The Satanic Neo-Nazi that played a Bar Mitzvah

The documentary Charles Manson Superstar is easily the most interesting and intimate cinematic (or videomatic) look at Mr. Charlie Manson. The documentary was directed by a man named Nikolas Schreck who also happens to be the lead singer of the band Radio Werewolf and also used to run a Satanic outfit know as “The Werewolf Order.” At first glance most people are likely to assume that “Nikolas Schreck” is not that Satanist Neo-Nazi rocker’s real name and they would be right. The real name of the man that calls himself “Nikolas Schreck” is the much tamer (but more appropriate) Barry Dubin. Mr. Dubin seems to have borrowed Schreck from Julius Schreck (the first leader of the SS before Heinrich Himmler) and Max Shreck (who played the vampire in F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu). But then again, most of Schreck’s “career” and “efforts” seemed to have been borrowed from the fruits and labors of other artists.

Julius Schreck

Before finishing Charles Manson Superstar, Nikolas Schreck’s contribution to the art of film was his appearance in the embarrassingly banal horror comedy Mortuary Academy (1988). I found Nikolas Schreck and Radio Werewolf’s appearance in the film to be interesting as they are playing at a Jewish kid’s Bar Mitzvah. Mortuary Academy also had a production designer by the name of Jonathan Rothschild. One can only wonder if he is a member of that famous international banking family. But anyways, it is a pretty strange occurrence if you consider a year earlier Schreck (with “Evil Wilhelm” of Radio Werewolf) appeared on so-called Neo-Nazi Tom Metzger’s show “Race and Reason.” On Race and Reason, Nikolas Schreck goes on megalomaniacal tirades about how he and Radio Werewolf are going to take over the world. Schreck refers to other people as mortals (Maybe Schreck really is the reincarnation of Julius Schreck) and talks about how he is a member of the “true elite.” I guess everyone feels like an elitist when they get the chance to make it on a public access television show.


Nikolas Schreck and Radio Werewolf in Mortuary Academy

During the episode of Race and Reason, footage of Radio Werewolf is shown featuring swastika flags and Nikolas Schreck giving Nazi “Hail Victory” salutes. Despite the attempt of being a Nazi Gothic act, the music comes out sounding more like a deranged Jewish Gothic Carney performing in an abandoned warehouse in the Warsaw ghetto. It seems that Radio Werewolf stole a good amount of their sound and aesthetic from death rock group 45 Grave which appeared about a decade before. Tom Metzger seems to take the music of Radio Werewolf as serious as Nikolas Schreck. Throughout the Race and Reason show, Metzger subtly mocks Schreck and his Schizo-style arrogance. Despite what people say about Tom Metzger, he surely has a gentleman grandfather quality that even arrogant weakling and British Broadcast Louis Theroux took notice of.


Nikolas Schreck and Evil Wilhelm on Race and Reason

After Nikolas Schreck’s appearance on Race and Reason, Tom Metzger found out something that he probably wasn’t too surprised about. When talking about Church of Satan founder Anton LaVey, Metzger said: “I personally have met the daughter, Zeena. Both she and her son are not Aryan and have the Semitic look. She married a man called Schreck, who promoted the Nazi line. Too bad he turned out to be a Jew, it (Werewolf Order) was pretty good. He is the son of a furniture dealer in Tarzana, California.” Interestingly enough, Zeena LaVey (who now goes by Zeena Schreck) would later denounce the Church of Satan and her father Anton. Current High Priest of the Church of Satan Peter Gilmore also stated, "Zeena, along with her companion Barry ‘Nikolas Schreck’ Dubin, wanted to ease Dr. LaVey into retirement so that they could assume his position. Neither was suited for this role, and Dr. LaVey was quite firmly in control. So when their efforts failed, they made a big show out of departing the ‘corrupt’ Church of Satan and leaving the United States behind for ‘Fortress Europa.’ I do not think it is hard for one to believe after watching the Race and Reason footage of Nikolas Schreck that he is of the “scheming” nature.

Nikolas and Zeena "Schreck"

Instead of taking over the world, Nikolas Schreck’s only success has been in editing a couple books and releasing a few CDs that no one has ever heard. Instead of actually coming up with material of his own, it seems Schreck is more like a community college professor of the Occult. Although he has done a handful of excellent book compilations like The Manson File (probably the best book on Charles Manson), Schreck seems to be lacking in actually having an original thought of his own. I guess you cannot blame the poor “undead Aryan” for trying.

"If you are scared of Radio Werewolf then there is something in yourself that you fear" - Nikolas Schreck

Nikolas Schreck also apparently rarely ever appears out of his crypt in Berlin, Germany. There is good reason though as apparently he’s afraid to go out in public ever since someone cut off one of his ears while he was rolling down his car window. I guess the losing of one’s ear can really put one's “mortality” in perspective. If only the people that hate Schreck realized that he is just a poor self-loathing Jewish boy, they might cut him some slack and he might still have two ears. Instead, he has to go on being the head of the world’s most acclaimed occult organization and has to settle for having his greatest populist achievement being featured in a forgotten horror comedy.

-Ty E

Plague Town

Deceivingly so, for the benefit of the slasher genre, Plague Town was created by the director of Texas Chain Saw Massacre: The Shocking Truth and just about any other exploitation making-of documentary you could point a finger at. With all this experience delving into the making of classics, does his secondhand skill rank up enough for him to create his own bold masterpiece? It is my deepest sorrow to announce "Nay," his film does not withhold the visual promises of a terror soaked foreigners - go - camping - wrong - place - wrong - time scenario that has been imprinted upon the very tome of slasher film 101. Can anyone create this genre anew without fear of retaliation from incompetent viewers and fellow filmmakers alike?


Plague Town's biggest mistake was the entrance of the stepmother/father relationship. Necessary to the story arch, of course, but with the later events that unravel in the film the evolving aura that had blessed the cinematography of Plague Town diminishes to a larvae state and everything that has been worked upon so hard, died off suddenly in a state of emergency that was declared with a blind sense of urgency. It appears that Plague Town decided the build up wasn't worth delaying the actual screen terror so they catapulted our characters into uber-violent and unnerving situations that weren't entirely necessary and upon the slaughtering of the stepmother, you soon realize that everything beautiful about Plague Town died with that dear, sweet lady. Other than the stepmother being used as a pawn to prove a point about the utter stupidity of the female sex in moments of distress, Plague Town employs many subliminal tactics in making you despise anything with a uterus. It seems the men are the only one with any sense at all and in this subversive element of misogyny comes a great deal of entertainment to give Plague Town any credibility at all. I expected more from the first Dark Sky Films production.


To the outstretched arms of anyone that remains excited for campfire horrors in rural communities, Plague Town is the same rehash we've seen over a thousand times. Make no mistake, this film doesn't claim to present new themes or material but If you've seen one reimagining you've seen them all. The presentation allows itself the ability to defy most expectations with a stark image permeating a sense of helplessness and with the help of a spectacular one sheet, Plague Town really appears to be better than it should. But we soon find out with no speculation as to how banal Plague Town really is. Most films have a choice, to speculate on the characters at the heart of the tale or to prime up the antagonists, as many as there are. With nowhere to go other than the route of senseless violence that equates with an ending that evokes strong themes of desperation and female degradation, Plague Town doesn't add up to anything other than a film with an Irish family being hunted by... things? My point exactly.

“Independent horror has always challenged the norm and furthered the genre,” says director/co-screenwriter Gregory. “And Plague Town goes into far more perverse and disturbing territory than the average horror film. The entire cast and crew of Plague Town are not only prepared to push the envelope, but pummel and mutilate it as well.”

For a first time production from the company that has brought us Ils (Them) and Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, Dark Sky Films has brought us a depressing chapter of "independent" horror. For a project that claims to be perverse, personally, I need more literal evidence to justify these claims. Laying out a plan of forced childbirth and cutting to credits isn't what I'd call "perverse." At least, not in a Dying Breed sort of vein, which indulged itself on the visceral images of violent gang rape which, needless to say, is exciting on par with my fetishistic values.


To jump from casual reviewing standards to snarky self-deceit, Plague Town can measure up to some form of otherworldly entertainment - about as much entertainment as you can extract from watching screaming girls run around in a caked-like darkness and claiming high caliber cinematography. Plague Town doesn't succeed on any ends other than a character study in the mind of a naive bitch. To watch characters ripped from Child's Play 2, Girl, Interrupted, and Legally Blonde engage in scenarios composed from pathless obtrusions with locals and to boast some integrity, leaves me as clueless as a certain film starring Alicia Silverstone. And what's worse is the fact that the only character you root for, the father, disappears while looking for help 20 minutes or so in to never be heard from again. No hint to his demise. He was written out completely. Humility has a discerning title and it is Plague Town.

-mAQ

Tokyo Zombie

Tokyo Zombie is a film that should have worked, given the status quo of fans adoring the original and simple manga that seemed to worship everything bland about the myth of a zombie. With the openness of a low budget zombie film, using restrained effects and dollar store make up, this film should have walked into its own game at least well equipped and not relying on the marketing lines of "_____ of Ichi the Killer." This two step process consisting of genre butchery and title familiarity is a common game employed by most, if not all, current filmmakers. Now who would have known with the script writer of Ichi the Killer and the lead of Tadanobu Asano returning in a script coveting jujitsu gags and undead jokes would have spoiled so easy. Overexposure this is not, Tokyo Zombie never even had a chance.


Tokyo Zombie suffers from a disease; a sickly one that causes rashes, blisters, uncontrollable hysteria, and bouts of manic-depressive film making at its most atrocious. The plot sounded simple enough. After seeing the one-sheet for this film, I soon lost hope for Tokyo Zombie. Color me homophobic but the poster makes it look like a straight up homosexual zombie film (This is no Bruce LaBruce project). The decadence of Tokyo is prescribed with a surreal touch as a man-made garbage mountain called Black Fuji offers free shelter for anything that needs to be buried, even secrets. From this, a chemical reaction causes bodies to unearth and roam the streets of Tokyo while two bumbling wanna-be jujitsu fighters fight their way, obliviously, through zombie after zombie. Don't get too used to this straight forward plot device, soon all will be trashed in a vain attempt at contemporary Dystopian aristocracy in which you must fight or squeeze to make a living and what a living it isn't.


Tokyo Zombie's flaws outweigh the brief, BRIEF, moments of humor. In several scenes, a muffled and dissipated chortle might escape from your vocal orifice but that is the most I got from Tokyo Zombie. The set design in the beginning is an awful cream color with no enthusiasm in scenery and the most vibrancy you will get from this film can be found in stills strategically spread across blogs as to hype up the "unhypeable." Let's face it, even the plot synopsis makes this film sound awful to the point of repelling. Anybody who is anybody knows that the best mixture of martial arts and zombies is the brief stint of Father McGruder in fan favorite Braindead. This alone promised to be mocking the mockery of death in cinema but the jokes were dusty and recycled from films back. Ads argue that this came before Shaun of the Dead which would mean this is an earlier example of the resolute stone being "zom-com." Yes, this may be true but at least Shaun of the Dead had the benefit of being entertaining and not as much of a waste of time as this piece of "kawaii" garbage that anyone with an Inyuasha shirt and cat ears will snatch up in some Pocky-fueled "Wapanese" rage.


Tokyo Zombie plays out in three or more absurd chapters, each one wholly different than the last. First there is the "oddball buddy comedy" segment which is more or less a complete waste of life, dictated by me in the most incendiary way possible. Then we're "treated" to the alimonious slut coliseum portion that is nurtured by a story of a pyramid based aristocracy. All the while, you are being bludgeoned with tidbits of slipshod jujistu/Russia stories. I am not amused and cannot stress the gaps cutting off Tokyo Zombie from my logic. I mean, has anyone really been far even as decided to use even go want do look more like? It seems this film was made as a vehicle for the movement of manga adaptations we've been seeing pop up recently; Detroit Metal City, Negative Happy Chainsaw Edge, and Tokyo Zombie. These are only ones I've viewed recently as I'm sure the list extends out farther than that. Point being, if you're a rabid Tadanobu Asano fan, avoid this as your suave Japanese counterpart in culture has been reduced to a "retarded" pathetic worm who cannot fight, cannot act, and cannot entertain. In essence, there's absolutely no reason to view Tokyo Zombie as long as you have at your disposal better zombie films and trust me, there are many.

-mAQ

Kike Like Me

A serious problem that plagues many documentaries is that the “filmmaker” often looks to put themselves at the center of the “film.” What would a Michael Moore “documentary” be without slob Michael Moore? Moore certainly seems to think that his jokes and childish insights are more important to his films than his subjects. It seems that Michael Moore’s popularity and white liberal “charisma” has inspired other documentary filmmakers to put themselves at the center of their documentaries. I recently had the misfortune of watching Kike Like Me, a documentary that seems to have been made purely so that the maker of the film, Jamie Kastner, could have an outlet for allowing himself to be seen by the world as he complains for just under 90 minutes.


According to Kike Like Me “filmmaker” Jamie Kastner, he decided to make a documentary because people often ask him if he’s Jewish. After all, white liberals believe “why should it matter?” if one is Jewish or any other creed as they live in a strictly “colorblind” world. Kastner was also influenced by Elia Kazan’s garbage film Gentleman’s Agreement, a film so repellent that I had to turn it off after watching 20 minutes as I started to feel sick. Gentleman’s Agreement follows a do-gooder Philo-Semite, played by Gregory Peck, as he pretends to be Jewish to expose how the typical European-American is racially prejudiced. Although Gregory Peck doesn’t look particularly Jewish, Kike Like Me director Jamie Kastner has the looks and the pantomimes to best as one of “god’s chosen.”


Jamie Kastner travels internationally in Kike Like Me asking a variety of people what they think of Jews. The first group of people that Kastner visits is the ultra-racist Lubavitcher in Brooklyn, New York. Once Kastner tells the Lubavitchers he’s Jewish, they immediately accept him as one of the tribe. Kastner seems to be slightly put-off by the warmness of these extremely religious Jews. Maybe Kastner doesn’t want people really thinking he’s Jewish? If the Lubavitchers believe he’s Jewish, than everyone is bound to think he’s Jewish.


In typical liberal “point your finger” fashion, Jamie Kastner spends most of Kike Like Me exposing irrational gentile anti-Semites. Whether it be an articulate British journalist or an Arab peasant, Kastner knows the right person to target to expose taboo Jew-hate. Jamie Kastner is welcomed into the home of Patrick J. Buchanan. Kastner attempts to get Buchanan to admit he is “anti-Semitic” because Buchanan mentioned the Jewishness of the Neo-CON movement in a paragraph he wrote. In the end, Buchanan shows his maturity while dealing with liberal agitators while Kastner looks like a weak asshole.


No documentary on Jew hate can be complete without a trip to famous tourist spot Auschwitz. During his trip, Jamie Kastner pretty much has a temper tantrum as he cannot deal with the horrors of Auschwitz. Though in a complete hipster costume, Kastner makes fun of teens at Auschwitz wearing hipster shoes. Kastner feels the tourists are having too much fun at the gas chambers and he cannot handle it. At the peak of Kastner’s womanish outburst, he leaves Auschwitz and proclaims the tourist sight should be blown up and with it the people that created (I assume he means Germans in general) it. What a kind, sensitive, and progressive guy.


So, is Jamie Kastner Jewish? At the end of Kike Like Me Jamie maturely let’s the audience know that he’s not telling. My guess is that he is a ½ Jew with a conflicted identity. In Kike Like Me Kastner admits that he attended at Catholic boarding school. Kastner has a blonde haired mother so I figure his father followed the recent trend of rich Jewish men hooking up with hot Aryan women and producing mischling children. Jamie Kastner seems like a warped individual with quite the confused identity. Although he condemns the Jew-haters (in a contrived and self-righteous manner), he doesn’t really seem to identify with the Jews other than being an “outsider.” After watching Kike Like Me, I kind of hope Jamie Kastner gets beat up and sodomized by a gang of ghetto Negroes. The documentary ultimately was aimless and merely a vehicle for Kastner to identify with a “victim.”

-Ty E

I'll See You in My Dreams

When you decide, if and what, to evolve an idea you see so clearly in your head, the project might be similar to that of I'll See You in My Dreams. What I'll See You in My Dreams has going for it is the fact that is the first Portuguese zombie film and that it heavily evokes a lifeforce similar to that of Dellamorte Dellamore; which is a dry wit zombie film that burdens its Italian-based sassy sensibilities with reflections of art & death while showcasing metaphysical transformation and romance. What impresses me so much about this zombie short is the effective use of lighting, editing, and the natural environments of Portugal to create such a dirty and dust-ridden landscape (Dystopia themed?) of trees and fog that lay habitat to foul-stenched cannibals, along with some natives precariously named after "godfathers" of horror; Sam (Raimi), Dario (Argento), and Lucio (Fulci).



Lucio is a lone warrior stuck at a specific point of his life in which he has become local legend for slaughtering hordes of the undead which have inexplicably invaded his hometown. Not without motivation, Lucio does this not for the safety of his neighbors but in an act of vengeance for the zombies "turning" his once beautiful wife into a flesh eater. But this of course is poor Lucio's fault for catching his wife demonstrating a cemented stereotype of most, if not all women, being cheating whores. In this time of depression, Lucio stands as a lone figure that stands against these monsters and spends most of his screen time in a shoddy pub that is home to some very fascinating characters. I'll See You in My Dreams is a masterful film that also happens to cater to a very specific composition of art, cleverly returning to its main point and opening scene in stylistic deviance. What's surprising to me the most is that this film also happens to be a subtle romance, better than the almost unwatchable Zombie Honeymoon.



Lucio is a character that many will pity and more will follow with arms in the air. Taking the best traits horror legends have to offer, Lucio has been crafted into the ultimate badass and one without desperate one-liners, unresourceful sidekicks, or imitative choreography resulting in bland action and colorless set designs. Never has Lucio expected your attention and he certainly isn't the kind to trade humility for combat skills. For being a low budget feature, this is one film that will not sell out to being an "homage to Evil Dead" or any other degree of comparable taglines I see glued to horror film, regardless of how many bring this exact claim up time after time. I bring up this very true statement as this down right irritates the ever-living fuck out of me and seems to preemptively plague every other straight-to-DVD horror release that has been seen over the years.


I'll See You in My Dreams takes premium specimens of iconoclastic film theory and defies conventions of "imaginative" filmmaking with stellar directing and plenty of recycled imagery that has been polished. This from Portugal, none the less. The only reinvention of the undead I could imagine that hasn't been done, hasn't been butchered by some gorehound with a itchy camera-trigger is zombies with jetpacks. Now, prove me wrong but I haven't heard of such an "interesting" idea given the moving image treatment. I'll See You in My Dreams is bar none one of the more systematically riveting zombie films I've seen in quite some time. Distinguished muck and body wounds make for brilliant zombies that take steady advantage of the color spectrum the biology of flesh has to offer. This doesn't have the creative mindset of a young auteur but does consist of high quality gloss coating a sweet, sweet horror core. Everything you get from this film will no doubt be positive unless zombie films just don't "do it" for you. Which in that case you are defined as a soulless being. Don't expect to leave I'll See You in My Dreams without experiencing any symptoms of spiritedness or a foreign infection of spiritual terror tomfoolery.

-mAQ

The Haunting in Connecticut

Boo! It’s a ghost! Or even worse!!! MANY GHOSTS (AND THEY HAVE NO EYELIDS!!!!). Ghosts are a fun thing to be fascinated and afraid of as a child. I remember watching Tobe Hooper’s (or more like Steven Spielberg’s) Poltergeist and thinking it was one of the scariest yet greatest movies ever made. Now I just think the film is mildly entertaining in a nostalgic sort of way. Other than Poltergeist and Stanley Kubrick’s masterpiece The Shining, I cannot think of any other ghost film that ever interested me, which I believe is a shame. Why can’t some half competent filmmaker direct a decent ghost flick? Better yet, why did I bother watching The Haunting in Connecticut?


I watched The Haunting in Connecticut because I wanted to appease a young and beautiful lady. Also, one cannot forget that marvelous mad dog mAQ was once again able to use his deviant magic and get us into the film screening free of charge. Aside from another couple, my lady friend and I were the only two in the theater. I must admit the vacant atmosphere was perfect for seeing a horror and especially a ghost film. It is great being at a movie theater screening without having to deal with a loudmouthed virtual gang (or real gangs) of noisy would-be rappers. Seeing as The Haunting in Connecticut was a ghost film, I can now understand how a group of rebels in white ghostlike costumes used to scare the Negro population. I guess the only thing that can scare a spook is a spook. Unfortunately, The Haunting In Connecticut was not the type of film that could scare a cracker unless we're talking about those spiritual types.


Before seeing The Haunting in Connecticut, I watched a Discovery channel documentary on the “true story.” Yes, believe it or not, a real teenager with cancer and his family was haunted by ghosts. The house that the family moved into used to be a mortuary. Unsurprisingly, the family at first believed that the boy with cancer hallucinated his visions of ghosts due to the drugs (which cause hallucinations as a side effect) he was taking. When the real “victims” of ghosts appear on the documentary, they're in the dark so no one can see what they look like. When they talk, it is apparent that this family is the “true believer” spiritual type that is afraid of using their intellect. Sort of like when you’re a child and you can trick your mind into believe things that are kind of cool at that early age yet pathetic if you’re older than 13 years old. The family featured in the movie The Haunting in Connecticut seem to be up about ½ a knot in intelligence.


So what does the film The Haunting in Connecticut have to offer? It has a bunch of flickering editing (during the sepia vintage séance scenes) that is kind of fun in the movie theater (but will probably lose most of it’s power on DVD). Other than that, nothing else really stuck out except maybe the Robert De Niro look-a-like that played a terminally ill minister. The Haunting in Connecticut is a fairly banal modern ghost story that can be compared to a barely lit candle that attempts to flicker but instead burns out. But then again, with a film like The Haunting in Connecticut what could one actually expect?

-Ty E

Masters of the Universe

Accompanying most, if not all, of Cannon films is the entrance into the realm of cheesy epic entertainment and alike most of the occupying modicum is the adaptation of Masters of the Universe starring the promising and chiseled Dolph Lundgren. With such a spectacle to tell and such little time, Masters of the Universe starts off with the immediate alluded never ending battle between He-Man (Not entitled Prince Adam in the film) and the prosthetically-plump Skeletor. After briefly highlighting key characters that are for and against Eternia, the film jumps into obstacle mode and thrusts you into a race against time to rejuvenate the Sorceress who looks strikingly like Meryl Streep but aged 20+ years. When it comes down to the marrow, Masters of the Universe is yet another original tale that gets forced into a snug spot of city fetishism.


City fetishism: The ineptitude to create pure and concentrated filmic energy with respect to marketed property. So, instead of pouting - they thrust unsure characters into a contemporary social structure and rake in the profits as we witness awkward turnabouts. This very legacy of impotent films spans from The Lost World: Jurassic Park to Jason takes Manhattan to even pseudo-Tarzan territory with the sadistic George of the Jungle. This normal fable of eccentric character in an unfamiliar environment is obvious to the fact of fiction but when they pluck eccentricities out of their well-suited environments and place them in commonly used urban areas e.g. New York, things tend to get a little sloppy. Take Jason takes Manhattan for a pathetic example. Sure the idea and tag line gave us a clever marketing scheme and imposable images that are branded forever with the icon of Voorhees but take the product in consideration. Half the film was spent on a boat and the lack of style was impudent upon my visceral fantasies of Jason slashing pesky degenerates.


As autopsied, city fetishism is exactly what had happened to Masters of the Universe but the kicker is that the final product is a film that doesn't feature as many bourgeois individuals as you'd like to anticipate. The curing agent is rather quasi-faithful material that is big on explosions and Lundgren holding plasma rifles with one arm as parodied in Tropic Thunder with Ben Stiller's character as he compromises accuracy for theatrics. This decision wasn't the stake in a grave but rather a driving force to jettison familiarity to the tale of Eternia. Masters of the Universe is immensely entertaining due to the fact that it transforms into a Right Said Fred video by finale that is equally met with light tricks, sweaty muscled men, and primitive ass chaps. Easily one of the most homosexual action films since Commando or the early draft of Starbeast.


So when you have lost faith in mankind, know that you can turn to He-Man to passively assure your survival aided with Dolph's suave brick voice that he uses to woo the metaphorical panties off of Kevin's piece of pie, Julie. Armed with "lazer" weapons and swords that look as if they are made of aluminum, He-Man finds his quest nearing completion when he decides to enter battle with a Skeletor-turned-Midas godlike manifestation of what Galactus should have looked like in the second Fantastic Four film. If you can forgive the "mortality" beset upon the film in dire attempt to connect with a mortal audience, it's rather easy to become immersed into the fantastical swords & magic realm of Masters of the Universe. If this isn't enough reassurance, the logo of Cannon films should be enough to coerce you into favoring this film and weeping for the regrettably one-note career of Dolph Lundgren, who really put a soul into every character portrayed, even when the script offers the original material up for sex trafficking. For a final note let's be honest with each other. Can you actually think of anything more hilariously contrived than Lundgren bellowing "I have the powwwer!"? I can't.

-mAQ

Crank: High Voltage

We've seen this sort of competition before; genres duke it out all the time but never has a competitor been as fierce and unprovoked as Crank: High Voltage. Anticipating much, the sequel to the action bonanza Crank, which featured sex, guns, and sex, exploded instantly with an 8-bit letter to my heart depicting the final events of the first film in glorious old-school NES graphics which really grips a reign on the absurdist trophy this film extends its reach towards. I thought I had seen it all including the death of this so-called "absurdo-cinema" wave that was extinguished with the excruciating entries of both Feast 2: Sloppy Seconds and Feast 3: The Happy Finish. What a finisher it had been, momentarily not happy at all.


With these film theories, evolution certainly takes place while initiating a free fall course of change. In Feast, the humor got too over its own head and slowly suffered and drowned until the egotistical director decided to lampoon his own lampooning. Complex this, complex that; the eventual ending of Crank left a brand on all who have seen it. These dire images of a helpless quest forces us to ask ourselves if his revenge tale was at all in vain. Of course after finding out the hint of a continuation, we allow the lore of Chev Chelios to be dissected rather prudishly with various flashbacks and an idea of his "Superman" status and the extents this raging man will go to secure his future sex life.


Crank: High Voltage is a film I had been craving since my first fix back when the original piece was released to DVD. A simple image of Statham wielding a gun to a psychotropic washout explosion of reddish colors was my bargaining chip but upon further inspection, this piece of "intellectual" film based on lucid entertainment broadened my horizons in a major way. Entering with absolutely no expectations other than a seemingly Escape from New York plot progression ripoff, I was absolutely hammered with images of extreme chaos, nerve-shattering chase sequences, and endearing amounts of public display of genital affection. It should come as no surprise to any that have heard of the sequel that our main "hero," Chev Chelios, died (or so we thought) at the grand finale of this revolutionary wake-up call to action cinema. Within the marketing advertisements for the sequel, we discover that our friend is not dead but has been taken captive - again. This time, his heart is removed and in place is an electric heart. I'll skip the schematics and the scientific assets but in a nut shell, Chev Chelios needs electricity to survive in order to acquire his heart for correctional surgery.


When Crank: High Voltage was given authentic life; a red-band trailer, a few images, and a teaser poster, I was blessed with dream-like images of Kaiju Chelios, hardcore vein-extraction in a family friendly habitat for ritualistic cinema indulgence, and an amount of profanities to build a fucking bomb shelter out of. Judging from these few samples of what was to come, I knew that the duo directing team behind the masterful original had been hard at work with a film that will surpass even their own limited expectations. Armed with 10 $1,000 HD mini-cams, this team worked with passive digression and a destructive vision of action cinema to create the holy grail of entertainment. I dub thee, Crank: High Voltage, the honor of being one of the most enormously engaging films of the past century and one of the few films that made me sick, not because of the outrageous moments of lenticular extremes, but the vulgar amount of obscenity transfered into any possible object containable with kinetic energy. Crank: High Voltage isn't just a "must see film," It's a goddamn infection that must be spread to every little boy or girl whether they be naughty or nice.


Where do I begin on the aspect of the score that also serves as an sound effect board. The directing team decided to hire General Mike Patton for work on the score of Crank: High Voltage. If you can expect anything from the godfather of modern spazz-avant-garde, It is a damn remarkable score that keeps you enthralled while doing the past duty of the previous film by keeping your heart rate constantly accelerating with primitive beats and screeching whistles from he who can only be deemed as a musical genius. If it wasn't for this man's genius rendition of what a contemporary "Dogme 95" action film should sound like, I couldn't even imagine how dreary this flick would have sounded with the aid of a studio faucet like Hans Zimmer. Mike Patton is indeed welcome to any and all forms of gracious praise to cleverly aid this tongue-in-cheek hitman film to an era of films based on hired killers that doesn't center itself around a loathsome creature that is just Another Lonely Hitman. To boost the man's ego even more, I could consider the Crank: High Voltage score to be one of the more memorable ones. Watch in delight as Chelios breaks the "third wall" when he begins to whistle along Patton's score. Such delights have never before been captured on film. Crank: High Voltage feels like a breakthrough experiment in filmic "Cryptozoology": Something so rare that you'd never thought you would encounter in your natural life.


It's not easy accepting the idea of Crank: High Voltage. Look at me, out of fear that our local theater wouldn't receive the film (which it didn't,) I began to have strenuous nightmares about the idea of never seeing a follow up to the original ending that needed more depth excavated into the instantly cult lore of top assassin Chev Chelios. To put it gingerly, Crank: High Voltage is a masterpiece of auteur action cinema destined for the gutter with regards to the modern sensibilities of most folks poisoned by "sexual repression." To make a film with no conditions of political-correctiveness and in turn reap the rewards of having the freedom to film whatever-the-fuck-you-want proved to ultimately be the resuscitation that the dying body of Chelios needed. After this riotous, raunchy film, I demanded more Crank. I need more to keep my own "Strawberry Tart" going. This is something I personally need to see through to it's bittersweet completion. Whether you're looking for lunch box/Kevin Costner jokes or simply to watch a mulatto receive a shotgun, greased up in oil, shoved up his ass with intentions to fire, Crank: High Voltage is an action film that will never backfire on you, only upset whatever vulnerabilities you might not be acquainted with. Out of all the films to need discretion warnings, Crank: High Voltage is the only one that matters. God only knows the strange impulses I've experienced after watching this cardiac arrest of cinema academia.

-mAQ

Pearls Before Swine

Pearls Before Swine is a cinematic mixed bag directed by Australian Richard Wolstencroft. I had an interest in watching the film as iconoclast Boyd Rice stars in the lead as a subversive “intellectual” hit man. Like Boyd Rice, director Richard Wolstencroft has flirted with fascism which can get a person blacklisted instantly in any field they may be interested in working in. For the controversial dialogue featured in Pearls Before Swine, I salute (or Roman salute) Richard Wolstencroft as a director that has balls in a contemporary degenerate society where the average filmmaker is truly scared to take any chances.


My main problem with Pearls Before Swine, aside from the films blatant low-budget, is how it attempts to be “cool” with it’s immature “life of crime” angle. I have never been too fond of how Quentin Tarantino attempts to make films that radiate “cool.” With Pearls Before Swine, director Richard Wolstencroft’s form of cool involves snorting coke and silly stylized sex scenes. What do these things have to do with rants about the beauty of Nazi film director Leni Liefenstahl’s films? I perfectly understand the S&M scenes as even that putrid kosher dyke Susan Sontag, who once stated so arrogantly “the white race is the cancer of human history,” admitted that sadomasochism is fascism in sex form. Sorry, but I just can’t see Joseph Goebbels and Otto Skorzeny snorting lines of coke while sporting gay ass pleather pants.


My favorite parts of Pearls Before Swine involve the speeches and tangents Boyd Rice goes on throughout the film. Sorry, but I really cannot imagine Mr. Rice as a badass hit man but more of an underground professor. In fact, maybe Boyd should start his own one of a kind school that studies both fascism and the occult. Anyone that has read Standing in Two Circles: The Collected Works of Boyd Rice knows that the man has done his fair share of studying and speculating. Some of the dialogues in Pearls Before Swine, however, are almost borderline self-parodies. When Boyd Rice starts talking about how Friedrich Nietzsche went insane, it kind of had me staring at the floor. I mean come on, I am sure most people that have an interest in Boyd Rice also know a little bit about ubermensch Nietzsche.

Pearls Before Swine also features an interesting soundtrack with music by Boyd Rice and the wonderful neo-folk tunes of Death in June. In fact, Death in June front man Douglas P. plays a character in the film that sells Boyd Rice some dirty vintage magazines. Pearls Before Swine also features Douglas P. (or at least one can only assume) in one of his awesome masks that he wears for Death in June. Douglas P.’s acting seems to also be a little more “professional” than Boyd Rice's. I just wish that the two collaborators will one day find a film project that better suits them.


I watched Pearls Before Swine twice and must say that the film was better in the second viewing. The reason for this is probably because I was more prepared for the film's very low production values and mediocre acting. Pearls Before Swine is a film that is more of a small treat for those individuals that already know of the lead actors in it. Otherwise, I would not recommend the film to many other people. Even for those that are fans of Boyd Rice, I am not sure that they would enjoy Mr. Rice getting paddled in the butt by an old man. Although I respect Pearls Before Swine director Richard Wolstencroft’s bold, anti-politically correct filmmaking, I hope he is better prepared for future film productions.

-Ty E

Godzilla

To esoterically credit the enigmatic, illustrious Otis Heterosexual, Godzilla (1998) is a largely entertaining film with great performances meaning only Jean Reno is the survivor of this thespian Western kaiju film. Another relic on exhibit are those 90s CGI effects that look rustic by today's standards and tiny Iguana monsters running around, slipping on gumballs, all the while, the Benny Hill theme plays in your head to a certain French extent. Roland Emmerich is a Hollywood trash icon of disaster films, most notably Independence Day, the upcoming 2012, and The Day After Tomorrow. Hailing from Western Germany, this fool has brought us many explosive summer blockbusters but they all lack any form of serenity. At long last, Emmerich seeks to fix this fatal flaw in popcorn films but buttering Godzilla down with that similar tragedy mercy-execution scene that was also visited to a purer effect in King Kong.


First understand that this film is an instant action classic of sorts and the casting decision of Jean Reno is to blame. In regards to his performance, It seems that Mr. Reno finally was able to mix his Elvis impersonation perfectly in context while making fun of Western civilization. His roles normally revolve around pro-France outlaws or self-loathing Frenchman. As seen in Flushed Away when telling his squad to make like the French, his team responded swiftly with a bold "We surrender!" Now for Jean Reno's credibility, this native Moroccan action star has worked himself out as a hero to me and I graciously enjoy every single film he has ever appeared in. Yes, even The Pink Panther. So it comes as no surprise to me that I thoroughly enjoyed Godzilla for what it was; Jean Reno driving away from a rabid lizard. Jean Reno is Godzilla's muse and without him, this film would be complete shit for the most part.


Godzilla must be seen in a post-Cloverfield atmosphere. It's intended this way with extreme cause. With Cloverfield fresh in my mind, Godzilla's action scenes came as a great nostalgic surprise to me. Enjoying the premature viral advertising of Godzilla, I found the chase scenes to be thrilling and the design of Godzilla to be fundamentally important to the American monster genre. For a PG-13 monster film, I noticed the light-hearted scenes to be followed with the implied ravaging of French agents as being especially dark for the set tone of Godzilla. Like most films depicting a crisis looking to be averted by military action, Godzilla revels in its own excess with corny Military humor and renegade hero soldiers. Kevin Dunn will later move on to play the exact same smartass role in Small Soldiers and Transformers.


Godzilla is, as we all know, a hulking reptile on two legs with a series of dorsal plates that magnify (seemingly) radiation to lend power to his atomic breath. When given the rights to this film, the US studios agreed a simple restriction on Godzilla: keep the spirit of Gojira intact. As we can see here, Roland Emmerich completely shat all over their requests, the spirit, and the creature itself. Rather than being seen as a monster, Godzilla is sympathized by Ferris Bueller as an animal suffering from maternal instincts. The idea of A-sexual capabilities definitely adds an obstacle and a precious 30+ minutes but ultimately fails in producing favor from an unsure audience. While most film coming from angry directors is brandished with a rebellious air of nihilism, Emmerich is the kind of angry director that gets heated by his work being critically maligned so he placed spoof characters of Siskel & Ebert as to shut them up. As expected, Godzilla went on to get "Two thumbs down."



Godzilla is a film that deserves the aberrant reaction that has been anchored in by bandwagon buffoons. I can't decide what is worse; the fact that Emmerich admitted to not liking the Godzilla films or the dialogue and casting of Simpsons regulars. Godzilla will never win the heart of the community but might find a hearty home in the eyes of cult film enthusiasts. It's one thing to enjoy a "bad" movie every now and again but to appreciate a film based on its reverse reception is ridiculous. Rebelling against rebellion will ultimately counter counterproductivity. In a way, I enjoyed the Godzilla film for the enthusiastic destruction of a playground known as New York but other than that, this film is carried on the shoulders of Jean Reno. I don't think I could handle sitting through this film for another 4 years though. Consider Roland Emmerich a provocateur of the present age.

-mAQ

Scum

After respectfully viewing both the 1977 BBC broadcast and the 1979 feature film version of Scum, I find the true victor of the content wars to be neither nor. Scum is a shattering view of the Borstal system in which both inmate and warden are under constant oppression from all eyes. This "oppression" is an omnipotent idea that we soon let go grudges with and grasp the fact that everyone involved in this situation is doomed to British pansy hellfire and racially and politically charged themes of homosexuality, "black bastards," and many suicide attempts that were either ill-fated from the start or simply lost all power through moving images in regards to the porting of this once and always classic story of stripped brutality. "A brutal story of today" is now nothing more than an archaic tale of someones third-person depiction of a violent scenario which, try as you might, would never really change.


As it is, Scum isn't a genius envisioning or one of the greatest motion pictures of all time; I don't even see it to be all that great. What Scum has going for it though is a compelling tale of British pansy opportunist queers and a tale of inner-sanctum power struggles boiling up over the top. A Borstal is glorified as a dog eat dog world envisioned by unsavory youth and Alan Clarke. His method of inputting violence and how it should be portrayed in truthful cinema is mostly reduced to contradictory fluff when he decides to add more rape, more violence, and more death to his production in order to give Scum that superficial theater-worthy entertainment. A bad move on Scum's behalf, I found the BBC version to gain the provincial higher rank of blistering engagement. After all, Toyne's discovery of his recently departed wife, Candy, was all the more punishing on the viewers when we were treated with the most poignant stare cinema had to offer at the time rather than some ludicrous attempted suicide scene with some ballistic Negro running, screaming, spraying blood all over the off-white walls.


Perhaps the strangest notion of the reshot feature length presentation of Scum is the absence of the choice actors David Threlfall as Archer and Martin Philips as Davis. Threlfall's performance as Archer was something of a sole guiding light to Carlin, the self-defending homosexual daddy. Without Archer, Carlin wouldn't be the daddy and would be without guidance. Threlfall's charisma and condescending persona really adds to the mystery of how many of these seemingly innocent boys get into such a hellhole. There's really no option other than to rebel against society within the concrete walls. Philips as Davis was a darker turn over the blond haired weasel that gets the short straw in homosexual rape. The BBC Davis was a dark haired mousy-visaged innocent minor whose screams of emotional distress can indeed pierce the reflective screen of our television set and the walls of the Borstal. To award the 1979 remake it's due, the idea of having Davis ring the bell one last time after his fatal decision added to the stunning retrospective typology of suicide. In the BBC version, he hesitated before chiming to the "screw" and decided he'd rather die in the "bird."


Scum's highlight moments consist of Carlin's chronic predatory performances that arise out of mostly racially-charged fighting moments. Securing realism in both action choreography and the dominance between whites and blacks, Carlin takes both tool and "snooker" balls to his enemies leaving him the authoritative figure in this anarchic cage-like disposition of a public building. The initial daddy before Carlin is simply known as Banks, a rotund figure that lacks a real intimidating posture and tone. His kind is known simply as a catharter; the figure who releases violence in an effort to subdue the side-effects of negativity and a release of accumulated emotion. Ray Winstone's career changing role in both Scum features marks the begin inning of an important actor who has been grandly seen in the so-so Sexy Beast and the gritty-as-hell Nil by Mouth.


Taking both films in consideration, I could consider much of Scum's past and future apparitions to be contrived and pseudo-societal. The effect of this film in today's culture is nowhere to be found. Marketed as an exploitation film by a company mainly hailed for their exploitation, Scum has found a fan base in entirely wrong hands. With a passive approach to dissecting violence within chaos, race, and power struggles, Scum manages to be important and fascinating for mostly wrong reasons. That's not to say that most won't find this film appealing but if you have an incredible aversion to "British pansy queers," It's within your best interest to avoid this film as you wouldn't have missed anything more potent than La Haine and that's me speaking within the dialect of violence portrayed or as I prefer, glamorized, in cinema.

-mAQ

Negative Happy Chainsaw Edge

Japan's answer to the nerd-chic counterculture lies within Negative Happy Chainsaw Edge. What I'm referring to is the demand for such backwards absurd material bordering the idea of zombie ninjas vs. pirates with talking wigs. If you're salivating at the mention of that idea, please leave this website. Negative Happy Chainsaw Edge is based off an unheard of manga that concerns a boy who follows a warrior-schoolgirl to various locations at night to fight a Chainsaw-armed cloaked wraith that falls from the sky, prompting snow. While the idea is, at times, enjoyable, Negative Happy Chainsaw Edge's low fuel tank sputters occasionally in key plot driven scenes, not just a hiccup here or there, but comes to a standstill position that leaves itself vulnerable to attack, much like our irritating subhuman lead.

From the opening scene of snow drifting down slowly then stopping, beautifully frozen in time, we witness a hulking and dreadfully intimidating figure wielding a chainsaw. His lumbering pace over a bridge brings him in contact with his mortal enemy, schoolgirl Eri-chan. Yamamato decides to prove his virility to his dead friend by accompanying her on future nightly missions of CGI-injected masturbatory dreams of chainsaw-dagger deflection starring the presence of a prepubescent klutz that is completely soulless and unlikable. The former is the greatest wound to the enormous ego of Negative Happy Chainsaw Edge. Every minute that Yamamato is present on the screen, the more entertainment this film loses. Soon you'll become so tired of his pathetic countenance that you will consider him a plague of sorts. I can imagine putting this single character in American classics just to watch the film crash and burn, whimper and die. What an experiment that would be!



On terms with other East Asian splurges of stylized violence and CGI misuse, Negative Happy Chainsaw Edge stands victor over some of the other abominations as Tokyo Gore Police and 1/2 of Meatball Machine. Now in Negative Happy's defense, Chainsaw Edge features a storyline that is interesting, trampled at worst, and adds tissue to the characters. The idea of a Super Shredder-like wraith that grows larger based on emotion is a stellar idea and I'd love to see this concept more based around an action-oriented foundation, rather than a bumbling romantic-chainsaw-comedy. Try as it might, Negative Happy Chainsaw Edge never fully develops into a prime piece of film, as in beginning, middle, and ending. It stays developed within its own cocoon and struggles for life in a strictly metaphorical sense. It might have the aesthetics to embellish it within the cult and foreign fan base but there's not really much to admire other than sometimes-slick visuals from a first time director.


Imagine a similar octane style to Wanted, except rationed out in extremely tiny increments. In battle, the chainsaw wraith will throttle his mechanical appendage which results in a detailed and hyperkinetic autopsy scene showing the implausible mechanization of his deadly arm. This leaves much to be expected but sadly deploys the overused cop-out method of Eri throwing a quartet of daggers only to swat them out of the way using slow motion. I'm not exaggerating - we see this same scene up to near three times. For being a later incarnation of the ancient Nikkatsu studio, I expected more, however, I was treated to a more story-based envisioning of new-wave Japanese absurdities. Had this been created with a youthful, angry approach rather than being characterized as timid like a mouse, Negative Happy Chainsaw Edge would be visitable over and over again. I don't regret watching the film but its priorities are severely out of wack.

-mAQ