Highway of Heartache

At long last have I've finally watched Highway of Heartache; one of the most absolutely batshit films I've seen in recent memory. After viewing Gary's Touch, I came to the realization that Canada has some of the greatest avant-garde psychosexual films that refuse to see distribution (for obvious reasons). Highway of Heartache is what you would expect between the 50s clashing with The Anal Birth of Bert. The film's unusual level of camp is derived from the Day-Glo sets that are constantly used and the cartoon-like props and surreal intermissions of animation. Point is, my mindset is as scattered as the surreal jurisdiction of this very clever film. Withering, chain-smoking female Wynona-Sue is the crash dummy of this story. She does nothing but continuously sink into worse and worse proceedings that bring life to her tale. It's such a fate that her downfall leads to our high spirits.


A southern gal named Wynona-Sue Turnpike has dreams of becoming a Nashville country star and her only output for her emotional distress is in her lovely songs. After murdering her husband, she hits the road only to get venereal disease diagnosed by an Elvis Presley impersonating gynecologist and expresses her inner woes with very catchy tunes detailed with raunchy lyrics perfectly radiant of the overall theme of the film - "Itch in my ditch | Germ in his sperm." After this and more, Wynona-Sue regroups with her orphaned "nigger" child and evokes many bad memories of her promiscuous past. Highway of Heartache is best described as an trashy country musical of abstract integrity. Regrettably the best and only of it's kind. It's film making like this that inspires the underground to aim for originality and quality rather than blind entertainment.


It's no secret that this film never got proper distribution but in an event of counter-productivity, this film is an obscure secret shying away from a cult community that would be embracing its many perks as well as flaws. Perhaps the greatest moments of Highway of Heartache is its approach of racial acceptance or lack thereof. It really gives the film color, to see Wynona-Sue approach a Negro calling her special and dark-skinned - monotonously dismissing prejudice all the while calling them "niggers." White people who believe they must apologize to every Negro they meet because of their ancestors absolutely disgust me. As "parodied" in Fritz the Cat, it's this kind of impassioned racial ass-kissing that puts the "brothas" and the white race down. Just live and let live. Also, kill whitey.


Big hair is a thing of the past. Cry-Baby tried to reintroduce this dead fashion but I find that film to be as filling as cafeteria food, in other words, I abhor that film's being. Highway of Heartache reinvents a retro schematic for a contemporary musical sans the contrived song writing and uninspired events that unfold. To call this film interesting would be underwhelming and to call this film underwhelming would be a damn lie. While the events and absurdity seem to die down 3/4's through, the finished product is still one of the most original products of discourse I've seen on terms of sheer inspired mania. Highway of Heartache might also be the most offensive musical ever produced. Any film brave enough to introduce Blackface, let alone drag-queen Blackface, is an absolute treasure in my book. If you can locate this film, don't let anything stop you from viewing this ridiculous title of surreal trash that follows a doctrine of misanthropy. This film speaks with its own language, with its own culture, and is glorified within the reality present, veiling a lucid adventure of country music stardom with an aesthetic comparable to watching Nickelodeon on acid.

-mAQ

David Icke: The Lizards and the Jews

I am a fan of reading conspiracy theories whether to be enlightened in some way or to be merely entertained. Since I do not know too much about him, I decided to watch the documentary David Icke: The Lizards and the Jews. I knew that Icke was a former professional soccer player and that he believes Reptilians are our secret leaders. After watching the documentary, I did not learn much more about his conspiracy theories. I was just further convinced that left-wing “activists” are probably the weakest people (both physically and mentally) to ever survive childbirth. For much of David Icke: The Lizards and the Jews, left-wing activists stalk Icke during his tour in Canada in hopes to shut him down from appearing publicly as they consider him "anti-Semitic."


David Icke seems to be what fellow Brit Steven Morrissey would call a “charming man.” After declaring himself the “son of god” on television, apparently Icke became the laughingstock of England. David Icke, however, would have the last laugh when he would later gain a larger following of individuals that believe his theories of Reptilian humanoids known as the Babylonian Brotherhood are a global elite that happen to control everything we hear and see. Apparently, many of these reptilians also happen to be Jewish thus resulting in a negative backlash from Jewish groups like the slimy ADL and annoying turds like the ARA. What these people do not realize is that people like David Icke help to discredit “anti-Semitic conspiracies” by talking about people being reptilians. Apparently, the reptilians have a resemblance to the anti-Jew propaganda that used to be so prominent in Eastern Europe. Maybe it’s the nose?


Despite not really believing in Icke’s message, I do have respect for what he is doing. David Icke seems to really believe in something and it has given his life some meaning since his soccer career was cut short. Plus despite their sci-fi elements, Icke’s conspiracy theories are most likely more credible than any of Michael Moore’s documentaries. The annoying and loudmouthed Texan Alex Jones seems to have some beef with David Icke as the documentary reveals. Jones referred to David Icke as a ‘turd in a punch bowl.’ According to Alex Jones, the Arabs own Hollywood. I am assuming that Mr. Jones only watches DVDs of himself. Or maybe his Zionist wife told him about how these evil terrorist Arabs run Hollywood? It is believed that a lot of Alex Jones' anger comes from the fact that he has found it nearly impossible to get Israeli citizenship as he would complain about it in his radio show. Having a Kosher wife and children still makes it hard for a goy to get citizenship. Only the chosen amongst god’s chosen have that privilege.



The climax of David Icke: The Lizards and the Jews occurs when a group of anti-anti-Semites decide they are going to throw a pie at Icke when he speaks. Talk about rebellious and subversive, these soldiers of the rainbow really know how to make progress with being progressive. Unfortunately, the limp wristed fellow that throws the pie misses and ruins a bunch of innocent children’s books. They also end up making asses of themselves by dressing up in Lizard suits and yelling at Icke that he is “Anti-Semitic.” After their failed mission, the group of goodhearted anti-fascists brag about their attack. They also claimed to have seen real-life Nazis with swastika and SS bolt tattoos. Surprisingly, no Neo-Nazis or skinheads are seen in the documentary footage as the activists claim to have seen. One of the anti-fascists, who also happens to be one of those stereotypical shaved head bull dyke lesbians, also states that most of David Icke’s fans seem to be “rich white people.” I thought according to progressive types, stereotyping is bad?


After watching David Icke: The Lizards and the Jews, I may read one of Icke’s books for the hell of it. Icke may not be the son of God, but he seems to piss off anti-fascists just as much as Jesus. The journalist who follows David Icke in the documentary, Jon Ronson, also seems to grow to like Icke as the documentary progresses. What’s not to like about a father who plays soccer with his son and tells his kids that evil reptile humanoids rule the earth?

-Ty E

Perkins' 14

Perkins' 14 happens to be an enriched film experience by comparison and probably one of the few "good" After Dark Horrorfest films in existence. The plot revolves around a balding and intimidating police officer whose son was kidnapped 10 years before and the present day marks the decade anniversary. If you know anything about generic horror or horror in general (See what I did there?), you'd know that anniversaries never go peacefully and there's always something shady around the corner. His quiet and discomforting day goes by rather dreary until he makes a connection between the abduction of his son with a mysterious man who was arrested for speeding earlier in the day. The film causally jumps from suspense thriller to pseudo-science zombie/beast horror and I've never really encountered such an awkward and engaging hybrid as this before. It almost reminds me of Fear X, a film that damn near ravaged my emotions.


Since I've seen Martyrs very recently, I couldn't help but make comparisons to confined slavery and the inevitable deconstruction of humanity to the glorious effects of sensory deprivation. For the sake of a rather straightforward horror film, the underlying erotic themes have been removed and replaced with a higher body count. Perkins' 14 includes a master plan that plays out like one of the future installments of the Saw franchise. Think about it this way, Saw really has nowhere else to go but revisiting characters but even then the fan base will dwindle. So why not include drug-fueled zombie manchildren? To aid the effect of Perkins' 14, a rather delicious "punk" daughter is introduced to the mix and as noted in the recent review of 2008's The Children, these trendy girls only deliver eye candy while the tension builds up rather well. To put it blatantly, I enjoy staring at beautiful girls while I witness police officers getting disemboweled. These two fine points of the American dream just go hand in hand, I guess.


I digress this very same reality that allows low budget horror to take place. I favor a certain charming low budget horror but not the over-produced trite that plays into our DVD shelves with promises of splatter and nudity. While these both are shining portraits of contemporary horror, I find a film with an emotional response to be a better way to "waste time" rather than watching subhuman looking females taking off their shirts revealing subnormal breasts only to get decapitated rather shoddily resulting in some half-painted prop head bouncing on the ground. Perkins' 14 did promise splatter to a degree but also made due with its riveting plot that was constantly shifting faces never allowing you to get bored.


Expect an amendable level of violence, intrigue, and social discussion after viewing this film. It's not anywhere close to being an excellent film but it does uphold a contract to please, entertain, and amuse you with a level of seriousness that couldn't be that serious after revealing the plot in depth. Perkins' 14 is probably the most enjoyable film out of the third After Dark Horrorfest roster and the most visually engaging, especially after admiring the modern exploitation cover art that's handsomely illustrated. PCP fuels a personalized army of unstoppable psycho's to kill for Mr. Perkins after he snaps thanks to a neurotic paranoia. This effort is sustained through promotional tag lines as being lamented as the first film to be produced over the internet. This isn't as exciting as it sounds and certainly doesn't usher in a new era of film making. That, and this film's climax boils down to a disappointing rip-off of Assault on Precinct 13.

-mAQ

The Children

I encountered a sturdy revelation in the final moments of The Children. Contrary to what Jervaise Brooke Hamster declares insistently, the British film industry has had some bloody reinventions recently marking intense extremes within the horror community: Most recently, Eden Lake and 2008's The Children. In both of these rather marvelous contraptions, scenarios that are normally shunned are given proper treatment over a spread amount of time. In Eden Lake, we watch a group of young Chavs terrorize a couple in the woods over a disputed murder of a rottweiler and in The Children, we encounter a Christmas party gone horribly awry when an uninvited virus turns the youngsters into murdering charlatans. Think Children of the Corn but without that goofy retro aesthetic that overkills the sand-colored film stock.


The most alarming and fundamental aspect of The Children is the uninformed marketing of an unexplained virus. Some might get offended at the lack of insight into this epidemic but I find the air of mystique to be quite welcoming. In fact, The Children almost reminds me of equal parts Children of the Corn, Cabin Fever, and Stephen King's Cell. The moments of toddler terror even brought to mind Cronenberg's horrifying film effort The Brood. At our local Wal-Mart exists a crane game that emits a horrifying child laugh that sends shiver up and down my spine. It's official, children are the most terrifying villain ever put to screen and it's the most fresh kill count. For instance, I've seen every method of human dispatch. Watching an adult get axed or anything similar to casual hack n' slash is too deadpan for my taste. We've seen it all before and it lacks shock value. But watching a child die is like kick starting the horror genre. Only with the death of our youth will horror be once again fresh and uncompromising.


To be fair to horror and The Children, this is one of the most terrifying movies to be released recently. If there were ever a film to diagnose me with parasomnia, The Children would be the culprit. The fact that the parents refuse to acknowledge their seed, their parasites, to be the villain is frighteningly realistic. Only till death will these fools see the murdering lot their children have been converted to. For that matter, after watching this film, I stumbled out into my living room in order to be greeted by stares from two children. Needless to say, I immediately thought about locking them in the attic and impaling their tiny faces on shards of glass. It's recommended prior to viewing to rest easy for several minutes before encountering children. What might cause this brief form of sibling dementia is the casting and performances itself. Very rarely do I find myself enthused about child acting but the roles of these demon children are simple astounding. Evil has never been personified in children as well as this.



As I previously stated, The Children is a testament to the rebirth of an unnerving kill count. Watching people that don't deserve to die, in fact die, is something that will cause an unsettling amount of distress. The Children is a film that will no doubt upset parents and people with escapist values but if you look past the premature version of child murders, The Children is a film that will no doubt horrify the ever-living shit out of parents. My mother refuses to watch her ex-favorite horror movie, Poltergeist, due to the violence directed towards children. If you feel the need to taint the maternal instinct of your loved ones, The Children is the cure for the common parental cold. I've seen the future of horror and it is a hot "goth" bitch killing off five year olds. The Children also features one of my personal favorite endings that caps off a frightening film with a frightening post-premise resulting in a superb naturalist pandemic of toddler Armageddon that has a fresh and visceral approach to snowbound blood splatter. Easily one of the best uses of a snowy atmosphere.

-mAQ

From Within

Hollywood has a way of mocking Christians and Christianity every opportunity it gets. Of course, it is not hard to figure out why this occurrence is so prevalent among the movie makers from the Boulevard of broken dreams, but as of recently it has gotten entirely too blatant. Whatever happened to well made blasphemous films like The Night of the Hunter (1955) or Elmer Gantry (1960) that at least had somewhat questionable religious messages. When possessed girls started shoving crucifixes in their coochees in films like The Exorcist directed by Jewish director William Friedkin, the heretical sentiments were more than obvious. Nowadays, it seems that Hollywood vomits a couple hundred anti-Christian films mainly in the horror genre but also branching out into just about every other genre. Today, a film like Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ is extremely rebellious and had better gore scenes than most contemporary horror films. Hell, Gibson even managed to piss off the kosher crew by beating them at their own game which I am sure most people can respect.

This homely girl is the result of intercourse between Bruce Willis and Demi Moore

I just watched the “horror” film From Within which is part of the third After Dark Horrorfest: 8 Films to Die for film series. Out of all of the films I have seen in this series, From Within is easily the most Anti-Christian. In fact, it is so Anti-Christian that it even offends me and I am far from a saint. I grew up in a somewhat small town and was exposed to stupid superstitious rural folk. You know, the type of Jesus fans that a film like from From Within portrays as blood thirsty country bumpkins looking blindly to do the lord’s work. As a child, I was told by a good Christian child I was going to hell because I never went to church. I also recall a group of holy Negro children telling me that I was going to hell when I was 7 years old because I told them my favorite color was red (maybe because it’s the color of the devil and blood or something?). The Christians featured in From Within are much more militant than the ones I grew up around, but it is a movie and not reality after all, isn’t it?


What happens when a series of suicides occur in a small Christian town in the good ole’ U.S.A.? The good JC fans in From Within ignore the occurrences and cling tighter to their bibles. After some time though, the reason for the suicides becomes apparent when a nonbeliever named Aidan insults Christianity to a fanatical Christian teenager named Dylan who happens to be the son of the Pastor (who secretly likes to play buttdarts!). Aidan gets Dylan back though by stealing his virginal girlfriend and showing her why purity is boring. Of course, Dylan unleashes an angry mob (or just a few rednecks in a pick-up truck) on poor wussy pseudo-Goth boi Aiden. Aiden’s mother, who dabbled in witchcraft, had her life cut short by the very same townspeople. From Within, is another one of those films that show why living in a small town where you know everyone is bad and can lead to death.


From Within has all the signature anti-Christian clichés that have become ever so popular with each passing year in Hollywood. The film features hateful and self-righteous Christian psychos, Christians looking to kill nonbelievers in the name of Christ, Christians lacking a sense of humor, Christian rednecks, Gay false prophet pastors, and the ever so popular Christian irrational hostility to outsiders. As much as I hate most evangelical types that I encounter, I felt that From Within was just stupid hateful trash. The most symbolic of this stupidity is having Adam Goldberg, the whiniest Jew in movies since Woody Allen, playing a tough redneck ex-con turned Christian crusader for Christ. This type of genius casting is equivalent to having Arnold Schwarzenegger playing a Rabbi in a film where he gives prayers to liberated Jews at Dachau concentration camp in 1945. I don’t know, maybe Adam Goldberg wanted to pretend he had a pair of testicles for once in his life by playing a redneck. Poor Goldie, it was impossible for him to cover up the peculiar sounds that come out of his mouth when he talks even while playing a blue collar hooligan.

Kosher Commando Adam Goldberg is not fooling anyone

From Within is one of those films that just demands you to feel how badly it sucks. With the film's series of suicides, it makes one wonder if that was the act intended for the viewer by the director after watching the film. The only possible way for one to get From Within out of their mind after watching it is to end ones tainted life there afterwards. For someone that has been a nonbeliever and outspoken against the obvious hypocrisies of Christianity from an early age, I even felt like I was going to hell after watching From Within. It makes me almost wish there was a hell so that I could rest easy at night knowing that filmmakers like Steven Spielberg would be getting a pitchfork in the ass while being escorted into hell by the devil himself.

-Ty E

Godzilla vs. The Sea Monster

aka Ebirah, Horror of the Deep

The Godzilla lexicon consists of several generational series that create cultural gaps between styles, themes, and recurring costumes that more-or-less match the economy and social climate of its native Japan. The Showa series is compromised with many early Godzilla classics such as Godzilla vs. Hedorah, Godzilla vs. Gigan, Destroy All Monsters, and the obvious debut volume of his long-destructive legacy, Gojira. The many branches of Godzilla lore that have rambunctiously spread out through time only planted seeds in fan base and in such a clever manner, alerted all walks of life of this phenomenon. My special lady friend scoffed at the idea of Godzilla being honored on the Walk of Fame. Inquiring about her experiences with Godzilla, she admitted to have never seen a Godzilla film but within this statement I made the point sincere that even with no knowledge of his story she knows who and what Godzilla is. That's the strength of this cinematic hero who has created seismic, cultural quakes that have reached every corner of the world.


The favorable post-war tragedy aesthetic is still in the past and has not been recently brought back to the surface. The evolving Godzilla spin off now encompasses monster mash entertainment inside an airtight, flimsy plot line that shows both the struggle of humans and monsters. For this "vs." film, the spotlight is not on the "Big G" but rather a lonely sibling hijacking a boat to go search for his brother who is thought to have survived a shipwreck by crashing on an island under a strict military and terrorist rule who is also being terrorized by a local monster-lobster kept at bay named Ebirah. From this, man encounters both friend and foe and decides to awaken a hibernating Godzilla to start the epic entertainment and set forth the greatest boulder-catch match this side of Tokyo.


As far as Godzilla "genrefication" goes, this one isn't as experimental or sci-fi as say Godzilla vs. Hedorah, which took the preconception and predated a Happy Feet-esque environmental musical, rapes the idea, and creates a flying 150 foot tall lizard that fights an alien cloud of slime. As a kaiju film, this is an exceptional entry. Toho posters have this inverted charm that provides a visual assault with colors and always highlights mesmerizing montages of both man and monster. With Godzilla vs. The Sea Monster, you will notice an incredible technicolor-like aesthetic that shines with a smooth presentation and color palette. What's even more surprising is this is Jun Fukuda's first entry out of five for the Godzilla legacy. He directed the established Godzilla vs. The Sea Monster (aka Ebirah, Horror of the Deep) then went on to create Godzilla vs. Gigan, but what happened after remains a mystery. He must have spent a night with an African hooker, caught an advanced case of HIV and decided to direct the equivocally abysmal Godzilla vs. Megalon.


Godzilla vs. The Sea Monster is a worthy venture to continue this monster cavalcade of bromance, rubber suits, and evil military regime whether it be a human or alien effort. From its slick design mechanics to the ill-suited humor between unintentional kaiju boulder volleyball, Godzilla vs. The Sea Monster finds itself in a safe zone with a partially accepting fan base. This is a very solid demonstration that not only emphasizes monster destruction but as well as commits to the memory of "little people." Each Godzilla film has this amazing structure that leaves one memorable scene to be desired. They all have it and as I've mentioned before, Godzilla vs. The Sea Monster's is the boulder ball game. The Tennis effect is infectiously contagious as your eyes trail a foam boulder bee-lining between monster, back and forth. With each catch and toss, you find yourself becoming stupider. It's a rough game out there, people. With my final words, the only real advice I can really build upon is that this is a must-see Godzilla film for a wacky adventure scenario.

-mAQ

Blood in the Face

It has been sometime since I originally saw Anne Bohlen’s Blood in the Face documentary on Neo-Nazis and Christian Ku Klux Klaners. After just watching it for the second time, I must admit that the documentary is an embarrassment to the white race. No matter how much people hate the original National Socialists from Germany, they at least have to admit they were a powerful force to be reckoned with. The most power these “subjects” have in Blood in the Face is controlling an audience of 30 or so Christian anti-intellectual followers. Although most documentaries and films on Neo-Nazis are obviously biased, Blood in the Face is pretty fair in the treatment of its subjects. The documentary for the most part just features Aryan wannabes incriminating themselves as a pathetic fringe of the white race. The Neo-“Nazis” obsession with white power is the final resort in these miserable people’s dead end lives.

The Elite American SS

Ironically, many of the “Aryans” in Blood in the Face seem to have some type of nonwhite blood admixture. One of the first speakers in the documentary has a certain kosher charisma that you could only find in a vaudeville performance. When this goofy fellow in fatigues and a beret has “shabbos goy stooges” roll off his lips it seems a little too natural. One also cannot forget the far from Nordic elderly man who declares he hates all "mud people.” I wouldn’t be surprised if this man had some type of Negro blood somewhere in his mutated family tree. Church burner and best friend killer Varg Kikernes had something profound to say when he mentioned why purely Aryan type whites generally don’t gravitate towards Neo-Nazism. Varg stated in the fun book Lords of Chaos, “The people who really could claim the Nordic heritage, they don’t bother. They don’t really think about it because it’s so obvious to them…when they look in the mirror they see a true Norseman. They don’t see mixture. It’s not so easy for them to become aware of it.”

Hail Victory!!....or something

My favorite segment of Blood in the Face is the footage of the first American Neo-Nazi George Lincoln Rockwell. Unlike virtually all Neo-Nazis, Rockwell was fairly intelligent, charismatic, a natural salesman, and a comedian. In fact, I would even go as far as saying that Rockwell was one of the greatest American comedians of the past century. George Lincoln Rockwell’s father Doc was a fairly successful vaudevillian comedian and friends with famous Jewish comedian Groucho Marx. Even when not joking George Lincoln Rockwell warrants laughing out loud humor. For example, when a news reporter asks how many American Jews are traitors, Rockwell responds with something along the lines of, “my guess with no type of scientific evidence to back it up is that 80% of Jews are traitors and will have to be gassed.” Aside from Rockwell, most of the other people in Blood in the Face make me want to vomit. Unfortunately, the boyish looking and extremely nice David Duke is only featured in Blood in the Face for a minute or two. I assume this is because he is one of the few legitimate and successful of pro-white politicians who had the good common sense to take off the Ku Klux Klown mask and put on a suave suit.

Excerpt of George Lincoln Rockwell in Blood in the Face

Many of the geniuses featured in Blood in the Face are huge fans of Jew Jesus Christ. All these supposed anti-Semites consider the greatest man ever to live to be megalomaniac Jew Jesus. A fellow named Pastor Butler brings out a crucifix with a swastika on it. The title of the documentary “Blood in the Face” also comes from Adam in the bible who showed his big red cheeks. One of the Christian Neo-Nazis also brings up how only the humble white man can show red in the cheeks. The real Nazis, although presenting themselves as Christians of sorts, were for the most part hostile to Christianity. Nazi philosopher Alfred “Rosenberg” promoted “positive” Christianity in his philosophical masterpiece The Myth of the Twentieth Century. About a ¼ of the book is dedicated to promoting the Anti-Christ philosophies of German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche. The Neo-Nazis in Blood in the Face would obviously never make it anywhere with their beliefs as they have the slave mentality of Christianity.

Is this gnome a future white leader and white revolutionary?

Blood in the Face is a depressing documentary for any people that care about white culture. The only chance of any type of “white revolution” is if whites are finally backed into a corner far enough that they are forced into fighting. There are surely many more Michael Moores (who is surprisingly slimmer in the documentary) than there are “pro-white” activists. Any white person that watches Blood in the Face will no doubt have blood in their face showing out of embarrassment after watching it. At the very least, the viewer will have blood in the face from laughter.

-Ty E

Tammy and the T-Rex

Once in a blue moon, modern cinema will purge all normalities and excrete on the idea of a mercy rule to what films should be green lit. Out of this chaos erupts what is known as a "sleeper hit" and with this holy grail of cinema does film academia find itself a barren oasis. Film making techniques can no longer benefit society. The only thing left is a flourishing vat of knowledge called Tammy and the T-Rex. From this experience, you will gain gusto and marvel at subversive techniques at creating homosexual tension and race discrimination once more. It's once again cool to laugh at the queers as you watch a black, gay, only child get mocked by his father's deputies warning each other not to drop anything.


Think Carnosaur with a touch of sexually charged Howard the Duck moments. This divine interaction of both man and machine warrants a strict emotional hard hat zone. From the mental concept of Tammy and the T-Rex, the words "Hallmark" and "ABC Family" spring immediately to mind. Furthermore, you'd be a damn fool to expect a family friendly environment from this film. Soon into the film's precious running time, you're treated to excessive homophobia and a mock Kwanzaa enthusiast. Before you have time to catch your breath from the colorful, yet subversive hate speech you are soon catapulted into a "testicular standoff" with a young Paul Walker wearing a crop-top and a virtually unknown George Pilgrim. After seeing this scene, we begin to make conjectures as to why Mr. Pilgrim had such a short acting career. The answer? He couldn't handle the immense popularity he no doubt received from starring in this dinosaur arthouse experiment.

Who's awesome? You're awesome!

Seen here, Paul Walker was an early example of motion capture technology. As you see Walker-Rex awkwardly waddle down a green screened street, it's easy to imagine Paul Walker making these same awkward movements especially if you've seen his long jump in the new Fast & the Furious trailer pre-Soulja Boy version. If any of this were the truth, Paul Walker would had to of had his shins bludgeoned with a nail bat in order to recreate the painful movements created by the animatronic crew. Mechanical puppeteers have never before been witnessed to create accidental art other than in the case of Tammy and the T-Rex. Before I get carried away on the royal excellence of many subjects advocated in this trash piece, allow me first to alleviate confusion that I've caused with this review of a grandiose opera. Paul Walker is the rebound bitch to a young Denise Richards. Her ex-boyfriend doesn't like this very much so one night he kidnaps Paul Walker and leaves him in a wild animal reserve to be mauled by a lion. Enter mad scientist Dr. Wachenstein who hatches a plan to burgle Paul Walker's brain to transplant it into a mechanical T-Rex. After awaking to find himself in the body of a Tyrannosaurus Rex, Walker-Rex decides to get his girlfriend to help him find his body. Also, Dinosaurs dialing pay phones.


Knowing what you know about the contents within this explosive package, do you find yourself brave enough to have your expectations blown out of the water? I didn't, in fact, I walked into this film with no knowledge of the synopsis other than an image of Denise Richards straddling a Mesozoic creature with her infamous grin that shocked fanboys alike with her performance in Starship Troopers. In case you haven't seen Starship Troopers, Denise Richards plays the "piteous bitch" who broke Johnny Rico's heart. While Tammy and the T-Rex unfolded, I found the many thematic twists and turns to be utterly shocking. So many scenes with differing emotional weights do nothing but leave you in a constant state of sensitized whiplash. With my final words approaching, the viable labels for placing this film in a specific genre could be range from anything. For instance, Tammy and the T-Rex could be the greatest and only contemporary film noir with dinosaurs.


Tammy and the T-Rex reminds us exactly why the moving image was created and crafted into the largest form of entertainment today. This is a film that will throw some light romance at you, mix in some gang violence, pop out some premature urban humor, and then ravage the light-hearted mood with a botched castration via T-Rex foot. Some people beg to reveal to thyself the meaning of life. I, however, find myself asking what the meaning of cinema is. Well, my friends, the meaning of cinema is Tammy and the T-Rex. This is dutifully illustrated by the scene following a fight in which Denise Richards lets out a guttural wail that sounds as if a Yeti throat fucked her upon birth. I have long awaited the eventual reinvention and postmodern prototype of the directorial process and this is it, no strings attached...cause it's animatronic. Get it?

A very special thanks goes out to Nachtraaf for uploading this beauty.

-mAQ

Box Ball

Box Ball is the living endowment of "anti-porn." To listen closely as a lady with a nasally vocal system describe in vivid and vulgar detail her fantastical experiences involving bringing a lucky male home to twist his "pendulous" balls over and over in the fashion of a rope forming a "grotesticle" anomaly is the true definition of home entertainment terror. Filmed in 1977, Box Ball is one of the better roughies I've been unlucky enough to witness and with this condolence, I give you my short and inebriated thoughts on the subject. Now with calling the film a "better" roughie, I find it necessary to examine the word closer as to get a feeling of pride in knowing you're about to watch a project that only Satan can be proud of. Box Ball is a film that I could ultimately go without seeing ever again but for a man to climax as the horrors of the world are being unleashed on his family jewels is something that needs to be seen to be believed.


You will admire painted pastels decorate the film stock along with much needed grain and VHS reproduction tracking errors. This is something of an accidental aesthetic and it actually benefits the case of Box Ball and that case is beyond my, or any man's, comprehension. Only thing I know is that whatever they had in mind to create was successful with the invention of Box Ball - a film that dictates a strict character of monogamy. It's practically blurting out a sermon warning of the dangers of recreational sex. God only knows how many romantic comedies should take after Box Ball, one of the first classics of the genre. For being a porno short, Box Ball is efficient in building up such an aberrant argument against the sexual affliction. Women require the need of diversity. Hence why most of female kind seems to lean towards doggy style and bullish black men. It's this lingering curiosity that leads to the sexual experimentation in Box Ball.


Speaking of women's fixation with diversity, that brings to mind the domineering role of a modern day fellatio-giver. Women love to feel in charge, to feel empowered - Hell, most of us do and it's in this similar staple for men to commonly enjoy the thought of power-play (rape). Men enjoy rape fantasies and women have testicle-twisting fantasies. Let's hope the last statement isn't accurate or both sexes are screwed. It's in this similar vein of vice versa squirming lovers experiencing a tipping scale of fetishism that the philosophy of Box Ball occurs. The leading lady loves to twist his testicles tight into a sliver and forcefully lift up his body by noted "organ." This scene in particular is the most arduous scene Box Ball has to offer. For being an archaic look at a masochistic male and sadistic slut, Box Ball is an absorbing film(?) if not for being inclusively fucked up and the antithesis of common placed arousal.

-mAQ

Homeboy

Contrary to what might be taken from the title, this is not bi-racial film about struggles within Harlem to fend off illegal immigrants that moved in a couple blocks down. Rather, this film is Mickey Rourke's precursor to his extremely-coveted film The Wrestler. Bound by the ring, both Johnny Walker and Randy Robinson are past their prime and down-on-their-luck guys who hit the bottle and pine over someone that seems unreachable. They are also prescribed death by their doctors and warned not to fight again. Scribed by Mickey Rourke under the pseudonym Sir Eddie Cook, Homeboy predates The Wrestler by 20 years but the emotional depth in Homeboy I find to be much more resounding and heartfelt. In short, Homeboy is an underrated classic of character portraits.


The prior incarnation of Randy Robinson is a cowboy who moonlights as a boxer who picked up the sport a bit past his prime. This burdening shadow will never let him live down the idea that he could have been great. Besides being an ever-vigilante fighter, he's also somewhat of a hot head. In one of my favorite scenes where a trio of Afro-American "slumdogs" approach Johnny Walker spouting some dialect that seems to be Public Enemy lyrics, Johnny looks up under the brim of his hat, hesitates, and spits phlegm and chewing tobacco on one's fresh white sneakers. This southerner vs. Urbanite mental match is one of Homeboy's finer moments. Not limited to this, Homeboy is also home to some incredibly filmed scenes of outlooks on race relations. In a checkers match with a boxing trainer, a senile boxing hand repeatedly asks the white man what color he is. He then explains how he is red so he is black, by process of elimination. The words "you're black" are presented in such an omnipotent manner that it cracks the screen while setting fire to the topic of race. Soon after, the black man forgets his color again and prompts for another racial lecture.


Mickey Rourke's performance in Homeboy is utterly astounding and threatening. At first, this almost mute character will chime in his two-cents with a high-pitched southern drawl that will most likely catch you off guard but fear not, the voice is but an accurate projection of his inner woes. After seeing and hearing his thoughts and stature, Johnny Walker is an enigma worth understanding. He almost seems like a previous experiment in developing the future role of Harley Davidson in Harley Davidson & The Marlboro Man. Aiding the tenor of Homeboy is a joint score composition by masters Michael Kamen and Eric Clapton. Sporadic twangs of strings safely echo in moments of heated aggression or personality immersion. The overall feel of Homeboy seems more of a big-budget auteur piece that has a heart of gold. Michael Seresin took big risks for his first and only directing experience.


For being a speech on point of character, Homeboy spotlights the most intense and riveting boxing sequences ever put to film. I found myself shadowboxing outside of the television screen, beckoning one-two punch combos and the likes of a right hook. The ferocity of what happens in the ring is captured perfectly thanks to the cinematography experience picked up by Michael Seresin. Note that this man is the one and only who captured the feel of Alfonso Cuarón's Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Behind the events of Johnny Walker's two-note existence is the sleazy promoter played by a "beautiful" Christopher Walken. He learns early enough of Walker's fractured temple but neglects to inform the dead man walking. Instead, he'd rather Walker help him steal a batch of diamonds from Jews. The same motif of ticking time bomb that plagued Johnny Walker was applied to The Wrestler's Randy Robinson.

"Mickey Rourke and I were in Heavens Gate together; he had this tiny part and I was playing whatsisname. We were sitting up there in the mountains talking about...dinosaurs. And I told him about this thing I had read in some science magazine, that there's a theory that dinosaurs really never disappeared at all. That in fact all they did was get smaller and smaller, their scales turned into feathers and they flew away-and that in fact dinosaurs are still with us, they're just birds. And Mickey said, ‘That's interesting,’ and he started telling me about this movie that he was going to do someday about a boxer and it was called Homeboy. You know, I remember also he told me at the time, ‘There's this guy, the fighters manager, and your gonna play this part.’ I said, ‘Okay Mickey, lets go.’ So almost ten years went by and there we were making it. And I said to him, ‘Why don’t I tell that story about the birds and dinosaurs?’ He said, ‘Right.’ And there is that scene at the beach with all the seagulls, talking about dinosaurs. It's completely disconnected from anything going on in the movie, but I think it's one of the things in the movie...It's real. Here are these two guys who are really kind of victims, talking about the origin and destiny of dinosaurs." -- Christopher Walken, Film Comment, August 1992.

When juxtaposed together, I believe I enjoyed Homeboy more regarding both filmic qualities and scene construction. The Wrestler boasts more bang for your buck on account of the newer facade of a sport but behind boxing there's something furious that lurks past the shell. Both films preach melancholy attitudes towards gutter life, both country and city-wise, but Homeboy has more beauty than brawn. Homeboy is the greatest artistic exercise in boxing created by man for man. It's just a damn shame this film didn't receive buzz like The Wrestler has been lamented with. It dawned on me finally that maybe, just maybe, Homeboy was created just a bit too early. The populace simply wasn't ready for such a marvel.

-mAQ

Dead Snow

Norway is in the midst of a horror boom. Only just recently did it appear to be crafting horror film after horror film, each with an advanced form of cinematography unheard of for what seems to be among the first experiments in horror. Due to the alarming festival buzz, a new Norwegian horror film is wholeheartedly accepted, especially when it's a Nazi zombie film. Dead Snow is not to be mistaken for the "viral" trailer of Worst Case Scenario, which looks to be an absolute masterpiece in presentation. As I expected it to be Worst Case Scenario, I was disappointed when I found out this was not the one and the same film I had been hoping for. In fact, what I got was yet another snowy horror film taking advantage of the fluffy white terrain to shed some much needed blood. Dead Snow is a tidy little film but the modus operandi reveals this film to be lacking in every aspect.


Dead Snow depicts 7 (+1) medical students vacationing in the snowy mountains for some festivities including drinking and fornication. After a traveling old hiker warns them of the evil lurking in the woods, most likely belonging to the wrath of Colonel Herzog and his SS officers who were chased into the mountain hills after plundering the citizenry for their shiny treasures. After time, they just assumed they froze to death. Boy were they wrong. After a dark and wintry night of disgusting sex acts including fucking a fat man prior to him taking a shit; he's still on the outhouse seat no less, we find that humanity is about to fall victim to the terror of the Third Reich once more. I wish the film had taken a pulp approach such as the last line illustrates but truth be told, the "Nazis" in Dead Snow are no more Nazis than they are Vampires. You'd think a "Seig Heil!" would be in order. Hell, this state of desperation would have me even begging for Die Hard actors but alas, there's no authenticity to be found. By end's time, we're just given Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers Putty-lookalikes donning Nazi regalia. Stick to Call of Duty: World at War for the true blooded Nazi zombie experience.


Dead Snow's only real strength isn't even a natural one. The constant bloodshed is this film's only point of endurance. Had these "evil Germans" aspire to do the horrific acts that history books never let us live down, then maybe this film would have something to talk about. These Nazis don't want to "gas" Jews or cause pain and suffering. They just want their preciouses. The offensive nature of the Nazis in Dead Snow is brought on by theft of the Nazis valuables. This common theme is what makes Leprechaun such a tacky and light-hearted series. For a Nazi to commit such childish acts is a disgrace to script-writing everywhere. I'm sure Jane Goody could have written more three-dimensional characters as these.



Among many flaws is something of a comedy abstaining all elemental races of horror or vice-versa. At times a more favorable approach would be to make a "69" gag or clever zombie lore antics. While comedy is normally a first-rate piece of thematic in modern horror, Dead Snow does give way for the occasional scare and by occasional I can only point towards one scene in particular that had any tension behind it at all. Besides being a shallow hole and doused with pop-punk Norwegian equivalents to Linkin Park, Dead Snow prevails for being a slice of delicious entertainment. I refuse to take this film serious in any way and will only use this motion picture to bide my time for the highly anticipated Worst Case Scenario. Other than that jazz, Dead Snow also features a captivating and violent showdown scene of a hemophobic film nerd going batshit wild with a chainsaw. Dead Snow is a film that will charm the schieze out of most zombie fans and from this, a blindness will envelop, obscuring the many present fans from an ADHD generation. Perfect for people with low-attention spans.

-mAQ

Desperate Living

Although John Waters is now a friendly household name, he used to direct some of the most repulsive and disgusting films ever made. Mr. Waters has the flattering nicknames “Pope of Trash” and “Prince of Puke” for good reason. Out of all of John Waters early films, I believe the deranged masterpiece Desperate Living to be his greatest. I also believe the film to be John Water's greatest auteur piece as his late star drag queen Divine did not appear in this film. Although I enjoy Divine’s appearances in John Waters early films, it's interesting to see how a Waters film plays out without the infamous he/she taking up all the spotlight.

Out of all the film directors from Baltimore, John Waters best represents that dying gutter of a city. Sorry Barry Levinson, but Diner only portrays those suburban Yiddish turds that are afraid to even walk around the city. Baltimore City has some of the most uniquely ugly and scary yet sometimes friendly people in the country. Desperate Living features some of these Baltimore folk caricatures in a world similar to what one would expect if Italian maestro Federico Fellini was on crack while directing a film that was casted behind a shady Baltimore Wal-Mart. Desperate Living features highly aggressive redneck bull dykes, the most miserable looking homeless ever (played by real homeless people), unflatteringly sassy obese black women, and a suburban neurotic prude.

Desperate Living follows a virtually paranoid schizophrenic housewife named Peggy Gravel and her servant black maid Grizelda as they escape the suburb to hide in the awful dystopian nut town know as Mortville. Mortville is run by an evil and missing tooth dictator named Queen Carlotta. Queen Carlotta has a gay looking Gestapo that fulfills her desire for lust and killing. The queen also has a horribly painted painting of Adolf Hitler and Charles Manson on display in her cardboard like castle. When Peggy and Grizelda arrive in Mortville they regrettably have to submit to the irrational demands of tyrant Queen Carlotta. The Queen was played by the strangely charismatic Edith Massey who happened to own a thrift store in Baltimore City. In Desperate Living, she also happens to forget her lines which only add to the films already extremely unique character.

It is hard to decide what is the most disgusting scene featured in Desperate Living. Seeing an extremely obese black woman having cunnilingus performed on her by an ugly and skinny white woman is quite a hideous sight that will even stun the most desensitized of sinema fans. Seeing Queen Carlotta being penetrated by a lanky and obviously uncomfortable actor is also hard to watch. Surprisingly, I did not find myself disgusted by a scene involving a real dead dog being run over by Peggy and Grizelda. Although I am a huge dog lover, I found this scene to be completely hilarious. John Waters is no doubt brilliant in his ability to make the most horrible and tragic of scenarios funny.


For those that enjoy Desperate Living I also recommend watching the film again with John Waters audio commentary. Mr. Waters has great stories to tell about the production of Desperate Living and interesting details surrounding the film. For example, John Waters talks about how the actor that played Lesbian bull dyke wrestler Mole McHenry is in real-life, a beautiful woman and mother. I found these kind of details interesting especially after seeing Mole cut off her very own new penis she received during a sex change. I can only wonder if the actress allowed her children to see their mommy’s big acting performance. John Waters' genius is his ability to take the most seemingly normal people or places and turn them into his own unique trash invention. Desperate Living, a film with a wonderfully trashy and bizarre world, is one of John Waters best examples (if not his best) of his “trash genius.”

-Ty E

I Sell the Dead

Straight from the horse's mouth comes the base element of I Sell the Dead. Only since it established off of a very similar presentation of reflective nurseries dictated from a dead man walking was it able to gain a fresh and authoritative vision of cinematic entertainment. Glenn McQuaid has shown us the potential for Irish period horror-com's and boy does the future look dead since we can all agree this clever film was a fluke. Must I recall painful and scathing memories of the late Bernie Mac's Irish performance in Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle? For this reason, I refuse to acknowledge that McG is directing a new Terminator film. Had he any doubt of seriousness, he would have changed his gay ass name into something a bit more professional and not something kids in the 3rd grade nicked him.



I Sell the Dead is a rather whimsical piece of horror/comedy that would eventually erupt, violently, in murder, supernatural mystique, and rival gang drama. Basically, this film is equipped with what it needs to entertain thoroughly and not bore a single fan. Dominic Monaghan is the apprentice underling of an infamous grave robber by the name of Willy. Only just recently, Willy met his fate at the guillotine for a frame job convicting him of murder. Well, the same fate has hit his partner, Arthur, as he awaits trial by execution and his only saving grace is pleading his life story to a passive-aggressive priest played by Ron Perlman. The following recited tale is a brilliant story of a pair of down-on-their-luck grave robbers and how they struggle to cope with thievery, deceit, zombies, vampires, wait what?

This cunning idea that's presented in I Sell the Dead is an unsuspecting creeper -- one that waits for you to enjoy what the film gives you and surprises you with fantastical tales that don't seem to fit the current scheme of things. After the slew of proportions panned out, I certainly wasn't expecting the roles of vampires and zombies to be entering my visions. I was expecting a cultural "fuck all" which gingerly describes most period pieces now-a-days but what I got was a film that starkly illustrated good times in the events of two bumbling would-be heroes. Budget based on reputation and directed towards slimy aesthetics is the formulaic stamp of period pieces. Recreating an era takes time and this doesn't even begin to cover the story at all. These "famous frauds" should be stripped of the worthy title of "Director" and be listed as an incompetent costume designer but wait, Irony prevails as that listed job already exists. Homo sapien decor has never been so frivolous.


To add to the already stiff blessing you've received from the dear company of I Sell the Dead, this also marks a horror comedy that doesn't entirely insult your intelligence. Fact of the matter is that most of these hybrids flat out suck on terms of scares, humor, and overall direction. Severed head gags work to a stifled extent and armed with predictability, can drag a film to hell with a non-styled free fall of "been there, seen that." I Sell the Dead is probably one of Ireland's only recent point of characters; the irony resides in the shooting location of New York, but alas, all's well. I Sell the Dead is still one of the only "great" horror comedies recently that see to the entertainment of the potential audience.

-mAQ