Blood Capsule #103

MAXIM XUL (1991)

Adam West was a real-life superhero, a stouthearted, fire-eating son of a bitch.  He may have been more gallant than Batman.  Maxim Xul proves as much, but it also proves that he was not God.  This flick could have been salvaged if West was given a meatier role, but that's asking too much of a mortal man.  No one wants that kind of responsibility.  What is this soggy, adulterated discharge about?  I don't know.  There is a rash of murders, see?  A detective and a photojournalist consolidate efforts to reconnoiter (make no mistake, I only used that windbag word because it makes me hard) the grisly scenes.  It's just boring "police procedural" stuff.

There is diddly-twat in the nudity department despite the ineffectual admittance of a slutty defense attorney who loses neither her head nor her threads.  Everything disappoints.  West appears on-screen for a total of maybe ten minutes.  He serves as Mr. Exposition, although he does a futile job of explaining why a demon (Babylonian, I believe) is bent on dispatching these nobodies.  To Maxim Xul's credit, the rascal fiend looks cool in a no-budget Halloween party kind of way.  I'd give the creature effects supervisor a fist bump, but here again, screen time is a matter of contention.  We get a glimpse of the thing during the last minute of the film.  Who thought this was a sound idea?  Most likely, it was NOT Adam West.

RSOJSA/OHE

Okey-dokey.  I haven't written anything in a little bit, but I'm hitting the reset button on the dusty Nintendo console that is my life.  No need to tailspin into details, but as I've avouched before, I do struggle with depression.  Every so often, I ebb into a retroflux of social activity.  It has been a week of restless repose, and yet, I am emerging at the other end with renewed focus.  Again, without bogging my readership down with particulars (this ship is damn near marooned to begin with), I plan on touching base with my doctor to map out a measured treatment plan.  The appointment has been made.

The site should be coasting soon, business as usual.  In fact, I have the next movie review picked out, and let me tell you, it does not seem enjoyable.  Seriously, why did I pick this out?  No, the above image is not foreshadowing; it's merely a RSOJSA/OHE (Random Sighting Of Johnny Sokko And/Or His Enemies).

MFer

Motherfucker.  I was going to write an in-depth article that tied three things together, but for stupid and personal reasons (some involving my stomach...resist the urge to ask questions), I haven't had time to write shit.  Motherfucker.  Hang in there!

Rassle Inn #11

On Sunday, Survivor Series will mark thirty years of deadened dominance for The Undertaker.  The career of one Mark Calaway cranes back even further than three decades, which is astounding to consider.  He possesses every trait that you would need to be a superlative, distinguished professional wrestler.  He checks all of the boxes.  And then you realize that he has always put the business first, ahead of politics and ahead of self-serving vainglory.  Hey, all due respect to Shawn Michaels, but that's why I rank The Heartbreak Kid behind The Phenom when it comes to placing the best of the modern era in formation.

'Taker has stated - definitively - that he is retired from in-ring competition.  Naturally, I expect him to engage with a few superstars in acutely physical ways at Survivor Series.  But whom?  And how?  I've read rumors and guesstimations.  It wouldn't surprise me to see The Fiend make himself conspicuous, but technically, he's a babyface.  Good God.  That opens a can of sandworms.  The comic, cosmic audacity of Vince McMahon's logic-defying booking is tantamount to that of Superman's gravity-defying bullshit.  You know that Superman is an asshole.  Don't argue with me.

My point (???) is that anything could happen.  I sincerely hope that Calaway isn't pressured into working "one more match."  The only dream bout left is opposite Sting, and no, I don't want to see it.  Ten years ago?  Fuck yeah, I'd pay the full pay-per-view price to order that sumbitch.  Even five years ago!  In 2020, it's not worth it.  Let the man rusticate to his native Texas.  Let him REST...I can't believe I'm actually using the catchphrase...IN...this is far too cheesy...PEACE...you dicks, you didn't stop me.  Here's a badass picture of The Undertaker leaving the 1993 versions of Crush and Bob Backlund in the dust.  I made that sound intense.  But they're just, like, walking.

Album Cover of the Whatever

Morwinyon!  They play atmospheric black metal and they do it pretty damn well.  The cover is essentially perfect.  I mean, that's what the record sounds like.  So there you go.

Skinner

You wouldn't normally associate Ricki Lake with Traci Lords, but they have actually appeared in two films together.  First, they played cool "'drapes" in Cry-Baby (man, I want to be in an awesome gang).  Then they starred in 1993's Skinner.  Traci Lords.  Really, just...I want to talk about Traci Lords.  I mean, I can review Skinner if you want, but Traci Lords.  Back in the 90's (my favorite decade), she might have been the hottest human to have ever existed.  Is beauty in the eye of the beholder or am I right here, you guys?  She's currently 52, and I would still bang her bathtub.  Remember that mediocre industrial rock record she released in 1995?  That was weird, huh?

So Traci Lords.  Goddamn it, no!  I'm going to discuss Skinner now.  Besides, that's why I summoned you to this unsettled, far-flung alcazar of substantial enormity.  Pay no mind to the miniature coffins.  Anyway, this is a sleazeball slasher that finds Ted Raimi flaying all manner of prostitutes.  I should mention that Raimi is playing a character named Dennis, not himself.  It's a compelling performance.  The script attempts to be an abstruse, intellectual study of psychosomatic maladies, but despite admirable efforts, it doesn't know how to carry its own thematic weight.

Let's be honest.  Horror hounds only rented this tape to see estuaries (or tributaries, if you prefer) of blood and acres of female flesh.  To Skinner's credit, it does yield a surplus of both elements.  Lords holds fast to her articles of clothing, and yet, it didn't bother me.  The woman is a work of art, whether she's nude or not.  She fares well as Heidi, a disturbed, deformed lady in black who seems to be stalking Dennis.  Hmm?  It's not as intriguing as it sounds.  She swears to get revenge on the unglued schizoid, but she wastes a zillion opportunities to hack the fucker to pieces.  Does that constitute a spoiler?  I promise that you don't care.

For a movie that didn't leave indissoluble indentations in my seat of affections, Skinner was well-manicured.  Props to director Ivan Nagy for making everything easy to ogle.  He uses jazzy, chromatic filters for nighttime exteriors, and it helps mundane sets pop.  Of course, I don't know if he used filters.  I'm a buffoon when it comes to the technical side of filmmaking, but ah, I know when colors are pretty.  I'm basically an expert.  As I was expertly saying, Skinner isn't too shabby.  The cast is committed, the KNB effects are grotesque, and I suppose I wanted to learn how the plot resolved itself.  That isn't quite the same as being hooked, though.

I wasn't stupefied by anything that this film was offering.  Was it overtly, hawkishly crummy?  No.  My rating is somewhat altruistic because, y'know, Traci Lords.  Traci Lords.

  

Kiefer Sutherland Sounds Like Adam Carolla

So I watched Shudder's Creepshow animated special.  I didn't want to do a big review or anything, but my opinion is twofold.  On the "yay" side, I love the fact that they are keeping the property active in between seasons of the anthology series.  An animated jubilee is a great idea.  On the "nay" side, still-frame animation?  Why can't it be a standard cartoon?  While "Survivor Type" is a gripping character study, the animation style pulled me out of the narrative on more than one occasion.  And "Circus of the Dead" is just lackluster.

Up next...in the coming days...on this very website...er, something!

Blood Capsule #102

THE GHOST OF FRANKENSTEIN (1942)

I said that I wasn't reviewing the rest of this series, but Son and Ghost of Frankenstein reside on the same disc.  Why not?  This is where the momentum is fossilized anyway.  I can't execrate the last monster mash to be shot by Universal's A-unit.  The atmosphere is still ghoulish, the cast is still aureate (though a truant Karloff is missed), and the pacing is still alert.  Seasoned director Erle C. Kenton is clearly comfortable framing a genre spectacle.  I didn't know it, but he also helmed 1932's Island of Lost Souls.  Here, the plot feels a bit familiar.  Ygor wants Dr. Frankenstein (that would be the original doctor's other son) to redress and rehabilitate his friend (that would be the monster).  I'm tired of parenthesis.

As with Son, the real villain is Ygor.  Lugosi is captivating, even if he doesn't have quite as much jerk-infused lunacy to feast on.  I'm sorry; I'm referring to the style of cooking native to Jamaica.  Personally, I'm fond of dry-rub jerk spices, but I'm down for a good marinade.  What?  Oh, the movie.  Evelyn Ankers is essentially wasted as Elsa Frankenstein, the generic wife.  That's the thing.  Everyone present is punctually talented, but you get the sense that the congregation is going through the motions.  The precursive film told the story to its natural conclusion.  There is no more tale to tell!  Be that as it may, Ghost is a worthwhile way to keep your corpse on ice.

TYPE O NEGATIVE - Dead Again

Ideally, a band will evolve from one album to the next.  I can't believe that this is a hard concept for some bands to grasp ("some" is italicized so as not to implicate Type O Negative).  Metallica seemed shocked by the boomerang recoil fans responded with in answer to their queue of streamlined rock releases in the 90's.  And I don't mean to pick on Metallica; I just need an example.  I remember an interview with Lars where he intimated - I'm paraphrasing here - that they felt damned either way.  "We can't change OR stay the same!  Wah!  I'm a whiny bitch!"  I'm confident that's a direct quote.  In any event, he completely garbled the wishes of his adherents.

Nobody wanted Ride the Lightning IV: Dream Warriors.  By the same token, nobody wanted a collaboration with Mary J. Blige or Montell Jordan, although I contend that "This Is How We Do It" is a sick jam.  Die-hards merely anticipated evolution.  Impose a few tweaks here and there, but leave the core unmolested.  You should never have to return to your roots.  Deracination* kills trees, you dummy.  My point (finally!) is that Type O knew how to evolve, musically and even spiritually.  There is a character arc ranging from Slow, Deep and Hard to Dead Again.  It's a plot without holes.  Somehow, each Type O disc is spun of high quality, and yes, I'm doing a celebratory dance over that pun.  Touchdown, suckers!

The group would have been forgiven for delivering a mellow coda.  Sure, we couldn't have possibly known that this was their swan song, but we knew they were getting older.  I can only speak for myself, but I definitely wasn't envisaging Peter Steele reaching back into his Carnivore bag of tricks and parenting a nest egg of pissy, crotchety riffs that would feel right at home on...well, a Carnivore omnibus.  The title track launches the record with a bombardment of speedy stuff (after the requisite doom intro).  "Tripping a Blind Man" is a top-tier Type O tune.  It has swagger, impassioned vocals, bayonet-sharp lyrics ('You think it's your place to dispense justice/Well, I've been sent to judge the judges'), and canorous harmonies.

"The Profit of Doom" is heavier than a fucking fuck.  Is it a minute or two on the bloated side?  Yeah, but I can live with it.  The songwriting is strong enough to carry protracted track lengths.  "These Three Things" is the sole instance of an epic number being sustained past the point of necessity.  Still, it features gnarly moments that justify its inclusion (Pete screams his giant head off, and it's magnificent).  The pensive "September Sun" can be cloying until the near-supernatural guitar solo soars beyond speakers and into the outer realm.

Kenny Hickey, man!  I'm telling you.  He rips another badass lead in "She Burned Me Down," a sentimental favorite in the Coccaro household.  In totality, I almost want to say that Dead Again is a sentimental favorite.  It comes dangerously close to scoring five Abbaths.  For a Type O Negative experience, it's practically perfect.  You can award your own ratings.  Like every other energized listener, I've always wondered where those four dicks from Brooklyn would have transmigrated as a creative collective.  Would they have looked to October Rust and subsumed their 80's goth influences?  Would they have heaved their hardcore base and focused on their 60's psych influences?  Would they have killed each other???

*The act of uprooting.  The more you know!

    

Geek Out #143

I'll be finishing my Type O discography review soon, so check this out!  I imagine that if you're a fan of the band, even from a casual standpoint, you've seen this beauty.  If not, it's a very cool, very 90's trip into the mordant minds of the Drab 4.  This was where I first saw the video for "Everything Dies."  Thanks for nothing, MTV!

Son of Frankenstein

Eons ago, I reviewed Bride of Frankenstein.  Epochs ago, I reviewed Frankenstein (because apparently, I like to do things out of order).  I might as well cover 1939's Son of Frankenstein, and no, I don't know if or when I'll get to the rest of the series.  Universal didn't plan on making a third Frankie feature.  Classic horror fans are indebted to the studio for fleshing out a trilogy, as this is the most consistent ternion of fright flicks ever committed to celluloid.  Go ahead; name another.  You can't!  Okay, aside from Maniac Cop.  FACTOID: Robert Z'Dar was approached for the role of Ygor, but he wanted to be paid in Yikes pencils and empty boxes of Hidden Treasures cereal.  Plus, he wasn't alive yet.

Factors aligned to fashion Son into a colossal mega-epic that paired a burly budget with an impregnable cast.  Boris Karloff returns to grant his creature a plaintive pathos, while still being the badass slasher villain of his day.  Basil Rathbone is game as Wolf, the son of Dr. Frankenstein.  Fuck, that's a cool name!  He brings guileless enthusiasm to the role, and you want to root for him.  Lionel Atwill dignifies his fellow players as Inspector Krogh.  His presence is enough to get the job done, not that his performance is noticeably inadequate.  I admit that it's hard to shake Young Frankenstein from my mind whenever Krogh adjusts his prosthetic arm.

The star of the show may be Bela Lugosi as the dowdy, yet calculating Ygor.  Watching Son, I couldn't help but feel this was the second best turn of his career, following his iconic portrayal of Dracula.  That's saying something.  He kicked just as much ass in White Zombie and The Black Cat.  Reading other reviews, I gather that my opinion is shared by some of the most distinguished nobodies on the web.  There is a certain intensity to Ygor, a dithyrambic (dithyrambic, I say!) volume that only Mr. Lugosi could have instilled in the character.

I don't see the point in writing a bullet-by-bullet plot summary.  You know Frankenstein, right?  It's about his son.  The storytelling is fine.  Apart from the exceptional acting, my favorite aspects of the film are the optics.  Director Rowland V. Lee strides in full gallop to push his needles all the way through the "spooky" scale.  Nevermind my confused analogy and use of present tense.  The castle is foreboding, the night sky is almost always zipped with lightning, and the angles...dude, the angles.  It's clear that Lee was heavily influenced by German expressionism.  The bizarre lighting and architecture act in service of the atmosphere.

At a robust 99 minutes, Son of Frankenstein is the longest Universal monster movie.  The pace is measured, but I wouldn't call it slow.  Would I recommend a midnight viewing after a grueling day of brick masonry and/or commercial diving?  No.  It's fairly easy to digest, all the same.  This is the stuff that constitutes the genre.  As a matter of fact, it's "the shit," as kids proclaim.  I'm current.  I'm relevant.  Robert Z'Dar says, "My requests were reasonable."

    

444

Hot pink!  It's my second favorite color (behind turquoise), especially when it occurs in nature.  I should just end the post right there, if only to make myself snicker.  No, I do have a point.  The VHS/Blu-ray cover of 555 is stippled and swabbed in hot pink.  Actually, all of the promotional material for the film is punched up with pink.  It's as if the commodity itself is blushing.  So what the fuck is 555?  It's a shot-on-video sleazoid slasher from 1988.  As I mentioned yesterday, I haven't had access to the Internet for several days, so I'm not comfortable writing a proper review of this thing (it has been too long now since I've seen it; my brain is faulty when it comes to absorbing visual information).  However!

Wait, let me try that again.  However!  I did want to document the fact that I dug it.  555 falls short of handheld heavyweights such as Video Violence and Blood Cult, but its procedural approach is intriguing enough.  You see, five couples are butchered for five consecutive nights every five years.  Whodunit???  The answer is anticlimactic.  I had mild fun on my way to the answer, as most of the on-screen kills are irresponsibly bloody.  One decapitation, in particular, made me goddamn giddy.  Here's a spooky knife...

Fight the Power (Outage)

Fuck!  Due to Hurricane Zeta, we have been without the Internet for days (I'm at a relative's house right now).  I have no decent way to create content for the site.  And it's Halloween, so that really pisses me off.  We haven't been given an ETA by our ISP.  Could still be days out from WiFi, so FML!  Sorry, gang.  I'll try to enjoy the holiday anyway.  After all, Halloween will keep on keeping on, right through Christmas if you're doing it right.  Skullfuck a pumpkin and watch Spookies for me!

A Band: Autumn

I can't believe it has taken me this long to point floodlights at Autumn.  Hell, I even created a column for the express purpose of exposing cool bands to inquisitive eyes.  Better late than never, I suppose.  Autumn is a Dutch collective that deals in atmospheric rock.  I've seen them described as "goth rock," but those predilections are muted in comparison to the Cold Caves of the world (I don't know; Revolver is telling me that Cold Cave is a modern goth band).  To be honest, I'd put them in the same bin as Soen and Katatonia.  They have released six albums to date.  I have heard three of them in full.  I can explain.

In 2009, Marjan Welman stepped in as frontwoman, replacing the competent Nienke de Jong.  Autumn's pre-Marjan period is awfully goshdarn similar to The Gathering's pre-Anneke period.  There were a couple of middling death/doom records, and no, I'm not jumping to spin those black circles.  They did release a long player with Nienke I want to check out by the name of My New Time.  It was composed in a style much closer to that of modern day Autumn.  But that's not why I'm featuring them.  For that honor, you can thank Marjan, the best fucking female vocalist to come out of the Netherlands since the vaunted Vatnier Greslev.

In a word, she's flawless.  Marjan, not Vatnier (the latter doesn't exist).  It's not her range.  She doesn't excoriate your scaffolding with high notes.  She doesn't growl.  She doesn't do the thing where she suffocates a line with endless, useless runs.  What does she do?  She sings the fucking song perfectly.  Every note is where it should be and that extends to every pause, every falsetto flourish, every spell of vibrato she casts onto the listener...ellipsis period.  It's just so refreshing to hear a great singer perform great songs.

Speaking of which, 2009's Altitude is teeming with crackin' tunes.  You simply need to hear it.  I've lost all objectivity, as I've heard it a stunning number of times.  No lie, I've played Altitude more than any other album in the past two years.  2011's Cold Comfort is far from being a slouch, though it doesn't hold an ornamental flambeau to its predecessor.  Eight years later (!), Autumn blessed us with Stacking Smoke, one hell of a comeback opus, if you can call it that.  It's a smooth, melodic potable.  I recommend hitting up "The Phantom Limb" and "Where the River Ends."

Basically, I recommend any project that involves the talents of Marjan Welman.  I don't mean to disregard everyone else in the band.  But fuck those guys.

Rassle Inn #10

I wanted some degree of distance from the segment I'll be discussing today.  I wanted objectivity.  In truth, I still don't have enough distance to reach a final conclusion, but at least I know how I feel about it.  What the hell is "it"?  Oh, you know.  This past Wednesday, MJF and Chris Jericho sat down for a lavish steak dinner at a posh, fashionable...um, studio lot to negotiate the former's proposed entry into The Inner Circle.  Out of nowhere, they broke into song.  This was "Brian and Stewie" territory.  There were dancers, euphuistic bouts of choreography, and roving set pieces.

Divisive?  That's an understatement.  You either loved it or hated it.  Of course, I say that, and yet, I can see both sides of the donnybrook.  Pro-wrestling is driven by money.  If the quarter-hour draws ratings, it was successful.  Period.  I'm prone to believing that next week's ratings will tell the tale.  Wednesday's demographics only tell me that the show was received; they don't tell me how the show was received.  You are free to call it amateurish comedy.  You are free to call it puke-flavored bullshit.  You are free to call it whatever you want, but if it proves to be a hit with fans, you cannot call it a failure.

For the time being, what is my opinion?  I doubt that you asked, but I'll go ahead and tell you.  I think it was good.  And bad.  Good because, well, I can't say that it wasn't entertaining.  The bit was streamlined and well-performed.  Who knew that MJF was a gifted crooner?  Christ, that guy is talented.  While he was nearly blown (up) to smithereens, Jericho knew how to play his part.  Bad because, well, it's a rasslin' program.  Just before the act in question, Jon Moxley and Eddie Kingston sold the shit out of their feud.  They have a match coming up at Full Gear.  It's a fight based on grit, nerve, and realism.  Would you apply any of those nouns to the dulcet routine that directly followed their video package?

Look, I dig Dynamite, but as a cohesive whole, it's tone-deaf.  They are trying to make everyone happy.  Clearly, that's not going to happen.  Narrow your scope.  Focus on taking one stylistic approach and do it better than the competition.  NOTE: When I refer to "the competition," I'm not only referring to WWE.  Trounce every promotion on the planet.  So narrow your scope and AIM FOR THE UNIVERSE!  You know what I mean.

In summation, I didn't despise it, but try not to turn it into a habit of whimsy.  It's something brand new for the industry, so it might attract new eyeballs to AEW.  Armbars crossed!

TYPE O NEGATIVE - Life is Killing Me

I distinctly remember when Life is Killing Me was diffused to the masses.  If I'm being honest, I can't say that I'm 100% unbiased, as I have some scrumptious memories tied to this fucker.  It received spins during October, for one.  The fact that it's one of my "Halloween records" automatically gives it brownie plaudits, the kind of stroke that the other Type O opuses (that doesn't sound right) lack.  Plus, "(We Were) Electrocute" appears on the Freddy Vs. Jason soundtrack.  I'll never understand why they didn't use "IYDKMIGHTKY (Gimme That)" instead, what with its driving refrain of "If you don't kill me/I'm gonna have to kill you."  It's only perfect!?

This album was a breath of fresh, somewhat buoyant air after the despondent World Coming Down.  I shouldn't classify it as happy; no Type O disc is happy.  Nevertheless, it's happier than its predecessor.  Compared to "'White Slavery" and "Everything Dies," it's goddamn chipper.  It does have its sinkholes of abjection, but on the whole, it's underscored with a more consequential nip of the band's black humor.  Each track has its own flavor, so I feel compelled to eat this elephant one spoonful at a time.  That's from a joke.  How do you eat an elephant?  With a spoon.  No, wait.  I think I fucked it up.  I've ruined everything.  Either way, it has nothing to do with a disastrous A Perfect Circle album.

1. "Thir13een" ~ Basically an intro.  It cribs the interstitial theme from The Munsters, so yay.

2. "I Don't Wanna Be Me" ~ This was the first single, and I must say, it smacked me in the face the first time I heard it.  A fast Type O tune well under four minutes?  Bracing.  Kenny offers a killer solo.  An atypical song, but it still wore the trappings of classic TON.

3. "Less Than Zero (<0)" ~ Here, the music gives itself room to breathe.  It's a little more melodic and the arrangement is more adventurous.  The riffs are riffy!

4. "Todd's Ship Gods (Above All Things)" ~ The lyrics are rather poignant.  They attest to the diversity of the album, at least in terms of topics.  Musically, I'm not a fan.  I find it to be bland.  By the way, I typed that last sentence with my nose pointed to the heavens.

5. "I Like Goils" ~ It's funny; I doubt that even Steele would write this song today.  It's still amusing, though.

6. "...A Dish Best Served Coldly" ~ A rad fucking jam.  It contains everything from swampy riffage to tempo shifts (I enjoy tempo shifts) to...um, other cool shit.  Just trust me.

7. "How Could She?" ~ Great chorus and shredtastic lead breaks.  Dude, Kenny Hickey is an underrated guitarist.  Anyhow, it's fun singing along to the verses.  Judy Jetsoooooooon.

8. "Life is Killing Me" ~ Ah, the epic title track.  I'm surprised that it wasn't released to radio.  It's a heavy stomper that comes equipped with incisive lyrics about assisted suicide.  I believe it was the brilliant philanthropist Frank Reynolds who said of doctors: "They're all shit."

9. "Nettie" ~ A moving number memorializing Steele's mother.  Exceptional.

10. "(We Were) Electrocute" ~ Audaciously poppy.  While it fits on this set of canticles, I deem it skippable.  TON and major keys don't mix, in my opinion.

11. "IYDKMIGHTKY (Gimme That)" ~ Jesus, this is going to be a nightmare to proofread.  Huh?  Oh, right.  I mentioned this one earlier.  I dig.

12. "Angry Inch" ~ I've never seen Hedwig, but this is an energetic song that virtually blackmails you into tapping your toes.

13. "Anesthesia" ~ My pick for best fucking ditty.  Almost twenty years later, it has the same effect on me.  That climactic wail...son of a bitch!

14. "Drunk in Paris" ~ A harmless instrumental.  Not much to say.

15. "The Dream is Dead" ~ My pick for best fucking riff (the opening riff, that is).  A rock-solid denouement.

Overall, Look What the Cat Dragged In is Poison's fourth worst recording, not counting splits and compilations.

    

Goddamn Baseball

Just wanted to let you know that I'm working on a muzak review, but it's taking a little longer than I would like.  I'm breaking it down track-by-track.  Plus, goddamn baseball is getting in the way.  My Braves were SO CLOSE to eliminating the noxious, repellent Dodgers.  I don't mind the Rays, so I'm rooting for them to dismantle those blue-balled...erg, there is no noun insulting enough.  Anyway, I'll post the review tomorrow night or whenever it's done writing itself.

I really, really dislike the Dodgers.

Album Cover of the Whatever

I've always been interested in the career of one Rogga Johansson.  Well over a decade ago, I discovered Ribspreader, his badass death metal project.  To be more specific, it's Swedish death metal.  By definition, all of the death metal that Rogga propagates comes out as Swedish death metal, as Rogga is - you guessed it - Swedish.  Ribspreader is prototypically Swedish.  Everything from the buzzsaw guitar tone to the collar-rattling d-beats screams Swedish.  And I'm sick of typing "Swedish."

Anyway, this squib isn't about Ribspreader; it's about the righteous cover of Edge of the Abyss, the third outing from Johansson & Speckmann.  At first, I thought I was looking at a demon blessed (?) with a demon dick.  Now I can see that it's a demon snaked in a curvilinear corkscrew demon.  The whole ordeal is eye-catching (I'm in favor of pooling white with purple).  As an aside, buy Edge of the Abyss yesterday if you want your vital organs lanced by brutal-as-fuck death metal.  I'm sick of typing "death metal."

PS ~ Rogga Johansson is currently in 31 active bands.

PS II ~ Speckmann is Paul Speckmann of Master fame.

Blood Capsule #101

NIGHT CREATURES (1962)

We are in Hammer territory, so this film's pertinence to a genre fansite is warranted.  However, a word of warning seems befitting; Night Creatures isn't quite a horror treat.  Rest assured, it's a treat, but none of its devilry is supernatural in the slightest.  A royal covey of servicemen are sent to a marsh to monitor the rumored smuggling of alcohol and other vendibles.  It proves difficult to burrow down to the truth, what with the rector (a sharp Peter Cushing) having an answer for everything and advances in the inquest being obstructed by appearances of phantoms in the wetlands.  Are these bog ghosts genuine articles?  If so, are their horses--I'm an idiot.  I already spoiled the mundane nature of the supposed "phantoms."

It's okay!  You can still watch Night Creatures and enjoy it as much as I did.  I alluded to Cushing's shipshape performance, but the rest of the cast is uniformly sans pareil.  You know the acting is stupendous when I break out French words.  We get to see Oliver Reed, Yvonne Romain, Patrick Allen, and Michael Ripper all flex their chops.  I was trying to think of a clever way to call attention to Romain's staggering bust, but I am not a clever man.  It's just as well.  The romance between Reed and Romain (squire and barmaid) is stilted at best.  Any other misgivings?  Eh, the script is dialogue-heavy.  That's not necessarily a negative trait, but I recommend leaving subtitles in the "on" position.  You don't want to miss out on expository details on account of heavy accents.

If this were a full-length review, I would expound on the shaded duality of many of the characters and how I appreciated the fact that Captain Collier, for instance, was neither 100% noble nor 100% villainous.  But it isn't.  I may retire early tonight.

Green Music

A few years back, I began a quest to review each Type O Negative album.  I made it past World Coming Down, and then for some bullshit reason that I don't recall, I had to take a sabbatical from the site.  If I'm being honest, I never gave it much thought, but I'd like to go ahead and tackle the final two TON chapters.  So I'll get to that and more music reviews in general.  I mean, I do still listen to music.

Music is neat.

Arcade

Just watch Brainscan.  Shit, there's your review.  I realize that Arcade was filmed a few years earlier than Brainscan, but this wasn't the most unique plot on the market.  Didn't Tron do the whole "trapped in a cyber game" thing in 1983?  It's irrelevant.  I always maintain that novelty and innovation, while important, are less imperative than simple execution.  Tell your story well.  In terms of ambition, Arcade doesn't aim at Ursa Major (or Minor), but its arrow manages to pierce the lower constellations.  Of course, all constellations reside in outer space.  I didn't think that metaphor through.  Hey, it's on me.  We need a fresh start.  Forget this bullshit paragraph ever happened.

1993's Arcade was written by David Goyer, and Charles Band wants you to know it.  The film was actually lensed in 1990, but its release was encumbered by a caboodle of issues, chief among them reshoots.  Apparently, you can still find the original CGI effects on certain tapes (including Paramount screeners).  There was also a legal miff with Disney.  Oy.  I'll be honest; I don't understand the minutiae of Arcade's inclement production history.  It's hard to blot it out, though.  Watching the final product, it's obvious that there was an inclement production history.  Arcade feels incomplete.

On the technical end, it's literally incomplete.  The winged skeleton on the cover?  It had potential to be cool, but it's rendered with the worst digital effects I've seen in something that was shot on film.  In fact, a distinctly PBS-scented smog pervades the entirety of Arcade.  We're only a half-baked whodunit away from an episode of Ghostwriter.  Yet!  In the prelusive prolegomenon (word of the day...it basically means "preamble") of the very review you are reading, I insinuated that this flick wasn't a full-scale fiasco.  The main players are trying.  Megan Ward is sturdy as the lead.  I knew she was dependable because I recognized her from Freaked.

Speaking of recognizable faces, A.J. Langer gives a genuine performance as The Other Girl.  I'm positive that she had a name.  Anyway, she turned up in a jillion TV shows and movies in the 90's, most notably My So-Called Life and The People Under the Stairs.  Seth Green is here.  Again, the 90's.  The script didn't piss me off or affront my sensibilities, but by the same token, it didn't send currents of electricity 'round my pubic hair.  Strangely, Arcade is one of those video game reels made by folks who didn't know much about video games.  What gives?  Goyer wasn't exactly a fossil when he penned the screenplay.  The same could be said for director Albert Pyun, a talented guy who helmed Cyborg and The Sword and the Sorcerer, to boot.

Robert Z'Dar says, "Meh."

  

Geek Out #142

This is utterly divine.  Slice-of-life footage taken in 1996 (disregard the title on YouTube) at a Spirit Halloween store...!  I am a worryingly nostalgic man by nature, so this video is deep-fried crack for a plaintive sap like yours truly.  There are a couple of things worth noting.  First off, look at the size of the joint.  As one of the employees states, it's late in the season (I believe the tape was recorded on the 30th of October).  That space was typically voluminous with wares to peddle.

Also, today's Geek Out serves as a double feature.  The last four minutes chronicle a Danzig autograph-signing at a record store.  Same year, same season.  I gotta tell you, seeing an honest-to-Satan record store plucked out of time from back in the day when people actually purchased compact discs is almost too much for my nerd erection to handle.  I know it's 1996 because The Zig is promoting Blackacidevil (and I spotted a poster for Marilyn Manson's Antichrist Superstar).  The mid-90's were magic(k)al, man.

E.V.H.

Everyone will say it now, but I've been saying it for years; Eddie Van Halen was the best guitarist on the planet.  That's right.  It's all about me!  No, but I'm serious about Eddie.  He was never underrated.  You could even say that he was rated fairly, so why do I feel as though he didn't receive the credit he deserved?  Probably because he's dead.  It fucking sucks.  When you're already having a cragged, downright unmusical day, you don't need to read that a rock icon succumbed to cancer.

I may be a metalhead first and foremost, but I grew up hearing Van Halen songs ricocheting above me, those smoking leads levitating like phosphorescent phantoms.  My dad was a big VH fan.  We owned the Live Without a Net home video, which I must have watched 546 times.  I remember being disconsolate when our house was burglarized in 1990.  Aside from the obvious trauma, the dickbag filcher managed to swipe our VCR at a time when it contained the VH tape.  Son of a bitch!  Thankfully, Dad bought it again.  It wasn't on YouTube just yet, y'know.

That's a decidedly random memory, but dude, Eddie's solo during that set?  Mind-boggling.  He made guitars do things they weren't supposed to do.  As for the influence he had on other players of the instrument, forget about it.  Technically, he was sitting at the meridian of melody, but most importantly, he knew how to write a goddamn song.  He understood that each note had its place.  The guitar solo on "Can't Stop Lovin' You" is an excellent example.  It isn't particularly long, but it fits.  Yes, I cited a track on Balance.  I'm not staging a Dave/Sammy debate.  That's for a different document (that I won't write).

I have only exalted Eddie Van Halen's merits as a guitar god.  I didn't know him personally, but as with all celebrity deaths, it's important to treat the departed as people.  This discourse is merely coming from the perspective of a fan.  There are those who will miss him much, much more than I will.  Perhaps it goes without saying?  I mean, it should.  I'm driving off-course.  Let me wrap this up by LINKING TO the aforementioned solo from Live Without a Net.

Rest in peace, Ed.

Blood Capsule #100

YUMMY (2019)

These days, I don't take requests.  When my depression intensifies, it steals the joy from my hobbies, so if I'm sitting down to enjoy a movie, it's going to be one that I picked.  Obviously, Yummy was an exception.  This zombie romp was culled by a winning contest participant.  I had reservations, but it turned out to be a diverting, boisterous enucleation of the epidermis.  Sorry, the film's plot is fettered to my brain.  All of the action takes place in a hospital where our heroine is looking to undergo plastic surgery (a breast reduction, to be specific).  Her lovesick boyfriend is wary of the joint, and after making inquiries, shuffles into a scary scene.

I know that I referred to Yummy as a "zombie romp," but we're dealing with a virus here.  These cinematic ghouls are zombies to the extent that the infected rovers in 28 Days Later are zombies.  Of course, it doesn't matter.  If I'm appending this flick to any pile of recent zombie scourges, it does top out as one of the most entertaining.  Oddly enough, Yummy isn't yummy on account of its gore (though the viscera does swell and percolate like so much globoid liverwurst); it's all in the storytelling.  The characters are written in shades, the pacing is patient, and the comedic elements are worked in naturally.  Erm, for the most part.

There is one moment that is completely unnecessary and...yeah, it's just too much.  I don't do well with depictions of cock violence.  Even sitting at my laptop now, I'm audibly groaning at the thought of...nope!  Lord Jesus!  Help me, Satan!  Ouch!

Album Cover of the Whatever

Ah, the band that bridged the gap between The Misfits and Danzig.  And that's basically how this record sounds.  The album cover is perfection.  Apparently, the iconic "horned skull" was first used in a Marvel comic.  Somehow, I doubt that we'll see it crop up in Age of Avengers 5: The Ultron Agenda.  Shut up.  My ignorance is willful.

Rassle Inn #9

Stagnation.  Defined as "a failure to develop, progress, or advance."  Somewhere around the middle of 2019, pro-wrestling was looking up.  There was chatter that intimated the business was destined for another boom period, an upsurge of prosperity that fake fighting desperately needed.  This talk was prodded by the arrival of AEW and the handy presence of NWA's Powerrr, a YouTube show that was gaining in popularity before the pandemic poached all of our toilet paper.  In the here and now, the wrestling landscape has leveled off.  It would be easy to impute COVID-19 (and the rest of the coathanger abortion known as 2020), but that's not where I find blame.

No, no, no...rasslin' need only to look in the mirror.  Perhaps it was naïve to expect Vince McMahon to view legitimate competition as good fortune.  For what purposes, you may ask?  To close ranks, take (metaphorical) stock, trim the fat, and get serious about delivering a fresh, relevant product.  All the while, he could have built new stars.  Satan knows the roster has plenty of exceptional talents ready to utilize.  Of course, that is not what happened.  For months, Raw and Smackdown were business as usual.  Neither stupendous nor miserable.

I never strive to be the reactionary fan who leaps into hyperbolic rants at the conclusion of each episode of Raw (or whichever program you want to insert here).  I can usually find positives in even the most prodigious mounds of Triceratops feculence, but as of late, WWE has been unspeakably horrible.  Two weeks ago, I swear on your mother's grave, I watched the worst fucking episode of Raw to ever hit the air.  The fact that it's still three evercunting hours long...that's just the tip of the tip of the iceberg.  I couldn't possibly describe why it was shit.  Jesus, this column would never end.

It's no wonder why there are millions of folks who identify as former wrestling fans.  Vince has lost it.  Period.  Ah, but I began by addressing the business as a whole.  I'm not letting Tony Khan off the hook.  Do I prefer AEW to WWE?  Yes.  I actually look forward to sitting down with Dynamite on Wednesday nights.  Be that as it may, Khan (and The Elite EVP's) squandered an evasive opportunity.  They promised a true alternative.  Something different.  A sports-based presentation.  I abandoned complete sentences for a second there, but I felt it was necessary.  Indulge me.

I would wager that 95% of AEW's television programming has been extremely similar to that of WWE in terms of tone and style.  I'm not talking color schemes here.  Keeping track of win/loss records was a terrific place to start, but that's not enough to shake the casual viewer into tuning in on a semi-regular basis.  If you want to see pro-wrestling exhibited in a realistic, sports-based way, check out ROH's Pure Title Tournament.  It's so different from WWE, it's almost a culture shock.  Unfortunately, you'll have to dig online for their TV show.  I'm dense, and I cannot seem to find it on any earthbound streaming device.

My verdict?  Stagnation.  Yes, that is my verdict.  Wrestling won't be encountering a boom period until ROH gets purple hot (I stand a better chance of receiving steamy DM's from Penelope Ford) or Vince McMahon croaks.  Please note that I am not wishing for the man's death; I am simply stating a fact.  Yikes, this fulmination screed was wordier than I intended.  Why don't I add to it!?

P.S.-For the record, I'm cool with NXT, although it does lose out to Dynamite by a smidgen.

P.S.S.-New Japan kicks ass.  Always.  This year's G1 Climax has been so epic, I haven't been able to soak all of it up.  Here is a snapshot of Jay White being Jay White.