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I've had the WWE Network since Monday. I've only experienced one day of uninterrupted, snag-free service. That would be...today. Frustrating? That's putting it mildly, but hold onto your fedora of fault-finding. Technical gaffes are to be expected with the launch of any multi-media venture of this breadth and volume. Let's wait and see how the network holds up over the next few weeks. More importantly, let's see how WWE's servers respond to the assiduous influx of traffic levied by Wrestlemania. If the live feed cuts out during Brock Lesnar's epic encounter with The Undertaker, God help the McMahon family. Thousands of fans would cancel their subscriptions, and so would I.
But that hasn't happened yet (knock on wood). Issues are being arbitrated, and I'm starting to enjoy the content that the WWE Network has to offer. I just watched a shaving of WCW Beach Blast '92. Scotty Flamingo vs. Flyin' Brian Pillman was way better than I remembered. Sure, Baby Raven was greener than zucchini leukocytes on St. Patrick's Day (wait, what?), but it was a spirited exchange that utilized the entire ring. I've pegged the Rude/Steamboat Iron Man Match for later tonight. Motherfucking Steamboat, people. I could watch any PPV if I wanted to, and not that it's any of your goddamn business, but I'll probably catch up on all of the ECW stuff I discounted in the 90's.
Of course, the first actual live stream was NXT: Arrival. I can't believe how much buzz this two-hour special has generated. Can the good will amassed by Paige, Emma, Sami Zayn, The Ascension and Tyler Breeze (among others) translate to the main roster? How many regular viewers of Raw and Smackdown tuned in last night? Zayn and Cesaro worked a "match of the year" candidate that was able to tell a story with impeccable wrestling. Paige and Emma upstaged the entire Diva's division. That match felt more meaningful and significant than any women's bout in the WWE since Lita's retirement.
Don't get me wrong; I still heart A.J., but who does she have to work with? Emma needs to ditch Santino as soon as fucking possible. At any rate, The Ascension was also on display. They have the potential to be the next Road Warriors, or at least the next Acolyte Protection Agency. The future is so bright, I need sunglasses. HAHA! My brain's feed is cutting out.
So if you're not watching NXT: Arrival tomorrow (Thursday) night, you're a loser. I'll probably review it. On second thought, I'll just post my piece on the WWE Network and include my impressions of the event. Something tells me it's going to kick ass. Bring on Paige vs. Emma and Zayn vs. Cesaro!
Larry Cohen, you fucking weirdo. Only you could have made this movie. 1987's A Return to Salem's Lot has zilch to do with 1979's Salem's Lot. Yes, it should have had a different title, but Halloween III: Season of the Witch has managed to settle into a niche audience after years of debasement and unjust scurrility. Why does everyone still shit on this flick? My friend gave me his copy after watching it and promptly shrugging his shoulders. I don't think it's that bad. C'mon! Michael Moriarty plays a dickhead! How dreadful could it be? Now, go play while Daddy writes a synopsis. You know I get volatile in "synopsis mode." Besides, your mother is being a bitch.
So Moriarty is Joe, a photo journalist saddled with the responsibility of tending to his estranged son. He takes Jeremy - the estranged son - to a gig in Maine. Naturally, he winds up in Salem's Lot, a nondescript town smote with hoary vampires. The bloodsuckers have been there for centuries, and they have a system in place. They feed on cattle, their children attend school at night and "drones" (hybrids, basically) keep the municipality operating during daylight hours. Cohen is prone to using boilerplate horror bromides to comment on society. Here, he satires the sterility of suburban life and the virulence of class warfare. I don't need to tell you that he does this with tacky creature effects.
See, that's why I dig Return. It's lighthearted. It's funny, both intentionally and unintentionally. It's ambitious. The cast is equipped with quirky character actors. Ricky Addison Reed is enthusiastic as Jeremy, and he has the best lines of the lot ("You shut up. You shut the fuck up!"). Oddly enough, this was his first and last role. Sam Fuller kicks ass as Van Meer, Nazi hunter extraordinaire. It goes without saying that Moriarty is...himself. Man, he's an acquired taste, but I've developed an appreciation for his diacritic swagger. Diacritic swagger??? Yeah.
I am fully aware that this film is a honeycomb of foibles, a waffle cloth riddled with craters, if you will. It's not my favorite Larry Cohen production. That slot is reserved for It's Alive. However, I wouldn't hesitate to recommend A Return to Salem's Lot. The Tobe Hooper original is infinitely superior, but if you adjust your expectations accordingly, you might have fun. Cons? Eh, the running time is swollen, subplots are dropped without warning and Count Barlow is missed. You won't find much menace beyond these gates, that I can assure you. There is a reason why I focused on the positives, though. The negatives didn't weigh too heavily on my psyche. That's obvious.
Movie review tomorrow. Thoughts on the WWE Network later in the week. Alright.
This is a "dual purpose" post. First up, the obvious purpose, which is to pay respects to the recently departed Nelson Frazier Jr. Growing up, I didn't have much of an opinion with regard to Mabel or Men on a Mission. I could say the same for the other babyface tag teams of the time. How did The Smoking Gunns get over anyway? But I digress. When The Undertaker compiled his Ministry of Darkness in 1999, I recognized Mabel straight away. Except he was called Viscera. And he was fucking creepy.
Man, what a great gimmick, if you can even call it a gimmick. I don't remember Nelson cutting any real promos as Viscera, but he didn't need to talk. Somehow, he managed to be more intimidating than The Phenom himself, no flimsy feat. When the character resurfaced in WWE's ECW, I wasn't watching the product (this was during my cavalier, supercilious too-cool-for-wrestling phase). I have since gone back and eaten my fill of Big Daddy V. This kinda-sorta brings me to my next point, the second purpose of this prevailingly purposeful post.
Does Nelson Frazier Jr. deserve to be inducted into the WWE Hall of Fame? Ideally, no. Up until a couple of days ago, didn't the die-hards snicker at the mention of King Mabel? Didn't they roll their eyes at his 1995 coronation? In an ideal setting, he wouldn't be inducted. However, as soon as Koko B. Ware was conscripted as a so-called legend, all bets were off. Hell, both Koko and Nelson worked for Jerry in Memphis. I say, one is just as worthy as the other.
What do you think? It would be a reverential way to honor his death, but of course, you can't induct a wrestler for dying young. Or can you? Fuck, I don't know.
NOT PICTURED: Actual teenagers.
I never realized how much Peter Sasdy rocks. If you're like most eremitic cave dwellers, you've never heard of the guy. Seriously, who isn't familiar with the gentleman who engendered The Stone Tape (a made-for-TV favorite here at RR Inc.) and Taste the Blood of Dracula? Almost everyone on Earth? Really? Well, that's a shame. Sasdy seems to have had a knack for picking tidy, magnetic scripts. The pictures I've seen of his share a deft sense of structure and storytelling. They immediately dry-gulch the viewer with a grapnel, a visceral hook that waylays like soldiers in ambuscade. I once fucked like soldiers in ambuscade. It wasn't pretty. In fact, don't look up "ambuscade." I've already revealed too much about my thrusting techniques.
God, that was the worst paragraph ever written. But you came here to brush up on your Hammer knowledge, didn't you? 1971's Hands of the Ripper strikes a euphonious parity between the storied studio's Gothic output and the seedy kitsch of, say, Twins of Evil. It boasts the best of both worlds. The death sequences are showy (in a crimson-colored way, natch), and we are treated to...um, the female form. On the other hand, the cast is positively poised. Eric Porter is affable and dignified as Dr. Pritchard, a chap who volunteers to take care of a disturbed girl he suspects of murder. This isn't just any kind of murder, though. What am I saying? Sure it is. Isn't it? Oh, who cares?
The angelic Anghared Rees plays Anna, the pestered daughter of one Jack the Ripper. She saw Mommy being offed by Daddy. That's enough to gall any dreamboat cherub. There is a bloodlust inherent in her stare, and it can be triggered by specific stimuli (lambent jewelry, a peck on the cheek). She becomes "possessed" by her father's spirit. That probably constitutes a spoiler, but it's obvious that Anna is the killer from the get-go. The entertainment value is mined from proper character development and the suspense generated by a virile, healthy third act. Granted, said suspense could not exist without glaringly stupid decisions made by our trusted protagonist.
It takes Dr. Pritchard an awfully long time to put two and two together. Maybe I'm dense, but I was nonplussed by the cathedral bit. How can Anna hear Laura's whispering? I couldn't tell where the actors were standing in relation to one another, which might be the only denigration I can direct at Sasdy's camerawork. Get it? Direct? It's a pun, bitch! Woo-hoo! In all relative seriousness, Hands of the Ripper is a prizewinner. The pace is methodical, the leads are sturdy and the foul play is appropriately brutal. I'd put this stalk-and-slash vehicle up there with other Ripper romps such as From Hell and Bob Clark's Murder by Decree. Robert Z'Dar says, "Guess it's back to work for me. I demand a raise."
So I won't be able to write the final "mainstream series" review. Yes, it was Jason Goes to Hell: The Final Friday and yes, I'll try to cover it next year. Sorry, guys. I tried. Between the move and a recent bout of depression, I wasn't able to pull it out. This is officially the LAST post for...a month maybe? Trust me; when Random Reviews returns, the entire webby-web will be put on alert. Hopefully, I'll be in a healthier headspace by then.
Again, I'm as sorry as can be, but life goes on. Later, fucks!
The reason why the site has been sporadic lately is because we're packing shit. I'm moving this weekend, and when I do, RR Inc. will go on hiatus. Things will return to normalcy once we have settled in. I'm guessing before Thanksgiving, but it could be longer/shorter. I've been needing a break anyway. But have no fear! I have two more items to post before my self-imposed hibernation (and yes, one of them is an edition of The Shitty Webcam Show that was supposed to go live today...it's a doozy, trust me). Stay tuned.
Hindsight can make anyone a judicious oracle of sapience (a what of what?). In hindsight, we know that giving The Ultimate Warrior the brass ring wasn't a sound decision. It didn't yield favorable results long-term, but when you watch an early Warrior bout, you can't blame Vinnie Mac for pushing the fucker to Saturn. How was he to know that Jim Hellwig was a flake in waiting? Look at the reaction he gets in today's match that time forgot, a six-man tag from 1988. Relatively speaking, Warrior was a wishful apprentice. He was as green as a turtle's undercarriage, but the crowd fucking loved him.
Watch as he teams up with The British Bulldogs to accost Mr. Fuji and Demolition. The crazy son of a bitch doesn't even need the other five participants to entertain the attendees. I'm not convinced that he realizes it's a tag team match. That's our Warrior! He botches a gorilla press slam towards the end, but who cares? The shrill, deafening fans clearly don't, and that's what matters.
I first saw John Carpenter's Halloween when I was a prepubescent waif. Throughout my teenaged years, I maintained that it was overrated. As I plowed into my 20's, my deportment softened a bit. I mellowed out. To tell you the truth, I like to think that I was beginning to mature as a horror buff (tee-fucking-hee). I still didn't see the film as a singular masterclass in nail-shitting suspense, but I was able to enjoy it. Fast-forward to last night. My father and I attended a screening of Halloween at my local multiplex (heh, I make it sound so exclusive). I will avow that the piercing audio and the sight of a 9-foot Donald Pleasence made me appreciate The Shape's exploits on a more discerning level.
But only slightly. Is it an effective slasher? Without question. The best of all time? That's a negative. I am left with many of the same reservations that I held as a teenager. Halloween didn't actually pioneer anything; it was merely the first successful stabshow to trot out a masked killer and yecchy POV shots. A part of me resents it for dwarfing the fortunes bestowed upon Black Christmas (and to a lesser extent, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre). That may never change, but I can't rightfully blame Halloween itself for being an overachiever. It's a tight, crafty watch, and it's not responsible for the mistral of knock-offs that it spawned.
Maybe it's the seasonal weather, but for whatever reason, this picture's pros have become readily apparent to my erudite eyeballs (speaking of my peepers, they're just peeled grapes...don't tell the trick-or-treaters). Carpenter knows exactly how to bottle the Halloween (the holiday, that is) spirit and release it in front of a camera. He should reduce it to a rarefied broth. A petrifying potage. A vile vichyssoise. Okay, I'll stop. The atmosphere might be my favorite aspect of Halloween. My second favorite is definitely the iconic score, as it always manages to gift-wrap my brittle bones in goose flesh.
With the exception of a dazed Nancy Kyes (seriously, what did she smoke before each take, and where can I procure a bag?), the cast is on point. Obviously, Pleasence steals the screen, but how fucking adorable is P.J. Soles? Totally! I can't believe that I was lucky enough to meet her a couple of years ago. The pace drags in the paunch of the second act. C'mon, you have to admit that the death sequences are stretched out beyond comprehension, but hot damn, the finale is peerless. That's how you end a slasher, folks. Carpenter wrote the book on capping a climax. It's called Capping A Climax: I Wrote This Book.
Above all else, Halloween is fun. I can accept it as an authentic classic. I do feel that my rating is fair, though. I'm not blinded by nostalgia or franchise loyalty, nor am I oblivious to flaws that strike me as egregious on occasion. Also, I'm right.
Soon, I'll be reviewing a film that I was lucky enough to catch on the big screen. No hints! You'll have to wait in terrible suspense.
In retrospect, I'm surprised that Hellraiser: Bloodline is as cohesive as it is. The film's bedeviled production history is well-documented, but if you've been living 'neath a puzzle box for seventeen years, I'll give you the cardinal footnotes. Special effects czar Kevin Yagher signed on to direct Pinhead in Space. After countless scuffles with studio heads, he capitulated in disgruntled dissatisfaction and abandoned the project (his credit went to "Alan Smithee," Hollywood's go-to pseudonym for embittered filmmakers). Halloween 6 marksman Joe Chappelle interceded to wrap principal photography. I don't need to remind you that he was no stranger to Dimension's meddlesome infractions, so I'm sure he knew how to use his juke swerve to avoid certain landmines.
Three, maybe four cuts of Bloodline exist. There were rewrites up the rectum, and in terms of box office staying power, the sequel/prequel hybrid left a crater the size of a phytophagous chalcid wasp in its wake. I don't suppose it would help put things into perspective by mentioning that said wasps are microscopic little shits, would it? Well, they are. I don't even remember seeing TV spots for a fourth Hellraiser entry. As a matter of fact, I was under the impression that it was a direct-to-video release until we acquired our first dial-up modem in 1999. But none of this minutiae speaks to the quality of Bloodline itself. Considering the circumstances, I find it to be a visceral triumph over a vested bureaucracy.
Crude tampering be damned, this is a well-groomed horror picture. Is it too ambitious? Possibly. Is the acting patchy in spots? Affirmative. Are there bizarre plot specifics that are never addressed? Holy clit Jesus, yes. And yet, I was sated by an epic-as-fuck storyline that was easy to follow and introduced a multitude of vibrant, prismatic characters. You have to be willing to suspend disbelief to enjoy Bloodline. Deep thought is forbidden as soon as you press play. Yeah, the original Hellraiser is quite cerebral (the same goes for Hellbound), but we're in goddamn outer space here.
Clive Barker traditionalists did not take kindly to Pinhead's foray into futuristic science fiction. Most fans are quick to slander this flick to shreds, and I understand their ridicule. Our lead cenobite is less reserved and more...Krueger-y. Hellraiser: Bloodline is content to be a popcorn thriller. I'm cool with that, seeing as how I don't have any sentimental ties to the series or its source material. I approve of the rampant gore, I approve of the raw sexuality (Valentina Vargas can execrate my soul anytime) and I approve of the accelerated pacing. What can I say? I'm easy to please, especially when it comes to soda and beef jerky.
It took awhile, but I finally have proof. This is what a champion looks like, folks.
It had been awhile since I watched A Nightmare on Elm Street 5: The Dream Child, which is why I picked it over, say, Freddy's Revenge or New Nightmare. I now regret that decision. No, it's not because I abhor this flick; it's because I don't have a strong opinion in either direction. These are the hardest reviews to write. I want to leave it at "meh," but damn it, I have a reputation to uphold. I scribe the best horror reviews in cyberspace (lol), and I can't afford to let my fans down. Lamentably, director Stephen Hopkins has set all of his knobs and cranks to medium. It's almost as if he was given stern, adamantine orders to make his Freddy feature good enough.
"What's all this talk about knobs and cranks? Dom, are you sucking cock again?" Yes. That doesn't change the fact The Dream Child is an intermediate affair. It doesn't do one thing exceptionally well. Likewise, it doesn't falter wildly in any one category. There was a conscience effort here to modulate the tacky wisecracks, but the script seems hesitant to adopt unflinching horror as its method of operation. The premise had potential to be appallingly grody. For twat's sake, we see a nun being raped by a thousand mental patients! That's heavy stuff, but Hopkins only dips his toes into the hypoxia-ridden detritus.
Bear in mind, this lurid sewage is commingled with Freddy wearing a fluted chef's hat and bellowing, "Bon appetit!" The levity doesn't click. Still, the sight gags aren't as outlandish as they were in The Dream Master. If I'm being honest, Freddy's resurrection sequence spooked me a bit (it's the way he stands up...brrr). The art direction is astonishing. Hopkins has a knack for concocting sleek imagery and keeping the pace afloat. Those are common threads that run through each of his outings, I find. Predator 2 for the win! I wonder how many youngsters know that "ftw" came from Hollywood Squares. Yeah, your chat acronyms aren't as tubular as you thought, are they?
Lisa Wilcox returns as the final girl, and that's fine with me. She's certainly likeable, and it could be argued that Alice is the strongest heroine to square off against The Crispy One. The supporting players are forgettable, but man, they die in spectacular fashion. How could any sane, rational motherfucker sneer at Super Freddy? Mark's comic book demise is a crowning coup for the Elm Street series. On the barren wing of the ovarian follicle (give me a break, my brain is powering down), the kills are few and far between. I don't want to use the term "half-assed," but...no, that's accurate. A Nightmare on Elm Street 5: The Dream Child is half-assed.
While it would be a fair assessment to claim that I'm on the fence, my general impression of this spiritless sequel is positive. It's fun somehow.
Tomorrow, the Halloween review special will continue. And "Uncle Tom's Cabin" is a killer track.
