Gods and Monsters

Bill Condon is an interesting director.  How does an artist(e) go from presiding over a slasher sequel to quarterbacking Oscar bait?  Stranger still, how do you go from 1998's Gods and Monsters to a dyad of milquetoast Twilight flicks?  And I didn't even mention Dreamgirls.  One thing is for sure; Condon can't be accused of sticking to a safe, punctilious formula.  I can, however, accuse him of being a talented dude.  Don't you dare try and stop me!  In my opinion, 1995's Candyman: Farewell to the Flesh is an underrated follow-up.  It doesn't touch the original, but it does retain a certain macabre class that suits its bee-clogged libertine of a villain.  By the way, I'm starting an indie rock band called Bee-Clogged Libertine.  Our debut album will be nine hours long and violently self-aware.

If you've been living under a rock-shaped impediment, Gods and Monsters is a semi-fictitious biopic of James Whale.  Of course, Whale helmed Frankenstein, Bride of Frankenstein and The Invisible Man.  If you weren't privy to that information, get off my website this instant.  Now, I don't know which parts are fictitious, but it matters none.  Was I engrossed by the story?  For the most part, yes.  Ian McKellen didn't have to reach very deeply to play an aging homosexual with a love/hate relationship with Hollywood.  I don't mean to belittle his performance.  I couldn't believe it was the same thespian who disturbed me to the bone in Apt Pupil.  McKellen is effortless, and I wish I could say the same for Brendan Fraser.

I'm conflicted.  I don't care for Fraser's acting style, but I can't deny that he played his character well.  Clay Boone is a gruff, parochial man's man.  If Fraser comes across as flat, it's because he's portraying a fairly one-dimensional person.  His curt dialogue doesn't help his cause, though.  Poor George (of the jungle, that is) has "I'm acting" carved into his brow, whereas McKellen...well, it's like I said.  He's effortless.  There are moments of forced histrionics that disrupt the organic cadence of the script.  Fortunately, these undesirable bits don't make James Whale any less fascinating.  I was genuinely moved by his mental and physical breakdown.  Having knowledge of the plot's eventual denouement didn't rob the climax of impact, although I could have done without the epilogue of sorts.

Clearly, this isn't an out-and-out bloodbath, but it will appeal to genre addicts for obvious reasons.  We visit the set of Bride of Frankenstein through brilliant flashbacks.  Blatant fan service?  Perhaps, but I don't mind.  I have to wonder why Condon didn't give as much attention to Whale's other works.  They're mentioned in passing, yes, but only Frankenstein is used as a stylistic motif.  The Invisible Man, in particular, is seemingly rich in relevant subtext.  I sigh in abashment.  Overall, Gods and Monsters is a strong film that offers a provocative peek into the dying days of a dignitary.  Man, they should put that on the DVD cover.  Not that I'm swayed by corporate handouts.  Where was I?  Oh, I remember.  I laughed, I cried, I shit the bed.  Four stars!

Shitty Webcam Site Update Movie Review I Have Heartburn #37

The ultimate challenge?

Holy Wow

Wow, I'm tired.  I'm calling it a day, but don't worry.  I'm posting two...yes, TWO items tomorrow to make up for my soporific torpor.  Here's a hint; I'm reviewing a Bill Condon film.  That could go anywhere, couldn't it?

Geek Out #87

Not even Naomi Watts could make me rent Children of the Corn IV: The Gathering.

Album Cover of the Week

Yeah, I like Body Count.  Shut up.

Matt Osbourne R.I.P.

I just learned of the passing of Matt Osbourne, a favorite wrestler of mine.  He was best known for playing the heel version of Doink the Clown.  I'm using a Big Josh picture because...er, no one else will.  Osbourne was given the bush-league lumberjack gimmick in WCW shortly before heading off to Connecticut.  His brilliant run as an unhinged clown tends to overshadow the fact that he was a fantastic worker for over a decade preceding his greasepaint years.  I don't resent Doink, though.  Far fucking from it.  Randy Savage once referred to him as "the most evil clown that ever lived."  I ask you, how could I deplore such a character?  It's a damn shame that Osbourne's substance abuse attenuated his WWF tenure.

Once Doink turned face in late 1993, less magnetic men donned his garish ring attire.  They weren't necessarily bad, but the gimmick became homogenized.  Luckily, we got several memorable matches out of Osbourne in the brief time that he was employed by Vince McMahon.  His series against Mr. Perfect during King of the Ring qualifying was flippin' awesome.  I also recommend taking a gander at his 2-out-of-3-falls bout versus Marty Jannetty.  FACTOID: Matt grappled with Ricky "The Dragon" Steamboat at the first Wrestlemania.  Maybe you already knew that.  Whatever.

56 is too young.  Rest in peace, brother.

Fuck Thursday

I took the day off.  Look, it's Dr. goddamn Giggles!

Winterbeast

Cover scan courtesy of VHSCollector.com.

I approached 1991's Winterbeast with cautious optimism.  It was really more like giddy anticipation.  I looked forward to watching this z-flick in the same way that my impetuous nephew, Zachary, foretells his afternoon snack.  "I didn't know you had a nephew, Dom."  I don't, but that's irrelevant.  Scaring up a copy of Winterbeast took years of sedulous patience and rueful virginity.  I recently found out that it was granted a spiffy DVD release, but fuck that noise (actually, I still want the DVD).  This monster fanatic was able to land a new, sealed videotape replete with the luscious cover art pictured above.  Oh, it's majestic.  But what's so special about Winterbeast?  Why did I covet this bitch with the prurience of an adulterer?

The short answer is that it's similar to Spookies.  Both cult classics were shot piecemeal.  They both feature a bevy of ridiculous creatures, and their storylines are equally confounding.  As we all know, Spookies is the greatest thing ever invented by man, so I have to examine any similar genre titles, however loose the association.  It's mandatory.  See, Winterbeast is a composite of random footage.  The "plot" is a vague imbroglio of senescent clichés and unspeakable stop-motion animation.  Reminds me of a joke.  What do you call a zelkafident gramp-induced exotorque?  A senescent imbroglio!  Ha!  Knee-slapper alert!  I'll wait until the laughter dies down before I continue.

We follow a group of park rangers as they look into the disappearance of a colleague.  It seems that the locals are being beheaded (and/or volleyed) by Indian spirits.  That's my synopsis.  Nothing is ever explained, and truthfully, my eyelids met on a number of occasions.  I only nodded off a second here, a second there; I'm confident that I didn't miss a ponderous chunk of exposition.  That's where Spookies and Winterbeast part ways.  I never could have drifted into oblivion during the former, while the latter pussyfoots along at a supine pace.  The dialogue is flat, most of the characters are interchangeable and the claymation...I can't even.  I provided a sample below.  That's a diabolical totem pole spying on a topless girl.  Yes, that's a sentence I just typed.

I did have fun chuckling at the shoestring effects.  Apparently, certain scenes were cobbled together in 1976 (!).  Other critters on display are a skinless dude-demon, a chicken lizard hawk and the winterbeast itself (I'm pretty sure it's the horned fiend on the cover, although it's never spelled out).  Oh, and a venerable innkeeper dons a clown mask before combusting in a spontaneous fashion.  If the entirety of Winterbeast was that fucking crazy, it would be a goddamn masterpiece.  Alas, you are forced to bear the brunt of indefatigable lethargy for the lion's share of this reel's 80 minutes.  Oy.  I wanted to love it, too.

Director Christopher Thies receives one Z'Dar for his bizarro miscreants (seriously, a voyeuristic totem pole???) and one Z'Dar for his inclusion of gratuitous nudity.  Sigh.  At least I can say that I own this spastic son of a bitch.

Shitty Webcam Site Update Movie Review I Have Heartburn #36

NSFW!

U! Sooooooo!

I told you (u)so!  Tonight on Raw, The Uso's won a triple-threat tag team match to become the number one contenders for the Spartan straps!  I've been a fan of Rikishi's pups since they debuted with Tamina Snuka by their side.  This push is long overdue, and yet, it's not ideal.  I don't mean to gripe, believe me; it's just that they have been tossed into a title match with no storyline.  Apart from a string of low-key victories, they haven't generated any momentum before holding fast to this opportunity.  I hope this feud becomes personal.  Get Rikishi involved.  Have The Shield beat him down and let his boys make the save.  It's too soon for them to win gold, but this could propel WWE's second finest team into the limelight.

I tip my five-gallon stove pipe to Triple H for revivifying real tag team action.  And don't forget...The Wyatt Family is rubbernecking around the corner.

Video tomorrow.  Movie review on Wednesday.  Incidentally, what the fuck is happening to fast food in this country?  Look at this heresy, this godless imprecation.  Dave Thomas would be ashamed.  A pretzel bacon cheeseburger?  What gives, America???

Album Cover of the Week

Blood Capsule #33

SLEEP TIGHT (2011)

Jaume Balaguero...write that name down.  Most horror aficionados are familiar with him because of the [Rec] franchise, but I never bothered with those flicks.  The entire "found footage" subgenre makes my taint oscillate.  That's not a good thing.  The only other Balageuro vehicle that I've ravaged is 1999's The Nameless, which I found to be genuinely disturbing.  Sleep Tight accesses the same part of your brain, the part that sends your skin into hair-raising horripilation (it's a word, asshole).  Imagine discovering that a creeper has been underneath your bed clutching a tissue soused in chloroform.  For five weeks.  Now imagine that he has violated you without your knowledge.  Meet Cesar, ladies and gentlemen!

This guy is a unique villain.  He doesn't get off on killing you; he just wants to destroy your life.  He wants you to be as anguished and disconsolate as he is.  The action is confined to an apartment building, but Balaguero's unflappable camerawork gives the film frightening dimensions.  The tension is ubiquitous, and the characters are grounded in reality.  Cesar is never portrayed as a criminal mastermind.  Rather, he is portrayed as a damaged soul who second-guesses himself and fucks up on occasion.  It goes without saying that the cast is above reproach.  Sleep Tight is a keeper on all fronts.  I really, really need to watch The Nameless again.

Geek Out #86

So.  This is a goofy fucking movie.  Amusing creature effects, though.  Where did the dollhouse come from anyway?

Neglected Columns

Maybe you folks don't notice it, but I've neglected certain columns as of late (namely Dead Links and Panels From Beyond the Grave).  I simply haven't read many comics since the hiatus.  That will change soon.  There is one comic, in particular, that I've been saving for a special occasion.  I can't wait to crack it open.  The Dead Links section is a different pickle altogether.  This is where I turn to you, dear reader.  Do you know of any cool, geeky websites that deserve more attention?  Hell, I'll even plug your website.  Drop me a line at the e-mail address in the upper right-hand corner.

I'm not sure what the weekend will bring, but you know that I'll post something.  That's my precept, my rallying cry.  "Random Reviews Incorporated...it's not that great, but it exists."'

Ghost Town

I know I've said this before, but one of the perks of this "job" is ferreting out obscure gems that even hardened horror junkies don't hash over very often.  1988's Ghost Town is a splendid example of a competent picture that fell through the cracks.  But why did it dissipate into the melanoid crevasse of vacuity?  Why does an ostrich fist itself near kindergarten playgrounds?  Only God knows.  Actually, there is some speculation that may shed light on this film's status as a diamond in the rough.  For starters, it was released by Empire, a studio that accouched 4,917 movies per year.  It would have been easy to get lost in the shuffle.  Plus, there are rumors that executive producer Charles Band plopped Ghost Town onto video shelves with zero fanfare before it was completed.

Again, this is speculation.  I don't know what happened.  Someone on IMDb claims that the official VHS cut of this horror/western hybrid is a mere workprint.  If so, it's not a bad workprint.  The production values are stellar.  I'm assuming that the diminutive budget was allocated to the right departments, though this isn't exactly a fireworks display of visual effects.  Gore is scant.  The rustic setting feels authentic, but if an amusement park can furnish an ostensibly tenantless "ghost town" with carnival cardboard, it can't be that taxing.  Heh, I like how I'm belittling the work that goes into creating art.  I should do that more often.  I'm sure that it's becoming.

A bland deputy is assigned to the disappearance of...a chick.  We never really learn about her.  We don't learn much about our protagonist, for that matter.  That's probably Ghost Town's crackerjack pitfall.  All of the characters are stock pastiches of crude characteristics.  Take the deputy, for instance.  He's a rugged, handsome moral anchor.  That's it.  I'm swiveling down a cul-de-sac of excursive information.  Back on track; Langley (oh, that's the deputy's name) follows clues to a literal ghost town.  From there, he inadvertently steps into the past and must defeat a black-clad ghoul to save the sandy whistle-stop.  Shades of Army of Darkness, the main difference being the script's somber tone.  Honestly, it could have used a moderate dose of levity.

Ghost Town is entertaining enough.  I don't dislike it.  The pace is swift, the acting is decent and the baddie is relatively cool.  Unfortunately, the entire film is as one-dimensional as its hero.  It's almost too simple.  I didn't care for the victims, so I wasn't emotionally invested in the plot threads.  Director Richard Governor hasn't sat behind a camera since, which gives credence to the theory that he abandoned the project towards the end of principal photography.  It's a shame because Ghost Town is well-shot.  Naturally, it has eluded deluxe DVD treatment.  Strange, seeing as how everything else stamped with Band's appellation is readily available in multiple formats.  If you manage to find a copy, give it a shot.  It's fit for a lazy weekend.

Shitty Webcam Movie Review Site Update I Have Heartburn #35

It's that time again!

The Double Turn

Like most wrestling fans, I was reminded of Bret Hart and "Stone Cold" Steve Austin's submission match at Wrestlemania 13 when Alberto Del Rio viciously attacked a concussed Dolph Ziggler last night at Payback.  Will this double turn propel Ziggy the way that Austin was propelled in 1997?  No.  It will not.  For that to happen, he would have to be over in more than three cities.  Del Rio is also struggling to connect with fans.  In fact, he's almost "under."  No one gives a fuck about him, and I'd be surprised if he was still on WWE's roster by this time next year.  A harsh prediction?  Maybe.  Look, he's undeniably talented in the ring, but he doesn't have intangible oomph.

Ziggler still has potential, but if he's going to be the next breakout star, he needs to hit the ground running.  Tonight.  His on-screen girlfriend was finally given a chance to showcase her wrestling skills against Kaitlyn.  From the second she debuted on NXT, I knew that A.J. would go far.  As far as Kaitlyn is concerned, the jury is still hemming and hawing.  But it's a hung jury!  GET IT?  The Shield is starting to lose steam, so something major needs to happen there.  I could see adding another member, preferably developmental hopeful Paige.  A feud between her and A.J. is bound to happen sooner or later.

Can we kill Ryback now?  It's not his fault he tanked, but enough is enough.  The time has come to take Daniel Bryan to the next level.  I know it, you know it, everyone knows it...don't they?

PS-Watch for The Uso's to be put on the fast track.  Let's do this, Jean-Paul!

CM Wolverine

I just watched a lot of basketball and wrestling.  I'll write something more in-depth about it tomorrow.  Raw should be interesting, to say the least...

Album Cover of the Week

The Cyclops

I don't know if this counts as a disclaimer, but I watched the Thriller Video version of 1957's The Cyclops hosted by Elvira.  Honestly, the busty lorelei's punchline-ridden segments colored my viewing experience.  They made the film more entertaining than it probably was (that was the express purpose, I suppose).  I can't hold Elvira's curvilinear charm against The Cyclops, though.  Hell, she makes everything better, and knowing my questionable taste, I would have enjoyed this nutty sci-fi reel anyway.  It was written and directed by b-movie chieftain Bert I. Gordon, the resourceful lad behind Earth vs. the Spider and Empire of the Ants.  The latter is an unheralded "nature runs amok" classic.  You seriously need to watch it.  Just thought I'd throw that out there.

If you haven't grappled with one of Gordon's rear-projection pageants, his divertissements usually flaunted low-rent creature effects and somewhat talky scripts.  I'm not doing a good job selling The Cyclops as an ideal time-waster, am I?  Perhaps I should move on to the synopsis.  Susan charters a plane to search for her missing fiancé in a mountainous region of Mexico.  An eccentric millionaire funds half of the trip in the hopes of claiming uranium deposits.  The area at hand is rumored to be rich in the stuff.  I'm not sure what he wants with it, unless he plans on bolstering the pyrophoricity of high-density penetrators or building a ballast for a missile re-entry vehicle.  Know what I mean?

Anyway, her beau's plane crashed there three years ago.  She believes that he's still alive, so against the pilot's better judgment, the troupe (a motley bunch that also includes a lovelorn scientist) embarks on a safari of sorts.  What do they find?  Well, they find a giant bird, a giant rodent, a giant salamander and a giant...dude.  Said dude's face is horribly disfigured.  He only has one eye, hence the title.  Credit Jack Young for devising nifty make-up effects.  The ogre's countenance is so gruesome, it was later used in War of the Colossal Beast, the sequel to Gordon's own The Amazing Colossal Man.  The rest of the visuals are lousy, but hey, such blunders come with the territory.

If you can muscle through the exposition, your patience will be rewarded.  The Cyclops is actually pretty damn violent.  In fact, TCM airs a censored print that excises two minutes of gore.  We're not talking torrents of blood here, but the star heavy's demise is graphic nonetheless.  On the bronze end of the anal beads (hazel, terra-cotta, burnt sienna...take your pick), the storyline is profoundly dumb.  The reasons given for the land's genetic mutations are as hazy and vague as your teenaged sister's status updates on Facebook.  Plus, I found Susan to be an exasperating main character.  Surprisingly, Lon Chaney Jr. turns in the most inspired performance of the lot.  And this was during his "potted tippler" phase!

The Cyclops is on DVD via Warner's burn-on-demand service.  I'm sure it's cool, but I recommend hunting down the Thriller Video version.  Because, y'know, Elvira.

Geek Out #85

Rewatched Terror of Mechagodzilla recently.  It still owns.  Am I the only one who adores Titanosaurus?

Alice in Chains - THE DEVIL...

WARNING: This will be a biased review.  In all truth, every review ever written is biased to some extent.  It's no secret, however, that I worship Alice in Chains.  They are my favorite band on the planet, and you should know that before perusing my perlustration of The Devil Put Dinosaurs Here.  I fucking love this album.  It's hard to explain why, but I'll give it a shot.  Personally, I don't think a band can handle a reunion any better than these cats did.  I wasn't sold on the idea of a Staley-less AIC at first, but then I heard 2009's Black Gives Way to Blue.  I fucking love that album.  The muddy vocal harmonies, the abrasive riffs and the earnest lyrics were still pervasive in Jerry Cantrell's musical concrete mixer.

In defiance of supererogatory misgivings, I prefer Devil to its predecessor.  I haven't run across many fans who share my opinion, but from where my toned ass is sitting, this record sounds like it should.  I feel the need to address some of the proverbial sideswipes I've read online.  Now, if you just don't dig it, that's fine.  But I'm seeing rhubarbs that don't make logical sense.  Several people have bemoaned the fact that Jerry continues to wrangle the vast majority of lead vocals.  I was expecting William DuVall's textured vibrato to be more prominent myself, but what does that have to do with the quality of the songs?  Maybe you can't warm up to Jerry's voice.  Okay, but I can.  For all we know, it's William's decision to recoil from the limelight.

I've also heard complaints that Devil is too slow.  There may not be a "We Die Young" nestled in between the lumbering 6-minute stragglers, but remember, this is the band that released "Rooster" as a single.  Dirt was 75% sludge (a conservative estimate), and the self-titled set was even sludgier.  I'm focusing too much on detractors.  My sincere apologies.  Again, it's hard to spell out my weakness for these tunes.  I simply relate to them, and I'm convinced that Jerry Cantrell is one of the most underrated songwriters in rock.  Notice that I didn't say guitarist or singer, although his lead work is exceptional.  Devil contains a few of his leanest solos to date.  How he is able to devise melodies this infectious is beyond my comprehension.

Seriously, listen to the chorus of "Lab Monkey."  That's a hook that will stick to the ribs.  "Hollow" is an ideal opening track, what with its smoldering stomp and stacked harmonies.  It's almost as if Jerry and William have been crooning together for decades.  The slanted notes of "Pretty Done" are vintage AIC.  I vehemently disagree with those who claim that Devil resembles Jerry's solo material.  At least half of his solo stuff was intended to be Alice in Chains stuff.  I'm divaricating (sorry, that shit pisses me off).  I could ramble for another four paragraphs, but you get the general idea.  The Devil Put Dinosaurs Here is vital.  Hell, the lesser cuts destroy anything on modern rock radio.  If you're wondering, "Voices" and "Hung on a Hook" qualify as lesser, but I never skip them.

So there you have it.  I try to be objective, but I can't hide my fanboy alacrity.  If you love Alice in Chains, motherfucking purchase this compact disc.  It's imperative.

Matches That Time Forgot #54

Yep, I'm back!  This should prove to be a voltaic summer here at Random Reviews Incorporated.  What better way to inaugurate the festivities than with a nebbish, uneventful match that time forgot?  I liken it to starting a set of braggadocios "cock rock" anthems with a power ballad.  Bear with me, dearhearts.  It's not easy to bootlick a fidgety web surfer (heh, no one says that anymore) into reading a column about The Fabulous Rougeau Brothers.  Even die-hard wrestling nerds don't have much of an opinion about this particular tag team.  Most smarks seem to agree that they were one of the more consistent tandems during the tag team boom of the late 80's.

Jacques and Raymond made their bread and butter, nominal though it was, as heels.  But did you know that they were nondescript babyfaces for almost two years before incommoding The Killer Bees and hiring "Mouth of the South" Jimmy Hart as their manager?  They struggled to get over as good guys, hence the eventual turn.  However, they were successful enough to earn a shot at the tag titles in 1987.  In fact, they won the titles at a house show, but the referee's decision was reversed and the record books don't acknowledge the victory.  This...is not that match.  This...is not an outstanding match.  I...am second-guessing key choices in my life.

If I'm being honest, I prefer The Quebecers.  I don't need to enucleate the primal badassery of The Hart Foundation.  Bret is the excellence of execution, and Jim is a barking goon.  It works.  On a sidenote, this bout features the worst commentary I've ever heard.  Who in the teal fuck is Mike McGuirk?  Fuck that motherfucker.  ADDENDUM: Apparently, Mike was the glittery vest announcer bitch.  My brain is backwards now.

Getting there...

Dom Coccaro, purveyor of pussy-smashing (seen here conquering the world).

It's been awhile, hasn't it?  I said I was going to move into a new apartment, and I did.  We're pretty much settled in.  The only thing keeping Random Reviews from picking up where it left off is...a little hard to explain.  For reasons unknown to man, we can't seem to hook up my Blu-ray player (as well as my VCR) to my television in the correct way.  Bear in mind, I'm relying on people who can barely operate a remote control without availing themselves of a sun dial or colloguing with a necromancer.  We'll see what happens over the weekend, but for the time being, I'm forty-seven kinds of fucked.

Secondly, I'm dealing with a typical bout of depression.  My brain is plotting against me, and I'm finding it difficult to be productive.  Still, I do expect to relaunch this site sooner than later.  When it happens, everyone will know.

Important video!

What the title says.

No Dudes Allowed

Oh, hi.  I'm just sitting here with Linnea Quigley and her friends.  We're having a slasher marathon.  I feel confident that a pillow fight will break out.  Anywho, I'm currently working on a non-site writing project, but I'll have another review cooked up in the near future.  Gotta go...looks like a lesbian orgy is in the cards.  Let's see, where did I leave my penis?

The Loch Ness Horror

I've always been interested in cryptozoology, the study of mythical creatures whose existence has yet to be scientifically proven (yes, I may have pillaged that definition from a dictionary, but you have no proof...ha!).  It's baffling that there are no grade-A Nessie flicks on the market.  Sasquatch has received generous exposure.  Even The Jersey Devil has graced video shelves with its fallacious, imponderable presence.  But Nessie?  The pickings are slim and not that hot.  Putting aside CGI routs, 1981's The Loch Ness Horror is your best bet.  It was directed by cult maestro Larry Buchanan, which should clue you in on the film's virtues.  If you desire historical context, he was the man behind The Eye Creatures and Mars Needs Women.

Normally, low-budget creature features send cataracts of blood to my pulsating member.  And while Loch Ness is tantalizing in spots, the end result is a subfuse headache.  Are you into talky expositions with vague political undertones?  Well, this is your lucky day!  We open in California, but California is standing in for Scotland.  Basically, we open in Scotland.  Amateur cryptozoologists rub shoulders with Nessie and vamoose with an egg resting at the bottom of the lake.  The Baddest Bitch in Europe (I submit that everyone adopts my proposed nickname for the apocryphal sea monster) is pissed off.  Awkward shots of the titular beast stalking teenagers in a timbered locale ensue.  That's not a joke.  "Scientists" deduce that Nessie is an amphibian, so we get a few scenes where she eats campers on dry land.

I wish those bits were as AMAZING as they sound, but they aren't.  Don't get me wrong.  The idea alone is entertaining, and I'm grateful that Buchanan isn't bashful with his mechanical puppet.  We catch an eyeful of Nessie's static face in the first fifteen minutes.  However, the effects technicians were limited to the point where they could only build a torso.  Once you see that elongated neck and those stripper-vacant peepers, you've seen all there is to see.  In my youth, I dated a stripper who was dead inside.  "How dead inside was she???"  She was so dead inside, she had a miscarriage the day before her scheduled abortion.  That, my friends, is a textbook example of reader participation.  You're welcome.

The kills are bereft of red stuff.  On the whole, the pace clinks along at a stifled snore.  The cast is...comprised of people.  Honestly, I can't remember character details, nor can I be bothered to single out a noteworthy performance.  Trying to stay awake during the third act was a taxing ordeal.  There is a preposterous twist involving Nazis, but it adds absolutely nothing to The Loch Ness Horror.  In related news, I appreciated the scenery.  Meh.  I'm calling a spade a fucking spade.  If not for the laughable Nessie dummy, this film would be a one-Z'Dar cowplop.  What a waste of a wicked poster.  I have a Scottish friend named Lee, and somehow, this is his fault.

Shitty Webcam Site Update Movie Review I Have Heartburn #34

The (Julian) sands of time.

Busy, busy, busy...

So it looks like we'll actually move over the weekend.  I won't have access to the Internet for awhile.  If you don't know what I'm talking about, my mother and I are moving into a cushy apartment.  I'm starting a new chapter in my life, and I want this site to evolve.  Now, I can't be too sure of when exactly I'll disconnect from the webz, nor can I be too sure of when I'll reconnect.  I'll be able to post content every day this week, though.  Stay tuned, dearhearts.

PS-Why the Rawhead Rex cameo?  Motherfucker, do I need a reason?

Album Cover of the Week

Parts Unknown #113: Saturday Morning Slam

I was randomly awake this morning and happened to catch Saturday Morning Slam.  There was only one real match and not much else, so I'm going to use this column as an animadversion on the current landscape of the WWE.  The show opened with immaterial backstage footage setting up Jey Uso versus Darren Young.  If you haven't been keeping tabs on Slam, it has its own general manager now.  Why?  Beats me.  Whatever the reason, Mick Foley is the grand poobah.  I can't tell if that's a demotion or a way to show courtesy to an elder statesman by creating a role for him.  I don't think Mick cares.  The people still pop for him, even though most of the attendees probably don't remember his wild-eyed run as Cactus Jack.

Hell, his pre-debut vignettes as Mankind would scare the fuck out of today's "WWE Universe."  For better or worse, he seems content to play the lovable oaf.  Anyway, the singles match ends in a disqualification.  Mick's entrance riff impregnates the auditorium as he pulls a Teddy Long and makes it a tag team match, playa.  I distinctly recall reading the results for this episode a few weeks ago.  They knew when it would air, so I'm praying to several disparate gods that The Uso's will see television time in the near future.  Rikishi's pups picked up a clean win.  The contest was tendered a solid 10-15 minutes, and believe it or not, the crowd was into it.  They responded to the comedic spots, made noise for the hot tag and gave The Primetime Players well-deserved heat.

I say they deserved heat because they're good heels.  They antagonize the marks at just the right junctures.  I wasn't sold on Darren Young during his Nexus days, but I'm beginning to warm up to John Cena's spray-tanned doppelganger.  You can tell that he's having fun out there.  I want PTP to succeed, but my Uso's are due for a push.  They have quietly aggregated a string of victories, which should...should be a positive sign.  The Shield are next in line for the tag titles, and that's cool.  They'll need a long reign.  That should...should give creative enough of a headstart to build The Uso's up as the top babyface team.  It sounds implausible, I know.  We're talking months, though.  If I'm being honest, I wouldn't be opposed to The Shield surpassing Demolition's record-setting reign.

That's a wrap on Saturday Morning Slam.  I genuinely believe that Raw is going to be miserable until CM Punk's inevitable return.  Where the hell is the star power?  If the part-timers aren't willing to be full-timers, that leaves Cena and...yeah.  We'll be watching a lot of Sheamus/Orton/Del Rio matches in May and June.  They're proficient workers, sure, but they're goddamn boring.  As much as I dig Ziggler, he's nowhere near the bright lights.  The Big Show?  Jack Swagger?  Kofi Kingston?  More wrestlers I like, but again, they're boring.  Luckily, I have a solution.  Vince has to find a way to book The Undertaker and Dean Ambrose into every match.  Problem solved!

Go Clippers/Pacers!

FOUR playoff games tonight, so...yeah, I probably won't write anything.  Read an old review or something.  Yeah, do that.

It's worth repeating...

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Blood Capsule #32

SUNDOWN: THE VAMPIRE IN RETREAT (1989)

Yes, that's Bruce Campbell and yes, he plays a goofball in Sundown: The Vampire in Retreat.  To be specific, he plays the least heroic vampire slayer in cinematic history.  Ash groupies will flock to this screwy b-flick, but they should be forewarned that their scream king is not the main character.  All told, there are too many characters.  The first act introduces supplementary cast-offs (pun intended) with the tenor of an apocalypse epic, but as it turns out, the bulk of these folks are likeable.  I wanted the good guys to win.  I guess you need a frame of reference, huh?  The plot follows the denizens of Purgatory, a small town tucked away in the scrotum of a fetid, sweltering desert.

We find out that Purgatory is populated with vampires.  Simple enough, but there is a conflict of interest afoot.  The regnant majority of the municipality's inhabitants slurp down synthetic blood in an effort to co-exist with humans.  However, a revolt is taking shape, one that is content to revert back to the old ways (y'know, biting necks and stuff).  The film climaxes with interspecies warfare, for lack of a better term.  Of course, an innocuous all-American family is caught up in the middle of this scuffle.  I haven't mentioned Bruce's role, but I hesitate to spoil his identity.  This is a fearless horror/comedy hybrid, and it wears its intentions on its sleeve.  It doesn't waste any time getting to the sight gags.

Normally, that would turn me off, but director Anthony Hickox keeps the laughs in check.  I totally dug Sundown: The Vampire in Retreat.  It's far more engaging than I expected.  By the way, Hickox is quickly becoming a favorite filmmaker of mine.  Do Waxwork, Full Eclipse and Warlock: The Armageddon ring any bells?

Shitty Webcam Movie Review Site Update I Have Heartburn #33

Record time.

Geek Out #84

Geek Outs are usually fun or jovial in spirit.  This one...not so much.  I almost feel like I should apologize for posting such a bleak, depressing video.  It's a documentary on Unit 731, a Japanese death camp that killed thousands in the name of medical research.  It inspired the notorious Men Behind the Sun series, as well as the underrated Philosophy of a Knife.  Enjoy?

Destroyer

If the cover art doesn't sell you, you have no heart.  1988's Destroyer is a dumb slasher disguised as a dumb action flick.  Before I reel out an in-depth vivisection of this steroid-addled corpse, I'll go ahead and give it two thumbs up.  That's for all you shiftless fucks who don't want to read the entire review.  The rest of you will grin and bear it while I eulogize Lyle Alzado.  The would-be direct-to-video star died of brain cancer in 1992.  He was convinced that his tumor (or "tumah," if you prefer) dilated as a result of steroid abuse.  I'll be honest with you.  I'm second-guessing my decision to refer to Destroyer as a steroid-addled corpse, but thankfully, I harbor no pangs of conscience.

This film also features Anthony Perkins in one of his less sovereign roles.  He plays a director shooting a low-budget "women in prison" epic on location at an abandoned penitentiary.  It just so happens that this godforsaken bastille was left in the lurch after a riot claimed the lives of several guards and inmates.  The circumstances surrounding the chaotic ruction remain a mystery.  However, the screenwriter behind the movie-within-a-movie (dubbed Death House Dolls...fuck, that's a great title) believes that the calamitous snarl was prompted by the scheduled electrocution of serial killer Ivan Moser.  Did the homicidal maniac die in the chair?  If not, is he still prowling the prison grounds?  Isn't this just another variation on Shocker or The Horror Show?

Seriously, how many fucking horror pictures milked this motif?  The only thing separating Destroyer from The Horror Show (or The Chair or The Stay Awake) is the fact that our villain is a mortal man.  He doesn't spook teenagers from beyond the grave.  In any event, Alzado makes for a fantastic baddie.  Imagine Kane Hodder squared.  That's a whole lot of badass.  On a sour note, I didn't quite disentangle his motive(s).  It's never explained why he fixates on the heroine, an unflinching Deborah Foreman.  I couldn't figure out the significance of the game show hostess either.  Maybe there are deleted scenes that clear up the confusion.  Maybe not.  It doesn't really matter, as Destroyer managed to entertain the soft pretzels out of me.  Mmm, soft pretzels...

For the most part, the characters are written reasonably well.  I actually dug the comic relief, and that's extraordinarily rare.  Rewire should have had his own spin-off series.  If you've seen Destroyer, you know exactly what I'm talking about.  Three cheers for Rewire!  But I digress.  The pace is lickety-split quick, the violence is over the top and the climax is somewhat tense.  The kills could have been bloodier, but to be fair, that's how I feel about the majority of slashers.  It's a shame that Lyle Alzado passed away at such a young age.  I mean, he was no Robert Z'Dar, but he was built for cinematic dreck.  Recommended to fans of the Maniac Cop saga.

Album Cover of the Week

Movie review tomorrow!