Rawhead Rex

When I think of Clive Barker, macabre philosophy comes to mind. Along with sadomasochistic tendencies, Barker infuses a potential homosexual "flaw" to his bookwork that coincides with the horror creating new planes of metaphysical and abstract terror and depravity, in other words: "future of horror, and its name is Clive Barker." Clive always had a way of creating both exceptional stories along with films but we know his work towards film and video games are always both a bit sketchy. So what would happen, if someone without a true merit for filmmaking attempted to recreate a fabulous tale of inhuman godless terror? Well, the true answer to all these questions and more lie within the process of both making Rawhead Rex and viewing Rawhead Rex. The film is an absolute chore to finish without pausing. Granted, their are some true die hard fans of the film but that being said, their happiness towards the creative property was most likely birthed off the film first and then the comic/short story.


Rawhead Rex started out as a godless "god." A creature undefinable by all modern science and judging by the contorted shape of its body, contemporary symmetry didn't exist either. Rawhead Rex looks as what would occur if Hey Arnold! fused with Pumpkinhead and it is nothing short of a lovely image, right? Wrong, Rawhead Rex was titled such as he was born of an undeniable 9 foot tall phallic image that looks of a wild, hairy, unnaturally shaped cock. Director George Pavlou decided to denounce Rawhead's fear of post-fertile women in order to change the scene into what seems to be yet another demonic possession film until we realize that one character, whom we expected to birth a hell spawn, is never approached by the lens again. Meanwhile, Rawhead Rex looks like an eight foot tall version of Donny from The Wild Thornberry's and we're supposed to take seventy more minutes of this seriously?. Something must have been lost in translation cause not even an incompetent coworker of mine could fuck up this badly this many times. It's purely shameful that this is the second film of Clive Barker's that he had disowned. My sadness is short-measured though because after this atrociously "almost entertaining" film, he directed Hellraiser.


Rawhead Rex begins like any other "Nature gone amok!" film would - a poor schmuck who does his duty disrupts/pisses off a species of creature or a single entity into a widespread panic and/or chaos. In terms of horror, this very plot line is normally eligible on a Tom Clancy level, as in you can mix and match names, archetypes, and settings and normally come up with a similar thesis to a monster film without sacrificing the amusing value of the genre. An everyman photographer is on a business trip with his family in Ireland's country side when a huge monolith is unearthed and a goofy looking behemoth is born from the soil. So is the page that Rawhead Rex begins on and it's not a very good page. There really is no starting point for this monstrosity. Rawhead Rex begins on a long note and features an emasculated, malnourished short note full of hypocrisies and text-to-visual error. Anything that the short story was known for is void on film - a toxic cinematic conundrum. It's very hard to wonder how such a simple plot could get so off track.

"There was clearly a misapprehension over what [Underworld] was all about - they told me they wanted a horror movie and then took all the horror out! [I said], 'Look, if I get involved in Rawhead and you take the horror out again, there's nothing left as this is a monster-on-the-loose movie.' As they owned the rights anyway I thought I'd write a first draft and at least have some control over the project. Frankly, I needed the money at the time as well. I wrote a draft and a half and that was literally the last I ever heard from anyone. I was never invited on the set, never saw the promised plane ticket for Dublin, and all I kept hearing were pretty lousy things about the way the film was progressing.
"I'll never understand why I was ignored. It still remains a complete and utter mystery to me. Even to this day I've never received an explanation why I was never consulted over any of the major decisions to change the thrust or details in my original script. Either they thought I was useless and wouldn't have anything to contribute or else they worried I might have some valid opinions which would make too many waves."


Rawhead Rex is simply another misconception from those assholes at the studios who simply do not value an artist's integrity. The tale of Rawhead Rex involved a monster who enjoyed feasting on children. In the film, Rawhead Rex, we get a movie about a Neanderthal creature with a receding hairline whom "grabs" a child and when the scene shifts angles in its cowardly way, we don't know if the kid is deceased or not. Or maybe that was just on my behalf. You see, after viewing The Host, I learned never to trust those "are they dead yet?" scenarios with children. A child is far too harmful to kill off camera or on and there within lies my doubt towards this experiment in faulty, belligerent filmmaking. As it seems, I remember now that Rawhead doesn't even kill in the manner of which it is supposed to. After a vicious mob attack, many suffer from missing faces and in this visual tale, it seems only chewing leads to slashed jugulars. Rawhead Rex may be entertaining in such a vain way as "Hey! I'm in the mood to turn on my television without having to waste a single brain cell thinking about any commercial values or sub-political messages. What's Rawhead Rex?" The title Rawhead Rex can only be mistaken for absolute trash but don't get it twisted. The short story was a wonderfully quick read, the film is a painfully dredging experience in films that go past their unwanted prime.

-mAQ

Tourist Trap

Whenever kill doll/puppet classics begin their annual name-dropping by rabid horror fans, three always come to surface and I do mean always: Child's Play, Puppet Master, and Tourist Trap. The first of the two films have everything in common, an timely merchandising period and many successful sequels. The lone wolf Tourist Trap has none of these things so what exactly makes it appeal to the general fan of tiny and plastic terrors? I honestly couldn't tell you. After much delay and finally viewing Tourist Trap, I could say that I was briefly excited after watching the trailer. A friend who I've chatted with many a-times sort of introduced me to the wonders of Chuck Connors and I dare say he didn't disappoint me in his role. Tourist Trap as a film, however, did.


The trailer promised two things and it failed to deliver one and toyed around with the other; terror and killer marionettes. Saying that Tourist Trap was a horrifying experience at the age of 7 - 13 is like saying that sharks bite hard. There isn't a doubt in my mind that something with the subject matter of Tourist Trap could frighten and potentially warp the malleable minds of our youth but as a piece intended and judged by adults, Tourist Trap consists of could-be atmosphere and tension yet fails to cement any promise of both. In the beginning, one of the stranded gang wanders into a gas station and is promptly assaulted by a psychic malevolent force after being taunted by cackling half-completed mannequins. This is indeed a strong opening for a film whose reputation borders on "loved as a child!!1" to "so bad it's goodd."



Much of Tourist Trap's notoriety for cult fame has been linked to it being a descendant of the long-dead Full Moon Pictures - long dead meaning quality-wise. From producer Charles Band comes a film with nothing special just like most of his later works. Full Moon Pictures has become almost a laughing stock of "indie" filmmakers. Had any of the hope for the new Puppet Master film or Demonic Toys sequel vanished, so would most of the fan base that aren't derelict Troma worshipers. That, and the hilarity of the surprising effort Gingerdead Man 2: Passion of the Crust, save the reputation of Full Moon just enough for my faith to still lie within them to create SOMETHING amusing. Low budget horror bashing aside, Tourist Trap's only creepy aesthetic is the harmonizing female grunts and moans that escape from the past-tortured mannequins. Such a feminine ground and pounding could have been used to much more effect than in this amateur-hour straight-to-cable horror film with a reputation larger than the work put into the film's earnest keepings.


This late 70s smörgåsbord of terrible backwoods deliverance from evil film doesn't make the cut. However, Tourist Trap does highlight a killer within a mask that, had given the proper treatment, could have went on to be a legendary icon of horror. With that ghastly ventriloquist mask that was made out of what could only be human flesh, "Davey" was everything that I hated about dummies, mannequins, and anything of the like. If you are looking for something to blame, my bet would be on Goosebumps' staple series "Night of the Living Dummy." Slappy may not have ever harmed anyone but he never needed to. Simply smashing a guitar to cause blame was terrifying enough for me when I was a child. Tourist Trap simply cannot capture any solid form of matter to be considered a "good" horror film. It has the pieces, just none of them fit. It's best to consider this an incomplete portrait of decent to moderately acceptable footage with a brief hint of true terror. It's a shame that this never really took off after its exhilarating introduction. I don't know about you but with this film being as so-so as it shouldn't be, a remake only could go more places than the original.

-mAQ

Sudden Impact

My forehead feels of plastic and Sudden Impact is yet another movie to add to the list of "Should have seen ages ago but only recently viewed." Dirty Harry, as you all know is surely a must-see and the very definition of renegade action cinema of both the eighties and nineties. Harry Callahan is a "psychopath with a badge" and a vigilante to end all vigilantes. While he encompasses that emotionless murderer that we all know and love, he also possesses a keen sense of his surroundings and is able to perform the most badass of detective skills while never losing his highlight of impeccable masculinity and taut stoicism within his frail old frame. Sudden Impact features Dirty Harry in another one of those "right man in the wrong time" devices that became so popular with the appearance of Die Hard - who cares which came first. Dirty Harry, for his own sake, is the silver screen tough guy to end most tough guys. Not even The Punisher who shares a similar interest in eliminating the baddies with little or no respect for life can touch the cold street smarts of Dirty Harry.


What separates Dirty Harry's character formula is many things but the most infamous of all these is his expansive arsenal of one-liners and the ability to transform these one-liners, to completely convert the term into more of a verbal epitaph to do anything but honour the passing scumbag. It's these vanished assets that are missing from the modern action film. With John Cena films being released (along with the mystery of why on earth are these funded,) It seems that violent charisma, probable anti-heroes, and enough machismo to drown a hippopotamus are just a few of the things not to be found in today's hollow cinema. There's not really many other ways to put how Sudden Impact prevails as a classic in unbridled action and attitude. Take this clip in for example. Dirty Harry's character clearly predated Eastwood's role in Gran Torino. A shame that this time, in his prime, he didn't graphically call out these "spooks" for their thieving ways. I'm surprised these jolly-jive Negroes were holding up a diner instead of stealing TVs and bicycles and I'm pretty sure Dirty Harry was too, sucka!



R.I.P. Action
This dearly departed niche of "too cool for school" rowdiness will be succinctly missed.

Sudden Impact is commonly referred to as "the dirtiest of Dirty Harry" and these claims along with dignified visual evidence lead me to back these assumptions and opinions up with my own signature agreeing so. Never mind the fact that Sudden Impact is the only Dirty Harry film I can remember watching the whole way through. From the synopsis alone, mentions of a rape victim executing those responsible for her brutal attack clearly reminded me of a certain exploitation title many of you know as I Spit on Your Grave - Including generalizations, most of the rape/revenge sub genre will be grouped in as well. As the San Fransisco police department cleverly call this armed feminine attacker Cockshot, the same moniker can be slapped on most of these estrogen dripping "classics" as well. While I'll allow for this "Day of the Woman," It's painfully obviously that women get the short end of the stick during most, if not all, of modern horror films. Back in the 60s and 70s, however, that simply was a shocking sight to behold as most of these beautiful retro -chic broads were damsels in distress. What sets Sudden Impact apart from most of these sexploitation titles is the implied rehabilitation with a dose of Harry Callahan as she watches the legend "exact justice the necessary way," and a sympathetic "anti-heroine." I find it incredibly uncommon to witness a vengeful female with whom I can express pity for. In most of these films such as Fiona, Baise Moi, and Last House on the Left, I wish to express my compassion towards these brutalized women but I can find nary an evidence of humanity. Sure, these gorgeous shells are people but in a way, their very life was a lifeless one at that. Sudden Impact not only features heart-stopping action with an implied gut-wrenching clinical reaction with its rape scene, but it also will stop no less than entertaining the hell out of you until its ending.

To return with a new paragraph, sleazy femme fatales always have a way of absorbing screen time but the result is merely a bag of shock and awe, no more, nor less. Substance is void and materialization of flesh is the only thing about this film. I always knew sex and violence sold but the further proof materialized with that of my discovery of the rape/revenge genre. Sick sonuvabitches worldwide rent these films to gawk, uncomfortably aroused as these innocent delights are forced into lurid sex acts, witness slowly their decomposition as their soul evaporates. Once your morbid curiosity is fulfilled as soon as the group of males reach their climax, you claim to never have been interested in the opening act as it is "misogynistic" and can't wait for the revenge. For me, I always found the beginning of rape/revenge films the most important act and to see such good carnal choreography go to utter waste with "refeminization" is a disgust to the psychosexual madness that lurks within. This sexual justice is only known for it being over the top schlock and even the most defensive feminist could not argue these facts. Sudden Impact is a film with brass, a cunning lead who mastered to art of a ice cold stare, and enough gun play to please even the most cynical fan of John Woo.

-mAQ

The Woman Who Powders Herself (La Femme qui se poudre )

Art Fags beware! You’re in for a surrealistic scare! La Femme qui se poudre (The Woman Who Powders Herself) is a short film that has been no doubt neglected just as the maker of the film Patrick Bokanowski. Despite his Polack sounding name, Patrick Bokanowski is a French filmmaker obviously following in the footsteps of France’s greatest filmmaker/poet Jean Cocteau. Like Cocteau, Bokanowski is able to say something through visuals that the human mind could otherwise never articulate. Like all good poetry, The Woman Who Powders Herself is best looked at without trying to intellectualize and overanalyze. With a short film like this, one should just let the beauty seep into ones soul.

As a child I used to go to a certain unnamed life-saving museum on the east coast. At the museum there is an attraction know as laughing Sal, the former automaton Queen of a boardwalk Funhouse. Unlike most children, I was not afraid of Sal. I actually hoped her grotesque large manmade body would come to life and scare other vulnerable children. But alas, that never happened, but I also never forgot about laughing Sal. As soon as the screen faded to the first image of The Woman Who Powders Herself, I felt as if I was reunited with Sal, in all her beyond homely glory. Like my recollection of laughing Sal, the short film has the feeling of a vague yet soul piercing dream.

The score featured in The Woman Who Powders Herself sounds like it was created by a schizophrenic folly artist. The score (if you can even call it that) compliments the film in a way that very few other films have been successful with. To put it very simply, The Woman Who Powers Herself has neither linear story nor linear sound but a collection of perfectly collected broken pieces that could have been found in Jean Cocteau’s own personal hell (although I believe Cocteau’s hell would feature a man powdering his face). A truly complete piece of cinematic art should always (well almost always) have it’s own original score. Although I consider myself a fan of Luis Buñuel’s Un chien andalou and Aryan genius composer Richard Wagner, the short would have been more of masterpiece had the whole film been of 100% original material.

It is fairly hard to tell whether or not The Woman Who Powders Herself had an influence on any other artists, but for a work of it’s originality and artistry, it had to influence someone. Before he was a hack, it seems that Begotten director E. Elias Merhige took a note or two from The Woman Who Powders Herself. People wearing featureless masks is always a good way to creep out filmgoers, especially in gritty black/white films. Lets not forget the particular dark liquid featured on the floor in The Woman Who Powders Herself that looked like a similar liquid (and with a similar shot composition) as god kills himself in Begotten. The difference between both films is that The Woman Who Powders Herself was at the right runtime at around 15 minutes whereas Begotten was an hour too long. I also wonder in Douglas P. alpha-neo-folk group Death In June saw The Woman Who Powder Herself and decided to wear a featureless mask with his German camouflage outfit.

Some people have said The Woman Who Powders Herself is a commentary on the idea of female beauty in the Victorian era. Although I do not deny this assertion, I could really care less. For me, The Woman Who Powders Herself is a somewhat modern day phantasmagoria that I can enjoy in the comfort of my living room. Very few films transfer me to a dream world of such extravagance and of such a fantastic nature. The Woman Who Powders Herself will stay in my mind’s eye just the way that Eraserhead, The Blood of a Poet, Begotten (the first 15 minutes of course), Fireworks, and Meshes of the Afternoon have been burnt there.

-Ty E

Mr. Bean's Holiday

This film is simply brilliant because it is simply British.

-mAQ