2: The missile being guided, a bloodthirsty creature who instinctively hates his quadrupedal counterpart.

I'm fighting the urge to label Corey Haim as the third subject.  Aw, I'll be nice.  He tackles the role of Travis, your average teenager.  Furface hitches a ride in his pick-up truck, unwittingly painting a bright orange target on the backs of Travis and his mother.  The requisite girlfriend is caught in the crossfire.  Her father is mutilated by the aforementioned missile, which brings me to a lamentable drawback.  The kills are mostly dry and cut in a ponderous manner.  At times, I felt like I was watching the edited-for-TV version.  I've read reviews that poke fun at the monster suit, but I thought it was up to snuff.  Of course, I live on a strict diet of disgraceful scuzz.  I'm not exactly an unbiased judge.

The pacing is swift.  I was generally engrossed in the storyline, and despite the predictable outcome, I was invested in following the third act through to its denouement.  Why is this thing called Watchers?  Grand question.  I'm hoping that the source material does a better job of delineating the specifics of how the shadow-wreathed beastie was hatched.  For what it's worth, I've heard that this adaptation takes a plurality of liberties with the Koontz tome.  The novel doesn't even star Corey Haim.  Or Michael Ironside!  If I could read, I would be super pissed.

And I have nothing else to say.  Consider this an extended blood capsule.  On the whole, I enjoyed Watchers.  Y'know, I was up for the role of Furface, but Sandy (the mutt thespian) slept with the studio brass.  Heady play, bitch.

   

Album Cover of the Whatever

I know very little about Ocultan, but I know that's a rad album cover.  The band plays competent blackened death metal.  If you're into that sort of thing.

Koontz Bloody Koontz

Pretend that I made this announcement a few days ago.  As you can surmise from the brilliant title, I'm going to survey a handful of Dean Koontz adaptations.  Ol' Koontzy doesn't get as much love as King or Barker, but he has spewed worthwhile monster books into the world.  Keep an eye on this space!

Phantoms

The late 90's are known to horror historians (heh) for discharging slashers at an exhaustive rate, but there was another trend at work - monster movies!  It wasn't a successful trend.  I stagger to confab how it became a trend at all, and you may contend that there was no modish furor behind it, but these films did exist.  The Relic, Mimic, Deep Rising, Virus...they refused to be brushed off as mild alternatives for those of us who tired of masked assholes wielding acicular silverware.  In the end, they were brushed off at the box office.  Whether or not they found legs on home video is irrelevant 25 years later, at least as irrelevant as this opening paragraph.  Let's talk about 1998's Phantoms.

A young Ben Affleck stars as Sheriff Bryce Hammond, a former FBI agent investigating the designs behind a dropped call.  He finds a pair of sisters and precisely no one else.  The setting is a desolate, hibernal town in Colorado that has been plundered of life.  Residents?  Vanished.  Cars?  Empty.  Cadavers begin to accumulate, however, and there are no clues to be found.  This is where I'll chime in with a note of praise.  The first act is beautifully set up.  You would never guess that these establishing moments of austere doom were directed by the same guy who manned Halloween: The Curse of Michael Myers.  Could it be that, independent of intrusive studio fingers, Joe Chappelle is actually talented?  Go figure.

The flawless build is short-lived.  You can almost smell the spot in the script where it realizes (yes, it's sentient) that it might have to explain away the mystery it took such great care to constitute.  We never get a clear answer.  What kind of heavy are we dealing with here?  Um, it's ancient!  How does it attack?  Um, off-screen!  How does it know the name of a random scholar, the exquisite Peter O'Toole?  Um, it's ancient!  Other points of uncertainty are left dangling.  Like Deputy Stu.  I don't mind Liev Schreiber, but what's up with this fucker?  He's the most childish, featherbrained cop in existence.  We are led to believe that he's under the influence of "phantoms," but I'm calling bullshit.

The CGI is spotty, though my nostalgia has intensified to where I'm almost fond of those bumbling, graceless varmints.  Would it be presumptuous to claim that early CGI spectacles are my generation's half-baked redactions of stop-motion effects?  It's something to chew on (and spit out).  The ending is scientific drivel.  Our ancient enemy is ravaged by a compound used to combat oil spills or some fucking shit.  There is room left for a sequel, but mercifully, it's been radio silence on that front.  Robert Z'Dar says, "I'm genuinely happy for Bennifer."