Panels From Beyond the Grave #37

THE CREECH (#1, Oct. 1997)

Remember 1997?  I'm resisting the temptation to compose yet another love letter to my childhood, but no, seriously.  Remember 1997?  Marilyn Manson was still evil, Netscape Navigator was our web browser of choice (by the way, the working title of this blog was Dogpile Angelfire), and Spawn was the coolest superhero on stands.  For the first time, traditional babyface heroes were seen as flimsy and inadequate.  Superman was square.  It's hard to believe now, but Todd McFarlane seemed edgy for daring to suggest that Batman & Robin was too f*cking goofy.  For a brief moment in time (and I mean brief...it was more ephemeral than a nocturnal emission), Spawn was everywhere.

What does that mean?  It means that Spawn ripoffs were everywhere.  No, The Creech did not approximate Spawn in plot, but look at it.  This thing is so Image Comics, it hurts.  Luckily, it hurts in a sweet way.  About that plot...it's a bit muddy, but here is what I've patched together from available storyline debris.  A hulking beast is assembled from strands of alien D.N.A. and aborted fetus polymer fibers (???).  Basically, it's a mix of space cheese and dead baby curds.  It's a dead baby cheese curd from the stars!  There is lethal pushback from protest groups, but the extremists only succeed in mysticizing the...hmm, I suppose we can call it a monster.

Heavies plan on branding The Creech as a weapon of war.  However, the scientist responsible for all of this gave his creation a nurturing spirit.  If this fragmented synopsis sounds generic, by golly, that's because it's generic.  Why, it's more generic than a nocturnal emission.  Correspondingly, the narrative doesn't have any forward momentum.  Very little actually happens in the first issue, and I hear that we don't learn much in the second issue either (then again, my source may not be trustworthy - it's me).  Characters are both faceless and interchangeable.  I could just be dumb, but I'm not even 100% clear on the identity of the narrator.

Before you empty your shopping cart (I'm imagining that you're at a comic book shop right now, cash in hand), I should mention that I had fun reading The Creech.  The artwork is friggin' awesome.  We get loads of gore, and despite substandard writing, I did want to find out where the action was heading.  I was reminded of MTV's The Maxx here and there.  Woah, remember The Maxx?  Man, the 90's ruled.  In any event, three Savage Dragons feels right.  As for this intellectual property, The Creech has been dormant for over two decades.  Someone like Steve Niles should renovate it.  Yeah.  Tell him to get on that.

  

Pulling Teeth

Man, this whole record was my jam when I was 10/11 years old, but "Pulling Teeth" really takes me back.  It's also apropos.  How so?  Yesterday, I had two teeth extracted, and I spent the next twelve-ish hours bleeding to death.  My gums are still sore.  I'm still grumpy.  I'm still medicated, so it's not a total washout.  Mainly, I'm posting this update to excuse the dearth, the paucity, of Random Reviews activity.  Expect cool stuff this weekend, however.  I might dredge up a long-dormant column that holds a special place in my heart.  If you need specifics, it's somewhere near the pulmonary valve.  Whatever you do, don't look under the tricuspid valve.  Never, EVER look under the tricuspid valve.

Blood Capsule #146

WOLFEN (1981)

Ordinarily, this capsule wouldn't pass muster.  I should explain.  I rented Wolfen on Prime Video, and in between bouts of catalepsy (or maybe it was willful brain fog), I took in...several conversations spoken just above a murmur.  That's what I remember anyway.  Wolfen has got to be one of the most boring films in existence.  I'm sorry, but how is this sedative regarded as one of the more agreeable werewolf romps of the 80's?  It's bad enough that the viewer is cozened out of a stopgap transformation sequence.  The special effects were available, but nope!  And you can forget about creature suits, as the film trades spectacle for "atmosphere."

If director Michael Wadleigh had any handle on his pacing, I'd be down.  Out of curiosity, I checked his IMDb page.  His resume is swamped with concert footage (his claim to fame seems to be Woodstock).  That actually makes sense.  Countless scenes - largely bereft of dialogue, mind you - are left to linger past any reasonable point of validity, much like a Grateful Dead song.  I could have referenced a Jethro Tull flute solo, but I take exception to Grateful Dead's sheer suckage.  They suck, you see.  Wolfen?  Also sucks, but if this were a full-length review, I'd extend a half-Z'Dar out of pity for the wolves on display.  They deserve better.

Midtallica

Ideally, I would listen to 72 Seasons ten times at the very least.  I would then proceed to write an erudite, contemplative review that effortlessly described the music contained on the album, and hey, who knows?  Maybe I would be forced to use the elusive 5-Abbath rating.  Yeah, that would be ideal.  In reality, I'm giving you my first impressions of the new Metallica disc (lolz) because I don't see myself listening to it more than once.  Okay, there are a few standout songs that I might revisit.

"Shadows Follow" is infectious on a pathogenic level.  The title track seems to be 2023's adroit, ill-tempered answer to "Spit Out the Bone."  Um, I prefer "Spit Out the Bone."  But it's fine.  Nothing here is incontrovertibly inferior or aggressively execrable, but I wasn't blown away either.  To borrow pejorative language from MJF, 72 Seasons is...mid.  Literally!  To be specific, most of this material is mid-paced, coming off like studio leftovers from the self-titled sessions.  Positive takeaways?  I am digging the guitar harmonies that creep in toward the end of the bulbous running time.  Yes, the album is too long, but what did you expect?  You have to pick your battles with legacy acts.*

*Is that a dig?  I mean, how are they not a legacy act?  And why is that a bad thing?  Fantastic, I'm talking to myself again.  Cut me some slack, as this is only meant to be a placeholder until the next movie review.  I'm really good at writing placeholder text.

Kino Lorber Spring Sale

I was given a heads-up on something cool, so I wanted to pay it forward and potentially give someone else a heads-up.  Over at Kino Lorber, they are running an extensive spring sale on their DVD's/Blu-rays.  I just bought six movies myself.  One of them may or may not be Blue Monkey.  I'm not telling.  At any rate, I'm not receiving any kickback for sponsoring the link, so know it comes from the heart.  Aww...

Blood Capsule #145

FROSTBITER: WRATH OF THE WENDIGO (1995)

Without trying, I have gone over a week without watching a movie.  I haven't even thought about the cinema, but that's nothing new.  I've experienced similar dry spells before, some stretching for weeks on end.  I can, however, safely say that none of these barren periods were interrupted by a b-circus as bonnily berserk as Frostbiter (or Wendigo if we are to comply with the opening credits).  How is it possible that I had never heard of this doolally fruitcake?  First of all, 1995 is my favorite year, at least where pop culture is concerned.  But that's not germane information.  Here is what you need to know...I'll give you a second to grab a scribbling pad and your finest Yikes pencil.

A party of plastered hunters disturb the sacred sepulcher that quarters the Wendigo, a hollow-horned beast of urban myth that doesn't take kindly to wake-up calls.  Throughout the picture, our monster takes several different forms.  We see a quasi-Pterodactyl, a cobwebby crone hag, and a chili demon (sic) to name but a few.  The special effects are a blast.  You know you're in z-grade jurisdiction, but the low budget never takes you out of the moment.  Today, Frostbiter would be shot on sterile digital "stock."  Its release date guarantees something that newfangled technology simply cannot replicate - film grain!  Oh, how I love warm, ill-defined film grain.

Recommended for fans of Winterbeast and Spookies.  In other words, Frostbiter: Wrath of the Wendigo is kinda/sorta magical.

Geek Out #161

Here we find the super-rare metal Geek Out.  I love watching vintage interviews with cool people, so seeing raw footage of Cliff Burton just being Cliff Burton is pretty damn cool.

Album Cover of the Whatever

The last few (several?) album covers of the whatever have been new releases, an unintentional trend that continues with Lamp of Murmuur's Saturnian Bloodstorm.  The artwork is cool and all, but dude, you need to hear this record.  I keep seeing comparisons to latter-day Immortal, and yeah, that's about right.  Lamp has its own remorseless sound, though.  Get into it.

Rassle Inn #39

This might be the most scatterbrained edition of Rassle Inn yet.  What's a more appropriate word for how I felt after watching the main event of Wrestlemania (night two because this was just way too epic for one card)?  How about brainless?  Correct me if I'm wrong, but I could have sworn that Wrestlemania was supposed to be the period at the end of a protracted, much-ballyhooed sentence.  Not a comma, not a semi-colon, not an ellipsis...a f*cking period!  Listening to Triple H defend backwards booking at the requisite, yet superfluous press conference, it sounds like he's trying to convince himself that Roman's victory was the right call.  He knows better.

That's just it.  We are told that Trips is the guy in charge (with respect to creative anyway), and then, something happens that goes against everything in the unwritten playbook.  On a chromosomal level, he knows better.  So where do we pin the blame?  The father-in-law?  WWE's newfound dalliance with sports betting?  It has to be a decision based on finance, as we know it's not a decision based on logic.  Just picture over 80,000 frenzied fans waiting for the moment - the tacit permission given by storytelling - to explode into a quasar of cheers, only to be socked in the gut and left flat.  And for what?  A swerve?  Damn it, Cody Rhodes should be the champion right now.  If you disagree, you're overthinking it.  Oh, and you're wrong.

Common sense is easy.  Why doesn't it dictate all major booking decisions in professional wrestling?  My involuntary reaction is to say "money," but Christ, how many billions do these people need?  Before you toss the "m" word in my direction, I'm not exactly a Rhodes fanboy.  If anything, I'm a mark for wrestling that makes sense, and man, this whole angle was too good to be true.  Heh, I guess I answered my own question.  As for your question, well, I'm assuming you're wondering what any of this has to do with ROH's Supercard of Honor, which ran this past Friday.  It contained my favorite match of the entire weekend.

I know, I know...Tony Khan is a goofball.  I won't even try to sell you on lucha libre.  It's an acquired taste, but holy shit.  El Hijo del Vikingo and Komander leveled the joint with their AAA Mega Championship match-up.  It literally felt as though I was watching wrestling from the future.  In terms of rope work, these guys make The Young Bucks look like The Rock 'n' Roll Express.  Words will never do their moves justice, so find a way to cram this PPV into your belfry.  Final notes?  Snoop Dogg was the MVP of Wrestlemania 39 for cracking The Miz in his dopey face.  That made it worth sitting through all of the uncomfortable comedy segments.  Hey, Hollywood.  Stop hiring Kevin Hart.  In general.  Stop.

Now Playing #2

OTTTO - Life is a Game

It takes special circumstances to get me to notice a new band comprised of youngsters.  I'm always making the case that there is plenty of quality new stuff out there to assimilate, but the sad truth is that I'm woefully out of touch with the current generation.  Despite my best efforts, I turn into a stodgy sumbitch when faced with "modern" metal.  Everyone sounds the same to my weather-battered ears.  Enter OTTTO, a teenaged trio peddling skateboard thrash that doesn't mirror peers.  If anything, these kids look to the 90's for inspiration.  They offer a refreshing sound against a swell of pitch-shifted growls and detuned riffs.  I don't mean they embrace those elements; I'm saying those elements are popular, and OTTTO doesn't rely on that shit.

Apparently, their line-up features Tye Trujillo (son of Rob) on bass.  I'm sure that helps with press relations, but OTTTO doesn't need the rub.  This is fun, kinetic alternative metal...okay, hold the phone.  I don't actually know how to classify these songs.  Now that I'm mulling it over, "skateboard thrash" would probably be perceived as an affront.  All you need to know is that I've listened to Life is a Game - the debut long player - exactly twice in a 24-hour period and felt jostled to work OTTTO into this column.  Can I get away with calling this a column?  Because I just did.

Lunar Aurora - Hoagascht

And so the self-defeating task of genre codification continues with Lunar Aurora, a German black metal collective that expired a decade ago.  The band started as a two-piece in 1994.  There are several full-length albums under this epigraph, but I'm choosing to spotlight 2012's Hoagascht.  It was the last of Lunar Aurora's recorded output, and while I haven't spent time with all of their material, I feel safe calling it their magnum opus.  With past records, you could hear the raw talent on display, but this is where their ideas came into focus.  Electronic components seep into a stark black metal framework, accentuating melodic riffs and shaping unique compositions that, again, I struggle to compartmentalize into brackets that are easy to identify.

For the sake of brevity, let's go with atmospheric black metal.  Comparisons?  Seemingly desultory noises from nature (the rustling of branches, the intermittent hooting of an owl) remind me of Grima, although the music of Lunar Aurora tends to stand on its own.  To wit, there are passages that could be mistaken for reggae.  Evil, badass reggae.  It's not entirely relevant, but I've fallen asleep listening to Hoagascht.  It's super chill.  Contrariwise, the opening riff to "Wedaleichtn" is exceptionally heavy.  Seek it out!  You'll be headbanging in your sleep before you know it.

My B-Movie Spectacular Under the Stars

The pre-party.

So for several weeks, I've been planning a shindig where the root idea was to watch an old-fashioned b-movie outside, drive-in style.  That turned into procuring a 14-foot inflatable screen (big thank you to Brian for the projector, by the way), which turned into popping A LOT of popcorn, which turned into inviting friends and calling it an event.  I'd say it went off without a hitch!  Sure, attendance was a little low, but I'll probably do this again in October.

We watched 1957's The Brain from Planet Arous, an inspired selection, if I do say so myself.  Special thanks to Bobby for the technical assistance and for being an all-around awesome dude.  And thanks to Mom for providing refreshments, including adorable ketchup and mustard squeeze bottles (!).  And thanks to Dad for babysitting Lily (his giant granddaughter).  Like I said, there will likely be another B-Movie Spectacular Under the Stars (trademarked), so if you missed this one, A: you basically suck and B: you should start prepping for the as-yet-untitled Halloween-themed sequel.  Costumes optional?  Hmm...

Demon of Paradise

1987's Demon of Paradise is the last of a dying breed.  It probably sounds like I'm about to make a sweeping generalization about le cinema and perhaps spill some culture into your web browser.  Not quite!  Remember, I've recently outed myself as white trash.  I don't aim terribly high with my leisure pursuits.  Anyway, back on topic.  If there is one thing I love more than The Great Bluedini, it's the oft-forgotten man-in-a-suit creature feature.  Yes, I'm aware that I've covered these grounds before, but you have to oblige me, for today's subject is different.  Today's subject is underscored with a tincture of tragedy, a canopy of calamity.  To my knowledge, Demon is...well, was the last pre-CGI b-budget monster movie that I had to cross off my chopping list.

I've seen 'em all!  That's incredibly depressing.  I suppose that there is a chance, however minuscule, that I'll ferret out another diamond in the rough, but I'm mercurial (read: hard-headed).  My criteria doesn't allow for much breathing room.  I'm talking about monsters, man.  And it has to feature actual special effects, so that eliminates the lion's share of shot-on-video eyesores.  NOTE: I dig shot-on-video eyesores, but again, I'm on the prowl for monsters.  If a title springs to mind, please - for Roger Corman's sake - let me know.  I was hoping against hope that Demon would extricate the embroidery from my hooves (or knock my socks off, whichever came first).  Unfortunately, it fails to live up to the VHS box art.

The plot should be familiar to anyone who rented Piranha or Humanoids From the Deep back in the day.  I adore this sub-subgenre, so I wasn't discouraged by the fusty, run-of-the-gill (thank you, thank you) premise.  A herpetologist stationed in Hawaii believes that a recent rash of murders may be the evidence she needs to prove the existence of a local cryptid.  The cops are skeptical.  The journalists are skeptical.  The starfish are skeptical.  Cadavers continue to pile up, but of course, that doesn't convince the tourism board to lay low.  Good God, I could be describing a quintillion direct-to-video flicks.  Yet I maintain that wouldn't matter if Demon had its priorities straight.

I can live with the creature design.  That's one area where the box art doesn't wildly embellish and color outside the lines.  Conversely, we see the damn thing in broad daylight before the opening credits.  C'mon, movie; work with me here!  The death sequences are desiccated.  I counted more explosions than dead bodies, and that's using the metrics of Joe Bob's drive-in totals.  The film does deliver a prodigious pair of boobs, hence the Z'Dar rating.  You know what's really sad?  The acting is halfway decent.  To be precise, the acting pushes Demon of Paradise past miserable and smack dab in the middle of mediocre.  Ouch.

 

MARILYN MANSON - Holywood

I'm not going to check, but it seems like I start these reviews in the same fashion.  Okay, I just checked, and my hypothesis was proven to be irrefutable.  I always say that I'm currently in the mood to jam anything but Marilyn Manson.  I believe it was atmospheric black metal the last time around.  As for right now, I'm listening to...atmospheric black metal.  My capricious tastes drift further and further away from industrial rock.  So why cover this genre?  For starters, I made a commitment (that I'll be breaking soon enough).  But also, my tastes did align with those of your average goth kid at one point in my checkered past.  I never looked the part, but my inner child was festooned in dog collars and tar-colored lipstick.

In high school, I didn't mix with any particular clique.  I roamed from circle to circle like a nomadic jester, angling to make jocks and nerds laugh at the same jokes.  Through all of my peregrinations, I secretly identified the most with the aforementioned goth crowd.  I paid attention when their idols were scapegoated for the Columbine massacre, and to be honest, I kinda felt bad for them.  It was patently clear that the music in their headphones wasn't going to turn them into copycat killers.  Of course, Manson shouldered the strain of society's disfavor, and I remember thinking that he addressed his critics with tact.  That was then.  Today, I'm not sure that he takes his image seriously, and to me, it shows in his art.

That's where I'm heading with all of this folderol, by the way.  I'm trying (and possibly failing) to draw parallel lines between Manson the dude and Manson the rock star.  In 2000, he was at his creative peak.  I don't think it's a coincidence that Holy Wood contains his best vocal takes.  That may be conjecture on my part, but girl, you know it's true.  "GodEatGod," the album's investiture of sorts, demonstrates his control over his baritone range.  He has a nice vibrato, too.  It goes without bleating that Mr. Warner's primal scream is in fine form.  Overall, this record is habitually heavier than its predecessor.  The fact that Mechanical Animals dwelled on ballads didn't bother me, but I'm cool with headbanging to the staunch riffs of "The Fight Song" and "Burning Flag."  You could say that I'm multi-talented.  Y'know, if you wanted.

The radio hits ("Disposable Teens," "The Nobodies") are fun, but as with Antichrist Superstar, the pudding is in the deeper cuts.  Or the proof is in the pudding.  I don't know...insert your pudding idiom here.  "Lamb of God" capitalizes on a synthetic drum loop, resulting in a pensive tune that contends with "Target Audience (Narcissus Narcosis)" for the title of Dom's Favorite Track.  I'm serious about curating my own awards ceremony.  That's a tangent for another day, however.  I referred to ballads earlier; Holy Wood possesses some of Manson's more enchanting mellow moments, especially the despondent "Coma Black."  And in my opinion, "Cruci-Fiction in Space" should have been released as a single.

The album loses focus towards the end of its running time.  It could be argued that there are simply too many songs on offer, an infirmity shared by Animals and maybe even Superstar.  The term "front-loaded" is popular amongst nervy twats.  I will admit that it applies to this album, but that's hardly a wicked offense.  For those keeping score, I'd rank Holy Wood as Marilyn Manson's second best long player.  The band's lineup saw a shuffle in the immediate aftermath (post-touring, that is).  We'll cross that bridge when we see it.  Or we'll build a bridge and cross it.  I don't know...insert your bridge idiom here.

    

Glaucoma White or Why I Love You

My collection is growing!

Once every blue-green moon, I try to remind my readers that I value their eye sockets.  Some of you have pitched in via Patreon to support the site, and I really appreciate it.  Due to my everloving "condition," I don't occupy a conventional spot in the workforce.  The Patreon funds don't keep the lights on or anything, but it does allow me to make some pocket money doing what I enjoy (i.e. writing about weird stuff).  That's invaluable.

In summation, if you want to keep your pretty peepers--wait a second...I probably shouldn't threaten violence on anyone.  Let me rephrase that.  If you're interested in donating to the site through Patreon, click HERE.  If you're interested in donating outside of Patreon, you can.  Just e-mail me at spookiesgore@gmail.com.  Alright, let me get back to work.  Cracking your whip is optional, y'know.  And you don't have to enjoy it so much!

Holidays

I think...I think I may have poor taste.  I can already hear you now.  "Well, duh!"  WELL, I was holding out hope for myself.  Last night, I started to watch 1994's Nadja, an artsy vampire film that seems to exist in the David Lynch universe (the frost-haired auteur is dealt a small role as a morgue receptionist).  I couldn't last thirty minutes.  It was too pompous for me, and the bleak black-and-white cinematography meant that I was willing to play ball.  I'm not much of a Lynch fan either.  Don't give me that look; none of this should surprise you.  My mother can attest to my trash status, as my first words were "the grim reaper in Spookies deserves its own movie."  My birthstone is latex, for crying out loud!

Okay, enough schtick.  I'm just trying to make you understand why I would stream 2016's Holidays long after it has lost its relevance.  If Nadja is a silver platter, then this flick is a lunchbox (thermos included).  There was a time not so long ago when anthologies were being churned out in perpetuity.  We have Trick 'r Treat to blame for that.  Of course, Trick 'r Treat is excellent.  It knew how to interweave bite-sized bits of sardonic horror, whereas Holidays forgoes the wraparound narrative and still finds a way to come up short.  There are eight vignettes underscoring eight holidays.  We have New Year's Day, Valentine's Day, Mother's Day, Father's Day, Easter, St. Patrick's Day, Halloween, and Christmas.

Almost invariably, it's a mixed bag.  Stuff I liked?  The cast.  Madeleine Coghlan is suitably sinister as a lovestruck teen waif who takes broken hearts incredibly seriously.  Isolt McCaffery is too damn creepy as a little Irish lass with a malevolent smile.  Sophie Traub is believable as a dejected mother-to-be who doesn't want to be a mother (I'm right with you, sister).  Seth Green is always Seth Green, so that's cool.  But I'm not feeding you anything sustentive by simply listing actors and grading their performances.  You want to know whether or not Holidays is a worthwhile anthology.  All I can say is, there is precisely one horror "short" set around Father's Day.  And I don't see cake anywhere, do you?

Try as I might, I can't bash these festive frights outright.  The production values are well-groomed, the pacing is snappy, and most of the pejoratives I'm planning on heaving at the script (I'll get there in a second) are relatively minor.  Still, at least half of the segments are neutered by non-endings that flimflam the viewer.  I don't mean to pick on "Father's Day," but what kind of payoff was that?  "Halloween" has a payoff that makes sense; regrettably, it's not particularly witty or interesting.  I mean, it was written and directed by Kevin Smith, so...yeah.  My tank is empty.  Hey, if the team behind Holidays wants to quote me for a special edition Blu-ray release in the near future, I've got just the catchline - "Imagine Creepshow.  And then watch it.  Just watch Creepshow."

  

Album Cover of the Whatever

I wouldn't normally post the cover of an album that hasn't even been released yet, but I reserve the right to call an audible when the album in question is this tubular.  Ever heard of VoidCeremony?  They play technical death metal.  As it happens, they count among their ranks Damon Good (Mournful Congregation, StarGazer) on guitars and Philippe Tougas (Atramentus, Chthe'ilist, oodles of other projects) on guitars/vocals.  In 2020, they dropped a lean nebula smasher entitled Entropic Reflections Continuum: Dimensional Unravel.  It was gnarly enough to wind up on my year-end list of metal favorites, and if the purple jewel you see before you is any indication, the follow-up is going to be a serious contender for all sorts of spurious awards (I need a cheesy name for my best-of rankings...the Dommys?).

For the record (specifically, this record), I'm gushing about Threads of Unknowing.  The street date is April 14th, and I'm hoping that a CD/t-shirt bundle becomes available.  That logo needs to be somewhere on my person.  This is where I inform you that I wasn't paid to advertise squat, although I'm not above being a soulless shill for the right product.  Are you listening, Coca-Cola?

Blood Capsule #144

THE PAPERBOY (1994)

If I appended "more like this" to the end of each blood capsule, what would you expect to find, assuming that you clicked through to your ultimate destination?  Probably more...like this.  You would see a culvert of b-movie reviews written by a providentially agitated (and devastatingly handsome) horror fanatic.  The IMDb page for The Paperboy has its own "more like this" sidebar.  Logic dictates that it would display a clear watercourse of mediocre domestic thrillers a la The Landlady and Poison Ivy.  Instead, it recommends Nekromantik and Parker Lewis Can't Lose (yes, the sitcom).  And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the most interesting thing about The Paperboy.  I'm tapped.  Okay, I'll type a few more words, but only because I'm not required at the golf course for another two hours.

I have to hand it to Marc Marut, the callow thespian who plays the titular news vendor.  He goes all out, and I believed that he was a deranged derelict.  I'm not sure what to make of the fact that he bowed out of acting shortly after wrapping this direct-to-video cheapie.  Alexandra Paul is almost too wholesome as the devoted den mother.  On second thought, her chastity creates a nice contrast with her grubby co-star.  The pace is nimble.  The storyline may be predictable, but I didn't mind watching it untwine.  That's the key, kids!  If you're not doing something new, you better do it well.  To that end, I'm off to polish my manuscript, a shot-for-shot remake of The Paperboy.  If you notice, I've included a screen grab from the trailer (be nice, it's only the workprint).

Rassle Inn #38

So AEW Revolution.  Obviously, if we're playing word association, the first thing that comes to mind is...?   That's right.  The Great Muta!  Muta finally retired earlier this year, and while I've always been a huge fan, I wasn't able to catch his final match (against LIJ fixture Naito).  Bummer.  One of the three musketeers of puroresu, Muta left us plenty of badass matches to watch.  Everything from his moveset to his entrance attire was simply regal.  For better or worse, his legacy is stained with blood.  Quite literally.  How do I mean?  Well, one of his early bouts gave us "the Muta scale," a ceremonious (or unceremonious, depending on your perspective) way for fans and journalists to gauge the amount of blood in a match.  Abrupt paragraph break!

The Texas Death Match between Jon Moxley and "'Hangman" Adam Page would flatten the scale.  Leafing through comments online, it would appear that the intemperate fight was a hit with AEW's faithful.  Of course, I fucking hated it.  Hate is a strong word; it's also appropriate for today's column.  Am I the only sucker who wants professional wrestling to make a grand return to the mainstream?  I'm talking about success, folks.  I'm talking about 1998 levels of success.  Sure, everyone knows it's a work now, but that's no reason to keep the business on the fringes of established entertainment.  There is a reason why ECW never challenged the throne, so to speak.  Timing played a role, but blood played a bigger role.  Blood, blood, blood!

There is no clever stagecraft behind jamming a fork into your opponent's forehead.  Anyone can do it.  Mox/Page was so violent, it snookered the show's natural momentum and robbed the following matches of a clamorous crowd.  I never thought I'd say this, but I preferred the TNT Championship match between Wardlow and Samoa Joe.  Why?  Because it was wrestling.  There were moves and stuff.  Thankfully, the crowd came back for the main event.  By the way, Bryan Danielson's juice job should have been our first sighting of blood for the night.  Actually, I can't remember who bled first (it might have been MJF), but you get my point.

In horror films, gore is supposed to be the icing on top, not the cake.  The tendril, not the filament (???).  The same logic applies to all combat sports, whether they are predetermined or not.  Last night's Texas Death Match served up nothing but icing, and by the end of it, I was ready to vomit.  I'm just one curmudgeon, though.  No doubt, the Muta scale will be tipped again, and AEW's ratings will remain stagnant.  You can't have your icing and eat it, too.  Ask yourself, what would The Great Muta do?  Holy shit, that rhymed.

Geek Out #160

I recently bought the first season of this show on Beta.  Okay, it might have been on DVD.  Point is, I'm going to watch the hell out of Gargoyles this weekend.  Who said Saturday morning cartoons are dead?  ADDENDUM - I might watch 1972's Gargoyles while I'm at it.  Yeah, that's the ticket!

Now Playing #1

Tourniquet - Pathogenic Ocular Dissonance

Metal is a vast, prodigious genre.  As such, it's pretty easy to stumble upon a diamond in the rough, an accomplished banger that has plummeted into the inexorable depths of obscurity.  No doubt, you've heard oldheads extol the virtues of countless impenetrable albums that were recorded in the wilds of Poland in 1936, and man, these fans just can't believe that no one else has heard of Five-Horned Whipcrack Christ Coagulant*.  Sometimes, I wonder if those same people are panning for gold with a wide net.  Overlook the fact that I just butchered a metaphor and indulge me for a second.  Dude, do you have any idea how many badass Christian metal albums have been disgorged because they are Christian metal albums?

With the exception of clear hate speech, I've never dismissed a certain band on account of their lyrics.  Christian, Satanist, Buddhist, Necrophagist, whatever...if you're bringing serious riffs to the table, you're cool, in my book.  All denominations are capable of shredding.  Case in point, Tourniquet.  I'm choosing to spotlight 1992's Pathogenic Ocular Dissonance (their third - and presumably best - full-length), but they have released ten thrashterpieces to date.  As if the title didn't give it away, Dissonance has a Carcass vibe to it.  However, the songs contained therein cover A LOT of ground.  I'm hearing flecks of death metal, speed metal, thrash (obviously), hard rock (several cuts are garnished with Alice in Chains-lite vocal harmonies), and funk.

A recent find, sure, but this has to be one of the best Christian metal records of all time.  And frankly, you can't tell that it's a Christian record, so don't be a blockhead.  Favorite track?  I'll go with "Ruminating Virulence."

*Everything after the first demo sucks.

Thy Listless Heart - Pilgrims on the Path of No Return

I didn't plan it this way, but in an anagogic twist of irony, the man behind Thy Listless Heart has ties to epic Christian doomsters Seventh Angel (he played guitar on their swan song LP, The Dust of Years).  The man's name is Simon Bibby and he is credited for doing "everything" on Pilgrims on the Path of No Return.  I could be wrong, but I don't believe this was meant to be a Christian project.  Not that it matters.  This thing rules!  Recommended for fans of Solitude Aeturnus and My Dying Bride.  The vocals are mostly clean (and intensely impassioned), though Bibby has a formidable growl.  Over the past two weeks, I've listened to Pilgrims more than anything else, and it's not terribly close.

Favorite track?  I'll say "The Precipice," but you need to hear it all in one fell swoop.  To give you an idea of how much I dig this record, the bare Celtic elements didn't send me to the porcelain throne (yeah, I don't like Celtic music).  If you're into doom, pamper this papoose pronto!

The Sound of Parseverance (sic)

Um, golf.  I have golf brain.  I've been playing a lot of computer golf lately.  Like, A LOT.  I do online tournaments and the whole shebang.  You could say that it's my latest obsession (well, that and pork egg rolls).  I haven't forgotten about the site, though!  I'm tinkering with an idea for a new feature, but it's in the chrysalis stage at the moment.  Patience, patience...

...back to the fairway!  Hold all my calls, unless it's my divorce attorney.  The kids she can have, but my prized collection of Halloween-themed Kid Cuisine packaging?  Over my dead body, sir.  Over my dead body.

Looks pretty metal to me!

Scattered thoughts on Terrifier 2...

It's hard to believe that Art the Clown has been a certified horror icon for years now, but he has existed in some form since...erm, 1984.  Or 1997.  Look, I don't have the dry facts in front of me.  I can't be bothered to do research.  Clearly, my brain is in weekend mode, which means I lack the intellectual capacity to construct a cogent review.  I abstained from watching Terrifier 2 for so long, I might as well duck it in written form.  Why did I put it off?  Here comes a bulleted list!

• The fucking running time.  Seriously, 138 minutes?  What the fuck?  Pardon my language, but this carcinogenic car crash of a sequel holds maybe 80 minutes of plot.  And that's being generous!  Writer/director Damien Leone loves his ideas.  He loves his characters.  Hey, good for him.  That doesn't mean I need an extended shot of our heroine applying eyeliner or whatever the hell.  Actually, I couldn't cite a specific example because I don't know why Terrifier 2 is too long.  I just know that it is.  Damien, dude...let someone else edit your next project.  I'm begging you.
• Lauren LeVera is a damn fine actress.  I bought her "big sister" dialogue, and I can safely say that she has a future in bleeding.  Also, how inappropriate would I be if I used this blurb to flagrantly flirt with her?  The alliteration makes it worse somehow, doesn't it?
• Holy entrails, this is a violent motion picture!  I knew it was gory, but fuck.  Y'know, I've been trying to use less profanity lately, but the only words that come to mind on the topic of grue in Terrifier 2 are profane.  Shit, I felt bad for one of Art's victims.  I guess that's a positive takeaway?  Despite Art's coronation as a bonafide merchandise mover?  Question mark?  Emotions are complicated.
• I've read reviews that eulogize the pace.  They say it's "brisk" or they say that the film doesn't feel over two hours long.  These people are incorrect.  I'm sorry, but their opinions are incorrect.  Most friends I know who viewed Terrifier 2 can testify that they viewed it in piecemeal segments.  It's.  Too.  Long.
• I wanted five bullets.  It's an arbitrary number, but I wanted five.  So yeah, this is the fifth bullet.  Are you still reading?  Have you thought about contributing to my Patreon campaign?  No?  Oh.

Blood Capsule #143

RITUAL OF EVIL (1970)

My teeth are still sensitive from a dentist appointment, so forgive me if I'm in a crabby mood.  Ordinarily, I'd be slacking off right now, but these reviews don't write themselves, now do they?  Imagine if Dr. Sorell called in sick.  I wouldn't have a soapy sequel to discuss.  You see, Dr. Sorell - psychiatrist to the stars - is entreated to investigate the dubious circumstances surrounding the suicide of Aline Wiley, a voguish, yet troubled actress.  Louis Jourdan returns from the prior year's Fear No Evil (gratuitous hyperlink alert) to play Dr. Sorell with a cool, possibly aloof hand.  He spans the entire running time sitting comfortably in rococo furniture (because the 60's refused to go without a fight) and interviewing characters of interest.  How much interest?  Well, that's for me to judge.

The script is heavy on histrionic dialogue.  I wasn't kidding about this being a soapy affair.  Everything from the cramped interiors to the unctuous (yes, unctuous) love subplots reeks of daytime.  When Ritual clears its head and decides that it wants to be spooky, it becomes significantly more engaging.  I do have a thing for Satanic cults in the cinema.  This particular teleplay may be defanged in terms of gore, but it's a necessary compromise if you want real atmosphere on network television.  Apparently, this almost became a series.  We got Night Gallery instead.  I can live with that.  If you're into tangible horrors, both Fear and Ritual can be found on Blu-ray.  Or you can stream it somewhere, you lazy pillock.

With all due respect to fumbles...

As WWE's women's division fumbles to position a challenger for Bianca Belair, is there any doubt that Mercedes Mone made the right move?  Not from where I'm sitting.  I caught the replay of NJPW's Battle in the Valley yesterday, and I must admit, the IWGP Women's Championship match succeeded as a main event where Okada/Tanahashi didn't.  Don't get me wrong; the latter collision was fine, but it's a superannuated rivalry.  We've seen it before.  Mone and Kairi delivered something new and fresh.  Meanwhile, WWE delivered the Elimination Chamber, which looked like a drunken fumble recovery.

Huh, I used "fumble" twice.  That can't be a good harbinger of things to come.  Speaking of the future, I'm cancelling my Peacock subscription after Wrestlemania.  I'm paying for too many services every month, and none of them offer cheeseburgers.  Thus, I question their true value.  Later, kids!

Blood Capsule #142

FEAR NO EVIL (1969)

Bearing no resemblance to the 1981 schlocktail of the same name, Fear No Evil is a sultry, measured dollop of made-for-TV horror.  It was actually NBC's first "Movie of the Week."  My expectations were high.  These nuggets from a formal, somewhat austere past may come off as dated, but let's face it; I was in the market for something wholesome.  If you've been paying attention to recent Z'Dar ratings, you know that I've been in a batting slump where b-pictures are concerned.  I was hopeful that a tonal about-face would yield more agreeable results.  The verdict?  Eh, can I plead insanity?  I'm being a drama queen.  This flick didn't rankle my nimbus of equanimity (y'know, I can be a real asshole sometimes), but I didn't exactly leave the theater satisfied.

"Dom," you cut in.  "You watched Fear No Evil at a theater?"  Nope!  Now stop interrupting.  A synopsis would tell you that our teleplay deals with a cursed mirror, but that's only peeling back one layer of the onion.  And believe me; it's an onion.  There is also the matter of a psychologist who suspects that demonology is behind his patient's car accident.  I know it seems like we're in the weeds, but to be perfectly honest, there isn't enough plot here for a feature-length film.  The pace is achingly slow.  Alternatively, I dug the thaumaturgic atmosphere, and while I'm checking off the "pro" column, Lynda Day George gives a robust performance as the grieving lead.  She looks scrumptious, too.

Tune in next time to see if I review the sequel.  Spoiler: I do.

R.I.P. Tim Aymar

The metal community has lost one of its most underrated voices.  Perhaps "underrated" isn't befitting Tim Aymar, as he was rated accurately by those who heard the man belt.  It would be more pertinent to simply say that not enough metalheads had discovered Tim's gift for crafting potent, authoritative melodies that seemed to glide over the most obstreperous of riffs.  Of course, some of the riffs I'm referencing were written by death metal deity Chuck Schuldiner.

I still remember the first time I spun Control Denied's The Fragile Art of Existence.  I was bewildered by Tim's performance.  How was it possible that this unknown cantor came close to upstaging the mighty Chuck?  He could hit astronomical high notes, sure, but he could also manipulate his pharyngeal folds to suit a number of styles.  His unhinged wail was just as impressive as his clean chest tone.  I've always loved the berserk, apoplectic scream that closes "Expect the Unexpected."  And then there is the impassioned singing that supports the midsection of "When the Link Becomes Missing."

I'm only describing one album, but as his fans are well aware, he appeared on a host of other recordings for many different bands.  A little while back, I devoted a column to Pharaoh, a badass power/prog outfit.  Tim left behind a seriously imposing body of work.  For all intents and purposes, he was a good guy outside of the studio as well.  Seventeen years ago (!), he was cool enough to grant an interview with a young freelancer who had no idea what he was doing.  I don't really know what else to say.  It feels weird to even write this.

Rest in peace, Tim.  You rule.

Album Cover of the Whatever

This mean mother was released quietly last year, so don't feel bad if you haven't heard it.  Static Abyss is a hulking death/doom project started by Chris Reifert and Greg Wilkinson of Autopsy fame.  It's positively brutal.  The cover?  Just as brutal.  Awesome stuff all the way around.

Tobe Hooper's "Night Terrors"

Times are a-changing, aren't they?  The moors of society continually shift in an unremitting masquerade of principle and metaphysics.  Philosophy, I guess you could call it.  I was gobsmacked by the parochial convictions held by my own generation just last night.  The Super Bowl halftime show, usually nothing more than tepid candy floss, jumped out at me as being vulgar and excessive.  Me!  And I'm the guy who listens to Cannibal Corpse.  Could it be that I have settled into my skin as a veritable, self-effacing adult?  Dear Lord, I hope not.  Even at thirty-eight years of age, I'm goofy enough to stream Tobe Hooper's "Night Terrors," a title so cumbersome, it doesn't know how to announce itself.

For the record, I'm using quotation marks as an act of rebellion against the late Hooper.  Is that disrespectful?  Good!  What nefarious malfeasance was he trying to perpetrate with this fever blister of a film?  It shouldn't surprise anyone who follows this website to learn that Robert Englund exerted his influence over the production.  No, I wasn't there, but come on.  Can't you see it?  "Tobe, I'm itching to play someone other than Freddy Krueger.  Any role in the world will suffice.  Sodomy!  I want the next character I play to have a predilection for sodomy.  God, I'm such a great actor."  Granted, Hooper wasn't brought in until a disinterested Gerry O'Hara abandoned the project, but my point remains...well, it remains.

It should have been an episode of Unsolved Mysteries, y'know.  Can't you see it?  "What happened to Tobe Hooper's career after the crackerjack splatter fun of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2?  Join me.  Perhaps you may be able to help solve a mystery."  By the way, Robert Stack is far more terrifying than the Marquis de Sade.  I doubt that "Night Terrors" began life as a fright flick.  An inconceivably attractive Zoe Trilling, fresh off the success of Dr. Giggles (top contender for best joke I've ever written), stars as Genie, a girl visiting her archeologist father in Egypt.  Between collecting both dust and boredom, she finds a way to be ensnared by a diabolical sex cult led by - dig this - a descendant of the Marquis de Sade.

At the behest of Robert Englund and presumably no one else, the scream king shoulders dual roles.  Of course, it's unnecessary, and of course, the spectacle is overblown.  "Hammy" doesn't do it justice, but I suppose I prefer this approach to a reserved, apathetic performance.  You can't claim that he isn't trying, God bless him.  I'm uvula-deep into the fourth paragraph and I haven't commented on the pacing.  What's wrong with me?  It's slow, if you're wondering.  Hooper strains to orchestrate some semblance of suspense, but it's all for naught.  I did appreciate the gratuitous nudity.  The charitable shots of Juliano Merr's floppy member I could do without, but it is what it is.

I can't help but think the part of the Marquis was made for Robert Z'Dar.  Can't you see it?  "I don't agree with that gentleman's stance on watersports and what-have-you, but that chin!"  Robert Z'Dar says, "Thanks, but no thanks."

 

Blood Capsule #141

LAKE OF THE DEAD (1958)

Ever feel like a film is above your pay grade?  I mean, do you ever watch "art house" cinema with a blank expression and wonder how it's received by the intellectual elite?  Kare Bergstrom's Lake of the Dead isn't exactly "art house," but I'm man enough to admit that much of the Norwegian chiller's discursive tactics and expository dialogue went right over my head.  Two reasons.  One!  It's ridiculously Norwegian.  Two!  I may have shut my eyes in the second act, the most sluggish of acts.  I did open them again.  It should be noted that I enjoyed Lake for what it is, even if I'm not certain what it is.

So what the hell is it!?  It's a chimerical black-and-white production that borrows from the mystery genre.  Several people get together at a cabin retreat where superstition hangs thick in the fog.  They regale each other with local legends, including a lurid tale of a madman who drowns himself after murdering his sister.  It's all innocuous fun until a malevolent spirit possesses some of the expendable players.  And that's where I'll shut my mouth.  The acting is sharp, but it was hard to warm up to any of the characters.  I took advantage of subtitles, so I don't know if I could claim that something was lost in the translation.  Maybe I should have had Immortal or Mayhem blasting away in the background.