Saturday, July 31, 2010


There’s nothing worse than mob mentality. Witch burnings usually begin with a single piece of kindling, but once the fire gets roaring every goon in the village has to get in on that action by tossing at least two twigs into the blaze. When I look at the high volume of negative reviews for this film, I get the impression that these people are just trying to belong to something, even if its core is negative. After all, most “Piranha II: The Spawning” detractors aren’t what I'd call educated connoisseurs of cinema. I mean, we're talking limp dick motherfuckers who use bullshit terminology like "instant classic" and manage to not fall asleep during "Titanic."

Almost every review of this film begins with some introduction that says something like, "it's hard to believe that this came from the guy who did 'T2' and 'Avatar'" ... as if the guy made some quantum leap from this film into the realm of golden auteur. First of all, not really. In fact, most of his movies are mediocre. Second, fuck James Cameron. What kind of millionaire prick takes fifteen fucking years to make ONE fucking movie? Seriously, it took him FIFTEEN FUCKING YEARS to make that last cinematic mud pie of his! With all its technical glitches and budgetary constraints, "Piranha II" kicks the shit out of “Avatar," because at least it’s not an overblown, hamfisted, preachy mess, bogged down with every cliché from the magical negro to the so-called villainy of big business. What a hypocritical ball of self-loathing shit. I don't understand why the guy hasn't blown his brains out by now. Oh, I know why. Because he probably cries himself to sleep on a giant pile of money every night while being viciously fellated by his grateful wife. Screw you, "Nader."

Crawling with camp bug bites, “Piranha II: The Spawning” is at the very least an amusing stand-alone sequel, which borrows one principal element from Joe Dante’s original 1978 film: genetically engineered piranha. However, this film deserves credit for taking the concept into the realm of bat shit absurdity. While the Piranha in the original film were modified to exist in both fresh and salt water, the writer of this film decided that science is way too boring, and that they needed to take this shit to the next level by giving them the power of flight. That's right. These motherfuckers fly around with wings and shit.

What makes this film particularly special is that it’s played with a completely straight face, and yet it manages to be much funnier than the original, which was an intended satire of "Jaws." I really hope that when Joe Dante saw this movie that deep down he regretted not coming up with the idea of flying piranha first, because it is pure gold. And I'm totally with the writer, too. If you're going to get into a lab and start fucking with the genetic makeup of a creature, just go for broke. Don't just pervert nature. Ball-gag it and cum all over it's fucking face. Really, this film's only true fundamental flaw is that they didn't give the piranha laser eye beams, too.

As a piece of entertainment, this film has incredible merit. The most fascinating thing about the movie is obviously the piranha themselves, which look more like Munsters-brand bats than actual flying fish. The garbage effects are the bane of what should be credited as a really ambitious concept. Nevertheless, the failure to realize this super cool idea is still totally awesome and really fun to watch.

YouTube keeps taking the trailer for this movie down, but I found one in Japanese. I think every movie trailer ought to be in Japanese, don't you? Enjoy.

Monday, July 26, 2010


Great independent record label Tic Tac Totally contacted me to let me know they were interested in making a foray into the world of publishing. For their first attempt, they wondered if I might be interested in assembling a book based around this blog. I was a little overwhelmed by the prospect, but I figured, "what the shit." After all, anxiety is the elixir of youth.

After taping an outline together, I got the thumbs up from Matt, and it looks like this thing is a go. So, I am currently looking for people interested in contributing film reviews to the project.

The book will focus on over 30 film distributors, with a chapter dedicated to each company. The chapter will include a distro history, a complete filmography, review section, and conclude with full-color box art spreads. A few people have already stepped up to the plate, but in order to make this as big as we'd all like it to be, we're going to need help.

If you're interested in contributing to the book, please drop me an email at

Friday, July 23, 2010


Good fucking night Irene, this movie is like bulimia for the eyes! Horrid eighties fashion is a torpid target, but the production and costume design on “Knights of the City” is exaggerated to a point of painful absurdity. It’s a total neon cocaine nightmare. Look at the box art! These black light baked droog-a-likes are in remarkably good taste compared to the actual shit you will see in this movie. This weird infusion of “Fame” and “The Warriors” isn't just kind campy due to its dated fashion. It violently penetrates the realm of the bizarre. Some of the shit you will see in this movie isn't even exclusive to the eighties, but instead represents the tacky dementia of a would-be taste maker.

New World Video’s “Knights of the City” is a “riches of the poor” themed action-drama about an aging gang with aspirations of leaving their world of violence behind for fame as musicians. But while they’re busy ripping off Debarge, a new gang is moving in on their territory.

Not much really makes sense about this movie. It’s not that it’s confusing or anything, but many of the events happen for no reason, and they conclude with absolutely no payoff, which I guess adds a strange realism to the production.

So, when the principal gang members in this story aren’t out extorting and raping, they’re rehearsing their band, The Royal Rockers. The story gets rolling after these "New Motown" rejects get nabbed during a gracefully choreographed battle against their rivals, and wind up rapping the rest of their night away in the hoosegow. Just by chance, the drunk asshole in the cell across from them owns a major label, and he likes what he hears. Obviously, he's wasted. So, the next day, they drop a demo off with the label, but some racially ambiguous big titty’d girl, who also happens to be the label owner’s daughter, isn’t having it. Despite the fact that she’s charmed by these savages and their primitive ways, she tells them to hit the bricks.

Later, titty girl winds up listening to their weak-ass tape while cruising around in her Benz. Amused by the novelty of poverty and gang violence, she decides she has to sign them. The only problem is, she never got their contact information. So, in order to lure them out of hiding, she decides to hold a huge urban talent competition. The rouse works and The Royals enter the contest. Romance blossoms between lead singer Troy and the racially ambiguous titty girl. His current girlfriend gets pissed, and for revenge decides to shack up with the big rival gang that’s trying to move in on Troy’s territory. And just to show who’s boss of the hood, this rival gang leader decides to groom and enter Troy’s ex-girlfriend into the ghetto talent show. Take that, motherfucker!

In the end, The Royal Rockers win the contest, and his ex gets killed by the rival gang for eating shit on stage. Of course, this sparks a gang war, and Troy returns to the streets where he belongs, which is a really positive message. Ultimately, nothing gets resolved with any of the characters, and they blend into the night, hooting like a pack of retards in Thriller jackets.

The film was written by its star, Leon Isaac Kennedy, but it feels incredibly unnatural, if not white washed. And by that I mean it comes off like white America’s interpretation of African-American culture. They friendly it up with ample doses of Cosby Idealism by showing multiple ethnicities all doing one big happy electric slide through the ghetto. Fantasy can lead to dangerous impressions, though. I’m sure many a Korean under the influence of this film wound up in the ICU after trying to moonwalk through Harlem.

Every corner on these mean streets has a cardboard mat. This economically reamed borough is seemingly populated by the supporting cast of “The Wiz.” There isn’t a time when someone ISN’T doing a back spin somewhere in this movie. Sure, this city might be dangerous, but it’s also vibrant and alive. For instance, The Royals might shake destitute business owners down for protection money, but they do it while break dancing, so it’s culturally charged, and therefore ok.

The pinnacle of street credibility in this movie is The Fat Boys, who appear alongside Kurtis Blow very early on in the film. They’re actually not even that fat here. I mean, they’re fat, but they’re not “Disorderlies” fat. As my good friend Vomitnoise put it, “they’re a collective three hundred pounds away from that point in their career.” Check it out:

There’s also an appearance by Harry Wayne Casey, better known as K.C., of Sunshine Band fame. I got really excited at first because I thought he was Adam Ant. Smokey Robinson also shows up as the mayor of the ghetto (not really) toward the end, too.

The biggest surprise was that Troy is played by Leon Isaac Kennedy. I wasn’t able to place his face until the last quarter of the film, but then it dawned on me that he plays Too Sweet in the "Penitentiary" trilogy. If you haven’t seen any of the Penitentiary series, then you need to get your shit together. They’re kind of like the black man’s “Riki-Oh,” following a professional prize fighter’s continual flirtations with violent state institutions. Penitentiary III is a particular high point in the series, as Too Sweet goes to prison over a fishy in-ring murder, and is later forced to fight a rabid kung-fu midget.

Leon's days as a film star are behind him, though, and he now runs a charitable ministry out in Burbank.

One of the best things about this tape has to be the synopsis on the back of the box, where the Troy character is referred to as Toby. That shit is racist! It reads like it was written by a coked-up illegal immigrant. Here’s an excerpt:

“The tension’s a pressure cooker of repressed rage, desire and ambition ready to explode. Toby must hold it all together to insure that they attain their fantastic goal. But on the streets of Miami, only the dead have sweet dreams.”

I don’t even know what the fuck any of that means.

Cheesy? Sure. Unintentionally hilarious? Absolutely. A vomitously gawdy spectacle? Bingo. Nevertheless, this is an insanely entertaining film that deserves to be known and loved by connoisseur of camp film.

Thursday, July 22, 2010


It's rudimentary cabin in the woods horror cum demonology. Some dude survives a brutal massacre that pretty much clears his Christmas card list. Then, he decides to go back to the scene of the crime with more potential victims to figure stuff out. What a maroon.

My recollections of "Forever Evil" are weird, and I've been struggling to remember if I enjoyed this on an ironic level or not. I do remember thinking it was relentlessly awful. I know the way in which I appreciate films has changed over the last twenty years, but I also know I was capable of enjoying films that were so terrible they were amazing. This movie has aged sweetly, though, and it almost seems innocent to me now. I'm sure to some degree my recollections are clouded by nostalgia. This was a huge part of my childhood, as I remember seeing it on USA Network's "Saturday Nightmares" program.

I think that I was conscious of all the flubs and flaws, but in my youth I was far more willing to forgive those things, which allowed me to take some pretty bad films very seriously, and really enjoy them as they were intended to be. Some kids understand that Santa Clause is bullshit pretty early on, but they suspend their disbelief and honor the deformed logic required to believe in his myth. It's fun to think that there's some home-invading diabetic fatass flying through the sky with a bag full of lite brites. Some people, as they get old and become more aware of how drab reality is, grow embittered toward their own imagination, and so they cut it off. They become less willing to suspend disbelief and actually just enjoy something. Instead of ignoring the wires on the crappy model space ship, they get angry at them. Perhaps they resent them now because it reminds them of how easy life used to be when they were young. I'm grateful that I have reached that point where I can revel in the wires. Hating obvious things just seems like a waste of time.

Appreciating terrible movies requires the only forgivable Zen there is. All the other shit is for hippies. I look back at this movie pretty fondly, and I take it far less seriously. I probably have a more comprehensive awareness of all its artistic flaws than I did when I was a kid. Now, I think it assumes it's rightful palsy-stricken posture alongside camp classics such as "Zombie Nightmare."

Here's an awesome bumper from "Saturday Nightmares," featuring an ad for "Forever Evil." This makes me feel all warm and tingly inside.


Regardless of the fact that I am about to say some nice things about this movie, you eBay queers need to stop asking so much for this movie. Some of the prices I'm seeing out there are delusional. I'm sorry, but selling this movie for 16 bucks makes you a bad person. Thankfully, I managed to find a cheap copy, but that took for fucking ever. I am so thankful that I've finally filled the gap between "The Curse" and "Curse III: Blood Sacrifice." Now I won't start banging my head against the wall like a mental patient every time I pass the C's.

I probably give simple movies more human respect than I do most people. You can’t vivisect this shit under a black and white scope. I have a hard time calling any movie purely awful, as I think almost everything has at least some redeemable inkling buried beneath obvious flaws. Then again, I think even warts can be endearing. Would-be critics mercilessly hurl bathwater and baby out the window when they’re talking about a movie of this caliber. When I look at “Curse II: The Bite” I see a poor animal trembling in the corner, conditioned to flinch at every passing character by consistent abuse. It’s like one of those dogs that’s so ugly it’s cute. It just doesn't deserve the grief it gets.

When people make a movie like this, they’re not doing it with the malicious intention of poisoning the well, so I don’t understand why people feel the need to be cruel. Making a movie is hard, especially when your means are limited. It requires a great deal of energy and passion. It’s easy to trash a b-movie on the basis of comparison to something like “To Kill A Mocking Bird,” but why bother? Most IMDb critics probably fail all the time in their day to day lives. Do they deserve to be shot in the face because they don't measure up to the likes of Franklin D. Roosevelt? Well, probably. But you get my point.

Your average slob wallows through their meandering, dull existence, sucking up resource and without anything to contribute. This movie has one thing that 98% of the walking douche commercials on this planet do not. It has ONE great idea: a guy gets bitten by a radioactive snake, transforming his hand into a rabid, venom-spitting stygian head and turning his arm bones serpentine. The special effects are cartoonishly absurd, thus accentuating the concept ten fold. Granted, it has a lot of problems, but it's got one thing that makes it worth actually sitting through.

By the way, this is a sequel in name only, which seems to provide more fodder for the haters, most of whom hated the original film anyway. Who the fuck complains about not seeing Whil Wheaton again? Horror fans are crotchety though, and they have to dodder on like the elderly. It’s either too hot, or too cold, or it’s not like the good old days. These people need to just shut the fuck and appreciate the fact that this movie gave the mighty Bo Svenson some work.

By the way, if you've never bothered to see "Curse IV: The Ultimate Sacrifice," it's actually not so bad! I decided to weather a viewing after I saw that it starred Timothy Van Patten from "Class of 1984," and I'm glad I did. Once again, the movie is completely unrelated to any of the other films that wound up getting lumped into an unfortunate franchise attempt, but it is worth a look. Then again, it should be known that I am also a fan of the original film.


John Frankenheimer directed a martial arts movie starring Toshirô Mifune, and choreographed by Steven Seagal. That’s just bonkers. I'd seen the title in Frankenheimer's filmography before, but I was completely unaware of the details surrounding "The Challenge" until I rescued this tape from underneath a pile of bullshit Suzi Quatro (fuck you, you don't even get bolded) records this week. It's currently at the top of my must-watch list, so if any of you jerks in the vicinity are interested, grab a 12-pack and get your asses over here.

Scott Glenn stars as a failure of a human being who is enlisted to courier a set of war relics, and ends up caught between two feuding brothers. One represents modern, corporate Japanese ethics, while the other abides by the old school Samurai set of ethics. Glenn immerses himself in the ways of the ancient warrior, and sort of redeems his manhood in the process. Not sure why, but what little I’ve seen of the movie kind of reminds me of "The Destroyer" pulp novels. Maybe it's because I wish this is how the Remo Williams movie had been done. By the way, they're apparently rebooting Remo, so prepare to hear me bitch about that any day now.

A lot of the clips I’ve seen from this movie look completely batshit. Here’s one of them. The title, “sword vs. stapler” should say it all. Special thanks to for putting this clip up.

Friday, July 16, 2010


You know a company is bullshit when you have to bust the tab out of the front of the tape yourself. This World Video release arrived in shrink wrap, and it was still completely fucked during its virgin run. But then again, it was recorded in SLP mode. I’ve never understood why some of the budget companies didn’t just record on Standard Play, but I’m presuming this practice has an economic practicality to it. If you have the answer, drop me a comment.

I know everyone is pissed at BP over this whole oil spill thing, but I'm way more concerned about the horde of UFC-obsessed gym rats in their butt-fuckingly awful Affliction gear that are currently polluting most city streets like human cholestrol. Fuck sea food, man. I'll pay the few extra bucks for New England shrimp. Let's put some of that Kevin Costner money into digging a mass grave for all these TapOut-loving goofballs. I'm so tired of them making the bar scene tense with their mad dogging wannabe tough guy bullshit.

See, I don't have a problem with the science of fighting. What I do have a problem with is how avid viewership seems to delude a lot of MMA fans into thinking they are total badasses. Mixed Martial Arts fans have become the meathead equivalent of the Trekkie. What's worse is that a lot of these snobby cakeboys think that what they’re watching is somehow more sophisticated than something like Pro-Wrestling because these guys are really injuring each other. News flash, UFC-loving assholes: two goons with daddy issues kicking the piss out of each other is not some urbane spectacle. If it were an illusion and they were only making it look like they were bashing the shit out of each other, then I'd call it art.

As I was reading reviews for “Story of the Dragon,” I was reminded of the so-called tough guy expertise of your average MMA fan. This film has been unfairly crushed in effigy of Bruce by his rabid followers. They guard the Lee name like a Cerberus. To them, Bruce is the end-all be-all of martial arts cinema, and any remote imitation of their hero is a cardinal sin. Sadly, their base of knowledge is limited to available writings and films on and about Bruce. It only takes a little information and the courage of ignorance to make an expert.

I admit that Bruce was a great fighter over-brimming with charisma, and he was a good filmmaker within his respective genre. But considering that most martial arts movies are pretty crappy, that’s not saying much. Even if you get rid of the awful dubbing - which these films are second-best known for - they’re still incredibly campy. Rare is the sacred Shaw or Golden Harvest calf that epitomizes competent film making. This isn’t Bunuel we’re talking about. These movies live or die by the action. The worst writing and acting can all be absolved by the film's featured violence. The drama might be superb, but if the movie drops the ball when it comes to the fight choreography, the audience will shit all over it. If a Bruceploitation film managed to somehow qualify as fine cinema, it would be a miracle not just for its respective sub genre, but for the ENTIRE genre from which it is derived. That said, most of the action in these films is far from "sub-par."

Die hard Bruce fans usually call a movie like "Story of the Dragon" ghoulish and exploitive. Exploitive? I'll give them that. But there's generally nothing morbid about these movies. In fact, they are more frequently loving tributes to Lee. A lot of people won't want to hear this, but they've helped fortified his legacy. There are well over a decade's worth of films that kept a facsimile of his name and image alive after his death. "Story of the Dragon" is a great example of what I think is intended to be a creative commemoration of Lee’s life. The motivations are pretty harmless, and they flatter Bruce. It’s ironic that any super fan would piss on an obvious shrine to their hero.

This one is actually better produced than most, and contains some surprisingly solid humor, which showcases Ho Chung-Tao’s comedic ability. In fact, half way through the movie I found myself wishing they’d taken the comedy rout. There’s a genuinely funny scene where Ho, as Bruce, is exercising in his apartment very loudly, much to the dismay of his roommate. The potential of this scenario could have been stretched into a feature. Sadly, one cannot help but feel that any natural talent that Ho had as a performer was probably subverted by his own willingness to continually capitalize off the Bruce Li persona.

This movie could have easily been absorbed into "Bruce Lee - the Man, The Myth" to create a mega bio-pic. Both movies have a common tone and atmosphere. This one is more of an origin story though, occurring in San Francisco with a struggling Bruce coming into his own following an unemployment streak. For some reason, the Bruce character is referred to as Bob in this dub despite the fact that he is very obviously playing Bruce.

The story opens with Bruce being fired from a his job as a waiter at a Chinese restaurant when he refuses to lay down like a dog for a pack of abusive hooligans. Bruce and his ne’er-do-well roommate are forced to look for more work, but their efforts are continually thwarted by the gangly martial arts gang he humiliated earlier. Bruce kicks the shit out of them again, and they go running back to their Monchichi-looking sensei who consults his big book of martial arts clichés and decides that they need to avenge their reputation. After all, this could end up costing them a lot of potential tuition fees.

Bruce and friend find jobs down at a dock, but once again they’re dogged by the gang. Bruce thwarts the attack and is celebrated by his coworkers, who all decide to blow off legitimate employment and open up a martial arts school. Unfortunately, all of his students are fucking terrible, so this turns out to be a complete waste of time anyway.

By this point, upper management at the rival school is getting fed up, so they call in Hwang Jang-Lee to kick the shit out of Bruce. Hwang is quite possibly the best part of this movie. The dude wears the worst fake mustache ever, along with a long black rocker wig, a cape, and BMX gloves. He looks like a Chinese Ritchie Blackmore.

In what I consider to be one of the film’s major flaws, Bruce gets knocked the fuck out by Hwang. Hilariously, Bruce mopes around about his defeat, and while staring at a waterfall has some epiphany about how he needs to be like water. After a cheap ass training montage, Bruce finds Hwang and debuts what is supposed to ressemble Bruce’s classic Jeet Kun Do style, replete with high-pitched Kai and dance moves.

The finale is a hilarious Best-of-Bruce compilation, with a "Game of Death" style gauntlet. He even breaks out the nunchuks for this one as he takes on the entire fucking school. I typically despise scenes where one guy takes on thirty dudes, and this one is no different. One by one, the heavies wind toward Bruce with some weird gravitational order instead of just doing the most obvious thing, which is dog piling the motherfucker. There are thirty of you assholes. Why the fuck are you taking a number? You're not buying lunch meat, retard! Rush him!

Bruce’s awful students show up, allowing him to move on to the final circle, which is basically a polo match. Here, he squares off with the bull whip wielding main heavy who’s more of an entrepreneurial type than a badass, so it’s not a very interesting fight.

Overall, if you have a sense of humor and you love Bruce Lee, you should be able to at least have fun with this movie. The fight sequences aren’t bad, and Carter Wong even shows up to box some ears. The only truly grating thing about this movie is that there's this little annoying piece of shit kid that's always screaming and mugging for the camera. This little troll totally had the vivacious Susan Smith Anthony’s name written all over his whiny fucking face. Fuck that kid.

There are no available trailers online, but you can view the film in its entirety on YouTube. Even if you don’t want to sit through the entire thing, the opening scene, where Bruce encounters Cobra Kai, is absolutely worth your watching.

P.S. - If you refer to "Return of the Dragon" as "Way of the Dragon" you are a pretentious asshole.

Thursday, July 15, 2010


I'd introduce all of you ladies and gentlemen to a man I consider to be the crown jewel of VHS Summer, but I can't do that since I don't think any chicks read this thing. Nevertheless, I hope what you are about to witness becomes a regular feature here. Unfortunately, since the author is controlled only by his craven appetite for unnatural pornography and pizza, it may take him a while to cobble his follow-ups. After all, inspiration doesn't bloom under my abusive boot.

It is with great anxiety I welcome the loutish genius of a man who prefers only to be known as The Unruly Gent. For his first installment, the Gent will be reviewing an infamous slice of Dwarfsploitation entitled "The Sinful Dwarf," a tale of sex, drugs, and Olaf. Enjoy.

Saturday, July 10, 2010



Oedipus wrecks shit in this sexploitation slasher directed by master of the fucked Jess Franco. This one is a little better put together than the bulk of his other films. Nevertheless, it’s still crammed with awesome sexual depravity and visceral violence. The story expands on the ripper myth, featuring a seemingly docile doctor with mommy issues who tears through prostitutes with relish by night. But perhaps the most worthwhile aspect of this film is that Klaus Kinski plays the Ripper.


I may eat a lot of crap, but occasionally I break a tooth on a diamond. I didn’t have high hopes for this Interglobal Home Video release. I was expecting to enjoy "Long Weekend" on an ironic level based on the box art, which boasts deceptive use of scale. What I got was an incredibly taught work of suspense. Shockingly, every single aspect of this film is legitimately strong. I’m a little astonished that this was a complete accidental discovery, and that it's not more heavily lauded by serious horror fans. This should easily stand as one of Australia’s prouder cinematic exports.

An emotionally strained couple disrupts the serenity of the wild with their domestic tension when they take a camping vacation. Generally showing disregard for their environment, nature eventually strikes back and the couple are soon in peril. It’s kind of like a subtle cross between "The Giving Tree" and "Deathwish." The film creeps rather than leaps out at you. It’s the presentation more than the events themselves that leave you with a sense of unease.

I did a little digging around for more information on this particular release, and ran across some information from the fantastic Critical Condition site, run by Fred Adelman. He mentions that several Interglobal releases actually cut off mid film. Apparently, "Long Weekend" was one of them. He'd personally returned the film after purchase only to find the two other available copies also cut out. Oddly, my copy actually plays all the way through.


I was digging through a box of VHS that came into a friend’s Game shop this past week when I ran across an absolutely MINT copy of this Paragon release from 1984, still shrink wrapped, and without any fade or wear. I don’t think I’ve seen anything this pristine in a while. It was really cool to see the packaging in all its original vibrancy.

I wouldn’t say this is the finest out of its respective genre, but I certainly want it to be because it has such a phenomenal cast, including Jack Nicholson, Cameron Mitchell, Harry Dean Stanton, and Bruce Dern. There’s a lot of interesting social conflict just beneath the surface of this one, and I actually think the story is pretty good. The execution on the other hand leaves a lot to be desired. Still, it achieves atmosphere, and there are some unintentionally funny moments, which is really saying something when you consider that biker rape is kind of the centerpiece here.


Someone actually stole this from me, and I finally got another copy. I really hope they watched this movie, and perhaps learned something from it. It might save their lives. Because if I ever find this person intend to punch their teeth through their asshole.

This movie has been accused of riding the coattails of “The Street Fighter," but it's a fucking sequel. That's the entire goddamn point of MAKING a follow up. Seriously, what a weak ass argument. That's like getting mad at your infant child for hanging around the house too much. This movie may be unanimously trampled by die-hards of the original, but I happen to like it just a pinch more. Granted, it's not as dark and the violence lacks some ketchup, but the ass kicking is hyper belligerent. There’s one scene where Chiba punches a dude so hard in the back of the head that his eyeballs pop out. What the fuck are these people complaining about?


There are always a few good hours I try to sleep through every morning because they just so happen to make me sick to my stomach. And it’s not just nausea. There's also a wildly oppressive sense of melancholy, too. A few people have told me that it’s completely natural. They say that it has something to do with my actual time of birth. I was apparently born nervous, and on some subconscious level the apprehension of coming into this world has impressed upon my inner clock a residual stink that will always turn my gut. Those reoccurring hours during which I was born are unbearable to me now.

My morning sickness has prevented me from leading any sort of average life. It made school next to impossible, and I’ve never held an average job. Strangely, I can't seem to sleep once the sun is up, so my days usually begin with a sad struggle to cling to shallow sleep. I try to remain unconscious through that strange period of queasy doom. But it’s not easy. Neighborhood boobs clod around loudly on their way to work. Motors rev through obnoxious five-minute warm-ups, even though it’s the middle of fucking Summer and it’s 90 degrees before 8am. Precious darlings caterwaul as they hurl chunks of broken asphalt at one another. Their parents bellow at the tops of their lungs, “shut up!” Meanwhile, some asshole with a leaf blower menaces the path to my front door. So, I sit there, pushing back the vomit with intermittent sips of water while sucking on peppermints, watching “Saved By The Bell” on TBS at a low volume, waiting for the morning to pass.

Just the other day though I was dragged away from this racket by a cop knock. This happens sometimes. I dragged myself out of bed in my boxers, stumbled over several house cats, and threw open the door. A figure stood at the cusp of my inverted “welcome” mat in the pouring rain. His head was cocked uncomfortably, the energy of a serial rapist brewing like a maelstrom behind his aviator frame glasses. It was my mail man. He looks like Dennis Rader, and he hates my fucking guts.

I’m pretty sure he thinks that the high number of packages I receive on a weekly basis have something to do with drugs or child pornography. In fact, sometimes I receive stuff that’s been completely opened. I have no doubt he's the prying type. I wish I could have been there the day he sliced through my media mailer only to find a copy of "Eddie & The Cruisers II: Eddie Lives" inside.

We stand there for several silent moments. I press, impatiently, “Well? Do you have something for me?” His jaw grinds. His gruff answer comes, grudgingly, “No. I just came to tell you… that you have a package in the office.” “

Bewildered, I ask, “I have a package in the office?”

His upper lip quivers with restrained disdain, “Yes.”

Nausea has undercut my usual tolerance, “Alright, let me get this straight. You have a package for me. And you left it at the office, and THEN you came over here to tell me that you have a package for me? That's totally logical, thank you.”

He maintains that suspicious glare for several more seconds. I get tired of waiting for a response, so I slam my door in his face, and trudge back up stairs to grab my pants and boots. What an asshole.

DR. ALIEN! (1989)

Stuart Fratkin is in this movie. Usually, that’s a deal breaker for me. If you’ve seen “Teen Wolf, Too,” then you know who he is, because he was inexplicably cast in the role of Stiles. This is just one of many things that really pissed me off about that movie. First of all, the boxing theme was fucking stupid. Do universities even HAVE a competitive boxing division? It's a possibility, but I've certainly never heard anything about the big upcoming OU vs UT boxing match. I always heard that they were originally going to go with basketball again, but the game scenes in the first film were apparently too much work. So, we wind up with boxing because the filmmakers are lazy assholes. But still, there are so many collegiate sports they could have gone with which require minimal set ups. Why couldn't Teen Wolf have gone out for the swim team? I have these great scenes in my head where the disgruntled pool guy is fishing huge chunks of hair out of the drainage system. Secondly, if you’re going to cast a Mexican as Stiles, then at least include a scene where he gets bit by a radioactive day laborer or something. That's a movie in and of itself right there. They didn't even TRY to explain the Jew-to-Mexican transformation. Actually, I don’t even know if Fratkin is Mexican. He’s probably Polynesian, or some other bullshit. What I do know is, that, you Stuart Fratkin, are no Jerry Levine.

However, there are a number of finer points overshadowing the Fratkin factor. This is a David Decoteau-directed USA Up All Night contender, packed to the gills with recognizable racks, including appearances by Michelle Bauer, Ginger Lynn Allen, Karen Russell, and Linnea Quigley. Best recognized as Mikey from "Parker Lewis Can't Lose," Billy Jayne stars in this Sci-Fi sex comedy as Wesley Littlejohn, a hormonally challenged dork with the odds stacked against any notion of getting laid. But after a mysterious bombshell teacher doses him with an experimental drug, the tide shifts.


This is a legitimately great dark comedy, written, directed, and starring the late Paul Bartel. The Blands, played by Paul Bartel and Mary Waranov, are a couple of straight-laced squares struggling with their dreams and just barely scraping by while surrounded by sexually liberal neighbors. One night, when a swinger mistakenly enters their apartment, Paul murders the pervert. When the Blands fish a wallet full of cash on the corpse, a scheme that could be the answer to all their problems begins to formulate. Soon, they’re luring swingers to their apartment via personal ads, and bumping them off for their money. And then Raoul comes along.

Cannibalism was a unique subject for comedy at the time this film came out. Years later, "Eating Raoul" remains the best attempt at it so far. In spite of the grim elements, this is a classy film, due largely to the fact that Bartel refrains from delving into overtly gruesome scenery. There is a huge difference between making light of something for the sake of being offensive, and actually making people accept and laugh at something they would otherwise find repulsive. Bartel takes the latter route, and is thus responsible for providing us with a rare example of subversive comedy done correctly.


This is EASILY one of my favorite horror movies that came out of the great class of 1988. Rarely do the elements of a Charles Band production align to create something that sticks, comprehensively. The concept is fresh, with a contemporary lawman forced to fight sinister spirits of the past in a haunted ghost town. The most pivotal component of this movie is the atmosphere, and it’s absolutely present thanks to director Richard Governer. I'm actually curious as to whether or not Governer is a pseudonym, because I'm frankly surprised that a new director could do such an apt job at creating mood. Stranger still, Governer never went on to do anything else. Fuck what the so-called horror experts say, this is a fine slice of well-done low budget film making.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010


A scarred fist POUNDS on the seedy motel room door. “Open up, bitch,” the pimp barks with baritone boom.

The frail black-eyed whore presses her palm against the key latch as she wails, “No, no more. I ain’t gonna let you hurt me again.”

The pimp sedates himself with a mouthful of city smog. He shoves trembling rage down into the pit of his stomach. He lowers his voice, “I thought you was holding out on me, that’s all baby. I just wanna say I’m sorry. Let me love you.” He coos, sweetly, “That’s all I wanna do. Just give you the kind of love you need.”

Her heart strings slink down her spine like living bondage, “You hurt me real bad, you know”

His rough fingers stroke the weathered wood around the peep hole, “But I won’t do you wrong no more. I love you. I just don’t know how else to show it. That’s all. Just let me in.”

She contemplates, desperate to believe. She unlocks the door.

At the sound of the lock’s clatter, the pimp kicks the door down and realigns his bitch’s eye sight with five across the side of her face. She hits the bed, sobbing.

He towers over her, removing his belt, “I can’t believe how stupid you are!”

He leaps onto her, tying her wrists to the brass headboard.

Stripping the nylons from her bruised calves, he tethers each of her ankles to a bed post, leaving her spread eagle.

The pimp grabs a wire hanger off the coat rack, and molds it into a painful phallic shape with the prowess of a party clown.

He nods toward the skirt fabric stretched across her thighs as his sweat-beaded lip curls into a grimace, “you ain’t gonna be able to give my money maker away for a LONG TIME.”

He moves in for a lesson that bitch ain’t ever gonna forget.

I’ve just described Hollywood’s basic relationship with the resource it depends upon for its very livelihood. Almost every time I walk out of a movie theater, I feel empty, like I just got burned at a crooked game of coconut carumba. Movie-goers have it far worse than prostitutes though, because at least prostitutes get sex and heroin out of the whole ordeal.

So, Hollywood doesn’t love you. It doesn’t even have a slight affinity toward you. But if you keep on turning them tricks, and paying for that kidney-shaped pool, they'll will keep pumping your veins full of that sweet, sweet junk. Only it's a really watery, ineffective strain of the stuff. But it's the only game in town, so tie it off and start shooting.

I’ve never really understood the industry’s disdain toward its audience. It shouldn’t be THAT HARD to make an entertaining movie. But at the expense of establishing this bizarre master/servant relationship, I almost feel like Hollywood MAKES us swallow utter shit out of spite. How do you fuck up some of the commodities these studios wind up with? Filmmakers have obviously pegged the average movie-goer as an untaught, monosyllabic slope-browed nudnik who hoots and hollers like an ape over animated explosions. Even with that perception under their belts, I don’t understand how great, simple ideas somehow wind up more convoluted than they need to be.

The "Alien vs. Predator" franchise is a virtual x-ray of the average Hollywood executive’s cranium-lodged colon. How hard is it to fuck up this movie? You don’t really need actors. No audience is going to give a shit about a “bankable name.” You go to see the Alien or the Predator. Those are your fucking stars. You don’t even really need a plot. Predators lands on Aliens’ planet. Predators and Aliens kick the shit out of each other for two seat-humping hours, sans dialog or LL Cool J mucking up the affair. I guarantee you that if they made a movie with NO human characters, and it was just dudes in suits dismembering one another, people would be rioting to get into that theater.

Hollywood understands one thing: yes, people are stupid. However, they are completely oblivious to the fact that they themselves are just as stupid as their audience. It is with adolescent delusion that industry dipshits like to think they are special, or somehow a cut above the average citizen. But in actuality they, too, are just a bunch of unimaginative, blithering trogs.

Here’s another great example of how the retards in Hollywood completely botch a great money making idea: the "Gone in 60 Seconds" remake. The original film, which remains unseen by most, follows a band of big shit car thieves who are enlisted by a heavy to steal a certain number cars from a hot list. Before they can bag the last auto though, the authorities are tipped off, and what ensues is an insane battle royale in which nearly a hundred cars are destroyed in the span of 40 straight minutes without much dialog. It’s like fucking the face of sublime overkill. So, they decide to remake this film. It shouldn't have been hard. They have it spelled out for them to a T. But what happens? Hollywood screws the pooch and somehow manages to make the most boring car chase movie of all time.

“How,” you ask? Why, by substituting precious shit-blowing-up time with shots of Angelina Jolie pouting, of course. Give me a fucking break. This is how I see it: I don’t give a fuck about hot women unless they’re getting naked. And even then, if I can’t touch them, why should I give a shit? It's depressing. Unless Jolie’s lips are sating my shaft with their suppleness, then she can pack up her sweat shop clan and get the fuck out of my face.

There are a lot of people who make arguments FOR remakes, stating that they do nothing to tarnish the source material. Well, the fact that the original "Gone in 60 Seconds" isn’t any better known now than it was prior to the remake’s release blows that argument out of the water. Granted, the remake doesn’t at all challenge the value of the original film, but it's failed to generate any interest in the 1974 version by virtue of being a remarkable piece of shit. Trust me, no goes, “oh, this remake is a piece of shit. I feel inspired to go rent the original.” Spare me, asshole. No one in Hollywood knows what they're doing.

If movie makers were intelligent they'd stop remaking films, because all it does is clearly illustrate how bad they are at their craft by providing direct comparison.


"Dead End Drive-In"’s poster art dissuaded me from picking the tape up for years. I mean, look at that shit? Every time I’d pass by that box, I imagined the movie had something to do with a New Wave faggot terrorizing an In-N-Out Burger after a deep-fryer mishap involving the football team turns him psycho. Almost 20 years later, that sounds like the best fucking movie that was never made. And it’s probably fortunate that I didn’t wait until now to see it, because I would have wound up smashing patio furniture out of my inability to cope with disappointment since I am not what you'd called well-adjusted.

Thankfully, I sat through this thing at age 13, and only because I’d torn through every other title in the horror section. Literally, Salzer’s horror section had nothing else to offer other than "Dead End Drive-In" at that point. But once this sucker got rolling, my bottom of the barrel expectations didn't just get a slap on the wrist. They got dragged through gravel like an effeminate East-Texas teenager.

File under “dystopian future,” this surprisingly strong Australian effort’s heavy hand plucks a shuck of DNA off the "Mad Max" scalp, and possibly even a few strands from "Suburbia."Loaded with satire and a definite affinity toward B-horror, this one teases the black comedy borderline with several steps.

When the world descends into economic tribulation, chaotic youth are corralled into a drive-in theater, where they are tranquilized with fast food and shitty movies. However, the film’s protagonist, Crabs, has no intention of succumbing to a steady diet of shit, and plans to resist and escape.

For a film of this class, the production values are pleasantly deceptive. The script and direction, too, are above par, but might be lost on humorless die-hard horror fans. Overall this production has aged well, value even gaining momentum with passing time. Check out the trailer.