Album Cover of the Week

Blood Capsule #50

COMBAT SHOCK (1984)

This dowdy, callous war drama was distributed by Troma, but don't pick it up thinking that you're in for a stub of barometer-neutral Lloyd Kaufman-style folly.  You want schlock?  Give Toxie a call.  Combat Shock is the cinematic equivalent of an autopsy report.  It's deadly serious, and the perpetuity of plot points is thoughtful in its own unnerving way.  Frankie is a rattled Vietnam veteran suffering from a discounted case of post-traumatic shamrock deficiency (that's what PTSD stands for, right?).  He has no way of supporting his family, and he can't walk twenty paces outside of his apartment without being pestered by gangsters.  Oh, and that's his malformed baby boy staring off into nirvana.

Heh, nirvana.  Remember when that was just a word?  Anywho, Combat Shock ventilates a wide variety of social maledictions.  Hardcore heroin abuse, child prostitution, the sickening spoils of war...ew.  If you're in a good mood, this flick will tug you down into a joyless pothole of mescaline.  I already had the blues, so I could appreciate how well Buddy Giovanazzo directed his low-budget carrion.  The confrontational visuals hit hard.  In all honesty, this is the best Troma release I've ever encountered.  Don't do drugs, kids!

TYPE O NEGATIVE - World Coming Down

It's going to be hard to rise and shine to write this review.  I'll state right off the bat that I dig 1999's World Coming Down, but it's a bleak slog.  Years back, I read an interview with The Man of Steele where he remarked that he was a depressed, drug-benumbed sorehead during the recording of this album.  He didn't like listening to it much because it reminded him of his inner cricks and fidgets.  Now when I listen to it, I think of how we lost an impossibly talented frontman who spent the corpus of his adulthood in the kedge of distress.  You never get anywhere with a corpus in a kedge.  My point is, World Coming Down is a bummer.  While it's true that I listen to mopey metal all the time, this record leaves a dyspathetic gash near my pulmonary valve.

It's hard to explain.  "White Slavery" and "Who Will Save the Sane?" turn my recesses to gruel.  "Everyone I Love is Dead" turns my entrails to polenta.  "Pyretta Blaze" turns my...um, breadbasket to a chunky lobscouse.  I told you it was hard to explain.  Since those sentences didn't make a lick of goddamn sense, I'll repeat the fact that these tunes are a bummer.  You can practically smell the self-loathing.  That's the main reason why I spin this Type O Negative long player (and boy, it's long) less frequently than the others.  Musically, it's indisputably capable.  Kenny Hickey is let loose, and he hurls hostile riffs to the heavens with the mighty strength of a hundred Hulks.

Guitars rung attenuated on October Rust, almost faint.  There is no mistaking World Coming Down as anything other than a guitar-heavy ("Hickey-heavy" sounds wrong) collection of jackhammer dirges.  The opening chug of "Everything Dies" alone seals the deal.  Sexually.  There is plenty of good stuff here, but in my two-faced opinion, we have winks where the boys mimic themselves.  By 1999, their signature moves were set in stone.  I sense that Peter was playing it safe, timorous of alienating core fans any further.  Thus, the songwriting is kept in a predictable vain.  Did the title track really need to extravagate for eleven minutes?

Earlier efforts mixed shit up with puckish gaiety ("My Girlfriend's Girlfriend") and lethal repartee ("Kill All the White People").  World Coming Down doesn't offer spirited experimentation until you reach the finale, a plucky, first-class Beatles medley.  Eh, ratings can be a bitch.  I don't know where I fall on this one.  "All Hallows Eve" is fun as the token horror shanty, but it's not a patch on "Wolf Moon" or "Black No. 1."  The drum machine is in tip-top shape.  I'd probably enjoy World Coming Down more if it smiled every so often.  God, I can't believe I said that.  Abbath says, "God, I can't believe you said that."

The Three B's

On a total whim, I watched Blood, Boobs and Beast earlier today, a documentary about cult maestro Don Dohler.  'Twas enlightening.  I didn't expect it to tug at my heart strings, but it most assuredly did.  I was also flooded with tidbitoids recounting the productions of The Alien Factor (man-o-man, I heart this supreme b-movie), Nightbeast and Blood Massacre.  Highly recommended!

PS-I didn't have much access to my laptop yesterday, so the TON review is still forthcoming.

Magic Dragon of the Week

Currently listening to World Coming Down.  Review forthcoming.
 

Demon Warrior

NOTE: There is no note.

The Native American burial ground...it's a fixture that we're all familiar with as horror hounds.  It's a common appurtenance.  It's genre gingerbread.  It's terror tinsel.  Man, I need to watch myself; I'm only allowed so much alliteration per review, and I fear that I may have already burned through my annuity.  My gratuitous gratuity?  Knock it off, brain.  So!  Dead Indians.  There is a weird little clique of movies that makes use of evil redskins.  Eek, can I say that?  It feels racist, but if it were truly offensive, Robert Griffin III would be a Washington Polecat or a Washington Tree Apron.  Anyway, this caste of cinematic tomahawks (I'm uncomfortable) includes 1980's Ghost Dance, 1975's Johnny Firecloud, 1978's The Manitou and 1983's Scalps among others.  You could even toss in 1990's Grim Prairie Tales, if you were so inclined.  In terms of plot, 1988's Demon Warrior is most comparable to Scalps.

Incidentally, I haven't seen Scalps.  What's up with that?  In the context of this campfire story, a "demon warrior" is an ancient spirit deputized to pay a visit to an explicit strip of land every ten years.  It has to do with a curse placed on the property in response to the plundering ways of our main character's grandfather.  Goddamn white people.  The grandson decides to be typical and invites his buddies (both fuck and platonic) to go hunting on the hexed tract.  Would you believe that it's the tenth anniversary of his uncle's insoluble death?  You would?  Would you believe that I have a penis for sale?  It's the size of a pony truss bridge.  Er, I didn't tell that joke correctly.  Something about selling a bridge or exchanging gullible genitals for money.  A gangplank maybe?

Needless to say, the cracker youths (I'm still uncomfortable) are executed one by one.  The weapon of choice is a bow and arrow.  That's pretty nifty.  I can roll with it, but the kill sequences are disagreeably edentate.  With the exception of a near-obligatory scalping, there is a shortage of gore.  Nada.  Zot.  Nada and zot.  I'm cool with the titular villain, though.  Motherfucker is built, and that mask is begging to be stocked at Spirit Halloween.  I expected to drown in boredom at some point, but the pace was industrious enough to keep me cognizant.  If I'm being honest, the acting was passable, too.  Remember, this is a film called Demon Warrior.  Standards have been adjusted to fit your screen.

The ending is beyond goofy.  If you don't want it spoiled (wtf lmao), stop reading...now.  Ricky "The Dragon" Steamboat's doppelganger enters a trance state to dovetail and synchronize with an electrical storm.  Telepathically, he fries the devilish spirit slicker via controlled bursts of lightning.  And that's how Demon Warrior wraps itself up.  Hey, if you chance upon the tape at a flea circus (a flea market will work as a stand-in), swipe it.  It's as sharp as a haversack of wet leather, but when it comes to b-fuckery, I've weathered worse.  Robert Z'Dar says, "The bitch who plays the callgirl.  With the tits.  If I were her father, my soul would be burning right now."

Album Cover of the Week

Paul Fucking Heyman

I just watched Ladies and Gentlemen Long Title, a documentary DVD released by WWE.  Obviously, it traces the career of former ECW figurehead and current Brock Lesnar advocate Paul Heyman.  I am here to tell you that it's worth checking out.  For starters, it's goddamn inspiring.  You see how he got tangled up in the wrestling business despite not being a wrestler himself.  It's a candid breakdown of his personality, and it doesn't pull any punches.  Mr. Dangerously never tries to hide the fact that he's a flawed specimen.  If you're worried about overlapping anecdotes (maybe you know everything there is to know about ECW), don't.  I descried (sic) a wealth of mint, supplementary information.

Renee Young is featured as one of the interviews.  She looks tantalizing in a spring dress.

Spending the day in bed...

Hold all my calls.

Picnic at Hanging Rock

I watched this movie once.  Ideally, I would watch it again before reviewing it, but who has that luxury?  I do, actually; it's just that I'm busy.  Try not to ask too many questions.  That's a prudent nugget of advice to follow, and it applies to 1975's Picnic at Hanging Rock.  This is an inscrutable grabber that involves the disappearance of schoolmarms and day-pupils at the turn of the 20th century.  Hanging Rock is a real geological formation, a mamelon (pronounced "land lump") forged by volcanic lava spillage.  Hanging Rock (you know I'm referring to the film because it's bold) is entirely fictional, however, despite author Joan Lindsay's claims that it might have been based on historical facts.

That's right.  We're dealing with the adaptation of a novel.  From what I gather, Lindsay left the ending open to interpretation.  Screenwriter Cliff Green and director Peter Weir take the same approach with the motion picture, but in my supplicatory opinion, the mystery isn't supposed to be a mystery.  Huh?  If you send out a probe for a sampling of other reviews, you will come across a mess of far-reaching theories and cherry-picked conjecture.  The girls fell into a wormhole!  They were suspended in time!  They were raped by gypsies!  They were abducted by unidentified flying fucking saucers!  Okay, those are plausible scenarios.

But does it matter what happened?  I mean, really?  To me, Hanging Rock is about the outgrowth and backwash of tragedy.  It's about how seismic loss changes the lives of those affected.  Whether the apprentices at a finishing school were deflowered by raiders or stolen away by intergalactic pillagers, their loved ones are still left with a void.  It causes them to do irrational things.  I really, really like the way the script examines these issues.  Weir looks at shock and grief from a sideways glance, as most Australian auteurs are apt to do.  Oh, did I not mention that Hanging Rock is a wad of Ozploitation madness?

I've been beefing up on Australian horror flesh-ticklers, and I've noticed a linking plot mechanism.  They're all...hazy.  Distant.  Accessibility plays second fiddle to gonzo ambiance.  I tend to get frustrated when edible storytelling is low on the totem pole, but in the case of Picnic at Hanging Rock, it definitely works.  Visually, it's a dream.  The camera movements are supple, the scenery is striking and Anne-Louise Lambert is cute.  She portrays Miranda, the lass on the poster.  The only character who sours my milk is Edith, the dumpy crosspatch lacking an inside voice.  Motherfuck, she grated my bones.  The rock didn't even want her!  Yogi Bear can be seen standing behind her in a phantom frame aiming a musket at her skull.

Why Yogi Bear?  It's a picnic, people!  C'mon!  Blimey, did the ants carry your sense of humor to their hill?  NOTE: My rating is somewhat conservative.  I have a hunch that it will climb after repeat viewings.

Geek Out #115

Gearing up for the next review, an Ozploitation classic.  It's not End Play, which I have yet to view.  The more Ozploitation flix I consume, the more I realize that...um, you Aussies are fucked up.

Matches That Time Forgot #63

I could actually write a novel about this match, but I'll leave some of the research to you.  We have Daffney versus MsChif, battle of the scream queens.  This altercation went down in Shimmer, a badass women's promotion planted in Chicago.  You may recognize Daffney from her time in TNA.  Old schoolers may recognize her from the withering years of WCW where she associated with Crowbar and David Flair.  MsChif is a goddamn goddess.  If you're not privy to her neon black dotage, don't converse with me.  Look her up, asshole.  She dresses like a Type O Negative album cover, for snatch's sake.

This was the independent female surrogate for The Rockers' termagant break-up.  It could have easily been a 20-minute clinic, but Daff and Chif tell a story in 10 (and it's still a clinic, I might add).  The grappling is fierce.  Man, I need to use this column to showcase more laydeez.

Terrible Awful Bad

Nevermind The Rock's four-color cameo.  I simply needed a random, yet tubular image to shadow this post.  I just wanted to say that the main event of Sunday's SummerSlam was great.  Perfect even!  If only it happened in 2012.  I won't nitpick Brock's herculean subjugation of John Cena, though.  That's the part of the card that I'm cool with.  After watching Raw tonight (or half of it, as I tapped out early), I realized that I'm fucking annoyed with the bulk of WWE's product.  Whenever the scales are askance and stooped catawampus, I stop watching for a little while.

Where do I begin?  I've had it with the incessant replays, the affected Bella twin promos (gag me with a spoon-shaped dildo), the flagrant misuse of the roster (might as well oust Kofi and Xavier) and the total derogation of Paige.  How about giving the Diva's title a match longer than 5-6 minutes?  Yeah, Brock is a badass champion, but where does he go from here?  And why the fuck is Dean Ambrose flirting with Hollywood?  If that's what he wants, I wish him success, but it seems like he JUST arrived.  Raw will suffer without his Funk-by-way-of-Pillman charisma.

I'm sticking with NXT for the time being.  Simple professional wrestling with booking that respects its talent.  What a novel goddamn concept.

TYPE O NEGATIVE - October Rust

Was Type O Negative the band that could do no wrong?  Most cult acts hit (at least) one parapet, a roadblock that depleted their street credibility.  It usually arose in the form of an album.  Metallica had a few.  Celtic Frost had 1988's Cold Lake.  Opeth had 2011's Heritage.  Judas Priest had 1986's Turbo.  Fans may elect favorites, but taken as a whole, the TON discography is relatively stainless.  It's hard to point to any juncture in the disharmonic philharmonic's venerated career as a moment of troubling compromise.  That's amazing, considering that 1996's October Rust is a pop gamble.  Why wasn't the brackish Brooklyn collective flayed for ditching stout doom riffs and slut-strangling anger?  For Pete's sake, where did the raaaaaage go?

For all intents and purposes, it evaporated.  This record is dotted with love songs and deliberations on cyclical transition.  Transition...that's a major theme.  Skinsman Sal Abruscato departed, and in his place, percussion was tracked by The Mecha-Droid Drummer Boy 8000.  In other words, they used a drum machine, which wasn't revealed until over a decade later.  Of course, Johnny Kelly was the man in front of the scenes, but he wouldn't get a chance to matriculate his talents in a studio until, again, over a decade later.  The reason?  Don't fucking know.  As it happens, October Rust is the only TON emolument where a programmed kit works in the music's favor.

Everything sounds artificial in an 80's way.  That's not a knock.  It's creamed candy corn, baby.  If World Coming Down is bathed in a creepy green light, this merchandise is bathed in a creepy orange light.  It's Halloween schmaltz.  As a lamb, I didn't have much use for October Rust, nor did I have a taste for its cultivated elegance.  I realize today that it's quality stuff, but as with Bloody Kisses, there are a couple of tracks that bore me into oblivion.  "Green Man" falls flat, vivid lyrics notwithstanding.  The requisite cover tune - Neil Young's "Cinnamon Girl" - sticks out like an abscessed thumb, whereas "Summer Breeze" meshed with its environment.

The rest of October Rust is savory.  "Love You to Death" ranks high as a TON exemplar.  Josh Silver may be the most valuable player on this field, and he's used with the jolt of a secret weapon (Godzilla's nuclear breath springs to mind).  The chilly keys on "Haunted" ablate the nerve endings on the roof of my pussy.  "Wolf Moon" should accompany the credits of every werewolf flick.  And "My Girlfriend's Girlfriend."  Goddamn, how catchy is that shit?  The answer is "extremely," although I would also accept "uncommonly."  Hey, if you were a covey of quotation marks, where would you hide?  In this paragraph, that's where!  Ha!  Ugh.  "Anything else to add, Dom?"

No.  Wait, I totally dig October Rust.  Okay, that's it.

Album Cover of the Week

Serious contender for Album Cover of the Year.

Well, everyone else is doing it...

Click HERE!  Be sure to watch the (short) video.  Where does the link take you?  I have created a Patreon campaign.  I enjoy working on this site, but things are financially dire.  It doesn't make feasible sense to put a ton of effort into writing and updating shit daily when you're a broke 29-year-old about to dry hump 30.  I need money to live.

Donations are optional, but if you click the LINK, you'll find that I'm only asking for one dollar per month.  That's the minimum, and besides, there are rewards.  Check it out.  Mull it over.  I hate, hate, hate asking for pittance, but I see so many other "content creators" doing it, and a lot of those folks have other sources of income.  I don't.  It is what it is.

Now I'm depressed. lolz

Geek Out #114

Why haven't I seen this clangorous whelp?  It looks grand!  That's supposed to be an alien zombie, but from what I can tell, it could just as easily be Jason from Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Semen.  Fantastic.

Blood Capsule #49

Things have smoothed over a bit, so for the time being, it looks like I can fall back into my schedule.  Thanks to those who sent words of encouragement.  I may have to suspend activity again at a moment's notice.  It's touch-and-go.  If I'm feeling too down or stressed about shit, I'll simply take a longer break.  However, I'm alright now.  Sorry for remaining opaque, but clearly, it's a private matter.  The well wishes are much appreciated.

SCREAMTIME (1983)

Videos!  It was fun to rent them back in the day, but the main characters in Screamtime swipe a troika of horror tapes from an unwary reel repository.  The assholes.  They proceed to watch their boodle at some chick's house.  We are not told how these merry-andrews (Satan as my witness, that's an actual term) relate to one another, but the chick spends three hours getting ready for a date.  Have you caught on yet?  We have an anthology on our claws, crony.  I just described the wrap-around segment.  It was shot in New York, while the stickum of Screamtime was shot in England.  I did my homework (not really), and no one seems to know where the vignettes originated from.

Allow me to count the ways.  #1!  Punch and Judy puppets come to life.  Fucking creepy.  This is the only story that has a pert sense of pacing, and the acting isn't shabby either.  #2!  A scruffy, routine tale of the supernatural.  It lags, but it's saved by a formidable twist ending.  #3!  Garden gnomes larrup an avaricious fuckwit.  God, this one is slow.  And stupid.  It's a shame that Screamtime sputters across the finish line.  If you're big on compendium pictures, this is a decent sit, garden gnomes occluded.  The assholes.

fyi

I realize that this is rather abrupt, but the site's on hold for the rest of the week. MAJOR family issues. Won't get into details, but it involves assault charges and legal proceedings.  Yeah.

The Woman Eater

1957 saw the release of From Hell it Came, a timbered b-movie about an ambulatory tree stump.  Yeah, the "killer plants" deal was nothing new, but the sight of a walking topiary shape is giggle-worthy, you must admit.  The following year, screenwriter Brandon Fleming got an idea.  "I wanna do that!"  And so, 1958 saw the release of The Woman Eater.  Maybe the two projects were sired around the same time.  Who knows?  For that matter, who cares?  I will never bemoan the fact that there was a glut of vagarious, half-cranked monster dailies in the late 50's.  I live on this shit.  The one glaring difference between these seedlings is the mobility of the mutant shrubbery.

The woman eater in The Woman Eater is confined to a stationary spot.  I can't walk either, man.  I get it.  I don't get what the woman eater (in The Woman Eater) has against...y'know, women.  See, a mossback scientist fuddy-duddy borrows what can only be described as a misogynist triffid from an Amazonian tribe.  If you feed girls into the tree like a paper shredder, it produces a serum that can bring the dead back to life.  How did the tribe discover these orphic powers?  Does it have to be a twiggy female (no pun intended, fuck you)?  Did they try using anything else as plant food?  What kind of ulterior motive is galvanizing Tanga, the bongo boy, and how many whippits did he inhale before each take?

I swear to Jay Christ, Tanga is on another fucking planet.  As part of the sacrifice ritual, he beats his bongos with full-blooded chaos in his eyes.  God to the damn!  Right, so there is more to the sexist, racist plot.  A carnival dancer (???) is unjustly fired and finds work as the aforementioned fuddy-duddy's housekeeper.  She is very nearly devoured, but luckily for her, Dr. Frankenvine turns babyface in the bottom of the ninth.  Ugh, why wasn't this flick called Frankenvine?  I'm a genius, I tell you.  All told, The Woman Eater is harmless entertainment.  The pacing is whatever...no, I'm not going to discuss the pacing.  Or the lighting.  Or the acting.

Let's discuss how obviously offensive the premise is, shall we?  I'm offended.  Me!  Please note that I'm not offended by the customary hot button issues (racism, sexism, etc.).  I'm offended by how brazen the film's bawdiness purports to be.  It's designed to hoist pretty goils into the exigency of sideshow horrors.  That way, they can be rescued by - you guessed it - men!  Why does the frackin' creeper sprout eat women?  Because it was 1958, and fuck bitches!  I know I'm being hard on this drive-in doodad, but there is zero inspiration here.  For what it's worth, The Woman Eater does its job, albeit to meet an obstinate end.  Um, two Z'Dars.  Too generous?  Not generous enough?  Form your own opinion.  I'm out.

Album Cover of the Week

I was out and busy all day, so now is a good time to post this beauty.  Movie review tomorrow, peepholes!

American Dom

Off day.  So here's a Soska twin.

TYPE O NEGATIVE - Bloody Kisses

It's fair to say that musicologists my age (29) came to know the strabilious beauty of Type O Negative through the radio presence of "Christian Woman," an oratorio that could have only been a hit in the early 90's.  I was too young to understand the heathen lyrics.  I merely thought the riffs were cool, and hey, the singer sounds like Lurch.  Who doesn't love Lurch?  "Black No. 1" was the other kickin' single off of 1993's Bloody Kisses, and again, my age brooked my comprehension of the canticle's meaning.  I doubt that I had even seen a goth chick in the flesh.  But that didn't matter.  Peter and the gang had caught my attention.

They were unique in 1991, and they were unique in 1993.  Doom existed, but this was a new flavor.  This was the wasabi ginger of goth-infused proto-metal.  Alterna-proto-metal?  Nu-proto?  Fuck categorizations.  One thing was certain; the members of Type O Negative had amended the formula on Slow, Deep and Hard.  I have no doubt that a percentage of stalwart fans cried SELLOUT as soon as they discovered that BK was a more mellow outing catering to sapid tastes.  Bangers "We Hate Everyone" and "Kill All the White People" brought the fury, but simpleton long-hairs may not have been ready for the sitar-guided mush of "Can't Lose You."

Hold on a second.  That was a thinly-veiled knock on metalheads, but don't misread my true colors.  I'm a motherfucking metalhead.  I fuck mothers, and I...I can't stand "Can't Lose You."  The soapy approach doesn't bother me; it's just a boring tune.  Elsewhere, I make a habit out of canonizing the sensual, cunt-thumping cover of "Summer Breeze."  It's a serious contender for Best Cover of the MTV Era (ironically, Roadrunner chose not to shoot a promo clip for the Seals & Crofts redo).  The title track is a personal favorite, and in terms of atmosphere, it's the song that would feel most comfortable on Slow, Deep and Hard.  I played it for my Creative Writing class in high school, and afterwards, my fellow students were suicidal.

BK does sport a fair bit of filler.  The good news is that it doesn't rimple the rhythm of the record.  "Fay Wray Come Out and Play" is a sample-laden sweetener that spooked me as a child.  As a matter of fact, both "Dark Side of the Womb" and "3.O.I.F." put the fear of Patrick Duffy in nine-year-old Dominic.  I didn't start going by Dom until my teens.  I went by Wally for approximately eight months, Elmer for four.  If I'm lying, I'm dying.  That's no taradiddle.  Incidentally, "Set Me on Fire" fails to set me on fire.  If my house was burning down, I'd play that number to douse the flames.

Bloody Kisses is iconic.  It's excellent, actually.  Barring two blemishes, I would have no problem presenting another five Abbaths to Type O Negative.  Robert Z'Dar says, "Don't drag me into this.  Let the goon in corpsepaint handle it.  I'm not trading shifts.  You don't pay me enough."

Marilyn Burns, 1950-2014

Most pictures of Marilyn Burns you'll find on the netweb show her crying, screaming or generally looking goddamn mortified.  Have I ever told you that 1974's The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is my favorite horror film of all time?  Because it is.  One of the reasons is the acting.  If you know a little bit about the production of the film, you know that the cast wasn't really acting during the punishing scenes of dire torture.  Due to a combination of ectoderm-baking heat and unseemly working hours, the people in front of the camera "eased" into a groggy delirium.  That's why the performances ring true.

In my opinion, Sally Hardesty is the quintessential final girl.  I felt that way before I learned of Marilyn's passing, and I can only hope that her death impels younger horror buffs to reassess her standing in relation to other slasher heroines (or at least the virtues of TCM itself).  I'm speaking to her worth as an actress, but of course, those who knew her on a personal level will grieve this loss more than I ever could.  I wish I had the chance to meet her.  Rest in peace, Marilyn.

PS-She also appeared in Tobe Hooper's Eaten Alive, and while it was a sigh-inducing gator roll, Marilyn was perfectly perky (resist those urges, Dom).  I still need to see Kiss Daddy Goodbye, wherein she contends with psychic brats.
 

Goodnight, Sally

Too tired to think at the moment, but I just came across "the news" about Marilyn Burns.  I think I might try to write a proper, coherent farewell message tomorrow.  Words fail me at the moment.

R.I.P.

 

Geek Out #113

Trailers From Hell is a super cool series on YouTube where interesting filmmakers gab over trailers for interesting films.  The most recent installment looks at Rollercoaster, a gnarly suspense thriller from the 70's.  Check it out, if you haven't already.  It airs on TCM from time to time.

Motel Hell

1980's Motel Hell is very rewatchable.  What do I mean by that?  Each time I watch it, it feels like the first time (hope I don't break into a Foreigner song).  I was introduced to Farmer Vincent through a mutual friend by the name of Joe Bob Briggs.  Yes, I'm referencing MonsterVision again.  I can't help it; I fucking worshiped that show.  I came to trust Joe Bob's opinion after he disclosed his blandishment of It's Alive and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.  His child-eyed cajolery mirrored mine, so when he started off the Motel Hell broadcast with four-star drive-in totals, I knew it was time to stop pecking at my cask of oversalted popcorn and FOCUS.  This will be a keeper, I thought to myself.  It was!

Maybe it's the similarity to TCM that appeals to me.  Tobe Hooper was originally attached to direct, and I'm sure he would have nailed the delicate balance of horror and comedy (TCM2 anyone?).  Ultimately, the job went to Kevin Connor, the mason behind 1974's From Beyond the Grave and 1976's At the Earth's Core.  He gave the film a front-page sheen.  The glazed, hyaloid visuals accent a stomach-turning script that implies some filthy fucking shit.  Of course, you don't realize the muck of it all because of how entertained you are.  Well, I shouldn't speak for you.  I know I was entertained.

My target audience is the jaded horror fan.  If you fit the bill, you dig Motel Hell.  Normally, I wouldn't exert myself manufacturing a synopsis for a celebrated cult staple, but I'll try to keep it short.  Agh, fuck it.  This is the part of the review I would riffle.  It concerns cannibals, okay?  If you want details, either Netflix the sumbitch or read (literally) any other review.  Moving on...this flick is infinitely quotable.  "I used preservatives."  "Meat's meat, and a man's gotta eat!"  "I wonder if they're into animals."  "Sometimes, I wonder about the karmic implications of our actions."  The whole of the dialogue is one big quote.  Oh, I forgot the tagline.  "It takes all kinds of critters to make Farmer Vincent's fritters!"

The pace is tethered to a zip-streaking speedboat.  It's fast, in other words.  If it were an actual speedboat, you would have to tie your tongue to the rudder with...hmm, I'm thinking copper wire.  I'm not fond of the weak-willed love triangle, though.  I'm sorry, but I can't buy a fair, rawboned blonde in her 20's falling for Farmer goddamn Vincent.  It didn't take her long to bewail the loss of her chopper-bound beau.  You still have John Ratzenberger's goofy face, dueling chainsaws, the hysterical S&M couple ("Let's get greasy!"), pig-headed pig heads and Rory Calhoun's eminently dry performance to lean on.  At the end of the day, The Empire Strikes Back has aged extremely well.