The Thing From Another World

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

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

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

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

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

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

   

Gamera spotted on Mtn Dew bottles?

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

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

Album Cover of the Whatever

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

Rassle Inn #44

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

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

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

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

Blood Capsule #158

NIGHTSCREAM (1997)

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

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

Geek Out #165

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

Meg 2: The Trench

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

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

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

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

   

Random Match Alert

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

Blood Capsule #157

FLESHEATER (1988)

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

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

Rassle Inn #43

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

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

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

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

Filler

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

Album Cover of the Whatever

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

Blood Capsule #156

THE FOUR SKULLS OF JONATHAN DRAKE (1959)

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

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

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

Sharksploitation

This is less of a review and more of a...comment?  I realize that I'm getting picky at my old age, but Sharksploitation (currently available on Shudder) perfectly embodies an obstacle I face whenever I watch a horror documentary.  If you're new to this title, it's a fervid slice of infotainment that chronicles the popularity of shark movies.  To be a little more specific, it zeroes in on the kind of b-flicks you see shelled out by companies like Asylum (their well-chartered "mockbusters" are on the docket at one point).  And it's a fine film.  It covers appropriate territory with knowledgeable talking heads chiming in here and there.  For me, the most interesting parts looked at the state of ocean-bound fright fare pre-Jaws.

While Sharksploitation clicks as simple textbook fodder, it commits a crime that pretty much every genre documentary commits.  Scholarly voices of reason wind up giving their theories on why we - both nerds and commoners alike - watch these movies.  Apparently, all of us go to horror for base thrills or there is some deeper psychological catalyst behind our interests.  Maybe that's true for the Karens that frequent shopping malls and AMC multiplexes, but am I the only one who still rents monster mashes because...they're cool?  Why does there need to be a rationale beyond digging this stuff for what it is?  I know, I'm thinking too much here.

If there are underlying motivations for consuming horror across all mediums, couldn't it be something other than, "Derp, I like to be scared!"?  I'm struggling to drive my point home.  It's just a trait I notice in most documentaries that purport to explain the appeal of, say, Jason Voorhees.  Carry on.

Dom vs. SpaceDom

I've recently discovered an all-Godzilla channel through Pluto TV, which as you can imagine, isn't very conducive to productivity.  I have plenty of work I could be doing, but there is A LOT happening on Monster Island, people.  I guess now is a "good" time to mention that you can support the site on Patreon (follow thy link).  Depending on the tier you select, you stand to gain NEAT stuff every month by signing up.  You know I'm serious because I'm using ALL CAPS.

Now Playing #6

 

Pressure Points - The Island

Has it already been a month since I last maundered on metal?  A lot has happened in the interim.  For one thing, I've noticed a new subgenre emerging, and I fully support its existence.  I dub thee "Opeth metal."  The Swedish stalwarts may have abandoned their deathly roots, but several pretenders to the throne have taken up the mantle and claimed jurisdiction where the writer(s) of sterling progressive death metal exemplars once resided.  One of them is Pressure Points, a Finnish band that has actually been on my radar for eight years.  Christ, eight years!?  That would mean False Lights came out in 2015, which would also mean that I haven't quite grasped the concept of time.  In any event, that was a cool record.

The Island marks another step forward for these blokes.  Songs are leaner, but they are also more melodic.  Most of the vocals are clean.  I don't see that being a problem for broad-minded fans of this kind of music.  The chorus of "Leaves on the Road" is killer, and I'm digging the synth flourishes on "Two Moons."  Check out Pressure Points if you jam Vinsta, Stormhaven, and yeah, Opeth.

Emperor - XI Equilibrium

Here lately, I've been going back and tuning into the building blocks of Norwegian black metal.  All of the main players have been fair game, especially Immortal and the subject of this blurb.  Emperor helped hatch the much-lauded second wave, but normally, metalheads only apotheosize their first two albums.  Sure, Nightside and Anthems are both classics, but why does the nostalgia end there?  Hell, back in my formative days (I call it B.C. - Before Corpse), I read more positive reviews of 2001's Prometheus than I did Equilibrium.  And Prometheus is my favorite Emperor dish, but I'm here to make certain that their third long player gets a little love.

From the very start of "'Curse You All Men!," this is a fierce, bellicose affair.  For lack of a more suitable adjective, these tunes are just pissed off.  All of Ihsahn's quirks (the proggy leads, the shrill King Diamond shrieks) make sense in the context of the tracklist and add to Equilibrium's disquieting atmosphere.  Choice cuts?  "An Elegy of Icaros"' and "Sworn," if I had to pick a couple at gunpoint.  Man, that would be a bizarre scenario.  Or is it customary for, say, gang members to ask about your preferred black metal songs before sending a bullet through your brainpan?

Random Match Alert

An early bout between Manami Toyota and Bull Nakano.  Watch.  Learn.  Love.

Blood Capsule #155

PYTHON (2000)

Why the hell did I watch this movie?  I have a theory.  Earlier in the week, we had a death in the family (my uncle).  It's possible that I have discovered a hitherto unknown stage of grief that involves Robert Englund and CGI serpents.  I don't mean to make light of a loss.  Actually, this is the kind of flick my uncle would have enjoyed.  It's not entirely relevant, but I have him to thank for renting Tales From the Crypt: Demon Knight for me at a time when I was probably too young to watch it.  In any event, Python follows the vermicular (word of the day) cargo of a downed plane in the small town of Ruby.  Obviously, the genetically-enhanced snake becomes loose.  And obviously, Casper Van Dien saw to it that he wriggled into the cast.

If you're willing to play ball, so to speak, Python is an innocuous sit for 75-80 minutes.  Unfortunately, it runs for 99 minutes.  The climax just does not want to end.  But like I said, this is a decent way to kill an afternoon.  The acting is serviceable, the bloodshed is manifest, and the special effects, while dated, aren't nearly as bad as you might think.  Does it measure up to Anaconda?  No, it most certainly does not.  However, it has its cornball heart in the right place, and it reminded me of an era where the direct-to-video market was bustling with titles that were worth your while.  For the record, Python rates low on the Robert Englund Overacting Scale.  To give you some idea, it's a few notches below Strangeland.  I need someone to draw up a visual aid for this thing.

Break

There has been a death in the family, so I'm going to take a few days off.  Just thought I'd let you know.

Blood Capsule #154

MY DEMON LOVER (1987)

There's a reason why I don't fall for romantic comedies.  Aside from the obvious, I find that most of them don't adhere to reality.  When the horror genre is adulterated with rom-com sensibilities, the end result isn't much different.  Case in point, My Demon Lover.  We're supposed to believe that a stupidly cute pushover of a gal (Denny - I always forget to include their names) is smitten with a street musician whose "game" is about as subtle as a chisel-peen hammer to the prairie oysters.  Y'know, the knackers.  The gonads!  If this flick were being honest, our leading creep would be slapped with a restraining order so fast, the tape would rewind itself.  But no, Denny is inexplicably enamored by the slovenly Kaz.  His scruffy looks are only one point against him.  Another?

Well, he turns into a literal demon when he is sexually aroused.  I'm talking horns and everything.  You'd think that would be presented as the core conflict, but the script interjects with an opposing demon.  If that sounds remarkably preposterous, that's because...yeah.  Hey, I love wacky stuff from the 80's, but this doesn't fit the bill.  On the glowing side of the spectrum, things move at an industrious clip, and I did appreciate the make-up effects.  Shout Factory is slated to release My Demon Lover on Blu-ray this September.  My birthday is in September.  How about that?  If you care about me at all, you'll pay the suggested retail price to keep it on a shelf in a warehouse.  Or flowers.  You could buy me flowers.

Album Cover of the Whatever

Wanna know how nerdy I am?  I'm currently listening to Cellophane, a nondescript rock band from my favorite decade (the 90's, natch).  "That doesn't sound terribly nerdy, Dom."  Oh, hold on.  I'm listening to this band because they have a song I like on the Wishmaster soundtrack.  Beat that!  I'm only mentioning this to show that I'm not above the "dungeon synth" crowd.  Today's album cover (of the whatever) is a split between Celestial Sword and Erzfeynd, a release that festers in the atmoblack/dungeon synth scene.  Is it a scene?  I'm calling it a scene.  And it's not really my bag, but cool artwork!

Insidious: The Red Door

In the run-up to Insidious: The Red Door, I had planned on watching the first four installments.  That was the plan.  In actuality, I think I spent the night before on YouTube searching for White Lion videos and old Kool-Aid commercials.  Yeah, I don't have much of a social life.  To the contrary, I did see Red Door with a friend.  Halfway through the film, I turned to him and confessed my boredom.  He responded by admitting that he had no idea what was happening on-screen.  That should give you a general idea of where I fall on this one.  I remember digging the original.  This sequel shares that film's predilection for character building, but once the key players are established, the script doesn't know what to do with them.  A perfunctory synopsis, if I may...

Josh Lambert consults a psychic for the sole purpose of being hypnotized.  The idea is to forget the last year of his life, which has seen his son fall into a coma.  The son (let's assume he has a name...like, I don't know, Dalton) receives the same treatment.  Nine years later, Dalton is about to peregrinate on a campus life and do the "art school" thing.  He tries to proceed as normal, but certain memories, veiled in fog, flood back into the recesses of his mind.  They are angular at first.  They don't make a lot of sense, and as if they weren't intrusive enough, they spark a new habit - astral projection.  It isn't long before he starts spotting dead people.  Meanwhile, Josh is experiencing the same kind of lucid nightmares.

What does it all mean?  After roughly 40 minutes of aloof exposition and fake-out jump scares, you won't really care.  What's worse, you still have an hour to kill before the end credits roll.  I'll give Red Door this much; it sidesteps the irritating cliché where no one believes the main character when he/she is telling them the truth about ghostly goings-on.  Even the co-ed buddy (Sinclair Daniel as the wisecracking Chris) gives Dalton the benefit of the doubt.  So that was refreshing.  The rest of this motion picture...eh, I'm not sure that "refreshing" is the word I would use to describe it.  Maybe stodgy or tedious?  There should have been multiple editors on the payroll.

Patrick Wilson tried his hand at directing, for some reason.  The visuals are glossy and well-lacquered, but the pace is slower than pond water.  That's pretty slow.  In the olden days, it was popular to say "wait for the video" in reference to a dull flick showing at the local multiplex.  Unless you're a completionist, I would urge you to wait until Insidious: The Red Door hits streaming platforms.  That doesn't have the same ring to it, does it?  You know what?  Wait for the video!  It might be a longer wait, but in this case, you'll be glad that you didn't rush out the door.  Why, your future hinges on your decision.  It's a lock.  Okay, I'm done.

 

Rassle Inn #42

"Now is a great time to be a wrestling fan."  Ever heard that before?  I swear, it's just something that people like to say.  Whether it's true or not, it seems that I hear it just about every year.  It couldn't possibly always be a great time to be a wrestling fan.  It was a popular aphorism when AEW pitched their tent in 2019.  Fair enough, but what about 2020?  The pandemic put a swift end to live shows, and it would be years before crowds in Japan were even allowed to cheer at the Tokyo Dome.  What about 2023?  Well, I suspect that it might actually be a great time to be a wrestling fan.  You thought this was going to be a negative piece, didn't you?  I don't blame you.

Last night, CM Punk and Samoa Joe went to war nearly twenty years after battling it out in ROH.  It was a fun match, but it probably wasn't the highlight of Collision.  That would have to be the tag team bout between FTR and Bullet Club Gold (Jay White and Juice Robinson).  They're going two-out-of-three falls next week, so you know I'll be watching.  And then there is the other company.  Man, I never thought that WWE would cultivate buzz on the strength of its product alone.  Likewise, I didn't see any legitimate stars being shaped in the modern day, but here we are.  Roman Reigns has reached "dude" status.  His Bloodline co-stars aren't too far behind either.

For the first time in a long time, I make it a point to switch the tube over to Smackdown every Friday night.  If ratings are any indication, I'm not the only one.  This past Friday, the opening segment lasted 36 minutes.  When the hell has that ever happened?  Stunningly, the show retained its audience during that span, and I bet if you asked the average viewer, they would tell you that it felt like ten minutes.  They are doing something right.  But who is "they"?  Ah, that's the question.  Vince McMahon was reported to be backstage, but I have to think his influence is limited.  Maybe I'm in denial.  Could it be that this brilliant angle has been filtered through his tapered lens?  I don't know.  I don't know and, for right now, it doesn't matter.  It remains a great time to be a wrestling fan.  Until the next show anyway.

If both companies deteriorate, at least I have evil Doink to keep me company.  It's still 1993, right?

Random Match Alert

In late 1992, WWF's Golden Era was about to give way to the much-maligned New Generation, as evidenced by this sweet match.  High Energy and Max motherf*cking Moon (God, I love this gimmick) take on The Genius who is flanked by The Beverly Brothers (super underrated tag team, in retrospect).  You know you love it.

Blood Capsule #153

RABID GRANNIES (1988)

I should never watch behind-the-scenes footage after sitting through a tawdry, cheapjack b-movie.  It colors my opinion of the film.  How so?  Well, when you see how hard everyone worked on set, clearly driven by their passion for the "business" of cinematic scares, you feel a little guilty for rebuking their efforts.  I don't know if an apology is in order, but I'm sorry, gang; I didn't have fun with Rabid Grannies.  It's not a bad production per se.  One factor tarnishing my viewing experience can be chalked up to technicalities.  I should explain.  The mostly French cast struggled to recite their English dialogue, so their lines were (poorly) dubbed.  As a result, I couldn't understand half of what these folks were saying, and no, English subtitles were not available.

That leaves us with...eh, it doesn't leave us with much of anything.  On the positive side, this flick is abounding with all manner of in-camera effects that will please fans of the old school.  Our monsters - elderly victims of demonic possession - are cool, but I kept waiting for them to reach a far-out stage of mutation that just didn't come.  I'm being picky, I know.  The gore is nice, and while the script never settles on a main character, we do see ancillary boobs.  Hey, ancillary boobs are better than no boobs at all, right?  At the end of a rainy day, Rabid Grannies may not be the Troma powerhouse it purports to be, but you've seen worse.  I shouldn't be so presumptuous.  Maybe you haven't seen worse.  In which case, you're living a charmed life, and you probably aren't scouring the web for horror reviews.

Geek Out #164

Watched this a few nights ago.  I remember...falling asleep.  Should I give it another whirl?  Okay, you convinced me.

Album Cover of the Whatever

I know next to nothing about Disciples of Power, but cripes, look at that artwork!

Blood Capsule #152

THE SEVERED ARM (1973)

Earlier today, my gullet was met with a wicked case of heartburn.  I suspect that today's subject was the culprit.  For future reference, 70's exploitation may rankle your windpipe and turn the folds of your gorge into an aqueduct for molten lava to carry sediment from your stomach to your throat.  So, y'know...proceed with caution.  Actually, this is a wry slasher that acts as a dress rehearsal for filmmakers to try out a few tropes before they became tropes.  I'm always interested to see just how far back certain ideas go, at least in relation to mainstream horror.  The Severed Arm is an archetype for revenge-themed "body count" pictures a la Prom Night and I Know What You Did Last Summer.

A group of spelunkers wind up trapped in a decidedly dank cave.  Against their better judgment (and against the wishes of one unlucky bastard), they decide to eat the disembodied limb of whomever draws the shortest straw.  And wouldn't you know it?  As soon as the deed is done, they are rescued by a fashionably late search party.  Five years pass and our covey of would-be speleologists (google it, kids) is beginning to shrink, as someone is killing them off.  This is a straightforward, entertaining little flick.  Director Tom Alderman gets a surprising amount of mileage out of simple set-ups and spooktastic shadows.  Keep it hush-hush, but you might be able to find it for free on YouTube.  You didn't hear it from me, though.

Aftershocks

While you wait for my next review (thank you for your patience; I'm being lazy), I thought I'd mention that this past weekend's Forbidden Door PPV was worth the price of admission, if only for the IWGP United States Heavyweight bout between Kenny Omega and Will Ospreay.  Seriously, that match shook Toronto to its core.  In fact, someone should check to make sure the CN Tower is still standing.  It marked the first time in years that a concatenation of false finishes actually fulfilled their intended purpose and didn't just needlessly prolong the fight.  And that's another thing.  It felt like a damn fight.  Well done, boys.  You reminded me why I'm a pro-wrestling fan.

Am I engaging in hyperbole?  Maybe a little, but I'm a product of the modern age.  I encourage you to stream Forbidden Door so that you can form your own opinion.  I found the main event to be slightly disappointing.  Considering that The Rainmaker and The American Dragon were in the ring, expectations were perhaps unfair.  Still, a weak submission finish?  It deserved the non-reaction that it got.  I would be looking forward to Money in the Bank, but I cancelled my Peacock subscription not too long ago.  If Io Sky doesn't grab the briefcase, I riot.

Now Playing #5

The Posies - Frosting on the Beater

Here's a shocker: I don't always listen to Christ-melting black metal.  Sometimes, I listen to rib-cracking death metal.  And other times, I drown myself in a sea of dewy-eyed 90's rock nostalgia.  I can't help it.  I'll always be a grunge kid.  You would never know that The Posies hailed from Seattle from listening to their music, but they were in the area when neighboring groups were breaking into the mainstream.  While they didn't quite break themselves (though "Dream All Day" was a minor radio hit), they left a sugary impression on the scene.  I think this is what supercilious critics would call "power pop."  Whatever.  It sounds like rock 'n' roll to me.

This record is thronged with infectious earworms.  It's aural birthday cake, and I admit that I've eaten too much of it lately.  Standout cuts?  "Solar Sister," "Love Letter Boxes, "Burn & Shine," and "20 Questions."  It's all about those sweet, sweet harmonies.

Mournful Congregation - The Exuviae of Gods Part II

If Frosting brings birthday cake to mind, the new Mournful Congregation EP (their second in as many years) conjures up images of...funeral cobbler?  I'm groping for comparisons, but you really need to hear it for yourself.  Not that Exuviae subverts expectations.  If you have a taste for this stuff, you know what these Australian doomsters bring to the table.  Imagine, if you will, overwrought melodies (yes, that's a compliment), layered compositions, and acoustic guitar flourishes.  I might prefer Part II to its predecessor.  I've given it more spins, if that counts for anything.

As with Part I, the guys have reworked and re-recorded a song from their demo days ("Heads Bowed").  It actually starts the album, and if I'm being honest, I usually skip it.  It comes off as emaciated when it's followed by modern material.  That's just me, though.  Mournful Congregation remains my favorite funeral doom band by a wide margin.  Choice tracks?  Look, this thing runs for less than thirty minutes, so you might as well listen to all of it.

Rassle Inn #41

Well, we collided with Collision.  I don't actually have much to say other than the fact that Collision looks to be the show that Dynamite should have been.  The difference is felt on commentary.  I've been a fan of Kevin Kelly since his WWF days, and as for Nigel McGuinness, he plays his role well enough (though I still don't see a need for heel commentators in 2023).  Hopefully, Jim Ross will stage a classy exit from the business, as I don't think he's doing himself any favors these days.  His health doesn't support his position in the company.  But what do I know?

A couple of things I noticed...for the most part, the opening match kept the action in the ring.  It would have been easy to use "hardcore" balderdash as a crutch, and God knows we've seen too many ECW-style scrimmages on AEW television lately.  Also, the referees are given more authority in key situations.  That will only be beneficial in the long run.  Overall, Collision was a fairly straightforward pro-wrestling show.  I don't have any complaints.  It will be interesting to see how CM Punk will be used on subsequent episodes.  It's kind of incredible how the crowd got behind the other Chicago native last night.  Hold that thought; a paragraph break is imminent.  This could get messy.

I'm speaking of the spunky Skye Blue.  I realize that it's not uncommon for a hometown crowd to rally around one of their own, but has she even spoken two words on air yet?  Maybe do something with her while she has forward momentum on her side?  The rest of AEW's female roster is...well, it's lacking.  I'm holding out hope that Mercedes Mone will spring up on either Dynamite or Collision.  And before the thought gains any traction, DO NOT under any circumstances ratify a roster split.  There are already too many title belts.  Tony Khan reads this column, right?  As usual, I'm operating under the assumption that my words matter in a cosmic way.  Give me a call, T.K.  I have loads of ideas!

All the shaking hands, beepers and suntans...

I was going to type up a new edition of Rassle Inn, but I might as well wait until we see the much-ballyhooed Collision.  This...this should be something.  AEW needs a hit right now.  I can't believe I'm saying this, but WWE has been delivering the superior product as of late, and it's not even close.  Stay tuned!

PS-Can you identify the song I'm alluding to in the title of this post?  Don't overthink it.  A thousand brownie points for the correct guess.

Grandma

This is less of a review and more of a prerequisite.  If you call yourself a member of the horror community, and you support the underground, you owe it to yourself to check out Grandma.  Disclaimer!  The director - a fine fellow by the name of Bobby Canipe Jr. - is a friend of mine.  I won't pretend to be impartial.  In fact, I'm definitely biased, but that's only because Bobby is an awesome guy.  By association, Grandma is an awesome throwback to shot-on-video horror from the 80's/90's.  If you like your gore thick and gelatinous, this is the flick for you.

Recommended to fans of Video Violence, Cannibal Campout and Killing Spree.  Spread the word!

Random Match Alert

I might start posting these more often.  Please enjoy Taka Michinoku versus Papi Chulo (pre-WWF Essa Rios sans Lita).

Blood Capsule #151

THE FACE AT THE WINDOW (1939)

Stand clear; I'm about to use the word "unsung" several times in successive order.  You know how I get with key words.  I'm bound to pull a muscle one of these days trying to wield a particularly pernicious verb or an acrimonious adjective.  In any event, this unsung melodrama stars unsung scream king Tod Slaughter as a lecherous booster of sorts.  He offers to deposit a lump sum of gold into a struggling bank with one startling caveat - he wishes to bed the branch manager's daughter.  That would be stressful enough, but there is also a serial killer dispatching innocent civilians, seemingly at random.  Is there any connective tissue between this rash of murders and Slaughter's brazen courting of a naïve ingenue?  More to the point, if Helmet released "Unsung" to radio today, would it become a hit?  Yes and no.

I wasn't familiar with Face, but it's easy to see how a Victorian suspense piece could fall through the cracks in an era replete with major studio horror hallmarks.  It's not exactly top-lined by name actors, and I'm led to believe that it was a low-budget production.  Even so, it held my interest for a solid hour.  There is no dip in quality beyond that point; the film only runs for 65 minutes.  Technically, it counts as a monster romp, as our heavy is hypothesized to be a werewolf.  I mean, he isn't, but still.  Slaughter chews the scenery as the iniquitous Chevalier Lucio del Gardo.  He is definitely the best thing about The Face at the Window.  I enjoyed the twisty storyline, the shadowy sets, and Page Hamilton's riffs.  Seriously, I can't believe that "Unsung" became a staple in spite of a fickle mainstream audience.  Go figure.

Robert Z'Dar says, "Tell Dom to grow up.  It's not the 90's anymore."  Dom says, "Ouch, Robert.  Ouch."

Io

This is just a reminder that an Io/Asuka feud has officially been teased on Smackdown.  It's kind of a big deal.  This is something I've wanted to see ever since Io first stepped on American soil.  As expected, she is gaining a groundswell of fan support.  It wouldn't surprise me if she turned babyface in the not-so-distant future.  Anyway, that's all I wanted to say.  I'll be back later in the week with a review of...I don't know, a ridiculous movie?

Blood Capsule #150

POISON FOR THE FAIRIES (1986)

There is a scene in this Mexican shocker where a little girl listens intently as her nanny spins a yarn about witches and fairies.  Her stoic, yet beguiled reaction is eerie, and while I'm at it, hats off to the young actress who plays the calculating Veronica.  If the rest of the film sustained that level of spectral calm, we would have a 5-Z'Dar classic on our hands.  As it's currently drafted, it's still pretty damn good.  The plot follows two children bent on simple mischief, but they are spellbound by stories of witches to the extent that they potter around with the dark arts themselves.  There's no mistaking it; this is coming-of-age material.  The hook, however, lies in the film's cabalistic underbelly.  The atmosphere is such that at any given point, even during the mellow exposition, you can sense evil lurking just off-camera.

A recent addition to Shudder's ever-expansive library, Poison for the Fairies is the right call for a lonely spring night.  Or is it summer already?  I can't be expected to keep track of the seasons AND watch horror movies obsessively.  It's one or the other.  Earlier, I intimated that Poison misses the mark.  And it does, but only slightly.  The pace perambulates off the beaten path, and while I like the concept of concealing the faces of the grown-up cast members, I couldn't help but feel that the narrative needed a more prominent adult character to balance things out.  Focusing on kids minimizes the stakes a bit.  Maybe it's just me.  I urge you to reach your own conclusion.  Stream it today.  Or track down a physical copy, you good-for-nothing millennial.