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.