REVIEW: THE LAST STAND

I am an Arnold Schwarzenegger enthusiast. I've seen literally every film he's ever made, even the early obscure titles like Stay Hungry and The Villain. I sat through the infamous torture that was Batman & Robin. I even went to see The Expendables simply because of the 1-2 minutes he actually appears. (The remaining 88 minutes was nothing more than a bonus at that point.) Lastly, I have probably seen Commando more times than a 70-year-old has celebrated their birthday.

So, is Arnold the "greatest actor in the world" that he, one day long ago, said he'd be?

Of course not.

But he did manage to become the biggest movie star instead, and that's just as good, if not better. When you get top billing in a Batman movie over the guy playing Batman (who happened to be George Clooney), you know you're in a good place.

Through titles like The Terminator and Predator, he not only secured his place in cinema history, but he became synonymous with the action genre. Soon he was able to write his own ticket, and his roles - and paychecks - became bigger and bigger.

Then he did the whole governor thing. For eight years, that was a thing. His future in movies seemed uncertain. Most assumed he would do what most other retired politicians did: write their memoirs (which he did) and then disappear into the background.

Think again.

His fun cameo alongside Bruce Willis in the first installment of the Stallone-spearheaded Expendables didn't scratch the itch of the legions of fans who yearned for his return to the big screen - it served instead only to tease. If you're an action fan, there is no denying that Arnold changed its face and turned it into the cartoonish, over-the-top collection of punchline spewers that still lives on today. And even if you're not an action genre fan, there's no denying that the greatness of films like Predator or the first two Terminators transcended that genre barrier and have become some of the most celebrated films - of any genre - of all time.

The concept of The Expendables was a fucking great one: a collection of our favorite action stars from yesteryear all kicking ass together. Though it worked better as a nostalgia piece than it did as an actual film, it proved one thing: audiences still cared about Stallone, Lundgren, and all the rest. (I'd be really curious to see how many people were driven to see it because of the much ballyhooed Arnold cameo.) If The Expendables was instrumental in proving to Arnold that audiences still desired old school action, then god bless it, because it may very well have led us to The Last Stand.

In the two Expendables films, Arnold's age shows. Boy howdy does it. He has a nice little paunch and some loose skin around his neck. And somehow after living in America for forty years, his accent is no less prevalent. One thing that remains, and will likely always remain, is his charisma. It is palpable. It is a living entity. And in The Last Stand, it remains ever in place.

Schwarzenegger plays aging sheriff Ray Owens, formerly of the Los Angeles narcotics division, before too much death and bloodshed forced him to leave it all behind for a quieter life. His life of solitude is disrupted by the FBI-evading, race-car-driving (seriously) drug kingpin Gabriel Cortez, who is intent on heading for the U.S./Mexico border...which will lead him right through Owens' town of Sommerton, Arizona. 

Needless to say, Arnold has no choice but to stop him.

With The Last Stand, the film wisely acknowledges that Arnold is old. A sheriff in a piss-ant town where nothing much happens is probably allowed to be. While the film never continuously elbows you in the side to make old jokes, the point is made all the same: Owens is older and slower than in his hey day. But he is still a force to be reckoned with.

The Last Stand is being sold as Arnold's return to action starring roles. That is why I and 100% of anyone who saw it went in the first place. This ultimately is the film's blessing and curse. Arnold is certainly the focus of the film, and he certainly kicks ass...but not right away. Though the film touches base with Arnold every so often during the first third of the film, the story focuses much more on the Forest Whitaker/FBI side of things...to the point that you begin to doubt all the marketing you may have seen: Arnold's face on the poster, his overwhelming presence in the trailers.

All I can say is...hang in there. It very much realizes that. It just wants to tease you.

In The Last Stand, we experience the birth of Arnold 2.0. He is aged, yes, and though the film is manic, violent, and very nearly a comic book, it wisely takes time to stop and allow our characters to show genuine emotion when things get tough. Arnold...acts. And you can see that he wants to. You can see he really wants to humanize Owens, as well he should, being that this is the first time Arnold has played your everyman. He's played a commando, a terminator, a special ops bad ass. He's battled clones, Batman, and the devil himself. But he's never played just a normal human being. In The Last Stand, he is, and for someone who idolizes Schwarzenegger's larger-than-life swagger, it's incredibly refreshing. In other words, Ray Owens has progressed the same way that John McClane should have: he's a simple man, aged not just by his years, but by the things he has seen and done, and he is in the wrong place at the wrong time. And when shit is fucked, he's not afraid to express his fears, doubts, and solemn sadness.

Spoilers.

The ending sequence, in which Arnold squares off against the main baddie, is incredibly well done. There is no Commando-esque, guns-thrown-aside nonsense, because neither man has one. There's no exhibition of martial arts or impressive hand-to-hand combat. What we have are two men - one young and one old - beating the ever-loving shit out of each other. It is not in the least bit graceful, and contains not the least bit of technique. Instead, it is brutal, and animalistic, and to sound like a fifth grader, incredibly manly. It's about brute force and dominion, and neither opponent disappoints. (Arnold even removes his jacket before the fight commences, which, while admittedly cliche, is incredibly bad-ass.) It really was the perfect way to end the film, because in order for Owens to prove his honor, he had to suffer. He had to take his licks. And he had to take his prisoner alive. To simply blow the dude's head off would have been counter to what Owens, in his golden years, was trying to establish: that he still served a purpose; that he could take alive the man that even the FBI let slip through their fingers.

Mission accomplished.

End spoilers.

In Jee-woon Kim's first English production (following his acclaimed I Saw the Devil), he wisely chooses to shoot Schwarzenegger in the way he ought to be shot: eye level, with little aplomb. He's not a hero, after all - at least not yet - so Kim saves the close-ups for the steely lines that come when Owens realizes he is the only thing standing between a bloodthirsty criminal and the land of non-extradition. Kim lets several shots go on and on, capturing a massive amount of on-screen action in all directions, and he loves the red stuff, which always helps. One gag in particular involving a flare gun and one very dead bad guy is as ridiculous as it is incredible.

Most importantly, The Last Stand is just a hell of a lot of fun. Fun supporting work from Luis Guzman and even Johnny Knoxville infuse the ride with some easy comic relief. It allows you to be okay with blurting out joy when someone explodes on screen. Is The Last Stand the return-to-form for Arnold that we all wanted to see? It's hard to say. Arnold has managed to work in many different facets of the action genre - the gonzo (Commando), the thrilling (The Terminator), and the fantastic (End of Days) -  so it's hard to really pinpoint to which form he is supposed to be returning.

But I will say this: if we lived in Bizarro World and The End of Summer was a brand that actually carried some weight, the official pull quote would be:

"Arnold's best movie since True Lies."

As I write this, the box office numbers for Saturday are still being compiled. But based on the amount of folks in the audience at my showing (day two of release), I am a little hesitant to see them. I'm scared at the prospect of The Last Stand's opening box office take being incredibly underwhelming. I'm scared of it affecting all of Arnold's potential future projects. He's got two more in the can already, and for those I am equally as excited, but I sincerely hope this next phase of Arnold 2.0 will see great success for him - with audiences and the box office. 

GONE STANDIN'

I have been waiting for Arnold's return to action like you don't know.

Off to the cinema! I'll be back!

Hey, get it?

REVIEW: ASYLUM BLACKOUT

Asylum employees George (Rupert Evans), Ricky (Joseph Kennedy), and Max (Kenny Doughty) believe they are meant for better things, and they believe their unnamed rock band will take them there. It's for this reason that they've seemingly made their peace with working in the kitchen of an asylum serving food to the criminally insane day-in and day-out. 

As the title suggests, a power failure within the asylum kills the lights and puts them on automatic lock down. It's not soon after that the inmates soon begin to slowly take over (that old adage), seemingly led by the brilliantly-blue-eyed Harry Green (Richard Brake, probably best known for taking the lives of the Waynes in Batman Begins, and taking a dump in Doom). In an effort to assist the security team of escorting the inmates back to their rooms, the friends become isolated from each other in different parts of the hospital. And the inmates don't make it easy - not when they're throwing kitchen knives and beating weaker patients to a pulp.

Director Alexandre Courtès and co-writers S. Craig Zahler and Jérôme Fansten are smart enough to set the story in 1989, rendering arguments of "they could have used their cell phones to call for help!" obsolete  And though it's a dream that will forever remain timeless, the year also makes the idea of these young fellows endeavoring to become grunge rock 'n roll stars a bit more palatable, using their location (damn-near-Seattle) and their Nirvana-inspired lifestyle to easily establish just what we would expect of our characters. If the aspiring musician movie trope has taught us anything, it's that country boys are simple, rappers are playas, and rock stars start off with the best of intentions but soon teeter on the edge of losing themselves to drugs, alcohol, and "the life." Today, the grunge movement - and Nirvana specifically - are bemoaned for putting the final nail in the coffin of "true" rock 'n roll (as if there were still a place for Kiss and Bon Jovi in the land of triple-priced coffee) before putting another nail in their own. The grunge movement was the most short-lived in musical history. This does not bode well for our characters.

Asylum Blackout is a simple story, and simple means are used to tell it. Our actors are perfectly competent, and in the case of Evans' George, likable and sympathetic. Courtès rests on old techniques - slow motion,  the Wilhelm scream, distant blurry flashes of "what the fuck was that?" - but manages to use them effectively. He lets the story tell itself, not necessarily in the mood to ramp up the action for the less than patient crowd. But at the same time, there is that indescribable feeling of unfulfillment that permeates the hallways of Sans Asylum. The makings of a potentially unnerving and disturbing tale is here, somewhere, but for whatever reason it never comes to fruition - at least not on a significant level. As a piece of pulp, however, it works just fine. It is a zombie movie without the zombies. It is Friday the 13th with a dozen killers. People die, oh yes, and in brutally bloody ways. The set pieces in this regard are effective and are capable of providing a few thrills, cheap though they may be. The political or societal subtext of George Romero are nowhere to be found (which I bring up because this feels like something he would have made somewhere between Night of the Living Dead and The Crazies) and it makes you wonder if director Courtès ever had any intention of attempting such. IE, yes, Richard Brake biting off one of his own fingers and slowly chewing it is messed up, but after you're done squirming, you wonder what was the point.

If your horror film is set in a lunatic asylum, then that's half the battle. Even the most rudimentary filmmaker can gain some mileage from the dark, barred, and hopeless surroundings in which their characters find themselves, but those with a fine eye and keen sense are apt to deliver a minor horror classic. Brad Anderson's Session 9 comes to mind. And though it didn't set the world aflame, Carpenter's The Ward utilized its institutional environment to maximum effect. And let's not forget the over-the-top-but-wonderful remake of House on Haunted Hill, boasting perhaps the creepiest asylum captured on celluloid. 

In Asylum Blackout, Sans Asylum of Washington State is no different. The place is sprawling, and it's entirely constructed of white brick and gray metal. Dimly lit corridors stretch off into dull darkness, and what light there is becomes lost in a nauseating haze.

Asylums are naturally creepy and very sad. They exude an effortless history - more so than medical hospitals, ancient universities, and even museums. Within the confines of an asylum, even the most mundane object has the power to make your imagination run away; a wheelchair, a master key ring, a tray of pills. They only hint at the madness and the despair you'll find within each room.

While this is all well and good, the problem is Asylum Blackout depends only on the "they're ALL crazy, be afraid!" mindset to shock its audience. It also relies on the idea that the insane behind their cell doors are just dying for a chance to take back, violently, the prison that houses them. In filmdom we're supposed to let that slide and not take things so seriously, but it can't help but feel as if there were a real missed opportunity to say something about the environment of the asylum and those that are housed there. A suggestion that one of the inmates, Pete, is meek and harmless is interesting and injects a little much needed humanity, but his character is never used to full effect. Instead, the innocent are stabbed with crowbars, and bare eyeballs endure tasers.

I've read of critics' dismissal of the film's twist ending (because every horror film needs one these days) but I rather like it. It's in keeping with the aforementioned sadness and despair that asylums exude. That is, until, the last horrific gag of the film - and then you're reminded that Asylum Blackout doesn't want to do anything other than shock you. And I suppose that's okay, depending on what you want. To expect anything more, however, is crazy.

BUY ME THIS

There are no words. It's Mondo, and awesome, and I want.

Pay it forward and buy it for me.

IT'S A WONDERFULL LIFE

"Well, there I was so awfully dead in that electric chair. I didn't like it. Would you? It's upsetting. There was still so much killing to do, and there I was, in the void, without a body. But then along came - well - my friend. You know. One of them. Those others over there. The cruel ones... the Master. He thought my work should continue. But in this body. This body in particular, in fact. Let's call it revenge. A certain matter of an exorcism, I think, in which your friend Father Karras expelled certain parties from the body of a child. Certain parties were not pleased, to say the least. The very least. And so, my friend, the Master, he devised this petty scheme as a way of getting back, of creating a stumbling block, a scandal, a horror to the eyes of all men seeking faith, using the body of this saintly priest as an instrument of, well, you know - my work. But the main thing is the torment of your friend Father Karras as he watches while I rip and cut and mutilate the innocent, his friends, and again, and again, on and on! He's inside with us! He'll never get away! His pain won't end! 

... 

Gracious me. Was I raving? Please forgive me. I'm mad."

SHITTY FLICKS: HAPPY HELL NIGHT

Shitty Flicks is an ongoing column that celebrates the most hilariously incompetent, amusingly pedestrian, and mind-bogglingly stupid movies ever made by people with a bit of money, some prior porn-directing experience, and no clue whatsoever. It is here you will find unrestrained joy in movies meant to terrify and thrill, but instead poke at your funny bone with their weird, mutant camp-girl penis.

WARNING: I tend to give away major plot points and twist endings in my reviews because, whatever. Shut up.

“We only check on this one twice a week…to see if he’s STILL ALIVE,” grumbles a cynical-to-the-point-of-devious orderly, staring through the window into the dark cell, just one of many nestled in the Winfield Mental Hospital. His colleague, a nervous nurse, also peers through the window. Upon seeing the huddled figure in the dark room, she lets out an alarmed shriek, to which the orderly barely responds.

“Twenty-five years he’s been here. He doesn’t move or speak. I don’t even know how he’s still alive. Probably eats the bugs in there, I suppose,” he says, smiling like a dick, as if this is awesome. “It’s like he’s waiting for something.”

We then flashback to October 31st, 1963.

(Only two minutes in, and the core essence of Halloween is successfully ripped off.)

Henry Collins (Sam Rockwell, beginning his four-of-roughly fifteen-second appearance in this film), approaches a sleeping Father Cane with a bloody cross and beckons to him to help.

I say beckon because he literally doesn’t have any lines in this movie.

Father Cane obliges, venturing down into the creepy depths of an underground tomb located below his church (I think). His flashlight shines across disturbed coffins, bloody pentagrams dripping off the wall, and cut-off hands. It then shines across the figure of a man—sort of—albino, with dead black eyes, dressed in a priest's garb. The site of him, lit only by the beam of the flashlight, and set back in the corner of the room as if he were a frightened nocturnal creature that wasn’t supposed to be noticed, is genuinely unnerving.

For about two seconds.

Then he speaks.

“No peace!” it mutters, its voice sounding an awful lot like the fattest chipmunk brother of Alvin.

Father Cane runs out of the tomb, locking him in. I assume then that he is taken away by authorities and committed to a mental hospital where he will sit, not move, and eat bugs.

We flash forward to the present again and steadily go through our roster of teen characters for whom we will grow to deeply care, as they shove their tits into our faces and listen to bad early 90s garage rock.

Hey, guy with the bandanna: Bon Jovi called.

He said you’re a fairy.

Teening it up at a local college bar, a group of lovely young men see how many sex references they can cram into a single scene. Liz, the girlfriend of one of those men, Eric, whispers about a conflict with her girlfriend, and they both leave the smokey, punk music-ridden bar.

As Eric watches Liz leave, annoyed, he allays the concerns of the other guys that his brother, Sonny, will indeed be attending the frat’s Hell Night party that is to take place that night. As they all obnoxiously joke about the ridiculous stunt they will make him perform, in walks Ned Bara, host of STV (read: One Fuckhead in Front of a Sheet), the college’s very local-access one-man show. Bara looks alarmingly like Steve Buscemi, but uglier, if you can believe it. He’s definitely a future little-kid-lover.

He brags about having found the perfect tool in their soon-to-be-hazing of their frat candidate…and it involves the spooky hospital where the spooky albino eats spooky bugs and gives us the all-around creepers. He regales the dudes with the murderous events of 25 years past—and how all the victims were members of their very same frat!

The frat laughs it off and Bara leaves to prepare the next edition of his shitty show that still manages to be more useful to the world than Glenn Beck's.

Liz, though going steady with Eric, has a rendezvous with a mysterious biker with flowing black hair and dangerously crisp eyebrows. Boy, he’s dreamy…

And Sonny!

Eric’s brother!

Holy fragiole!

That’ll make for some tension at their next Easter brunch.

The local sheriff drops by the fraternity’s house for a visit, and to inquire about the whereabouts of Bara, and why he would have stolen documents from City Hall in regards to the local hospital. The boys play dumb, and the sheriff wanders over to the mantle and admires an old mountain pick affixed to a plaque; a plaque that had been awarded to Henry Collins, Eric’s father.

Let that be a reminder to you all, kids…even if you barely escape being mutilated by a demon albino priest, you can move on with your life and still accomplish life’s goals, like fucking until you have kids, and mountain climbing.

In what I have decided is my absolute favorite continuity error of all time, the sheriff leaves the two boys alone in their large common room to commiserate.

Eric sits on the couch in the common room with his hands at his side while his greasy looking friend sits in an armchair opposite of him.

“Hey Eric,” calls a voice from upstairs, and we cut to see a housemate standing at the stairwell. “Your father’s on the phone!”

We cut back to the common room and we see that Eric is now suddenly holding a red bowling ball on his lap…and that an entirely new character—a young man dressed in a fancy suit—is suddenly standing between the two chairs.

See for yourself:

Eric fields the call from his father…Henry Collins, formerly young Sam Rockwell, but now played by A Christmas Story’s Darren McGavin!

Henry says that he is calling to see if Sonny had made it to town, and what the big plans were for Hell Night.

Eric asks him what he knows about some frat members being murdered 25 years ago. Well, sudden discordant guitars, slow motion, and a worried Darren McGavin says it all…

It rocked!

In the scary way!

Following Henry’s unwanted flashback, we get a montage of a dark figure, fire, and other creepsters, finishing with a mood-killing shot of Sam Rockwell smiling a very goofy smile and laughing, looking the absolute happiest he’s ever been in his life. Its inappropriateness brings a laugh to my belly.

Sure, Sam Rockwell seemed affable enough, but only because
he was mere seconds from spitting a moon pie in your face.

Henry mumbles a lie and quickly hangs up on his son, only to immediately order a car to his office. Looks like Henry’s crashing Hell Night, too!

Gentleman, lock up your mothers!

Eric, on a drive through town, spots Sonny’s bike parked in the lot of a motel. He peers inside a window and sees his girlfriend atop Sonny’s bod, engaging in what appears to be—hinted at by his girlfriend’s expression—stimulating, but perplexing, sex. Instead of reacting in any perceivable way, Eric leaves.

And then Hell Night, the most rockingest party of ’91, begins! And you know it’s rocking, because a shitty punk song, whose lyrics are:

HAPPY HELL NIGHT!

HAPPY HELL NIGHT!

HAPPY HELL NIGHT!

HAPPY HELL NIGHT!

HAPPY HELL NIGHT!

HAPPY HELL NIGHT!

HAPPY HELL NIGHT!

radiates throughout the room.

Sonny shows up to the party and sees his brother, Eric.

“What’s up?” Sonny asks.

Eric stares, hard.

“What’s up?” Sonny asks again, not befuddled.

“Where’s Liz?” Eric asks.

Sonny shrugs his shoulders. Eric then delivers a soundless punch to Sonny’s face.

Note to filmmakers: while it can be difficult to find that perfect sound effect for punching (like, say, Indiana Jones), always remember to at least use ANYTHING AT ALL.

Instead of explaining to the shocked bystanders the reason for the punch, Eric instead smarmily tells Sonny to get ready for his initiation, which Sonny obligingly does, instead of attempting to explain or apologize for fucking his brother’s girlfriend.

Sonny sneaks into the hospital along with Ralph, another frat boy who looks like the love child between Tate Donovan and Judge Reinhold, with a dash of Matthew Lillard thrown in to explain the not-so-bright-looking face.

Sonny and Ralph wander around a dark, basement hallway, trying to locate the cell of the albino jerk-off who ate a few boys back in the day. The boys unwisely remove a cross affixed to the door and look at it questioningly. Reasoning that no human being could ever survive in the cell they are examining, they assume that they were misled and ordered to break into what’s essentially an empty cell.

Well…not.

Ralph goes into the cell to take pictures and ends up taking pictures of the albino murderer himself!

Holy squirts!

He gets his hand ripped off and falls down.

Sonny, against his better judgment, goes into the cell and sees his friend bleeding like a vagina at the feet of the albino, real name Zachary Malius. Despite this movie’s decision to be awful, it, again, manages to be a little unnerving, as the albino villain with the eyes of dark oblivion stares emptily forward. Then they blow it. Again.

“I’m bleeding to death!” Ralph cries.

“No kidding!” replies Malius, as I sigh.

Dr. Underhand lost many patients on his watch.

The scene fades to black so as to make us assume Sonny also will get bled to death. Well, not. And if I ruined it for you, you’re taking this too seriously, and get away from me.

On his way out the door, the albino drops by the nurses’ station to say goodbye to the night nurse. He stabs a scalpel through her hand and through the remote under it, and though he is keeping her pinned down with his right hand, he manages to raise the same right hand with the same scalpel and make a single stabbing motion, leaving a deep gash in her throat.

Continuity, in case you hadn’t noticed, is not a high priority to Happy Hell Night.

“No TV,” he gurgles.

Meanwhile, at the party, Liz tries to explain to Eric why she is fucking his brother, but he only grasps his booze bottle, whines, and walks away.

Eric later meets up with Girl, played by Jorja Fox, who he swoons.

“Wanna fuck?” he suavely asks.

“Sure, why not? Later in life, I’ll be on 'CSI,'” says Jorja Fox, agreeing to the fuck.

Liz goes to see Bara, who is watching the monitor of a camera he has hidden in a room full of fucking. Bara creepily watches until he sees Liz standing behind him, and the two have a conversation unrelated to the fucking, all the while the fucking plays awkwardly behind them, in glorious George Lucas-surround.

In fact, for the rest of this movie, Bara will stay in his little room and record VHS tapes of his various frat brothers fucking various girls in their room, which, frankly, is one of the saddest lives ever lived by someone who looks so closely like Steve Buscemi.

And despite the fact that he appears just a few paragraphs above this one, albino killer priest hasn’t been in his own movie for roughly 30 minutes, nor has anything else really happened worth reenacting.

Eric and Jorja Fox enjoy some heavy petting, but when Eric leaves to find a rubber, she abandons him for no real reason other than she’s a girl, and she can.

Well, the quintessential albino defender of all blue balls everywhere finally shows up again, grasping that mountain climbing trophy pick. Plunging it down over the top of the car and directly into a Jorja Fox’s skull, he removes the blade, and rattles:

“No parking.”

Huh?

As Jorja Fox is dying, she solves the mystery surrounding her own death using Crime Scene Investigation techniques.

It was the pick in her brain.

"CSI" joke!

The albino, who I guess is making up for lost time, suddenly appears in the bathroom of a showering girl, whom he quickly dispatches.

“No sex,” he says, before the ensuing murder is brutally edited out of the sequence.

And he appears in yet ANOTHER room, this time hacking up a girl who had handcuffed herself to the bed, awaiting a cock.

After her offscreen death, he holds up the bloody handcuffs.

“No more.”

Sick of that, yet?

Meanwhile, Henry Collins meets Father Cane over at the church to discuss what needs to be done. Not much discussion is had, however, as Father Cane has been crucified on an upside down cross and hung from the church rafters.

Boy, for an albino, this guy sure has been busy. A pity we didn’t see ANY OF IT.

Liz wanders around the massacred house and finds everyone’s body one-by-one. Eventually she catches up with Eric, Sonny, and her friend, Susan, who was hidden in a closet.

And in one of those continuity-destroying moments with which this movie is riddled, we see the following:

Liz stands, clearly holding Susan’s hand offscreen, but with their two hands right in front of the camera.

“Susan, please, you’re going to break my hand!” she complains, insinuating that Susan is squeezing too hard.

Well, the camera cuts to a shot of Susan suddenly sitting in a chair with her back to everyone across the fucking room. And no, they weren't trying to set up a "Oh my God, I thought I was holding Susan's hand, but I was actually holding the killer's hand" scare. Instead, they opt to just ignore their own gaff completely.

The boys walk over and see that Susan is dead, her head tumbling to the floor.

Being that Susan was somehow killed and decapitated in the SAME ROOM where everyone is with no one noticing, the kids take up various weapons to help defend themselves.

Suddenly a figure lunges at them.

It’s Dad from A Christmas Story!

He tells his children of how the evil began, and Bara, watching this on one of his hidden camera monitors, attempts to broadcast it to the campus, because man, he really doesn’t know when to quit.

Well, Bara’s broadcast is cut short by the spike in his eye, administered by an albino.

“No STV.”

Jesus Christ.

At this point, the only living characters are Liz, Sonny, Eric, and Henry. And because they are all striking, in-depth characters, we will genuinely fear for their lives.

Haha.

As Henry boldly vows to right this wrong, he is hacked through the door and passes out. The kids barricade the door, and then lay the injured Henry in bed. In doing so, they find his journal that conveniently and painstakingly describes how to stop the evil.

As Eric and Liz shimmy out a window, Sonny turns to see that his father is no longer in bed. Sonny creeps down the hallway, not locating his father. He doubles back to the room and sees a figure lying on the bed, covered in a sheet. Sonny silently creeps forward, weapon in hand, and attacks, attempting to stop the killer before the killer can attack him!

Sonny delivers a very satisfying stab to the figure’s stomach, and oh crap, it’s Dad.

Henry sits up and stammers out a very unenthusiastic “YAAAAAAAH” before dying for good.

What the fuck was that, Henry?

Why did you momentarily get off the bed just to come back and lay down again?

Thanks, Darren McGavin. Thank God you made better movies which we can use to remember how great you were.

Liz and Eric attempt to begin the ritual down in the tomb where this bullshit began, but Eric leaves, citing worry over his brother. Well, Eric comes right back, but with a hook inserted just under his chin, and being drug by the albino.

He drops Eric, and Liz closes her eyes, awaiting her own whack.

Suddenly, Sonny’s whiny motorbike comes rushing in at the albino, aided by some super-cheesy obvious fast motion, and knocks the albino right down into a bear trap, which is there for some reason.

"Hmm...we're not ripping off Halloween enough..."

"Better."

As they continue the ritual, the albino grabs a conveniently placed scalpel and cuts his own hand off, freeing himself from the trap. He handcuffs himself to Sonny for reasons unknown, and Sonny stabs the albino in the heart, accepting the fact that he, too, would have to go to hell along with this displaced demon.

Get it? Sonny wanted in on Hell Night? And now he’s in hell? For real?

Get it?

Not all is lost, however. Liz climbs into an ambulance, since Eric’s still alive.

Somehow.

And together, they’ll forget all about the albino.

Oh wait, no they won’t. The albino is driving. And he’s got a hat on!

“No problem,” he says directly to us.

What’s not?

The end.

HEY, KNOW WHAT'S A REAL MOVIE?

BEWARE

Her name was Mary Shaw...

...the ventriloquist who lost her voice.

 

Ever since she was buried, Raven's Fair has been plagued by death. 

Families...murdered. 

They were found without their tongues, posed in family portraits.  

No one in this town dares speak Mary Shaw's name, let alone go near her grave.

They know she won't stop killing until the screaming does...

GENESIS

 

Nacho Cerda's Genesis. 

Incredibly beautiful, but incredibly NSFW.

LEVITY

CREEP

My story happened almost a year ago. We had recently finished building our new conservatory onto the back of the house. You're able to look straight into it from both the dining room and kitchen, except at night when the curtains in the dining room are pulled over, leaving only the kitchen.

So...I'm an incredibly bad sleeper, which usually means that I stay up at night on the computer long after everyone else has went to bed. Well anyway, it's about 5:20 in the morning and I decided to switch the computer off and hit the hay. Before I did that, however, I decided to get a glass of water from the kitchen. The house was pitch black by this stage.

As I filled my water I turned my head and looked in the conservatory, at which point I noticed there was someone sitting in there. It would have been impossible for someone to get in; I locked the exit and entrance earlier that night. It couldn't have been my reflection in the glass; this guy looked nothing like me. He had short and tidy hair, thick rimmed glasses, buttoned up shirt and was glowing white. The worst thing of all was how he was positioned. He was sitting down on one of the new chairs, back straight, hands on his legs, all the while staring at the locked door, almost as if he was waiting for me to let him in the house.

I sat the water down and ran for my room at the top of the house. I decided I was going to stay up for awhile with the light on and just turn it off when it got bright outside. So, I'm lying in bed when suddenly the light switches itself off.

Story source.

Image source.

R.I.P. DAVID R. ELLIS

David R. Ellis, who called schlock entertainment his playground, has died at age 60. At this time, there is no official cause.

He never would have won an Oscar, but he did give us hands-down the best installment of the Final Destination franchise, Final Destination 2, as well as Snakes on a Plane, Shark Night 3D, and...Homeward Bound 2. (For real.)

The man proved he was usually in on the joke and never turned his nose down on the more low-brow projects on which he worked. And allowing Samuel L. Jackson to bellow his infamous line from Snakes on a Plane, which was born not during the scripting stage but rather much earlier on the Internet, courtesy of fan boy enthusiasm, proved he was a class act. It wasn't enough that he willingly took on the project and had fun with the outlandish concept, but because SOAP was a fan-driven project, it was his way of letting the fans have a more-than-usual level of input.

R.I.P., good sir. I'll watch FD2 in your honor.

SEA OF TREES

Called "the perfect place to die," the Aokigahara forest has the unfortunate distinction as the world's second most popular place to take one's life.

Japanese spiritualists believe that the suicides committed in the forest have permeated Aokigahara's trees, generating paranormal activity and preventing many who enter from escaping the forest's depths. Complicating matters further is the common experience of compasses being rendered useless by the rich deposits of magnetic iron in the area's volcanic soil.

Due to the vastness of the forest, desperate visitors are unlikely to encounter anyone once inside the so-called "Sea of Trees," so the police have mounted signs reading "Your life is a precious gift from your parents," and "Please consult the police before you decide to die!" on trees throughout.

Locals say they can easily spot the three types of visitors to the forest: trekkers interested in scenic vistas of Mount Fuji, the curious hoping for a glimpse of the macabre, and those souls who don’t plan on returning.

The forest workers have it even worse than the police. The workers must carry the bodies down from the forest to the local station, where the bodies are put in a special room used specifically to house suicide corpses. The forest workers then play jan-ken-pon — which English-speakers call rock, paper, scissors — to see who has to sleep in the room with the corpse.

It is believed that if the corpse is left alone, it is very bad luck for the yurei (ghost) of the suicide victims. Their spirits are said to scream through the night, and their bodies will move on their own.

More.

---

Now Available:

The world’s oldest celebration comes to life in The End of Summer: Thirteen Tales of Halloween, an anthology that honors the darkest and strangest night of the year. Each story is designed to be intrinsically and intimately about Halloween—its traditions, its myths, and its effects—and they run the gamut from horrifying to heartbreaking. Halloween night is the tapestry through which a haunted house, a monstrous child, a late-night drive to a mysterious destination, and other tales are weaved. Demons are faced, death is defied, and love is tested. And not everyone makes it out alive. The End of Summer has arrived.

Buy it from Amazon.

REVIEW: SNOW SHARK

I am speechless.

I am without speech.

Years ago, I saw an incredibly low budget looking trailer for a film called Snow Shark. Being the avid bad shark movie enthusiast that I am, I looked upon the trailer with glee, assuming it was just a joke.

"Ha ha! No way that's real!" etc.

Flash forward to the semi-present and I happen to catch wind of Snow Shark's impending video release.

"Ha ha! They sure are keeping that joke going!" I say to myself.

Then I'm sent a press release threatening to send me a complimentary copy.

"Ha ha! Let's do it!" I said.

And now, 80 minutes later, I don't even know what to say. What I can say...is that it was no joke. Snow Shark is a thing. A REAL thing. 

What's it about, you ask? Seriously? Is the title not enough?

Go ahead, I'll await here:

In 1999, a team of animal biologists investigating a rash of wildlife killings disappeared in the lonely woods near a small town. Years later, a local resident claims to have killed a prehistoric carnivorous creature living in the snow. Now, someone – or something – is making lunch of the locals.  

As curiosity-seekers and crypto zoologists descend on the small town, drawn by the legend of the Snow Shark, Mark - sole survivor of an earlier attack - leads an armed and dangerous posse into a deadly battle. 

Dive into Snow Shark, the outrageous and spine-tingling tale of the world’s greatest predator, frozen for thousands of years, freed by an earthquake, and really, really hungry.   

Reviewing a film like this is a tough order because it's clearly stupid. Everyone involved in the production knows it's stupid. Even the director knows it's stupid. The acting is...not great. The effects are...less...not great. And when I say effects, I mean a shark's fin being towed across a field by a truck, and a surplus of Final Cut Pro digital blood. 

Despite that, Snow Shark is irresistibly watchable. To watch Snow Shark is to watch an ambulance driven by a bear crash into an IHOP, which then explodes into tiny pieces of confetti shaped like middle fingers. You have never seen anything like it before, and you never will again - that is unless writer/director Sam Qualiana has a sequel in mind: Snow Shark 2: Winter is Chumming.

In Snow Shark, no one is safe. Not cryptozoologists, not fake Suicide Girls, not Santa Claus. All become shark meat, and all die gloriously.

I suppose in any review of any shark film, I have to use the J word. It's unavoidable. So let's get it out of the way.

Jaws.

Allow me to enhance:

Snow Shark is no Jaws. It is no Jaws 2. It is not even that fake Jaws 5 which remains unreleased in 99% of the universe. I feel a little weird even bringing up Jaws in the same breath as Snow Shark. It's like mentioning W.S. Maugham in a review for the latest book by that British witch who wrote all that housewife bondage Twilight fan fiction you see on the shelves at Target next to Glenn Beck and Dora the Explorer. Because the two are so disparate that not even Batman's Tumbler shooting miles from one ramp to another with a tow line could connect them.

I bring up Jaws, however, because like that landmark film, Snow Shark DOES feature: a sheriff, a biologist, a crusty shark hunter, and a mayor who refuses to do anything about his particular problem until Snow Shark swims up and bites him right on the snowsuit. (The ass part.) Oh, and shark deaths. Plenty of those.

"Mind if I masticate?"

Are there "jokes" in Snow Shark?

Not really.

Is the entire film Snow Shark a joke?

I think so. But I really have no idea.

"Promise me you'll kill that snow shark if it's the last thing you ever do!" one sister of a victim sobs.

"The demon has no soul! It only keeps me alive to feed off my pain!" another character shouts.

Hmm...

No. Still not sure.

There is no winking and/or nudging to be seen. Dear God, they are taking this seriously.

Oh, wait - someone just ordered a Cutty Shark. Does that count?

In a film with this kind of budget, which was clearly limited, am I allowed to bring up things like...the shark head we sometimes see is clearly superimposed over the snow from which it's supposed to be unearthing? Or, can I point out the handful of outdoor scenes which boast canned "windy" noises, but whose trees and brush in the background remain still and undisturbed?

How about the fact that there's a fucking real-life, honest-to-gosh shark that fucking lives in snow? Shallow, shallow snow?

There's no such thing as a "review" for Snow Shark. Not anywhere. You might think there is, but there's not. Instead, it's the scattered ramblings of someone trying to comprehend what it is they just witnessed.

How about this? I watched Snow Shark. I am still alive. I laughed quite a bit. I still cannot play the piano.

Image may not actually be from Snow Shark.

Snow Shark is terrible and amazing all at the same time. It is Hulk Hogan punching you in the face, screaming his shirt off, but then buying you a brand new car. It is eating a slice of pizza, finding a bloody band-aid inside, but your waitress, Katy Perry, giving you an apology blowjob.

Show Shark is an amalgamation of everything I adore and abhor about low budget horror.

It simply just...is.

Experience it for yourself when it hits video February 19.

DROOG

"It's funny how the colors of the real world only seem really real when you viddy them on the screen."

If we don't, remember me.

A SECOND EMILIE

The French teacher said that she was born in Dijon 32 years before she took up her post at Neuwelcke. She was fair skinned, with chestnut hair and blue eyes, and was fairly tall and slim. The pupils described her as having a sweet and lovable nature. The superintendents at her school were entirely satisfied with her work and were impressed by her gaiety, intelligence, and education.

Everything promised well for Emilie Sagee’s career at Neuwelcke - but within a few weeks of her arrival she became the focus of rumour and gossip at the school. It seemed that Emilie could be - literally - in two places at once. If she was reported to be in a particular part of the school, someone would contradict, saying, ‘Oh no, she can’t be there; I just passed her on the stairs' or in some distant corridor. Individual pupils repeated this sort of confusion time and time again, but the teachers dismissed the girls’ stories as silly mistakes.

But naturally the most excitement was caused by the rumours that followed the first appearance of the ‘double’ to a number of witnesses. Emilie Sagee was giving a lesson to Julie von Guldenstubbe and 12 other girls. The subject of the lesson varied slightly with each storyteller: for example, one suggested Emilie was energetically demonstrating a mathematical theorem on the blackboard; Julie said the lesson was French grammar. What was agreed on was that Emilie Sagee was standing with her back to the class. Suddenly, a second ‘Emilie’ materialized at Emilie Sagee’s side. The two were exactly alike and went through the same movements, synchronizing perfectly. The only difference was that the real Emilie had chalk in her hand but the fetch had none; it merely mimed the teachers actions as she wrote on the board. This story caused a great sensation at Neuwelcke, particularly as all 13 pupils in the class agreed precisely in their description of what they had seen.

In the following weeks the fetch was seen on a number of occasions. For instance it appeared at dinner, standing behind Emilie Sagee and imitating her movements as she ate. But, as in the classroom, the double’s hands were empty. On these occasions the schoolgirls were not alone in seeing Emilie’s fetch; the servants also reportedly saw the fetch behind the chair.

One of Julie’s school friends was badly frightened by the fetch. Fraulein Antonie von Wrangel was in a group invited to a local rural festivity and she was getting ready in her room. Emilie was helping her to fasten her dress. There was a mirror behind them and Antonie turned to catch a sight of two identical mademoiselles, each doing up her dress. Startled, she fainted clean away.

However, the fetch did not always mirror Emilie Sagee’s actions. Sometimes, Baroness Julie reported, it would behave quite independently. For example, the real Emilie Sagee would rise from her chair - but the double would remain seated. Antonie von Wrangel and a group of friends looked after Emilie when she was feverish with a cold. The girls took turns to read to her as she lay recovering in bed. Antonie was alone with her when she noticed the colour drain away from Emilie Sagee’s face. She was so pale she seemed about to faint, and Antonie asked if she was feeling worse.

Emilie replied with a weak and trembling voice that she was not, but her frightened look alarmed Antonie. A few moments later Antonie looked up to see the fetch walking about the room in excellent health. This time Antonie did not tell Emilie what she had seen, and when she came downstairs she immediately told the others what she had seen. On that time there was only one witness, but on the next occasion the incident was witnessed by the whole school.

This time all 42 pupils were gathered in the school hall to do their sewing and embroidery. Four french windows opened onto a corridor leading to the large garden in front of the house. The weather was fine and the girls had a clear view of the garden, where Emilie Sagee could be seen picking flowers.

The girls sat round a long table and the teacher sat at one end, supervising their work. After a little while she got up to leave them alone for some reason. Her chair did not remain empty for long however, as suddenly Emilie Sagee appeared in it. The girls turned their eyes to the garden and sure enough, there was Emilie. Although still gathering flowers, her movements were slow and languid as though - as the girls later remarked - she had suddenly been overcome with fatigue and tiredness. All the while her fetch sat silent and motionless. Although afraid, the girls were getting used to the strange phenomena and two of the boldest among them decided to take a closer look at the fetch. They approached the chair, determined to touch the apparition. Stretching out their hands they encountered a slight resistance in the air surrounding it, such as a film of muslin or crepe-de-chine might offer. One brave girl tried to pass between the chair and the table - and stepped right through the figure in the chair. Emilie’s double did not react, however, remaining seated until, a short time later, it slowly disappeared. As before the girls turned to the garden to watch Emilie Sagee again gathering flowers with her usual animation.

All 42 girls agreed on what they had witnessed and some questioned their teacher soon after. They asked how she had felt in the garden and if she had experienced anything special. Emilie answered that she had noticed the other teacher leaving the girls unattended. Emilie had had a clear view of the empty chair and recalled wishing the teacher had not left her pupils alone to waste their time and probably get up to mischief. She had wished, she added, that she could have been sitting there to keep an eye on the girls so they would get on with their work.

IT AIN'T THAT BAD: DEAD SILENCE

In this column, movies with less-than-stellar reputations are fairly and objectively defended. Full disclaimer establishes that said movies aren’t perfect, and aren’t close to being such, but contain an undeniable amount of worth that begs you for a second chance. Films chosen are based on their general reception by both critics and audiences, more often than not falling into the negative. Every film, no matter how dismal, has at least one good quality. As they say, it ain’t that bad. 

Spoilers abound.

I suppose it was inevitable. I've mentioned James Wans' Dead Silence more than once, and always in a positive light. But now it's time to fully defend what I would never consider to be a "great" movie, but one I find myself revisiting fairly often, especially late at night when it's not quite ready to retire.

People love Saw. I will not begrudge that. It is easy to show enthusiasm for low budget horror that manages to be original (it was) and effective (well...some parts). I would not call Saw a legitimately good film, but will say it showed the promise of co-writer/director Wan. Luckily Wan's sophomore project allowed him to team up with Saw co-writer Leigh Whannell for an attempt at a hat trick success with both audiences and at the box office. I'm always pleased when first-time directors strike it big with a horror film and opt to stay in the genre. And Universal Studios, thestudio that really brought horror to life with all the classic movie monsters, were enthusiastic about the duo's approach in resurrecting the golden era of the horror genre with their tale of witchcraft, ventriloquism, and old drippy mansions. They even used the original Universal Studios opening logo, establishing the idea behind the film immediately. 

Strange that the studio would then get cold feet after reading the script and demand the duo insert a bit of violence and an OCD, electric-shaver-using cop (played by Donnie Wahlberg), all because sound (and the slow disappearance of) becomes a reoccurring gimmick. If you see enough films, it becomes easy to tell when one deviates from its intended form into studio meddling. Generally things become lame and corny, and endings become unbelievably happy/resolved. While you can kind of sense all that in Dead Silence, in my opinion (obviously) it never becomes distracting. 

Uh oh, I'm rambling.

Ryan Kwanten (Red Hill, "True Blood") plays Jamie Ashen, who lives in a charming city row-home with his pixie-haired wife, Lisa. All seems well, and the couple is very much in love. Once Billy shows up outside their front door, however, it all comes crashing down. Lisa is killed by this mysterious visitor and Jamie finds himself following the trail of her killer. 

Billy, by the way, is this guy:

Dead Silence respectfully rides the long-tattered coattails of films like Magic, and before that, 1945's Brit import Dead of Night, an anthology film whose dummy-dedicated segment is definitely the creepiest. Wan and Co. know that, outside of the Full Moon brand, living/killer dummies is a largely underutilized storytelling device. Therefore, Dead Silence's intended focus was originally on mood and atmosphere over violence, and while that largely remains, the bits of violence crammed back feel foreign at times. And the mood and atmosphere in Dead Silence is gorgeously haunting. Halloween enthusiasts will find a lot to love about the mysterious Raven's Fair, home of the Ashen family, as well as murderous puppeteer Mary Shaw (Judith Roberts). Fog comes standard and rolls across graveyard grounds as if it were alive. Even during the day the sky looks dark and foreboding. And then there's the playhouse, set by itself on an island surrounded by a mile of water. Even the scummy motel where Jamie takes residence after arriving in town is brought to eerie life by the neon lights that cast their colorful glows through the swaying curtains. All of Raven's Fair feels like it was designed and constructed to do nothing but unnerve those who enter. 

I love myths. I love back stories and towns with a secret. It's the reason why I love The Blair Witch Project, and Stephen King's unofficial Castlerock series. I love this idea of a town's residents smiling fake smiles and pretending all is well, but living day in and day out with a murderous secret. And Dead Silence has that down in spades. The origin of Mary Shaw is explained, as are the events which led to her death at the hands of Raven's Fair residents. And again, like The Blair Witch Project, actual thought went into establishing this back story. 

Kwanten does a satisfactory job of carrying the film, and doing his best to help legitimize a bunch of killer dummies running around ripping out tongues. It's nice to see him play a rather understated role, as most familiar with him are more accustomed to his Florida trash, misogynistic "True Blood" Lothario. Really, Dead Silence has a pretty commendable ensemble of supporting actors, boasting both Bob Gunton (most famous for playing the warden in The Shawshank Redemption) and Michael Fairman (Mulholland Dr, "Sons of Anarchy"). Gunton's performance as Jamie's father, Edward, is...off-putting and not quite there, which, if you've seen the film, is obviously by design. Fairman as Henry Walker, the local mortician, is the exact opposite: frantic, scared, and all over the place. He knows damn well what the citizens of Raven's Fair did to Mary Shaw, and he knows the descendants of those involved are dying one by one under mysterious circumstances. 

While we're talking about actors, we need to mention Judith Roberts as Mary Shaw. She is a big creep. Even before she's a blue-tinted grinning ghost, she's still a big creep. Wan and Whannell love creepy old women. This and Insidious proves that. And they are right to, because old women are creepy simply because they're not supposed to be. They're supposed to be pleasant and meek and quiet. They're supposed to give you garish sweaters for Christmas and listen to Frankie Avalon. They're not supposed to be murderous or evil. They're not supposed to rip you apart for uttering a single word.

Former NIN member Charlie Clouser has been scoring films for a decade now, his most notable work pre-Dead Silence being Saw, in which his extremely memorable track "Hello, Zep" (which would go on to become Saw's signature theme) helped to really sell that film's otherwise ludicrous twist ending. A scene that became more far-fetched the more you thought about it was instead turned into an effectively blocked and directed moment, capable of causing chills in the audience. For Dead Silence, he also travels back in time in creating his score. Filled with classic strings and piano, but also complemented with his signature electronic dynamism the results are certainly one of the most memorable main themes in recent history. There's Gothic, and then there's Gothic, and then there is this score.

I love Dead Silence. As someone who appreciates old fashioned horror and drippy atmosphere, it scratches all the right itches. It's not perfect, but hell, what is?

A STILLNESS

"Brody felt a shimmy of fear skitter up his back. He was a very poor swimmer, and the prospect of being on top of—let alone in—water above his head gave him what his mother used to call the wimwams: sweaty palms, a persistent need to swallow, and an ache in his stomach—essentially the sensation some people feel about flying. In Brody's dreams, deep water was populated by slimy, savage things that rose from below and shredded his flesh, by demons that cackled and moaned."

HEY, KNOW WHAT'S A REAL MOVIE?