Just a quick note...

I'm not going to devote an entire column to this, but I did want to chime in on the CM Punk/Jack Perry controversy.  If this were any other era in wrestling, this would have kickstarted a money program.  Granted, I don't know that many people would tune in to see the former Jungle Boy wrestle, but clearly, this is a feud that would boost ratings.  We have a situation where genuine heat backstage could steal eyeballs away from WWE, even if it's out of morbid curiosity.  But it won't happen.  Because Tony Khan isn't a real wrestling booker and Jack Perry isn't a real professional wrestler.

It's a shame, as Perry's heel work in recent months has impressed his naysayers (the Cornettes of the world).  It can't be argued that he has improved on the mic from where he was a couple of years ago.  Seems like a childish prick, but what can you do?

The Thing From Another World

Everyone creams over John Carpenter's The Thing, and understandably so.  It's a frigid, suffocating classic with special effects that have aged well over the years (understatement of the century).  But I was looking forward to revisiting the 1951 original.  Of course, I'm referring to it as the original, but Carpenter's version isn't as much of a remake as it is an intemperate adaptation of its source material.  And no, I haven't read the short story.  Reading is hard.

Initially, our extraterrestrial brute was more of a plant monster with tentacles and such (think triffids).  Budgetary restrictions meant that the picture would have to go down the infallible, tried-and-true route of "man in a suit" stuntwork.  So even though The Thing From Another World is essentially Frankenstein on Ice, it's still a capable blast of science fiction jollification.  I'm debating whether or not I should bother with a synopsis.  Eh, let's see how far we get until I lose my patience with words.

We join a reporter, a scientist, and a regiment of Air Force pilots in a remote outpost located at the North Pole.  There has been a crash nearby, but according to radar, this is no ordinary plane.  As a matter of fact, it's an orbicular space module (I could have just said UFO) that houses a pilot of its own.  The eight-foot alien bruiser is transported back to the exploration site in a block of ice.  It's only a matter of time before he thaws out and causes a disturbance amidst an Arctic storm.

Conceptually, this is a fairly unique storyline.  I can count on one hand the number of films that vilify carrots, though I'm sensitive to the plight of the carrot community.  "What the hell are you driving at, Dom?"  Well, if you'd let me finish, the titular thing has the molecular make-up of a vegetable.  To be specific, it's a carnivorous plant.  TV cowboy James Arness gives an appropriately stiff performance as the interstellar tyrant.  Yeah, you could say that he merely mimics Boris Karloff, but he knows how to throw his sizeable frame around.  I won't detract points for the lack of head spiders.

While we don't spend enough time with the main characters to truly empathize and warm up to them, the cast handles the quick dialogue well.  I will admit that some of the chatter is too quick.  If you don't use subtitles, which I usually do (hey, I'm getting old), you will lose important details here and there.  The script is swarming with pseudo-scientific jargon that could be made up for all I know.  I mean, sure, I know that a rosette of biennial leaves produces a considerable amount of sugars that are stored in the taproot to provide energy for the plant, but not everyone can...um, reference Wikipedia at the drop of a mouse.

On the whole, The Thing From Another World is a rock solid sci-fi/horror movie that exists as a vestige of a bygone era.  John Carpenter did blow it out of the water, but c'mon.  You've got to give a little love to the golden oldies.  After all, nostalgia is the warmest place to hide or something to that effect.

   

Gamera spotted on Mtn Dew bottles?

I was cruising around in the soda aisle of a supermarket the other day (standard afternoon fodder for me) when I spotted a kaiju in the wild.  Apparently, this label design is two years old (!?), but I'm just now seeing it.  I swear to God, bottles of Mtn Dew Code Red are emblazoned with an image of a giant turtle monster causing a ruckus and clutching a cherry.  Now, how many giant turtle monsters do you know?  Does Daiei Film know about this?  I guess the biggest question I have is WHAT THE F*CK?

Why on Earth would a soft drink brand cross-pollinate with such a random intellectual property, much less one that hasn't been culturally relevant here in the states for eons?  And why a bootleg Gamera?  Why not work with Daiei to use official Gamera iconography?  Oh, and why Gamera???  Is there a new film on the horizon that I don't know about?  So.  Many.  Questions.

Album Cover of the Whatever

Today's bitchin' album cover comes courtesy of Rabid Beast, an EP from the band of the same name.  Musically, this is belligerent thrash that lives up to its artwork.  Well done, gents.

Rassle Inn #44

The G1 Climax wrapped up recently.  AEW has Wembley coming up just around the bend.  Suffice to say, there is a lot happening in the world of wrestling.  So naturally, I did what any sane mark would do on a slow Monday night.  I watched (half of) Greed, the last PPV churned out by WCW.  It was bittersweet.  Nostalgia can do funny things to a man.  I missed most of this stuff when it was new.  In early 2001, I was 16 years old, and I was just beginning to "grow out" of professional wrestling.  A few years earlier, I was a WWF fanboy.  I had flipped the tube over to Nitro maybe once or twice during the Monday Night Wars, and while I didn't outright loathe the competition, I can't say that anything grabbed me.

Taking in Greed, you can see the seeds of modern wrestling pullulating, especially as it relates to high spots.  Cruiserweights ruled the roost.  As a matter of fact, this card saw the culmination of a scanty tournament to crown the first-ever WCW Cruiserweight Tag Team Champions.  For those playing at home, Elix Skipper and Kid Romeo reigned victorious.  "Who???"  I can hear you now.  And I wouldn't blame you for not recognizing those names.  If you ask me, the titles should have gone to either The Jung Dragons or Three Count.  Or anyone but Elix Skipper and Kid Romeo.

Man, the roster was congested with talents that were THIS CLOSE (you'll have to imagine the appropriate hand gesture...no, not that one) to becoming full-fledged stars.  The curtain puller featured Kwee Wee squaring off against Jason Jett.  They were dead serious about pushing this Jett fellow.  He acquired a handful of convincing wins in the weeks leading up to WCW's abrupt abeyance.  And then?  Nothing.  According to Wikipedia, he was released from his contract during a stint with the Heartland Wrestling Association, a developmental territory owned by the former Federation.  Makes you wonder.  If WCW had managed to stay afloat, would Jason Jett be a respected name in the industry?

There are scads of guys with the same story.  Chuck Palumbo, Sean O'Haire, Billy Kidman (I can't believe he didn't amount to much in Connecticut), Shawn Stasiak (paired with Stacy Kiebler, he looked like a million bucks), Mark Jindrak, Buff Bagwell...just kidding about ol' Buff Daddy.  The others?  Wasted potential.  So yeah, Greed is actually worth watching on a slow Monday night.  Is it possible I'm only saying that to justify paying for Peacock?  Hmm, no comment.  Mind your own business.

Blood Capsule #158

NIGHTSCREAM (1997)

Way to go, Paul.  That's right.  I'm naming you!  You deserve to be tarred and feathered in public for giving me this...this unseemly case of vaginal yeast.  Why am I defrocking this Paul character, and what is the recommended treatment for vaginal yeast?  First of all, I'll need a pelvic exam.  Then I'll have to test my vaginal secretions.  And finally, Paul is the >insert profane noun here< who "gifted" me a copy of NightScream, a made-for-Lifetime (I'm assuming) domestic thriller of sorts that finds Candace Cameron at the center of a convoluted murder mystery.  You see, her doppelganger was brutally dispatched, and her boyfriend may have been involved.  Or killed.  It's not altogether clear.  Nothing is altogether clear.

I take that back.  NightScream establishes one truism.  If you have a penis, you are either a criminal or a corrupt official of some distinction.  Casper Van Dien collects a paycheck as a seedy suitor.  Teri Garr plays a woman who doesn't react to learning that her husband is the town heavy, a veritable monster covering for his rapist son.  Oh, spoiler warning.  This film, much like arsenic, is not meant for human consumption.  A quick trip to IMDb tells me everything I need to know about director Noel Nosseck.  He specializes in made-for-TV scrapings.  Just forget that you ever knew about NightScream.  It's muck.  Swill.  Bottom of the barrel.  I think I've made my point.

Geek Out #165

I've been watching loads of vintage episodes of Headbanger's Ball lately, including this lovely Halloween special hosted by Alice Cooper (Dave Mustaine and Iggy Pop also appear).  Obviously, it's played for camp.  I wouldn't have it any other way.

Meg 2: The Trench

I'm currently listening to Ontological Mysterium, the new album by progressive death metallers Horrendous.  That has jack-all to do with Meg 2: The Trench, but I'm trying to psych myself into writing this review.  I'm not really feelin' it.  We'll just ease our way into things.  How does that sound?  I thought I had reviewed the first Meg, but maybe I was thinking about the book.  I did see the original.  In my eyes, Megnado was a top-flight creature feature with broadloom special effects that convinced me I was looking at actual prehistoric beasties tear coastlines asunder.  Jason Statham is the right action hero for these flicks.  Apparently, he did most of his own stunts on the sequel, including fathering a small Asian girl.

Plot?  I don't know why you care, but The Trench picks up with random espionage nonsense.  Jason...er, Jonas is the world's only spy-slash-marine biologist.  I'm not sure how those two worlds collided, but for what it's worth, he's the James Bond of oceanography.  In case you were wondering if this was a Hollywood construct, there is an opposing sect of marine biologists.  Yes, evil marine biologists.  I was reminded of Twister, a film that wants us to believe there are good and bad storm chasers.  Anyway, our protagonists are in a deep-sea submersible when the true villains turn heel and...vie for control of sharks?  I'm a bit slow, but I didn't quite understand the plan here.  They want to use ocean exploration for nefarious purposes?  Okey-dokey.

If there is one fissure in Meg 2's masthead, it's the flabby midsection that focuses too much on human drama.  There were several points where the script seemed to forget about the behemoth in the title.  If you buy a ticket to watch this motion picture on the big screen (Dolby, baby!), you are there for carnage.  You don't particularly care why Solemn Blonde and her boyfriend aim to greedily subvert a research dive, or at least I didn't.  But that's enough bellyaching.  The Trench earns its 3.5-Z'Dar rating with rowdy action sequences, immaculate CGI, and just enough character sweetening to raise the stakes.  In other words, you want James Bond to win.

Come to think of it, I don't have anything else to say.  It's pretty simple.  Meg 2: The Trench delivers upscale schlock in spades.  And don't worry; the doggy survives.

   

Random Match Alert

Cross-promotional cards are neat.  Case in point, watch as The Undertaker battles Takashi Ishikawa during a WWF/SWS supershow in 1992.

Blood Capsule #157

FLESHEATER (1988)

Dated research suggested that a person's personality was determined by which half of the brain was more dominant.  That research has since been debunked, but let's run with it for a moment.  This website has never been fettered by the manacles of science.  The fact is, I'm of two minds.  The creative, free-spirited side of my brain will tell you that Bill Hinzman's FleshEater is a precocious nugget of zombie-fried entertainment.  And evidence supports this hypothesis.  The gore is soupy, the boob shots are plentiful, and our main baddie even goes to the trouble of biting into an innocent child.  However, the cold, analytical side of my brain will tell you just the opposite.  And further evidence could be brought forth, such as the inert pacing and the gaggle of dull characters.

So you can appreciate my inner conflict.  I can see putting FleshEater on at a Halloween party, and the guests - preferably besotted (or soused, if you prefer) - wouldn't complain.  Much.  But there is a part of me that wants to excoriate this dude's audacity.  He claims that this flick is technically an offshoot of Night of the Living Dead, that the events follow his nameless ghoul from the beginning of said classic.  Right.  I mean, I can't say I blame the guy.  He's merely milking his claim to fame, but at the same time, he is no George Romero.  At its worst, FleshEater feels like a z-romp stitched together by someone who has only seen the trailers of zombie movies.  At its best, it would make for a great trailer, provided that it was whittled down to three minutes.  I call it a draw.

Rassle Inn #43

I don't write this column until I have something to write about.  Today, I have three things to write about.  Well, two and a half.  Let's get started, shall we?

~  We interrupt your regularly scheduled bullet point to celebrate a new champion.  That's right, folks.  My precious Io is now holding the title belt over on the blue brand.  The only downside is that we were robbed of the chance to see Io and Asuka square off against one another because of the transitory nature of the Money in the Bank briefcase.  I'm hoping we still get that match down the road.  Man, all of the tumult roiling in AEW's women's division has taken some of the limelight from our new champ (at least online), and it's not fair.  I've been calling for this canonization ever since Io stepped foot on American soil.  She deserves all of the accolades.  In general.  Just all of them.

~ I recommend checking out the Cody Rhodes documentary that is currently streaming on Peacock.  He has an incredible story to tell, and while a certain son-in-law sees to it that AEW is presented as a "secondary" promotion, the film does well to cover Cody's entire journey from all angles.  For example, I'm surprised that the Young Bucks showed up as many times as they did.  So yeah, watch it, but be forewarned that it pushes the narrative that attempts to smooth over Cody's Wrestlemania loss as merely one page in a book.  Ha!  I hope future documentaries are a little more honest when it comes to booking decisions, namely that booking decision.  If that was just one page in a book, why would anyone want to read it?  But I digress.

~ I recently re-upped my Peacock subscription.  I'm glad I did, as WWE decided to upload their Coliseum Home Video library.  Rad.  I was soaking up WWF Bashed in the USA when it occurred to me that heels don't act like heels anymore.  A match between Razor Ramon and the Big Bossman started with a few minutes of stalling, which garnered major heat.  When was the last time a heel stalled on Monday Night Raw?  It's a trick so simple, but it's effective.  I mean, imagine if I was just now getting to the point.  Maybe I am.  Huh, I never realized that I was a natural heel.  Your hometown sucks, by the way.

Filler

I won't pretend that this isn't filler material (I'm giving my brain a vacation), but 80's Kiss?  This is almost a b-movie.  Z'Dar-approved.

Album Cover of the Whatever

So this is Warfare's Mayhem, Fuckin' Mayhem.  All I'm going to say is search for this record carefully.  Because man, those search terms turned into porn real quick.

Blood Capsule #156

THE FOUR SKULLS OF JONATHAN DRAKE (1959)

I'm surprised that I'm just now seeing Skulls, a voodoo-adjacent flick tacked together by horror/sci-fi veteran Edward L. Cahn.  Why the surprise?  Well, this is my kind of malarkey.  I don't know why it didn't cross my path until now, but I'm glad that it did.  The plot deviates from norms of the day.  You won't find any nuclear testing here.  A man is shaken up by his brother's sudden passing.  The cause of death is imputed as natural, but a peek into the casket reveals some, shall we say, unorthodox liturgical practices.  The corpse's head is missing...!  Don't you hate it when that happens?  The viewer learns that Mr. Drake's family has been cursed, and I won't be able to cram the rest of the synopsis into this paragraph.

Due to the actions of his great-grandfather, the Jivaro Indian tribe placed a hex on Drake's lineage.  This malediction involves bamboo knives, immortal mystics, and shrunken heads.  EDITOR'S NOTE: Not to be confused with Full Moon's Shrunken Heads, which may or may not induce dropsy.  NOTE TO SELF: Hire an editor.  Anyway, Drake himself must unravel the arcane mystery before him to keep his noggin safe and away from prying hands.  I had fun with Skulls.  The pacing is brisk, the visuals are appropriately spooktacular, and the cast brings their "A" game.  The only fly in the ointment (that has to be the worst cliché ever) is the fact that our protagonists aren't faced with enough peril, as opposed to the villains.  As a result, it doesn't feel like the film prioritizes tension.

That's a weird criticism, but guess what?  I'm weird.