Buddha's Balls?

I swear to Buddha's balls.  If it's not one thing, it's another.  I've been sick for several days, though I seem to be trending upwards.  At least Smackdown will be on in eighteen minutes.  I'll keep you posted...with posts.

Shoulder Breaker

Papa Shango's finisher was a shoulder breaker?  I don't remember him even having a finisher.  I'm already off-topic.  I wanted to wait until now to comment on this week's wrestling because that seemed like the thing to do.  Did I enjoy the Royal Rumble?  On the whole, yes.  Did I enjoy Raw?  On the whole, no, but the final segment redeemed it.  Samoa Joe debuted and injured Seth Rollins.  Ugh. Did I enjoy Smackdown?  Yes.  Did I enjoy NXT?  On the whole, it depends.  I read the spoilers, but I forgot to fucking watch it.  And I still haven't watched it, but I've shilly-shallied long enough.

Randy Orton would not be my first choice to carry the day, as it were. It could have been worse, Larry.  Roman Reigns didn't win; Goldberg didn't win; The New Day didn't win (I dig the act, but that wouldn't have worked).  I really, really wanted my Undertaker to win. Really.  It just wasn't meant to be, I'm afraid.  Here is how I see the next couple of months playing out.  Roman slowly, methodically turns heel and feuds with The Undertaker.  Consider this.  'Taker is still pissed about being joggled over the top rope.  I recall Roman proclaiming, "This is my yard now!"  Feud.  There it is.

Raw was mostly forgettable.  The tag team division is worthless (with the exception of the champs), and the cruiserweights need to be developed properly.  That's a rant for another diurnal course.  But Samoa Joe!  The Destroyer!  I'm felicitous and tickled goddamn pink that he has belly-flopped onto the main roster with two caveats.  1) I was hoping for Smackdown.  2) Seth is apparently crippled. Personally, I'm holding out hope that his boo-boo is a work.  "But they said it was real."  Of course they said it was real.  What better way to build up a Wrestlemania main event?  Now, I don't know for a fact that it's a work.  I'm merely postulating.  I have the same amount of information as you do.  Or Larry.

As per usual, Smackdown was wall-to-wall awesome.  Folks, we are on the precipice of a full-bloom Luke Harper face turn.  John Cena may be champion, but let's be honest with ourselves.  Doesn't he deserve it?  It's not as if he won it out of a vacuum.  Styles and Cena have tight chemistry, the latter pulling out moves I've never seen him execute.  If any modern day WWE superstar merits eclipsing Ric Flair's record number of title reigns, it's John Cena.  The fucker made me a fan.  Speaking of Smackdown, did you know...should I start a new paragraph?

Did you know that Mickie James is back?  Yeah, that Mickie James. She has befriended Women's Champion Alexa Bliss, which I deem as a smart call.  Smackdown is not NXT.  The crowd isn't packed with fanboys/fangirls who can list off the roster from, say, 2008 and prepare a chant for any wres--sports entertainer who walks that aisle.  For the time being, Mickie is better suited for a villainous role.

If you'll excuse me, I gotta go watch NXT.

My Grain

Migraine.  Goddamn.  I'll be back tomorrow.

Sixteen Body Snatchers From Hell

I'm not 100% healed up (I'd say I'm at 88%), but I'm well enough to resume my duties as a bullshit blogger.  Didn't feel like writing a bona fide review, so I'll just...y'know, blog.  I've consumed quite a bit of pop culture in the last eighteen days.  As of right now, I wanted to discuss Sweet Sixteen, a disregarded slasher hatched in 1983.  I don't know why, but I was expecting to be fatigued by this flick.  Maybe it's because I haven't heard much cheering from the gore groupies I know with regards to Sweet Sixteen ever since it landed on DVD. Chances are, you haven't scoped it either.  You're missing out, big fella!

My apologies if you happen to be a female.  What I'm trying to intimate is that this stabradoodle (you have my permission to use "stabradoodle" in casual conversation) is totally worth subletting.  I wish that sentence made more sense.  Fuck it!  The death sequences are banal, but everything else is put together with surprising discernment.  The acting is natural, the pace is even and the identity of the killer caught this dullard off guard.  Look, we all know I'm a slack-jawed plonker.  You don't have to rub it in, despite some no-name on IMDb claiming that the twist was predictable.

Oh, the screen grab?  That's a man approaching an alien ship in 1968's Goke, Body Snatcher From Hell.  It's a little stylish and a lot wonky.  Would you believe that it's a Criterion release?  The film was included in a box set called When Horror Came to Shochiku right alongside such benders as The X From Outer Space, The Living Skeleton and Genocide.  It's not bad, but if I'm being honest, I drifted off to sleep toward the end.  I can recommend what I saw, though.  Does the phrase "forehead vagina" mean anything to you? No, Goke wasn't directed by David Cronenberg.

I just might check in tomorrow or the next day to give my impressions of the Royal Rumble.  And Raw.  And Smackdown.

Bad Day

Sabbatical.  Accident today.  Thought I broke my leg, but I didn't. Hurts, though.  Hand still hurts.  Long story.

Blood Capsule #69

SLEEPWALKERS (1992)

"Cop kabob!"  Fuck, don't you just love cheesy one-liners in cheesy horror films of yesteryear?  Even the bad ones (I'm talking suicidally bad) put a doltish grin on my face.  That's how I would describe my impression of 1992's Sleepwalkers.  It's stupid...God, it's stupid, but it made me forget the world for 91 minutes.  I appreciate that because I'm currently nursing a (possibly) broken hand, and I'll take any frowzy, frou-frou entertainment I can find.  Going in, I didn't realize that Stephen King adapted the screenplay from his own unpublished story.  What is it with him and icky subject matter?  If I had only read It and watched Sleepwalkers, I would wonder about his preoccupation with prepubescent gangbanging and incestuous pussy monsters.

Mick Garris directs it all with a cool, imperturbable stasis (you'd never guess that it was a scrambled shoot).  I dug the steady pans and the rich lighting.  The occasional hiccup editing?  Well, I blame the studio, although a heft of juicy gore did escape their imposed scissors.  The acting is better than I was expecting.  Madchen Amick is a peach as the virginal, lily-white Tanya.  I actually wanted her to live, which I'm told is a good thing.  And I'd give King credit for crafting down-to-earth characters, but unfortunately, I'd also have to give him credit for plot holes and haphazard dialogue.  Seriously, what the fuck was up with the black policeman?  There comes Johnny with his pecker in his hand?  He's off to the rodeo?  What???

Sleepwalkers is fun.  Not as fun as, say, playing board games with anthropomorphized soft pretzels, but still.

Go Bloodsuck Yourself

Depression, am I right?  Here lately, I haven't had any interest in activities I would normally be interested in.  No energy.  No real desire to go outside or even get out of bed.  That's fucking depression.  But hey, I've been dealing with it for over a decade now, and it pirouettes in crests.  Of course, the crest is the highest point of a wave.  I'm currently in a trough (that's the lowest point, for all you middle-schoolers out there).  Misery intensifies during the winter months, as it does for most folks who suffer from chronic depression.

What am I going on about?  Oh!  Don't expect the site to renew its strength until 2017 is mushrooming.  I've been sitting on an episode of Insomnia Theatre, and I have plenty of movies to critique.  I just watched 1976's Bloodsucking Freaks.  Probably should have reviewed it, but MEH.  See, that's the depression talking.  I did like it. It's supposed to be an uproarious comedy, right?

Christmas Corpse

Because.

New Wheelchair

Um, I have a new wheelchair?  It was delivered yesterday, and while I'm certainly grateful for my insurance picking up the tab, I haven't used it THAT much yet.  With every new chair comes a grace period. I have to learn how to drive it (it's usually not that difficult...usually) and some kinks have to be worked out.  Now, about that driving thing.  It's usually not so difficult, except for this time.  This is my fourth or fifth wheelchair as a human being, and for the most part, they have all driven the same way.  They were four-wheelers.  This one is a six-wheeler.

I have a deeper understanding of it than you do, but not even I can describe why it's difficult to steer.  Plus, it doesn't fit comfortably under my bedroom desk.  And the right leg rest needs to be extended.  I blame Jesus Christ.  His birthday is coming up, and I always get crabby/irritated around this time of the year.  Obviously, none of this concerns you.  I'm just letting you know why the fuck.

Album Cover of the Whatever

Mortification is a Christian band (!).  You can't tell by listening to them, so check them out.  It's funny in a way.  Doesn't the fact that you can't discern their religious values from listening to their music put the kibosh on starting a Christian band in the first place?  I thought that "spreading the word" was the whole point.  Whatever, man.  I haven't listened to Erasing the Goblin, in particular, but their early stuff is killer death metal.  Death!  Gore!  Yeah!

The Greasy Strangler

If I was pressed to describe 2016's The Greasy Strangler, I would remove my pants and shout arbitrary words.  Repeatedly.  That wouldn't tell you the plot, but you would feel like you had just watched the film.  I try to pay attention to tone and texture.  The tone here is slapdash sadism.  The texture?  Flabby, pendulous sheathing.  Ugh, I'm trying to keep it classy here.  We see a lot - A LOT - of naked flesh, and none of the actors are trim. Again, I'm trying to use hospitable language, as the bare-skinned cast members are male and female.  Elizabeth De Razzo plays Janet, the picture's love interest.  She's right cute, but her frame isn't exactly...trim?  Yeah, I'll stick with "trim" since I've used it once already.

I want to make something clear, not that I'm under any social obligation to explain myself.  Personally, I prefer curves.  I draw the line at morbid obesity (for reasons predicated on health), but I don't consider Janet to be morbidly obese.  Some might, I'm sure.  Father-and-son contingent Big Ronnie and Big Brayden impel The Greasy Strangler forward.  Obviously, they are the main characters; the anchor, the embryo, the seed, the nub, the heart, the nucleus...they don't look great naked.  Ronnie, the Big daddy, looks particularly rough, and I couldn't count the seconds of screen time allotted to his prosthetic member.  Floppy fake dicks are all over the place.  Ronnie is packing a massive third leg, while Brayden sports a micropenis because comedy.

Technically, the genre tag is "horror/comedy," but the horror is expatriated to laconic kill sequences.  I'll give director Jim Hosking one thing; his effects crew devised a handful of amusing gore twinklings.  So there's that.  I still haven't said much with regards to the storyline because the synopsis will tell you everything you need to know about The Greasy Strangler.  It's an experiment in drollery and travesty.  Imagine a collaboration between John Waters and Tim Heidecker.  I'm a fan of both gentlemen, but most of this lark's quirks coasted past me without registering so much as a simper.  It should be noted that I don't do gross-out humor (with very few exceptions). If an old man farting in the general direction of his son sounds funny to you, then by all means, have at it.

The title is a reference to some creep squelching lives around town. The only problem is that it's not a whodunit.  We know precisely who done it, and as a matter of fact, he/she admits to doing it in the first scene of The Greasy Strangler.  With ten percent more effort, the script could have been somewhat clever.  Y'know, it's strange; this is the kind of oddball fuckery I'd normally favor.  I dig aspects of it.  Sky Elobar and Michael St. Michaels are fucking committed as Brayden and Ronnie, respectively.  I questioned their sanity.  The score is memorable, if not...well, it's memorable.  I'll leave it at that.  To be (im)perfectly honest, I'm grappling with how many Z'Dars I should assign such a grody, disruptive undertaking.  I almost want to create a different rating scale.  Almost.

Ack

Gimme a week or so.  I haven't felt like writing anything lately, and overall, I haven't been FEELING myself.  Eh, I'm sure I'll get over it.

Geek Out #128

I love "fly on the wall" music documentaries where you're in the studio with the band, watching them actuate during the creative process.  It's just me living vicariously through cool people.  See, I've always wanted to be in a band.  A real band, not Dark Fuck or whatever the hell it was called (I was in a shitty "band" a decade ago; the three of us never met in the flesh and the "leader" found Jesus after one month and quit).  "Quotation marks."  So yeah, I geeked out watching the above clip.  Metallica has...eh, I need a new paragraph.

Found one!  Metallica has been posting "making of" videos for each track on Hardwired to Self-Destruct.  They did the same deal for Death Magnetic, and I think it's awesome.  There are only a handful so far, but it seems to be a weekly (or bi-weekly) upload.  No, I won't be reviewing the album.  I will say that it's their mightiest effort since 1991, and "Spit Out the Bone" is their best song since 1988. "Confusion" is my second favorite cut on the record.  It's as catchy as tuberculosis as Hepatitis B combined, yo!

Lord of Illusions

Remember when I reviewed that Clive Barker novel?  You should. It wasn't that long ago.  Jesus.  Maybe you found this page just now via Google.  In which case, I apologize for the chutzpah and self-importance, even though I am REALLY important.  Remember when I reviewed 1995's Lord of Illusions?  Trick question!  Antiemetics are never used to prevent post-partum hemorrhaging, you fucking idiot.  Anyway, I have owned the director's cut of this flick on VHS for years.  It was pretty easy to find in the latter stages of the video store era (somewhere in between the Pleistocene epoch and 2003). Yesterday, I decided that it would take too long to find the goddamn thing in my closet, so a friend and I watched the R-rated version instead.  I like to point out that I have friends.

There are ten minutes missing from the oh-so-Restricted rendering we watched, but having seen the uncircumcised variant, I'm confident enough in my recall ability to say that this is a review of Barker's cut.  And I can't stop thinking about cocks.  Dicks. Members. 'Member?  Berries.  Twigs.  Trunks.  Packages.  Purple-vein monster rods.  Shit!  Start the synopsis already.  As I'm sure you could guess, Lord of Illusions centers around the cryptic world of magic(k). Private eye Harry D'Amour casually staggers into a horror movie already in progress.  He winds up with a front row seat to the tragic accidental death of a popular magician (imagine an ostentatious Vegas act, only classier).  Was it staged?  If so, by whom?  Is it connected to a ghastly cult?  Where is my cock, and is it tied to the trigger of an airsoft gun?

This was Barker's third and final directorial outing, discounting shorts.  In my estimation, it remains his best.  I realize what I'm saying.  Hellraiser is a modern classic, and I'm not suggesting that it's an easy call to make, but I favor Lord of Illusions by a mite of chicken feed.  They are both flawed.  As for Nightbreed, I was never much of a fan.  Getting back to Monarch of Soothsaying, it has held up remarkably well.  You might sneer, "Big deal.  It's from the mid-90's."  Firstly, fuck you.  Secondly, you're forgetting that this is an effects-heavy genre film.  It could have been riddled with deformed CGI, but that mess is contained to a single awkward scene.  The rest?  A proliferation of practical gore and a few instances of good (!) CGI.  The make-up is fantastic throughout (love the part where Nix's proselytes sink into the floor).

By the way, Daniel von Bargen is seriously creepy as Nix, a cult leader "born to murder this world."  I was saddened to learn that he passed away last year from complications following an apparent suicide attempt.  Segue?  When I read The Scarlet Gospels, I saw Scott Bakula in my mind's eye as D'Amour, so that should fill you in on the validity of his performance.  Famke Janssen is hot.  I don't mean to objectify her, but Dorothea (her character) isn't explored in a meaningful way.  That brings me to a problem I have with the script. The love angle between Harry and Dorothea is so perfunctory, it feels like a studio note.  In that same vein, the ending doesn't want to end.  I can picture an executive stonewalling his case that the villain needs to come back several times.  "It will be scary!"

You can bet that the best chunks of Lord of Illusions reek of Clive Barker.  It may not be quite as Barker-y as Hellraiser, but again, I prefer it by a cunt hair (I tried not to use that apophthegm* earlier, but hey, Steve Austin uses it).  Even in 2016, it tells a fresh story. How many other fright flicks operate within the shrouded realm of professional magic?  Plus, it's paced well.  I'm a stickler for pacing.  I always bring it up, even at dinner.  Even in 2016, I bring up pacing. How many other crippled writers operate within the shrouded realm of cock-and-ball torture?  Damn it!  Cocks!  They're everywhere! Ahem.  I enjoy Lord of Illusions, and if I were propositioned with a rating scale of five Z'Dars, I would award it with...cocks.  Fuck!

*I doubt that I used that term correctly.

Album Cover of the Whatever

Ghooooooul!  Crossover death/thrash from right here in the United States.  Y'know, the only nation that God blesses.  Look at that cover; can you blame Him?  I've always been aware of Ghoul in a peripheral sense, but I'm just now digging into their muzak.  It's fucking cool!

Blood Capsule #68

SHIN GODZILLA (2016)

I would have written a full review of this buttercup bambino, but my brain is in the backseat.  Apologies to no one.  Something strange that I noticed...the version of the movie that I watched ran for 100 minutes.  Will this be the American DVD cut of Shin Godzilla?  If not, why the pocky was it missing 20 minutes?  I'm wondering what exactly I was unwittingly blind to, aside from the hardcore sex scenes.  Even if this was the "variant" that will wind up on Best Buy shelves (lol), kaiju loyalists don't have much to worry about.  In short, I liked it.  If you need more reassurance, I liked it!  Does the exclamation point help?  I was a bit nervous, but the Toho logo put me at ease.  Of course, I also enjoyed the 2014 American Godzilla, so maybe you should disregard my opinion.

This motherfucker (trust me; Shin Godzilla is a motherfucker) begins with a salvo of detonation.  Monster action is only interrupted by monster action.  Yeah, there are humans talking, but that's one of the film's drawbacks.  There is no main character to which we can grow attached.  We simply observe scientists and politicians fluttering from afar, although poignancy is interchanged for a cerebral connection.  The social commentary (stop holding your nose) is handled in a crafty, shrewd way.  I wasn't expecting that, nor was I expecting a certain Godzilla "thing" that I'm afraid to specify.  Therein lies the other reason why I didn't stick to my usual four paragraph avocation.  I have plenty of spoilers to type, but I can't type them!

Damn honor code.  Here is all you need to know.  I was pleased with Shin Godzilla's central processing unit.  The special effects are jaw-dropping, the destruction is legitimately terrifying and Big G's design is fantastic.  The subtitles are hard to read at times, but that's not the picture's fault.  End of capsule.

Black Saturday

I know the holiday has come and gone.  Hell, it's not even Friday, but I had to post this image.  Made me snicker.  By the way, I stole it (in the night!) from a pal named Jayson.  Just what is the best Black Sabbath album anyway?  Are we sure that it's from the Ozzy era?  I don't think I have a favorite, for there are too many good songs spread across too many good albums.  So my pick is Born Again.

Bookworm Infested #8

THE SCARLET GOSPELS (Clive Barker)

A little over two years ago, I read (and reviewed) The Hellbound Heart.  I loved it!  I was highly anticipating this direct sequel, and while it took a sempiternity, I finally seized a copy.  Man, die-hard fans dressed it down, didn't they?  I identify as an exponent of Clive Barker, but I'm removed from brainy standpats in literary circles. That's not an insult, by the way.  I wouldn't mind being brainy; I'm just saying that I'm approaching The Scarlet Gospels from an outsider's perspective.  All of the vitriol beamed in this novel's direction is based on sound reasoning, and I agree with most of it. Nevertheless, I couldn't wait to turn the page to find out how Pinhead was going to raise enough bread to keep the Yakuza off his back.

I'll start with the positives.  Barker's prose has been compared to poetry, and I didn't notice a major downtick in writing quality. Remember, I'm only referring to word choice, his descriptive patter. I enjoy his custom of sliding blunt obscenities into otherwise baroque passages of action.  The last time I saw a non-spoken usage of "bleeding cunts," I was leafing through the latest R.L. Stine tome. You haven't heard of his new horror series for kids, Sex Ed With Count Nightwing?  Hmm, not a shabby joke.  I could riff on that for awhile, but I'll spare you the comedic sodomy.  If you don't already know, Scarlet involves Harry D'Amour, an investigator of the paranormal who has appeared in previous Barker creations.

The story threads are immoderately convoluted.  Suffice to say, the reader spends the bulk of the narrative in Hell as The Hell Priest (he hates his discumbered nickname) sets a plan in motion to govern Lucifer's kingdom.  Oh, and Earth.  I savored the scenes in Pyratha, the great city of Hell.  For whatever reason, the architecture and the caste system fascinated me.  I was especially interested in the tower that housed the Cenobites.  We do learn a tad about this ageless race of demons, and I treated these nuggets of lore like they were fucking cliffhangers.  But - and this is where the hooks fly out of the walls - there are no profound edicts or revelations.  In other words, I don't really know that much more about the Order of the Gash than I did before, apart from where they dwell.

You will see allusions to inferior editing in multiple reviews and that, my sweet, is because Barker's original manuscript was cleaved in half.  Half!  I get the distinct impression that it wasn't an artistic decision.  Parts of the book feel skimped on and hurried.  I would get specific, but I wanted to obviate the necessity for spoilers.  One last fuss, if I may be so bold; the dialogue is contrived.  Honestly, the characters converse as if they're in a corny Cannon movie from the 80's.  What's with the synthetic sarcasm during moments of extreme dread?  I can buy it from D'Amour, but not his supporting players. Speaking of which, folks such as Caz and Dale are not developed in the slightest.  Huh, I had a lot of bitching to do.

Following a rockslide of arraignments, you may not believe me when I say that I really dug The Scarlet Gospels.  I was sucked into the suspense, I was sucked off by Barker's style and I sucked--I don't care for where this sentence is heading.  Use your own judgment. This is definitely a flawed novel, but I don't regret bartering for it. Yeah, that's right; it was a trade.  The other party gave up a pristine copy of a mega-hyped genre release.  I gave up...um, money.  It's not important.

Album Cover of the Whatever

Japanese metal from 1986.  Yeah!  Dead End assisted in spearheading the visual kei movement alongside X Japan and Color. If you're not familiar with visual kei, just imagine Poison playing dramatic power/speed metal.  Dead End fell on the "horror punk" side of the spectrum.  This was their debut, and it's actually kind of catchy.  But this feature focuses on artwork.  Check out that ghoulish mania!  Is that a gargoyle sitting down in the background?  I'm legitimately asking.  Man, I hope that decomposing confrere finds his other eyeball.

The Vindicator

If ever there was a rainy day rental, it's 1986's The Vindicator.  Y'know, just something to take home and watch while eating pizza.  Bacon and green pepper.  Thin crust.  Or hand-tossed.  I'll leave it up to you.  This is an entertaining flick, but you should know going in that it's a square ripoff of The Terminator.  Reading reviews online, I kept seeing Robocop cited as a footnote, and it's plain to see why.  The two films share a plot summary.  They are both about a man who is fucked by life and subsequently turned into a mandroid against his will.  NOTE TO SELF: Check out Full Moon's Mandroid. Carefully.

You can't call this a Robocop ripoff, though.  The Vindicator was released a full year earlier.  The storyline elements are there, but I see it as Terminator larceny because, for one, The Terminator existed.  Also, you have a badass cyborg on the beat, liquidating anyone who impedes his forward momentum.  The twist here is that Frankenstein (that's his nickname in the movie) escapes from the "lab" without the panel that allows his creator to control his every move.  His control panel!  I wonder if it allowed his creator to modify accessibility options and turn on/off StickyKeys.  Get it?  It's a PC joke.  Cool; I'll go tether my noose to the garage door.  The creator?  Oh, he's the true villain. His name is Alex Whyte, and he heads up the weapons division that gouges funding from Carl's project (Carl = soon-to-be Frankenstein), which leads to poor Carl being defrauded into his death.  Ouch.

I used Carl's name a bit much, but look, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.  Does The Vindicator work?  Mostly, yeah.  The pacing is prompt, the special effects are convincing (more on them in a hot second) and the cast seemed sober.  Yes, I adjusted my standards.  So those effects were devised by Stan Winston's team of technicians.  How much do you want to bet that he was hired on the strength of his work on The Terminator?  I mean, I doubt it was due to his moonlight drudgery on his first genre gig, Zoltan: Hound of Dracula.  In any manner, The Vindicator is easy to digest.  There are a couple of pieces of business that rubbed my thistle sage the wrong way.  Our Frankenstein, as it were, marches and bustles like a clumsy human.  Isn't he supposed to be a robotic non-man?

Plus, I would have liked to observe a healthier dose of gore.  The death sequences aren't nearly as violent as one would think.  You know me; I love it when innocent blood is shed.  The climactic fight between Creator and Creation, the moment we've been building up to for roughly 80 minutes, is honestly pitiful.  It's a botched slugfest. No fireworks, no flashes of epinephrine, no fancy words for adrenaline...no nuttin'.  Still, I recommend The Vindicator to fans of 80's action and science fiction.  It's serviceable, and as I said in the opening paragraph, thin crust.  Or hand-tossed.  This film can be used in a court of law as demonstrative evidence to support the revival of video stores.