 Don't forget to check the cabinets.
Every two weeks or so I receive an obnoxious letter from an angry orphan demanding to know why, exactly, I'm such a fan of that snazzy microbudget martial arts epic Dinner With an Assassin. "The Film Fiend!" they cry, their jagged words scribbled across recycled tablet paper with an oversized black crayon. "How in the world can you enjoy something so horrible, so impossibly low budget? We're losing faith in you, Mr. Fiend, and we need all the faith and hope and support and love and tenderness someone like you can spare." Reading these letters usually makes me weep like a premature crack baby, an act that's usually reserved for toe stubbings and episodes of I Love New York.
Good luck, Tiffany!
Here's a little secret that you may find rather interesting: I don't hold microbudget projects to the same standard as, say, 300 or Fraggle Rock. That's just silly. No, when you watch something like Dinner With an Assassin or Rectuma, you have to take into consideration what the filmmakers had at their disposal. You're not going to accomplish amazing feats of cinematic wizardry if your production is funded by your grandmother's social security checks. It's true!
Anyway, once all is said and done and the DVDR spinning in your player comes to an abrupt halt, you have to ask yourself, "Did the filmmakers create this movie to the best of their ability?" If you can climb onto the roof of your double-wide and scream "Yes!" without falling face first onto a grinning lawn gnome, then that particular microbudget opus was a resounding success.
Congratulations!
Though I don't have a double-wide to stand on or a lawn gnome to fall upon, I am quite happy to announce to the entire world that MaT Kister's nifty no-budget horror flick The Grand Horror is quite the classy number. When I read that the film had a budget of around three-hundred smackers, I instantly had vivid flashbacks of a pathetic little ditty known as The Shunned. It almost made yours truly turn his back on microbudget horror forever, leaving a dark stain on my cinematic soul that will not come out no matter how many times I wash and repeat. Those who have witnessed this abomination should know exactly what I'm talking about.
Thankfully, The Grand Horror doesn't look or sound like a three-hundred dollar production. That's because Kister and crew have decided to keep everything simple, including the story. Here's the setup: While trying to stay alive during yet another blood-soaked zombie apocalypse, a group of mid-western Caucasian types take refuge inside an old movie theater to avoid becoming some undead douchebag's midnight snack. Unfortunately for all involved, the terror lurking inside this historic landmark may prove to be a bit more fearsome than the shambling morons roaming the streets outside. Mysteriously intriguing? You bet.
Since everybody and their greasy-headed grandpappy has a zombie movie to pimp on MySpace these days, it's reassuring to know there are those who strive to do something different with this overused sub-genre. Instead of having hordes of smelly dead people smashing windows and shuffling around a parking lot for two hours, Kistler uses this moldy scenario as a backdrop for an intriguing old-fashioned ghost story. What do I mean by "old-fashioned," you ask? That means no cheesy CGI spooks or silly overblown conclusions involving enormous computer-generated skulls. And thank the Jolly Green Giant for that.
The Grand Horror relies heavily on its cast of talented unknowns -- some more than others, of course -- and an ever-growing sense of dread to keep you glued to your second-hand futon. It's definitely a slow burn, allowing you to get up close and personal with its gaggle of foul-mouthed characters before things start to go horribly wrong. Kister also makes very good use of his single location without making me feel the least bit claustrophobic. Sorry to bring my personal problems to the table. I promise it won't happen again.
Is the movie perfect? God no. The editing is incredibly choppy in spots, resulting in a number of jarring scene changes and a few gaping holes in the soundtrack. At times you can actually hear things in the background that probably weren't scripted or intended. A train passing by, for instance, or snippets of conversations amongst the crew. To be fair, these problems are minuscule; if you aren't a pathetic film geek like me, you probably won't even notice them. Oh, and be sure to ignore the inconsistent facial hair on Steve. I'm assuming that was facial hair, anyway.
For a flick with a budget the size of my daily crack habit, completely ad-libbed dialogue, and a cast of lily white unknowns, The Grand Horror is a smashing success. Kister and crew have crafted a truly engaging ghost story that actually manages to put the oh-so tired "zombie apocalypse" scenario to good use. If the filmmakers could just clean up the editing a bit, fix the problem spots in the soundtrack, and possibly shrink the film to a brisk 75 to 80 minutes, I could easily see this thing picking up steam as a classy direct-to-video contender. I've definitely seen much worse collecting dust on video store shelves these days.
And for the record, my name isn't Bob.
 I always knew sporting goods stores were bad news.
Hey there, stranger! Gosh, has it been a week already? It seems like only yesterday we were discussing life, liberty and Will Smith's Pursuit of Happyness. In case you haven't heard from the good folks at the Arts and Culture Center for the Hopelessly Mediocre yet, I accidentally slipped into a coma late last Tuesday after returning from a local antique store with a copy of Paul Aaron's wonky Chuck Norris vehicle A Force of One. The tagline printed on the package suggested that the world-famous action movie icon would somehow hear the silence while seeing the darkness, a trick I was more than willing to pay five bucks to experience. What did I get for my wrinkly Lincoln, you ask?
A coma.
I've heard that The Chuck Norris Coma -- also known as CNC -- preys on those who buy into the pop culture hype surrounding the aged martial arts expert, especially the empty-headed fools who anticipate great things before sitting down with one of the man's countless motion pictures. And as much as it pains me to admit such a thing in a very judgmental public forum, I have to state the truth for the sake of the nation at large: I am one of those empty-headed fools who ignorantly believed he was about to experience something substantial, something life-alterting. When my brain came to the sudden realization that nothing of the sort was about to transpire, it immediately called in sick and I disappeared into an inky black void filled with reruns of Small Wonder. It's a simple case of setting one's expectations too high.
For those who would like to share in my cinematic agony, A Force of One stars Chuck Norris as karate champion Matt Logan, all-around well guy and adoptive father to a nerdy black kid with a very nappy afro. When he's not busy helping small children learn the secret arts of the Orient or training for his upcoming title bout, our bushy blonde hero is helping the local police department with their ninja problems. I've seen this kind of thing happen in Lexington at least once a week, so I can easily sympathize with their plight. Damn ninjas.
Matt, enraged to the point of physical violence after witnessing a stockpile of illegal drugs stashed in the basement of his local neighborhood police station, agrees to help the coppers with their karate-choppin' killer despite the fact that this community service drastically cuts into his own sweaty training sequence. Though his law-enforcing students learn the basics of hand-to-hand combat straight from the master himself, two more wind up floating in the river just a few scenes later. Who is the karate wizard behind these heinous crimes? Can Matt Logan jump kick this no-good ninja before something horrible happens to that goofy kid with the afro?
More importantly, can you evade CNC long enough to uncover the answers you seek? I seriously doubt it. Sorry to disappoint.
American martial arts films talk too much. Way too much. If they had something interesting to say, that would be different. I would undestand completely, and promptly issue an apology to their children. With something as insipid as A Force of One, you don't need a lot of dialogue to have a good time. Give us the basics, cut to the first action set piece, and don't let up until the karate madness is causing the plasma in our eighteen million dollar televisions to fester and boil. Sony Chiba doesn't stick around to woo the ladies or mumble incoherently about unnecessary plot points, does he? Of course not. He steals a kiss, rips off your testes, laughs in your face, and leaps out a nearby window with your manhood clutched in his gooey fist.
To call the film lifeless would be an insult to those without lives. Then again, this may explain why I started to slip into my candy-coated coma shortly after our hero trains a very peculiar collection of police officers in the ways of kay-rot-tay. Once this entertaining segment has run its course, the story spits and sputters like an old man jonesing for another hit of off-brand Enzyte. My unexpected departure from the waking world came shortly after Chuck Norris tries his hand at romance. Similar scenes in other Norris flicks usually cause nausea; this time, it took my soul and seven days of my life.
Oddly enough, the only way to cure CNC is to fast-forward to the conclusion of the offending film, generally right before Chuck Norris does something foul to someone's face. Nobody bothered to google this helpful nugget of information until after I'd developed an interesting array of oozing bedsores. However, from the rickety chair inside the solitary confinement cell of my psyche, the ending looked pretty good. If I weren't afraid of what a repeat viewing of A Force of One would do to my emotional and mental stability, I would probably watch it again. It takes me a while to learn things.
For those of you who are expecting great things from A Force of One, be prepared to spend a week locked away in a world of your own design. Of course, your experience may differ slightly from my own. If you're a jolly old soul who's quick with a smile and a good word about your overweight pervert neighbor, you might come out a-okay. The rest of us, I'm afraid, are in for a very, very long 91 minutes. Stick to the Chuck Norris flicks that involve lots of heavy artillery and horribly stereotypical foreign foes. Leave this one to the completists and the fanboys.
Unless, of course, you need an extended vacation to nowhere.
 It's the pife of the larty!
Being possessed by a minion of Lucifer has got to be a royal pain in the caboose. Don't you agree? Not only do leak sticky green fluid from multiple bodily openings and gesticulate in ways that would make your grandmother drop dead from embarrassment, but your teeth become hideously deformed and your friends stop coming around as much as they used to. And you can forget about trying to find decent health insurance anywhere; the deductible alone would make you use the Lord's name in vain at least three or four hundred times in a row. It's gotta be miserable way to live.
The demonic entities sprinkled throughout Brian Trenchard-Smith's enjoyable rehash Night of the Demons 2 seem to have it pretty good. They crack wise before they rip people asunder, get down and dirty with their more attractive victims, and pretty much spend their days partying without a single care in the entire world. If it weren't for the horrible complexion, bad teeth, and an aversion to both sunlight and holy water, demonic possession would be an awesome way to spend all of those vacation days you've got saved up at work. It's something to think about.
For those actually interested in the film, Night of the Demons 2 follows the sexual escapades of a group of horny teenagers at a co-ed Catholic school a few days before the annual Halloween shindig. Since this particular gaggle of raging hormones can't keep their icky little hands off one another for longer than a second or two, they've been unceremoniously banned from cutting a rug at the dance. Bummed, bitter, and extremely amorous, the teens decide to sneak off for an impromptu party at the legendary Hull House, where a group of moronic kids perished a few years back. You can experience their misery for yourself by renting Night of the Demons at your favorite locally-owned video store.
Once our victims arrive at the derelict house, they immediately split up, make-out, and fumble around with a few relics scattered around the premises, including a sinister tube of lipstick that may or may not contain something hideous inside. As the night wears on and the clothes fail to come off, the kids grow tired of their surroundings and head back to the school with the demonic make-up in tow. What happens next? Why, all Hell breaks loose, of course!
Haven't you played this game before? Sheesh.
As an impressionable teenager with more free time than I care to admit, Night of the Demons 2 instantly became one of my absolute all-time favorite horror movies upon its home video release. Even though I didn't care for the original at all, I pushed the sequel on anyone who would listen to me spout nonsense about how impossibly cool this flick was. Nobody believed me, of course, and even fewer took me up on the offer to bring it over to their house so they could behold its genius for themselves. It's a wonder I didn't get beat down on a regular basis. Oh, wait. I did.
As a 29 year-old movie geek with even more free time to toss around town, the magic of the film has tarnished somewhat. I still think it's far superior to the original, and Christine Taylor is still way too hot for someone as goofy as Ben Stiller, but it's not quite the masterpiece I claimed it to be over twelve years ago. The story is a bit simple, the gratuitous nudity gets old after the third set of random breasts, and the lazy sequel setup really leaves a lot to be desired. In other words, what in the world was I thinking? If I had access to a time machine, I would be inclined to travel back to my teenager years so I can kick my own ass.
What makes the film watchable beyond the year 2000 is its brisk pacing and the outrageous amount of violence packed into its slim 90-minute running time. For a flick made in a decade notorious for its conservative approach to on-screen gore , Night of the Demons 2 is quite nasty and more than a little icky. Decapitations, stabbings, melting demons, and exploding snake-things abound. Oh, and be sure to keep your eyes peeled for Zoe Trilling's disturbing sexual encounter with the aforementioned tube of lipstick. It remains a fine example of cheap mid-90's shock, even if it is a bit played out these days.
A dozen years and several hundred horror films later, Night of the Demons 2 is still a thoroughly enjoyable sequel, one I'm proud to have in my collection. Though it's not nearly as thrilling as it was when I was younger, the film's unapologeticly cheesy nature and its willingness to go completely over-the-top will surely bring in those who would appreciate its low-budget charm. Angela and Hull House never really received the appropriate vehicle for their unique brand of michevious horror, which is kind of sad given all the avenues filmmakers could have explored. Oh, well.
Maybe someone can talk Stiller's wife into doing a remake.
 More fun than a knife up the anus.
Since I despise corporate life more than I hate soggy fast food french fries, I've never been a part of a required "Weekend Retreat" mandated by the mythical Powers That Be. It seems like a very uncomfortable experience, and it's certainly not my idea of a good time. Believe it or not, millions of people are forced to participate in such dehumanizing activities on a regular basis, so I guess it was only a matter of time before someone turned these wasted weekends into the premise for a particularly gruesome British horror picture. How embarrassingly clever!
Enter Christopher Smith, the director of the vastly underrated London tube chiller Creep, a film I thought got slammed way too hard by Stateside genre fans. It had its share of problems, mind you, but it was far from the worst release we had to chew on last year. Smith has certainly taken the naysayers to the bathroom for a swirly with his snarky horror/comedy Severance. Sometimes we need a little toilet cleansing to help show us the way, I'm afraid. That what my seventh grade gym teacher said, anyway.
The sales division of notorious weapons manufacturer Palisade Defense is sent into the mountainous region of eastern Europe for a team-building workshop. Needless to say no one is too thrilled with the idea. After their bus is blocked by a fallen tree, this group of oh-so witty work weekers suddenly find themselves stranded in the middle of nowhere, thanks in part to a confusing confrontation between their boss (Tim McInnerny) and their hot-tempered bus driver. Instead of backtracking to the comfort of their modern hotel, the squad reluctantly decides to venture to their destination on-foot.
Whoops!
Once a few amusing drug-related mishaps are out of the way, our heroes arrive at a creepy derelict building nestled deep within the woods. The joint is extremely rundown, covered in dust, filled with broken bric-a-brac, and stocked with an interesting foil-wrapped pie. Before you can say "bad idea," the group is engulfed in a series of spooky events, leading the co-workers to ponder what, exactly, this so-called "lodge" really is. The next morning, two of the braver members trek into the woods to find a cellular signal while the others sally forth with the paintball portion of their workshop. Unfortunately for everyone, it appears that they are not alone in that secluded section of Europe, and there might actually be some truth to the stories they joked about the night before.
Severence proves, if nothing else, that Smith is extremely capable of deft, laugh-out-loud comedy, even when the situation is saturated in coagulated blood and rotting body parts. Using humor to not only cut the tension but to help you feel for the characters and their plight, Smith builds up the first half of the movie as if he were piecing together yet another sly little British comedy. The situation soon turns violent -- horribly violent. even -- without the feeling that you're watching two completely different films. The genres are blended almost perfectly, giving you just enough chuckles to help alleviate some of the truly horrific scenes that follow the group's short lived paintball showdown.
The entire cast is top-notch, though it's Danny Dyer and Tim McInnerny who easily steal the show. McInnerny personifies every pig-headed, self-important boss you ever had, while Dyer lovingly portrays the office drug abuser who won't hesitate to consume a bag of "magic mushrooms" despite not knowing the specific effects they'll have on his psyche. Fans of The Faculty and Nickelodeon's early-90's teen drama Fifteen with surely get a kick out of seeing Laura Harris deal some serious damage towards the end of the picutre. Saucy? You know it.
Half the fun of having likable characters in a flick like this is being completely caught off-guard by how these interesting individuals meet their untimely demise. And fear not, horror/comedy naysayers: the violence is handled in a brutal and straight-forward manner, though a few do manage to sneak in an evil giggle or two for good measure. It's surprisingly well-done; I doubt you'll have much to cry to your mother about in the morning.
Be warned: Some reviewers are comparing Smith's oh-so satisfying horror/comedy to Shaun of the Dead. This isn't entirely true. While Shaun seems like a comedy mixed with a hefty dose of fanboy horror, Severance is more of a horror film that just so happens to be funny. Does that make any sense whatsoever? I hope so, because it's really the only way I know how to describe it. I fear this will become a nasty little trend, where every single British horror/comedy is compared to the Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg's modern-day classic. Please, for the love of God, let it end here.
Please.
Severance, in my hyperbole-laden opinion, is a solid horror picture with just enough comedic elements to warrant the dreaded "horror/comedy" label. Passing on this one simply because it's funny, however, would be a huge mistake on your part. Christopher Smith has an incredible feel for the characters he creates, allowing for plenty of emotional investment by the time your favorites start to drop like bloated horseflies. If you have the opportunity to sit down with this one, do so immediately. Bring your uncle if you have to. Just don't go in expecting something on par with Shaun of the Dead, okay? Severance is a good film, don't get me wrong, but it's not that damn good. This is no slight to the cast and filmmakers, of course. It's just a fact of life.
I think even Christopher Smith would agree with me on that.
 You won't need an urban-to-whitey decoder to appreciate it.
Don't you hate it when one of your odorous body parts detaches itself from your person, swells to 800 times its original size and completely destroys a major American city? I don't know about you, but I'm getting pretty sick and tired of this bi-weekly ritual. This scenario has happened to me at least sixty-two times in the last year or two, and the US government is starting to wonder if they should simply put yours truly out of his misery. After all, we can't have some guy's enlarged uvula crushing grandmothers into delightfully sugary wads, now can we? Of course not. Don't be so silly all the time.
Probably the best cinematic representation of those secretly living with this as of yet untitled disease is cult director Mark Pirro's oddball 2004 comedy Rectuma. Granted, there aren't a lot of films that tackle this very sensitive subject, so there's really nothing else on the market to compare it with. A victory by default is still very much a victory if you ask me. Besides, I doubt anyone other than the director of Curse of the Queerwolf could accurately depict the agony, the unbridled suffering of those cursed with this bizarre, socially-devastating affliction. Preach on, Brother Mark. You hold our eyes and ears in complete rapture.
After being anally raped by a demented frog on a sandy beach in Mexico, working class moron Waldo Williams -- portrayed with loving grace by actor/comedian Bill Devlin -- begins experiencing extremely sharp pains in the area of his body where the fudge is produced. According to our hero's finger-licking proctologist, Waldo's forceful amphibian lover deposited a very large blob of poison directly into the poor guy's prostate, causing it to swell to abnormal proportions. Unless he seeks the expertise of a kooky doctor named Wanasamsaki and his ass-obsessed assistant, Waldo should expect to drop dead in no less than three hours.
The treatment prescribed by this jovial anal prober involves in the insertion of nuclear rods into our hero's aching backside. Despite some minor breakage during the procedure, the operation is deemed a smashing success. A few days later, Waldo is shocked to discover an eerie green light emitting from his dysfunctional poop shoot, a discovery that disturbs the guy to his core. What's causing this radioactive emission of energy, you ask? Apparently Waldo was supposed to give himself a daily saltwater enema as a part of the treatment, a detail he flippantly decided to ignore. Big mistake, in more ways than one.
Before you know it, Waldo's posterior is detaching itself from his body and murdering those who would do him great harm. For starters, it wipes out his cheating spouse and her spooge-fearing black lover while its owner sleeps peacefully through the night. Unfortunately for Waldo, his homicidal hump left a calling card in the form of a fecal trail that leads right to his front door. It doesn't take long for the authorities to put turd and turd together, leaving our hero to take the fall for the hideous actions of his angry anus. Can Waldo make everyone believe his outrageous story of bodily horror before it strikes again?
Low brow scatological sarcasm aside, Mark Pirro's Rectuma is one seriously twisted flick. Taking cues from countless Japanese giant monster movies, the veteran writer/director has crafted a unique microbudget comedy that somehow manages to outshine its visibly small budget. That's not to say Rectuma is a nonstop laugh riot that will deftly split your sides and bust your gut, mind you. The film is definitely more surreal than funny, though it does have a few moments of genuine hilarity. It reminded me a lot of Patrick Voss' Inbred Redneck Alien Abduction, another absurd microbudget sci-fi comedy nobody's ever heard of. No offense to those involved, of course. You know I love you.
Mark Pirro's mildly entertaining script is powered by a dedicated cast of nobodies, a take-no-prisoners collective of struggling comedians and starving actors. Though not every joke on the page is a certified crowd pleaser, they certainly do the best with what they're given. Bill Devlin does as a fine job as our hapless hero Waldo, balancing his comic performance precariously between hopelessly stupid and flat-out annoying. Nobody here is ever going to rub elbows with the likes of George Clooney or T. Rigney, of course, but they're certainly not the worst you've ever seen. Huge kudos to all involved.
One aspect of Rectuma that will turn off those unfamiliar with the world of microbudget cinema is the special effects. Great Green Goddess of Greece are they awful. The poor digital composition and fuzzy matte jobs reminded me a lot of those full-motion video adventure games from the early 90's, namely Tex Murphy, Phantasmagoria, Gabriel Knight and the sort. Sometimes they're so poor you can't really tell what you're looking at. If you thought the effects in Eragon were unbelievable, you might want to think long and hard before adding this one to your collection.
If you can handle iffy acting, peculiar musical interludes, lousy special effects, and about 25 billion fart jokes, Rectuma could be your new favorite comedy. Pirro's humor is certainly not for everyone, so you probably shouldn't lend your copy to your friendly neighborhood proctologist. Those who appreciate microbudget comedies and the fine individuals who assemble them will find plenty to enjoy deep inside the bowels of Rectuma's cinematic digestive tract. If nothing else, it will teach you a very important life lesson you can pass on to your grandchildren.
When an Asian man tells you to dip your groin in saltwater, you'd better do it.
 If you shoot James Earl Jones, you're probably gonna die.
After watching Jon Hess' sleazy martial arts cop flick Excessive Force for the umpteenth time, I began to wonder why, exactly, Thomas Ian Griffith never caught on as the next big Hollywood action icon. He's certainly good looking, he's got a great head of hair, and his long legs can kick a man square in the face from three states away. On top of that, the guy can actually act. Nothing fancy, of course, but he's certainly better than those muscle-bound clowns he was hoping to usurp a few years ago. It's always a sad day when the guy with the talent is forced to squander his skills on something like The Sea Wolf.
Excessive Force is probably Griffith's finest hour to-date. Though his script is jam-packed with familiar characters and moldly cliches you've seen -- and smelled -- countless times before in far superior pictures, the film is kept afloat by a plethora of non-stop action sequences sprinkled with the star's impossibly fluid spin kicks. It should have transformed Thomas from your run-of-the-mill co-starring schlep into a big bright shining star with a sprawling Beverly Hills mansion. Unfortunately, he's probably still most famous for his turn as Terry Silver in that cinemaic embarrassment known as Karate Kid III.
Weep for what could have been, dear readers.
The Kenpo Karate expert stars as Terry McCain, a tough-as-nails Chicago cop who won't hesitate to shove your face through a few windows if he even thinks you're about to cause some trouble. His questionable tactics land him in hot water once again after charges are dropped against local mob boss Sal DiMarco (Burt Young) due to McCain's heavy reliance on excessive force, hence the title of the flick. Terry is given a stern talking to by his superiors and sent merrily on his way. Ah, to be a fictional cop in the 90's.
We wouldn't have a movie if things didn't get ugly, so it doesn't take long for our hero and his buddies to find themselves on the aforementioned crime lord's bad side. Apparently some crooked cop snatched about three million dollars from a drug deal gone bad, and McCain and his crew are at the top of the suspect list.
DiMarco makes his intentions very clear by brutally murdering Terry's best friend Dylan (Tom Hodges) and dumping his battered corpse in a nearby landfill. Understandably furious, McCain sets out to avenge his partner's death, a decision that will thrust him deep into a sinister world of treachery, corrupt cops, and lots of broken windows.
As you can tell, Excessive Force isn't built on anything remotely resembling an original idea. If you can't figure out the twists and turns by the fifteen minute mark, you're either a bookworm, one of those nature-loving outdoorsy types, or a five year-old girl with a huge collection of talking dolls. The story is the very definition of pedestrian: a loud, stupid, testosterone-fueled Hollywood vehicle for an up-and-coming star who has his sights set on the cool table. If you need further proof of the film's moronic nature, behold McCain's light jazz leanings.
Need I say more?
If you're not going to spend too much time crafting an interesting, thought-provoking action epic, you might want to spend all of your money on incredible stunts, fiery explosions, and lots of bloody shoot-outs. Thankfully, this is one crucial element that Excessive Force has an abundance of. There's rarely a dull moment to be found anywhere in the flick; almost every inch of footage consists of sex, violence, foul language, or Thomas Ian Griffith dangling from a pole while planting bullets in the back of a bad guy's cranium. Oh, and he kicks/shoves/throws a few people through lots of glass, as well. Can't forget about that.
Because New Line was banking on Griffith becoming the next "big thing" in Hollywood action, they filled their snazzy production with a handful of talented individuals. There's Tony Todd (Candyman), Burt Young (Back to School), Tom Hodges (Heavy Weights), James Earl Jones (Patriot Games), and the legendary Lance Henriksen. The Aliens star is rather mellow this time around, that is, until he's given the opportunity to gun down a few people with an automatic weapon. Then it's all show and swagger, complete with a snazzy "empty gun toss" as he disappears through a doorway. Getting countless rounds pumped into my torso by this guy would be an honor. Wow.
Every decade needs bonafide action celebrity, every child a martial arts guru. The 90's should have belonged to Thomas Ian Griffith, and Excessive Force should have carried him to the throne. It's not the greatest movie you'll ever witness in your entire life, but it's leaps and bounds above some of the stuff Seagal was upchucking into cineplexes at the time. It's just a by-the-numbers crooked cop thriller with a little spin kicking action thrown in for additional flavor. This film should have been a sophisticated teleportation device that would open a trans-dimensional gateway to greater things for its writer/star.
Thomas Ian Griffith, we hardly knew ye.
 Light bulbs not included.
There aren't too many movies these days that feature common household objects being forcibly inserted into various bodily openings for the sake of entertainment. It's certainly an interesting cinematic device if nothing else, one that doesn't appear too often in films released throughout these wonderfully dysfunctional 50 states. Anyone who is looking to crash the Hollywood party with something shocking and truly unique should consider the power of what I like to call "the insanely uncomfortable insertion scene." It's the next big thing in Stateside horror! Someone call Eli Roth post-haste!
If you're curious to see how such material plays out on-screen, feel free to investigate Japanese director Daisuke Yamanouchi's icky psychological head game Red Room for yourselves. Do keep in mind, however, that the film is quite sickening and often completely depraved, so much so that a few key scenes have actually left a lingering sense of shame in yours truly. I've seen more than my fair share of disturbing films, dear readers, but Red Room somehow managed to slip past my defenses and bury itself deep beneath my pasty skin. Now I'm having vivid nightmares about black hairdryers, wobbly desk chairs, and a Japanese version of my lovely wife doing unspeakable things to my groin.
Needless to say, It ain't too pretty.
Red Room tells the unfortunate story of four sad individuals -- a couple on the brink of divorce, a high school senior with a big secret, and a shameless well-to-do twenty-something -- who decided to play something called "King's Game," a friendly competition that pits desperate people against one another for a 10 million yen prize. What fun! The rules are simple: the contestants gather in a sparsely-decorated red room and introduce themselves to a collection of video cameras. After everyone has settled in, each player draws a card, one of which has a picture of a crown printed crudely upon it. Whoever holds this card calls the shots. And in this game, it's always good to be the king.
This is where it gets interesting. The king devises a scenario for the other contestants to enact, be it a kissing game or something a bit more sinister in design. Then he or she selects two numbers between one and three, with each integer respectively representing one of the other cardholders. Once the players have been determined, they must follow through with the task at-hand or be disqualified from the game. Whoever is left standing, of course, wins the prize. Believe me when I say it's not as cheerful and easy-going as I've initially made it out to be.
Things start out kind of playful at first. Two girls are forced to make out with each other while another is made to spin in a chair for five straight minutes -- nothing too sadistic, really. Soon the proverbial gloves are removed and the story begins to sink deeper into the mire, proving yet again that human beings are nothing more than foul, degenerate creatures masquerading as a civilized society. It doesn't take long for Red Room to become very, very unpleasant. But for some strange reason, you can't help but watch the damned thing until its nauseatingly outrageous conclusion.
Though others may disagree strongly with what I'm about to say, I'm of the belief that Red Room's super cheap production values contribute greatly to the film's ability to properly shock and disgust. Had the flick been a product of The Glossy Hollywood Thriller Machine(tm), I don't think I would have been quite as repulsed or uncomfortable with some of the material as I was. Like Slaughtered Vomit Dolls and August Underground, Red Room's low budget actually enhances the overall experience. Kudos to director Daisuke Yamanouchi for making the best with what he had at his disposal.
Also worth mentioning is the picture's uber-nasty sound design. It's overblown and completely overwhelming, almost to the point of aural saturation. The lesbian make-out session, the rape scene, and the aforementioned insertion bit are accompanied by what sounds like someone with a very juicy tongue slurping Chef Boy-R-Dee Ravioli straight from the can. I've seen porn flicks with fewer wet slaps and sloppy fluid exchanges. Those who have expensive entertainment systems may want to keep the remote control handy at all times. I wish I was kidding.
Thanks to the fine film connoisseurs at Unearthed Films, everyone with a Region 1 player can now experience all of the sights and sounds Red Room has to offer. It's a tough flick to watch, for sure, but it's impossibly entertaining at the same time. Consider this a film for fans of Japanese exploitation only; those who aren't hip to such Eastern output as Entrails of a Virgin or Mermaid in a Manhole might want to skip this one altogether. For the rest of us without a healthy soul to speak of, Red Room is yet another deliciously disgusting journey through human depravity from a country that specializes in absurd violence and over-the-top sexual perversions.
All the more reason to take an extended holiday to Tokyo, if you ask me.
 My credibility takes a shot to the stones.
Do you know what I want to see? More snazzy ethnic versions of highly successful Hollywood productions. For instance, an all Asian version of Brokeback Mountain would be peachy, as would a German language rendition of The Color Purple. It would challenge actors to step outside the box, to tackle roles that would otherwise be unavailable to them. Who in their right mind wouldn't pay to see Jackie Chan and Jet Li explore their hidden homosexual desires while herding livestock across a snow-covered mountain range? If I'm the only person who finds that saucy scenario oddly compelling, feel free to never return to this website again.
Like you were coming back, anyway.
Until Olaf Ittenbach delivers on that oh-so splendid adaptation of Alice Walker's classic novel, I guess I'll just have to make due with Paul Wynne's African-American take on Ivan Goff and Ben Roberts' campy television epic Charlie's Angels. Not one to stray too far from the source material, Wynne's 2003 effort Hood Angels is very much like its Caucasian counterpart. Three hot chicks -- the slut, the brains, and the riot grrl -- take it upon themselves to unravel the mystery behind a rap star's untimely demise. Did I mention they also take orders from an authoritative male figure? Well, there's that, too. Can't have a trio of sexy chicks fighting crime without a penis calling the shots, now can we?
Specifically, the film follows the exploits of Cinnamon, Traci, and Felicia, three butt-stompin' sistas who find friendship while spending an evening in the county lock-up. Their eventual release from jail -- with a little help from a dashing young lawyer, no less -- isn't all moon pies and penny whistles, I'm afraid. It would seem that someone has taken it upon themselves to gun down Cinnamon's hip-hoppin' brother Nitro (Juvenile) only days before the release of his next album. All signs point to someone working at Murder Boi, the record label owned and operated by Nitro's old pal J Day. Watch as the plot thickens and boils!
Cinnamon and her pals soon land jobs at Murder Boi, giving them several opportunities to eavesdrop on suspicious conversations and steal financial records from cluttered desk drawers. Before you can scream "Matlock!" the ladies find themselves knee deep in big trouble, forcing the trio to fall back on the one thing that never lets them down: their well-manicured fists of impossible fury! Can they discover the mastermind behind Nitro's death, or will their slapdash attempts at undercover work cost them their pretty little lives?
The back of the Digiview Entertainment DVD, I should mention, gets the so-called "plot" all wrong. The girls are never forced into investigating Nitro's death at all. In fact, it was basically their idea from the get-go. Also, the name of the record label they work for is listed as Insynchro Records on the packaging, though the name Murder Boi is clearly displayed in a number of lingering shots. How hard is it to write a proper synopsis, people? Seriously, if you need some help with your homework, you know where to find me. Oh, well. I guess you get what you paid for.
But, I digress.
Hood Angels lovingly recalls the glory days of 70's blaxploitation, a time when dozens of jive turkeys and trifflin' brothas could literally be found in every corner of the ghetto. Suitably, this modern-day throwback is stuffed to the bling with horrible performances, poorly-executed martial arts sequences, and plenty of naughty language. Director Paul Wynne -- who went on to direct the notorious Heidi Fleiss in 2004's Alien 51 -- does an admirable job giving the proceedings a campy vibe, right down to the use of Saturday morning cartoon sound effects during the flick's dodgy fight scenes. If Wynne wanted his picture to operate as an homage to that peculiar time in cinematic history, he certainly achieved his goal. Congrats!
That, I'm afraid, is where the praise comes to a screeching, blood-curdling halt in the middle of a busy intersection. The opening of the film promises loads of heart-stopping action, yet we're given very little in the way of martial arts excitement over the course of the story. Which might be a very good thing, depending on who you ask. If you've seen the unforgettable 1976 masterpiece Velvet Smooth, you should be well versed in the kind of pathetic kung fu we're forced to gobble down here. Graceful it ain't.
I've also been instructed by a certified medical professional to warn you that the acting contained in this motion picture may cause severe swelling in the temporal lobe, so please approach with extreme caution. Do not use if pregnant. Void in Kentucky, Iowa, California, Alaska, and parts of Belgium.
Having trashed this movie to within an inch of its pathetic life, how in the sweet cider of Hell's Kitchen did I walk away from Hood Angels feeling fun and fancy free? To be honest, I really don't know. The film is tore up from the floor up, and should be avoided by those who consider themselves above such tsk-tsk-tastelessness.
On the other hand, if you're fond of those crazy blaxploitation flicks of the late-70's, Hood Angels should seem very familiar. Painfully familiar, even. The action is lame, the acting has been classified as a form of mental retardation by the Canadian government, and the production values are setting up cots at the homeless shelter down the street. But that's exactly what drew me to this too cool genre in the first place, which may explain why I'm an unabashed fan of Paul Wynne's Hood Angels.
Just don't hate me because I have poor taste, okay?
 It will beat you till you smile.
Am I dreaming? Is this possible? Did someone slip some psychedelic drugs into my Fruit Loops this morning? I mean, am I really this lucky? After experiencing the oh-so wonderful Wilson Yip/Donnie Yen/Sammo Hung crime-fu masterpiece SPL (aka Killzone) just a few months ago, I never would have thought I'd get ANOTHER Yip/Yen collaboration in the same year. Ah, the joys of all-region ownership. Anyway, I was pretty psyched to find myself sitting down with Dragon Tiger Gate, which promised even more martial arts mayhem set within a slightly fantastic world in the not-so-distant future. Right on!
Err, wait a second. Wait just a bloody second, here. Why does 90% of the cast look as though they just stepped out of a J-pop video? Why does Donnie Yen look 20 years younger than he really is? And why did I find myself nodding off when I should've been bouncing off the walls with unadulterated excitement? In their haste to make a dramatic action picture with a heart, Yip and Yen forgot to put the snap in the kick, so to speak. Whoops. It looks and sounds decent, mind you, but there's just something missing, as if attempting to slip a little melodrama into the proceedings ultimately ruined what could have been a solid comic book adaptation. Gotta hate it when a weak story gets in the way of great action.
I know I hate it when that happens.
After saving a family from a group of sadistic debt collections, martial arts master Tiger Wong finds himself in the possession of a very important plaque, one that symbolizes the partnership between a vicious street gang and a creepy masked villain called Shibumi who, apparently, would like nothing more than to rule the world. Or something. Anyway, during this first-reel skirmish, Tiger finds himself facing the formidable Dragon Wong, who just so happens to be Tiger's older brother. Imagine that.
To make a long, drawn-out story short, Dragon retrieves the plaque for his boss Kwun, realizes he needs to return to Dragon Tiger Gate -- the karate school/orphanage/shelter where he spent some time as a child -- and convinces Kwun to retire early so he can do so. Deciding that his bodyguard might be onto something, that it may be time to leave this seedy world of crime behind, Kwun reluctantly returns the cherished plaque to the dreaded, ill-tempered Shibumi.
This, of course, irritates the masked crime lord immensely, causing him to send a gaggle of weirdo henchmen to end the old man's life. Armed to the teeth, they decend upon Kwun at his daughter's little league game, though Dragon manages to dispense a little damage of his own before all is said and done. Word soon gets back to Shibumi that a student of Dragon Tiger Gate prevented his henchmen from killing Kwun's daughter, forcing the evil mastermind to take revenge on the entire school/orphanage/shelter. Now, bound together by a tragic loss, Dragon, Tiger, and their buddy Turbo join forces to defeat the madman who destroyed their childhood memories.
Um, yeah.
Confused? Sorry about that. You see, despite a fairly simple premise, Dragon Tiger Gate's charm is essentially lost in the details. There are quite a few snore-inducing flashbacks featuring Dragon and Tiger as children, as well as a number of subplots involving their respective love interests AND the wet-behind-the-ears Turbo, who apparently wants nothing more in life than to master every functional form of kung fu. It all could have been very interesting -- it SHOULD have been very interesting -- but there's really not enough character development for you to really give a damn about anyone.
I mean, who cares about Dragon's hot-cold love affair with Shibumi's daughter if the filmmakers can't be bothered to flesh her out? Who cares about Tiger's budding relationship with Xiaoling if she's as thin as Nicole Richie after a four-week meth binge? Who cares about Turbo's limp kung fu if we know absolutely nothing about him? Though I rarely say this when it comes to goofy martial arts movies, I do believe Dragon Tiger Gate could have benefited from another fifteen minutes or so of good old-fashioned CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT. I mean, if you really want us to care about your melodramatic booble-baggle, give us some characters we can relate to. Make them human. FLESH THEM OUT. Otherwise, you're just wasting our time. And yours. But mostly ours.
Silly scripts and forgettable characters aside, Dragon Tiger Gate does sport a number of breath-taking fight sequences, choreographed by none other than Mr. Donnie Yen himself, a man who will not hesitate to stick himself in the middle of a fray that requires him to pose, posture, and mug for the camera. Granted, Yen's a good-looking guy with skills to spare, but do we need a dozen or so shots of him in too-cool slow-motion stances after wiping the floor with four dozen non-descript bad guys? Not really.
However, seeing as how Yen's the man responsible for piecing together some truly amazing fights, I'll forgive him this trespass. ONCE. I mean, if I had the opportunity to look really hot while kicking some cinematic ass, I'd probably do so, too. How remarkably sad. Anyway, the action is truly the only reason you'll waste your time with this one. It's a good reason,of course, but you'll have to wade through some clunky acting and lots of unintentionally hilarious dialogue in the meantime. Thankfully, the movie is well-paced and relatively short, leaving little room for lag. A few yawns, maybe, but not a lot of lag.
I'm definitely not saying that Dragon Tiger Gate is a bad movie. What I am saying, however, is you could do a lot better than this if you're in the mood for some Yip/Yen madness. SPL was a gritty return to pure Hong Kong action, a film that took its time developing the individuals you were to care about. And by the time Yen and Hung lock horn in the final act, you felt that raw intensity in the pit of your stomach. Dragon Tiger Gate, meanwhile, is just another flashy martial arts picture stuffed with attractive guys and gals fighting for no good reason.
And sometimes, just sometimes, it's nice to have a good reason.
 Every post-apocalyptic world needs a balding hero.
It would appear that the good folks at Digiview Entertainment have finally come to their senses. Instead of releasing every goofy public domain picture they can get their greedy little hands on, they've reached deep into the York Entertainment vault for their current wave of one-dollar DVD releases. B-movie fans who have stared blankly at the cinematic fungus growing on those wobbly Wal-Mart discount racks in search of something worthwhile can how breathe a collective sigh of relief. Gone are the watered down Hercules epics, the low-budget cartoons with the really bad overdubbing. In their place we have Ron Marchini, fallen rap stars, and a slew of forgotten Fred Williamson titles.
How impossibly cool is that?
Out of the fifteen or so flicks I picked up the other day, Alan Roberts' action disasterpiece Karate Cop (aka Omega Cop II) was probably the one I was most excited about. Having recently witnessed the immortal 70's classic Death Machines -- a film which features Ron Marchini as a mute, no-nonsense hitman -- I was quite psyched about checking out all of the martial arts mayhem contained on that shiny little disc. After all, the DVD packaging did proclaim that this was the movie action fans have been waiting for. How can you argue with a statement like that? You can't, so I didn't.
Karate master Ron Marchini stars as John Travis, martial arts expert and post-apocalyptic hero extraordinaire. When he's not feeding Big Hunk chocolate bars to his faithful canine companion(!), he's rescuing busty damsels from a never-ending stream of deformed mutants and lecherous villains. With the promise of a hot meal, John helps his newfound friend Rachel (Carrie Chambers) return to her derelict home on the outskirts of some very hostile territory. There he meets her young companions called The Freebies, a rag-tag army of children who appear to be either stoned, retarded, or a blissful combination of the two.
Unfortunately for poor John, there's no hot meal, no running water, and absolutely no hot sex. Bummer. What they do have for our hero is a mission, one that will send him to the far reaches of this nuclear wasteland in search of a crystal that will power the teleportation device the chick and her adopted children have stashed in their hideout. Not only will John have to battle a giggling lunatic named Lincoln and his reptilian sidekick Snake, he'll also have to rescue his female friend once again from certain sexual doom. Can our hero save the day, get the girl, and keep his dog from getting hit in the crossfire?
Going into Karate Cop, I had no idea that I was actually dealing with a sequel to a wonky late-80's B-movie. Thankfully, you really don't need to know anything about the previous entry in this admittedly stupid series to fully enjoy all of the silliness awaiting those brave enough to drop a dollar for this goofy little production. All you need to know is that John Travis will hurt you severely if you happen upon his bad side. Since Ron Marchini has the emotional range of a freeze dried vegetable, you may have some difficulty determining when, exactly, you've pissed him off. Sorry about that.
The story itself is really nothing more than an unholy amalgamation of several very successful Hollywood films, complete with a slew of horrible one-liners and a nifty collection of poorly-edited fight sequences. The latter, of course, is probably the only reason you're here in the first place. Thankfully, the film boasts a number of crazy action set pieces, including a particularly satisfying encounter with cult icon David Carradine inside a rundown diner frequented by several pasty patrons. Word of advice: if Mr. Carradine asks you to try the jack rabbit stew, you should at least give it a shot. Otherwise, you may irritate him profusely. Seriously.
On the performance tip, you've got absolutely nothing whatsoever. Everyone is either embarrassingly wretched or completely over-the-top. Ron Marchini is easily the worst offender, dumping putrid dialogue on the unsuspecting audience whenever the narrative needs a moment of comic relief. It works, but not in the way the filmmakers had intended. I should mention, however, that John Travis' "Assholes to ashes, dictators to dust" line will probably make it onto my tombstone. As soon as I convince my wife, my parents, and my lawyer, of course. Otherwise I'll print up a few T-shirts and sell them at flea markets.
For one whole dollar plus state sales tax, Karate Cop is lots of fun. Not good, mind you, but definitely fun. Everything about the movie is a joke, right down to that horribly cheesy song that plays over the end credits. Ron Marchini actually makes Don "The Dragon" Wilson appear quite competent in comparison, which may explain why I purchased a worn VHS copy of Cybertracker for fifty cents later that afternoon. Overall, I'm quite pleased with my pocket change purchase, and look forward to dumpster diving through the other Digiview releases in the near future.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta dinner date at Jackass Junction.
 Understanding a car crash.
Is anyone else extremely tired of ghosts and supernatural entities solving crimes? It seems you can't take a stroll through a foggy graveyard these days without some spook or spectre asking questions as to your whereabouts on a cool summer evening over 25 years ago. Unless you got a warrant, Mista Ghost, I ain't answerin' no questions, you got that? And if you wanna push da issue, feel free to contact my attorney, one Mr. Darryl Isaacs. That's right, punk: THE HEAVY-HITTER. Yeah, that's what I thought!
Err...
Whenever my brain is overloaded with the trials and tribulations of the recently deceased, I often recall a simpler time in our pop culture when murderers were apprehended by human beings who weren't possessed by the angry spirit of a man-handled rape victim. Call me heartless if you like, but I prefer the dead to stay, you know, DEAD. If I want a mystery solved, I'll call Matlock. Thanks for playing, though.
This may explain why I am so disappointed with Asif Kapadia's lackluster murder mystery The Return. A murder mystery, you ask? Yes, dear readers, a snore-inducing murder mystery with a completely unbelievable supernatural twist. To add insult to injury, the film casts award-winning playwright/actor Sam Shepard as Sarah Michelle Gellar's father, then proceeds to do absolutely nothing with him. How in the hell do you waste Sam Shepard? The guy is fried gold marinating in mystical butter on an angel's silver hotplate. Kapadia, you should be ashamed of yourself. Please sit in the corner silently while I verbally urinate all over your movie.
Freddie Prinze, Jr.'s financial stability stars as Joanna Mills, a troubled young woman with a lot on her mind. Years ago, this headstrong bottle brunette was involved in a nasty car accident that left her more than a little jumbled, psychologically speaking. As an adult, Joanna spends her days as a sales representative for a large corporation, a job that allows her to live out of hotel rooms as she hops from one podunk town to the next. Her current assignment finds her speeding back to Texas, a state that many people across this wonderful nation associate with bad feelings and awful nightmares.
Before you know it, the adorable lass is traipsing through junkyards and redneck bars in search of answers to the onslaught of questions going through her mousy little brain. For instance, who is that impossibly scruffy guy with the split ends and dirty work boots? Why is she strangely drawn to the mysterious hunk with the fists of fury? More importantly, will any of this stuff make sense by the time all is said and done? Watch in absolute rapture as Gellar wanders around for 80 minutes, then sit in stunned disbelief when the film ends and you're left with nothing to show for it. Except an empty wallet, of course.
As I revisit those snarky opening paragraphs, I realize I'm probably making The Return seem much worse than it really is. Despite my eagerness to rip the film to tiny bite-sized pieces, I must say that there's really not a lot wrong it. Asif Kapadia's direction is spot-on, and his visuals are just as striking and eye-catching as they were in The Warrior. Why he decided to make his big Hollywood debut with a silly Sarah Michelle Gellar vehicle is beyond my range of comprehension. I'm sure it had something to do with a paycheck, one that probably had quite a few zeroes printed on the appropriate line.
What sends you off to Sleepyland faster than fourteen candy-coated Xanax is Adam Sussman's lifeless script. The story just kind of lays there, begging someone -- nay, anyone -- to kick it around a bit. Sussman has seemingly raped and pillaged the supernatural mystery genre in search of inspiration. Problem is, he bought one too many trinkets at the Cliche Gift Shop on his way to the word processor. If you want your narrative to unfold slowly, that's fine, but at least try to give the viewers a few crumbs to munch on while they're waiting for the good stuff.
Oh, and be sure to include the good stuff, too. Crucial, that.
The acting isn't too bad, but it's nothing to write home to mother about, either. Gellar is just as hollow and empty as she always is, leaving her listless co-stars to foot the bill. Australian actor Peter O'Brien is probably the film's best kept secret. His turn as Terry Stahl is sharp and engaging, allowing him to easily eclipse the flick's top-billed actress whenever the two share a scene. And please don't get me started on Sam Shepard again, okay? Blink twice and the man is simply gone. Unreal.
The Return, I'm sorry to say, is nothing more than a watered-down episode of Ghost Whisperer masquerading as a faux-spooky horror picture. Truth be told, it's barely anything at all, just a collection of scenes that build to a climax that leaves you wondering why you bothered giving it a chance in the first place. Asif Kapadia is better than this, and I hope he finally gets a Stateside project worthy of his talent. Slumming with the likes of Gellar isn't going to help his career whatsoever. If you doubt my words, just as Freddie Prinze, Jr. Go ahead!
He's in the backyard right now, cleaning my pool.
 Get outta my house!
When my wife and I lived in our cozy little downtown apartment, we never really worried about home invasion too much. We lived above an office complex, you see, and most people -- with the exception of the Wok-N-Go and Domino's Pizza delivery drivers -- had no idea we were up there, watching the world go by from our secluded little pad. God, I really miss that place sometimes, especially when it's time to mow the lawn again. God, I really hate suburban life. Insert loud, earth-shattering nostalgic sigh here.
Anyway, when we made the leap from downtown hipsters to square suburbanites, the prospect of someone kicking in our front door and saying "How ya doin'?" became all too real. We're a paranoid lot to begin with, our ears super-sensitive to sounds that don't jive with the usual neighborhood noise.
So when Clementine awakens her husband Lucas after hearing something strange outside in David Moreau and Xavier Palud's effective effort Ils (aka Them), I knew I was in for a spooky good time. In fact, Ils is probably the scariest horror film since Session 9 creeped its way under my lily white skin years ago. My patented Suspense-O-Meter was literally screaming for mercy after the first half-hour, though I managed to apply enough soda and Cheese Nips to prevent it from sustaining serious injury.
The first ten minutes pretty much set the stage for the entire film: There's something evil lurking in the Romanian woods, and all it wants to do is kill, kill, kill. Unfortunately for Clementine and her husband Lucas, this lurking terror has set its sights on their secluded mansion, forcing the young couple to fight for their very lives over the course of one blood-curdling evening. Are these intruders human? Supernatural? The answer may surprise you as the film barrels towards a very unconventional conclusion, one that literally left me breathless.
I refuse to say more about the plot, since Ils relies more on tension and suspense than it does character development or plotting. But don't let the lack of story prevent you from experiencing one of the few horror/thrillers that actually delivers genuine scares. If this one doesn't creep you out, have your friends and family check your wrist for a pulse. Chances are you might be dead.
My condolences.
Dynamic directing duo David Moreau and Xavier Palud -- who just landed directing duties for the pointless American remake of the Pang Brothers' classic horror flick The Eye -- are masters of suspense, though that title does seem a little cliche. Instead of assaulting you with graphic violence, deformed killers, and dozens of fake jump scares, they decide to keep everything in the dark until the last few minutes or so. The audience -- as well as our unfortunate couple -- only catch brief glimpses of the horrors stalking those shadow-choked mansion halls, relying instead on a brilliant sound design to scare the holy hell out of you.
I really hate to compare it to The Blair With Project -- given the film's many detractors -- but Ils has much in common with the pseudo-documentary's ability to spook you without relying too much on horrific visuals. I'm a firm believer that what you don't see is often more terrifying than anything on-screen, and Ils is a perfect example of such classic filmmaking techniques. Remember the spine-tingling knock-knock-knocking in the Robert Wise classic The Haunting? How about the bouncing ball in Peter Medak's The Changeling? It's THAT kind of horror. Subtle yet effective. Combined with a good home theater setup, Ils has the potential to invoke paranoia in even the most level-headed of viewers.
But suggestion and sound design will only get you so far. The film's two stars -- Olivia Bonamy (Bloody Mallory) and Michael Cohen -- help suck you into this life-threatening situation, especially if you've ever cowered with your significant other while someone -- or some THING -- made bizarre noises outside of your bedroom window. The directors give us just enough information to form an emotional bond with this attractive young couple, and once things go from bad to worse, you can feel it right in the pit of your stomach.
While I'm hesitant to speak too much about the film's haunting conclusion, I will say that it's one you won't soon forget. As far as the "true story" is concerned, I haven't heard anything to the contrary, so I suppose you could consider me a believer. However, given cinema's history with so-called true stories, I'm taking everything with a grain of salt. Real or not, Ils is a fine example of how effective a suspenseful horror movie can be, thanks in part to a pair of believable performances from its stellar cast.
Though I haven't located a Region 1 release date for Ils as of this writing, it is available through a few reputable Asian DVD sites. It can get a little pricey to import, but it's well worth the cash to do so. This is first-rate cinema, people, and fans of subtle, old-fashioned horror should definitely check it. I suspect that, upon repeat viewings, Ils will become one of my all-time favorites, much like Session 9 and The Shining before it. I know these are huge claims, but I tend to get excited about films of this nature. Label me an Internet fanboy all you want, but truly gripping cinema gets me pumped.
It also reminds me to double check the lock on the front door.
 Stinky, but not quite rotten.
Do you remember your cousin Teddy? He was the one who soiled himself when the clown popped out of the cake at his three year-old sister's birthday party. Since then, he's gone to accomplish such monumental tasks as burning down his girlfriend's house and accidentally running over his grandmother's cat with the lawnmower. And despite the fact that the guy is a world-class screw-up and a full-on failure, you can't help but like the loser. There's something about the dude that just makes you smile and shake your head in befuddlement.
Well, that's kind of how I feel about William Victor Schotten's ambitious 2005 effort Dead Life, available on DVD from -- wait for it -- Brain Damage Films, the undisputed kings of wonky no-budget horror. I know the film is a mess from top to bottom, and I'm well aware of the fact that it looks and sounds like something put together by a group of horror fans who stumbled across a Super 8 camera in their grandfather's attic. These things are as clear as day to me. Yet for some inexplicable reason, I find myself ruling in its favor. Not before I needless pick it apart, of course. That wouldn't be any fun, would it?
Dead Life is just another low-budget take on the tried-and-true Night of the Living Dead formula created by genre master George A. Romero, which finds a group of mildly-interesting individuals inside a building battling wave after wave of flesh-eating zombies. One thing Romero's classic didn't have, obviously, was an extended shot of some poor bastard's penis being savagely gnawed off by a rotting undead bimbo with a tattoo on her ass. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not.
Before I contingue, I should mention that I found this flick collecting layers of dust in the Foreign section of my my local Hollywood Video. Why was it in Foreign? I really don't know. Given the quality of their staff's personal hygiene and overall attitude towards their paying customers, the reason behind this incredible mistake could be just about anything. Oh, well. On to greener pastures.
The films starts off as your typical microbudget independent feature. That's right -- the dreaded DIALOGUE-DRIVEN COMEDY. The witty banter is occasionally rewarding, though it feels suspiciously like a writer's workshop exercise inspired by the work of Kevin Smith and Richard Linklater. It gets old quickly, leaving your mind to ponder the origins of that ever-growing stain just above the fireplace. Thankfully, it doesn't take too long for something substantial nasty to occur, giving you incentive to keep watching. Again, I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not.
Surprisingly, the acting isn't the root of the Dead Life's many problems. The material the actors are given is amateur at best, leaving them to spout brutally unfunny lines at the oddest of times. The tone also flip-flops erratically; one moment you're puzzling over a theoretically humorous scenario, the next you're presented with something overly melodramatic or needless gory. Did I just say "needlessly?" Surely I didn't use the words "needlessly" and "gory" in the same sentence, did I? Say it isn't so!
I'm afraid I did. Horror flicks that linger on their money shots for too long seem fake to me. It lets you know right away that the filmmakers care very little for the story they're trying to tell. They're what I like to call Gore Mongers, self-declared "hardcore directors" who rely heavily on special effects to get their crumby production into the marketplace. Effects, I might add, that really aren't that special in the first place. Don't get me wrong, dear readers, I'm all about the bloody gore. I just appreciate those who know how to use it effectively.
Rants and pointless posturing aside, Dead Life really isn't that bad. It's just a little slow, that's all. The script is weak, the effects are cheap, and the overall presentation leaves much to the be desired. That said, the film is often entertaining, boosted considerably by a talented group of local actors. I'm sure this isn't the kind of review William Victor Schotten and "INTRODUCING JEFF ROBEK" were hoping for, but it's probably not the worst they've received, either. The film shows promise, and is often entertaining because of it. Above all else, it teaches us a very valuable lesson.
Don't rape the female zombies.
 Sho Aikawa, you're my hero.
I first discovered the talented Mr. Aikawa through Takashi Miike's uber-bizarro yakuza flick Dead or Alive, and I've been hooked on the man's work ever since. If forced to choose, Miike's masterpiece Gozu is probably my favorite Aikawa film thus far. However, if Tokyo Zombie is any indication of what's to come, Japanese filmmakers have merely scratched the surface of the Aikawa's inherent greatness. Of course, if you doubt my words, your computer shall self-destruct within the hour. Sorry about that, but it's out of my hands now.
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 hardcore 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.
After getting busted for goofing off at work, lovable morons Fujio (the always enjoyable Tadanobu Asano) and Mitsuo (Aikawa) are forced to murder their high-strung boss Ujimoto, whose abusive nature is threatening his wimpy 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.
Unfortunately, the toxic combination of solid 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! Their extended 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 snazzy little synopsis. A large part of Tokyo Zombie's charm 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.
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. Had their friendship not been as warm and well-defined as it appears in the film, I don't think I would have been nearly as engaged and enthralled. You genuinely want to know where they're headed next, and that element alone will keep you watching.
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?
Tadanobu Asano does a fine job, as well, especially during those particularly 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. That's fine by me.
Like Shaun of the Dead, Tokyo Zombie uses a stereotypical zombie invasion as a backdrop for greater things. At its heart, the film is about friendship, about perseverance, told with deft comedic timing. It's never slow, never dull, and it never mistreats the its characters. 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 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.
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