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JM Cozzoli

A horror genre fan with a blog. Scary.

Santa Claws (1996)
Don’t Watch Out For This One

/ Movies (Bad) / Leave a Comment

Zombos Says: Are You Kidding Me?

Disclaimer: Zombos’ Closet cannot be held libel for the loss of precious holiday time or mirth should any reader decide to ignore the numerous warning signs in this review and purchase, open, and view Santa Claws alone and/or sober. By reading this review, said reader releases Zombos’ Closet and its heirs, in perpetuity, from fault, risk, and all future liability or damage that may occur from such viewing.

 

“How long has he been like this?” I asked.

“For the past half-hour,” Glenor Glenda said.

“You should have called me sooner?” I felt Zombos’ faint pulse.

“He said he wanted to watch something different,” said Glenor. “I didn’t know.”

“How can you not know?” I held up the offending DVD, Santa Claws, while admonishing her.

“But Paul Hollstenwall said Zombos asked for it specifically—”

“Paul! So he’s the one to blame for this. The last time he was here he wasted our time with Neon Maniacs. I can’t believe he’d stooped this low. The man is incorrigible; a menace to decent horror fans everywhere.”

“I told Paul he shouldn’t. I told Zombos he should have gone to you first,” Glenor said with tears in her eyes. “But Zombos said it didn’t matter, that he wanted something new, something totally different to watch. He said he was too old to play it safe anymore. He’s been that way ever since his birthday.”

“Well, the damage is done. I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” I said, lifting a brandy snifter to Zombos’ lips. The color was gone from his cheeks. “At least with Paul Naschy movies I have a chance, but this? I’m not sure how to bring him back to sanity.”

Zombos was grayer than usual and his breathing was short and shallow.

“What was that?” I asked. I leaned closer. Zombos’ lips had moved, and a faint whisper caught my ear. “Say again?”

“Nudie-cutie,” he managed to whisper. “I just…wanted…to see…nudie-cuties. My god, it was beyond horrible.” He took the brandy snifter from me and held it in his trembling hands.

“Nudie cu—” Glenor started to say.

“That will be all, Glenor,” I said, interrupting her. “I can take it from here. Thanks!”

She left the room. Zombos slowly recovered in-between sips of brandy.

 

Nudie-cuties, scream queens, bodacious tatas—none of this can save Santa Claws. It’s a movie not to see alone or sober. It stands as the perfect equivalent to bituminous coal: sufficient punishment for any horror fan on your Naughty Horror Fan holiday list. Sleazy synthesized background music, ear-numbing dialog delivered through cereal box acting, and sloppy camerawork all bump and grind together, along with the T and A, in this one shoestring-budgeted movie.

The cinema-train wrecks in the first five minutes when dubious horror overwhelms the night before Christmas cheer, and another young soul is damned and primed for future killing. Director John A. Russo (yes, that guy of Night of the Living Dead fame) mires blue-tinted, mismatched close-ups with a wobbly pan to find little Wayne (Christopher Boyle) sleeping on the couch in the living room. In the bedroom, his mom is frolicking with a naughty man. The man wants to open his present early, but she’s afraid Wayne will wake up. He tells her he spiked Wayne’s hot chocolate with two sleeping pills to knock him out. She smiles and quickly displays her ample stocking-stuffers. Wayne, who apparently dislikes hot chocolate, wakes up and interrupts their sleigh ride. The boy is so upset—though you can’t tell by his acting—easily pulls a loaded gun from a dresser drawer. They plead with him using dialog so bad I also wanted Wayne to shoot them.

He does, they scream, and the years and holidays fly by.

Now free from prison, grown-up Wayne (Grant Cramer) is working publicly as a teacher’s aide and acting privately as a weirdo. When he receives his very own Raven Quinn (Debbie Rochon) life-size—but armless—mannequin from Scream Queen Magazine (a dubious promotional tie-in to be sure), he starts getting all dreamy-eyed as he admires its certificate of authenticity. Now there’s a true collector: I would have been happy with the 12-inch doll.

The mannequin looks nothing like Debbie Rochon, the real-life scream queen who plays the fictional Raven Quinn scream queen. Rochon has arms, killer legs, and a beautiful smile. Apparently the props department did not have enough money for doing a life mold of her, so they used a commercial mannequin’s torso instead, cutting off its arms and adding a black wig. One clever and creepy touch—actually the only clever and creepy touch—has Wayne dropping packing peanuts over the mannequin’s head as they dance. This is as artistic as it gets.

While Wayne admires and listens to his mannequin, the real Raven Quinn picks up her two children from her in-laws—her gallivanting husband’s mother and sister—who chide Quinn on her chosen profession. We learn Wayne lives next door to Quinn and acts like an uncle to her kids. As the kids run off to play, she and Wayne spend the next three hours sitting on the sofa—wait, I’m wrong, it only seems like three hours—proving why movie-making is a visual medium by boring us to death with their inactivity and mindless chit-chat.

For a psycho-teacher’s-aide-horror-memorabilia-collector (no insult intended to any teacher aides who are horror memorabilia collectors), who has the ‘real’ object of his obsession this close, not much heat or psychosis is shown. When Quinn comes on to him, he still doesn’t do anything. No, wait, he does: he goes back to express his love to the armless mannequin.

Then he decides to start killing people.

Just like that.

He goes to Scream Studios and kills a nudie-cutie, but not before she gyrates and completes her important shower scene acting moment; then he goes after the producer, who shoots Wayne at point-blank range. This being a no-budget movie, the blanks do no harm.

Scratch one producer.

Now let me reveal the spoiler. Are you ready?

To kill his victims, Wayne uses a prop from one of Quinn’s horror movies on gardening. I think it the documentary called Fertilizer of the Damned, or Weed Be Gone to Hell, maybe. Anyway, the gardening tool is a puny three-pronged weed-puller. We never actually see Wayne use it. He waves it around, and then there are a few drops of blood followed by a body slumped on the ground.

Let’s move on.

Wayne complains to his stoic mannequin how everyone needs to pay. It’s not clear for what, but he’s certain everyone needs to pay. Meanwhile Quinn tries to get back with her husband, but he’s bedding down with another nudie-cutie, providing ample opportunity for more T and A. With no one noticing the producer is missing, more nudie close-ups fill screen time while “Uncle” Wayne drugs Quinn’s two little girls’ hot chocolates and goes shopping for a Santa Claus suit. Right! That’s the tie in to the movie title. It’s the only tie-in.

More nudie-cutie shower scenes ensue with another potential victim; she takes her shower, she answers the phone, she chats for a moment or two, then she goes back to take a bath.

But didn’t she just take a shower? Who is she anyway?

We don’t find out.It’s just another randy, randomly inserted shower/bath scene with a well-endowed randomly inserted naked woman.

Wayne, dressed as Santa, shows up and kills her. I don’t know why and you wouldn’t, either. He just shows up and kills her. This is the only time he wears the red Santa Claus suit. He spray paints the suit black. Another inexplicable action left unexplained, but I thank god little kids everywhere are spared having a red-suited Santa slaying around without his sleigh.

In a flurry of scenes, it’s Quinn’s turn to start flashing her T and A—but we cut back to Wayne doing?—Nothing, really, so we quickly cut to Quinn’s errant husband returning home to find the kids knocked out on the sofa——And now we’re back with Quinn being nicely naughty with a cuddly stuffed toy—No! Back to the house and a frantic call to the in-laws—Yes! Back to Quinn strutting her assets for the camera; she takes her top off and then—No! We’re back to her husband running over to crazy Wayne’s house—Yes! Back to Quinn playing with her two big, unwrapped, Christmas presents.

So much for building tension (the dramatic kind I mean) as it’s killed during this inane scene and theme shifting. But like they say in those annoyingly loud infomercials, “Wait, there’s more!”

Black-suited Santa Wayne attacks Quinn’s husband, then goes after her. In one last breathtaking struggle—I was excited the movie was almost over—Wayne and Quinn’s husband go hand to hand (more like hand in hand the way the action was staged).Quinn grabs the weeder and plunges it into Wayne.

Finally, The End.

Bring Christmas cheer by leaving this one on the shelf.

Give a tie instead.

Ode to The Final Destination (2009)

/ Movies (Gore) / 2 Comments

final destination 4Zombos Says: Good

“What are you doing?” asked Zombos.

I dog-eared the page I was reading.”I’m sorry?”

“You have not written your review of The Final Destination,” he said.

“Death goes a-deathing. People die horribly. What’s more to say beyond that?

“You see, there, that is your problem. You are not creative enough. Now, I have been thinking of ways you can
add je ne sais quoi to your reviews. They have been rather stale lately.”

“Really?” I said, but not with much enthusiasm.

He continued, ignoring my lack of enthusiasm.

“Yes. For instance, why not look at doing a review in a completely different way.”

“Way?” I asked.

“Way.” He jabbed his right forefinger into his left palm.” Take The Final Destination.” He rested his forefinger on his chin. “Let me think, yes, I have the
perfect answer to creatively review it: Walt Whitman.” He waved his forefinger for emphasis.

“Walt Whitman?” I asked.

“Yes, Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass: I hear America Singing. There. Now go, fly with it!”

He flew out of the room, leaving me with one of those conundrums in a peanut shell situation we all face now and then. I seem to get them a lot, though.

If Walt Whitman were a zombie he’d eat me for sure after this.

 

I Hear the
Deathly Screaming
in The Final Destination

 

I hear Nick
and Lori, Hunt and Janet screaming, and cussing, and breathing heavy and hard,
their varied shrieks of fear I hear,

From death’s
mechanics, each one swung with his scythe wide, as it should be blithe

and strong,
whilst whacking heads and limbs akimbo, bone and muscle, and formerly high
spirits,

into fallow,
shallow ground of McKinley Speedway,

and
everywhere else they run

Nick
shrieking his premonitions, he measures his chances, nail and coffin width
long, as George the security guard runs in fright from his inevitable
smackdown, tries hanging himself,

but still no
good
Lori hissy-fitting her bewilderment as she makes ready for ignoring death’s
hooves fastly approaching, or leaves off
salvation by not believing in Nick’s foreshadows of graveyard co-ops, for all,
coming soon enough,

Hunt
bemoaning Charon’s dire boatman dirging of what belongs to him in his rotting
boat, the pool man cursing the
sticky mess Hunt leaves behind, all suckered innards spouting in fountains of
grue, clearing out the pool real fast, as sparking electrical circuits burn
bright

Janet
screaming as she drives through her car wash, the bristly-brushes whizzing
closer as she sticks her head in their way,
but stay the Grand Guignol hand and spoil the girl,
to vain thoughts of
giddily escaping death’s plan
until later, when he can dish it out even worse, of course

Lori’s song
of mistaken relief, the deathboy’s not on his way in the morning, or at nooning
intermission, or at sundowning, to sharpen his blade ‘gainst wet red oozing
twitching body parts

The
delicious grinding of the escalator, or zinging of the shearing metal flying,
or the phat tire splatting, or the
air-compressed canister flattening, all in marvelously punctuated 3D
Each groaning what body parts belong to him or her and to no one else, though
it’s all mixed up

The day what
belongs to death—at night the parade of dead
teens, robustly still dead, or dying, or waiting their turn
Screaming with open mouths,
when left intact,
their strong outcries in stereophonic crescendos, ‘gainst awaiting another
destination,
’cause it ain’t over yet ’til the fat lady gets hers

or the
audience stops coming,

but then they’ll reimagine,
rework,
rewrite,
rethink,
rekindle
this franchise till no one else remains,
but death grinning over all

Tokyo Gore Police (2008)
What the Hell?

/ Movies (Bad), Movies (Gore) / 4 Comments

Tokyo Gore Police

Zombos Says: WTF?

I grabbed Glenor Glenda’s elbow as her foot slipped on the ice water puddling across the Mongolian teak wood floor of Zombos’ study. She composed herself, slid the steaming hot mug of Satan’s Balls back to the center of her serving tray, and properly presented Chef Machiavelli’s frothy and zesty spiced rum-cocoa concoction—splashed with peach-ginger–to our shivering and quite unexpected guest. Our housekeeper waited expectantly as he took a sip and neatified her uniform with much suspicious intent.

“May I get you a blanket…Mister…? Glenor asked.

“Lucifer. Oh, hell, let’s not stand on formality, just call me Luc, okay? You’re a darling, but I doubt a blanket would help.”

Lucifer’s long red tail waved excitedly as he sipped his drink.

“By Tartarus! This drink is wicked bad! And you say your Chef doesn’t use any black arts? Amazing! My three-eyed cook couldn’t find her way round a souffle, even with her two heads. Damn creature burns everything. Ah, this sinful beverage is heating up my rump. In spite of all the fur in my nether region I was going numb down there, you know.”

He winked at our usually flirtatious housekeeper. Glenor giggled.

I cleared my throat. She stopped giggling.

“Oh, jealous are we? You needn’t be.” He winked at me and flicked his tongue in a devilish manner. Glenor clapped her hand to her mouth stifling another giggle. My withering glance at her helped keep it at bay.

I was desperate. “Zombos! Any luck?”

Zombos was standing behind his Carlton House desk, holding the phone in one hand and a thick legal document in the other. Every now and then a few more sheets of paper slipped from the document and fluttered to the floor. He shrugged. “Sosumi is looking into it. He does not know how this could have happened.”

Sosumi ‘Jimmy’ Jango was Zombos’ crackerjack estate lawyer.

Lucifer finished his drink and smacked his lips. I motioned to Glenor to bring another one for our frisky guest. It looked like evening vespers would be well over by the time Zombos found the document we needed.

“What is that Jimmy?” said Zombos into the phone. “It is in Attachment 66? Okay. Okay, I will look for it.” Zombos hung up the phone. “He is almost here. He said to look for—”

“Attachment 66, yes, I heard,” I said.

“Ouch! Oh, you devil!” gasped Glenor with delight.

I looked at Glenor.

“He pinched me,” she said giggling as she hastily left the room.

I looked at Lucifer; he shrugged, smiled, and winked again. I looked back at Zombos imploringly. “Let’s find that attachment pronto, shall we? Did you check the Wooten? You tend to bury things in there pretty well.”

“Of course!” Zombos turned around and quickly opened the doors of his Wooten desk. The two places Zombos relies on to hide, store, or forget things are his closet and his cherished Wooten desk. Since the Wooten desk is smaller than his closet, I figured it would be easier to search first.

“Well, I’ll be,” said Zombos.

“You found Attachment 66?” I asked.

“What? Oh that, no. I found my set of Brasher Doubloons. I was wondering what happened to them.”

“Great, I’ll let Philip Marlowe know. What about the legal document?” My spirits were sinking fast.

“No, I do not see–wait a minute.”

“Yes?”

“I found it!” Zombos said triumphantly.

“Thank god,” I sighed. Lucifer cleared his throat. “Sorry,” I said, shooting a glance his way.

When I looked back to Zombos he was doing the walk the dog move with his gold-trimmed Duncan YoYo. That’s what he had found. I sighed again. There but for the grace of God I thought. Lucifer cleared his throat more loudly and gave me a smoldering stare.

“We really need that legal document…now!”

“Oh, yes, yes. Let me see.” He put the YoYo back and opened another draw. “Here it is.” He held up Attachment 66. “Let me see, now. Jimmy said to check the waiver at the bottom of page 13. Hmm…hmm…not good. Here, you better read it.”

I walked over to Zombos and he handed the document to me. I mentally translated the waiver’s legalese as I read it. Hidden in all the mumbo-jumbo was the stipulation that if the New York Times ever printed a movie review that was favorable toward a movie that I, acting as Zombos’ agent, reviewed negatively, hell would most certainly freeze over. I glanced over at Lucifer sitting uncomfortably on the large block of ice. So that’s why both of them suddenly popped up around midnight.

“But this is impossible,” I said. The New York Times has never given a favorable review to any horror movie I disliked. It’s always the opposite. They never give favorable reviews to horror movies I like, either.”

Glenor Glenda ushered an excited Sosumi Jango into the room. He furiously waved a copy of the New York Times.

“I found it!” he declared. “It’s Jeannette Catsoulis’s review of Tokyo Gore Police.” He unfolded the paper and read the review out loud. “Propelled by geysers of blood and tidal waves of neuroses, Tokyo Gore Police plumbs wounds both cultural and physical to deliver splatterific social satire.”

I was dumbfounded. Had she seen the same movie I had?

“Ouch! He pinched me,” said Jimmy, pointing at Lucifer.

“What?” shrugged Lucifer. “I can’t help it. I like lawyers.”

“It just doesn’t make any sense. This movie is simply not worth all this bother,” I was bewildered.

“Let me see your review for the movie,” suggested Jimmy, rubbing his behind as he stepped to a safer distance. “I can’t give you any reasonable council until I see it.”

Lucifer laughed. “I’ve not had this much nuisance since Daniel Webster stirred up a dickens’ worth of trouble and kicked me out of New Hampshire. Thank the fallen there are forty-nine more states, I can tell you that. And the lord knows I love congress. Wouldn’t be any fun without them.”

“Hold that thought,” I said and ran up to my attic office to retrieve my laptop. Still huffing and puffing after running back down, I showed Jimmy my review. As he read it out loud, Lucifer was enjoying another mug of warm comfort while Glenor made sure to stay within pinching distance. The woman is incorrigible.

Here’s what Jimmy read:

“Within the first half-hour of watching Tokyo Gore Police I realized it was going to be a transgressive tour through the cineburbia of outrageous gore and absurd social commentary, far away from movie Main Street. Surprisingly, it works for about the first half-hour, but begins to take questionable—albeit scenic—detours through RoboCop-styled commercials lampooning Japanese consumerism, Japunk-technorumble filled with bed wetting-inducing Rob Bottin-styled monstrosities comprised of squishy-gooey latex body parts glistening with stringy mucus highlights; and hacked limbs spouting endless geysers of blood saturating everything, including the camera lens. A chewed limp penis, one monstrous erect penis, chip and dip ankle drilling, a golden showering chair with vagina, and pretty women turned into grotesque objects of perverse desire, meld non-stop into arthouse incoherence. This Pachinko parlor’s worth of bright colors and frenzy left me wondering when exactly director Yoshihiro Nishimura let the special effects department direct his movie.”

Jimmy stopped reading and looked at me. “What’s this mean in English?”

“Just read on,” I said. He continued.

“The Scooby-Doo-simple story centers on Ruka (Eihi Shiina), a grown up, silent, and self-mutilating daughter traumatized after she sees her police officer father assassinated. She now works for the police as a special agent. She has issues. Ruka repeatedly slices into her wrists with a razor before going after a cannibalistic Engineer who is dining on his latest victim like a heaping serving of human sushi. Engineers are serial-killing criminals who can morph their wounds into weapons. Using a bazooka, Ruka blasts herself into action as her fellow officers, questionable members of the privatized Tokyo Police Force, are cut to pieces by the Engineer’s newly acquired chainsaw appendage. These opening moments are fun to watch because everything is so seriously over the top and Ruka wields a mean cleavage—with her Samurai sword.

“After Ruka does some ice-sculpting with the Engineer’s own chainsaw—using him instead of ice—the remains are brought back to the dirty and dreary police morgue. The hunchbacked, one-eyed coroner with a spring in his step and clothing like one of Hostel‘s housekeeping staff”—

“I love Hostel,” said Lucifer. “I almost died laughing it was so funny.”

—“searches for and finds the key-shaped growth found in every Engineer, which gives them their ability to mold tissue into lethal weapons. Someone known as the Key Man is responsible for mutating people into maniacal killing machines.

“That is as much story as you will get jammed between the dolled-up, blond-haired police dispatcher with her bubble-gum explanations and lively commercials extolling stylish self-mutilating box cutters, in assorted colors, and remote torture family fun for society’s deviants. Prolonged blood-fountain fanboy-favorite gore shocks provide the sticky action and, apparently, the main appeal this movie has for many reviewers and horror fans.

“The piece de resistance is the fetish club an off-duty police officer visits. It defies conventional or even tasteful description (not that many real fetish clubs could be described conventionally or tastefully). Women, grotesquely mutilated, are displayed as sexual objects to satisfy the appetites of the club’s vinyl-clad patrons. The officer loses his head over one woman (guess which head, I dare you), but winds up with a much bigger one. Under the control of the Key Man, he returns to the precinct to show it off to his fellow officers with lethally envious results.”

Jimmy stopped reading. “Does this get any better?” he asked.

“No, the movie doesn’t,” I said.

“I meant your review.”

“Just keep reading,” I said.

“Ruka eventually confronts the Key Man, who tells her the truth about her father’s murder, and reveals those responsible. As she goes after her father’s killers, the Tokyo Police Force goes crazy and begins attacking citizens.

“Not sure why. Not sure the director knew why, either.

“One person is drawn and quartered while others are shot, stabbed, hacked, and (insert your own favorite gore gag or body disassembly gimmick here).

“With little said and much mayhem done, Tokyo Gore Police will undoubtedly become a favored cult classic for some and a Pepto-Bizmol moment for others mostly due to its zeal for incomprehensible distastefulness.”

Jimmy closed the laptop’s cover, tapping it again and again while he weighed his thoughts, then stopped. “I got nothing.”

I slumped into the Regency sofa. Zombos practiced his Double Gerbil move on his Duncan YoYo, and Glenor Glenda busied herself by doing nothing.

“Wait, I have it!” announced Jimmy after a few moments reviewing the documents on Zombos’ desk. “It’s here on page 777, under Rider to Attachment 66, ‘herein to be known as Clause 3, otherwise referred to as the Two-Thirds Clause. If both parties agree to unbinding arbitration, dissolution of prior binding agreements, notwithstanding mutually agreed upon settlements of pre-existing or ongoing issues, will supersede, preclude, and nullify Attachment 66. Whereby the second party, hereafter referred to as Lucifer (also known as, but not solely restricted to, Mephistopheles, Asmodai, Beelzebub, Satan, Belial, Abbadon, and Mr. Scratch)—’ ”

“That’s my favorite,” Lucifer interrupted. “Has a nice inviting and unassuming ring to it, doesn’t it?”

” ‘Mr. Scratch,’ ” continued Jimmy, ” ‘and the first party, hereafter known as Godfrey Daniel Zombos and his dutifully bound executor, Iloz Mordecai Zoc, representing his living and or dead or quantum situated estate, including but not limited to chattel, codicils, bequests and residues and residuals wherever presumptive and inclusive, may reach mutually satisfactory resolution by invoking the Two-Thirds Clause.’ ”

Jimmy read the rest in silence, then said “All right, then. Now we just need to find out what this clause is.” He looked through the papers in his hands. Not finding it, he turned to the papers scattered on and around Zombos’ desk. Soon he was on his hands and knees examining each sheet on the floor and under the desk.

“Damn your souls to Hades with all this nonsense,” rumbled Lucifer. “It’s like waiting for a miracle. Enough of this! Time for the Four Horsemen!”

Lucifer reached into his Loculus.

Glenor Glenda dropped her serving tray and turned pale. I felt my heart suddenly pound against my chest. Jimmy banged his head against the desk in his haste to stand, absently crumpling sheets of paper in his fists as he stared at Lucifer in desperation. Zombos continued to practice his Buddha’s Revenge with his YoYo, oblivious to the impending doom about to embrace us all.

He almost had it, though. “Don’t do it!” yelled Jimmy. “We can
work this—”

Lucifer pulled out a bright red iPod classic. “What’s that you say?” he asked, pushing the earbuds into his
pointed ears.

“Nevermind,” said Jimmy, exhaling. He looked at his balled fists and loosened their death grip on the crumpled sheets.

“The Four Horsemen‘s 666 song is my favorite,” said Lucifer. “I like to crank up the volume on that one. Then again, I like to crank up the volume on everything.”

“Hey, here it is!” Jimmy triumphantly held up a crumpled sheet of paper in his right hand. He uncrumpled it, reading it as he did so. ” ‘The Two-Thirds Clause is described herewith. Should the party of the first part and the party of the second part mutually agree to arbitration by a party of the third part, satisfaction of encumbrance will render null and void all prior commitments, restrictions, and privileges pursuant to Attachment 66. Third party arbitration may be satisfied by agent or agency not associated with, bound to, or administered by either party. Third party agent or agency must show no prior agreement with either party of the first part or their executing authorities, dependents, and antecedents.”

We anxiously waited for the translation.

“It says that if we find someone else who always disagrees with your reviews Zoc, but who would, for this one time, agree with your review of Tokyo Gore Police, Attachment 66 would no longer apply. Of course, it would need to be someone not associated with you, and who has, up until now, always showed the opposite of your opinions and tastes in horror movies.”

“What the devil,” I stammered.

“Yes?” asked Lucifer, removing an earbud.

“No, not you.”

Lucifer popped the bud back into his ear.

“This is impossible. Who are we going to get who has always shown the exact opposite in their cimema taste to mine and whom would suddenly agree with me? It would take a mira—”

“So what’s all this?” asked Paul Hollstenwall entering the room. “I kept ringing the front doorbell. Chef Machiavelli finally let me in.”

Paul waved hello to Lucifer. “Dude, that’s some serious Face Off makeup you got going there. Hexcellent! What are you guys doing? Hey, am I being punked? That would be so awesome.” He looked around the room for a hidden camera.

“Paul, now’s not a good time,” I said.

“Wait a minute. Now I get it. You and Mr. Z are Larpers! Man, how cool is that! Looks like you got some weird sh*t going on. I bet the devil’s in the details , right? Anyway, I was passing by on my way to Jersey to catch Vampire Breakfast Club. I tried to Twitter you but I kept getting that stupid ass whale. Wanted to tell you to forget my tweet on Tokyo Gore Police. Saw it last night. Lame with a capital LAME. I was so disappointed it cooled my beans to zero. Now Drag Me to Hell was awesome.”

A car horn sounded.

“Gotta go before my date gets pissed at me again. Later.”

Paul flew out of the room. A moment of silence followed.

Jimmy looked at me. Zombos looked at his fingers tangled in his Cat’s Cradle. I looked at Lucifer. He removed his earbuds and nodded.

“Agreed! Most certainly, agreed.” He stood up.

Thunder shook the room and the ice block Lucifer was bound to split with a sharp crack, then shattered, sending glistening shards into oblivion.  His massive hooves clattered on the floor as he stretched to his full height, dwarfing us in his spreading shadow floating across the floor.

“The last time I heard a sound so sweetly soothing was when I teased Moses into breaking those two little tablets of stone.” His voice, now unfettered, rebounded off the walls like the echoes in a sepulcher. His eyes glowed brighter than red hot iron.

“Be seeing you,” he said with a nod to me.

His arms and legs erupted into plumes of red smoke as his torso disappeared behind a shower of white sparks. His face lingered for an instant, alone in the air with a chesire-cat’s grin lingering behind. With a wink of an eye and a devilish grin, he vanished in a flash of crimson fire.

Now what did he mean he’ll be seeing me? I thought.

More Bookish Oldies for Horror Fan Gift Lists

/ Gift Ideas / 8 Comments

GhoulXmasSM Hellz n’ Bellz
Hellz n’ Bellz
Screaming all the way!
What the hell, am I to do
With my horror fan’s gift-buying today, hey!

“Well, what are you waiting for?” insisted Zombos. “Stop daydreaming and get out of the damn elevator shaft already.”

We were playing Alone in the Dark and I kept getting killed. I refocused my attention and pulled my thoughts back from dwelling on the early days of PC games, keyboard and mouse controls, and cheat codes–lord knows I could use some omnipotence now. I stared at the Nunchuck and Wii-mote in my fumbling hands. My awkward, entirely useless hands, struggling to master the rudiments of the life-like motions and ‘A’, ‘B’, ‘Z’, button-presses needed to save myself–damn, fell down the elevator shaft again. Where is that ‘-‘ button anyway, and how do I use it to get past those blasted exhaust fans?

“You’re impossible,” encouraged Zombos, grabbing the Wii controls out of my hands. “Go do something useful, like putting together a book gift-buying list or something.”

Now that was a good idea…

…

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LOTT D: Roundup of Horror

/ League of Tana Tea Drinkers / 2 Comments

Lottdroundup Howdy Pardners! Tie up your horse and mosy on over to the chuckwagon. We’ve got steamin’ coffee and sizzlin’ beans, and a month’s worth of favorite posts from the notorious League of Tana Tea Drinkers horror ranch lined up and waitin’ for you…yeehaw! (This article originally appeared on March 2nd, 2009.)

And Now the Screaming Starts had trouble choosing a favorite, but here is its most visited post of the month, Sweet Little Thirteen. Perhaps the strangest phenomenon spawned by the Friday the 13th remilkshake is, unlike the treatment of the original, this flick has entered the pop culture sphere with a resounding shrug from the non-horror world.

The Vault of Horror explores what disturbs Karl Hungus in An Exploration of Fear. Greetings once again Vault dwellers, it is Karl Hungus here, so do not adjust your set, I am now in control of the transmission. It’s amazing how much excitement can be derived from exploring our own anxieties in this way, with a good Horror film, we come face to face with so many negative emotions, and come out thrilled at the end.

Dinner With Max Jenke shares the love for one of the lesser-loved Friday the 13th’s in Friday the 13th Part V: A New Beginning. This controversial attempt to continue Friday the 13th after 1984’s The Final Chapter didn’t win many fans at the time of its 1985 release. And in fact, it hasn’t won many more in the twenty-four years since then, either.

Mad Mad Mad Mad Movies was surprised by La Residencia (The House That Screamed). By this point in my movie-watching career, there are certain known quantities when it comes to watching Mad Movies. For instance, my tastes being what they are, I pretty much know going in to a movie by Paul Naschy, Jose Mojica Marins, or Jean Rollin that I’m going to find something to make my heart beat a little faster; similarly, I’m fairly confident that most Eurocine productions are going to leave me crankily unsatisfied.

Billy Loves Stu takes us on a 60’s romp with Nich&Katherine&Chad&Michelle, and Baghead. From its poster’s homage to that swinging 60’s romp, Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice, to its Blair Witch Project meets Body Double by way of Friday the 13th, Baghead is one beguiling and entertaining film.

Final Girl does something “a wee bit different” with a cheeky-monkey-hilarious comic strip review of Trilogy of Terror II. Don’t miss it!

Kindertrauma picks something it hopes is “not too weird” with Eden Lake. Maybe I’ve got a bit of that Stockholm syndrome because even though I got my ass handed to me, I can’t let go of the fact that EDEN LAKE, vicious as it may be, really is a good film.

So there you have it Buckaroos, until next time. Happy Trails to you!

The Horror Movie Victim’s Guide to Being a Good Victim

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VictimincarLet’s applaud the hapless victims in horror films. They contribute so much to our enjoyment of their terror, their hysteria, and their blood. They are sliced, diced, minced, blintzed, mangled, strangled, eaten, beaten, slurped, blurped–feel free to insert your own action verbs here–and grilled and chilled in countless ways, just to make us jump in our seats, upchuck our popcorn, or tickle our fright-bone. They lighten our distressing job’s tedium and those tomorrow’s and tomorrow’s and tomorrow’s doldrums. Their witless, death-attracting antics creep forth in an endless and frenetic pace from film to film, keeping us happy–because we are not them.

The more paranoid you are, the safer you are, that’s the public service message every horror movie leaves us with. Anyone who takes a dirt road detour, leaving the sureness of good solid tarmac beneath their wheels, well, what more can be said? If you follow directions from a toothless, unwashed, gas station attendant with expensive tourist swag in his unkempt excuse for living quarters, you’re just begging for it: the drawn-out and quartered, bloody end of it. But if all horror movie victims acted smart and careful we would be bored stiff because nothing bad could come of it. So why do we keep writing books that show potential victims how to survive?

…

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Some Personal Nightmares and Dark Landscapes

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In my younger years, it was an odd thing, but in times of stress I dreamed about zombies. Not the pleasant “hey, let’s dress up like zombies and stagger around the mall” on Saturday kind, but night-sweat, run like hell, sorts of dream zombies. Perhaps it is not so odd, being a horror fan and all that, but it was still disturbing all the same.

Usually, the zombies were lying in wait in some dark place I knew I should not enter. Either a basement or hallway or a road I was driving lost on. The bad situation was like a movie cliche that repeats itself with a bit of new set dressing and characters each time, except for the zombies and the overwhelming fear that eventually forces me awake. What causes this fear is still a mystery to me. A clear case for psychoanalysis for sure.

It all started in my teens, intermittently at first, occurring more often until a sort of closure dream ended it for a long time. That recurring dream was either a door to a weird-looking house, or the opening to a dark cave, or a door to a room down a long hall. There were no zombies then, only an omnipresent fear that where I found myself I should not be, and what lay behind the door or in the dark cave should not be seen.

This went on for a long time too. I did not sleep then nearly as much as I do now, but still it made sleep an often nerve-tingling experience. Each time I seemed to be a little closer to reaching the doorknob or entering the cave, but each time the fear took control, forcing me awake to avoid it; unreasoning fear, visceral fear, a fear only the chaotic subconscious or dark Thanatos could wield so potently.

And then one night it stopped in this way. The closed door, this time, led into a large dark house with many windows. I stood outside, looking up at the windows, then looking down at the door. It opened! I froze. From one of the windows a man dressed all in black, and wearing a top-hat, suddenly leaned out and shouted to me “it’s showtime!” He disappeared for a moment, then reappeared, holding a skinned torso in his arms. He began to toss it down to me. Instead of the fear that had so often forced me awake, this time it forced me to run through the open door. Now here is where it gets really weird.

Entering the house suddenly placed me on a sloping, mountainside path. It was dusk, and snow started to fall, dusting the path. I was alone at first, but a man, dressed in a gray robe and holding a staff, from which a yellow lantern glowed, started walking up the path toward me. I could hear bells as he came closer.  When  he passed me without a word, I felt the need to follow him. I did. We continued walking in silence. The snow grew heavier, and his lantern glowed more brightly with each step we took up the mountain path. Suddenly, his lantern glowed a very bright white light, filling my vision until there was this–the best way I can describe it–pop. It was a feeling more than a noise, and I woke up with a feeling of complete peace. The fear, fostered by whatever lay behind those doors for so long, was gone, and did not return; until my later years.

Now, I dream of being on a strange train or bus going in the wrong direction or trying to make a connection but I keep getting on the wrong train or bus, suddenly stranding me in an unknown place: a weird seaside part of a city or a street with lots of cars but no taxis and no public transportation, where everything is closing and night is coming, and I have this urgent need to find safety.

Of course, there’s the other nightmare I have now and then, where I’m in some public place like a mall and need a bathroom, but there aren’t any, so I keep searching and searching. But being older, I think those dreams have more to do with my prostate than my pysche.

So, what nightmares are you having? Sleep much?

 

LOTT D Roundtable:
Evil Kids in Horror Movies

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Thering01

Sugar and spice and everything nasty and not very nice; that’s the usual scenario when evil kids go out to play in the horror genre. But there’s something not quite right here. Children in real life rarely have power over adults (unless they are royalty or Disney-channel stars), while in the horror genre they wield enough power to make any and all adults quake in fear or drop dead. How can this be? What elements combine to turn all that sugar sour and comforting cinnamon spice into hot pepper? Why do they scare us so much, or traumatize us, or make us wish they would go away and play with their nastiness somewhere else? From zombie kids to Satan’s pride of joy, from juvenile serial killers to mutant offspring, the little evil ones bedevil us.

The following members of The League of Tana Tea Drinkers lend their thoughts on the subject for your edification pleasure. (This League of Tana Tea Drinkers article was originally posted on June 10, 2008)

 

Vault of Horror talks about the evil destruction of childhood:

For the longest time, horror films and the concept of childhood have had a complex relationship. This has much to do with the fact that one of the central themes of all horror entertainment—if not the central theme—is the corruption/destruction of good by evil.

Childhood as an ideal represents nothing as much as innocence in its purest form. And innocence itself is the ultimate distillation of “good”. Perhaps this is why both creators and audiences alike have often had something of a difficult time dealing with it within the horror medium. Because childhood represents the ultimate good, the corruption/destruction of that good is the most extreme form of evil that most of us can imagine. Very often it is simply too much to bear.

This is why, for as long as horror films have been around, the ultimate taboo, the one area most have avoided like the plague, has been the murder of children. True, there have been notable exceptions over the years, movies like Frankenstein (1931), The Blob (1988) and Sleepy Hollow (1999). But for the most part, filmmakers keep away from it, as exemplified most vividly in some of the Friday the 13th movies, in which Jason will literally walk past the beds of sleeping campers and keep his focus on the counselors. For most of us, violence against children is something we don’t really want to see in horror movies. It’s not fun or entertaining, and unfortunately, all too painful and real.

Which brings me to the original topic: Evil kids in the horror genre. Ruling out the literal destruction of the child, the closest most horror creators choose to come is the destruction of childhood. If horror is all about the corruption of good, then the corruption of the ultimate good, the innocence of childhood, is about as evil as it gets.

For this reason, the depiction of evil children stirs up deep feelings of dread and revulsion in many viewers. We innately perceive it as a gross affront to the natural order of things. Something within us senses this perversion, and recoils from it. Evil adults we can handle; most of us deal with them on an almost daily basis. But evil children? And by this I don’t mean the bratty kid on line at the grocery store who won’t shut up—I mean genuinely, truly evil children. An utterly alien concept.

Some of the genre’s finest works have mined this motherlode of subconscious terror: The Omen (1976), Halloween (1978), The Ring (2001), and most recently, The Orphanage (2007). It works to particular effect in William Friedkin’s masterpiece The Exorcist (1973), in which we literally witness the purest and most innocent little girl imaginable defiled and twisted by a wholly evil force into an obscene mockery of nature. Though flawed, Stephen King’s Pet Sematary (1989) pulls off a powerful combination by presenting us with the ultimate taboo (death of a child), followed by the perversion of innocence, as the child returns in evil form.

In short, it is this underlying sense of profound and incomprehensible wrongness that causes us to fear the so-called “evil child” in horror movies. It is also the subconscious connection to the ultimate act of corruption—the literal corruption of the flesh itself, i.e. the death of the child. Sublimating this primordial horror in the form of corrupted childhood thus becomes a safer way to scare the crap out of us, without offending.

  …

LOTT D Roundtable:
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Dead of Night (1945)

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Deadnight
Zombos Says: Classic

Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantons of contemned love
And sing them loud even in the dead of night;
(from William Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night)

“You must be kidding,” said Zombos, tossing the DVD over to me.

“No, really, it’s a hoot,” said Paul Hollstenwall. This time he brought along the straight to DVD movie The Blood Shed. The man has gone too far this time.

“Your average inbred, hillbilly, cannibalistic family,” I read out loud from the DVD cover.  “Paul, I’m not sure this is appropriate. I can’t imagine watching this while sipping my hot chocolate and Sambuca. How about we start with something more apropos of the holiday season? A cozy journey into hysteria and terror by a roaring fireplace might be good. And a twist ending. There’s nothing like hysteria and terror with a twist ending.”

“Something with a touch of ghosts and evil spirits, I think, and British accents,” added Zombos.

“Dead of Night,” we both volunteered.

“Well, okay. But then will you watch The Blood Shed afterwards?” asked Paul eagerly. “It goes great with popcorn.”

We grimly nodded yes. Such are the vagaries of the horror movie fan’s life. Maybe I’ll have the League of Reluctant Reviewers deal with The Blood Shed. They are my go-to people for reviewing the most questionable (or is that objectionable) in horror cinema. But for now, the Dead of Night beckons.

 

It is the starched collar, stiff upper lip in the face of the irrational that gives this British horror entry an unusual cadence, which still works its devilish magic today. Mervyn Johns, the quintessential Bob Cratchit in 1951’s Scrooge, plays architect Walter Craig. His modest appearance, his earnest demeanor, and his nightmare-bedeviled mind come up against the weird at a country estate where he unexpectedly meets those persons, now real flesh and blood, rattling him in his sleep. Is it déjà vu, or is something more sinister afoot?

Assembled in the living room of the country house he’s come to remodel, they are, at first, surprised by his assertions of familiarity. They quickly warm up to his odd precognition, however, and eagerly describe their own brushes with the preternatural, one by one, including the pooh-poohing psychologist, who saves the most chilling encounter for last.

This sets up the movie’s stories within a framing narrative, with each tale delivering a stronger jolt of the inexplicable intruding into the mundane world; culminating in a whirligig ending, with Craig smack in the thick of it, twisting back to the beginning. But the beginning is the main question he desperately puts the puzzling pieces together in search of an answer.

The caliber of acting is A movie. Michael Redgrave caps off the strong cast with his portrayal of a frazzled ventriloquist whose vent dummy won’t shut up. In the last and strongest story to be told, this one by the psychologist who admits he’s baffled by the encounter.

Ventriloquist Maxwell Frere no longer does all the talking in his act. When his dapper but nasty alter ego, Hugo, goes looking for a new lap to sit in, Frere goes off the very deep end and winds up bashing the dummy’s face to pulp. But you just can’t keep a bad dummy down in horror, so Hugo returns to run the act his way. Madness? Perhaps. But there’s still an air of the weird with Hugo appearing larger than his wooden life would normally allow.

Another strong segment involves a three-panel mirror bought in an antique shop. Old, ornate, and decidedly evil in its reflections, the mirror bodes ill to the poor fellow who receives it as a birthday present from his wife. Obviously not a watcher of the Antiques Roadshow, she decides to learn the provenance of the damned thing after she buys it, much to her regret. Of course, when the shopkeeper tells her about the mirror’s previous owner’s misfortune, prefacing his horrifying story with his hope she’s not superstitious, the chill-to-her-bone realization of what’s happening to her husband sends her straight away to set matters right. This story’s mood of impending doom comes from the mirror’s reflection of a sinister-looking Victorian room, and the deleterious effect it has on her husband who only sees himself standing in it even when his wife is by his side.

Separating these two tales of stark terror is a pawky romantic rivalry between two quirky golfers and their infatuation with a woman who can’t decide which to marry. Loosely based on H.G. Wells’ The Story of the Inexperienced Ghost, it is often criticized as the weakest of the five stories. However, it does provide an absurd humor interlude from the more serious scares. Told by the host of the country house who doesn’t have a real supernatural encounter to relate—but makes one up anyway—it’s an Alfred Hitchock Presents-styled twist ending involving an unwanted haunting and the need for fair play. Its whimsical nature fits in with the host’s personality, and provides contrast to the overall narrative of Craig’s predicament. It also provides a showcase for the British comedy duo of Basil Radford and Naunton Wayne (Charters and Caldicott in Hitchcock’s The Lady Vanishes).

As each story is told, Craig and the psychiatrist argue over their true supernatural experiences. More and more, the architect becomes trapped by events playing out according to his dream, leading him to an inescapable compulsion. But what is real, and what are whispers and shadows heard and seen only in the dead of night is anyone’s guess; especially Craig’s.

This portmanteau movie’s five segments were handled by four directors, and each story supports the main narrative of Walter Craig’s nightmare dilemma. In its initial American release, the opening Yuletide ghost story and the lighter golfing interlude were cut, muddling the pacing and leaving one lodge guest without a story to tell.

This classic compendium of the macabre had a strong influence on subsequent horror movies because of its eerie moodiness and is well worth a view, especially in the dead of night.

The Mysterious Case of The Blood Shed (2007)

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Bloodshed
Zombos Says: Poor

Although the chandelier was unlit, light from the brightly burning logs in the large fireplace shimmered through its crystals, sending beams of white into the high, dark corners of the ceiling, across the walls, and across the richly carpeted floor. Facing the fireplace stood a high-backed Chippendale wing chair with exquisite cabriole legs. The chair was upholstered in the same deep color as the carpet. A short man briskly entered the room and walked toward the chair.

“Ah, Mr. Bolton, you are early.” A small, stark white hand briefly appeared on the right side of the chair, flicked the ashes off a long cigar, then disappeared. “It must be a serious matter then?”

Bolton looked down at the ashes piled in the bronze ashtray resting on the oval-topped trestle table beside the chair. He pulled a DVD case from his worn messenger’s pouch. He addressed the back of the wing chair.

“Yes, it’s a serious matter. Seventy-three minutes of bloody hillbilly debauchery that defies sanity, convention, and good people’s decency. Bluntly put, it’s schlock with a capital S.”

“Excellent, I love a challenge!” said the voice, accompanied by a single clap of hands.

From the left side of the wing chair a stark white hand reached out expectantly. Bolton was relieved to hand over the DVD.

“You will find sherry and a polished Stiegel glass by the couch. We will be a short time, I’m sure.”

Bolton removed his overcoat and retreated to the couch in the other room. He sat down, poured the sherry, and waited, as he normally did, for the review that no one else would do; no one, that is, except for the League of Reluctant Reviewers.

 

What are we to do with Alan Rowe Kelly, then? The man is incorrigible. What infantilistic need drives him to dress like an aging, demonic Little Lulu, carry wicked-sharp garden shears, and wreak gory havoc worse than the dogs of war? Why does he find subject matter like inbred New Jersey hillbillies with a penchant for cannibalism and sadistic nut-cracking with pliers—not Walnuts, mind you—gleefully choreographed to the tune of the innocent Little Lulu song (and my sincere apologies to Marjorie Henderson Buell), fit for decent horror fans?

As the grotesque Beefteena Bullion, who dreams of becoming America’s Next Top Model, he charges ahead with a nightmarish blend of over the top
gore, grievous over-acting, and unsavory, outlandish scenes that play parody with too much off-the-wall seriousness. From the shallow end of the genre pool he drags it up with elephant stomps, falling short of delivering unnerving terror or witty black humor.

Yet his compositions are executed with a keen eye for ominous camera angles, foreboding, lingering shots of dread, and the conventions of glistening
viscera, sadism with a laugh, and uncouth characters overstuffing this independent horror.

In sum, The Blood Shed is art-house schlock that will appeal to some, be avoided by most, and provide ample forums for discussion by both.
Given a healthy budget and a mainstream script, no doubt Kelly would be a force to reckon with. But until that time comes, if ever, we must, reluctantly,
direct our critical attention to The Blood Shed.

On the plus side, Sno Cakes (Susan Adriensen) is fun to watch as she and Beefteena chit-chat, sell sour Lemonade, and join in the murder spree with reckless abandon. With her corny drawl, over-done makeup, trashy clothes, and silly hairdo, she’s repulsive yet oddly sexy and funny; a bright spot in this drive-in disappointment.

And it’s not that the acting is bad, it’s more a case of story-telling for the sake of being as outrageous and naughty as possible. Rhyme and reason do not put in an appearance here; not when Beefteena playfully pulls her little stuffed rodent Flapjack on a string as she skips through the woods; or when a local brat is “accidentally” pulled apart in a tug of war; or when dad pulls the shotgun trigger to shoot down airborne squirrels, with comic close-ups of the rigor-mortised rodents lying on the ground, while he and the boys whoop it up.

When the local sheriff’s most important asset is attacked with a pair of pliers, the absurdity becomes more disgusting than put-on-funny. Kelly works this gory theater of blood angle with heaviness throughout, putting The Blood Shed out of the range of parody, satire, comedy, or even serious horror because he doesn’t stick enough with any one of them to make a difference.

Beefteena’s climactic birthday party scene—why is there always a deviant party or wacko dinner scene in these inbred, cannibalistic, hillbilly movies?—with decaying bodies of past victims wearing party hats seated around a festive table, and terrified future victims waking up to the festivity. It’s a mélange of grossness, bright colors, Little Lulu song playing, and humorless torture. The buzz of the electric carving knife while it’s used on the long-suffering sheriff, and Beefteena’s ire at the modeling agency personnel who laughed at her photo session induce nausea throughout this ham-fisted spectacle of tasteless scripting.

Yet throughout this repugnant romp you will find quietly competent cinematography by Bart Mastronardi, who frames each scene with loving precision, making colorful use of inexpensive string lights in unusual settings to cast a deceptively warming palette across scenes of depravity. The resulting dissonance creates a disorienting atmosphere that invites you in, but subtly warns you to stay away.

I heartily recommend you stay away unless you just want to enjoy the scenery. Watching paint dry would be a more productive expenditure of your seventy-three minutes; possibly not as much fun for some of you, but definitely more productive.

The Victim (2006)

/ Movies (Ghostly) / 1 Comment


The-VictimZombos Says: Very Good

“Maybe you can reenact the mystery?” said Lawn Gisland. He stretched his unusually long legs out in front of him and yawned. “Like Ting, ‘cept less’n the melodrama a mite.” He pulled at his cookie duster. “Say, Zoc, squeeze me ‘nother one of those cappurino’s, por favor.”

“Sure pardner,” I said, firing up the old cappuccino steam engine. The sound of pent-up steam escaping echoed through the cinematorium.

Zombos continued to look high and low for his eyeglasses, holding up our viewing of the Thai horror movie, The Victim. We were half-way through it before Zombos needed to hit the toilet; three large mocha cappuccinos were a record for him. When he came back he realized he misplaced his second pair of eyes.

Lawn stood up, all six feet and three inches of him, and joined the search. Having starred in
numerous Westerns on the little screen during the 1950s and 1960s, he and Zombos went way back together. He had hung up his spurs and retired to Florida to wrestle gators for the tourists. Getting bored with that he scratched his itch by touring as a circus cowboy, doing trick shooting and fancy riding. He was visiting the mansion while the Smith and Walloo Brothers 3-in-1 tent show set up somewhere in Long Island. For a man his age, he didn’t show it. Zombos often joked that Lawn must have a decrepit looking portrait in his attic like Dorian Gray.

I bet he did.

“Here. Wet your whistle while you search.” I handed the cappuccino to him. He downed it in three gulps. Something crunched sharply under his right Black Jack Hornback Alligator boot heel as he handed me his empty mug.

Zombos froze, his eyes widened.

“Found them,” said Lawn. He stooped to pick up them up and handed the mangled eyeglasses back to Zombos.

After I hastily retrieved Zombos’ second pair from the library we continued our viewing of The Victim.

 

Considering Thailand’s strong superstitions about ghostly phenomena, it’s a wonder Ghost Hunters Jason and Grant haven’t visited that
country yet. In The Victim, spirits are everywhere, especially as the sprightly aspiring actor Ting (Pitchanart Sakakorn) goes around reenacting the victims’ parts in real-life crime scene recreations, places where bad karma is rife.

One spirit in particular piques her interest, and challenges her acting skills to the fullest as she reenacts the circumstances surrounding the disappearance and death of Meen, a former Miss Thailand.

It soon appears that Ting is losing herself as she prepares for the reenactment of the crime, succumbing to violent flashbacks involving Meen, and disturbing, sometimes bloody, visitations by earthbound ghosts looking for help or vengeance.

The ghostly  imagery, directed by Monthon Arayangkoon, moves between poetically eerie glimpses of a genuinely unnerving twilight world filled with pitiable and vengeful spirits at arm’s reach, and the usual shocks we are now accustomed to. The pacing slowly moves the story along, and the interplay of bright colors across light and dark scenes, contrasting with darker-toned scenes earlier in the movie, provides visual cuing for the sudden story within the story transition. Just when you think you know what’s going on, bingo! you scramble for the remote to go back and see if you missed something.

In an unusual move for Thai horror, Arayangkoon pulls the rug out from under Ting, Meen, and the whole criminal scene investigation storyline by beginning a new storyline, creating a story you thought was happening within the story that is happening. While it starts out as a ghost story, it morphs into a “who’s the ghost?” story, and even then, not satisfied with changing Ting’s role completely, and meddling with the principal ghost involved, the reasons for all the vengeful havoc befalling Ting and others is revealed to be entirely different from what it seemed to be.

The Victim is an ambitious, more complex movie than usually comes out of T-Horror cinema, and it can be confusing, especially with
the little helpful English subtitles that fail to capture the nuances of the Thai language; but it’s still a pleasantly surprising departure from the usually straightforward horror fare we’ve come to expect from Asia. The cultural oddity, for us, with Thai police reenacting crime scenes using actors and the alleged criminal to provide the press with a photo op, and perhaps the spirits of victims with a modicum of peace, separates us from the business as usual horror shown in American cinema, and puts us off-balance immediately.

Drawing strength from its cultural perspectives, the movie draws on real crimes, and was shot on the actual locations where victims met their violent deaths. Building on this unpleasant reality, the movie’s artificial reality has an earnest sense of its supernatural underpinnings. The carefully accentuated coloration of these locations, Ting’s flashbacks, and the ghostly phenomena that befalls unsuspecting victims creates stark contrasts against each other, especially the later scenes, using a carefully executed palette that is above the over-used blanched fluorescent lighting simplicity seen in Saw, Dark Corners, and other American hard horror endeavors.

With the revelation of the second story, entering on the heels of a revealed lesbian relationship, the movie becomes a who’s next? more than a whodunit, and characters are powerless against a malevolent spirit that neither a traditional Thai spirit house or magic-bestowing tattoo inked with a bamboo needle will appease or avert. In one notable scene, framed through a narrow doorway, a pair of ghostly hands, at the ends of stretching…stretching…stretching arms, reach out to grab one unsuspecting victim.

Watch this movie late at night, when all is quiet and the world is right, and you just may find yourself checking to see if the front door is locked. Again, and again. Just remember that doors don’t stop ghosts, especially when you’re alone and in the dark.

With them.

Frankenstein Versus the Creature
From Blood Cove (2005)

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Zombos Says: Poor (even with the lap dance)

Disclaimer: The following review is filled with cheap shots, cheesy double-entendres, and puerile, trashy writing. Read it at your own risk.

 

Rain began to sideslip across the windowpanes and the bedroom grew darker. Zombos alternately
draped himself over his bed, the settee, and the cushy leather wing chairs. We were at our wits end, he from a bad cold and the doldrums, and I from wet-nursing him. We had exhausted the claret, the sherry, and now our beloved green fairy—Absinthe—was almost gone. The situation was becoming intolerable. The thunder storm refused to let up, dwindle down, or simply go away.

Glenor Glenda broke up the tedium by bringing in the morning mail, then went about her tidying up ways. Among the bills, personal correspondence, and advertisements (Zombos loves receiving those reassuring adverts about cemetery plots, dirt cheap), there was a soggy package from William Wincler, director of Frankenstein vs. the Creature from Blood Cove.

“Well, it’s in black and white,” I said, unwrapping it. Zombos loves black and white movies. I waved it in front of him to tempt him.

He waved his hand in the air while blowing his nose. I took that for a yes. I popped the disc into the DVD player and poured out the last drops of Absinthe.

“Lap dance special?” Zombos said as the menu choices appeared. “What is that?”

I shrugged and clicked the remote to select it. The both of us were quickly nonplussed.

“My word, I suppose that gives new meaning to the phrase ‘Frankenstein’s Monster,’ ” I said.

“Good lord,” said Zombos, “if Zimba sees this she will pickle me. Quick, select something else.”

The rain was coming down in bucket-fulls by the time we started the main feature. At Zombos’ request, I held onto the remote and positioned myself close to the door, just in case Zimba popped in during one of the numerous ‘talent and asset’ cheesecake scenes. Frankenstein’s Monster and the Creature were not the only
big monsters in this movie.

We watched the Creature, a biogenetically-engineered one, escape the mad scientists’ lair by jogging out the front door and gate, heading straight for the beach.

“Did the Creature just walk out the front door and gate?” asked Zombos.

“Well, no, exactly. Technically, he jogged out the front door and gate,” I corrected him.

Loopy scientists, dressed in their Clorox-white lab coats, drinking coffee after dinner and chit-chatting, decide, on a whim, to go and find Frankenstein’s Monster to continue their experiments now that the Creature had escaped and is sun-bathing on the beach.

They travel to Shellvania, which probably lies next to Exxonia, in the Gulf of Transylvania. Faster than you can say boo! they easily find the Monster in an unmarked grave using their trusty pocket-sized Reanimated-Tissue Traces Finder.

“What in hell is that thing? Is that made out of Legos?”asked Zombos.

“It does look like it,” I said. “Why, just last week at Walmart I saw Lego kits for Star Wars and Transformers. Be easy to make a Reanimated-Tissue Traces Finder, I’d think.

“Amazing,” said Zombos. “In my day, it was Slinkies, Silly-Putty, or Mr.Potato Head.”

While digging up the Frankenstein Monster, a werewolf attacks them, is frightened off, then attacks them again—in broad daylight. After being viciously assaulted, sort of, by the well-groomed werewolf, and shooting it dead, the unperturbed scientists decide to chat on and on about its medical condition. Eventually they go back to digging.

“I would have been hauling ass right about then,” I said.

Zombos nodded in agreement.

“Hey, look, the werewolf is Eddie Munster all grown up.”

We watched the cursed thing transform back to its human shape. “No wonder the werewolf looked like his Woof Woof doll.”

Back in Los Angeles (I wonder how they got Frankenstein’s Monster past Homeland Security?), the mad scientists set to work on brainwashing the Monster to follow only their orders.

What? That’s what mad scientists do.

Meanwhile, Percy, Bill and Dezzirae are off to the deserted beach—where the Creature ran off to—to shoot a photo spread for Kitty Kat magazine, highlighting Gabrielle’s bosomy assets.

“Lord! Now those monsters are scary!” said Zombos.

Getting Creature-is-near vibes, mayhem ensues, sending them hustling back to the Kitty Kat magazine office, but their editor sends them right back to the beach for more photos; which leads to our next saucy and well-endowed model, Beula, making the mistake of swimming topless when danger is nearby. She obviously hasn’t seen Jaws
or even Piranha. The Creature pops up to bore us to death—oops, I meant claw her to death.

More mayhem ensues as the Creature follows our panic-stricken trio to the parking lot, then to the—I didn’t see this one coming—mad scientists lair. Calling for help by patiently ringing the doorbell, Bill, Percy and Dezzirae are invited inside, only to become prisoners because they’ve seen too much.

By this time, so have we.

Frankenstein’s Monster is sent to kick the Creature’s butt, but instead gets his butt kicked. Mad Dr. Lazaroff (Larry Butler) helps him recuperate. He also receives a  visit from the ghost of Doctor Frankenstein.

“Is that Ed Wood?” asked Zombos as the ghostly apparition appears to Dr. Lazaroff.

“Can’t be, he’s not wearing an Angora sweater,” I said.

“Roger Corman, then?”

“Not dead yet,” I answered.

“Oh, right. It must be old Henry himself, then,” Zombos concluded.

“Story aside, the cinematography is good, don’t you think?” I asked. “The action scenes between the Monster and the Creature lack bite, though. Seems more like they’re having a hissy fit.”

Zombos agreed. “The pacing is non-existent. The camera angles are fair and bosomy.”

When Selena Silver goes into her shamelessly gratuitous pole dance routine in a seedy bar, all hell breaks loose when Frankenstein’s Monster enters. It’s pointless for me to describe how he got there in the first place, or why we’re even there because this whole production is pointless.

“Is that Ron Jeremy?” asked Zimba, standing at the door.

“Why yes, I think it—” Zombos turned a shade paler than he normally is.

I sensed a battle brewing, one more horrific than the cat-fight between the Monster and the Creature. I turned off the movie and hastily left the bedroom.

Wait a minute, I thought to myself as I paused at the top of the stairs, how did Zimba know what Ron Jeremy looked like?