Possessor

It has been several leap years since David Cronenberg has touched "body horror," much to the chagrin of weird cinephiles everywhere (no judgment; I'm including present company).  Well, my fellow weirdos, fret no more.  The abstruse auteur has a son, and predictably enough, this dude nails the cold, intellectual sub-subgenre that his father made infamous.  2020's Possessor redefines "high-concept."  You'll have to hold my hand during this synopsis.  A plain-looking woman named Vos is employed as a contract killer, only she doesn't do the killing.  With the assistance of extremely Cronenbergian technology, she "becomes" someone else (my apologies for the excessive use of quotation marks).  Are you still holding my hand?

Vos possesses the mind and body of Colin Tate, a servile drudge stuck in a thankless job that requires him to spy on people and describe their furniture.  I'm not joking.  One case finds him recounting the blinds and curtains behind an amorous couple.  "Grommet pleat," he outlines as they grind in venereal bliss.  Have I mentioned that this is a strange film?  At any rate, Vos's assignment is to clash with his boss, murder his girlfriend (the boss's daughter), and finally, commit suicide.  Needless to say, there is more to the story, but I'm only human.  Brandon Cronenberg, on the other hand...eh, the jury's out.

I should note right up front that Brandon is capably dexterous behind the camera.  I was also bedazzled by Matthew Hannam's purposeful editing that doesn't leave anything to chance.  Blink and you will literally miss something.  Back to Brandon.  He relays visual information in such a way that it doesn't overwhelm the viewer.  Possessor isn't just a string of plot points, however.  There is a certain warmth to his characters that is frankly missing from The Brood and Dead Ringers, as much as I love dear ol' Dad's track record.  Before your plonker recedes into your pelvis, I'm not trying to suggest that he's a better director than David fucking Cronenberg.  Calm down.

The cast is pliable.  Folks like Christopher Abbott and a nearly unrecognizable Jennifer Jason Leigh had to be able to express a wide array of emotions in incredibly awkward scenarios (Abbott more so), and it shouldn't surprise you to learn that they triumphed in their respective roles.  On the special effects front, they are beautifully gruesome.  Certain shots are downright objectionable.  CGI could have been used as a crutch, but I didn't spot much digital frippery.  Yeah, I think I loved Possessor.  And not for nothing, but the final line of the script is ingenious.  Stream this sumbitch pronto.  I do believe that it's available on Amazon Prime, so unless you have a dial-up modem, you have no excuse.

     

Geek Out #159

WARNING: I'm about to blab about Patreon.  But only to promulgate the fact that my patrons receive cool stuff.  The lowest tier is $3.  Higher tiers will net you free nerd items on a monthly basis.  Here is an actual quote from an actual patron...

"Thanks for goodies!  Easily like $20 in value in the lot.  You shouldn't have!" - John 'Ike Oden' Doe

I may or may not have gifted this person a copy of Shakma within his care package.  See?  We're talking gold here.  Gold!

MARILYN MANSON - Antichrist Superstar

I feel old.  I mean, I feel my thirty-eight years of existence in the fissures of my bones every day, but I feel especially old writing this review.  This generation, man...does this generation have rock stars?  I'm not embellishing when I assert that my generation may have been the last to engage in apotheosis, to deify and venerate musicians to inappropriate levels of reverence.  In the hard rock genre.  See, that's an important identifier to add.  "Kids" love rappers and social media influencers, but the true rock star went the way of VHS.  In my estimation, Marilyn Manson was the last troubadour from our side of the tracks to rebel and push against the grain of popular culture.

There are several reasons why 1996's Antichrist Superstar is letter-perfect.  It was his breakout album, but conceptually, it focuses on the kind of rock star I opened by talking about.  If you're a fan, I'm not turning you onto anything.  You already know that this record operates on multiple levels.  On the surface, it's a selection of mucky, begrimed industrial rock strains that kiss the periphery of heavy metal.  And make no mistake.  These are not songs; they are strains.  There is a palpable pain that gurgles underneath all sixteen tracks.  Manson has a way of making his mole hills into grandiose, near-histrionic mountains.  It doesn't come off as melodramatic, though.  This muck, this grime...it's genuine.

On a deeper level, Antichrist Superstar ropes in everything from astrology to numerology.  I'll leave that kind of dissection to the zealots (suddenly, "Mister Superstar" springs to mind).  Shall I jump to the actual tunes?  "Irresponsible Hate Anthem" is an aural blister abrasive enough to mummify any and all soccer moms.  I still remember hearing "The Beautiful People" on the radio for the first time.  I didn't love it or hate it; my head simply bobbed along to Zim Zum's swing riff.  Nowadays, I recognize it as a dactylic chunk of Reznor-tinted songcraft.

I haven't mentioned Trent, but for what it's worth, the production is faultless.  Supposedly, the two bullheads clashed in the studio, but you honestly can't tell.  "Tourniquet" is an exquisite mid-paced 90's rocker.  "Cryptorchid" is unnerving (yes, the Begotten-themed video is brilliant).  "Angel With the Scabbed Wings" sports a riff so heavy, that when I referenced a thesaurus to find the right word for it, I was told by the spirit of Peter Mark Roget to go fuck myself.  "Minute of Decay" is plaintive, balancing out the record's chaos with a tad of pathos.  Actually, there is plenty of pathos, starting with the wistfully tragic "Man That You Fear."

I don't have much else to say.  No, really.  Antichrist Superstar is just a great slab of music.  In fact, it's so great, that even the session leftovers hold merit.  Listen to "Apple of Sodom" or "The Suck for Your Solution."  This will always be the zenith of Mr. Manson's accomplishments, and someone needs to tell him that.

    

What's with all the blood capsules?

As you may (or may not) have noticed, my last few movie reviews have been Blood Capsules.  Why?  The easy answer is that they are less stressful to pump out and seasonal depression (on top of the chronic stuff) has taken its toll on me.  You can expect more capsules for the time being, although I could "snap out of it" at any point.  My mind keeps me on my toes.  It's worth noting that this only applies to movie reviews.  I haven't forgotten about a certain discography review that needs to be reckoned with.

Blood Capsule #133

THE MURDER MANSION (1972)

I've never been a giallo type of guy.  Ironic, seeing as how I'm one-fourth Italian (my true genealogy is probably more on the pallid side, but that's neither here nor there).  I mention it because Shudder decided to upload a tidy spate of the spaghetti slashers, and while no one held a water pistol to my head, I took the plunge with one of the lurid titles.  Good heavens, where do I begin?  How about I start with the stuff I enjoyed?  The score is killer, the sets are divine (that's precisely how an unearthly, mist-wreathed cemetery should look), and when the horror hits, the pace accelerates to the point where you can feel the victims' collective pulse pound through your streaming device of choice.

Regrettably, we are left with a murder mystery as convoluted as...um, my similes are failing me.  I'll just be forthright and admit that I couldn't follow the damn plot.  There is a document that needs to be signed, a seemingly sebaceous inheritance waiting to be collected, a randy motorist, a phantom chauffeur, a covey of vixens (whose naughty bits remain veiled from sight), a blinking eye (don't ask), and worst of all, an ending that ruins any chances of supernatural horseplay from happening.  That's right; The Murder Mystery is a 90-minute episode of Scooby-Doo.  Lame.  But as I admonished you, I'm not the target demographic.  I swear that I'm part-Italian, though.  You should see me raze a bowl of rigatoni.

A Band: The Antichrist Imperium

Remember Akercocke?  If not, they were (are?) five well-dressed gentlemen from London, England who delivered face-ripping, yet avant-garde death metal directly to your doorstep.  In 2017, they released Renaissance in Extremis, their first set of new material in a full decade.  It has been radio silence ever since.  Drop that noose because I have good news.  Akercocke is still around!  Kinda.  Maybe.  I should explain.

The Antichrst Imperium is an intriguing project based out of London, England featuring two members of Akercocke (including snake-armed drummer David Gray).  And boy, do they sound a fucking lot like Akercocke.  Look, I'm not repining over a contentious case of plagiarism, but the similarities are there.  Both bands give you hyperblasting death metal (Gray is a goshdarn gunsmith, if you'll excuse the language), ghostly clean vocals, and lyrical...no, silvery (!) keyboards that recall 80's goth/new wave.  The two groups are identical on tape.

Normally, I'd bloviate more about the music, but this edition of A Band is centered on facts.  FACT: Akercocke rules.  FACT: The Antichrist Imperium rules.  FACT: I forgot to count their third long player - III: Satan in His Original Glory - among my list of the top records of 2022.  FACT: That makes me a loggerhead.  FACT: I recommend starting with II: Every Tongue Shall Praise Satan.  FACT: These guys really, really dig Satan.

Blood Capsule #132

CHRISTMAS BLOODY CHRISTMAS (2022)

Am I the only one in favor of a moratorium on Christmas-themed horror films?  At least until we make it out of 2022?  There are multiple other yuletide shockers vitiating screens - both big and small - with subverted Holiday...cheer?  Whatever you want to call it, it's only halfway successful in Christmas Bloody Christmas.  The film begins as a self-aware put-on (thanks, but no thanks), but shit gets serious when a robotic Santa Claus goes on the blink.  Y'know, kerflooey.  The horror elements will dance before your eyes; the gore is squishy and the sets drown in variegated colors that establish an optimal amount of atmosphere.

Unfortunately, the obnoxious characters prattle on far too long before they are extinguished.  The script writes them as horror/metal nerds, and while I'm sure intentions are pure, the dialogue comes across as patronizing at times.  Speaking of the dialogue, it feels like dialogue.  The acting is serviceable, but I can't empathize with your starlet just because she worships Motorhead.  I'm being a buzzkill, huh?  This flick is redeemable, mainly on the strength of its special effects.  So I didn't detest it.  Leave your coal in someone else's stocking.

Top 5 Albums of 2022

EDIT: Sorry for the tiny image.  Whelp.  Anyway...

I'm still besmithered (yes, I made up a word) by anxiety and the obsidian reaches of depression, so lower your expectations immediately.  Also, without sounding too dramatic (too late), 2022 has been the worst year of my adult life.  It's a landslide, folks.  I only mention bullshit to stress that my ability to receive metal was compromised in the last twelve months.  Like, literally.  I was out of commission for two of those months, entirely unplugged from the rest of the world.  You can only play catch-up so much, you dig?  I should thank my mother for playing songs on her phone in the hospital, as these were not songs that she would normally stream.

It's true.  I previewed then-upcoming albums from Deathwhite and Wachenfeldt from a bed of institutionalized convalescence.  The other music on this list...my comments will be curt and crisp.  I didn't spend as much time with music as I would have liked.  Really, 2022 was just fog.  Dope fog.  Read into that description as you will.

5) Behemoth - Opvs Contra Natvram: I'm surprised that this record was so divisive, what with it being a creamy admixture of the kind of igneous noise that Nergal and the gang are known for.  The overcast, disconsolate black metal pairs well with blocks of death metal din.  And the leads!  Nergal is one of the more underrated solo players out there, in my opinion.

4) Moonlight Sorcery - Piercing Through the Frozen Eternity: This is an EP, but I don't care.  If you want icy, well-calculated black metal with a melodic bent, listen to this fucker.

3) Wachenfeldt - Faustian Reawakening: How in the hell is this Swedish project obscure?  Okay, I suppose I understand that not everyone is up on Scandinavian extremity, but holy Hostess snack cakes, this thing is a killer.  Beefed-up blackened death metal with plenty of "catchy" to spare.  Seek out the debut as well.

2) Deathwhite - Grey Everlasting: I've praised these doomsters before.  Their solemn hymns of...well, doom just speak to me on a gut level.  Sample "Formless."

1) Messa - Close: Italian doom with a redheaded siren singing you to your watery grave.  Hints of blues, world music, and even basic hard rock abound.  Here again, I've praised them before, but that hardly matters now.  Doom wins!

HONORABLE MENTIONS

Queensryche - Digital Noise Alliance

Kvaen - The Great Below

Lord Belial - Rapture

Inexorum - Equinox Vigil

Album Cover of the Whatever

Eye-catching, no?  I had never heard of the UK-based Abduction, but this is a supremely wicked blast of black metal.

Blood Capsule #131

HALF-CASTE (2004)

This is where I divulge that I nodded off during parts of today's review subject.  Shouldn't that disqualify me from proffering my impressions of said film?  Yes, but I say we sally forth.  I'm at a point in my life where I need divine inspiration, and Half-Caste, the lone credit for everyone involved, did not provide a wellspring of creative impulses.  The plot finds an assemblage of filmmakers gallivanting around South Africa in search of a half-human/half-leopard, an urban legend that may prove to be a bellwether for deathly...oh, forget it.  The movie doesn't bother cultivating menace, so why should I?

The horrid truth is that this is an early stab at "found footage" fright fare.  It doesn't work because - excuse me while I crack my knuckles - the characters are execrable (not to mention hard to tell apart in the case of our two male leads), the special effects are lacking (even in the pitch of night), and the tenuous subplots wouldn't arrest a bloodied freak in an orange jumpsuit.  That's a miserable metaphor, but like I said, Half-Caste didn't give me much material.  I wouldn't want my name associated with a review of the project, much less the project itself.

Geek Out #158

I'm still not in reviewing mode, but I did imbibe this weirdo in recent days.  "Atmosphere-forward" is a word that comes to mind, and it's not even a word.

Rassle Inn #34

I ended up watching the lion's share (a most divisive share, to be sure) of Full Gear.  My thoughts?  Remember when Steve Austin was such a convincing heel that Vinnie Mac had to switch him face?  The crowd loved him too much.  Thus, the anti-hero was born (in wrestling anyway).  Well, there is now a new addition to the pro-grappling vernacular - the anti-heel.  I want accreditation for the mint.

I've bitched before about Tony Khan's "inside" style of booking, an approach that invalidates the common fan.  And we've seen the ratings stagnate as a result, not that I'm particularly enthused about being right.  There are a couple of new champions in AEW that seal the deal.  Jamie Hayter!  I've been a fan for years, and you better believe that she deserves gold around her waist.  But she's a heel.  She defeated a babyface Toni Storm and won plaudits from the smarks in attendance.  Heels are simply cheered in 2022, logic be damned.  MJF is facing a similar reaction.

Fans either don't respect the storyline or - and this is the more likely scenario - they don't respect the brass.  Tony is making shit up as he goes along and everyone knows it.  How does this help inveigle the person who just wants something to watch on Wednesday nights?  Y'know, the bloke who could be a prospective member of the rasslin' army?  It doesn't!  Your product needs to make sense, and arenas teeming with dundertwerps (again, accreditation) cheering for a dude nicknamed The Devil Himself doesn't make sense on the surface.

It's frustrating because I still consider myself to be an All Elite advocate.  Stardom and NJPW are hosting a cross-promotional event soon, possibly as I type.  That's going to be sick.

Trip Like I Do

"So has Dom returned from his trip yet?"  Yes.  I have, in all actuality, returned.  Unfortunately, I don't know when I'll be able to write the next proper update.  I am currently dealing with the worst case of anxiety I have ever faced.  I feel gutted and powerless.  And it's so much worse than I could ever strive to describe.

I don't care at all about movies or wrestling, though I've attempted to watch both to dreadful, uninspiring results.  Don't care at all about AEW's Full Gear.  I might order it?  If you're wondering, I am seeing my mental health specialist tomorrow.  I hope to have good news soon.  This is seriously draining me, guys.  All prayers are welcome.

A Band: Witherfall

Bye.  Oopsy-daisy!  I got the order switched around.  Before I announce my imminent departure (road trip...I shouldn't be gone too long), I wanted to jot down an adjective or two about Witherfall.  Maybe a verb?  No, fuck verbs!

I used to be categorically anti-power metal.  What can I say?  If you don't listen to the stuff, you assume the worst.  Y'know, elves and shit.  Then you stumble upon bands such as Control Denied, Spiral Architect, Tad Morose, and Nevermore (yes, they're power-adjacent).  It is at that moment you realize that power metal extends beyond sprites and kobolds.  It can be technical.  Barring musical trivialities, it can also touch on more human sensibilities.  From my perspective, it's easier to headbang if your neck isn't chained to a goddamn unicorn.

Enter Witherfall.  Imagine if Nevermore were fronted by Hansi Kursch.  Better yet, imagine a heavier Demons & Wizards.  Fuck to the yeah!  The California-based coterie currently sits at three long players, each one as strong as the last.  I'm dead serious when I avouch to you, my darling, that I can't pick a favorite.  You could start at the beginning, but I advise sucking down 2021's Curse of Autumn.  The production is full-bodied all around.  So you know it's worth sucking.  Hello.

There is no penultimate ditch...

I'm going to keep this relatively short, partly because I'm tired of repeating myself and don't feel like I should have to.  I've had people ask me how to support the site.  Well, now there's an easier way.  Click HERE.  The minimum donation is $3 per month.  If you can't swing three bucks a month to help...be nice, Dom...be nice.  I'm just saying.  I don't think folks realize (and this isn't necessarily their fault) that this is what I do.  I can't work a regular job.  I collect disability, but...yeah, I'm not going to go there.

Random Reviews needs financial support to stay afloat.  It's like any other website.  It cannot grow without YOU, the reader(s).  But hey, you stand to gain in the long run.  Check out the perks.  You could get a free gift/prize every month!  Woah!

MARILYN MANSON - Portrait of an American Family

It's ironic that I decided to tackle this project, even as I concede that I'm blinking several albums out of existence (quiet down, rubes...you know who you are).  On the subject of Marilyn Manson, I am well past the point of discovery, that wild, bracing flux of new emotions you feel when you and your paramour (or honeybunch, if it suits your means) are waist-deep in the dating stage of your relationship.  That's not the only reason why this assiduous endeavor may seem out of step with my current tastes.  Heh, did you see that?  The first three letters of "assiduous" spell a foul invective.  Ass!  Can you believe that?  ASS!

And so this intellectual dissertation continues...these days, I primarily lock myse-ASS!  Man, I guess you had to be there.  Right, so the majority of the music that I jam into my ears is metallic.  To be a tad specific, I've been devouring atmospheric black metal by the shovel load.  We have a mammoth road trip looming next week (truly, it's a commiserable peregrination; it's also a couple of fancy words), and judging by the playlists I've compiled for the occasion, I won't be shaking metal from my bones anytime soon.  Apart from the heaviest moments of Portrait of an American Family and Antichrist Superstar, Manson is an industrial rock act.  What gives?

Outside of being an intriguing discography review, I don't have a gratifying answer.  Ever since eyeballing the video for "Sweet Dreams" at the tender, marbled age of 11, I've been fascinated by the man, the myth, the calculated character that is Marilyn Manson.  I didn't immerse myself in Portrait until I considered myself to be a well-versed fan.  If Antichrist Superstar is the devil himself, then Portrait is a lowly familiar, a menial demon content to pester you, perhaps by pissing on your ornamental rug.  That's not a bad thing, necessarily.  In 1994, this quintet of spooky kids wasn't too far removed from high school, and you can tell.

"Cake and Sodomy" is a forceful track.  I can't think of a more germane way to kick off the record.  Right out of the gate, you'll notice (or at least I did) an electric guitar that yields to the rhythm section and buckles beneath the other instruments during moments of ungainly tension.  "Hardly worth mentioning, Dom."  I beg to differ, hypothetical paper tiger.  Manson himself has such a commanding presence, people forget that there is a guitarist on the payroll.  On Portrait, that guitarist is Daisy Berkowitz.  Next to John 5, he's my favorite Manson axeman.  Would it be going too far to call him the Randy Rhoads to Manson's Ozzy Osbourne?  Yes.  Yes, it would.

Speaking of favorites (and guitars, natch), "Cyclops" is my favorite cut here.  Additionally, it boasts a fantastic solo break.  The song does encompass some of Manson's weaker lyrics ("Cyclops woman can't see nothing at all/She got a pin prick spiral hole"), but it fucking rocks.  That sound you heard was me demolishing your argument, if you had one.  Do I really need to cover the classics?  No, seriously; my vision is beginning to blur.  I will proclaim that "Lunchbox" is just as repetitive as it is catchy.  Sonically, "Get Your Gunn" hints at the album around the corner.  I love the wry focus on soft/loud dynamics.  You can castigate his moral fiber (and trust me, I'm getting there), but the guy knows how to write a chorus.

The first half of Portrait of an American Family walks with purpose.  The second half...eh, it trips and falls over.  I'm not sure what happens exactly, but this set of sparklers loses its momentum as it approaches the finish line.  I can relate.  Ask yourself how many times you have listened to "Misery Machine" in its entirety.  If the number is above zero, you are lying.  Okay, I'll give you one.  ASS!  That's called a theme, kids.

   

Album Cover of the Whatever

This sick puppy hasn't even been released yet.  I just want to point a neon green arrow at it and shriek.  What is it?  It's a split between Abyssal and Tchornobog, the former having prostrated my prostate with their latest long player, 2019's A Beacon in the Husk.  The latter...I'm familiar with the name, but that's about it.  For me, this release simply means we get new Abyssal to gobble up.  And the cover art!  Holy what the shit I can't even right now.

Blood Capsule #130

FULCI FOR FAKE (2019)

Lucio Fulci is my favorite European auteur.  It could be said that he peddled the same brand of lush, prismatic gore as Dario Argento, but for reasons undetermined (and thus unspecified), I always preferred the maestro of Italian horror.  His scares hit with less pretense.  Just my opinion, kids...sure, I'm right, but the tears are a bit much.  At times, Fulci for Fake is a bit much.  I feel like I can speak for all fans when I say that we only wanted a documentary.  We didn't need director Simone Scafidi to interpolate himself into this brocade of genuinely interesting material by virtue of a groundless subplot.  Yes, subplot.

The viewer is asked to go along with the idea that our narrator is grooming actresses to be slaughtered on the side.  If the heart of Fake wasn't so earnest and authentic (the interview segments with a crippled Camilla Fulci will batter your emotions), I don't know that it would be worth recommending.  But here I am recommending it.  Use your own judgment.

Virus

Remember when I reviewed 1997's Phantoms for the nationally-observed month of Koontztober?  It's okay; I can barely remember what I wrote sixty seconds ago.  In any event, remember when I reviewed 1997's Phantoms for the nationally-observed month of Koontztober?  It's okay; I...can see that this joke has already been herded into old sod.  My point!  My point is that I reminded my darling readers that monster movies trudged on through a fusillade of spacey (no pun intended), incurious slashers.  The Ghostfaces of the film industry didn't make it easy, but evidence suggests that the good old-fashioned creature feature can - and will - survive a shelling of shit. I'm talking about a real rogering!

Taking the glossy production values out of the equation, you would never guess that Virus was birthed in the late 90's.  From what I've gathered, it was a natural birth.  Donald Sutherland could be seen waving as he scuttered down the cervix by the Satanic agency of gravity.  Here is something else you won't believe; the lion's share of the special effects on display are perfectly practical.  Actually, the CGI is refined.  Again, it was 1999.  If you adjust your expectations accordingly, you'll enjoy a cinematic meteor shower of biomech mercenaries and sliced borg flesh.

So what the fuck would a Virus synopsis look like?  I'll try to avoid details, as I tend to...well, I despise plot summaries.  Why can't you just click your dick over to IMDb and leave me alone? If pressed for comment (and at knifepoint), I'd say that this flick concerns an American boating crew salvaging the cargo of a seemingly deserted Russian ship.  Granted reprieve from the eye of a typhoon, mariners such as William Baldwin and Jamie Lee Curtis begin to connect the dots as they relate to the mysterious disappearances of both people and equipment.  It turns out that an alien force of some description has been hard at work marrying the most sensible attributes of man and machine.

The characters are bland.  They lack a certain punch.  To be frighteningly specific, they lack Hawaiian Punch Polar Blast.  This thing is gory as hell.  Why doesn't anyone ever mention the "body horror" hecatomb that Virus brings to the table?  I mean, blood is let in toe-curling, sinew-gnawing ways.  You want memorable?  To paraphrase D-Generation-X, I got two words for ya...MECHA-SUTHERLAND!  Motherfucker deserved his own franchise.  Look, I get that Virus is a stale sci-fi product that has "major studio" tattooed on its taint, but sometimes, fun spontaneously combusts and cameras are there to catch it.

This sweetheart is a hodgepodge of Robocop, Carpenter's The Thing, and a sheepish dram of Deep Rising.  Z'Dar says, "If I were a movie, I would be Virus, only sexier."

   

How about Triffids versus Devil Bats?

I did watch the bulk of 1963's The Day of the Triffids, but I won't be reviewing it.  Too much going on, y'know?  Totally worth perusing, though.  It's a surprisingly cold, menacing film.  Anyway, I just got done co-hosting a Halloween get-together, which I realize is an awkward sentence.  The key to hosting parties?  1940's The Devil Bat bubbling in the background at a muffled, halcyon volume.  Thank you for being a friend, Bela.