Because of Godzilla, I decided to breathe life back into RR Inc. for the zillionth time. Not because of Godzilla, I haven't had much time to create content for this here blog. I've been doing some (video) editing work, while simultaneously trying to curb my depression and enjoy life. Ideally, I'd have just enough time and energy to comply with all three albatrosses. You don't see "enjoying life" as a carking albatross, a zinc ballast (I don't know) tied to your ankles, like so many sandbags? I do! Speaking of Zillagod, my mommy bought the recent issue of Life that is dedicated to Big G for me. I've just started to pore over it, but it's one hell of a compendium. Granted, it's geared toward the genre novice, but it does contain tidbits that even I didn't know. I advise picking it up. Also, check out 1989's Satan's Storybook, a shot-on-video anthology that made me crack a smile or two. It would have been the subject of my next review, but...well, y'know. I am NOT giving up the site! This was merely a life update. I'll be back in a number of days. High number? Low number? Um, right!
I liked 2014's Godzilla. Is that okay? I just want to make sure before I continue. I reviewed it (poorly) upon its release, and I know that I didn't give it a perfect rating. Because I concede that it wasn't perfect! It wasn't quite the G-flick that fans wanted. This year's Godzilla: King of the Monsters is the G-flick that fans - fuck it, I'll use the proper pronoun - we wanted. It's the big-budget creature feature that we deserved. I've seen others say that, and I'll admit that it sounds immodest, maybe even audacious. But goddamn! American kaiju carnivores have been waiting for DECADES to see this kind of monster mobocracy. That was a pathetic display of alliteration. I'm rusty, I suppose. Sure, I can hang out with 1998's Godzilla on a goofy level, but there were no other "titans." I've already said that I dug the G-bash from five years ago, but aside from the title star, there were no recognizable properties. This son of a bitch threw three non-G Toho creations at us, and sweet fuck, they were divine. Mothra? Gorgeous. A snack! Rodan? Badass. He has never looked this intimidating. King Ghidorah? Jeeeeeeepers cunt. It feels juvenile to use the word "terrifying" to describe anything in a Godzilla movie. Friends, Monster Zero (and yes, it's referred to by this handle on more than one occasion) is terrifying. The realistic special effects make it easy to imagine if Ghidorah were a corporeal being and it's a scary prospect. Needless to say, Godzilla Vontavious Porter (don't tell him that I used his Christian name) looks fantastic. The combination of CGI and motion-capture has been a wondrous thing for "giant beastie" reels, or at least the ones that haven't been hurried to video shelves. The humans? I was pleasantly surprised to find that the characters are considerably more fleshed out than they were in the original. Now, that's not saying a hell of a whole lot. I wasn't fucking moved to tears, but Millie Bobby Brown's Madison is agreeable. She's just Eleven with longer hair, but still. Kyle Chandler's performance as Mark is grounded. If you don't blink, you'll catch a character arc (I know; I was astounded). Mark's transmutation from Starchy Asshole to Temperate Padre feels natural. I was bound to encounter flaws, but the only glitch that bothered me was the forced, bizarre employment of humor. We're stuck with a token "comedy relief" fellow, and I'm not talking about Thomas Middleditch. His one-liners were tolerable. That other guy. Did he have a name? He was given the most awkward dialogue, and none of it worked. Thankfully, that's the sole wart I recall seeing after experiencing the eruptive, diverting fun of Godzilla: King of the Monsters. The pace is snappy, the battle sequences are meteoric and the visuals...egads, give a damn hand to director Michael Dougherty. Everything is beautiful. The man has three grand slams under his belt, the preceding two being Krampus and Trick 'r Treat. Keep at it, boy! I don't feel like I've said enough, but I have a habit of driving points home with as few words as possible. In all honesty, this film warrants a hundred paragraphs of praise. Maybe write some of your own. I can't do all the work!
It's back! And thank Satan for that; I need a low-effort column. Maybe you think I could have picked a better Mercyful Fate album cover. That's subjective. Maybe you think I could have picked a better Mercyful Fate album. That's objective. This isn't a long player proper, playa! It's simply a compilation of b-sides and rare material. While I detest the title font (I see they went with the "cheap paste" option), the artwork is a generic party. As in Party City. It's as dumb as a box of dumb, but it's fun! It's cheese, it's Halloween, it's Subspecies II: Bloodstone, it's...you get the point.
After watching it back recently, I'd have to say that 1998's Gargantua isn't that bad. It's very obvious, yes, and the CGI doesn't hold up, but it's agreeable enough to watch. I don't know why you asked, though. I thought I made it clear that this is a review of 2016's A Cure for Wellness, a picture that I pined for when it bedecked theaters. This would have been a great flick to catch in theaters. Alas, I wasn't able to make it out to the hippodrome. Over six months since my last review, I can still use ridiculous words with the best of 'em. Don't you refer to your local movie shack as a hippodrome? You shouldn't. Previews painted Wellness as a wholly unique experience. And it is unique, but now that I've imbibed the film, it's a teensy bit more conventional than I was expecting. In a disappointing way. I'll get to the good stuff later (my opinion is broadly roseate), but everything felt vaguely Hollywood-by-numbers. It's as though a studio executive was standing on the set, just off to the side, intercalating directives such as "Make the ending big!" and "She's the love interest!" By the way, I don't know that Mia Goth was the nonpareil choice to play Hannah. This is where I need to parlay plot details, isn't it? Damn. Dane DeHaan is Lockhart, a young upstart who is sent to Switzerland to bring his company's CEO back to America. Apparently, Pembroke (the CEO) has stolen away to a sequestered rehabilitation clinic nestled in the Swiss Alps. To get "well." Ooooh, quotation marks! That means something mysterious is happening! Mysteriously! Without diving into particulars, the sanitarium utilizes eels and gallons upon gallons of water. It's totally legit. Seriously, how does this place exist? Aren't there codes and ordinances that would protect against the construction of a horror house such as this? The town is cool with it? The plot holes are noticeable, but let's put those aside for a minute. Back to Hannah. We are never told her exact age, but I swear to Jehovah's astragalus (it's one of the proximal bones of the tarsus, you monkey), the girl is barely pubescent. Fourteen at the oldest. The actress is older, but that doesn't matter. She looks fourteen and yet, Wellness tries to pass her off as desirable. The marked age difference between Hannah and Lockhart doesn't seem to rankle the film. Ew. The villain attempts to rape her and we see her breasts AND EW. "Ew" is probably the point, and I get that. It's just a very uncomfortable sit. I liked this film? Yeah, I guess so. Gore Verbinski is a master of the visual arts. Several images reminded me of his redux of The Ring, mainly the underwater shots of suspended bodies and furtive, double-dealing eels (I don't trust those creepy motherfuckers). The cast is fine (nice segue, Dom). Jason Isaacs should be the next James Bond. Don't get me wrong; he's excellent here as a twisted doctor, but his gentility is quite winning. Man, apart from this paragraph, this review isn't nearly as positive as I imagined it would be in my head. Technically speaking, A Cure for Wellness is high-grade material. I wanted to see how it ended, which is important. Did the ending make sense? Nope! This is a lengthy feature, but it still feels as though scenes were truncated. Robert Z'Dar says, "Give Gargantua another chance."
I'm working on finishing up a (written!) movie review, but until the warm, flaky bun is out of the oven, please enjoy the first of a few seasonal videos highlighting a few seasonal movies. Is there a dweller in your cellar?
Hi! Boy, my life has FUCKING SUCKED as of late, but I think I can find pockets of time to spend on this rinky-dink website. It's October, after all. I recently bought a few compact discs (a "CD" is an optical data storage format), and I realized something. I'm done! Sorry, bands. I am finally done purchasing ringlets of music when half of the time - I'm not even kidding - the discs skip. Brand new goddamn discs! I have Alexa in my room, so with our Amazon Music Unlimited subscription, I can jam to almost any record. No, this isn't a sponsored post. I wish. Between the bitch (Alexa), YouTube and Spotify, I'm alright in the metal department. Look, I held out as long as I could. Friends renounced ceedeez years ago, so I've been the old man out. Not anymore! I was moved to write on the topic after "spinning" I Loved You at Your Darkest, the latest Behemoth opus. Man, it's a motherfucker. I didn't go head over hooves for The Satanist, but this sick puppy does the trick. It marks a seamless progression (and in some cases, amelioration) for the band, striking (dis)harmony between gruff death metal and forward-reaching black metal. See you when I see you.
I've been thinking a lot about...life. lolz Life, maaaaaan. Time and how it's perceived. That doesn't make a lick of sense, but basically, I need to work on other stuff. Non-website stuff. You know where this is going. I hesitate to use the word "'hiatus" because that implies that I'll be back at some point. And I might! I don't want to scare anyone, but I'm fucking 33 years old. That's human years! I need to switch shit up. If I do decide to come back for the fifth time, I'll let people know. I'll let you know, bro!
What happens when you can't find the comic book you wanted to review? Album cover of the whatever, baby! Count yourself lucky. I'll keep looking. That comic is guaranteed to be a slam dunk. But hey, this is a pretty good album. The band is Unreqvited (sic) and the album is Stars Wept to the Sea. It's (mostly) relaxing post-metal with an omnipresent blackness. I don't know exactly what is happening on the cover, but if the title is prognostic, those are stars weeping...y'know, to the sea. All I know is that I adore the base color. I'm positive that "base color" is a hair styling term, but fuck it. I'm too metal to care!
Rewatching this 90's favorite, I nearly choked on my dry roasted edamame (they were just peanuts) when I realized that Young Sil was played by Michelle Williams. She was so cute! So I have personal history with Species. Seven years ago (!), I reviewed the film's comic book tie-in. You can read that HERE, but be forewarned, I basically review the movie in the first paragraph. Er, read this first. Yeah. Keep in mind, I read the four-issue comic series before seeing the motion picture. I was deep in the throes of puberty upon my initial viewing of Species, so it was a flustering experience. Stupid cock contractions. I do remember liking the finished product. Let's get this out of the way. Natasha Henstridge was a firm 20 years old when she shot this thing. It was her first acting gig! Fresh out of the wrapper and all that. She is a sweltering smokeshow, and due to the convenient skullduggery of the storyline, she spends a disproportionate (or proportionate, depending on how you look at it) amount of screen time either topless or naked. That is not a complaint. The feminist chunk of my brain is all, "Bitch, please." The other chunks find Species to be a rather watchable update of Lifeforce. Oh, and I enjoy boobs. Sil could be seen as a feminist villain who goes after what she wants without any regard for men. Of course, she also rips out the spine of a club chick. That tends to disrupt the metaphor. Positives! Director Roger Donaldson brings a steady hand to the proceedings. The plum, comfortable budget ensures that everything looks gorgeous. Man, those opening credits are a sci-fi fanatic's nocturnal emission. It's clear that MGM wanted this to be a success on the level of Alien. They even deputized the talents of the late, great H.R. Giger to design their creature. I dig Sil, but they pissed on her with dated CGI. Even in 1995, it didn't look convincing. The non-digital effects rawk, and there are gallons of gore to go around. Speaking of Night of the Seagulls, it's my top entry in the Blind Dead saga. Speaking of Chucky Voorhees, that ain't no river! Sometimes, my marbles trip over themselves. People get hurt. The acting is passable, although I doubt that anyone knew why they were in this popcorn collage. Forest Whitaker tries like hell to carry depth as Dan, an empath who knows which way Sil went. I really don't think that screenwriter Dennis Feldman knows or understands the capabilities of an empath. As a matter of fact, I sniffed out boxcars of plot holes. They didn't bother me much as a teenager, and they still don't. Species isn't the type of scare flick that is decided by nuance. It's a fun, fast-paced grotesquery that feels like an R-rated episode of The X-Files. Robert Z'Dar says, "Titties!"
I don't know how many times I've mentioned it (perhaps zero), but I'm an NBA fan. The playoffs start tomorrow, and unlike most years, the winners won't be obvious. An upset in the first round is practically guaranteed. But who will be upset? And in which conference? As it relates to basketball, I follow three teams. My local pick (Charlotte Hornets), my biased pick (Toronto Raptors...I've just always liked them) and my bandwagon pick (Golden State Warriors). C'mon, we all have a popular team that we don't regard with contempt. Plus, Steph Curry is a die-hard fan of my Carolina Panthers. In the first round, the Raptors contend with a nervy, tenacious Wizards squad. John Wall and Bradley Beal are nothing to scoff at, and in point, these two teams split their season series. Did I mention that Toronto is the #1 seed in the East and that Washington is the #8 seed? If you follow pro hoops, you already know this stuff. I bring it up to underscore the fact that this kind of upset (#8 trouncing #1) has happened quite a few times. I admit, I'm jittery. Toronto's legacy reeks of inconsistency, but this is the best crew of carnivorous bipedal dinosaurs ever assembled. Literally! Their regular season tally of 59 wins is a franchise record, and head coach Duane Casey (my vote for Coach of the Year), thoroughly reshuffled the offensive M.O. to mirror that of the defending champions - the Golden State Warriors! And I'm only talking about one series. Out of eight. They will all be worth watching, sweetie pie. Don't worry; I'll get back to reviewing horror films next week. Had to get this out of my system. Go Checkers!
Let's finish this bitch! 7) D-Bry and Shane/Owens and Zayn ~ We saw a controlled burst of Daniel Bryan's offense on Smackdown, but this was his first match in three years. Let me tell you, he went full-bore and it was obvious that he was having a fucking blast. I had a blast, too! It felt like watching a happy puppy playing in the snow. Slushy simile, but c'mon. This was feelgood wrestling. 8) Nia/Alexa For The Raw Women's Championship ~ Storytelling was paramount here. Honestly, I can't recall many moves or sequences from the contest (trying not to use "match" a billion times), but that wasn't the point. I did like the terse levity early on when both participants screamed simultaneously. Alexa's slasher-worthy shriek elicited audible laughter from those in attendance. 9) Styles/Nakamura For The WWE Championship ~ Oh, baby. This was the fight that I was looking forward to the most. It was...alright. Before I grill the meat, how about Nita Strauss jamming on Nakamura's entrance theme? She rocked it! Yes, I'm a fan. So the match brought intense action and a sick heel turn, but for whatever reason, I wasn't feelin' it. Things never went to that next level. I'm not explaining myself very well. One obstacle was the limitation on time (otherwise known as a "time limit"). Not the wrestlers' fault, but dude, it's fucking Wrestlemania. Why not let them go for a half-hour? Vince doesn't seem to understand the significance of a match's length. I'm a stickler for that shit. On the upside, we'll get more matches out of these two gentlemen. Bring it, I say! 10) Braun and Nicholas/The Bar ~ I can see the reasoning behind plunking a lighter scuffle in between your main events, but I'm not sure how I feel about brushing The Bar to the side and devalorizing the Raw tag titles. I'm conflicted. Hemming and hawing. Wishy AND washy. Hey, I'll ease off. Nicholas is a cute kid, and that's a memory that will never fade from his mental laundry. 11) Lesnar/Reigns For The WWE Universal Championship ~ Yeah, I didn't give a flapping fuck. The crowd tuned out almost immediately. No amount of blood (and it was actually too much) was going to change my mind. Overall, this was a gratifying PPV, so it's a shame that it had to end with a galumph. I didn't cover the pre-show, but it was adequate. The women's battle royal was terrible, the cruiserweights were typical (I dug the gymnastics and Mustafa Ali's Max Moon-esque gear) and I missed the Andre the Giant battle royal, though I'm pleased with the results. Billy goats urinate on their own heads to smell more attractive to females. Bye!
First of all, NXT Takeover: New Orleans was flippin' awesome. The entire card. I wanted to get that out of the way before attempting to break down Wrestlemania (yes, I waited until I digested Raw). Now, where is my silverware? 1) Rollins/Miz/Balor For The Intercontinental Championship ~ A logical choice to open the main show, as it bristled with pluck and vivacity. In other words, it was energetic. I have a feeling that were it not for the arrival of Monroe Sky Mizanin, The Miz would have retained and broken Pedro Morales's record for most combined days as IC champ. 2) Charlotte/Asuka For The Smackdown Women's Championship ~ I have given it thought, and I believe that this was the best match of the night. Should it have been longer? Yeah. However, all that these two ladies could do was maximize the minutes in front of them. They did. Everything was clean and I can't remember any wasted motion. Asuka is a polished veteran, while Charlotte's progress from where she was just five years ago is nothing short of remarkable. Hopefully, this wasn't the last tussle between The Queen and The Empress. They have SERIOUS chemistry. 3) Jinder/Randy/Bobby/Rusev For The United States Championship ~ There are a few matches here that I had zero investment in tailgating on the road to Wrasslemania. I'm afraid that this is one of them. Also, I'm not convinced that the winner wasn't chosen with a dart. Orton? I haven't cared about him since 2010. Roode is fine, but he should never have lost the title. Rusev has "Rusev Day." Big deal. I give this bland bout a Meltzer rating of piss out of shit. 4) Angle and Rousey/Triple H and Stephanie ~ This was way more fun than I was expecting. That's, in part, due to all of the parties playing their roles to a T. Say what you will about Trips and Steph, but they know how to be heels. Plus, it's obvious that Ronda is committed to the craft. I can't wait to see who she faces at next year's Mania. How scorching hot did she look in that skirt? 5) The Bludgeon Brothers/The Usos/The New Day For The Smackdown Tag Team Championships ~ God, that's a lot of words. Invariably, one (or two) of the title matches was going to be pared down, but I'm fine with it. This fracas didn't need to stretch beyond five minutes. The Bludgeon Brothers should have been booked this way in their days as Wyatt bondservants. Better late than never? 6) The Undertaker/John Cena ~ I was against the "build-up" of this match from the jump. Yeah, I know they'll eventually have to sell a major PPV without either icon, but I don't care. John Cena cutting promos all by his lonesome for four straight weeks makes for shitty television, even if they were solid promos. And yet, the match itself put a dense, doltish smile on my face. It was essentially a classic Superstars showcase from 1992 where 'Taker squashed Cena. How can I be peeved at that? I sincerely hope that it was The Phenom's coda. As a (huge) fan, I want closure. Hmm, closure. I'm going to hold off on giving you closure. It struck me that Smackdown is tonight and the next match on the WM card involves a certain Goat Man. I'll finish this tomorrow, yo.
It occurred to me that it's been a tiny while since I've posted something, so...um, here's an episode of Tales From the Crypt starring Morton Downey Jr. An early instance of "found footage" terror, only it's actually creepy in patches. Boo!
There are too many Bigfoot flicks out there. Way, way too many. Demonwarp gives prominence to a Bigfoot-esque creature, but this isn't your stock, customary Bigfoot flick. It's...different. If you plan on seeing Demonwarp in the near future, skip this capsule. I really need to spoil the shit out of it to make a case for it. Okay? Okay. A spaceship crashes in the forest. The lead alien (a demon with a scorpion tail) tyrannizes his underlings (rotting zombies) until they mend the identified flying object. What if a person waltzes into the hollow where the ship resides? Well, the lead alien injects a fluid into the victim (via scorpion tail) that turns the bastard into a sasquatch. Let's recap. Aliens, zombies, a cool cryptid...and those are just the topliners. We also get boobs and a laughable cult sacrifice on a set built with cardstock. It's fantastic! I'm thumbing my nose at the production quality, but the practical effects are impressive. All of the monsters look swell. Isn't that what's most important? Look, I'm not going to bore you by mentioning dinky snags (the superfluous daylight is a buzzkill) or detailing performance minutiae (George Kennedy is very George Kennedy). Demonwarp is a badass b-movie. Period. The second act slumps a speck, but who cares? What's your man got to do with me? I'm not tryin' to hear that, see?
It seems that every day, I discover a cool band. 'Twas just 5 (or 447) days ago, I discovered Whispered, a Samurai death metal band. Yeah, Samurai death metal! If I were hooked up to a polygraph machine, I would call them a melodic death metal band, but truthfully, their vibe is hard to explain. The closest cousin is Children of Bodom. Speaking of Finland, Whispered is from Finland, and no, that doesn't make sense. Maybe they really dig dragons and swords. Who doesn't, right? But that's not the point! Check out the cover art. Decapitate two of its heads, and that whipping wyvern could cosplay as King Ghidorah. I'm into Asian imagery in general. Oh, the album is called Metsutan: Songs of the Void. I don't usually do this, but I'm including a video because I want to give Whispered an infinitesimal boost. Thank me later, guys!
I was hoping to get this review out a few days earlier, but I didn't. It happens. The string of heavenly b-movies produced in the 50's was just about to go kaput by the end of the decade, but there were still a few winners to be hatched. For instance, you have 1959's The Monster of Piedras Blancas. It's golden. 1958's Giant From the Unknown is...bronze? It's nothing special, I grant you, but I couldn't hate it. At least the storyline is whacked. The grave of a centuries-dead Spanish conquistador is yawped by an electrical storm. A lightning bolt disturbs his tomb, rousing the 6-foot-7 "degenerate" to leave his casket and plunge into a killing spree. The actor behind Jack Pierce's make-up was actually 6-foot-7. Trivia, bitches! His name was Buddy Baer, and he was a professional boxer (not to mention the uncle of Max Baer Jr., who you might know as Jethro Bodine). A word on horror legend Pierce, if I may. He fortified his reputation applying make-up to the Universal monsters. While his work here isn't bad by definition, it's certainly lacking. My guess is that he wanted as much of Baer's performance to beam through as possible, but I want my monsters to look like monsters. Yes, I'm nitpicking. Monsters are my vocation, so I'm tough on them. I assure you that it's tough love. Let's see how many usages of "monster" I can cram into the rest of this disquisition. As charming as Giant tends to be (I'll expound on this later if you mind your peas and queues), it does take its sweet time digging up its undead, armor-clad conqueror. The exposition is pleased with itself. And yeah, that's grating, but again, the whole thing charmed the Bermuda bloomers off of me. Why, my jodhpur boots nearly kicked off in the prevailing winds of stupefaction! I'm overselling, but I do find reels of this ilk to be amiable. I was willing to brave the dry first half, and I don't recommend Giant to those without the same comportment. Once the action picks up steam, our creature feature becomes an easier sit. I have to hand it to screenwriters Ralph Brooke and Frank Hart Taussig for piecing a legitimate climax together. Is it heart-stirring? Is it as suspenseful as pissing with a kidney stone? No. No, no, no...nothing is that suspenseful. However, the resolution presents as an honest-to-Dionysus battle. I dug it. People die, man. The discovery of Indian Joe's hanging cadaver is surprisingly effective. Um, about Indian Joe. He's a carelessly, blunderingly racist character played by a white motherfucker. I know I should have expected as much, but these itty-bitty issues instantly make the viewer dumber. The film is also inclusive enough to feature pockets of sexism. Why can't America be this great again??? Damn, that's a closing sentence if I've ever read one. I'm ruining it. So Giant From the Unknown! It's a flawed, somewhat pedestrian drive-in spangle that I enjoyed a little more than most cult freaks would. Robert Z'Dar says, "C'mon, Dom. You're making Indian Joe shed a tear. Go Redskins!"
This is the intro for The King Kong Show, a 1966 animated series produced by Rankin/Bass. The actual animation was outsourced to Toei, a Japanese studio. Technically, this was the first anime to be commissioned by an American company (thank you, Wikipedia). I can't stand anime, but The King Kong Show isn't traditional anime. No open jaws. Hey, here's some more Kong trivia! This series spawned Godzilla vs. the Sea Monster (a.k.a. Ebirah, Horror of the Deep), which was originally a Kong vehicle. Eventually, Toho made King Kong Escapes instead.
Three! Three episodes! We did it! Okay, we're still working out audio kinks (MIGHT have those fixed in a couple of episodes), but overall, this one...is a thing! We talk about 1994's Funnyman, a film that I'm shocked I haven't discussed on this website. It's about a demonic fuckin' jester! C'mon! Make some noise!
It's practically old news by now, but Daniel Bryan has been officially cleared by WWE medical personnel to be injured again. Alright, so he's not injured again, but I know I wasn't the only one wincing at the end of Smackdown last night. I guess if you can go, you gotta go full-bore. Man, seeing DB laying in some of his signature offense? Goose flesh. Where do we go from here? Wherever it is, tread carefully. I mean, you can't treat the guy like a fragile wineglass, nor should you book him in a Street Fight. The obvious play is to pair him up with Shane McMahon against Kevin Owens and Sami Zayn. That would work. Initially, I had zero interest in Wrestlemania 34, but the card has shaped up nicely. Styles/Nakamura, Charlotte/Asuka, Rousey/Others (a circus match, but I'm fucking watching), Cena/Taker (we all know it's happening)...when you factor in the bloat, it's almost too much. If they shave needless video packages (they won't), the show should run a lean six hours. After the pre-show. Fuck.
My name is Dom Coccaro. I'm an established freelance writer. I like to write reviews, but I find that it's hard to find review-writing gigs on the Internet that pay more than $0.00. I don't like being boxed in and I don't like to constantly give my writing away for free, especially if it's not on my own website. So I created this blog. I'm free to review anything I want to, though I'll be mainly focusing on horror, metal and wrestling. Often times, my review selections will seem incredibly random. Randomness is underrated. Thus, Random Reviews has been birthed from my cavernous vagina.
PS-This blog is rated R for profane language.
