DEATH MAGIC (1992)
I don't make a habit out of dipping my toes into shot-on-video waters. As much as I love unmitigated masterstrokes such as Video Violence and Cannibal Campout (that sounds facetious, but I'm totally here for those flicks), my micro-budget batting average has been miserable as of late. Will Death Magic spark a hot streak? Sticking with a baseball analogy, will this supernatural slasher signal a feverish spate of home runs, or at least ground-rule doubles? I'm afraid I'm not making it out of the infield. 'Tis a shame, as I like a lot of the elements here. The set-up is a breeze. Five necromancers summon the spirit of a confederate soldier, a nasty rapscallion who was put to death for senselessly butchering Native Americans. Within the first twenty minutes, our villain is called forth and blood is spilled. Yay?
I think that's the problem. Death Magic blows its load in the first act, which only leaves running time for repetition and strained character development. Obviously, I don't remember names or faces. I do remember boobs, and I suppose I should be grateful for the drive-in totals. The gore gags are so simple, and yet, so charming. Lamentably, the pace isn't industrious enough to support the bare essentials. I wanted to dig Death Magic, too. I'm awarding one Z'Dar for effort and another Z'Dar for licentious nudity. There are eight breasts total, so that comes to...um, I'm terrible with fractions. I knew I should have majored in algebra instead of forensic pathology. By "forensic pathology," I mean "I dropped out of community college." Yay?
"Oh, alright. You're too cool to lock up."
