Just a quick note to say that I'm currently reading Clive Barker's Books of Blood (vol. 1-3)...for the first time.
I know, I know: What horror junkie worth his salt didn't get his hands on Mr. Barker at the earliest possible age? Me. And why did it take so long? Short answer: I don't know. It's just one of those things. But I'll tell you, I'm glad his name popped into my head last month when I walked into Borders with a 20%-off coupon in hand. I'm nearly finished with the book, and I can't put it down. I've never read anything so vile, so horrific, and yet vastly lyrical and eloquent at the same time. Barker's work makes Stephen King's novels look like third-grade readers.
I'll come back with more thoughts once I've completed the book. Oh, and Volume 4 and The Hellbound Heart are both on the nightstand, waiting to be opened.
Ready to be ridiculed...
Sunday, January 18, 2009
My Bloody Valentine 3D - Review
All hail Lionsgate, defender of all that is good and holy against the furthest reaches of hell known as Platinum Dunes!
Harry Warden is back (or is he?), pick-axe firmly in hand, to do away with another batch of annoying Text Generation wash-ups. And, seriously, who doesn't want to watch that?
The premise: Fresh from a coma caused by a shaft explosion, Harry picks up his favorite tool (not that one) and does away with 22 people before being shot. Ten years later, the kid that caused all the ruckus comes home to Harmony to sell the very mine his recently-deceased father owned--and possibly rekindle a relationship with his ex, now married to his former best-friend. The murders start anew...and our hero finds himself the number one suspect.
(I suppose I could have been more concise: The premise: Blah blah blather blather blah blah.)
Staying remarkably faithful to its 1981 source material, MBV 3D remake knows exactly what it wants: Increasingly inventive and gory kills; the longest sustained nude scene in a horror movie I've ever seen (played for tongue-in-cheek laughs); claustrophobic mine-shaft sequences; Tom Atkins, sent by the genre Gods; and Kevin Tighe, who meets his maker in an incredibly brutal fashion. We get it all, with a quick pace, and without a hint of irony or social commentary. No frills here; just good, old-fashioned 80's retro slasher.
On the acting front, Jensen Ackles, his voice a dead-on impression of a Hemi V8, as the young and inexperienced miner that sets the whole Bloody doughball rolling, can't be accused of trying to knock Pacino and DeNiro from their rightful thrones; neither will Jamie King, as the love-torn heroine, approach anything even remotely Streepian in the near future. And Kerr Smith proves once again that he is more than up to the challenge of roles like Final Destination (which isn't much of a compliment, folks). But, Atkins and Tighe do enough scene-stealing to compensate for the tepid lead performances. And, really, when has anyone ever expected Oscar-caliber performances from a movie like this? The dialogue is mostly laughable, as it should be, filled with astonishingly ominous portents like "Harry Warden's back" and even a nice homage to one of our greatest slasher icons, as a character calls out: "Jason...is that you?"
RealD 3D still can't manage to eliminate the blurs and streaking when the camera's in motion; much of the flick gave me a goddamned headache. But when the camera stands still, the depth of vision is among the best I've seen--particularly during the mine-shaft sequences, where the dirt and coal seem to tunnel far in to the screen. The gimmick is used with all the gusto it can muster, as eyeballs and busted jaws fly at the screen.
For 101 minutes of pure entertainment escapism, MBV 3D is all a great big red candy-box full of fun. And, if that isn't enough, Lionsgate has just re-released the original MBV on DVD, with legendary excised scenes edited back in to the movie. Pick it up if you want to be blown away by what the MPAA, arguably our nation's most notorious censorship group, thought you shouldn't see during the movie's original 1981 release. It's worth it just for the shower-head sequence, which is admittedly far more gruesome than I ever thought it could be.
Now I only have a month to wait for the redux of Friday the 13th. My red pen is ready.
Enjoy!
Harry Warden is back (or is he?), pick-axe firmly in hand, to do away with another batch of annoying Text Generation wash-ups. And, seriously, who doesn't want to watch that?
The premise: Fresh from a coma caused by a shaft explosion, Harry picks up his favorite tool (not that one) and does away with 22 people before being shot. Ten years later, the kid that caused all the ruckus comes home to Harmony to sell the very mine his recently-deceased father owned--and possibly rekindle a relationship with his ex, now married to his former best-friend. The murders start anew...and our hero finds himself the number one suspect.
(I suppose I could have been more concise: The premise: Blah blah blather blather blah blah.)
Staying remarkably faithful to its 1981 source material, MBV 3D remake knows exactly what it wants: Increasingly inventive and gory kills; the longest sustained nude scene in a horror movie I've ever seen (played for tongue-in-cheek laughs); claustrophobic mine-shaft sequences; Tom Atkins, sent by the genre Gods; and Kevin Tighe, who meets his maker in an incredibly brutal fashion. We get it all, with a quick pace, and without a hint of irony or social commentary. No frills here; just good, old-fashioned 80's retro slasher.
On the acting front, Jensen Ackles, his voice a dead-on impression of a Hemi V8, as the young and inexperienced miner that sets the whole Bloody doughball rolling, can't be accused of trying to knock Pacino and DeNiro from their rightful thrones; neither will Jamie King, as the love-torn heroine, approach anything even remotely Streepian in the near future. And Kerr Smith proves once again that he is more than up to the challenge of roles like Final Destination (which isn't much of a compliment, folks). But, Atkins and Tighe do enough scene-stealing to compensate for the tepid lead performances. And, really, when has anyone ever expected Oscar-caliber performances from a movie like this? The dialogue is mostly laughable, as it should be, filled with astonishingly ominous portents like "Harry Warden's back" and even a nice homage to one of our greatest slasher icons, as a character calls out: "Jason...is that you?"
RealD 3D still can't manage to eliminate the blurs and streaking when the camera's in motion; much of the flick gave me a goddamned headache. But when the camera stands still, the depth of vision is among the best I've seen--particularly during the mine-shaft sequences, where the dirt and coal seem to tunnel far in to the screen. The gimmick is used with all the gusto it can muster, as eyeballs and busted jaws fly at the screen.
For 101 minutes of pure entertainment escapism, MBV 3D is all a great big red candy-box full of fun. And, if that isn't enough, Lionsgate has just re-released the original MBV on DVD, with legendary excised scenes edited back in to the movie. Pick it up if you want to be blown away by what the MPAA, arguably our nation's most notorious censorship group, thought you shouldn't see during the movie's original 1981 release. It's worth it just for the shower-head sequence, which is admittedly far more gruesome than I ever thought it could be.
Now I only have a month to wait for the redux of Friday the 13th. My red pen is ready.
Enjoy!
Sunday, January 11, 2009
All That and Baghead, Too
[Edit note: I’ve corrected the egregious and downright fucking insulting error of referring to the filmmakers as “Dumass,” rather than the correct and far more agreeable “Duplass.” With apologies. I’m a dumass.]
Want to see an uncommonly good mumblecore movie? Check out Baghead, hot from the 2008 festival circuit and now available on DVD.
I’ve seen it twice now and figured I’d share my thoughts.
The premise: two guys and two girls hole themselves up in a cabin in the woods to write a screenplay, only to be menaced by a guy with a bag over his head.
I know; you want to stop reading right now. Such thematic brilliance, you’re thinking, with all the sarcasm you can muster. Yeah, like I’ve never seen that before.
But, do yourself a favor: disregard the tired plot device of the stalker in the woods and just focus on what unfolds between the characters—who bring along enough drama to fill the Grand Canyon—while they aren’t being harassed. The Duplass brothers, Jay and Mark, shot Baghead on mini-DV for about a grand, and, for about three-quarters of it, give us: a merciless, unrequited love; pity sex and cruel intimations of relationship reconciliation; a tenuous bromance; a secret crush; and even a session of surreptitious, if not satisfactory, masturbation that had me laughing out loud. Oh, and there’s plenty of drinking, foul language, and an obligatory (real) boob shot, if that’s your thing.
Let me be clear: I’m not promising you great art here; far from it. Baghead is amateur, rather than auteur. But, I was absorbed by the clever, quick-witted dialogue (largely improvised, I'm assuming) and the natural, unadorned actors (Ross Partridge, Steve Zissis, Greta Gerwig and Elise Muller) that deliver it with an effortless ease of everyday conversation. The characters are a little (just a little) smarter than the usual conventions of a script like this one, and it's a hell of a lot of fun to watch when their threads get tangled up. (A few moments are even uncomfortable, particularly when the pathetic and balding Chad finally decides to open his heart to the oblivious Michelle.)
The introduction of the baghead seems an odd non-sequitur, given the build-up of the characters and their story lines. Odd, that is, until the denouement, which comes across as a cheat and left me completely underwhelmed. Our four victims act as perfunctorily—and stupidly— as they should when attacked. And when our stalker pulls a knife on the group, he swings it like a prison tranny, which ain’t pretty (so I’m told—I’ve no personal experience). He isn’t scary, or creepy, and, with the exception of a few well-lit shots of shadow-lurking at a window, comes across as a guy who seems like he walked on to the wrong movie set. Now that I think about it, this is two different movies entirely, with the better Big Chill version working desperately to extricate itself from the weary, direct-to-DVD Friday the 13th rehashes.
Technically, the movie does nothing to transcend extreme independent cinema. But the Duplass boys know how to frame a close-up and the editing is tight. They take liberal advantage of the verite shaky cam, but, mercifully, manage to keep it steady enough so as not to induce vomit.
But, like I said, this movie is all about the characters, so put your focus on them. You may be surprised to find yourself fascinated by their sordid shenanigans. Obtrusive baghead stalker aside, this movie is a hatchet-throw further than most of its kind.
Give it a shot.
Want to see an uncommonly good mumblecore movie? Check out Baghead, hot from the 2008 festival circuit and now available on DVD.
I’ve seen it twice now and figured I’d share my thoughts.
The premise: two guys and two girls hole themselves up in a cabin in the woods to write a screenplay, only to be menaced by a guy with a bag over his head.
I know; you want to stop reading right now. Such thematic brilliance, you’re thinking, with all the sarcasm you can muster. Yeah, like I’ve never seen that before.
But, do yourself a favor: disregard the tired plot device of the stalker in the woods and just focus on what unfolds between the characters—who bring along enough drama to fill the Grand Canyon—while they aren’t being harassed. The Duplass brothers, Jay and Mark, shot Baghead on mini-DV for about a grand, and, for about three-quarters of it, give us: a merciless, unrequited love; pity sex and cruel intimations of relationship reconciliation; a tenuous bromance; a secret crush; and even a session of surreptitious, if not satisfactory, masturbation that had me laughing out loud. Oh, and there’s plenty of drinking, foul language, and an obligatory (real) boob shot, if that’s your thing.
Let me be clear: I’m not promising you great art here; far from it. Baghead is amateur, rather than auteur. But, I was absorbed by the clever, quick-witted dialogue (largely improvised, I'm assuming) and the natural, unadorned actors (Ross Partridge, Steve Zissis, Greta Gerwig and Elise Muller) that deliver it with an effortless ease of everyday conversation. The characters are a little (just a little) smarter than the usual conventions of a script like this one, and it's a hell of a lot of fun to watch when their threads get tangled up. (A few moments are even uncomfortable, particularly when the pathetic and balding Chad finally decides to open his heart to the oblivious Michelle.)
The introduction of the baghead seems an odd non-sequitur, given the build-up of the characters and their story lines. Odd, that is, until the denouement, which comes across as a cheat and left me completely underwhelmed. Our four victims act as perfunctorily—and stupidly— as they should when attacked. And when our stalker pulls a knife on the group, he swings it like a prison tranny, which ain’t pretty (so I’m told—I’ve no personal experience). He isn’t scary, or creepy, and, with the exception of a few well-lit shots of shadow-lurking at a window, comes across as a guy who seems like he walked on to the wrong movie set. Now that I think about it, this is two different movies entirely, with the better Big Chill version working desperately to extricate itself from the weary, direct-to-DVD Friday the 13th rehashes.
Technically, the movie does nothing to transcend extreme independent cinema. But the Duplass boys know how to frame a close-up and the editing is tight. They take liberal advantage of the verite shaky cam, but, mercifully, manage to keep it steady enough so as not to induce vomit.
But, like I said, this movie is all about the characters, so put your focus on them. You may be surprised to find yourself fascinated by their sordid shenanigans. Obtrusive baghead stalker aside, this movie is a hatchet-throw further than most of its kind.
Give it a shot.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Friday the 13th: Legends of the Fall
Sorry, I meant The Fall of Legends. I can't even begin to tell you how many ways this is wrong:
But I'll try.
I have two words for you: underground tunnels. Say that out loud: underground tunnels. It just makes the true horror junkies, like myself, want to curl up in a ball and cry like the little bitches that we would be if we weren't so very very cool.
(Note to self: Tivo Golden Girls tonight)
Seriously, Sean S. Cunningham would be rolling over in his grave—if he were actually dead.
Oh, and I have four more words for you: token witty black guy. That's right, I said it: token witty black guy. Doesn't it just shrivel up on your tongue like the bad semen you get when the guy you just picked up at a seedy bar fails to tell you that he binged on garlic chicken and bottomless breadsticks for dinner?
It's exactly like that (trust me).
You know the archetype of the Token Witty Black Guy: He's the one hacks like Michael Bay like to stuff into their screenplays for comedic effect. He's the guy that plays what has to be the most flagrant and offensive racial stereotype in film by walking around—with a strut, no less—and throwing out clever lines like "Wus up, giiirl?" and "How you doin'?" and "Uh-uh, I ain't goin' in there. This nigga stayin' right where he is, aight?" That guy. Where's the black guy that's Harvard educated? The one that hates hip-hop and ho's? The guy that wants to fucking hunker down in a nice Connecticut farmhouse with his wife and kids while he practices law and she makes fucking playdates with the neighbors—before he gets killed.
And to that end, I have nine more words and a hyphenate: Michael Bay must be the biggest douche-bag on the planet. (Is that right? Nine?) Seriously, doesn't he know this? And I'm including him with the likes of Brody-fucking-Jenner, which has gotta hurt, bad! Bay had no qualms about throwing down his millions to get his bloody hands on this franchise, only to fuck the true Friday fans by giving them another over-produced, slick, loud, and poorly written remake. When is this man going to go away? Isn't there some kind of intergalactic mothership that combs the universe for useless shills, and them beams them away to be used for their alien children as scientific examples of the pitfalls of stupidity? Thank God the Rosemary's Baby remake fell through. Otherwise, we'd have had Paris Hilton as Mrs. Castevet—because, you know, she's so awesome.
And to the misguided defenders that say "you haven't even seen the movie yet": Fuck you. I don't need to see the movie to know it sucks, just like I don't need to put my dick in a hot frying pan to know it will fucking hurt. (I made that mistake once already.) Anyway, it'll all suck because the movie was produced by the devil himself, and Hell's name is Platinum Dunes.
That's it. I got nothin' else, aside from a shitload of other reasons why this movie is a travesty that I'm already too bored to share.
P.S. What would qualify as a good remake, you ask? This. Because Heaven's name is Lionsgate:
But I'll try.
I have two words for you: underground tunnels. Say that out loud: underground tunnels. It just makes the true horror junkies, like myself, want to curl up in a ball and cry like the little bitches that we would be if we weren't so very very cool.
(Note to self: Tivo Golden Girls tonight)
Seriously, Sean S. Cunningham would be rolling over in his grave—if he were actually dead.
Oh, and I have four more words for you: token witty black guy. That's right, I said it: token witty black guy. Doesn't it just shrivel up on your tongue like the bad semen you get when the guy you just picked up at a seedy bar fails to tell you that he binged on garlic chicken and bottomless breadsticks for dinner?
It's exactly like that (trust me).
You know the archetype of the Token Witty Black Guy: He's the one hacks like Michael Bay like to stuff into their screenplays for comedic effect. He's the guy that plays what has to be the most flagrant and offensive racial stereotype in film by walking around—with a strut, no less—and throwing out clever lines like "Wus up, giiirl?" and "How you doin'?" and "Uh-uh, I ain't goin' in there. This nigga stayin' right where he is, aight?" That guy. Where's the black guy that's Harvard educated? The one that hates hip-hop and ho's? The guy that wants to fucking hunker down in a nice Connecticut farmhouse with his wife and kids while he practices law and she makes fucking playdates with the neighbors—before he gets killed.
And to that end, I have nine more words and a hyphenate: Michael Bay must be the biggest douche-bag on the planet. (Is that right? Nine?) Seriously, doesn't he know this? And I'm including him with the likes of Brody-fucking-Jenner, which has gotta hurt, bad! Bay had no qualms about throwing down his millions to get his bloody hands on this franchise, only to fuck the true Friday fans by giving them another over-produced, slick, loud, and poorly written remake. When is this man going to go away? Isn't there some kind of intergalactic mothership that combs the universe for useless shills, and them beams them away to be used for their alien children as scientific examples of the pitfalls of stupidity? Thank God the Rosemary's Baby remake fell through. Otherwise, we'd have had Paris Hilton as Mrs. Castevet—because, you know, she's so awesome.
And to the misguided defenders that say "you haven't even seen the movie yet": Fuck you. I don't need to see the movie to know it sucks, just like I don't need to put my dick in a hot frying pan to know it will fucking hurt. (I made that mistake once already.) Anyway, it'll all suck because the movie was produced by the devil himself, and Hell's name is Platinum Dunes.
That's it. I got nothin' else, aside from a shitload of other reasons why this movie is a travesty that I'm already too bored to share.
P.S. What would qualify as a good remake, you ask? This. Because Heaven's name is Lionsgate:
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