The Film Fiend Library

The Film Fiend moves on.

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2006 was a pretty crazy year here at The Film Fiend, and I'm thrilled with this journal's continued success. Because I want to bring you the absolute best reviews in the absolute best format, I'm moving these goofy shenanigans over to BlogSpot. That's right, dear readers -- I'm defecting. Hoorah for progress!

This journal will remain intact, however, since I have dozens of links to this joint spread across the Internet. That said, new reviews will only be found at the location provided below. Keep in mind that I'm not going anywhere, really. I'm just moving to a more accommodating location. I think you'll enjoy yourself once you get used to it.

I know I will.

Anyway, the new place is LOCATED RIGHT HERE, so be sure to update your bookmarks. And while I'll always love this little journal, I do feel it's time to upgrade.

The Film Fiend in '07 is gonna resurrect your grandma.

Take care! And see you on the other side.

T.

Have your neighbors over for dinner.

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Suburban Nightmare is an interesting little flick, since it's rather difficult for this reviewer to classify. Is it a dark comedy? A horror film? A satire? A candid look at what your neighbors are doing behind closed doors? Well, it's really all of the above rolled into a big sticky ball, resulting in an entertaining genre-bending hybrid that demands more from its audience than some may be willing to give. Those looking for a blood-soaked version of War of the Roses need not apply. Instead of buckets of guts and gore, director Jon Keeyes delivers a witty pitch-black film that will surely tickle the funnybone of those whose sense of humor is a bit skewed. In other words, Adam Sandler fans need not apply. Okay, you can apply, but we'll probably just point and laugh at you.

I keed, I keed.

The story is pretty simple so I'll keep my synopsis short and sweet for a change. Charles and Deborah Rosenblad are your typical American couple: They enjoy the taste of human flesh, keep sex slaves and dead bodies in their basement, and try to raise their daughter the best they can. However, tempers flare when Charles decides to execute their "dinner" guests without the assistance of his wife, setting off a series of outlandish events that will ultimately send these suburban lovebirds into the depths of depravity. Throw in some lesbians and a pair of fake breasts and you've got yourself an enjoyable way to spend 80 minutes of your life, though it still doesn't beat a good game of Jenga. In all fairness, though, very few movies top the all-mighty Jenga. As you can imagine, things get pretty warped by the end credits, through it's all in good fun. Well, for the most part, anyway.

Those who don't like all those pesky "words" and "phrases" with their horror may find Suburban Nightmare to be rather dull. It relies heavily on dialogue and character interaction, ala Kevin Smith, Richard Linklater, and their ilk. Some may find the film to be a bit too verbose, but I never once had a problem with it. I enjoy intriguing characters and absurd situations, and this film has plenty to spare. Charles -- portrayed by the always-entertaining Trent Haaga -- is by far my favorite of the bunch, though is wife Deborah (Brandy Little) comes in at a close second. It's hard to choose who to side with, actually, since they both have their own share of faults and flaws. The most disturbing element of the film would have to be the Rosenblad's attempt to raise a daughter amidst the chaos of their daily lives, though it does provide an interesting subplot that explores the softer side of these suburban psychopaths. It also helps matters considerably that Keeyes is a wonderful director. Every shot looks excellent, despite the film's obvious budgetary limitations. The pacing is swift, though it manages to keep you engaged without the use of flashy edits to hide its weaker points. Sure, the film could have benefited from a widescreen presentation, but it looks good for what it is, and suits the tone of the film just fine. It's no wonder that the man is slowly moving up the Hollywood ladder, having just finished Living & Daying ("4 Robbers, 2 Killers, A Cellphone, & Way Too Many Guns") starring that jaded celebrity fall-out Edward Furlong, Michael Madsen, Arnold Vosloo, Bai Ling, and, yes, Trent Haaga. I'm excited to see what he does with a bigger budget and some bigger names.

I'd also like to throw the spotlight on Mr. Haaga for just a second. Not only is the guy a pretty good actor -- he's appeared in such genre fare as Zombiegeddon, Hell Asylum, Dead & Rotting, and Troma's Terror Firmer -- but he's also responsible for penning both Feeding the Masses and Toxic Avenger IV. While the latter isn't much to write home about, Feeding the Masses is an entertaining twist on the oh-so tired flesh-eater subgenre. He's a talent to keep your eye on, considering I think the guy's got some skills to pay the proverbial bills. When he blows up and everyone's like, "Who? What? What's that? Where the hell did this guy come from?" you can tell your friends, family, and lovers that you read about him first on this sad littler journal. They won't care, of course, but you can tell them.

Suburban Nightmare is, in my humble opinion, solid entertainment. However, it's not a gorefest by any stretch of your demented imagination, and it does require you to actually invest some interest in the Rosenblad clan and their plight. It's reliance on dialogue may be a huge turn-off for those who don't like much characterization with their horror, but those looking for something a little different will find plenty to keep them glued for the duration. Just keep in mind that it's by no means perfect, and does require you to suspend disbelief in quite a few scenes. The inclusion of the daughter, for example, could be viewed as a little hard to swallow, but I felt she was a rather nice addition to the family unit. Comparisons to the classic Danny Devito opus are pretty hard to deny, though it's balls are definitely much bigger, and Keeyes doesn't mind smacking you in the face with them from time-to-time.

And, like mom always said, a little testicle-to-cheek contact never hurt anyone.

Hooters a la Satan.

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The Witchcraft series, which began in 1988, boasts the largest number of sequels than any other horror franchise still in production. Twelve separate entries, to be exact, all of which seem to follow three simple rules: show lots of big boobs, shed lots of blood, and center the storyline around a few pentagrams. After a handful of years, however, the series began its slow decline into softcore pornography, preferring to eroticize the storyline as opposed to scaring the poop out its legion of hardcore fans. The last one I watched on purpose was number seven, and for the life of me I can't remember a single solitary scene from that particular cinematic experience. Where the franchise went after that remains a mystery, since I honestly couldn't care less.

Naturally, when I sat down to review Witchcraft 13, I was more than a little hesitant. After all, the last experience with the series was entirely forgettable, leaving me to wonder if I should even bother treating this as a serious slice of horror cinema. Imagine my surprise when number 13 turned out to be a refreshing change of pace from what I'd come to expect from these silly little sequels. Instead of just cranking out yet another stale entry, Mel House and Tripod Films have made an honest attempt to reinvigorate the franchise, focusing more on the storyline than, say, finding a well-endowed female to take off her shirt while wallowing in a vat of fake blood. Though the film does have its problems, Witchcraft 13 is an honest to God motion picture, one that tries its best to establish Will Spanner as full-blown tragic hero cursed with powers he's still learning to control.

Having visited a friend at a local watering hole, Will Spanner leaves his buddy in the capable hands of a chesty broad, only to have second thoughts about that decision on the way home. When he returns to the bar to check on his mate, Will finds him lying dead in a back alley, his heart having been torn from his chest. A visit from a few colorful detectives let's us know that Will's friend was just another victim in a line of ritualistic murders that have been plaguing the city. Confused, scared, and essentially clueless, Will pays a visit to his boy Eldridge, who informs our heroic warlock that the pentagram associated with the victims belongs to Will's birth parents' coven, who were at one point or another at war with another coven known as The Order of the Crimson Heart. In order to obtain the powers of their enemies, these "foot soldiers" remove their hearts so the master can harness the energy that lies within. Determined to find those responsible for his friend's death, Will begins his own investigation into this mysterious coven. Can he find their leader before they destroy him? More importantly, how many boobs will our hero have to face before the film's finale?

Director Mel House and screenwriters Michael and Jeffrey Wolinski have obviously done their homework, taking great pains to avoid many of the cliches that are abundant throughout the Witchcraft series. The result is an erotic horror movie that actually managed to hold my wobbly attention until the end credits. They've actually managed to breathe new life into what many consider to be a dead franchise, and I do hope it finds the audience it sorely deserves. It also helps matters considerably that the filmmakers have found some actors who can act, something missing from several of the franchise's dodgier entries. Tim Wrobel is probably my favorite Will Spanner yet, bringing a vulnerability to the character that was absent from his predecessors. Since we're forced to spend the majority of the movie with the guy, it's nice to actually have someone who doesn't make your skin crawl. The supporting cast is also surprisingly decent for this kind of production, which is ALWAYS a good thing.

Do keep in mind, however, that this is essentially a no-budget production, and I do grade on a curve. Those expecting something substantial should steer clear of this flick. Beware! BEWARE!

The film also boasts a number of quality gross-out moments, from the many heart rippings to some inspired CGI during a battle between a skinny blonde and Mr. Spanner himself. I usually cry foul whenever a smaller production decides to employ some low-budget computer-generated effects, but Witchcraft 13 actually makes these moments work. Though they're nothing spectacular to look at, they don't detract from the action whatsoever, which is an accomplishment in and of itself. The gore effects are also pretty good, and when Will's friend pays him a visit in a surprise dream sequence, I was quite impressed with its ability to shock.

That said, Witchcraft 13 does have its share of problems. Though better than your average low-budget production, the acting -- especially from the female cast -- is wooden at best. I guess you can't have your cake and eat it to, so to speak. Another distracting flaw is the editing. A lot of smaller productions often have this problem, so it comes as no surprise that Witchcraft 13 features the exact same issue I've seen in countless other movies: the notorious FADE TO BLACK. Used sparingly, this technique is actually effective when the scene calls for it. But using it all the time can be somewhat of a problem for those who are aware of such things. A lot scenes aren't tied together very well, making for a somewhat jarring experience from time-to-time. Thankfully, House's direction keeps this novice mistake from killing the movie altogether.

When all is said and done, Witchcraft 13 is a bloody good time. Color me surprised! I was expecting yet another forgettable entry in a series I'd forgotten all about. However, if Tripod Films continues to work with the franchise, you might actually get me to pick up number 14 if that project ever comes to pass. For those of you who are thinking that I've spent way too much time hitting the crack pipe lately, I strongly urge you to give this one a shot. If you're into this sort of thing, of course. It's COMPLETELY different from the Witchcraft series you've come to hate, and I think Mel House and company have done their best to reinvigorate the Will Spanner character without losing what the series is all about. If you guessed boobs, blood, and pentagrams, then you win a donut.

Blood filled, of course.

Like a rubber mallet up side yo skull.

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How, you ask, could a movie filled with boobs, gore, and little-to-no story whatsoever bring a smile to my face? Well, dear readers, I'm glad you asked. You see, having recently viewed Day of the Ax, I was a little disappointed with 4th Floor Pictures and director Ryan Cavalline. It's not that Ax was a poorly-crafted movie, mind you, but it showed an amazing lack of originality from the guy responsible for Dead Body Man, a movie I consider to be one of the funniest no-budget horror/comedies I've ever seen. Seriously! Cavalline and company wanted so desperately to make a Texas Chainsaw Massacre of their own that they lifted entire ideas, characters, and dialogue from the seminal series in order to create it. The end result was, needless to say, quite lacking. In fact, I was actually hesitant to sit down with its sequel, mostly because I had a feeling I was in for more of the same.

However, like Dead Body Man 2, Cavalline has gone back to the drawing board in order to fashion a superior sequel, one that shows an incredible amount of growth in terms of directing, editing, and writing. House of Carnage, I must say, is a very slick production, complete with faux news reels and plenty of gore to go around. The story is pretty much nonexistent, which is okay with me; there's enough genuine weirdness in HoC to keep you watching despite the fact there's nothing cohesive to hold the scenes together, outside of the rubber mallets, brutal deaths, and great big boobs. This is a true homage to Tobe Hooper's cult classic, using the same structure and basic premise without lifting too much from the original. And as much as I love Dead Body Man 2, House of Carnage is probably 4th Floor Pictures' best film to date, hands down.

Technically speaking, of course.

As I mentioned earlier, there's really no story to speak of. You do get a girl recapping her experiences with that bizarro family and their creepy digs, but that's about it. The rest of the film is dedicated to torture, humiliation, and murder, inter-cut with tidbits of information regarding our sadistic family and their criminal history. The rest of the picture consists of twenty-somethings roaming aimlessly through the woods and the consequences of this rather idiotic decision. I mean, if the family's past is well-documented, why would anyone risk their lives by taking an adventure through their turf? Perhaps I'm using too much of the ol' skull noodle; there's really no rhyme or reason to the events that take place in House of Carnage, and while some may have a big honkin' problem with that, I found the lack of plot points to be rather refreshing. It's just bloody murder after bloody murder, one right after the other, anchored by the family's interesting mythology. Sometimes you just need to tune out.

If you hate Day of the Ax, let me explain the difference between it and its sequel in a way that will make perfect sense to a horror fan: House of Carnage is to The Devil's Rejects as Day of the Ax is to House of 1000 Corpses. Everything you despised about the original has been rearranged, reworked, and revised in order to create a more visceral experience. I think Cavalline's one of those rare filmmakers who actually listens to idiotic reviewers like me who spend way too much time watching these gory little gems. Everything that was wrong with Day of the Ax has been fixed in House of Carnage. In fact, there's an inspired shot towards the beginning of the film featuring our masked baddie standing in a field with a cloudy sky and his creepy farmhouse as a backdrop that looks light years beyond its minuscule budget. With more money and better equipment, Cavalline could be the next "big thing" in independent horror. I'd trust the guy with my money; I hope others eventually feel the same way and give him the break he deserves.

My one problem with the movie is this: RUBBER MALLETS. Though their presence this time around is kept to a minimum, it's still distracting to see the same style of murders in not one, not two, not three, but FOUR 4th Floor productions. Again, this is probably due to the amount of cash he had on-hand to throw at things like props and what-not, but looking around my office at work, I can see several items that could be used as murder weapons. A three-hole punch, for example, could crush a skull quite nicely. Not to mention the countless screwdrivers, nails, hammers, chains, furniture, and other everyday items that could easily drop a man to his knees. I'm kidding, of course. Anyway, since most of the beating, trashing, and crushing takes place off-screen, why not use some items just lying around the house? There are ways to work around the dangers of using real objects in your film, that is, if you put your mind to it. This is more of a suggestion than a full-on complaint.

House of Carnage is pure nastiness from start to finish. Every character is dirty, nasty, and degenerate, including those who get strung-up and promptly eviscerated. All the actors -- most of which are 4th Floor regulars by now -- do an excellent job, nailing every twitch, scream, and pleading squeal. Ryan Cavalline and 4th Floor Pictures are at the top of their game with this one, and it makes me quite happy to see him overcome the problems I've had with his earlier efforts. With both Dead Body Man 2 and HoC, 4th Floor is finally on-track to become a formidable indie production company, one that could easily overcome the backyard feel of its contemporaries. I can't wait to see what the guy does next. That said, I'd actually like to see him tackle something a bit more plot-driven, something that has a "slow burn" feel to it. I think he's capable, and I definitely think it's time.

Just no more rubber mallets. Please.

Low-budget fiddle-faddle.

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Day of the Ax, apparently, is Ryan Cavalline's love letter to Tobe Hooper, Bill Moseley, and the entire Texas Chainsaw Massacre franchise. I'm just guessing, mind you, but it's a pretty easy assumption to make, considering how liberally Cavalline and company borrow elements, characters, and entire setups from this highly-overrated series of films. I'm of the belief that Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 is the better of the bunch, but then again, any movie that presents its offensive tongue-in-cheek humor with a healthy serving of gore is a-okay in my book. But that's neither here nor there. Day of the Ax, while decently acted and well-constructed, suffers from terminal deja vu; you've seen everything in this movie somewhere before, but you really can't put your finger on exactly where. And let's not kid ourselves, okay? There's no story here. A guy and two girls are on their way into the woods to meet up with a friend -- as people in small towns often do -- when they stumble upon a blood-soaked blonde chick just wandering in the middle of a secluded "road," and I use this term loosely. After spouting gibberish about nothing in particular, she slits her throat and promptly dies. Our band of concerned citizens calmly stuff her carcass in the trunk and immediately set out to find help. Unfortunately for everyone involved, there's a family of lunatics living in the surrounding woods, and they just love it when townsfolk stop by for a visit. Thus begins our journey into familiar territory, one that's ripe with tired cliches, big boobs, and floppy rubber mallets.

I hate trashing anything directed by Ryan Cavalline, since the guy has a passion for the genre that's actually quite refreshing. But I have to call them like I see them, and Day of the Ax is just too generic for my tastes. As I mentioned earlier, there are too many familiar plot points, characters, and situations for this film to survive on its own severed legs. If stealing the entire storyline from Texas Chainsaw Massacre wasn't enough, there's even a character named Pluto who is carbon-copy of Bill Moseley's infamous Chop Top, the scalp-scratching psychopath from the highly underrated TCM sequel. I understand that Cavalline has a love for these movies, but to fill his own endeavors with such blatant rip-offs is inexcusable. If you want to make an homage to your favorite films, that's fine, but come up with enough original ideas so your movie won't suffer from the kind of review I'm bestowing upon it right now.

Everyone involved does a pretty good job with the material, despite its glaring lack of substance. This is a bargain-basement slasher, dear readers, peppered with only a few moments of genuine clarity. We even get cameos by indie heroes Tim Ritter and Joel Wynkoop, though both appear to have been held at gunpoint in order to make their respective appearances as a sheriff and a doctor, the latter giving us a little insight into the history of film's masked madman, though I could have sworn this material was covered by Dr. Loomis in John Carpenter's masterpiece Halloween. Anyway, given the amount of talent on display, I wish that everyone had been given something to do. Those who don't get to bash everyone else with the rubber props are left to scream, flail, and react -- nothing more.

The gore on display in Day of the Ax is surprisingly decent; we get a lot of spraying blood, an effective face peeling, a nasty disembowelment, and the removal of some poor guy's left hand. My biggest complaint, however, is the rubber mallet. This was okay for Dead Body Man and its sequel, since neither movie was supposed to be taken seriously. In fact, Willie's use of this rather goofy weapon in the DBM series actually heightens the hilarity a bit. Here it's just silly and ineffective. That aside, there are a few odd moments that showcase some surprisingly decent computer-generated effects, including a mind-blowing suicide (literally), a pig pen full of deformed offspring, and the obliteration of a small American town. Though the latter really didn't make much sense to me in the grand scheme of things, it was still incredibly well-done given the film's tiny budget. Coming from someone who absolutely hates CGI anything in no-budget productions, this is a wonderful accomplishment. Kudos!

Though it's rather well-made and sports some decent acting, I just can't get away from all of the borrowed ideas on display in Day of the Ax. It just doesn't have the charm of the Dead Body Man series, nor does it have the impact of its sequel, House of Carnage. Cavalline is better than this. MUCH better. Having seen several of his pictures already, I know the guy is capable of more. I'm not sure how far down this particular entry sits on his filmography, but I have the feeling it's one of his early efforts. As an example of his skills as a director, Day of the Ax is competent, deftly crafted, and surprisingly entertaining. However, borrowed ideas are borrowed ideas, and coupled with the fact that Cavalline is a much better writer than what this film would have you believe, I can't recommend Day of the Ax to anyone other than diehard TCM fans who need to see anything this "classic" horror film has inspired. Everyone else should probably think twice before checking it out. Unless, of course, you're terrified of rubber mallets, in which case Day of the Ax will scare the ever-loving poop out of you.

Bring clean underwear.

I'a! I'a! Cthulhu fhtagn!

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H.P. Lovecraft has probably had the most influence on my creative output than any other author I've ever read. There's something inherently creepy about each and every one of his stories, though the Cthulhu mythos is by far the master's greatest literary achievement. While his sci-fi leanings were interesting, they simply cannot match the power of The Old Ones. Because Lovecraft's stories are the very definition of bizarre, it's rather difficult to bring them to life on the big screen. If you're one of the few unfortunate souls who braved last year's Beyond the Wall of Sleep, you know that most who attempt to adapt the man's work often fall flat on their faces. With the exception of the excellent short film Call of the Cthulhu, the only person who has successfully translated Lovecraft's vision to film is Stuart Gordon, the guy responsible for the goofy cult classic Re-Animator. And while he doesn't stick very close to the source material, Gordon is somehow able to capture the FEEL of the late author's best tales. 2001's Dagon, based on Lovecraft's Dagon and The Shadow Over Innsmouth, stands as the talented director's most affecting horror picture to-date. The key word in that last statement is HORROR. After all, I still feel that Edmond is the man's best film.

Yes, EDMOND.

The criminally-underrated Ezra Godden stars as Paul Marsh, a goofy little guy who just made a ton of money fiddling with the stock market. To celebrate his new-found wealth, Paul and his sexy girlfriend Barbara join their WASPy friends Howard and Vicki on an extended vacation aboard their uber-swank sailboat. Before too long, a storm creeps up on the unsuspecting couples, sending their boat crashing into a nearby rock. During this nautical mishap, Vicki's leg is savagely crushed, pinning her in the cabin of the quickly-flooding vessel. Unwilling to leave his wife to suffer alone, Howard sends Paul and Barbara to the small fishing village they spotted moments before the storm crept in. The young couple, having braved the violent sea on an inflatable raft, follow some creepy chanting to a small church occupied by a strange little priest who, much to their surprise, is all by himself. The odd, unblinking man immediately agrees to help. He sends Paul out with a group of very pale, very unusual fishermen, leaving Barbara all alone in that odd little township with those grotesque, leering inhabitants. The rescue mission proves unsuccessful; upon returning to Howard and Vicki's boat, Paul discovers that both are missing. And to make matters worse, when Paul returns to shore, he discovers that Barbara is also missing. So begins his journey to discover the whereabouts of his lovely little girlfriend, an adventure that will lead him into the heart of this truly bizarre village. Will Paul save Barbara before it's too late, or will they become yet another sacrifice to the god Dagon?

Stuart Gordon has really outdone himself with this effort. Though it still has a hefty dose of comedy to alleviate the tension and suspense present throughout, Dagon is more concerned with absolute horror than simply making you laugh. The story is pretty simple, and actually boils down to a by-the-numbers chase picture, with Paul rushing from one set piece to another as he desperately tries to find his girlfriend before the residents of Imboca catch up with him. Though the script is simple and the premise somewhat tired, Gordon's execution couldn't be smarter. The most intriguing aspect of the film is the village itself, which has been realized in amazing detail. It apparently never stops raining in Imboca, giving the joint a dark and dreary atmosphere that literally saturates every single frame of the picture. And instead of giving us clear, clean shots of its fishy citizens, we're treated to mere glimpses and glances as they watch the proceedings from doorways, alleyways, and windows. The decision to keep most of the creatures in shadow is brilliant; showing a lumbering hulk of a man shuffling in the background is much spookier than sticking him directly in front of the camera for all to see. The film also moves at a break-neck pace, thrusting our bumbling hero into a different set of dangers every few minutes or so. It instantly reminded me of the manic pacing of Raimi's Evil Dead 2, right down to the goofy hero's thoroughly entertaining antics.

However, there are a few problems lurking beneath the film's creepy surface. For starters, the CGI is incredibly fake, forcing me once again to say that if you don't have the cash to make it look good, DON'T USE IT. Simple as that. And while this particular aspect didn't bother me at all, I've read that a handful of genre fans don't like the needless exposition towards the middle of the movie. While I will admit that it slows the picture down, I believe it's completely necessary as a storytelling device.

As mentioned, Ezra Godden is an incredible actor, one who doesn't get nearly as much work as he should. And while his shtick in Dagon may be a little too Woody Allen-ish for most to swallow, I thoroughly enjoyed his performance nonetheless. In fact, it's what keeps me coming back again and again. Had Dagon been without a flawed, bumbling hero, I think most of its charm would be lost on me. Godden's easily the best of the bunch. And while the actors portraying the twisted inhabitants of Imboca are pleasant enough, it's late Spanish thespian Franciso "Paco" Rabal who ultimately spoils the film. His accent is so incredibly thick that it's almost impossible to understand what he's saying without the use of subtitles. Now, I'm usually VERY good with accents; having lived in Kentucky all my life, deciphering what people are saying is key to surviving encounters with those from the eastern half of the state. That said, even I had to use the DVD subtitles every single time the man spoke. Had this been a normal picture with normal dialgoue, I don't think I would have had as much trouble as I did. But when you're dealing with Lovecraftian mythology and the sort, a clear pronunciation is not only required, it's instrumental in delivering the names, places, and Gods to those viewers uneducated in the ways of Howard Phillips. Rabal's a fine actor, of course, but his inclusion in Dagon seems a bit questionable at the end of the day.

All in all, Dagon is a great horror film, one that deserves to be seen by anyone who claims to be a fan of the genre. It's fast-paced, frightening, gory, and quite funny in spots. Stuart Gordon is a fantastic director, in my opinion, even when he's not working with Lovecraft's material. Dagon is quite possibly his best HORROR PICTURE in the guy's expansive filmography, though it doesn't even come close to the brilliance of Edmond. Yes, EDMOND. Fans of Lovecraft may balk at the liberties he takes with the source material, but I think his slight modifications are essential to bringing these dark tales to life on the big screen. Because let's face it: Not everyone is going to understand the appeal of Cthulhu and The Old Ones, so why not help ease these non-believers into the author's body of work via the motion picture? I think it's genius, personally, and I'd love to see Gordon handle more stories in the future. The man has a knack for the strange, not to mention a genuine fondness for the material. In case you can't read between the lines, I'm a huge fan of this film, and I won't hesitate to recommend it to anyone, even those who don't know Lovecraft from Adam.

As long as you eventually worship Cthulhu, all will be forgiven.

Zygrot Lives!

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Alex Winter's underrated cult comedy Freaked and yours truly have a very storied past. You see, oh-so many years ago when my penis was nothing more than a urination device, I watched some half-assed kids-oriented talk show which featured the cast of said motion picture, though I didn't catch the film's title at the time. The clip of the movie they presented was the Hollywood Squares scene, the one that introduces the many freaks awaiting those who would actually pay to see this particular cinematic endeavor in theaters. Needless to say, I was hooked and immediately obsessed. For years I tried to locate the film in question, though I could never quite pinpoint what it was called or who was in it. Though time slowly ticked by, I never really forgot about it, as sorry as that may sound. Cut to high school and a dusty Kroger Video location buried deep in one of the grocer's many Lexington locations. There, lurking towards the bottom of the FOR SALE bin for a measly two dollars, was a worn VHS copy of Freaked. From the description and the photos on the back of the box, I knew this was the movie I'd been searching for all those years. So I dropped the cash, hurried home, and popped the tape in my VCR. The rest, as they say, is history. Freaked currently stands as one of my all-time favorite movies, and is quite possibly THE best balls-out comedy I've ever seen. Loaded with insane special effects and a gifted cast of character actors, Alex Winter's unseen gem of a movie is one I doubt I'll ever tire of watching. Even today, its wit, style, and execution are as sharp as they were ten years ago.

Freaked tells the sensitive tale of Ricky Coogan, former child star and current representative for Zygrot-24, a toxic chemical produced by the sinister EES (Every Except Shoes) corporation. As per his contract with the company, Ricky and his buddy Ernie venture to Santa Flan (named after the patron saint of creamy desserts), where they hook up with sexy environmentalist Julie, who is hoodwinked into joining the duo on their promotional tour after Coogan poses as an injured Zygrot-24 protester. Along the way, they stumble across Elijah C. Skuggs' twisted little freak show, a demented dump of a theme park that features a number of grotesque mutations designed by the proprietor himself. With the promise of seeing some truly bizarre specimens in his shed, these three unsuspecting tourists ultimately end up as part of the show, each with their own unique freaky-deaky make-over. Julie and Ernie are fused together using a serum created with Zygrot-24, while Ricky is partially transformed into a hideous drooling abomination that totally destroys the actor's good looks. Instead of settling in and bonding with the other deformed residents, Ricky decides to escape this sideshow prison and employ the services of a good Hollywood plastic surgeon. However, Skuggs has other plans for the Beast Boy. You see, the bizarro scientist plans to finish the mutation on-stage, after which he will unleash his creation on his other pet projects. With the help of a whiny little troll named Stuey, can Ricky stop this diabolical scheme before he murders those who will eventually become his closest friends?

As much as I love Freaked, I can honestly say that it isn't for everyone. I discovered this depressing little factoid when I gave a copy of Anchor Bay's superb DVD release as a Christmas present to a friend last year. His thoughts? "It's pretty random." And, in all fairness, it is a pretty random affair. From the opening credits to the final frame, Freaked is jam-packed with sight gags, puns, and in-jokes for those who remember Winter's short-lived MTV Show The Idiot Box. In fact, a hanful of the gimmicks are somewhat dated, which may rub some viewers the wrong way. Totally understandable. I guess the best way to describe Freaked is to compare it to the early efforts of David Zucker and Jim Abrahams. Jokes are thrown at you by the dozens, probably one or two every other second. Do all of them work? Of course not. That's a seemingly impossible task to accomplish. That said, the majority of them do connect in one way or another. The successful moments often involve the effects-laden cast of characters and their plight, most of them centering around Ricky and his adjustment to his current situation. However, the jokes that do fail -- such as the Bob Vila bit -- are pretty bad. Thankfully, the good vastly outweighs the bad by about ten-to-one, so even if you think one particular bit is painfully unfunny, there's usually eight or nine waiting in the wings to make up for the previous lack of hilarity. As mentioned, this style isn't for everyone. If you can't appreciate Airplane!, The Naked Gun series, or Hot Shots, perhaps this is one you should pass on.

Fans of old-school physical effects will no doubt get a thrill from the talent pooled to produce the film's many freakish creations. No less than three effects houses were used to bring these hideous things to life, including genre veteran Screaming Mad George. If that kind of thing is your forte, Freaked is worth investigating on this aspect alone.

A zany, well-written script is good to have, but if you don't have the cast to back it up, you might as well call it a day. Winter and co-director Tom Stern have assembled a wide variety of talent for this production, most of which seem like odd choices. At first, anyway. Brooke Shields isn't someone you normally see in this type of picture, but she does her best as Skye Daley, the talk show hostess who invites Ricky Coogan to tell his exciting story to the masses. William Sadler also shines as sleazy EES president Dick Brian, a role he pulls off effortlessly. Also keep you eyes peeled for the likes of Mr. T, Morgan Fairchild, Deep Roy, Alex Zuckerman, Bobcat Goldthwait, and an uncredited Keanu Reeves as Ortiz the Dog Boy, a role that earned the actor a cool million dollars. Insanity! While all of these talented individuals are fine and dandy, it's Alex Winter, Michael Stoyanov, Megan Ward, and a maniacal Randy Quaid that really deliver the goods. Winter's Ricky Coogan is a hard character to like, yes, but you can't help but feel for the guy once his cocksure demeanor begins to fade. Stoyanov and Ward do a remarkable job as test-tube Siamese twins, though Quaid's turn as Elijah C. Skuggs is probably the cream of the crop. Quaid is a good actor when he's not phoning his performance in from across the globe, and Freaked allows the guy to turn up the cheese factor WAY past eleven. Is it his best role thus far? If not for National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, I'd say yes, definitely.

After being a die-hard fan of this outrageous film for over a decade, Freaked still has the ability to entertain me in a way few comedies can. It's smart, it's original, and it tries its best to make you laugh for its entire running time. Few comedies are brave enough to try something as far-reaching as this, and those that do often fail miserably in their attempts. Alex Winter, Tom Stern, and writer Tim Burns have crafted quite possibly the PERFECT cult comedy. Only a handful of disturbed individuals will want to see it, and far less will probably consider it a success. Should you rush out immediately and pick up a copy, you ask? Well, that's hard to say. Instead of dropping full-price for this one, perhaps a rental is in order. Just to be safe. The jokes are silly, some are far from funny, and its desire to pack as much comedy into its slim running time may put off high-brow comedy fans. However, for those who enjoy a little insanity with their guffaws, Freaked is quality entertainment. And, thanks to the good people at Anchor Bay, the film is now widely available for those who never got to see it oh-so many years ago.

Now, if they would just release Super Fuzz, all would be right with the world.

He's the guy masturbating on your balcony.

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Though I've been a hardcore fan since I blind-bought Audition a few memorable years back, this is my first official review of anything directed by Japanese maverick Takashi Miike. If you're not yet familiar with the man's body of work, be prepared for an all-out assault on your senses, not to mention your pre-conceived notions of what cinema is supposed to be. Miike breaks rules in his sleep, so you can only imagine the type of insanity that makes its way into his truly demented motion pictures. In the span of a dozen years or so, the guy has amassed an enormous and impressive filmography, ranging from horror to crime, from drama to comedy. And while each film is unique in its own special way, his work almost always bears his trademark weirdness and his willingness to crush, eat, and defecate taboos by the ton. Ichi the Killer might be his most visceral work to date, though its probably not his greatest achievement as a director. If you're brave enough to enter Ichi's uber-strange world of crime and sadism, brace yourself for a cinematic experience like no other. Though many have tried to capture the madness of a Miike film on their own terms, there's nothing quite like the real thing. You have been warned.

And I can't stress this enough. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

Though Ichi's name is in the title, it's really Kakihara's (Tadanobu Asano) show from the moment he appears on-screen. You see, Ichi is being savagely manipulated by Jijii (Shinya Tsukamoto), an ex-cop who uses his subject's scarred psyche as a way to eliminate those sinister yakuza types lurking in Shinjuku's seedy underbelly. Using Ichi's childhood trauma against him, Jijii unleashes his secret weapon on the Anjo gang, resulting in the brutal and understandably messy murder of Kakihara's boss. As the ex-cop and his sidekicks begin to play the yakuza against one another, Kakihara begins his own personal investigation into his beloved mentor's disappearance. Using torture, humiliation, and wanton violence to peel back one sinister layer of the underworld after another, he slowly begins to put the pieces of this strange little puzzle together. Meanwhile, Jijii begins to lose control of his cherished costumed killer, whose guilt is starting to turn him inside out. Before too long, hero and villain will come face-to-face, though the lines of right and wrong are not as clear as they used to be. Will Kakihara avenge the death of his boss, or will Ichi finally succeed in completing the assignment Jijii began oh-so many years ago? If you have the stomach for impossibly graphic violence and the ability to laugh at some truly disgusting moments, the answer may present itself to you. Just don't expect everything to be handed to you on a silver platter.

You know a movie's going to be odd when the title emerges from a pool of seminal discharge. Icky. Takashi Miike's films almost always have a slightly surreal tone to them, and Ichi the Killer is no exception to the rule. Based on a popular Japanese manga, the film unfolds at a reasonably moderate pace, allowing the cult director to pile on the insanity before the whole thing literally explodes in the final act. The story itself is pretty basic -- superhero murders criminals while trying to keep his identity a secret -- but with the help of an incredible cast and Miike's own demented sensibilities, Ichi the Killer becomes something else entirely. There are elements of comedy, action, horror, and suspense sprinkled throughout the picture, peppered with a salty splash of good old-fashioned exploitation. Nudity, rape, and violence towards women are pretty much commonplace in Shinjuku, delivered with just enough pitch-black humor to take the edge off the gag-inducing brutality. Not many people, I think, will be able to handle the sheer amount of carnage contained in this weird little flick, but those who can stomach the gruesome bits will be rewarded with a very accomplished motion picture, one that simply could not be made here in the States without all sorts of uproar from every human rights organization imaginable.

To those who have seen the film: I'm being purposely vague with my "review," since I wouldn't want to spoil some of the outrageous surprises in store for the potential viewer. If you ask me, half the fun is seeing what Miike does next, and I wouldn't want to ruin the fun by including them in this journal. There are plenty of other sites that would love to take this away from you, so if you just need to know what's lurking within, by all means, check them out.

The performances, meanwhile, are whip-smart. Nao Omori is suitably weird as Ichi, and even when he goes a little too far over-the-top with his portrayal of the psychologically-battered hero, he still manages to keep you in his corner until the bitter end. Shinya Tsukamoto, on the other hand, is an actor/director I've had my eye on for a while now. His films are phenomenal, though he might be SLIGHTLY better in front of the camera. The guy's performance in Marebito and Haze are worth investigating, and he's just as snazzy and impressive here. However, the big bright shining star of Ichi the Killer has to be Tadanobu Asano, whose turn as Kakihara is both stunning and disgusting. Whether he's blowing smoke out of the slits in his face or torturing those he thinks might be responsible for the disappearance of his boss, Asano commands every single scene he's in. In fact, upon repeat viewings of Ichi, you'll be less concerned with the titular character than Kakihara. There's a reason this guy's face is on the DVD cover. Because, at the end of the day, his story is simply more appealing than the rest, and Asano does a fine job of bringing him to vivid life. Impressive? You bet.

Ichi the Killer is one of my all-time favorite movies. Seriously! I know that might sound sick and a little insane, but it's true. I've loaned my copy out to several individuals who were left slack-jawed and dumbfounded by its unstoppable fury. If want a good story, Ichi's got it. If you want a violent revenge picture, you got it. If you want something surreal and slightly unusual, you got it. Hell, if you want a decent character study with several moments of pitch-black comedy, you've got that, too. I take away something different every time I sit down with this unique little movie, a statement that simply cannot be made for most motion pictures. While I can't comment on its faithfulness to the source material, I can say for a fact that Miike has crafted a one-of-a-kind cinematic experience, one that you won't soon forget. Just keep in mind that everything in the movie is over-the-top and quite nasty, be it rape, torture, or comedy. It's violent, it's foul, and it wants to stick its misshapen penis in your sensitive little skull.

And if you'll let it work its magic, you'll never be the same.

Bat-Nipples and Val Kilmer. Nuff said.

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Yes, dear readers, it would seem that I have finally taken way too many blows to the ol' noodle. While digging through a used DVD dump bin last spring, I discovered a worn copy of Batman Forever lurking towards the bottom, which really comes as no surprise. Outside of Batman & Robin, it's easily the worst of the bunch, maybe moreso since it presented director Joel Schumacher with his first opportunity to botch a then-flawless franchise. But, I digress. Thinking that the three-dollar price tag was too good to pass up, I absent-mindedly purchased the damned thing and stuffed it into my collection, where it sat unwatched until just recently. For some odd reason, I thought, "Hey! Maybe Batman Forever will be a guilty pleasure. After all, it can't be as bad as I remember it. Right?" WRONG. Batman Forever is reason enough to swear off Schumacher's films until either you or I have the distinct pleasure of beating his head open with a silent butler. It's horribly directed, completely miscast, and basically defecates all over what Burton was trying to accomplish with the first two films. Instead of sticking to the dark and dreary scenario painted by the Beetlejuice director, he instead borrows HEAVILY from the embarrassingly awful television program from yester-year. What am I trying to say, you ask? Well, I'll tell you.

Batman Forever should have cost Schumacher his life.

I kid, I kid. Of COURSE someone shouldn't die merely because they botched a film adaptation of a goofy little funny book worshiped by millions of pasty white comic book fans the world over. That's harsh. But having his arms removed, his testicles gnawed off by rabid beavers, or being forced to inject cancer into his first-born would have been sufficient. Because Schumacher's involvement in this franchise is not unlike cancer: He is the disease, and Batman is the breast on which he feasts. Yuck. Anyway, in his first effort as the mastermind behind The Bat, Joel pits our hero against Two-Face and The Riddler, two reasonably-threatening enemies from the comics. While Two-Face is content with sending legions of goons to destroy Batman, the spastic Riddler has actually devised a sinister device -- shaped like a blender, no less -- that manipulates the simplistic brainwaves of the moronic Gotham City types. Why? Well, both of them want to destroy Batman, you see, and this crazy contraption will allow these devilish fiends to peak inside the hollow heads of those who purchase The Riddler's innocent entertainment system. Meanwhile, Bruce Wayne tries to slip the sausage to Chase Meridian, a character whose sole purpose is to try to bed the caped crusader. Can Batsy stop these seemingly unstoppable villains before his secret is leaked to the general public? More importantly, does anyone care that Schumacher finally got around to adding Robin to the storyline? Probably not, since he's basically written as an afterthought to everything else.

The character of Batman simply does NOT work as camp. His origins are much darker than, say, Spider-Man, Captain America, or any of those other so-called superheroes. Maybe it's because Batman is just a guy in a suit, not some square-jawed freak that can blast asteroids with lasers that explode from his eye sockets. Makes sense to me. Burton seemed to understand this apparently abstract concept, and his first two features proudly displayed Bruce Wayne in all his flawed glory. Schumacher, on the other hand, resorts to the tired comedy of the television series, complete with goofy sound effects for the dumbest gestures and situations. The entire movie unfolds like a Downs Syndrome version of the comic books, lensed with all the subtlety of an amusement park funhouse powered by psychedelic drugs. Maybe that's what Schumacher and the screenwriters had in mind. Maybe they wanted this pathetic little motion picture to be a reflection of that cheesy television program. But after seeing what Batman is like as a darkly tragic figure, I'm really not interested in seeing close-ups of his ass or listening to him crack wise to no one in particular. No wonder Michael Keaton dropped out. The script, like the direction, is an outright failure. How he was allowed to lense a sequel is truly mind-boggling. I guess it all comes down to box office numbers.

Which brings me to the cast. Yikes. Now, I'm a Val Kilmer fan, but who in their right mind would cast him as Bruce Wayne/Batman? He's all wrong. Kilmer is too wooden to pull off Wayne's tortured psyche, though he does look decent in the costume. I guess that was enough. The villains are almost as bad, if not moreso. Tommy Lee Jones is just terrible as Two-Face; his performance is strained at best, leaving you to wonder what, exactly, Schumacher and the producers were smoking when they sat down to cast this thing. Jim Carrey isn't nearly as bad as Jones, but his over-the-top shenanigans had pretty much worn thin by the time Batman Forever was released on those poor, unsuspecting fans. Eleven years later, Carrey's not quite as annoying, but I wonder how the role would have turned out had it been given to someone with a bit more self-control. Nicole Kidman is pointless, Drew Barrymore is talentless, Debi Mazar should never be seen without thick pants and a wool sweater, and Chris O'Donnell should have been sold into white slavery after his bratty little turn as the snarky Dick Grayson. In fact, the only notable performance comes from Michael Gough, who once again makes me wish I had a gentle man-servant by my side.

Batman Forever and its half-baked follow-up Batman & Robin were so God-awful that it would take years of head-hanging and someone with the talent of Christopher Nolan and Christian Bale to bring the franchise back to life. And while I'm not saying that Batman Begins is exactly a perfect re-imagining of the series, it's definitely a step in the right direction. Schumacher's career has recovered from this debacle, with the man going as far as to apologize to Batman fans on the 2-disc Batman & Robin commentary. He claims to have been under pressure to deliver a more accessible film, but methinks other avenues could have been explored. Nipples, the last time I checked, don't help put butts in seats, nor do close-ups of our hero(es) in his form-fitting costume. Ugh. Batman Forever, as it stands, is an interesting curiosity, and should only be investigated by those who wish to see how and why the franchise started down the path of ruin. Be warned: There's truly no other reason to watch this sorry excuse for a comic book movie.

Unless you just like seeing pepperoni on Batman's pecs.

I'd buy that for a dollar.

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When you watch as many truly terrible movies as I do, sometimes you need to fall back on the films that you KNOW are amazing so you don't sink too fare into the proverbial mire. Having just suffered through the gargantuan disappointment that was Attack Force -- also known as the third 2006 effort by none other than Steven Seagal -- I decided it was time to revisit a so-called "classic," one that has the ability to cleanse my brain of the cinematic atrocities I force upon myself every single week of my pathetic little life. Paul Verhoeven's 1987 masterpiece Robocop is one I watch several times a year. It's a blast from the opening title card to Murphy's triumphant last line, I kid you not. Part satire, part action farce, and part superhero epic for grown-ups, Robocop is an astonishing motion picture, one that actually gets better every single time I see it. I know this phrase gets tossed around quite a bit by reviewers and film fanatics and even yours truly, but it's the truth: I discover new details -- both big and small -- with every viewing of Robocop, something you simply cannot do with most films. Verhoeven's vision of a futuristic Detroit is filled with comical characters, crazy commercials, and plenty of ultra-violence, smashed together with the director's trademark flair for excess. The film is a product of its time, which may explain why the sequels were less than spectacular.

But enough about them. Let's discuss the original.

Peter Weller stars as Officer Alex Murphy, a good cop sent to a bad section of Old Detroit by the powers that be. His new partner is none other than butch firecracker Anne Lewis, a scrappy little lass who can throw down with the best of them, be it male, female, or android. Unfortunately for ol' Murphy, his violent confrontation with the notorious Clarence Boddicker (Kurtwood Smith) leaves him without an arm, several dozen of rounds of hot lead lodged in his chest, and a greasy hole right in the middle of his forehead. Needless to say, the guy is toast. Enter OCP (Omni Consumer Products), a multi-faceted corporation that actually purchased the Detroit Police Department not too long ago. In their desire to control crime on every level, they've developed a spiffy new form of law enforcement that doesn't die quite as easily as its human counterparts. Using what's left of Alex Murphy's corpse, OCP Vice President Bob Morton (Miguel Ferrer) creates Robocop: Part man, part machine, all cop. It's directives: Serve the public trust, protect the innocent, and uphold the law. Armed with a damage-dealing hand cannon that can blow away testicles with the greatest of ease, Robocop sets out to clean up the streets of Detroit. Unfortunately, not everyone is thrilled about Robocop's creation, including Bob Morton's bitter rival Dick Jones (Ronny Cox), who just so happens to be close personal friends with one Clarence Boddicker. Murphy's desire to bring his killers to justice will send him into an all-out war with both Boddicker and Jones, though he'll have to override that pesky fourth directive if he wants to come out on top.

When I was a smaller version of the scrawny four-eyed wimp you all know and love, I enamored with violent action movies, fueled in part by my Dad's willingness to rent me flicks my Mom did NOT want me to watch. While on a business trip one weekend, Dad brought home both Predator and Robocop for us to enjoy. My mind has been warped ever since. Back then I loved Robocop because it was so over-the-top and gory, not to mention the fact that it starred what I once referred to as a "man-bot." Go figure. As an adult -- or something that resembles an adult -- I've come to appreciate the film's subtler moments. Verhoeven and screenwriters Edward Neumeier and Michael Miner do a fantastic job of capturing Robocop's humanity; despite the countless layers of metal and circuitry, Officer Alex J. Murphy is still very much alive, despite OCP's desire to erase every last trace of who he was. The scene where Murphy revisits his home is pretty effective, and allows the picture to operate as both a futuristic actioner AND your basic revenge flick. On top of everything else, Robocop is laugh-out-loud funny, thanks in part to Verhoeven's wacky television commercials and the film's stable of truly zany characters. A funny, touching, gory, farcical action movie, you ask? Of course! Robocop is one of the few films I've ever seen balance that many elements and ideas while remaining thoroughly entertaining AND true to the original concept. Verhoeven and company should be proud.

Of course, NONE of this insanity would have been nearly as captivating if not for its stellar cast. Unfortunately for Peter Weller, he will always be Alex Murphy, something I'm sure he's oh-so thrilled about. The last few scenes -- especially after the removal of the helmet -- are masterfully done. Weller managed to instill some much-needed depth to the character, and you can see Murphy's anguish in every facial tic, every pained expression. Thanks to the mime training he received before AND after production began, Weller is able to say volumes without speaking a single word. In my opinion, you can't have Robocop without Peter Weller, period. Of course, he's got a great group of actors backing him up. Nancy Allen is effective as Lewis, though you never feel for her as much as you do the titular character. Ronny Cox and Kurtwood Smith make wonderful villains; you know you've done your job when the audience can't wait to see you die on-screen. Without giving too much away, both get what's ultimately coming to them in a very satisfying fashion. And fans of cult TV phenom Twin Peaks will no doubt get a kick out of seeing a younger Ray Wise as a member of Boddicker's sadistic little army. Of course, these are merely the highlights; everyone involved does an incredible job. In fact, I can't think of a simple weak performance out of the bunch. Kudos! I rarely say that.

Now that the unrated edition is readily available outside of the Criterion Collection, everyone has the ability to check out the original "too violent for theaters" cut of Paul Verhoeven's sci-fi classic without spending an excessive amount of cash. I'd even go as far as to say it's the man's best film thus far. Though Total Recall is an amazing film in its own right, Paul really pulls no punches with Robocop. It's a genuinely hilarious action flick, one that actually stops to catch its breath every once in a while, allowing you to feel something other than the adrenaline coursing through your veins during those incredible set pieces. Everything just falls into place. Seriously! If I were forced to make a list of all my favorite movies, Robocop would surely place somewhere in the Top Ten. It's a film that helped shape my love for over-the-top "cartoon" violence, not to mention my complete fascination with all things Verhoeven. Be it Starship Troopers or the truly abysmal Showgirls, I'm there with a big bag of popcorn and stupid grin plastered on my grill. If you haven't seen Robocop yet, rectify this mistake immediately. Otherwise you'll just miss out on truly satisfying cinematic experience.

In the immortal words of Emil Antonowsky, "I LIKE IT!"

Just another Brandon Lee movie.

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Before Bruce Lee's son made fat goth chicks soil their panties in Alex Proyas' artsy superhero epic The Crow, he was desperately trying to make a name for himself in a handful of sub-par action flicks. But let's face the facts, folks: Brandon Lee was a terrible actor. The Crow was a fluke; the man simply didn't have the chops to make it in mainstream cinema. He was a pretty face attached to a chiseled body, nothing more. In fact, methinks it was Proyas' spot-on direction that brought out the best in Brandon, which explains why he sucked in everything else he did. Standing on his own, Brandon Lee was a so-so martial artist whose movies left you with the impression that he was destined to wash dishes in a some podunk diner in south Chicago. If you want a perfect example of his lackluster skills, do yourself a favor and rent Showdown in Little Tokyo. The guy is simply terrible, and makes Dolph Lundgren look like a A-list world-class thespian, a feat that is actually quite hard to accomplish. Anyway, Dwight H. Little's 1992 effort Rapid Fire managed to make ol' Brandon look somewhat decent, but it still showcases his inability to deliver a line that's halfway believable. I know I'll probably catch all kinds of hell for this rant, but that's just the way the world works. Children cry, adults fights, and Brandon Lee is a dead guy who gets more credit that he ultimately deserves.

Lee stars as Jake Lo, a hunky motorcycle-driving art student who won't hesitate to accept an impromptu date from his sexy nude model. While hanging out with a bunch of political Chinese students, Jake witnesses the murder of Carl Chang at the hands of the sinister Antonio Serrano (Nick Mancuso), a vicious mob-type who's desperately trying to keep his standing within the underworld. Obviously, he's pretty upset that Jake saw him whack Chang, and tries to his best to make sure Jake doesn't talk to anyone about this nasty little encounter. After crashing through a window on his motorcycle in order to escape his well-armed adversaries, Jake lands in the hands of the local PD, who immediately ship him back to Chicago to testify against Serrano. Unfortunately for Jake, the FBI agents assigned to protect him are on Antonio's payroll, forcing this kung fu wizard to dispatch of the bad guys in a suitably bloody fashion. In the eyes of the local police, he's an armed and dangerous cop killer who just turned a safehouse into a slaughterhouse. What's a boy to do? Jake's only hope for survival lies with the tough-as-nails Mace Ryan (Powers Boothe) and his sexy intelligence officer Karla Withers (Kate Hodge). Together they will infiltrate Chicago's notorious crime world and bring justice back to Chi-Town. Oh, and while they're at it, they'll clear Jake's name so he can get back to drawing naked ladies.

For what it's worth, Rapid Fire is a spunky little action picture. It's well-paced, packed with plenty of outrageous martial arts madness, and features two noteworthy performances from a pair of veteran actors who look entirely out-of-place in this kind of feature. Dwight H. Little -- who handled Steven Seagl's back-from-the-dead aikido wizardry in Marked for Death -- never really stops to catch his breath, and demonstrates how to make a simplistic premise seem fresh and entertaining without needless exposition or pointless scenes that do nothing more than drag the film down. There's also a number of explosive set pieces, including a thrilling showdown inside Serrano's hideout that actually a lot more fun than it should be. Little doesn't shy away from brutal violence, so be prepared for lots of broken bones, broken noses, and gooey squibs. If you've seen Marked for Death, then you know what you're in for. God, how I love late-80's/early-90's action cinema. They had a go-for-broke mentality that is rarely seen in this day and age. Being gleefully gory and unapologetically offensive are two things that need to find their way back into Hollywood productions. Cinematic carnage just isn't as much fun when women and children aren't thrown into the mix. This is fine old-school action, plain and simple.

Oh, and the Chicago Police Department should be very concerned about how they're portrayed on-screen. Both Raw Deal and Rapid Fire portray them as incompetent morons who are as corrupt as a moonshine-swilling Kentucky politician, something I'm sure they're none too happy about. I mean, when Brandon Lee can wipe out a room full of goons while the cops stand outside hitting absolutely nothing with a gaggle of automatic weapons, it's time to address the issue.

On the performance front, Rapid Fire is kind of hit-and-miss. Nick Mancuso certainly gives it his all, portraying Serrano as a manic villain who seems to have quite a few SEVERE mental issues just itching to break the surface. He plays it for all its worth, and the movie is actually stronger because of it. You want the guy to die as soon as humanly possible, and his eventual beatdown is both welcomed and justified. Powers Boothe is just okay as Mace Ryan, a cop who takes his job a bit too seriously. The man is great no matter what he does, but you can't help but notice he's better than the material he's given. Everyone else? Strictly middle-of-the-road. Except, of course, for Mr. Brandon Lee, whose wooden turn as Jake Lo leaves absolutely NO impression whatsoever on the audience. Don't get me wrong; Lee can certainly turn up the heat whenever the script calls for balls-to-the-wall action, but give him an emotional scene and he turns into a hollow log. Brandon gets points for his marked improvement over his performance in Showdown in Little Tokyo, but he's certainly nothing to write home about. If he wasn't handsome and dead, nobody would give a damn about this guy. Sounds harsh, I know, but it's the truth.

Rapid Fire is a good little martial arts picture, one that probably deserves a wider fanbase than it currently has. There's nothing overly remarkable about this picture, nor will stick in your brain very long after the end credits have done their job. Dwight H. Little's direction is the only thing that keeps this thing from sinking into the mire, and Brandon Lee proves once again that he was nothing more than a pretty face with muscles. This one is good for a rental on a rainy Sunday afternoon, but I wouldn't suggest buying it. There's really very little within this nugget of kung fu madness that will keep you coming back for more. Unless, of course, you're one of those pretentious gothic types who continue to mourn a dead actor who wasn't that spiffy to begin with. This is throwaway afternoon action cinema, a silly way to kill 90 minutes of your pathetic life. Calling it anything else would be delusional. Oh, and sorry to those who think I've pissed all over Brandon Lee's grave. But this is one loser's opinion, mind you, so don't get all dark and moody on me.

I'm sure Brandon would agree with me.

Arnie kills everyone. Again.

---

My viewing habits, if you can't tell, are a very schizophrenic affair. One day I'm knee-deep in blood and gore, the next I'm swimming in a sea of low-budget Hong Kong kung fu. In fact, I never really know WHAT I'm in the mood for until I do THE GAZING STARE(tm) into my too-large DVD collection. Lately I've been interested in over-the-top action fare from the 80's, everything from Stallone to Seagal to Schwarzenegger -- if it's loud, obnoxious, and macho, I'm there with a bag of buttery popcorn and a slack jaw. My wife, on the other hand, is probably in the next room preparing the divorce papers. Kidding? I hope so. Anyway, my recent investigation into the bang-bang shoot-em-ups from long ago was none other than John Irvin's 1986 effort Raw Deal, a particularly brain dead picture that pits ol' Arnold against an army of mindless Chicago mafia types. It's typical Schwarzenegger, right down to the countless expended bullet casings. What I can't understand is why this film is so highly-regarded by fans of the California governor. It's not really that great, to be honest, due in part to Irvin's inability to make anything SNAP! on-screen. Raw Deal is just kind of there, and considering how many Arnie flicks there are to choose from at your favorite local video store, I can't see why anyone would purposely waste their time with this one.

Myself included.

After breaking every bone in the body of a suspected child killer, Mark Kaminsky is booted from the FBI and forced to spend his days patrolling a small town in the form of a muscle-bound sheriff, a job he and his alcoholic wife are none too thrilled about. However, our hero is presented with the opportunity to return to the agency after FBI Chief Harry Shannon's (Darren McGavin) son is murdered trying to protect a key witness in a VERY important court case. Typical stuff. Anyway, Harry is funding his own personal vendetta against these sinister mobs types and wants his buddy Mark to take care of business in an understandably old school fashion. In other words, it's a one man operation featuring lots of guns and tons of dead bodies. With the help of his old boss, Mark fakes his own death and ultimately becomes Joseph P. Brenner, tough guy extraordinaire. Using his wits, his brawn, and his skills as a smooth-talkin' ladies man, Mark quickly works his way through the underworld ranks, much to the dismay of mafia goon Max Keller (Robert Davi), who doesn't feel that this loud-mouth bruiser is on the level. Before too long, Joseph's cover is blown and his friends are forced into harm's way, leaving the man with no choice but to finish the job with big guns blazing. Since we all know that Schwarzenegger isn't going to die, the question remains: How many people will he gun down by the end credits? Keep a running count while watching the movie. It's good fun for all.

Did I give too much away? Did I spoil the movie for you? Of course I didn't. You know damn well how these productions unfold, so don't come crying to me with talk of spoilers and such. You see, movies like Raw Deal are BODY COUNT PICTURES, films that exist solely for the sheer number of people that bite the dust during the course of the story. Sure, the so-called "plot" has its twists and turns, but you're here to see Arnie bust some heads, break some arms, and shoot everything that moves. The set pieces are interesting, I suppose, ranging from a rumble in a bleak alleyway to a showdown inside a high-class boutique, complete with someone being thrown through a window. And in typical 80's fashion, these violent proceedings occur without the pesky interference of the Chicago police department. In fact, NOBODY seems to notice all of the dead bodies and broken glass except, of course, for the mob bosses and their vile henchmen. John Irvin -- who also handled the Patrick Swayze opus Next of Kin -- doesn't pump up the volume AT ALL. The scenes are shot with all the energy and pizazz of an episode of Matlock. Irvin's "point and shoot" style does nothing to make Raw Deal the least bit appealing. And if you're going to lense a picture that's this simplistic in design, at least make the damned thing visually stimulating. Otherwise, you've got a 90 minute piece of nothing special.

The performance are just okay. Darren McGavin looks incredibly bored and miscast as FBI Chief Harry Shannon, though the scene at the end of the flick is good for an unintentional chuckle or three. The mob types are handled with the usual "youse guys" mentality; they talk tough, smoke cigars, and generally just sit around until its time to kill someone. Unfortunately, it's Schwarzenegger who fumbles the ball throughout the entire movie. He practically mutilates every line he's given, often to the point of complete incoherence. I've read that many consider this to be a "classic" Arnold film, seeing as that he was actually given the opportunity to play a living, breathing human being with thoughts and feelings and all that jazz. Well, if this is what happens when you give Schwarzenegger the chance to show some range, it's no surprise that he returned to the stale one-liners and abrupt dialogue of the projects that followed. Keep this boy in a box, people! Refrain from attempting to make the guy seem human, because he simply is not. He's a gun-totting grunt that can deliver three-word sentences, nothing more. Ever wonder why people consider his Terminator series the best of the bunch? It's because he's quiet. Silence, in his case, speaks volumes.

I guess Raw Deal has its fans, but I'm simply not one of them. Irvin's bland approach to this three-page material leaves one with the impression that nobody really cared about the production AT ALL. Just dress the grunt in expensive clothes, let him crack wise and smoke cigars, then give him a gun and let him destroy everyone on-screen. THE END. I'm not saying that action movies that to be elaborate or overly-stylized. Heavens, no. But when you're giving us a storyline that is so blatantly stupid and utterly lifeless, it might be in your best interest to liven things up just a tad. A splash of creativity never hurt anyone. In fact, you know you've done something wrong when your film is packed with explosions and fights and smoking guns yet it STILL comes across as a boring piece of cinematic retardation. If you're just a Schwarzenegger completist and need to see everything the man has ever done, perhaps a viewing of Raw Deal is in order. Those interested in something, I don't know, ENTERTAINING should probably look elsewhere.

I've heard Terminator 2 isn't that bad.

In the dark, no one can see you yawn.

---

Uwe Boll gets dumped on quite a bit by horror fans, movie critics, and anyone with two dollars worth of sense in their misshapen skulls. Though I think a lot of people hate the guy simply because it's the cool thing to do these days, it's easy to see why some folks have their issues with him. House of the Dead, while entertaining in a campy kind of way, is an outright failure as both a motion picture AND a video game adaptation. The hatred for this movie is a bit heavy-handed -- it's definitely not the worst picture you'll ever see -- but I can understand why some don't care for it. Other directors would have buried their heads in the sand and never returned to Hollywood after such a debacle, but not our friend Dr. Boll. Oh, no. Instead of being deported back to Germany with his tail tucked between his legs, our friend Uwe snatched up yet another franchise -- in this case, Atari's Alone in the Dark -- and gave the world a film based on a game most mouth-breathing movie-goers probably don't remember. The original Alone in the Dark was an odd little number, one that basically created the entire survival horror genre as we know it today. Using cinematic camera angles, pre-rendered backgrounds, and clunky 3D models, the player assumed the role of an awkward little man who walked SLOWLY through a sprawling mansion filled with an array of twisted monsters. The game was all about atmosphere and exploration, two traits that were seemingly left out of the film's brain dead script. As a result, Uwe Boll's Alone in the Dark is an adaptation in name only, a sad little number that tries so hard to be uber-cool and super-hip.

Guess what? It's not.

I'm not EVEN going to try to properly summarize the movie, since very little of the proceedings could be described as coherent. But I'll try my best to give you the basics. Christian "Booby-Biter" Slater stars as Edward Carnby, a paranormal investigator who may or may not have been part of a maniacal scientist's twisted experiments on a group of orphans over twenty years ago. As an adult, Carnby protects us from the creatures that lurk in the dark, as well as doing some Indiana Jones-style archeology around the world in his spare time. Upon returning to the grand ol' United States with an artifact from the extinct Abkani tribe, he is promptly attacked by a bald man who seemingly wants to relieve Carnby of his pretty little relic. You see, this chunk of stone is apparently a piece to some sort of ancient key that will open a door to -- you know what? Forget about it. All you need to know is that Carnby teams up with a "sexy" museum curator (Tara Reid) and the head of a government organization (Stephen Dorff) he used to work for. They fight creatures, shoot lots of guns, blow some things up, and spend the entire movie looking just as confused as those who decided to give this nonsense the time of day. I guess you could say it's classic Boll: All style, no substance.

Alone in the Dark is a sad representation of the video game. Sure, you fought hideous mutant freaks with guns and ran around trying to piece together puzzles, but not like this. The games had a certain Lovecraftian vibe to them, where the secrets of these ancient mysteries lay shrouded in mysticism, their clues buried deep within trunks, journals, chests, books, desks, and crates. You took your time exploring the world around you, using various objects to eliminate any threats that may happen to crash through the floor during your adventure. Boll's version is the complete opposite. Instead of a slow-moving thriller built around creepy mansions and underground cave systems, we're given high-tech government buildings, modern-day museums, and a poorly-designed abandoned GOLD MINE(!) that comes equipped with a doorway to another world. A very MODERN doorway, at that. And instead of conserving bullets for your trust six-shooter since they're not so easy to come by, everyone on-screen uses automatic weapons that apparently never run out of ammunition. In other words, it's everything the original games were not. Did screenwriters Elan Mastai, Michael Roesch, and Peter Scheerer actually PLAY Alone in the Dark before conceiving this mess? Probably not. Someone just gave them the premise, the character's name, and a general idea of how things should unfold. Then, after guzzling Red Bull and snorting enormous lines of coke, they spent five hours writing the script. And there you go. Oh, and if you need to explain your mythos at-length BEFORE the movie properly begins, methinks you might be a horrible writer. Contact Starbucks immediately for part-time work.

To be fair, Boll's movies almost always look decent. They have above-average production values, decent effects, and the good doctor seems to have a grasp on how he wants things to appear on-screen. Alone in the Dark is certainly no exception. Is this a good thing? Well, that all depends on the viewer. If you enjoy Matrix-Lite(tm) gun battles and plenty of wonky wire-fu, Boll will certainly give you an evening of low-rent thrills and dollar-store chills. I, for one, don't mind his B-Grade shenanigans; they're actually kind of charming in a child-like way. Boll doesn't appear to know the meaning of the word RESTRAINT, so every half-baked idea that pops into his crazy little head is alive and well and all accounted for in the final cut of the film. However, I've heard rumblings about a so-called "director's cut" released in Germany that features additional gore as well as a new martial arts sequence. A few seconds of research on the Internet have proven fruitless. If it does exist, then I'm not savvy enough to locate it anywhere on the map. But rest assured that I'd love to get my hands on a copy, and will continue to investigate this extended version until I either import a copy or curse the fools who lied to me. Either way, I'll keep you posted.

As far as performances go, I'll leave you with these words: Tara Reid as a museum curator. Nuff said? I think so.

Fans of Alone in the Dark -- assuming, of course, that they still exist in this world of Resident Evils and Silent Hills -- will absolutely hate this movie. It has ZERO in common with the franchise it's based on, giving you the impression that the filmmakers were more concerned with delivering a product that faithfully adapting the source material. For shame, you guys. FOR SHAME. However, it does succeed as a kind of esoteric B-Grade action film, one that should have gone straight-to-video instead of being shipped to thousands of theaters nationwide. How this bargain-basement creature feature received great distribution is truly beyond my range of comprehension. Boll must have sold his soul to the Dark Things to pull this off. Otherwise, it just proves that Hollywood will release anything in order to make a quick buck. But that's the thing: Boll's movies rarely make a profit in theaters, so why bother in the first place? People who are drawn to this kind of picture usually rent them on DVD and enjoy them in the comfort of their own home. Because who wants to be seen in public watching an Uwe Boll movie? It could ruin your credibility. However, since my credibility was shot years ago, I'll readily admit to owning this cinematic sewage simply for the good doctor's hilarious commentary track. The man is truly insane. Anyway, Alone in the Dark is a deliriously stupid action flick for those who enjoy deliriously stupid action flicks. Yes, these people do exist, and I happen to be one of them. Blame the 80's. The rest of you should stay far, far away.

Like, say, in the bowels of an abandoned gold mine.

Chuck Norris is for the dolphins.

---


Earlier this year, I swore I would NEVER watch any future projects from Mr. Chuck Norris, thanks in part to his extra-crumby action/thriller The Cutter. The key word in that declaration was FUTURE, in case you were wondering, which allows me to venture deep into the man's filmography in search of entertainment. Why, you ask, would I waste my disposable income on a Chuck Norris movie when there are so many other titles to investigate? Well, I'm a sucker for lame action pictures, as I'm sure you've already figured out, and you really can't get much lamer than this guy. Of course, he has done a few noteworthy movies over the span of three decades, but for the most part, his projects are wooden affairs that operate on the most basic of levels. Such is the case with The Hitman, the 1991 action opus directed by his brother Aaron Norris, who also brought us such cinematic endeavors as Sidekicks and Hellbound. Don't remember them? Not many people do. Unfortunately, my memory is better than most, allowing me to recall these gargantuan failures with the greatest of ease. Gift or curse? You decide. Until then, I'll stick with the topic at hand. Oh, come on. You know you love this garbage as much as I do.

Don't you?

The Hitman doesn't come equipped with a very good story, so I'm not really going to dive too deep in this synopsis. Chuck plays a cop -- imagine that -- who gets double-crossed by his shady, foul-mouthed partner (Michael Parks), an event which leaves ol' Norris with a bullet in his shoulder and one in his cranium. He's as good as dead, as the saying goes, but those miracle-working Hollywood doctors manage to put the pieces back together again. His boss sees this as an opportunity to do a little hoodwinking; since everyone thinks he's dead, why not let them continue to believe he's long gone? This allows Norris to infiltrate the mob world as cold-blooded hitman, a guy who won't hesitate to put a slug in your belly if you so much as look at him the wrong way. The prototypical loud-mouth police chief wants him to bust two notorious mob families post-haste, but Chuck plans to take his time with this assignment. Why? Because he can, that's why. Eventually, an Iranian crime family moves in on his mob boss' territory, and ol' Chuck he sees an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. In a Red Harvest/Yojimbo-esque move, he begins to play both sides of the street, a decision which ultimately puts him in harm's way. Before the end credits roll, you'll see plenty of dead bodies, lots of double-crossing, and some poor schmuck blown to bits by a time bomb. What did you expect? I mean, really? This is a Chuck Norris movie, after all, not a night at the opera.

Aaron Norris actually does a decent job in the director's chair for a change, as surprising as that statement may sound. His movies aren't what you'd call "competent" or "smart" by any stretch of the imagination, but they manage to entertain your sorry ass in a completely barbaric way. With The Hitman, Aaron fills the screen with squishy squibs, disgusting torture, and lots of hardcore brutality. In one memorable sequence, an Islamic man is forced to eat uncooked hog organs while suspended in the air by chains by a bearded stereotypical blob of an Italian. It's as disgusting as you can imagine, resulting in one of the most uncomfortable torture scenes I've witnessed in a Chuck Norris movie. In fact, the entire film is mean-spirited and often quite racist, traits you just won't find in modern-day action flicks. This one's got the stink of 80's excess all over it. Anyway, the movie's lone subplot involves Chuck taking a pre-teen charity case under his wing once he discovers that the kid is being hassled by a gang of pasty white thugs. Instead of teaching the boy that violence doesn't always solve life's little problems, he schools the child in the ways of martial arts, then stands idly by while he watches him wipe the street with his cracker-ass adversary. The moral code in this movie is completely skewed, right down to Chuck's willingness to blow away every bad guy he stumbles across. And that gun he uses? Forget about merely wounding the suspects. Even when he aims for the legs, the end result is a severed limb and lots of gooey gore. I guess all of this nifty violence and unbridled hatred is necessary, especially since the story's as simple as they come. Then again, you're not here because of the story. No, you're here to watch Chuck Norris deal a little damage to those who deserve it the most.

Surprisingly, there's little in the way of martial arts madness in The Hitman. Instead of answering questions with his feet, he's comfortable with busting caps and cracking wise ad nauseam. His character is of the standard macho-smug stock, complete with a sweet mullet and an unshakable love of dolphins. You know they used to walk on land, don't you? Anyway, Norris' brand of street-wise cop is a total jerk through and through, and his one-liners are almost embarrassingly bad. The film's only saving grace is quite possibly Michael Parks, who spouts a never-ending stream of nastiness from the first frame to the last. What about the rest of the cast, you ask? Well, what about them? None of these so-called "actors" are really worth mentioning. Most are there to push the story forward, complain about one thing or another, and die. Nothing more. Had this movie sported a gripping story worth caring about, I may have found discussing these supporting roles to be an important part of the process. But there's no story, no plot. Just a paint-by-numbers action movie with forgettable characters played by forgettable people. Aren't you content with just watching people die for 90 minutes? Honestly. What the hell is wrong with you?

How do I judge a movie like The Hitman? Well, I guess I should use the system reserved for such direct-to-video efforts by Steven Seagal and Jean-Claude Van Damme. Was it entertaining? Yes. Was it action-packed? Kind of. A lot of people die, so I guess you could call that action. Is it good? Of course not. The Hitman is just an action movie to pass the time; asking for anything more is like demanding a receipt from that homeless guy you just passed a fiver to. In other words, you ain't gonna get it. Those looking for a Chuck Norris movie without his patented brand of martial arts are in for a treat. Everyone else will wonder why they even bothered in the first place. Aaron Norris does gets some mad props for his marked improvement as a director, but that's about it. Norris shoots guns, teaches kids to fight back with their fists, and then blows up an unarmed man. And there you have it. I should also mention that you can proudly own The Hitman, Aaron Norris' Hellbound, AND Forced Vengeance on the fabulously low-priced Warner Brothers Tripe-Feature DVD. I paid seven dollars for my copy, and I'm beginning to think I've contributed to the downfall of the motion picture industry. How impossibly sad.

Thankfully, I have Chuck's sweet mullet to wipe away my bitter tears.

Come to daddy.

---

Time does not always grant a person wisdom. In fact, time can often erode your skills, turning a brilliant writer or director into a shoddy photocopy of their former selves. Mike Mendez's 2000 effort The Convent is an imperfect film, for sure, but it's a solid horror/comedy that manages to overcome its obvious limitations by utilizing some brilliant low-budget gimmicks and exploiting its eager young cast. In other words, it's good B-Grade fun. However, the man's 2005 effort The Gravedancers is a drastic step in the opposite direction. Instead of sticking to his unconventional guns, Mendez has taken a wrong turn into mainstream horror territory, regardless of what that faux-cool horror festival's pretentious tag-line suggests. Too gruesome for normal audiences, you say? Please. If anything, The Gravedancers is too horrible for normal audiences. Though it still brandishes Mike's eye for impressive visuals DESPITE their obvious origins and does manage to build an ounce or two of suspense, the film's goofy premise and its outrageously stupid conclusion will leave you scratching your head in confusion. It's disappointment personified. And you don't know how hard it is for me to write those words.

The story itself is beyond ridiculous, and prevents those with half a brain from taking it as seriously as Mendez hopes we will. After a childhood friend bites the dust, a handful of twenty-somethings get together to reminisce about old times. Sid, the obvious bum of the bunch, doesn't even bother to attend the funeral, though he's more than willing to sneak into the cemetery after hours to pay a drunken visit to their friend's fresh grave. Thoroughly intoxicated and inspired by a mysterious poem left near a tombstone, the trio spend the night downing cheap booze and dancing wildly upon a few choice graves. The next day, strange things begin to happen to our heroic and uber-successful attorney Harris McKay (Prison Break's Dominic Purcell) and his bottle-blonde bimbo Allison. Doors opening and closing on their own accord, pianos playing classic pieces by themselves, creepy long-haired things lurking in the bedroom -- the usual. After his ex-girlfriend Kira, who also spent the evening cutting a rug in the cemetery, is admitted to the hospital after being discovered huddling in her derelict home, the three friends seek advice from a paranormal expert (Tcheky Karyo) and his assistant Culpepper (Megahn Perry). According to them, gyrating on dead people is bad business, and has caused the inhabitants of the desecrated graves to haunt the respective dancers. In fact, these spectral shenanigans will only increase in intensity until all three are rotting six feet under. How do you solve such an otherworldly problem? Why, you dig up the corpses and re-bury them in consecrated ground, of course! Will these three childhood friends overcome their own personal supernatural happenings before time runs out? More importantly, will they be pursued by an enormous disembodied head before all is said and done?

Gravedancing? Really? Gosh, I guess people ARE running out of ideas, because this has got to be one of the worst premises for a horror movie I've seen in years. Even Cemetery Gates' mutant Tasmanian Devil was better than this. Had these three amateur dancers been, say, mouth-breathing teenagers or beer-swilling Kinko's employees, perhaps I would have been able to swallow the silliness without the bitter aftertaste. But these are people who should know better, and their nocturnal antics don't jive with their respective personalities at all. You could say that their intoxicated state of mind allowed for such an indiscretion, but I beg to differ. In fact, I could go on and on about how ridiculously the hauntings are setup, but I'll just say it's borderline retarded and be done with it. The script tries its best to inject some much-needed mysticism regarding this oh-so naughty practice, but it stumbles over itself on more than one occasion. It's essentially an overlong X-Files episode without the wit or charm of the defunct television series. Mendez should know better. That said, the cast does an admirable job with the material, including a bored Dominic Purcell and a sleepy Tcheky Karyo, who seems willing to do just about anything for a paycheck these days. Megahn Perry is also wasted as Culpepper, a character that seems to have been lifted from an unreleased Gabriel Knight video game. Everyone else is either abysmal or entirely forgettable, though all will make you wonder where Mendez went wrong.

If the script wasn't enough to seal this movie's fate, I suppose the borrowed imagery will do the trick. Fans of The Entity will appreciate the homage, but I think it's yet another exercise is lazy filmmaking. Get your own gimmick, people. Don't recycle old ones. But the cinematic theft doesn't stop there. Oh, no. You get everything from Poltergeist-style ghoulies to J-horror creep-outs, though nothing can top a scene towards the end of the picture that seems to have been lifted ENTIRELY from Chris Cunningham's video for Aphex Twin's Come To Daddy, complete with a too-tall, too-thin creature that actually kind of resembles Richard D. James. Even some of the photos on Mendez's MySpace page appear to have been inspired by the creepiest of creepy music videos, so I don't think I'm entirely out of line by stating as such. Egads. However, the final nail in this rotten coffin is the film's over-the-top conclusion, which seems like some sort of empty CGI orgasm courtesy of a toothless old whore. Has Jan De Bont's remake of The Haunting taught us nothing? Don't end your semi-creepy ghost story with an explosion of poorly-conceived special effects! What the hell, people! Is subtly dead? Do we need to be struck repeatedly over the head with giant digitized supernatural beings? I just sat there, my mouth agape, literally dumbstruck by what I was seeing. It's almost unforgivable. Even if I disregard everything else that's wrong with this movie, the ending still ruins it entirely.

I apologize in advance to Mr. Mendez. I really do. I know this review is just awful and it probably seems like I'm being overly harsh, but thems the breaks, I'm afraid. Even reading a critique from an Internet nobody like yours truly can sting sometimes, you know? But when you wait five years to see the follow-up from a director you happen to think is quite gifted, it comes as sigh-inducing disappointment when this is what you're given. Yuck. Double yuck. The Gravedancers is pretty much a disaster, though it may appeal to the younger generation since they seem unwilling to embrace anything made before the year 2000. There are simply too many mistakes on-screen for it to be genuinely creepy, and the borrowed ideas and images prevent it from achieving greatness. How can we be scared by things we've seen in other like-minded motion pictures? That's why people get burned out on Asian horror films: it's the same imagery over and over and over again. Just because it worked for The Entity and Poltergeist doesn't mean it'll work for you. Sorry, Charlie. Though it looks good and manages to give you a scare or two along the way, The Gravedancers is, essentially, what is wrong with modern ghost stories. Less is always more in this sub-genre, and if you're not willing to restrain yourself, don't bother wasting your time with it. But one outright failure isn't enough to shake my confidence in Mike Mendez. I still think the guy has an eye for horror, but with The Gravedancers, he's stumbling blindly in the dark.

Here's hoping it doesn't take another five years for his next effort.

Perfection. Minus the dance sequence, of course.

---

Kevin Smith's Clerks is a very special film to yours truly. It arrived on home video during a period in my life when I was initially discovering the independent spectrum of the motion picture world, and it rocked my boat like no other. I think I rented it close to twenty times over the course of several months, as sad as that may sound, and to this day it STILL ranks as one of my all-time favorite discoveries. The art of discovery -- yes, the ART -- is pretty much an antiquated concept in this day and age. Since I was pretty young and didn't roll with the folks who would be privy to films like Clerks, I pretty much stumbled across it by accident. Those days, I'm afraid, are long gone. The Internet has essentially eliminated the art of discovery; now we know years in advance about EVERY ASPECT of EVERY FILM in development. And if the studios aren't willing to give us the information themselves, there are fat guys in basements who will gladly do the job for a little 'net cred. If you're savvy to the ways of the wired world at all, walking into a video store and discovering a film like Clerks is damn-near impossible. I miss those days. Hell, I long for those days.

God, I sound old.

When Smith announced the Clerks sequel, I was bummed. Distraught. I thought the guy had completely lost his marbles. Having just witnessed the atrocity that was -- is? -- Jersey Girl, I had little faith that ol' Kevin could capture the magic of his low-budget debut. After all, Clerks came from a certain period in the man's life, one that's long gone thanks in part to his success in the movie biz. The project seemed like a cash-in, something to appease the fans who were confused and betrayed by the cornball Lifetime-esque prattle of his failed romantic comedy. It felt too easy, a simplistic way of making a little green off a formula he knew would work. To make matters worse, the poster featured Rosario Dawson standing IN FRONT of Dante and Randall, which is just blasphemy, I tell you. Blasphemy! I vowed never to watch it. Anyway, having just finished Clerks II for the second time, I can honestly say that Kevin Smith has turned in a genuinely heartfelt sequel, one that manages to stay true to the characters he created oh-so many years ago while allowing them to mature and grow at the same time. Somewhat. After all that doubt and bitter rage at the thought of a Clerks sequel, discovering the beauty of this film is like stumbling across the original all over again. I'm just a lonely teenager in mom-and-pop video store, and Kevin Smith is still my hero.

The movie opens with Dante (Brian O'Halloran) and Randall (Jeff Anderson) still working as clerks at the Quick-Stop, which sadly burns to the ground in the opening scene thanks to Randall's inability to turn off a coffee pot. Imagine that. This fiasco lands the duo at the infamous Mooby's Restaurant, a joint that now seems to be a running joke in the View Askew universe. Anyway, after a year of slaving over sizzling grills and greasy deep fryers, Dante has finally found his meal ticket, so to speak. His fiancee Emma (Jennifer Schwalbach Smith) wants to move to Florida, where a new house and a new life comes courtesy of her very generous parents. What she doesn't know is that Dante is currently banging his adorable boss Becky (Rosario Dawson), a dirty little secret he even keeps from his best friend. As Dante's last day in Jersey begins to unfold, his life once again begins to spiral out of control. Not only is Randall harboring some ill feelings toward his buddy's decision to move away, but Dante's relationship with Becky is about to take a very startling turn. For the worse, you ask? Could be. Will Dante sell himself out by fleeing to the Sunshine State with a woman who threatens to control his very existence, or will he finally stop whining long enough to see that his life really isn't as bad as it appears to be?

Though Smith revisited these hapless clerks with his short-lived animated series not too long ago, it's been a dozen years or so since he's actually treated them seriously. Much to my surprise, he has seamlessly inserted these two losers into the modern world, complete with blogs, Peter Jackson epics, and the threat of a live-action Transformers movie. The pop-culture references may be a bit too much for some to swallow; outside of Star Wars, there wasn't too much nonsense in the first movie that would immediately date it. That said, Randall's musings about Lord of the Rings never feel strained or out-of-place. I think this is part of Clerks II's charm: though the scenery has changed, Randall and Dante are still the same guys, for better or for worse. Dante still whines and fumes and complains about his best friend's tasteless antics, and Randall still rants and moans and complains about everything under the sun. They've grown up a bit, yes, but deep down they're just a pair of clueless bums from Jersey, coasting through life without too many worries about the future. I was surprised that Smith was able to re-capture their dynamic after so many years away from the material. This reservation about the man's ability to stay true to the core concept of Clerks kept me from seeing the film during its theatrical run, a decision I truly regret. I'll bet this was a blast to see with an audience.

And the scene towards the end between Randall and Dante? Beautiful. Though some may claim its a little too gooey and warm for the Clerks universe, I think it's perfect. You know their friendship is deep by the way they interact with one another, but hearing it in so many words just broke my heart. Jeff Anderson nailed that scene to the wall.

Speaking of performances, the whole flick is littered with quality stuff. Brian O'Halloran and Jeff Anderson slip easily into their old roles, something I thought would be a serious problem. After all, these guys aren't exactly ground-breaking thespians, and there have been more than a handful of years between the two pictures. With Clerks II, they're stronger than ever, instilling a sense of wisdom and maturity in their respective roles DESPITE the fact that they're still basically the same guys we saw at the end of Clerks. Kudos, gentlemen. Thankfully, Rosario Dawson didn't ruin the movie at all. I'm not her biggest fan, you see, and her inclusion in the series seemed like a stipulation. "We'll let you make your sequel, you jolly bastard," said the Powers That Be, "But you'll have to cast Rosario Dawson as the love interest." I'm kidding, of course. In fact, she's a welcomed addition to the cast, a phrase I never thought I'd utter. Also along for the ride is Trevor Fehrman, whose turn as Elias is also a breath of fresh air. The "Pillow Pants" scene is classic Smith. However, I will admit that he may be a little TOO weird for some to handle. Of course, having worked with guys just like him in various establishments across my glorious hometown, he seemed as normal as you and me. In addition to these new faces, there's a number of hilarious cameos to keep you smiling when things start to drag a little towards the middle of the production. Just a little, mind you, but enough to make you wish Smith would have tightened things a bit before its release.

All in all, Clerks II is a smashing sequel, one that stays true to everything we loved about the original. The story is simple yet engaging, the acting is spot-on, and the soundtrack is superb. I laughed, I cried, I wanted to stand up and cheer at the film's satisfying conclusion. Hell, it makes me wish I'd written this flick, something I almost NEVER say. This story is ultimately the next logical step for Randall and Dante, two bumbling register jockeys who helped keep this miserable geek thoroughly entertained during those awkward teenage years. The film's subtle "Do what makes you happy" message may be lost on those who are more interested in donkey shows and pop-culture bibble babble, but it managed to strike a chord with yours truly, a guy who tries his best to beat a drum of his own design. The material never feels like a cash-in, nor does it take these lovable goobers for granted. And with the exception of a out-of-place dance sequence that's a bit too sugary for this kind of picture, Kevin Smith has crafted a sequel that actually works as a companion piece to the original. It's Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi all rolled into one; the perfect follow-up to a classic motion picture. Thanks, Kevin, for giving this moronic fan one last hoorah with a pair of old friends.

Now I'm going to hit up the Quick-Stop for a pack of smokes.

Only the truly retarded will understand it.

---

Sho Aikawa is my hero. No joke! I first discovered this guy through Takashi Miike's uber-bizarro yakuza flick Dead or Alive, and I've been hooked on the man's work ever since. Gozu is probably my favorite Aikawa film thus far, but if Tokyo Zombie's any indication, Japanese filmmakers have merely scratched the surface of the Aikawa's inherent greatness. Playing like a mix of Dumber & Dumber, Land of the Dead, and any number of those countless Van Damme tournament pictures, Sakichi Sato's insanely hilarious adaptation of Yusaku Hanakuma's manga will surely pull you into Aikawa's fanbase if you're not already a card-carrying member. But to say that Sho is the only reason to watch this film would be selling it short. Filled with Miike-esque humor, Jujitsu madness, and a conclusion that's as goofy as anything you've ever seen, Tokyo Zombie could be one the greatest Jujitsu/zombie apocalypse movies in the history of cinema. Of course, it could be the ONLY Jujitsu/zombie apocalypse movie on the planet, but that won't stop me from singing this flick's praises from the rooftop of my humble suburban home. If only Aikawa could see me now.

After getting busted for goofing off at work, lovable morons Fujio (Tadanobu Asano) and Mitsuo (Aikawa) are forced to murder their high-strung boss Ujimoto, whose abusive nature is truly threatening his employees' well-being. Like everyone else in Tokyo with a body to stash, they take his rotting corpse to Black Fuji, a mountainous black mound of garbage the people of this sprawling city use to dispose of their undesirables. Though some use it to ditch unwanted household appliances and dirty magazines, most use it to hide the bodies the recently deceased. But the toxic combination of waste and human flesh has reached its boiling point, causing the dead to rise from their shallow graves. It doesn't take long for these Tokyo zombies to infest the country, sending our bumbling buddies on a road trip to Russia. Why Russia, you ask? Because Russia is manly, of course! However, their holiday is abruptly interrupted by a band of flesh-eating shuffle-butts, and the duo soon find themselves in a gated community run by the rich and powered by the poor, where zombie tournament fights are held to alleviate the stress of these money-hungry moguls. If Land of the Dead had a sense of humor, you'd have Tokyo Zombie in a nutshell.

I'm purposely leaving a TON of stuff out of my synopsis. Why? Well, part of Tokyo Zombie's appeal is seeing how these zany events unfold and what, exactly, is lurking around the next corner. Without giving too much away, I will say that the film is divided into two distinct halves, each with their own unique style and sense of humor. The first is your standard road trip fare, while the second half is devoted to the zombie tournament fights, as well as Fujio's relationship with an angry young woman and their mute daughter. Again, I feel I may have said too much, but I don't think I've given away any of the film's dark secrets. Director Sakichi Sato -- who also penned Miike's Ichi the Killer and its prequel, as well as the mind-numbingly bizarre Gozu -- manages to balance all of the on-screen insanity by making Fujio and Mitsuo both comical AND heartfelt. Their relationship is not unlike Harry and Lloyd of Dumb & Dumber fame; you can tell from the get-go that both men have a deep kinship that stretches beyond the basic student-teacher dynamic. It's almost a brotherly love, one that supersedes all idiotic behavior and thoughtless ribbing. I mean, I don't know many guys who would let their friends joke about their experiences with a sexually-deviant elementary school teacher. Not and live to tell the tale, that is. Had their friendship not been as warm and well-defined as it appears in the film, I don't think I would have been as engaged and enthralled. You WANT to know where they're headed next, and that element alone will keep you watching. Kevin Smith did the same thing with Clerks 2, a sequel I thought I'd absolutely loathe with every inch of my being. It takes skill to bring this kind of friendship to life on the big screen.

Sporting a bald wig and a maniacal gleam in his eyes, Sho Aikawa literally steals every scene he's in. Whether it's directing his student in the ways of Jujitsu or battling an endless army of mindless zombies, Sho is truly at the top of his game. You can tell when the guy is on auto-pilot and when he genuinely cares about the project he's working on. Blood Heat -- or Muscle Heat, depending on your preference -- is a good example of Aikawa going through the motions. Here, he's just as nutty and outrageous as he was in Gozu, which I consider to be his best performance to-date. When the guy turns on the heat, the guy turns on THE HEAT. Ya dig? Anyway, Tadanobu Asano does a fine job, as well, especially during those goofy tournament scenes. Fujio's devotion to his craft and his mentor are unshakable, and Asano does a fine job of bringing those elements to life with a performance that's suitably understated and well-fined. The film is also backed by a strong supporting cast, though none of them really stick around for very long. No, this is purely Aikawa and Asano's show. And that's fine by me.

Generally, when tackling a film like this, I'll devote a small section to make-up, gore, blah blah blah. Not this time. That's because Tokyo Zombie isn't really a horror movie. I guess it does have a few scenes of nifty grue and a gaggle of rotting corpses, but this film is so much more than that. Like Shaun of the Dead, it uses a stereotypical zombie invasion as a backdrop for greater things. Tokyo Zombie is about friendship, about perseverance, told with deft comedic timing. Though I can't remark on the manga since I've never read it, Sato has certainly done a fine job with the film. It's never slow, never dull, and it never mistreats the characters once their relationship has been established. Aikawa and Asano are perfect together, and I hope the movie does well enough to spawn the sequel promised by its very odd conclusion. In the meantime, I'll be more than happy to revisit Tokyo Zombie every so often in the comfort of my own home. It's a special kind of horror/comedy, one that strives to do things differently while keeping its simplistic concept intact. It's not high-art, dear readers, but it doesn't want to be. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to take a trip to Black Fuji.

I've heard the latest issue of Hard Bastard is still out there.

She'll swallow your prophecy whole.

---

As a geeky, socially-retarded high school student, I would spend my mornings parked in front of the living room television set, watching countless episodes of The Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers on FOX. Much to the dismay of my parents, I might add. The goofy costumes, sub-par martial arts, and gigantic rubber monsters leveling the same city over and over again was a genuine pleasure for a nerd like me, despite the fact that I knew damn well that the show wasn't worth watching. But did that stop me from consuming this drivel on a daily basis? Of course not. I've probably seen every single episode of the show's first incarnation, though I couldn't tell you a damn thing about any of them. That's just one of the perks of getting older, kids, so absorb what you can while you can, okay? Anyway, it should come as no surprise that I'm balls-deep in love with Julien Magnat's Bloody Mallory, a low-budget French flick that desperately wants to be the country's answer to Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It's very much in the same vein as that corny Power Rangers program I used to watch years ago, right down to the silly kung fu and ridiculous costumes.

In other words, it's definitely not for everyone.

The premise is pretty simple: Bloody Mallory and her squadron of supernatural ass-lashers work for the Ministry of Secret Service, battling one otherworldly enemy after another in order to keep the country safe from demonic forces. However, when the Pope is kidnapped by a group of masked terrorists who just so happen to be members of the living dead, Mallory must face her toughest assignment to date. You see, these so-called terrorists are disciples of a sect who worship the fallen angel Abbadon, a ruthless creature who would like nothing more than to free his brethren and destroy THE CREATION. Typical "grudge against humanity" kind of stuff. They're pretty serious about the whole thing, and they'll stop at nothing to see their plans come to fruition. With a leggy transsexual and a mute telepath named Talking Tina by her side, Mallory must infiltrate a dark alternate reality where cannibalistic parents and children armed with electric knives are commonplace in order to rescue our beloved little Popey. But there are deep secrets lurking within that acursed village, secrets that threaten to push our sexy little heroine to the breaking point. Can she save the Pope and stop this ancient sect from turning the world into a living nightmare? Not if Abbadon and his band of vampires, succubi, and undead henchmen have anything to say about it. But bad guys ALWAYS have something to say about it, don't they? Doesn't mean they'll win, mind you, but they'll sure as hell say their piece.

Straight up -- Bloody Mallory is corny. Cheesy. So dumb it's beautiful. The entire movies plays out like a failed television pilot, complete with several commercial-ready fade to blacks. The comparison to Buffy and my beloved Power Rangers isn't entirely unfounded, either. Mallory herself kicks tons of ghoulish ass and cracks wise every chance she gets, something her Stateside likeness was doing long before this flick was an itch in the director's pants. That said, the picture has just enough originality packed into its slim 96 minute frame that you'll forgive its shortcomings. For instance, the bright-pink hearse is a nice touch, as are the FUCK EVIL gloves Mallory is known to sport every now and then. Her merry band of sidekicks are also a bit unusual; I doubt you'll find an attractive transsexual explosives expert anywhere in American pop-culture, though I could be entirely wrong about that. I don't dig on television as much as I used to, so Kiefer Sutherland's character on 24 could be a post-op female by now. I honestly have no idea. All of this craziness may sound a bit TOO outrageous, and it really is. Even I have my limits. Thankfully, director Julien Magnat manages to balance these over-the-top characters and zany set pieces with a bit of old-fashioned humanity. Without these subtle splashes of warm fuzziness, this movie would have been a big sloppy mess.

The performances, meanwhile, are pretty much what you'd expect them to be. Nobody's going to win any awards for outstanding achievement in a motion picture, but that's okay. Olivia Bonamy tackles the Bloody Mallory character with her tongue firmly planted in cheek, which helps keep the eye-rolling to a bare minimum. In fact, her appearance -- right down to the ample cleavage -- seems to have been copied almost directly for the Uwe Boll disaster Bloodrayne. Compare the HK Video DVD cover with the Bloodrayne artwork and see if I'm wrong. I could be, of course, but I doubt it. Anyway, everyone else is just kind of there, though kudos should be handed out to Jeffrey Ribier, whose turn as the gorgeous Vena Cava is actually quite good. Keep in mind, however, that all involved wouldn't look out-of-place as a guest star in an episode of The Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers. It's intentionally campy, I think; if these characters were meant to be taken seriously, then I've totally misread the movie. If so, I apologize to those who use this stupid blog to further their descent into cinematic depravity. I was hoodwinked, I tell you! Hoodwinked!

Err...

Bloody Mallory is a blast from start to finish -- if you're into this sort of thing, that is. Those who couldn't stand Buffy's snarky humor and the low-budget appeal of Ultraman, Power Rangers, and all of those silly live-action superhero programs should probably avoid this one entirely. But for yours truly, a guy who simply cannot get enough cheese in his film diet, Julien Magnat has created a surprisingly entertaining comic book flick that sits proudly in my collection. Given that nobody I've talked to has actually seen this movie, I doubt we'll get the sequel promised by the slightly-ambiguous ending. Would I like to see more of Bloody Mallory and her band of misfit supernatural exterminators? Of course I would. The movie is a lot of fun, and if handled correctly, could become a decent little franchise. Probably won't happen, but a man can dream, can't he? Of course he can. And if a certain leggy transsexual happens to stop by, then that's okay, too.

But I'll have to check with my wife first.

Demonic shenanigans under a black light.

---

Hey! Guess what? Mike Mendez has a new movie coming out! Woo-hoo! What's the catch, you ask? Well, it's only playing in select theaters across this oh-so glorious nation of ours, and if you're as unfortunate as I am, chances are it's NOT showing in your hometown. Bummer. Yet another reason why Lexington, Kentucky will never amount to anything -- other than being the wealthy white trash capital of the south, that is. But that's another rant for another blog, now isn't it? Getting back on track, The Gravedancers appears to be a snazzy step into the land of horrific maturity for ol' Mike, ditching the fluorescent terror found in the man's previous effort in favor of something more substantial. Mendez's 2000 film The Convent is truly one of those "love it or hate it" cinematic endeavors, a silly picture that seems to divide the handful of people who have actually seen it. In case you're wondering, I'm one of those select individuals who thinks it's the bee's knees, and I never hesitate to shove it into the hands of my unsuspecting friends. Sure, it's terribly flawed and suffers from some truly horrible effects sequences, but its goofy sense of humor and its feverish energy will make you forget all of the film's weaker aspects.

This surprisingly solid horror/comedy tells the sensitive tale of a group of college stereotypes and their quest to spray their Greek letters on the bell tower of an abandoned convent that, according to legend, is haunted by a gaggle of slain nuns. You see, 40 years ago a girl by the name of Christine stormed the joint armed with a shotgun and a can of gasoline, seeking vengeance for the abortion the nuns forced her to have. After the incident, this violent beauty was locked away in an insane asylum until her release just 10 years prior to our story. Ignoring the urban legends, our band of cliches infiltrate the convent and promptly begin to smoke dope and make out, among other things. How brutally typical. However, lurking deep within this derelict building is a group of shoddy devil worshipers, whose virginal sacrifice will unleash the demonic fury of the evil spirits who dwell inside these spooky halls. As these goofy trespassers become possessed one by one, it's up to a former goth chick and a very bitter Adult Christine to send this horde of twitchy glowing hellspawn back to the underworld. And how will they do this, you ask? Why, with a big black motorcycle and an arsenal of heavy weaponry!

What a silly question.

Mike Mendez takes nothing seriously in The Convent, and neither should you. The movie is as goofy as my wonky description suggests, though I haven't the skill to adequately describe the insanity that awaits those brave enough to give this underrated gem its day in court. However, if you're expecting a bowel-loosening scarefest that will haunt your days and nights, perhaps you should invest your precious time elsewhere. There's maybe one or two genuinely frightening moments in the entire picture. That said, The Convent really isn't too interested in working its way under your skin. No, it's more concerned with dropping an anvil on your funny bone, from its stable of zany characters to the way these unstoppable demonic forces seem to glow in the dark. Using black light-sensitive make-up, Mendez and company have essentially turned your local JayCees haunted house into a full-length motion picture. If you've ever messed around with a package of dollar-store Halloween makeup and your stoner sibling's black light, you know exactly what I'm talking about. Does this impossibly low-budget approach to the haunted house genre take away from the film's ability to entertain? Not really. If anything, this unusual technique only adds to the bizzaro atmosphere Mendez has deftly painted for us. Just keep in mind that it's all played for laughs and you'll do just fine. Trust me.

Given The Convent's familiar storyline and somewhat dodgy script, you'll be pleasantly surprised by the actors' ability to pull off some decent performances. Instead of focusing on twisty plot lines and last-minute revelations, screenwriter Chaton Anderson has decided to concentrate on her crazy cast of characters and their non-stop flow of witty dialogue. Nifty! However, I'll refrain from singling out every single thespian on-screen and just go for the big bright shining highlights. Joanna Canton as Clarissa deserves a mention, simply because she's able to carry most of the scenes on her own once the majority of her friends have become minions of the damned. Richard Tripp is also a blast as Frijole, who's wannabe catch phrase "Just gimme fiiiiiive minutes" is sure to become some hapless fan's MySpace quote in the near future. Megahn Perry's turn as Mo is also noteworthy; she's insanely adorable and impossibly snarky, which makes her limited screen time somewhat of a disappointment. Oh, well. And as wonderful as everyone is, nobody can touch David Gunn and Kelly Mantle as a pair of clueless satanic losers who accidentally awaken the powers of darkness with their "gothic pretentious" ritual. David Gunn is especially impressive as Saul, the Anton Levey-esque leader of this moronic clan of devil worshipers. And if you love these guys as much as I do, you'll appreciate their commentary track that much more.

What about Andrienne Barbeau, you ask? Well, she's okay. JUST okay. The lady is still very easy on the eyes, mind you, but she's just not that great as Christine. Then again, I've never thought of Andrienne as a competent actress, so it comes as no surprise that I found her just as forgettable here as I did in Swamp Thing, Creepshow, and The Fog. Sorry, folks. Maybe it's just me.

Mike Mendez has a lot of live up to with The Gravedancers, and I honestly can't wait to see what he does with the material. Until then, I'm more than happy to revisit The Convent, a slightly imperfect horror/comedy that may rub some purists the wrong way. Sure, the make-up effects are a little odd and the story itself is nothing to write home about, but what the film lacks in ingenuity it makes up for in deft comic timing, a smart and witty script, and a cast of actors who make the most of what they've got. Those who simply do not like horror/comedies will probably hate this one as much as the others, so make sure you're interested in the sub-genre before dropping your hard-earned cash on this particular outing. Oh, and if you have the opportunity to do so, check out Mendez's The Gravedancers when it cuts a rug into a theater near you this November. If the powers that be hadn't scheduled this spiffy little horror film festival on one of the worst possible weekends on my personal calendar, perhaps I'd be able to check it out for myself. But I can't. And I'm bitter. VERY bitter. So until it works its way onto DVD, I guess I'll just hang out here in the convent.

Or maybe I'll stop by Dairy Cream and hang out with Saul for a while.

It'll knock your eye out.

---

Though I still spend the majority of my cinematic time watching modern-day, big-budget Hollywood action pictures, I'll readily admit that most are a little on the soft side. They're more flash than bang, more CGI style than raw intensity. Back in the 80's and early 90's, action movies were brutal, uncompromising affairs, capable of delivering big thrills without a lot of gloss. Instead of teaching dance choreography to some high-profile pretty boy and calling him a hero, these films featured a bevy of burly bad-asses that were more interested in kicking tail and taking names than, say, dodging bullets in slow motion. Though they may not have been the best actors on the planet, most left with you the impression that they could easily break you in half if given the opportunity. I know this probably makes me sound like an old fuddy-duddy, but that's just how it was. Sadly, the action heroes of yesterday are forced to release sub-par films in the direct-to-video market, often produced overseas with little in regard to quality and coherence. However, every once in a while you'll stumble across a film like Jesse Johnson's Pit Fighter, a nasty, bloody, no-holds-barred return to the pulse-pounding actioners from long ago. Though it does have its own share of problems, Pit Fighter is still a fierce little number, one that proves there's still a market for old-school heroics.

Jack is kind of an enigma, a man without a past. A bullet to the brain has left him a tad clueless as to who he is or where he's been. After being rescued and revived by a down-on-his-luck loser (Steven Bauer), Jack slowly begins to discover the power contained within that muscle-bound body of his. As an experiment, he hops into the ring with a few gnarly fighters, a decision that proves there's more to this man than meets the eye. In other words, he wipes the floor with them. Soon Jack's busting heads deep within the Mexican "pit fighting" circuit, which allows him and his newfound friend to live a violent yet comfortable lifestyle for close to five years. During this period, memories of his troubled past come and go, though most suggest that Jack may have been somewhat of a different person before his encounter with a sizzling chunk of hot lead. As a fighter, the man is unstoppable, littering these underworld arenas with the broken limbs and busted eyeballs of his nearly-destroyed opponents. However, before a high-profile rematch with a former champion, some hot-shot mob types inform Jack's coach that he's to throw the fight, no questions asked. Not complying with their demands could lead to an early grave for both him and his trainer. But these years of taking blows the head have started to loosen the chains binding his memories, and before long everything will be revealed in a flurry of blood, bullets, and brawn.

Pit Fighter's strength lies not within its cast of awe-inspiring thespians or its air-tight, high-IQ script, but in its willingness to pummel you into submission. Jack barrels through these brutal melees like an underworld Rocky, returning from the brink of defeat with a flurry of lethal moves that never seem like an exercise stylized posturing. Director Jesse Johnson has deftly blended two sub-genres -- namely the tournament fighting flick and the redemption epic -- with the skill of someone who is VERY familiar with the material. The tone and presentation recalls a simpler time in action cinema, from the way Jack's mysterious past is presented in episodes to how every fight is mired in gore and grue. Johnson also makes good use of Steven Bauer, an actor I've always thought was better than his stable of movies suggests. Here he's understated and suitably subdued, and I hope it helps the guy get his career back on track. He certainly deserves it. The supporting cast is fine, as well, adding some spicy B-Grade flavor to scenes when needed. However, it's Dominique Vandenberg who may be the film's weakest link. He plays the tough guy rather well, I think, though his meek and mild version of Jack leaves much to be desired. That said, his screen presence is enormous, and there wasn't a time during the entire picture when I wasn't pulling for him to make peace with whatever demons were hiding in the shadows. His performance is strong, I guess, just not that finely tuned. I can overlook that.

Though it wants desperately for you to think otherwise, Pit Fighter is certainly not a plot-driven film, nor does it shine as a adrenaline-fueled character study. No, Pit Fighter exists solely as a rough and tumble action opus. The script tries its best to lasso your heart with its somber tale of lost love and redemption, but it ultimately falls short of the mark. You'll be more impressed with the fight sequences than anything else, which are a nifty fusion of martial arts and white-knuckle street fighting. Broken bones pierce bloody flesh, eyeballs dangle from their sockets -- it's pretty hardcore at times. There's also an uber-cool and insanely satisfying fight montage about halfway through the movie. Because, as you know, a fight flick just isn't a fight flick if it doesn't have a montage or two thrown in for good measure. And just when you think things couldn't get any crazier, behold the film's final five minutes. It's what Desperado's final act should have been: one man, a handful of guns, and an gaggle of well-armed goons just ripe for the picking. In fact, it wouldn't be completely out-of-line to say Pit Fighter owes its very existence to Robert Rodriguez's El Mariachi. They're very similar in tone and execution. This isn't to say that Pit Fighter is a rip-off, mind you. Far from it. Johnson's film is a completely different beast, but I'll bet they had the same sperm donor.

You won't love this one, folks, but you'll probably enjoy the hell out of it. Because when all is said and done, Pit Fighter is a-okay. It's fierce, uncompromising, and ends as it should without too much melodramatic flare. What happens HAPPENS, nothing more. The back-to-basics approach to action cinema is really striking a chord with me. Hollywood's desire to ape Hong Kong theatrics has started to take its toll on me. I'll always be the first in line to see the next Jason Statham/Luc Besson collaboration, and my DVD dollar will always go to the latest Hong Kong import, but sometimes you need to strip away the gloss and just beat the crap out of someone, you know? It's okay to make an action flick without Joel Silver's balls resting on some poor director's chin, contrary to what you may have been told. It's really okay. Pit Fighter is smart, nasty, and ultimately quite satisfying. But like most fast food movies, you'll probably forget all about in an hour or two. Minus the runny bowel movements, of course.

Just blame the bullet in your brain and all will be forgiven.