Blood Capsule #58

PROTOTYPE (1992)

Another blood capsule!  Lucky you.  Actually, I'm fulfilling my duty as a friend.  You see, I picked out this junker to watch with a buddy of mine, and well, let's just say I feel guilty for what we had to endure.  My punishment?  This mini-review.  Prototype is a futuristic "killer robot" ragbag that came to berth in the wake of T2: Judgment Day.  There were gobs of these direct-to-video litter reels trammeling local rental showrooms (yes, showrooms...that's the choice I made), and it was glorious.  It wasn't quite as glorious on a case-to-case basis.  You could get stuck with real wreckage.  Like Prototype!  An infirm veteran (who may or may not be able to buy beer legally) volunteers for a chancy program that promises to restore his mobility.  And it does, but it also turns him into a cybernetic drudge.  He's all touchy-killy and shit.

How does this laundry list strike you?  Uninterrupted smoking (apparently, the year 2057 isn't far removed from 1957), cumbersome editing, extrasensory sex (okay, that wasn't terrible), a prosaic pace, incestuous undertones (for fuck's sake, the boy is barely a teenager) and a psychic yoga ninja who doesn't relate to the plot in any goddamn way.  Seriously, who the fuck was that prickhole?  He materializes out of thin air in the final act.  Ugh, fuck Prototype.  It's bad.  I mean, the lighting is cool, and the acting is harmless.  But fuck Prototype.  Happy now, Paul???  Shuffle this deck!

Blood Capsule #57

SECRET OF THE BLUE ROOM (1933)

What we have here is a "lost" Universal horror film.  It's not really lost, though.  And it's not really a horror film, but in my judgment, it's within the classification contiguity that dovetails the dimensions of Random Reviews Inc.  Got it?  Good.  Blue Room runs on "old dark house" tropes to tell the story of a supposedly haunted bedroom.  Three bachelors offer to spend the night in this place to prove their gallantry to the delicate Irene von Helldorf.  Obviously, calamitous things happen, but who is responsible?  As a whodunit, the narrative is suitable.  I dug the twists, I must say.  However, Blue Room folds when it comes to pretending to be a fright flick.

Director Kurt Neumann whips up juicy exteriors (those squally typhoons are to die for), and I'm cool with the manner in which key scenes are framed, but - fuck, this sentence is too damn long.  The atmosphere isn't bleak enough for me.  The Old Dark House is more sinister, and that's practically a full-blown comedy.  In addition, I bore witness to subplots being dropped off the side of the crag in the movie itself.  Figuratively speaking, but still!  Would I recommend Secret of the Beryl Enclosure?  Yeah.  It's entertaining, and it stars Lionel Atwill.  Actually, the whole cast is methodical, if not a teensy bit stagy.  What's a Universal classic without blood and thunder?

Album Cover of the Whatever

As per the incoming ambuscade of snowfall, our power may go out in the next day or two.  Personally, I doubt it.  But just in case, I thought I'd pacify my hungry fanbase (lolz) with...well, this.  It's all you're getting.

The Comedy of Terrors

Ah, this is what the doctor ordered.  Look at that cast!  I've recently become a big fan of Peter Lorre, and Vincent Price is my favorite actor period.  Of course, Boris Karloff is nothing to sneeze at.  You have Basil Rathbone hamming it way up and quoting Shakespeare pole to pole.  Joyce Jameson's cleavage is ace.  Let's be honest; that's all women are good for, am I right?  Just joshing!  Actually, her performance is quite droll.  Her forced bad singing made the faucets in my house tap out (that joke should be framed).  Thus far, I've been raining plaudits down on 1963's The Comedy of Terrors, but it pains me to say that I wouldn't recommend it.  It's a comedy above all else, and yet, it isn't particularly funny.

Humor being a subjective thing, I doubt that I can substantiate my claims other than stating...I didn't laugh.  Much.  Price heads a well-worn premise that finds his character running his father-in-law's funeral parlor.  Business is sluggish, so Price (Waldo, the autocratic scuzzball) and Lorre (Felix, the second-in-command pushover) create their own customer base.  It's The Body Snatcher, only they aren't selling the corpses to a scientist.  Waldo needs to pay his yearly rent (!).  Then it hits him; why not waste the landlord?  "We'll kill two birds with one pillow."  Naturally, shenanigans follow.  This mischief is shockingly arid.  You might even say it's hoary!  I wouldn't, but you might.

The main problem is that there are three, maybe four jokes in the whole movie.  Richard Matheson wrote the screenplay, which is why it chafes my rind to level these scurrilities, but are they not deserved?  Am I not human?  The wife has a terrible opera voice, the sidekick is a stumbling oaf and the landlord refuses to stay in his coffin.  Boom.  I have just outlined The Comedy of Terrors.  Granted, shards of other epigrams squawk through, but the film's plane of camp comes off as too one-dimensional.  Was it snobbish of me to expect something a bit more...intellectual?  Again, look at the cast.  I tried to "let my hair down" and go with the flow, but honestly, I wasn't entertained.

That's not to say that The Comedy of Terrors isn't a well-lubricated affair.  It certainly looks grand.  And it should, as the camera is guided by Jacques Tourneur.  That bad motherfucker directed 1957's Night (or Curse) of the Demon, one of my favorite horror-themed moving pictures of all time.  I don't have to tell you that Price excels at owning the scenery.  Lorre and Karloff are equally glorious, as are the polymorphic sequences of hardcore pornography.  Goodness gracious, those Asian tarts were absolutely pulverized.  I'm sorry; I may be thinking of a different DVD that I...do not own.  Let's wrap this up, shall we?

The Comedy of Terrors is MEH.

Matches That Time Forgot #66

I was going to post a match from the idiosyncratic world of the indies, but then I saw this beauty. "Stunning" Steve Austin versus Scott Steiner?  Who in their right mind would pass this up?  First of all, there aren't many Steiner singles bouts on record before 1997, so if you see one, lap it up.  As expected, Scotty uses every suplex known to man.  Jeepers, what I wouldn't pay to watch him (in his prime) take on Brock Lesnar.  But that would be another blurb!

Of course, Austin is distinguished.  I love that he's paired with Medusa.  Apart from Paul, they are probably my two favorite members of The Dangerous Alliance.  Can it get any more orgiastic?  Yes, it can!  On commentary, we have Sir Heyman and Jim Ross!  Exclamation point!  Y'know, Austin has razzed and downplayed his actual wrestling ability, but it's clear that he knew what he was doing.  I get a charge out of the technical side of things, as it relates to both wrasslin' and death metal.

PS - Check out Dogface Gremlin going for the pin after the match had ended via disqualification.  Yes, I said Dogface Gremlin.  "Not my match?  Whatever, I'm gonna win!"

Dead Girls

Wasn't I just growling the praises of this sub-subgenre in my rundown of last year's Deathgasm?  I love "heavy metal horror," especially if it comes from the 80's.  In the case of Dead Girls, it comes from 1990.  The fashion is the same, but instead of demonic soothsaying (for obvious reasons, these flicks have a thing for the black arts), the characters have to deal with a masked stalker who may or may not be...well, anyone.  That's right, lovelies; it's a slasher!  Slashers are fun, right?  Well, this one isn't so much fun!  I'm still shouting, and I don't know why!  Dead Girls does have a pro or two in its corner.  Stealing a page from the giallo notebook, the whodunit angle makes the entire cast a veritable turnstile of suspects.  I thought I had the killer pegged in the first act, but I was way off-base.

So the ending is unpredictable.  I'll give the movie that much, but simply reaching the ending was a trying drudgery.  The 105-minute running time didn't help.  105!  I swear to Percunas, Dead Girls wanted to torture me.  It starts out on the right cloven hoof.  We see a band (The Dead Girls, natch) bitching back and forth with their pomaded greaseball of a manager.  Apparently, a group of teenagers formed a suicide pact because of their lyrics and all but one troubled youth succeeded in perishing.  Who survived?  Our lead singer's little sister.  Gina - the lead singer, stage name Bertha Beirut - travels back home with her bandmates in tow.  Suffice to say, they receive a cold welcome.  The idea is to whisk Brooke - the little sister - away to their family cabin for a heapin' helpin' of relaxation.

Shit, this synopsis is a drone.  That's the basic set-up.  As mistrust would betoken, there are quite a few underhanded scoundrels afoot, which means there are also quite a few potential victims.  Unfortunately, the death sequences are square.  The goriest kill happens to befall the coolest character, and that just doesn't feel right.  The others are stabbed, drowned or shot.  Booooring.  Nudity should be a no-brainer, but all we are offered is a long-distance view of sideboob.  You can barely make out the nipple!  The fuck?  I scoff at thee!  Man, Dead Girls is in urgent need of exploitation.  The storyline isn't strong enough to support its own weight.  And unlike Black Roses and Rock 'n' Roll Nightmare, we aren't treated to cheesertaining live performances.  Even Monster Dog had a music video, bro!

I laughed in a number of spots.  Take the introduction of Elmo the Retard, for instance.  I'm a horrible person, so I thought it was funny when the strapping bodyguard nearly beat the plasma out of him.  It's okay.  I'm retarded, too.  What's with the incest couple?  No shit, one of the "dead girls" bangs her brother (the drummer).  She doesn't try to hide it, but nobody seems to care.  Whatever, Cynthia Slain.  On second thought, it might have been Lucy Lethal.  Dear Lord, crush my skull with a millstone.  Smite me hard in the ass!  I did not enjoy Dead Girls.  Portions of it are competent, and I'm sure it's tidy with a friend, but I wouldn't recommend it to my most reviled archfoe.  Yet somehow, it's slightly more watchable than Terror on Tour.

Geek Out #121

An atmospheric clip from 1968's Even the Wind is Afraid, a Mexican film that I doubt I'll be able to find.  On a sidenote, these ladies really need to brush up on their sleepwalking etiquette.

Top 5 Horror Films of 2015

Needless to say, this is less of a true best-of list and more of a "favorites" recap.  Don't get me wrong; for all intents and purposes, this is my list of the top terror treats from the preceding twelve months.  Some of the release dates are hairy, but I feel like I stayed within the accepted parameters of these types of inventories.  Remember when I said I had one more film to watch?  One more horror nugget to chock into my brainpan?  I'm glad I fit the sonuvabitch into my schedule because it ended up being #1!  Let's dig deeper...

1. He Never Died ~ Technically, this dandy hits DVD in February, but it has already kissed the festival circuit.  I'm betting that it will land on next year's terminal indexes.  Too bad!  I'm ahead of the fucking curve!  I really, really enjoyed all five selections, but Died was the only choice cut to blow my mind in 2015.  I'm not hyperbolizing or romanticizing my pick.  It's that good.  Without giving crucial plot details away, Henry Rollins plays Jack, a levelheaded loner implicated in seedy acts of malfeasance.  He doesn't want to hear from his ex-wife.  If pressured, he'll spend time with his grown daughter (who he has known for two months), but don't expect jovial conversation.  Oh, and he doesn't die.  Ever.

"Why doesn't he die, Dom?"  That's for you to find out, asshole!  All I wanted from this flick was Rollins being a badass and fucking shit up.  I got that and so much more.  The dialogue is expertly crafted, the concept itself is unique, the characters are fleshed out (even the ancillary players) and writer/director Jason Krawczyk broaches themes that force you to think.  Yep, it's a psychological piece.  Luckily, there is also a freezerload of brute violence.  Find a way to eat this film!

2. The Final Girls ~ If the "retro slasher" fad is ever going to perish (and it should), this is the vehicle to put a period at the end of that sentence.  It's basically perfect.  There is a common denominator shared by these five creepers, and it's character depth.  I cared about these folks, so guess what?  I was invested in their plight.  Whuda thunk it!?  I'm not saying it's easy to write this well, but so many filmmakers don't even try.  Screen authors (I'm tired of typing "writer") M.A. Fortin and Joshua Miller fucking nail it.  The narrative is surprisingly emotional, and it's that sentimental core that motors the rest of this woodsy Winnebago.  Another car reference...something is wrong with me.

The actors are genuinely funny.  And hot.  Malin Akerman sizzled so much, I thought our heat pump had conked out and overheated.  The (non-Malin) visuals are breathtaking.  Take the climax, for example.  It's moored to flashy, florid colors that command the scene.  NOTE: Girls was originally my #1 before I caught He Never Died.  I don't typically go for self-aware genre fare, so you know I'm giggity over this galbanum.

3. Clown ~ Here we have another "hairy release date" situation.  A near totality of global markets released this film in 2015, in spite of the fact that it hasn't seen the light of day in America yet.  It was produced by Eli Roth, so some sort of studio should be jumping to obtain distribution rights.  Or maybe his name is a hindrance.  I don't know.  Right this very second, I don't care.  I just want to tell you how rad Clown is, not that it will need selling once it gains exposure.  As far as killer clowns are concerned, this is the best reel-to-reel exploit since Killer Klowns From Outer Space.  Bold words?  I hear you, but IT was inconsistent, and you know it.  What's left, aside from dozens of straight-to-video cheapies?  Plenty are entertaining, but they do not approach Clown.

Don't let Eli Roth's association scare you; he had zero creative input.  Again, it comes down to style, ingenuity and character development.  Clown is smart.  If you find greasepainted goons creepy at all, then holy shit.  The central antagonist's final form is goddamn monstrous, and I relished the journey that Doomed Dad (that's my name for him) takes.  In other words, I was never bored with the exposition.  Formidable flick.  Keep it on your radar.

4. Stung ~ Yes!  Nowadays, it's enlivening to see a "giant insect" entry that isn't crawling with CGI and doesn't have the Syfy logo branded onto its ass.  There are digital effects, but they aren't pervasive.  Besides, the mutant wasps on display are equal opportunity offenders, meaning they also manifest via practical means.  Stung has a 90's vibe.  Mosquito did spring to mind, but this is the superior creature feature.  The cast is docked by Jessica Cook and Matt O'Leary.  They help make the movie (their chemistry is a bullseye), as does Lance Henriksen as a cogitating codger.  I've given Lance a tough time in recent years for appearing in literally anything and everything, but Stung prodded my better judgment.  The man is still a bad mutha.

I don't need a second block of text.  View Stung.  The end.

5. Deathgasm ~ Do you miss heavy metal b-movies as much as I do?  I'm hoping that this Kiwi splatter fest reignites the flame lit by Black Roses and Rocktober Blood.  This isn't exactly an 80's throwback, though.  Well, it is and it isn't.  One will notice strains of Demons and The Evil Dead, but the bands in our favorite nostalgic cheesers weren't this extreme.  Brodie forms a black metal collective with a neighborhood malcontent and together, they inadvertently beckon a gnarly demon slicker.  The Wal-Mart title is Heavy Metal Apocalypse.  Ugh.  To be fair, Deathgasm is essentially an apocalypse story, but it's a better sit than that title would suggest.  Frankly, it's a blast.  A fucking bloody blast.

Honorable mentions!

Bone Tomahawk - Came so goddamn close to breaking into the top five.  Hell, I could make an argument for its deployment into the top three.  But life is about tough decisions, Larry.  I'm not going to explain why it's worth renting/buying.  If you haven't seen it, you are going to see it.  Larry, listen to me.  You are going to see it.

Tales of Halloween - You know I'm an anthology nut, Agnes, and this one is above average.  An opulence of fun spooks, even if some vignettes are weaker than others.  Reasonably awesome sauce.

The Hallow - A novel premise buttressed with nifty beasties.  Bobby Joe, once you figure out where it's going (it won't take terribly long), you're simply waiting for it to get there.  That's the only real drawback.  Still rock solid.

We Are Still Here - Barbara Crampton throws down in this moist "haunted house" picture show.  If we're adjudicating purely on acting skills alone, she's the top scream queen of the past thirty years.  Don't you dare disagree with me, Alan.  Oh, and I dug the villains.  They're nasty fuckers.

Headless - Skullfucking.  Incest.  Necrophilia.  Bowling alley.  It occupies the same subgenre as The Final Girls, but the two slashers could not be any further apart in terms of tone and budget.  It made me happy, Gus!

Just one more movie!

I'm about to watch a 2015 horror film, and then I can feel okay with compiling a list.  See, this is why I don't like year-end lists!  I feel like I need to watch EVERYTHING.  I do, don't I?  I don't know the rules!  Are there rules?  Fuck!  I know one thing; my best-of list will grope and destroy all of the others, and not necessarily in that order.  Hang tight, kids!

Album Cover of the Whatever

I'm currently listening to Polish death metal, which...has absolutely nothing to do with Savatage.  Thought I'd throw you scraps.  Go Panthers!

I Forgot

I knew I'd forget at least one record for my Top 5 list.  I don't know if I'd place them near the spire of the list, but I should have mentioned Veruca Salt's Ghost Notes and Black Breath's Slaves Beyond Death.  There.  I feel better now.

About a week until the film list.  Of course, I'm allocating vacation days to myself.  Don't rush me.

Top 5 Rock/Metal Albums Of 2015

Well, I managed to do it.  I've narrowed the field down to five (and a half...I can do that).  While preparing for this piece, I realized that there weren't many records from the last calendar year that I LOVED.  Also, this was a strange year for me, from a musical perspective.  Because of our financial situation, I haven't been buying much music, and it's vexing as hell.  I haven't been buying much of anything.  That's not to say that I haven't heard a bunch of stuff; I have.  Nonetheless, I haven't guzzled a considerable amount of long players that demanded repeated spins.  Just my two pennies.

Let's start at the top.  Because?

1. Alkaloid - The Malkuth Grimoire ~ This band includes within its ranks members of Obscura and Dark Fortress.  To me, it feels like the natural successor to the former's Omnivium.  There is plenty of Obscura happening here, which is an orgasmic thing for a chick like me.  I obsess over melodic, progressive death metal, and this is a prime example of dat shit.  Every instrument is played with stringent precision.  The drumming (as contributed by Hannes Grossman) is goddamn binary, and I'm not 100% clear on what "binary" means.  It doesn't matter!  As for guitars, scope the solos on "Carbon Phrases" and "Alter Magnitudes."  Why can't more extreme bands figure out that aimless mongrel shredding doesn't cut it these days?

2. Chelsea Wolfe - Abyss ~ I got turned onto this pale goddess a couple of years ago, and I've been addicted ever since.  There may be extant restraining orders.  Just kidding!  Nervous laughter!  In my churlish opinion, Abyss is Chelsea's magnum opus.  She keeps topping herself and finding ways to broaden her sonic base without striking insincere chords.  This is easily her heaviest record yet, piling sunken doom riffs atop sparse electronic beats and cantering sounds that fill the room.  And then you have Chelsea's fragile voice hovering over it all acting as the ribbon that ties the music together.  Abyss was so fucking close to being numero uno.  It's almost a tie.

3. Faith No More - Sol Invictus ~ I'll come right out and say it.  I have problems with this album.  For starters, it's too fucking short (we only waited eighteen years, guys), and there are a couple of tracks that I skip outright.  So why is it my third favorite compact disc of 2015?  Because the quality material is so FNM, it hurts.  Maybe I shouldn't be surprised, but this doesn't sound like a group of fortysomethings.  Sol Invictus could have been released in the mid-90's.  "Separation Anxiety" and "Matador" make me feel the way that "Caffeine" and "Ricochet" made me feel when I first heard them.  Honestly, I didn't think that was possible.  Feel the feels!

4. Unleash the Archers - Time Stands Still ~ I've scribbled a bit about this Canadian collective on this here site, so I won't burble into the night.  Having said that, you need to know that this was the best speed metal release of the year.  But it can also be considered a fantastic power metal release.  And yes, death metal is sprinkled betwixt the excavations.  Vocalist Brittany Hayes/Slayes is the star of the show.  She fucking defines "powerhouse," hitting notes that murder bats (as of this writing, I lack forensic evidence, but the court of public opinion finds Ms. Hayes guilty of premeditated bat murder).  Her Halford-esque screams will induce labor, whether you're pregnant or not.

5. Horrendous - Anareta ~ I'm actually jamming this one as I type.  I might prefer 2014's Ecdysis, but this is a vigorous follow-up.  If you're not privy, these Americans (split between Pennsylvania and South Carolina) ply their trade with old school death metal.  However, there is a kicker.  The tunes are technical and super melodic.  Think Pestilence or latter day Death.  There isn't a word for how catchy "Ozymandias" and "Polaris" happen to be.  I do have issues with the production, but I love Horrendous anyway.  Despite wearing their influences on their sleeve(s), they have a fresh identity, and they are completely unaffected by trends.  Fuck.  Yes.

94. Leviathan - Scar Sighted ~ This is my #6, but I wanted to give it a healthy mention.  If we're talking "one-man black metal" projects, Leviathan takes the red velvet cake.  Wrest (a.k.a. Jef Whitehead) does everything by himself.  That's nothing short of phenomenal, as this album is a dense colossus of intricate nightmare bebop.  Now, when I say "bebop," I mean "suicide music."  The ambient sections are scary.

Here's a quick tally of other 2015 records to engage...

Xibalba - Tierra y Libertad (hardcore/death metal)

Nile - What Should Not Be Unearthed (heavier than Satan)

Turnstile - Nonstop Feeling (alternative hardcore, very 90's)

Spylacopa - Parallels (experimental hard rock)

Gruesome - Savage Land (old school death metal)

Dolven - Navigating the Labyrinth (acoustic black metal)

Violet Cold - Desperate Dreams (poppy black metal)

Blood Capsule #56

976-EVIL (1988)

My mehtulz Top 5 list will be posted towards the end of the week, so I thought I'd machinate a blood capsule in the meantime.  Motherfucking 976-EVIL, motherfuckers.  It's not just a sweet Deftones song.  No, it's a supernatural slasher directed by Robert Englund in between Freddy engagements.  I'm wishing that he jumped behind the camera more often.  Not because I can't stand to look at the guy, but because this is a stylish little picture!  I loved the lighting, and man-o-man, there are a handful of cool angles that kept my pupils diverted.  Obviously, the film is about a demonic telephone line.  How does it work?  Um, evil!  That's how!

Stephen Geoffreys (yes, Evil Ed and the gaping star of innumerable gay pornos, my favorite being Halfway House Hunks) is Hoax, an awkward teen who is bullied to shit.  His performance is topflight, but I didn't quite understand Hoax's...mental constitution?  He's depicted as slow early on, a bit "simple" even.  And yet, he seems "normal" (untoward choice of words, my apologies) later in the narrative, and it's before he becomes possessed by The Bell South Demon.  Rotary joke!  Anyway, the first half of 976-EVIL is a rollicking wedge of 80's horror.  The second half doesn't suck outright, but it isn't nearly as fulfilling.  Certain characters are introduced that serve no purpose whatsoever.  Screenwriters Brian Helgeland and Rhet Topham should have stuck with the dynamic leads who anchored the exposition.

Overall, this flick is worth a Saturday afternoon rental.  I'd say Halfway House Hunks is a judgment call.

Album Cover of the Whatever

Since this is no longer a weekly feature, I just post cool album covers as I come across them.  This one made me do a triple take.  The band is Big End Bolt.  Would you believe that they play brutal, fetus-crunching death metal?  I know.  Shocked me, too.

Year-End Lists???

I get tense around the end of a year.  I know the time is coming...the time for bloggers and website-havers to compile best-of lists from the year that just crapped in front of them.  I'm terrible at this!  I hate ranking shit!  I know I don't have to rank them per se, but I do enjoy separating the baubles from the husks.  That's not a real saying, so please don't use it in public.  I'm embarrassed.  Great, now I'm crying.  GREAT, now I'm shitting!

Another quandary is the field of candidates.  For example, I didn't listen to every rock/metal album of 2015.  And there was a jumble-crag of quality releases, a veritable mesa of mondo music.  How do I narrow it down, gang?  Fucklebean!  That's not a real expression, so again, please don't use it.  Oh, God.  Here come the tears followed by the bowel munitions!

Okay, here's what I'm going to do.  I'm going to post two lists before the eve of the new year: A top five (I can't handle ten) for music and a top five for horror films.  I'll probably hit music first to give myself time to watch more of 2015's genre fare.  Could someone hold my hand?

The Loreley's Grasp

Oh, you love it when I get foreign, don't you?  You love it when I get obscure and use the Spanish poster for no goddamn reason.  Actually, there is a reason.  1974's The Loreley's Grasp (a.k.a. When the Screaming Stops) was shot in Spain by a real-life Spaniard.  I'm speaking of Amando de Ossorio, he of Blind Dead fame.  No one ever talks about his contributions to the genre outside of the Blind Dead series, which is a flagrant shame.  I dig the Templar Knights as much as the next pantaloon, but his other experiments in terror deserve a day in the midnight sun.  Most of them are on DVD/Blah-ray.  If you can't find Grasp, try on 1975's Demon Witch Child (a.k.a. The Possessed).  You're welcome.  And yes, Ossorio's films have multiple titles.  Get with the times.

This baby feels Italian.  To be specific, it feels like a giallo, but it's a monster mash.  It combines the "creature suit'' horseplay of the 50's with the dubbing and bloodletting of Opera or Deep Red.  Personally, I would describe it as The Monster of Piedras Blancas...if it were directed by Dario Argento.  So yes, it's pretty cool.  Something is stalking the beautiful students at a boarding school in Germany.  There are whispers of a local legend, a sea siren who transmutes into a scurfy, furfuraceous beast when the moon is full.  Loosely based on real myths (now that's one fuck of an oxymoron), the story is somewhat refreshing, seeing as how the villain is neither a vampire nor a ghost.  Nor a dude!

Surprisingly, there isn't much nudity on display.  We see boobs, but only when they are being ripped asunder.  It's not a pleasant sight, folks.  The women are stunning, but unfortunately for them, they are fucking dolts.  A bodyguard is hired to patrol the area and he gives the lodgers of the academy very basic instructions.  VERY basic.  Just lock your doors, lock your windows and don't flap your wings outside at night.  Maybe it was simply "don't go outside at night."  Whatever.  My point is, dear reader, a distressing majority of the apprentices (?) choose to ignore these safety measures.  I get that characters need to die, but find a more creative way for the Loreley to probe the institution.  Know what I mean?  Like, try harder.

Furfuraceous!  Sorry, I love that word, and I'm going to jam it into as many sentences as possible.  The definition?  Fuck off; you have an Internet connection.  Use it.  Bitch.  Give me your Wi-Fi password!  Insert segue here...the dialogue is awful.  The only players I found to be inviting were Old Professor and Blind Violinist (traditional German names, I guess).  Of course, they are both mangled.  The gore effects are winsome.  Slightly shitty, yes, but once you witness a beach lizard in a hoodie literally break a man's heart, you stop caring about the superficial.  Okay, it's a robe.  No, it's a hoodie.  It's a fucking hoodie, and I dig it.  I dig The Loreley's Grasp, too.  No one will agree, but in my opinion, it tops the first two Blind Dead chapters.

Calm down.  I realize that this is not a seamless shocker, but it does gallop a bit quicker than a Templar Knight.  Undead Robert Z'Dar says, "I use moisturizer daily to keep my chin from becoming furfuraceous.  There, I used it in a sentence.  Now give me my fucking money."

Scott Weiland R.I.P.

Just the other day, I was mind-drifting on all of the dead rock stars that I love.  It occurred to me that it's AMAZING that Scott Weiland isn't dead yet.  And now, this happens.  Fuck.  I have sentimental ties to STP's 90's output.  Core was one of the first albums I legit owned.  I first borrowed it from my cousin and immediately loved every track, even the cursory instrumental.  Of course, Purple is flawless.  I've heard "Big Empty" too many times, but who cares?  Again, every track is immediate and catchy as sin.

The only other STP record I can vouch for loving is No. 4, which I'm listening to as I write this panegyric.  You have to give Scott this much; he gave his demons a fierce battle.  The media pegged him as the next grunge corpse (at least) fifteen years ago.  It's frustrating to read how many times he was able to get clean only to relapse a year or two later.  Really fucking frustrating.

Thanks for the music, Scott.  Rest in peace.

Album Cover of the Week

90's alt-rock forever!

Neon Maniacs

Okay, I'm back. We'll see what happens. I've been watching a lot of movies lately, and yesterday, I gulped down a steaming tankard of 1986's Neon Maniacs. You know what it reminds me of? A "retro" slasher that would have been made...well, today. There would have been a poster for each colorful villain, packaged alongside an action figure. If you're ever in the mood to ingest 80's horror without any specific guidelines (as I was), this is the b-stew for you. It jumps right into the action, introducing us to most of its multiformity of twelve creepers. Silly me. I kept waiting for an explanation or an origin story of some sort, but nope. No clue what these things are, where they came from or why they selected the Golden Gate Bridge as their biosphere.

They have trading cards, though! Within the film. Their own fucking trading cards. Did they escape from a game? That could be a plot, but that's a negative.  No plots allowed! Let's just move on to the human characters. Natalie is the main heroine, of which there are two. That's one of Neon's selling points. Our leads are believable, and the female cast members are presented as three-dimensional beings. Paula is a little bit younger. Get this...she plays the Tommy Jarvis archetype of a horror freak and budding make-up effect artisan. Her room is wreathed in masks, one-sheets and video equipment (she's directing a z-grade vampire flick). It was so refreshing to see a prepubescent girl pitched as the monster kid. She's awesome.

Steven is Natalie's love interest. They have adorable chemistry, and yes, I am turning into a vagina. The script is alright, but it feels like there are chunks missing. I'm in an apoplectic stupor because I discovered that it was penned by Mark Patrick Carducci, the very guy who authored the screenplay for Pumpkinhead. Pumpkinhead is goddamn perfect! Something must have happened here. I would be interested in learning more about the production history. The ending leads me to believe that an immediate sequel was either planned or promised by producers. There is a rockin' climax at a Battle of the Bands (it's nearly a stalemate, but I'd vote for Jaded) where the majority of the not-so-neon maniacs are liquidated. The rest?

Well, the cops search for them to no avail. The end! What, you wanted closure? No closure allowed! If any modish cult classic required a swell finale, it was this sumbitch. I really enjoyed the first 80 minutes, but the film signs itself out with an inelegant plop. I should only hear that kind of plop in my bathroom. Since you asked, I tried Movantik to treat my opioid-induced constipation and honey, it transformed the opening at the lower end of my alimentary canal into a delivery system for collywobbles. The fucking shits. I had bad diarrhea. It was bad. AND I recommend Neon Maniacs for fans of Nightbreed, Spookies and 80's gook in general. Apparently, Andrew Divoff played the doctor "maniac." That, my friends, is range. Respect.

31 Days of Soul-Crushing Depression

I'm digging all the October stuff, but when it comes to producing content and BEING A PERSON, I'm sapped.  Fuck this shit.  And it's so goddamn frustrating because I want to write reviews.  I just can't.  Hell, I couldn't even find my copy of The Exorcist.  That was a "throw your middle fingers up" moment where I realized it was time to pull the plug.  Again.  I apologize, people.  It feels pointless to apologize.  I feel like I'm always apologizing to someone for failing to see something through.  Doesn't help the depression, not one bit.

So I'll fuck off into the sunset.  As per our agreement (???), I'll let you know if/when I return to maintain this place.  I'm not doing well.  No, I'm not suicidal; I'm just...I'm just.  Don't fret for my Halloween spirit.  It has remained oddly unscathed.

Later!?