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Movies (Gore)

Hobo With a Shotgun (2011)

/ Movies (Drive-in), Movies (Gore) / 2 Comments

Hobo-with-a-shotgun-movie-poster Zombos Says: Good (for gore and Trash Cinema fans, mostly)

We were in the cinematorium discussing what the hell Hobo With a Shotgun was about. I love Rutger Hauer, and he’s perfect in the role of Hobo, with his craggy face and sparkly eyes under all that grizzle, but really, what the hell?

“Hey, where’d Zombos go?” he asked.

“He left during the busload of children fricasseed by the flamethrower interlude,” I said.

Trash cinema isn’t Zombos’ usual thing anyway, especially when it concerns fricasseeing kids. Come to think of it, it isn’t mine either.

While not as sexually outrageous and bizarre as Tokyo Gore Police or as repulsive as Street Trash, Jason Eisener and writers do a wild job that comes close, saturating this golden turkey with over the rainbow colors, plotting an absurd predicament even Albert Camus would find mind-numbing, and serving up a heapful of over the top—and under the bottom—caricatures.

There’s a golden-hearted hooker (Molly Dunsworth), a hobo with a dream of owning a lawn mower (to start a lawn mowing business, of course), and The Drake (Brian Downey), a criminal boss crushing the heart and soul out of Hope Town to create his own Scum Town. It’s silly, stupid, insulting, crazy, trashy, exploitative, and quite aware of all these things. Not to be taken seriously, it is seriously grindhouse as the blood flows, heads roll, and blacklight poster situations increasingly take on the look and feel of a psychedelic-fueled withdrawal.

“So, what did you think?” asked Paul Holstenwall, purveyor of the midnight run of filmdom, running his hands through his long black hair. His blue eyes beamed at me expectantly. He had mired our attention on this one.

I took a deep breath. “I have conflicted feelings about it. Hobo With a Shotgun is like passing a bong around, with each toke building to a highpoint of intoxication only to eventually downslide into nausea.”

“Exactly! That’s the beauty of it. It’s mired in dirty realism and transgressive angst,” beamed Paul.

Maybe to a Charles Bukowski fan, I thought, but didn’t voice my assumption. My impression pretty much formed when Abby, the heart-of-gold hooker with a bear fetish, gets her hand mowed off, then uses the boney stump to stab The Drake again and again. I admit there’s a sense of poetic justice tucked away in there somewhere, but it’s buried under the gore and screams. Irony and sardonic mawkishness go ozone when Hobo walks into the Pawn Til Dawn pawn shop and sees his heart’s desire, a lawn mower for $49.99. There’s nothing that says ‘home’ more than a freshly mowed lawn. To get the money he lets a sleaze-ball (Pasha Ebrahimi) with lots of cash and a video camera tape him getting his teeth knocked out by another bum. Money in hand, just when he’s about to pay for the mower, schizo-robbers come in and threaten a mom and her baby.

The shotgun hanging on the wall in back of the counter is also $49.99. He makes the tough choice all trash cinema heroes must eventually make. So instead of mowing grass he mows down bad guys, cleaning up the streets one shell at a time.

In-between the hospital hangings, the manhole cover necklaces, the mobs turning against hobos, and the Plague Twins showdown—motorcycle creepizoids dressed in Boilerplate—Abby, the hooker and hobo’s only friend, spends a lot of time with blood on her face, and hobo finds out if he can solve the world’s problems with a shotgun bought at $49.99, shells gratis.

Of course, if this movie was called Hobo With a Lawn Mower, things might have been different.

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.

Final Destination 5 (2011)
Murder By Death

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FD5
Zombos Says: Very Good (but no surprises)

First, Final Destination 5 is slick slacks franchise-pressing, albeit drenched in body tissues and glistening blood most of the time. Second, because of this, there are no surprises. I don’t recall the take a life, live a life gimmick used before, but everything else is the same: pretty people die horribly, the END. The ways they die is the kicker that brings us back again and again. But for how long?

We all ready know you can’t cheat death because Coroner Bludworth (Tony Todd) tells us so in every installment.  But an important question is brought up by Sam (Nicholas D’Agosto). He’s the one who sees Death’s de facto dire predicament ahead of the appointed departure time and warns everyone. He’s confused. Why get a glimpse of doom if you can’t change the outcome? My simple answer is it would kill the fun of watching people being mashed, mushed, and medlied in escaltingly convoluted ways. But is that all there is to it? Will Final Destination xx be the same formula setups, the same befuddled victims, and Tony Todd’s (hopefully) Coroner Bludworth repeating the same dictum: Death will always crash, crush, spindle, mutilate, and amputate your pajama party? I hope not. That would be worse than death.

A company retreat brings a busload of employees to their rendevous with a bridge collapse. Sam’s frantic warning after hearing Dust in the Wind saves his boss (David Koechner) and his friends Molly (Emma Bell), Peter (Miles Fisher), Candice (Ellen Wroe), and Nathan (Arlan Escarpeta). He also saves Isaac (P. J. Byrne), but Isaac is a cretin, not a friend. Seeing the collapsing bridge and how everyone is supposed to die will make gore fans happy. Personally,  I don’t think computer- generated gore is as viscerally pleasing as the old fashioned, hand-turned variety because it shows up too ‘succinct’ on screen, especially with how entrails burst out and splatter. Am I wrong?

Death’s cheekily  improvised ways for gruesomely killing off escapees from the precipitating mayhem are succint also, but Steven Quale manages to build adequate suspense around each personally constructed building-blocks-for-quietus and red herrings by muddling the how of what we all ready know must happen. The imaginatively messy demises include a very spirited gymnastic body split, an acupuncture misadventure, and a laser eye surgery flop-plop-squish I’m sure will annoy medical professionals. Then again, acupuncturists will not be happy, either. I’m sure the very long and rediculously thick needle Isaac pulls–nice big closeup here–out of his chest is definitely not one used by any acupuncturists I know ( or want to). If it’s metal fatigue tiring, electricity shorting sparkily, water puddling deeply, wrenches left around carelessly, fan blades whirring ominously, or flames licking closely, Death is sure to capture the anticipated moment.

Since Isaac is a cretin and Sam’s boss is a company toadie, we don’t care about them much and–yes, I’ll admit it–we enjoy watching them die. The piece de resistance is the Buddha bust finale, even if heads really don’t easily burst open like watermelons. But Sam and his friends are young, hip, and darn cute. They even act well beyond the needs of Final Destination‘s Dr. Deadly’s Monster Scenes requirements of victimization and terminus. There’s a stronger story of desperation waiting to be emancipated in this franchise: and when will Coroner Bludworth make a stand?

Although Final Destination 5 is shown in 3D, I didn’t get a strong sense it was entirely shot in 3D. The now standard pointy-objects-jutting-in-your-face are handled on cue, but the strongest dimensional effects are seen in the lengthy opening credits, shattering glass montage. The 3D effects in The Final Destination 4 are better.

Trailer Park of Terror (2008)
Beef Jerky Horror Overdone

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TrailerparkofterrorZombos Says: Good (but not my cup of tea)

From the case files of the League of Reluctant Reviewers comes this trashy horror, based on the Imperium Comics series, that will make you think twice before eating beef jerky ever again.

 

I remember it all quite well.

It came uninvited in a small brown envelope mixed in with the mail, on a day when the leaves tousled angrily on the limbs of dying trees, fighting against their inevitable descent to lesser heights of vibrancy. An oily, pipe smoke fog, so thick it
choked the throat and chilled the soul, gamboled in the deserted streets, stirred by winds playfully knocking off the hats of the few brave passersby hurrying along the quiet streets.

Darkness had come early this unusual day in October. I twirled my scarf tighter to ward off the dampness. Or was it something else that made me shake uncontrollably as I tapped the brass flamingo knocker against the massive oak door of 999 Transient Street.

“Welcome Mr. Bolton. Good to see you again,” said Chalmers.

He took my raincoat and scarf as we walked toward the Champagne Room, so named because of the pale yellow light that reflected in sparkling shimmers from its large Waterford crystal chandelier. Chalmers reached for the small brown envelope. I instinctively held it tighter, though I was not sure why. He smiled and went to hang up my coat.

I entered the room.

“Punctual as usual,” said the unseen man sitting in the Chippendale wing chair facing
the fireplace. A lively fire blazed on the grate.

“Let me see it,” he said in a soothing voice.

I relaxed my grip on the envelope and dropped it into the starkly white hand that appeared from the left side of the chair. The envelope disappeared from sight for a few seconds. A light chuckle came from the unseen occupant of the chair. “You do bring the most challenging movies.”

Chalmers appeared. “Your drink is ready.”

“Thank you,” I said and followed Chalmers to another, smaller room, where a polished Stiegel glass, filled with lightly chilled sherry, waited for me. The
cheery, paisley-tailed peacocks embroidered into the linen upholstery of the settee I nestled into were very soothing, and the plump cushioned seat, along with the sherry, had my cheeks on both ends glowing with warmth.

I drifted into reverie while the League of Reluctant Reviewers did what few could do or care to; there but for the grace of god and all that as John Bradford would say. Within a short time they would have the review done to a crisp.

Done to a crisp. The very thought made me shudder.

 

Torture horror jars against dark humor in this otherwise well done, to a turn, trashy-bin of 1950s comic-book-zombie spook terror with nods to Two
Thousand Maniacs! and John Waters’ pink flamingoed, filthiest person alive. Director Steven Goldmann and writer Timothy Dolan squander their over-the-top playfulness by turning sadistically nasty in overly long views of depraved victimization. I guarantee you’ll break into a cold sweat whenever you see or hear the words “beef jerky” after watching this movie.

When Norma (Nichole Hiltz) yearns for life away from the grungy trailer park she’s trapped in, she’s spiritually crushed when her new boyfriend is impaled on a fence by her redneck neighbors. She gets even after meeting Old Scratch (Trace Adkins) who gives her a shotgun to blast away her troubles. Where the Devil goes, damnation follows, and both she and Tophet Meadows, the trailer park she can never leave now, wait through the years for stereotypical victims, sent down stormy bad roads by grizzled, rustic strangers you would have to be a fool to listen to.

A van full of dead-teens-walking is provided courtesy of Vertical Ministries youth rescue service. After stopping at the local yokel diner and following the advice of de facto grizzled, rustic stranger (Tracey Walter, no less), Pastor Lewis (Matthew Del Negro) and his misfit flock collide with a derelict truck in front of Tophet Meadows. Being a certified, script-necessary dead zone for cell phones, they can’t call for help, so they head toward the cheerily-lit mobile homes in the trailer park.

Cursed Norma puts on her happy face—she really does need to—and greets them with hard liquor and a hard luck story of how her mother died in front of her.

After sending the kids off to bed and doom, she gives a rousing private sermon for Pastor Lewis. A flashback about her mother puts the brakes on the wicked-fun energy of the story, which comes to a full stop by the time our wanderlust teens are deep-fried, dismembered, and deboned.

Unlike Two Thousand Maniacs!‘s absurd, quickly executed viciousness by somewhat reluctant townsfolk, each scene of depraved cruelty here is overlong and disturbingly, gorily, serious in its attention to misery, easily outdoing scenes fit for an extended version of Hostel, not a satirical take on retro drive-in splatter.

Norma is joined in the mayhem by the same yahoos she shotgunned years before—misery fosters miserable company in horror movies I guess.

They’ve not aged as well as she has: layers of ghoulish EC comics-styled decay makeup indicate their dispositions; one even uses duct tape to hold himself together after being blown up, but this kidding is kicked aside by unpleasant torture horror, ill-timed and  unnecessary exposition,
and a long song sung by a guitar-strumming, pot-smoking cadaver. The acting, aside from the de rigueur stupidity of the victims, sustains a moderate level of terror, or disgust, depending on how you take it.

The beef jerky scene stands out as an example of the most brutally-rendered and disgusting excesses today’s horror movies are prone to, a seriously disturbing gore-fest not for the squeamish. If stark close-ups of slow flesh peeling don’t make you upchuck, by the time you get to the human french fry dunk into a bathtub of boiling oil, you’ll either be gagging or nervously giggling to lighten the heaviness.

The troubled teens—now in trouble with a capital T—pair off with the decaying trailer trash still living in the park’s mobile homes, and are scratched off the hit list, one by one.

Tiffany (Stefanie Black) goes tripping and runs afoul of Roach (Myk Watford), who saws off one of her arms for using his stash. When she comes down from her trip and back to one-armed reality, she runs screaming into the mother of trailer trash monstrosities, the repulsively grotund ‘where’s my meat?’ Larlene (Trisha Rae Stahl). Scratch one ‘needs some salt’ Tiffany off the list.

The only victim to put up a fight is goth-minded Bridget (Jeanette Brox), who finds herself in a demolition derby car crunch when she tries to escape.

I recommend you watch the R-rated version first, sort of like dipping your feet in  the pool before jumping in head first. Then after you warm up a bit you can try the unrated version. Do not plan on eating anything before or after if you do. Better yet, invite a bunch of friends over and hand out beef jerky. Give a prize to the last person who can stomach it: the beef jerky and the movie.

Two Thousand Maniacs! (1964)

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Zombos Says: Classic

Glenor Glenda was upside down. Rather, her face was upside down. Or maybe I was upside down. I couldn’t tell much through the foggy haze. Suddenly her face changed to Saw‘s Billy the Puppet’s upside down face, leering at me with those cold, unblinking eyes. I shut my eyes wishing him to go away. I mean her to go away. I mean I don’t know what I mean.

“Good lord, now what?” I heard Zombos say.

“He passed out!” she  said. “I think he was watching Two Thousand Maniacs! when he fainted.”

“Here, then, give me the smelling salts. And stop bending over him like that. Give him some air.”

I opened my eyes. Zombos’ face was upside down now, leering at me with its stern, accusatory eyes. I wished him to go away, too.

“You ninny,” he said, holding the smelling salts under my nose. “I do not know why you insist on putting yourself through these exercises in self-punishment. If you do not want to see Saw IV, then just do not see it.”

He helped me to my feet, though I was still a bit wobbly.

“I thought if I prepared myself by watching one of the earliest gore movies it would help desensitize me. I have a responsibility to our readers,” I explained.

“Oh, I think the five of them really do not want to see Saw IV, either,” joked Zombos. At least I hope he was joking. “How far did you get into Herschell Gordon Lewis’ movie?”

“Up to the axe scene. When she got her thumb cut off I started getting woozy. The axe scene did me in after that.” I sipped the glass of Glen Caren Glenor handed to me. There’s nothing like a vatted malt whiskey to bring back the color in your cheeks; bright red color, like the color of freshly spilled blood.

 

And there’s lots of bright 1960s-colored blood in Two Thousand Maniacs!, the second movie in the Godfather of Gore’s blood trilogy that ushered in the splatter-horror genre to an eager drive-in movie audience. Dipping once too often into the nudie-cutie and exploitation well, Lewis and his partner David Friedman searched for their next commercial gusher. They found it in colorized gore, delivered with manic glee, cheap setups, and lingering eyefuls.

Perhaps it’s the gleefully sadistic way in which the Brigadoon-like southern townspeople of Pleasant Valley go about torturing and killing the slow-to-grasp-the-situation northerners, or maybe it’s the hokey acting and poor direction slamming against the energetically strummed banjo songs, sung by the strolling bluegrass trio as the entire town celebrates its revenge-fueled centennial. Whatever the reasons, the movie is still a wild southern fried terror ride that revels in its nastiness while cheekily grinning from ear to ear. The gore is mild compared to today’s more graphic, mechanically-oriented, dismembering and mashing appliances, but a simple knife, or axe, or sharp nail-lined barrel always provides a homey touch of stark horror whimsy to any victimization.

Every hundred years the town of Pleasant Valley comes to life, looking for a little cold comfort by revenging its destruction on those damn Yankees that decimated it during the civil war. Since revenge mostly involves innocent people in horror movies—dumb, innocent people—and sometimes those who instigated the problem in the first place, the townsfolk detour a few northern-born passersby off the highway and into the town as centennial guests of honor.

A carload of two bickering couples—bickering couples are a staple in horror movies, too—are the first to be invited to the barbecue. The couple with extra-kinky shenanigans in mind—my, this one is full of staples, isn’t it?—are the first to succumb to the town’s madness. They each go off looking for a tryst with a local yokel, but find terror instead.

By the pricking of her thumb, she loses a digit with more to come.

In a violent scene that holds intensity with its sudden brutality, the hot-to-trot blond gets her thumb maliciously cut off by the town’s dashing, rope-belted, blue jeans hunk. With blood spilling all over the place, she’s hustled into the “doctor’s” office, where quick surgery with an axe really makes a mess of things. Lewis’ direction throughout this unpleasant business is over the top. The contradiction between the laughing good-ol’ boys hovering over the bleeding, shocked, and dismembered woman is held in the camera’s eye long enough to register a disturbing absurdity and disgust, delivering a grindhouse-styled wallop to the senses even a Saw-jaded fan could appreciate.

Her husband doesn’t fare all that well, either. After waking from a drunken stupor, he finds himself with a hangover and tied to four horses pointed in different directions. Lewis tones down the shock by cutting away when the horses prance off, only showing a bloody limb dragged over the ground afterwards. For a moment, his camera dwells on the unhappy looks of the spectators, realizing the horror of what they’ve just done; but only for a moment.

The festivities continue.

Lewis’ pièce de résistance is a barrel rolling contest with a nail-barrel. Forced into a gaily-colored barrel, the male half of our second unfortunate couple is perturbed when the mayor starts pounding large sharp nails into it, leaving the prickly points exposed inside the barrel. A short kick down a long hill leaves one more brightly-colored victim dressed in blood-red as the townspeople cheer.

The third couple fares better. A hitchhiking teacher and the woman who picked him up catch on pretty quickly that not all’s fun and games in Pleasant Valley. When communication to the outside world is cut off, the teacher realizes it’s time to hightail it out of there. The only obstacle to overcome is finding the car key and getting past Billy the kid.

Billy (Vincent Santo), whose favorite pastime is tying mini-nooses to strangle cats with, knows where the car key is, but he drives a hard bargain to fess up. Watching Billy, I couldn’t shake the creepy feeling he looked awfully like Billy the Puppet. Just paint two large red targets on his cheeks, darken his hair, stick him on a tricycle, and you’d swear he looks just like him. Or maybe it’s just me.

Lewis’ budget ($65K in 1960s dollars) for Two Thousand Maniacs! was higher than his more explicit gore-fests in the trilogy, Blood Feast and Color Me Blood Red, allowing him to devote more time to the story and the setups for each gore-effect. Ironically, this may have hurt his directorial style more than helped, but Maniacs! holds up well primarily because of its rough edges.

 

“Feeling better,” asked Zombos.

With his help, and three glasses of Glen Caren, I had watched Two Thousand Maniacs! in its entirety.

‘Much better,” I said.

“Good, then perhaps we should move you up to The Wizard of Gore. Lewis really piles on the bloody gore as a maniac magician’s illusions leave his volunteers in pieces. Good lord, not again. Glenor! Quick! Bring the smelling salts!”

Hostel (2005)

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Zombos Says: Very Good

Thank you. It’s very exciting for me to be here, especially since I know that there are some people from Slovakia who probably want to kill me for making this movie. In America, Hostel is a very terrifying horror film for many people, but I truly believe it could become one of the great comedy classics here in Eastern Europe. I’m sure you have questions, and about why I made Slovakia look like all of a sudden it’s from the 1950s, and what it might do to the tourist industry in Slovakia, and I look forward to answering all your questions and hopefully I will not get tortured to death. (Eli Roth, ‘Smash hit horror Hostel causes stir among citizens of sleepy Slovakia’)

Whistling. I hate whistling in a horror movie. It’s such a pleasant activity, a normal activity; one that reflects a satisfied, joyful—even exuberant state of mind in the whistler. That’s why it’s so frightening and effective in the opening scene of Hostel. To hear that simple tune casually whistled by one of the “janitors” as he nonchalantly cleans the guest suites, routinely rinsing away the red splatter and body chunks down a drain, will freeze your blood. Just another day at work: just another day in hell; especially for the tourists. And you thought the plane trip was torture.This chilling contrast between the innocuous whistling and the gory evidence of disturbing activity is frightening, setting the gruesome tone for the film. Callous indifference is the theme here with people unconcerned that intense suffering and death are their job. They make money from it so it’s okay; providing human cattle to be slaughtered by bored Über-rich seeking ever more intense emotional experiences, dehumanizing themselves in their avid consumerism.

What redeems this film from being a gratuitous exercise in explicit gore and sadistic violence is Paxton, the survivor. He starts out as another hedonistic consumer, but gains a precious sense of his soul while losing two fingers along the way. He is forced to care: he cares enough to take time while escaping to pick up his severed fingers; he also cares enough to rush back into the charnel house, after narrowly escaping the caress of a chainsaw, to save a girl he hardly knows.

His decision sets up one of the more intense and nauseating scenes in a film filled with them. When he finds her, she is missing half of her face, and one eye dangles precariously from its now burned-out socket. That dangling eye does present a problem. Okay, what do you do? At this point I had my hands over my eyes, but through my fingers I could see the flash of scissors as Paxton decides what he must do. You know what’s coming, but Roth extends the tense moment into an excruciating eternity.

Roth tickles our fear-bone: the fear comes from being helpless while someone can commit any form of injury on you, and fear also comes from the knowledge that the amoral townsfolk in this creepy village gladly share in this consumerism-from-hell scenario. Even the children are sadistic monsters, roaming the town and demanding tribute; willing to harm or kill for a bag of candy. Being a foreigner in Hostel is a death sentence. The chilling words spoken to Paxton by one of the rich clients sums up the moral decay best: “Be careful: you could spend all your money in there.”

But after a film like Hostel, where do you go? How much torture and depravity can an audience take in a horror film? I’m sure Roth will try and find out.

Hostel Part II (2007)

/ Movies (Gore)

 

Zombos Says: Very Good

I wanted to take a long hot shower after watching Hostel: Part II. I felt dirty. The horror genre is a distasteful, discomforting one to begin with; that’s what sustains it. It’s supposed to both titillate and frighten us at the same time with shocking images, unpleasant sounds, and extreme, sometimes disgusting, subject matter. But then there’s Eli Roth’s Hostel series, rolling up all those elements into a nice and tidy puke-ball of horrifyingly intense and nauseating brutality. The problem is that he does it so convincingly well.

Unlike another, albeit less gruesome, torture-flick, 1970’s Mark of the Devil, there are no gimmicky vomit bags to be handed out here to lighten the experience, though now’s the time they’d come in handy. Time was, you went to a horror movie to be grossed-out, but in a fun way. Thrills and chills, and some red spills, but ha-ha, just make believe your sick and keep that vomit bag pristine because it makes a wonderful souvenir.

Of course there are many horror films, from grind-house to art-house, that do their best to make you upchuck your last meal or your complacency, but Roth’s fictional Slovakian village, filled with menacing townspeople—including the children—pushes your complacency right out the window, then stomps on it’s fingers as it desperately dangles from the windowsill trying to avoid that long fall downward.

…

Hostel Part II (2007)Read More »

Saw III (2006)
Once Again Unto the Breach

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SAW 3 movie posterZombos Says: Very Good

“Hello, Zoc.”

“What? Who’s that?” I shook the sleep away. It was 2:30 in the morning. I had
dragged my butt back from watching the midnight showing of Saw III and
was fighting sleep to write an early review of it.

“Let’s play a game.”

“Who’s talking to me?” I asked.

A squeaking sound came from the dark corner of my attic office. A tricycle slowly
rolled into the circle of sparse light that illuminated my desk. It was Papa
Smurf.

“I am Jigsaw. Your life is an empty shell.”

“You’re not Jigsaw! You’re Papa Smurf!” I cried, frantically pinching my hand to
wake up.

“I am—”

“You’re Papa Smurf with large red targets painted on his beard.” I pinched harder.

“I am here to help you face your fears. Of course, you may die in an extremely
painful and gory way, but you will thank me in the end.”

“Okay, look, when Zombos said I needed to cover these midnight showings while he’s
away, he didn’t mention sh*t like this.” I gave up on pinching my hand. It
hurt anyway. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the game? I’m dreaming all this so
it doesn’t matter, anyway.”

“Look at you; you are tired, overworked, and barely notice the richness of life
around you. Your entire existence is now focused on only one thing. Blogging.
How sad. To lose the gifts of Twitter, of Facebook, and yes, even the gift of
World of Warcraft, just so you can type away on that cold, hard laptop
keyboard. Click, click, and click all day and well into the night.

For what?

You have lost touch with your inner self, Zoc, and those most important around you. I
will help you find the way back to your social obligations—did I mention you
may die horribly like a twisted pretzel, or maybe a ribcage deboned would be
visually cool—back to your social life that is waiting patiently for you, and
the loved ones who miss your tweets and incessant profile changes on
Facebook.”

“What’s the catch?” I asked.

“The game is simple. Write the review. If I like it, you will live and have fame and
fortune. If I don’t like it, you will make like a corkscrew and go pop in a
shower of crimson. Make your choice.”

I always knew deep down that Papa Smurf was evil. I just didn’t know how much
until now. Creepy little guy, anyway.

“Okay,” I agreed. I was dreaming, so what did I have to lose? I also vowed to give up
either midnight showings of horror movies or drinking that fourth cup of
coffee. I started typing on my cold keyboard and relived the horrors of Saw III.

 

Before you can get comfortably nestled in your theater seat with your drink and
popcorn, Saw III starts with a little game. Should the victim saw his
foot off or just mash it down to a bright red pulp in order to slip it through
his shackle. Let’s see, you’re a horror fan, what would you rather see?
Oh, wait, sawing off a limb was done in the first Saw, wasn’t it? No
sense repeating that, then.

And before you can take a swig of Coke, and eat a handful of popped kernels,
another game brings us to a room, a guy who is about to have a really bad day,
and another set of chains, although these have large hooks at the ends.

Bloody chunks should have been the tagline for this movie. You do get to see lots of
them.

Funny, but no one sitting around me in the theater—it was surprisingly packed for a
midnight show—ever touched their drinks or popcorn after that one.

The story——do you really care there’s a story linking all this gory carnage together?— revolves
around two plotlines: Amanda (Shawnee Smith) is back with a vengeance as
Jigsaw’s eager apprentice, and a man who must come to grips with the loss of
his son, and the witness, judge, and killer involved with his son’s tragic
death.

Director Darren Lynn Bousman moves between both stories using a fair amount of woozy
camera shots, dark lighting, and grainy, garish coloration to move characters
through a succession of torture tableaus highlighting the devious, extremely
unkind, and painfully realized Rube Golderg devices that come into play for
unlucky victims.

Once Jeff (Angus Macfadyen) escapes into Jigsaw’s maze, he must face the people he
blames for his son’s death. Will he save them from horrible, painful deaths—and
disappoint horror fans if he does—or will he let them suffer and die gruesomely
for our entertainment and sadistic voyeurism?

Surprisingly, even knowing what must happen—this is a horror movie, after all—the tension is
still palpable, the expectations still hopeful. Everyone’s acting sustains this
suspense well as does the direction, although the woozy camera is used a bit
much and dilutes some scenes down into confusion.

As Jeff makes his way to salvation or damnation, Doctor Lynn (Bahar Soomekh) is
kidnapped by Amanda. Good old Jigsaw (Tobin Bell, of course) is not doing so
well. He needs a doctor. In one of the most gorily effective scenes I’ve seen
to date, the doctor tackles his brain tumor with a few handy Home Depot tools
lying around the old torture device workshop. I tried the old standby of
closing my eyes, but Bousman put the foley (sound effects) guys into overtime
with this scene. The squishy, ripping, sucking, peeling back the scalp, cutting
the skull, and wrenching the bone fragments out audio is the best use of nauseating
sounds I’ve heard in a horror movie.

So many directors forget the sounds and the smells of horror, you know? and only
focus on the visuals.

Considering the stark, bloody chunky close-ups of peeled away skin and the drill bit biting
into his head—with a lot of close-up blood bubbles dribbling around the drill
bit—this scene is one sustained gorefest treat.

Did I forget to mention Doctor Lynn is sporting a beautiful new shotgun shell
collar, designed by Amanda?

A bit showy, but definitely a party conversation starter (or ender, depending).
If Jigsaw dies, Doctor Lynn’s head goes bang. If things weren’t bad enough
Amanda is going off the deep end and Jigsaw is having trouble staying alive and
keeping her in check. Woozy flashbacks tell the story of Amanda and how she
came to be Jigsaw’s apprentice and heir apparent.

Jeff finally meets the man who killed his son, tidily stuffed into the Twister, a
fiendish device that does exactly what its name implies. His arms, legs, and
head are locked into a 360 degree rotating armature.

Guess what happens next.

Will Jeff save him, or spend too much time debating what he should do while bones
crack and sinews snap? While Jeff deals with this latest conundrum, the doctor
and Jigsaw have a nice chat about suffering and murder.

Tobin Bell is so convincing as Jigsaw he makes your hair stand on end; much like
Anthony Hopkins’ Hannibal Lecter charisma. Jigsaw is so self-righteous, so
certain what he is doing is proper; his character embodies the insanity of
extreme moral superiority and certainty without a grounding in reality.

In a twisting climax (pun intended), Jeff confronts Jigsaw, the doctor, and Amanda.

Will he make the right choice? Will Jigsaw once again play his game too well?

Exactly who is Jigsaw playing games with here and why does he think he’s teaching
people lessons when he’s not leaving anyone alive in his classroom?

Saw III is hard horror. There’s  supernatural horror, sensual horror, ghostly horror, rational and irrational
horror, and hard horror. Hard horror guts you like a fish and makes you flop
around after being gutted. Hard horror doesn’t care about messy character
involvements, or deep narrative, or witty scripting. It filets your senses.

The midnight showing I attended was sold out. I am not sure if that’s a good thing
for horror in general, but it certainly may bode well for Lionsgate and the Saw
franchise. The acting and scripting is done well enough, and the ever ingenious
evolution of the main star of this franchise, the convoluted machine of death,
is an unforgettable draw for the more demented gore and torture fan—

“Um-hum…” Papa Smurf Jigsaw cleared his throat. “…for the more avid horror fan of the genre.”

“Well,” I said.

“It will do.”

“So I win, then?”

“No.”

“What? You said I would win!”

“Surely,  you of all people should realize that you will have to wait for that.”

“Wait?”

“Wait for the sequel of course; there is always a sequel,” said Papa Smurf as he and his tricycle squeaked back into the darkness.

“Noooooooo!”