Feature 09 – 1313: Bigfoot Island (2012)

or “Poppin’ a ‘Squatch”


Featuring:  Kathryn “Hanna’s Gold” Collins … and a bunch of shirtless boys.

Director:  David “Creepozoids” DeCoteau

Writers:  David “Creepozoids” DeCoteau  &  Charlie “Badass Showdown” Meadows

Origin:  Canada


“I promise we’ll have a nice boring time.”

So ends The Tomb of Anubis’s first (of many?) “Turkey Day Month”. In the tried and true traditions and tribulations of the Satellite of Love, Deep 13, and the Gizmonics Institute, I’ve subjected myself to crap from both ends of the shit spectrum – brain peelingly pathetic (Rise of the Zombies) and sensory numbingly bland (A Haunted House). As such, it’s only fitting that my final feature should sup liberally from both buffets of misery, being both boring and awful. Bawful, if you will. Mourn not for me, my friends. Mourn instead for Canada, from whom’s womb this “barely qualifies for a movie” movie was brought into the world with zero fanfare and infinite apathy. Canada. Dear, sweet, Canada. First, I curse you by making Monster Brawl my first review representative of your land here in the new Tomb. Then, rather than make it up to you by reviewing something face meltingly amazing, I just end up insulting you once again with 1313: Bigfoot Island. In front of your friends and family. On Thanksgiving. Our Thanksgiving, not yours. Yours doesn’t count. Like most Canadian things. I’m sorry. I am SO sorry! I didn’t plan for it to happen like this! I’d never want it to happen this way, it just did! It’s not you, it’s me! Here, just let me do this review and I promise to sign the divorce papers…

David DeCoteau, the co-writer/director for today’s affair, used to do a lot of mercenary work for Charles Band, dating all the way back to the pre-Full Moon days of Empire Pictures. For anyone who doesn’t know what that means, Band was the Roger Corman of the ’90s, and Full Moon was the banner under which he cast his dark arts, with Empire being his stepping stone to his later, greater infamy. For anyone who doesn’t know who Roger Corman is, go read a fucking book… just make sure it’s about Roger Corman, cuz just reading a random book isn’t gonna do shit for filling in the Roger Corman portion of your personal bad movie lexicon. Speaking of Corman, he actually gave Dave his start in the artistry of less-than-fine films by hiring a barely legal DeCoteau as a production assistant at New World Pictures in 1980. Eventually he would go on to fame and acclaim obscurity by directing a dozen or so pornos (mostly gay… so I’m told) that he shot from ’85 to ’87, starting with New Wave Hustlers and ending with Little Miss Innocence, under the aliases of two Davids – Doe and McCabe. In ’86, producer Charles Band let him direct a crazy movie called Dreamaniac, aboot (ya hosers) a heavy metal musician who feeds his groupies to a succubus in exchange for success. This led to further Band collaborations like Creepozoids, Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama, and Puppet Master III: Toulon’s Revenge, which DeCoteau was given, quoting his own words, “by default since I was in Romania and available to shoot.” PM3 is easily my favorite installment of the series, so even in the wake of something like Bigfoot Island, Double D will always have a special pedestal in my personal bad movie love shack. Speaking of love shacks…

1313: Bigfoot Island takes place on an island. Mind blowing, right? On this island is… a Bigfoot? Why, yes there is! Very insightful of you. Truly you are the Chosen One the legends have spoken of since time immemorial. I like big butts and I cannot lie. Anyway, aside from the skunk ape, this island also has a cabin, hence that “love shacks” thing 4 or 5 sentences ago. My sorries for the delay in segue. About that cabin, it’s the annual hangout for a posse of strapping young lads who like to have a “boys weekend” every summer. We’ll just call ’em Bruce, Lance, Fabian, Kyle, Troy, and Twinky for posterity, though neither of them will be mentioned by name for the rest of the review anyway, so who gives a fuck. They’re all physically fit college kids in the prime of their lives, but all six suffer from an apparent allergy to shirts. They probably met in a related support group or something. Like Never Nudes, only the opposite. Like… Never Tops. Anyway. the gents interact with each other through a series of brief phone calls that drop hints about how things at their last annual get together “got out-of-hand”, and refer to a girl who may or may not have “gotten what she deserved”. Danielle is our “deserver” in question, and whatever it is that she “got” (I’m going to assume it was rape… though one boy’s flashbacks indicate sugar to be a possible “got”), she looks to be ready to repay the lads in the form of a murderous spirit of vengeance she summons from the forest. Think less “flaming headed Ghost Rider” spirit of vengeance though, and more “guy in the worst rubber faced Sasquatch costume since The Alien Factor” spirit of vengeance. Give me $10 and 20 minutes at the nearest Salvation Army store, and I’ll give you something way better. I’ll give you something to cure your grandma’s constipation!… and probably give her catastrophic heart failure… make sure her will’s in order… and try to have her leave me something nice too… it only seems fair.

By the way, that last paragraph? Yeah, that’s the entire story. Sadder still? If I hadn’t filled that paragraph with inane sentences of bullshit that had nothing to do with the movie itself, it wouldn’t even have qualified as a paragraph. Though it runs a full 75 minutes (and feels like 175), the script couldn’t be more than a page and a half. There’s EXACTLY how it plays out for 5 of the 6 boys – each shows up on the island separate from the others (neither of which is carrying any luggage for this weekend getaway…), calls one of the others to let them know they’ve arrived, then makes his way to the cabin. Rather than hang out and wait for the others, they each go for a walk/run through the local scenery (except for one, who makes sure to take a shower first, cuz, you know, showers) until they’re eventually chased down and killed by our titular beast of excessive shoe girth. At some point during the “stalk, chase, kill” sequence, Danielle has a weird blue-hued “angelic molester” flashback about the boy where he says something vaguely rapey during a close up like “Look at her. She totally wants it.” or “I’m going to forcibly enter your vaginal cavity with my penis against your will, and will not stop despite your efforts to deter me.” Copy and paste that scenario several times, and that’s enough to qualify as a movie to some people. If David DeCoteau can do that, I should just copy and paste “This movie is a piece of shit and everyone involved needs their testicles tased” a few dozen times and let that be the end of it. However, unlike DeCoteau, I appreciate whatever audience I can get and will actually make an effort to entertain you by continuing to review!… and to whoever said “What are you gonna do, END THE REVIEW NOW?!” in a heckling effort, remember two things – you don’t have to keep reading if you don’t want to, and yes, I can hear everything you’re saying because I’ve filled your home with cameras so I can stalk your every action. Also, I’ve been jerking off in your orange juice when you leave the house. Every time you leave the house. How does it feel to have me swimming inside you, (Your Name Here)?

I know the old adage of movie makers is that “even the cheapest, crappiest horror movie will make a profit based on the sole distinction that it’s a horror movie”, but… for fuck’s sake! This is barely enough material for a shitty short film, let alone this fugly feature lengther! There’s so little dialog and story that explaining how this movie needed TWO writers requires a level of homological algebra (real thing, not a gay joke… well, not JUST a gay joke) that would make Einstein’s asshole clench, so don’t waste your time. I’m only a theoretical physicist myself… theoretically. Whatever your field of mathematical prowess, “Charlie Meadows” is probably just another DeCoteau alias and he’s using this whole “co-writer” bullshit as some sneaky tax dodge. Don’t ask me how it works, I’m a Death God and a self-worshipper. I’m my own religion, so I’ve been tax exempt since before taxes were a thing.

You know what’s REALLY weird about this movie? Beyond the half naked barely legal boy toys and shabby piles of peed-on rugs someone found at the dump and thought would make a menacing, bloodthirsty bigfoot? Other than the final scene, where Cute Boy #6 is confronted by Danielle, NONE of the actors are ever filmed together! Could it be a subtle commentary on how technology has isolated us from each other in this age where everybody has a cell phone and social media has allowed us to connect with people across the world, yet simultaneously causes us to shutter ourselves in our homes away from actual society? I’m more inclined to believe it’s because DeCoteau wanted their scenes shot in no more than an afternoon, and the lads all had separate lunch breaks from their jobs at the local Buy & Bag… which probably makes 97% of their revenue from middle-aged women. Their prices are a bit higher, but the “service” can’t be beat! I hear they do home deliveries now too, wink wink.

Anyway, even when “the spirit of the forest” enacts his deadly penance upon the perpetrators, NOBODY APPEARS ON CAMERA TOGETHER! Was DeCoteau going for a “less is more” method, where the audience fills in the deaths with their own gruesome imaginations, or was he just worried that the kids would ruin their scenes by laughing uncontrollably upon finally seeing what the movie’s antagonist turns out to be!? You couldn’t really blame them if they did. I mean, George Clooney, seasoned veteran of Return of the Killer Tomatoes he may be, would have a hard time keeping a straight face if a guy dressed in the mangled remnants of a shag carpet from some ’70s swinger couple’s “social room” got in his face, reeking of spilled beers, cigarette burns, and cum stains past, staring at him through the eye-holes of the rubber dollar store monster mask hot glued to said shag… can you imagine the smell of that filthy forty year-old carpet burned with hot glue? Like, really cheap, nasty hot glue whose overpowering chemical odor you can smell from across the street and will still be stinking up your clothes long after you donate them to the homeless shelter ten years from now following an attic clean up.

The thought alone makes my Thanksgiving dinner wanna refute its marching orders and beat a hasty retreat. I feel the pumpkin pie making a violent escape through Esophageal Ridge as I type this. Let’s save me the trouble of mopped mashed potatoes and barf off of my bathroom floor and stop talking about it.

Now to address the big shirtless elephant in the room – is this movie geared toward a gay audience? The initial reaction to the DVD cover (the cast sans chestal coverings) from most people I’ve mentioned it to has been “Is this gay softcore?”. Unafraid of the homoerotic (I lived in NYC for a decade and I’ve seen Rocky Horror Picture Show enough times to explode Rush Limbaugh’s fat bigoted hate demon skull), I too expected it to be a big gay monster orgy, and was actually very surprised that the guys are all (at least portrayed as) heteros. Hetero rapists, granted, but heteros none-the-less. There also aren’t any dicks flopping around, which leaves this as a very PG-13 production. As such, this definitely isn’t a gay movie, but I think it’s definitely a bait flick. By not showing these youngbloods as anything other than attractive shirtless dudes (who, again, MAY have gang raped a girl), the movie appeals to not only a gay audience, but also the female demographic, ranging from young girls looking for “safe skin”, all the way up to mothers and grannies looking to slap their squishies to a bevy of virile lads without a full-on dick display. DeCoteau’s seemingly gotten into the market for male cheesecake, capitalizing on garbage like Twilight and “the Cougar Movement” while the horror flicks he’s made his career on now taking a distant backseat. It’s like those “Divas” videos that WWF did back in the ’90s – a professional wrestling company releasing videotapes of women in bikinis cavorting in exotic locales that have nothing to do with professional wrestling beyond said bikini models appearing in wrestling rings when they’re not posing for calenders and more bikini videos. And that’s the best possible analogy for Bigfoot Island: it’s young male models running around without shirts with brief moments of Sasquatch murder happening between scenes of more young male models running around without shirts on and pretending to act. Technically there’s little bits of horror in this stew, but you need to wade through a lot of okra and spoiled cauliflower to find any of it. And when you do, it’s never satisfying enough to warrant all the shit you had to eat to get there.

Finally, I have no idea what the “1313” comes from in the title beyond it being the name for DeCoteau’s series of similarly themed “shirtless guys” movies. It could be some obscure gay code, it could be the numerical equivalent of “BB”, which could stand for any numbers of things (I’m guessing “Boys” or “Beefcakes” or “Buttsex” being one of them). Whatever the case, I don’t have the fucking slightest. I tried to find ANY reference to its definition and/or roots on the internet, and came up with nothing. NOTHING. Even the production company’s website makes no attempt at explaining the significance. In a world where every shred of information and every embarrassment anyone has ever committed ever is forever etched in a universe of digital granite, you either need to generate an Absolute Zero level of interest from the rest of the world,  be an international spy of the 007 caliber to keep your shit out of the worldwide wasteland, or make a weekly sacrifice of a dozen chickens and goat to the Elder Gods to have them wipe your sins clean… every Tuesday night at 9… followed by a brand new “Herman’s Head” at 9:30! Did you know “Herman’s Head” aired the first television advertisement for condoms in the US? There, you’ve now learned something from this review whether you wanted to or not. I get to retain my teaching license for another year. Time to go file for some educational grants while you go choke your giblets or something. Later, taters!

Moral of the Story:  Does anybody else find it odd that Mother Nature’s tool of revenge is made entirely of synthetic materials?

I looked all over the internet (well, 3 sites that I trust) for a Bigfoot Island torrent I could take screen shots from and came up empty taloned. And I sure as shit wasn’t going to spend $5 on a DVD from Wal*Shart just to take pics… though I would’ve worn a hidden camera just to get the register jockey’s reaction once they looked at the DVD cover. Anyway, not wanting to come into your home with nothing to offer, I instead present you with the following trailer. If you still have any interest in seeing 1313: Bigfoot Island after seeing it, hammer a few nails through your nipples and send me the pictures.


Anubis will return next time in
“Walk Like Aman, Talk Like Aman, Kill Like Aman”

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Feature 08 – A Haunted House (2013)

or “It’s Okay, I Have a Black Friend”

Featuring:  Marlon “Scary Movie” Wayans , Essence “Dance Flick” Atkins , Nick “Bucky Larson” Swardson

Director:  Michael “one episode of ‘Fred’…” Tiddes

Writers:  Marlon “Scary Movie” Wayans & Rick “Thugaboo: A Miracle on D-Roc’s Street” Alvarez

Origin:  USA

Sequel: A Haunted House 2


I’d say ‘watermelon’, but that might be racist.”

My earthbound Evil Dead Bride Kris and I will be celebrating our 14th anniversary in two short weeks. Generally, when we tell people this, they look at us like we just stepped off of a spaceship dressed like the bastard brain children of Lady Gaga and Dennis DeYoung. In this day and age, people staying together for such a long period of time is almost unheard of. The weirdest part? We’re not tied together by something like children, or a mortgage, or the shared secret of a murdered drifter we (allegedly!) dismembered and buried in several shallow graves in the wilderness of upstate New York. No, we’re still together because we want to be. Despite being a Death God, I’m neither wealthy nor attractive. Even by half-man half-dog standards I’m no stud… though my epic beard of viking-lumberjack proportions does peel more than its fair share of panties. No, to keep a woman like Kris by my side, I need to have a personality so awe-inspiring, there will be no less than 3 new heavenly bodies named after me upon my passing. One of the most important parts of said personality is my sense of humor. Hopefully, if you’ve read my shit before, you agree that I’ve got a pretty solid technique in the ancient art of funny bone tickling. Well, Kris is my biggest fan. Keeping someone laughing at your antics day in and day out for over a decade isn’t easy. You need to try new things almost daily. Even the things that work need to be re-worked from new angles or temporarily retired for later resurrection, when they can be funny again. If you just keep regurgitating the same tired material over and over, you run the risk of becoming month old sourdough – stale and/or moldy. Marlon Wayans, your new nickname is Month Old Sourdough.

The tried and true Wayans family shtick has always taken two forms – lampooning black movie culture and “blacking up” other (predominantly white) movie cultures. Better that than the Jehovah’s Witness shtick of their father (true story!). Big brothers Keenan and Damon were the major creative forces behind “In Living Color”, which established the Wayans family as a comedic powerhouse in the ’90s and was probably the biggest foray for honkeys into the black side of American comedy and culture since Eddie Murphy donned a Members Only and had coked up Wall Street crackers everywhere doubled over their giant cell phones. Damon became the break out face of the fam with Blankman, Major Payne, and other movies I won’t sit through, even if you super glue my ass to a chair. Meanwhile, younger brothers Shawn and Marlon made their own names known when the Warner Bros. Network (“The WB”), just starting out and aiming for the oft under-attended black viewing audience, gave the two their own show, “The Wayans Brothers”. I liked “The Wayans Brothers”. The opening where they mocked the “black sitcoms trying to appeal to white audiences” goofiness of shit like “Family Matters” was great, even to a 14yo white kid who lived in the proverbial sticks. Eventually the brothers made Scary Movie, with big bro Keenan handling directing chores and Marlon and Shawn behind the writers’ desk… along with four white guys, two of which also wrote for “In Living Color” and two of which… uhm… wrote Spy Hard… Hey, I LIKED Spy Hard… which now brings my entire taste in movies and my qualifications as a movie reviewer into serious question. So I never wanted the Naked Gun movies to end. So I’d rather watch Wrongfully Accused for the 100th time than suffer even the opening credits of anything starring Kevin James. Leslie Nielsen will never die in my reality!… except for Project: Kill. He’s dead to me any time Project: Kill comes up.

Back to Scary Movie, I actually liked that too. The age of parody piece movies kinda died down by that time, and with the new crop of neo-slasher movies the late ’90s plagued us with, they were ripe for someone to pop their balloon. Unfortunately, Scary Movie 2 couldn’t solicit a single laugh out of me. I remember very little from it now, a dozen years later, other than it trying so hard to be perv-shock that it forgot it was supposed to be funny. And when you’re psychologically insulated like yours truly, there are no shocks to be had. By the time SM3 was a thing that happened for no apparent reason, all Wayans influence had been removed, because the brothers were supposedly bought out of their share in the franchise. Then they went on to make White Chicks. But, even when you feel your anus clench at the mere mention of the title (as I do), you have to admit that White Chicks was at least something different. I applaud Shawn and Marlon for getting away from the horror movie parody thing and leaving it for others to drag through the (ass) mud. After that came LiTTLEMAN. Not exactly original, the brothers Wayan basically re-watched that Bugs Bunny cartoon where the Lilliputian mobster disguises himself as a baby to escape the law and winds up on Bugs’s doorstep. Wackiness ensues. I never bothered to watch it, but I’ll always hold a personal disdain for the movie because, in its second week at the box office, it outsold Clerks 2 on its opening weekend. Actually, several movies (FIVE to be exact) outsold Clerks 2 on its opening weekend, but knowing that it had lost out to LiTTLEMAN after a fucking 2nd week 50% drop off and was probably Kevin Smith’s last chance to have a movie that opened in the Top 5 (and no, Cop Out doesn’t count, so shut up), ignited an eternal flame of severe dislike. Fuck you LiTTLEMAN. From another standpoint though, if there are any people out there who actually liked My Super Ex-Girlfriend, I’m not sorry that it lost out to Clerks 2 that same weekend. Fuck you too, My Super Ex-Girlfriend.

After their brief foray into non-parody flicks, M & S went back to the easy money to make their 2009 comedy Dance Flick. Another one I haven’t seen, due to my mouth foaming fury over the painfully overstayed welcome of “urban dance competition cinema” craze. If you wanted to watch a dance movie but didn’t want to see Wonder Bread bullshit like Footloose or Saturday Night Fever or Dirty Dancing, you had Breakin’ and its legendary sequel, Electric Boogaloo. When you’ve got two Breakin’s, you don’t need seven Step Ups. But, at least Dance Flick was funny from what I’ve been told. Four years post-Dance, Marlon apparently got the itch to go back to mockery movies of the horror variety, while brother Shawn is nowhere to be seen. Tagging up with a pair of borderline first-timers, Marlon wrote and produced A Haunted House. With the neo-slashers now nothing more than a sticky footnote in the horror movie time line, Wayans’s new target is the low budget handi-cam spook house/demon possession garbage that piles higher and higher in the horror movie landfill with each passing year. Fuck you Paranormal Activity.

Okay. Four paragraphs later, I finally get to the movie. Why did I take so long getting here? Because, despite being a blood clot in the circulatory system of comedy movies, A Haunted House is agonizingly BORING. As noted in my Night of the Living Dead 3D: Re-Animation review, terrible movies are the best material for shoving a five page rampage about the incompetence and stupidity of mankind into the faces of the fuck bags who make them. On the other hand, the boring hand, sitting through something as tired and uninspired as A Haunted House is torture without the fun stuff. One of the most well known quotes of French political propagandist Madame de Stael (thank you Botch-a-Mania) is “One must chose in life between boredom and suffering”. A Haunted House has proven her wrong, because through the boredom it dragged me through, I experienced nothing but suffering. I felt like Alex during the treatment in A Clockwork Orange, only while my eyes are braced open and my mind suffers through A Haunted House, my agony is internalized. I have no mouth, and I must scream…

Harlan Ellison fans, you’re welcome. I’m just trying to bring something interesting, anything interesting to this abysmal review. If I’m failing at that, my apologies to everybody whose time I’m wasting as they read this. And now, enough Stalin. Let’s get Putin this review into gear. Don’t like Russian political puns? Don’t start Yeltsin at me. If you have to hit me, please leave no Marx. That’s no Bolshevik.

Malcolm (Marlon Wayans) is a well off thirty-something man-child with his own house, house keeper (Marlene Forte), pool table, swimming pool, outside jacuzzi, arcade machines, and a big stupid framed poster for the video game Saints Row the Third that just sits there punching you in the face through so many scenes that you know Wayans must’ve cashed at least one needlessly large check the week before filming with “For Promotional Purposes” in the memo line. Malcolm’s decided to toss his bachelor life into the funeral pyre though, and invites his girlfriend Kisha (Essence Atkins) to move in with him, against the warnings of his friends. You know, because living with a woman will ruin your life and relationship and you’ll never have sex again and she’ll throw out all your video games and those same friends won’t be allowed over anymore and you’ll come home to her getting filled like a cruller by the mail man and the UPS guy while the FedEx dude’s jerking off in the corner, recording the whole thing on his cell phone. Happens every day to at least one poor dumb ass in every town in America. Just ask your mail man. And if he acts like he has no idea what you’re talking about, you’re probably the poor dumb ass it’s happening to tomorrow.

The same day Kisha moves in, Malcolm buys a handi cam to record every waking moment of their new life together. Either he’s expecting his life to become very interesting soon (i.e. the point of the movie) or he’s starting his mid-life crisis early. Guys like Malcolm are why it’s dangerous to offer any dingus in the world who knows how to use a computer their own YouTube page. As expected, this first night signals the start of strange happenings in the household, by which I mean supernatural happenings and not the awkward two minutes of Marlon Wayans getting into an orgy with two stuffed animals and a squeaking chew toy that feels like thirty minutes of the saddest man in the world trying painfully hard for a desperate bid at attention that leaves the audience filled with discomfort, disgust, and pity. In other words, he’s Tom Green-ing. Some will also known this condition as Andy Dick-ing, Carrot Top-ing, or Pauly Shore-ing. If you feel you might be showing any of these symptoms, talk to your doctor today. Or, save everyone the trouble and just throw yourself headfirst down the nearest staircase or fire escape now.

Speaking of fire, you know what’s interesting? King Tut. Did you know that, thanks to a botched mummification, his remains spontaneously combusted within his Tomb after he was sealed inside!? Pretty bad ass.

Where was I? Oh yeah, the haunted black people. Concerned that they’re being targeted by home invaders, Malcolm hires a pair of security technicians/wanna-be reality show stars (Davids Koechner and Sheridan) to install a bunch of cameras in the house so he/we can see everything. Yep, everything. From Malcolm getting drunk and shitting in Kisha’s dad’s ashes, to the “hilarious” antics of what Rosa the housemaid’s up to when nobody’s around, to Kisha’s “wacky” sleep walking/dancing/farting/eating raw meat, to the couple sparking up some herb with their resident specter… who still harasses them afterward, I guess because they stopped sharing after that? Oh, and the best part: Kisha getting raped by the ghost, but turning complete “schoolgirl in a Japanese tentacle rape cartoon” and loving it, then begging for more the following night. Nothing’s funnier than someone enjoying being raped. No, really. Ha ha. Ha. Oh wait, one thing’s funnier: Malcolm also getting raped. Yep. Bent over and getting his cornhole plunged by phantom dick, then needing a hemorrhoid pillow the next day. Cuz his asshole hurts. Cuz he had his fudge forcefully packed. By a ghost. Ha. Ha…. ha…….. haaaaaaaaaaaah……. It’s almost as funny as Kisha’s home movie of her 8th birthday where her drunk mom talks about how she was almost aborted, and her dad/stepdad beats her and tells her he’s gonna leave her in the near future. You know, cuz he’s black. And child abuse is funny. Ask Tyler Perry.

In their attempts at getting their ghost busted, Mal and Kish call upon advice (and the mandatory Ouija Board scene) from their white swinger friends (Andrew Daly and Alanna Ubach), bring in a gay psychic (Nick Swardson, cuz EVERY CHARACTER HE PLAYS HAS TO BE AN AWKWARD GAY GUY) whose only interest is trying to get Malcolm in his mouth and/or anus, call back the borderline racist inbred camera installers (cuz they’re doing a haunted house reality show now), and hire a fresh-out-of-jail street tough preacher (Cedric the Self-Proclaimed Entertainer… who never fails to fail living up to his moniker) to exorcise the place… with his big crucifix that’s full of cocaine! CUZ IT’S FUNNY, GOD DAMN IT! LAUGH AT IT! LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH!

NetFlix ruins the catharsis of watching garbage like this because there’s no DVD to take my hatred out on when it’s over. Without the satisfaction of a shiny disc shattering beneath my personal hand ax of judgement, my misplaced anger goes toward whatever’s within immediate talons’ reach. Marlon Wayans, you owe me a replacement set of “Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark” books and four new windows in my living room. Asshole. In case anyone was wondering, all praise Marlon earned for Requiem for a Dream has been retroactively removed. When you make a movie whose sole purpose is to get people to pay you for the privilege to watch it, then you just stick your naked ass cheeks in their face every 15 minutes  in a completely unsubtle “fuck you for paying to see this!” insult to those same people, you are an unrepentant dick face and forfeit all respect. The same way Eddie Murphy pissed away his chance for a Best Supporting Actor Oscar for Dreamgirls by eye socket raping us with Norbit. Now when I watch the torments and horrors beset upon Tyrone in Requiem, all I can do is laugh and shout, “Good! He deserves it!” at the screen with a sinister Monty Burnsian glee and subsequent tapping of fingers. You know, the way I’ve been doing with Harry for years now, who deserved all of his own misery after the first time I heard 30 Seconds to Mars. Fuck you, Jared Leto.

When I started complaining online about how unfunny this movie is, a friend told me that she’d seen it and didn’t think it was that bad, citing her lowbrow sense of humor as the possible fault. I disagree. My brow has been known to hang past my chin. My collar is blue as a monk’s balls. I’ve had readers email me before about my material being funny on its own and didn’t require me to “work blue”. I don’t write like this because I’m trying to appeal to a lower class of reader. I write like this BECAUSE I’m a “lower class” of reader. My predilection for dick and fart humor is made apparent in both my reviews and my DVD collection. But, it’s not enough to just pull out the dick or rip the fart, you need to make a JOKE too. That’s why they’re called “dick and fart JOKES”. Wayans is too content to sit back and let the former do all the work, and when he bothers to do the latter, it’s the SAME limp, predictable attempt EVERY time. Ever tried to fuck someone, but for whatever reason you couldn’t maintain your erection? But, in the hopes that it’ll pass you just keep trying and trying and trying until your partner has to tell you to get off of her/him, then spends the next 10 minutes telling you it’s okay and you can stop apologizing? I believe Kinsey called it Pushing Rope Complex. Marlon? Stop pushing the rope. Take a few years off from whoring what self-respect you have left, go win back some of the pride you earned from Requiem for a Dream so many years ago, spend some time meditating on the comedy arts (I suggest starting with the complete works of George Carlin and Richard Pryor), and come back with a stand up special or some Funny Or Die shorts before you spend the required 3 days and pocket change to throw another shitty desperate grab for former Scary Movie glory at us.

When I told another friend of mine I was reviewing this movie, he harkened back to tales of an interview he’d seen somewhere where Marlon Wayans lamented his loss of whatever creative rights he’d retained from the original Scary Movie franchise. Not because they turned to unwatchable Charlie Sheen abortion mobiles, but because of all the money he lost out on from said sequels. As such, he promised that, owning A Haunted House as a franchise outright, he intends on pumping out sequel after sequel until he’d bled the series dry of every penny it was good for. Given that the budget for this first installment came is around $2.5 million, and grossed over $40 million thanks to the collective shitheads of the American movie-going public, I have this horrible feeling in my guts (imagine being hung upside down for 6 hours during an endless bout of the worst acid reflux known to man) that he’ll succeed in bearing his ass in our faces with these regurgitated farts and one-dimensional gag characters for years to come. In fact, because Isis chooses to weave the intricate tapestries of time and space so firmly in my disfavor (kids, never forget your mother/lover’s birthday), here’s the Little Mac super “☆” uppercut finale to this nut sack pummeling of a review – the first trailer for A Haunted House 2 was released the same day this review was supposed to post. The news immediately crushed what little spirit I had from writing this review, and I had to put off posting it for another day while I recuperated. I, for one, will be sneaking into the first few showings of AHH2 at my local multiplex, and crawling around the floor in the dark as I smash every paying customer’s toes with a claw hammer until people either stop going, or I’m tased into a mouth foaming stupor by law enforcement and dragged to jail.

Hey, sometimes we need to suffer for our beliefs.

Moral of the Story: I’ve seen more of Marlon Wayans’s ass than anyone should have to see in a dozen lifetimes.


Will this man ever grow out of looking like a confused 15 year old?

“Awwwwww, come on now Marlon. I’m sorry the studio turned down your White Girls 2 script. But, at least you’ve got this franchise now, right?!”

To everyone who paid to see this movie, you’ve given your money to this guy. The guy pretending to fuck a pile of stuffed animals. For shame.

The guy in the back is neither Milton from Office Space nor Bubbles from Trailer Park Boys, so don’t get your hopes up, folks.

It’s okay David Koechner, soon Anchorman 2 will be out and everybody will forget you were even in this. Welcome back, Champ.

Yep, that’s how Mexicans fuck… to everybody but Mexicans.

“Why did everybody hate Bucky Larson?! Why did they cancel my TV show?! WHY DOESN’T ANYBODY LOVE ME OUTSIDE OF RENO 911?!”

“T-H-I-S M-O-V-I-E C-O-U-L-D-N-T M-A-K-E A S-T-O-N-E-D T-E-N Y-E-A-R O-L-D L-A-U-G-H… I wonder what that means?”

“That’s right people, I’m here to. Just save yourself the time and shut the movie off now.”

To sum up this movie, I give you Marlon Wayans’s ass…

Marlon Wayans’s ass again…

And for the third act surprise twist: Nick Swardson’s ass. Yep. That’s A Haunted House, ladies and gents. Good night.

Anubis will return next time in
“Poppin’ a ‘Squatch”

Enjoy the review? Hate the review? Have a movie you’d like to see judged in The Tomb? Fill out the feedback form! Never has it been easier to make contact with a deitic being!

All materials found within this review are the intellectual properties and opinions of the original writer. The Tomb of Anubis claims no responsibility for the views expressed in this review, but we do lay a copyright claim on it beeyotch, so don’t steal from this shit or we’ll have to go all Farmer Vincent on your silly asses. © October 1st 2013 and beyond, not to be reproduced in any way without the express written consent of the reviewer and The Tomb of Anubis, or pain of a physical and legal nature will follow. Touch not lest ye be touched.

Feature 07 – Monster Brawl (2011)

or “From Beyond the Mat”

Featuring:  Dave “The Kids in the Hall” Foley , Art “The Brood” Hindle , Kevin “Almighty Thor” Nash

Director:  Jesse “Septic Man” Cook

Writers:  Jesse “Also the director” Cook  &  Jason Brown

Origin:  Canada


“I’ll be DAMNED before I cheer for a mummy!”

Alright brawlers, let’s get brawlin’. For starters, let me apologize to the people of Canada. I have no issue with your country. I’ve actually visited your land and found it beautiful. I’d like to move away from Nile and out to Canada one day, as a matter of fact. I applaud your health care system and your lenient stance on marijuana usage and your “Degrassi Junior High” and your “The Kids in the Hall”. In recent years, I’ve also discovered your “Two Best Friends Play” on YouTube, of which my Evil Dead Bride and I take great joy from on a daily basis. As such, it’s with a heavy heart, the HEAVIEST of hearts, that the first Canadian born movie to be immortalized in the new Tomb is Monster Brawl. I’m sorry. So very very sorry. I’ll try to make it up to you somehow, some way, somewhere, someday.

 What is Monster Brawl? Well, as the disembodied voice of God (whose name I’m only capitalizing because he’s voiced by fucking Lance Henriksen) tells us, it’s “Eight deadly monsters summoned to the ring from all corners of the Earth, fighting to the death to determine the most powerful ghoul of all time”. It’s a concept that’s near and dear to my heart. Or, rather it’s near and dear to the heart of my inner child. When I was a kid, my grandfather got me into watching WWF. It’s a childhood love that’s since turned into an adult curiosity and field of study. Also as a child, I loved playing with action figures. It’s another childhood love, but one that’s since turned into an adult hobby with which to make money. But, back when I actually played with said figures, I’d pit them against each other in wrestling tournaments. Masters of the Universe vs. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles vs. Thundercats vs. Food Fighters. My dad made me a wrestling ring out of a scrap piece of wood, four large nails, and two pieces of string tied between the nails. Cue the obvious jokes about me playing with myself in 3, 2, 1… Joke. Don’t worry ladies, I don’t play with action figures anymore. Like I said, my geek pursuits are more about making money than living out little kid daydreams. That’s what the video games and role play sex are for. And, at least for writer-director Jesse Cook and co-writer Jason Brown, that’s where Monster Brawl comes in.

 These gents decided to bring to life (afterlife?) their childhood dreams of pitting movie monsters together in a wrestling deathmatch tournament. Don’t get too excited though, cuz this isn’t where you’ll see cinematically impossible pairings like Michael Myers vs. Leatherface or Freddy Krueger vs. Pinhead. No, this is where you’ll see generic, copyright impervious beasts the likes of “werewolf” and “mummy” and “zombie”, brought together my in-movie promoter Jake Blackburn (Jason Deline) to fight it out and see who the heaviest hitting horror really is! Unfortunately, what your brain thinks you’re in for and what your eyes and ears end up getting are not likely going to leave you satisfied. Imagine being invited to one of those Eyes Wide Shut masquerade orgies, but once it gets into full swing and everybody’s in somebody else’s mouth, they all take off their masks to reveal they’re your family members… Okay, this isn’t nearly as traumatic. It’s more like getting invited into bed by your celebrity fantasy, but while you’re locking lips and running yours hands over their nekkid back, you find a zipper, undo it, and it turns out your dream hump is actually Clint Howard in disguise. Even if you can convince him to put the suit back on, you still know that you’re fucking/being fucked by Clint Howard. And if Clint Howard is your celebrity fantasy, then you have problems of a far deeper and horrifying nature than watching Monster Brawl.

 Hmmm, putting it like that, this movie actually doesn’t seem nearly as bad as it did 5 minutes ago. It’s true, there’s ALWAYS something worse out there than whatever it is you’re going through.

 So, these generic participants are a mix of ancient and more modern (last few hundred years) creatures. They’re divided into two conferences: the Undead and the Creatures. The Undead consist of the Mummy, Lady Vampire, Zombie Man, and Frankenstein(‘s Monster). Even if you’re the type who accepts the term “Frankenstein” as a name for The Monster, here’s the real kicker: this monster’s creator isn’t even named Dr. Frankenstein! It’s Dr. Igor Igora! And no, there’s no mention of Igora (shit name, by the way) finding the creature either. According to the vignette, he created the monster and the monster refers to him as “father”, so don’t try to excuse it. One of the announcers even makes the point “Technically, it’s Frankenstein’s Monster if you wanna be a dick about it.”, leading me to believe that the commentary was mostly improvised, as even the actors are calling out the script. Anyway, the Creatures conference consists of Cyclops, Witch Bitch, Swamp Gut, and Werewolf. It feels odd that half of the monsters have actual names, while the others are simply named what they are. They’re essentially Pokemon, only they don’t shout “Werewolf! Were! Were! Wolf! Werewolf!”all the time. Having a unique name helps people invest in a character, just like in “real” wrestling. Names like “Stone Cold” or “Big Show” or “Macho Man” or “The Rock” help define those characters. They wouldn’t have been nearly as successful if they were just called “Tough Guy”, “Large Man”, “Flamboyant Guy”, and “Ego Man”. If these guys had written The Wrestler, Randy’s ring name wouldn’t have been “The Ram”. He would’ve just been called “Wrestler”!… though “Randy the Wrestler” does sound like a great name for a really lame create-a-character the next time I play a WWE game.

 Trying to instill each monster with a modicum of interest, all participants are given a brief introductory mini-movie that sometimes includes an origin story, sometimes touches on their motivations to fight, sometimes introduces their manager, and sometimes just involves them killing someone because, again, the writers cared so little about developing some of these creatures and just tossed them in to pad their roster. The managers were an especially smart move on the writers’ part, though. Whereas in “real” wrestling, some performers failed out of acting class and need a convincing mouthpiece to get them over with the crowd, some of the monsters here are just devoid of coherent speaking entirely. Most notably, this is where Kevin “Big Daddy Cool” Nash comes into the script as Colonel Crookshanks – the militant caretaker and trainer for Zombie Man. Not to spoil anything, but if you thought Kevin Nash was hired for his thespian skills and isn’t going to end up in the ring at some point, you’d be ill-advised to join a poker game anytime soon.

 Oh yeah, in case the tournament setup sounded too simple to follow, MB can and will complicate things further. Both conferences are also divided into two weight classes – Middleweights and Heavyweights. Each weight class from each conference will crown a champion, then the two heavyweight champions will fight each other to determine who is the mightiest of monsters… while the Middleweight champions will just have to be happy knowing they weren’t murdered, I guess. Though I’m happy that this means I’m spared any additional matches to sit through, it does shit all over their introductory concept about “Eight deadly monsters…fighting to the death to determine the most powerful ghoul of all time” when HALF of the ghouls in question aren’t actually eligible for the top spot! Liars! Truth spurners! Vile misleaders! It’s perjury I tells ya! And on a more nitpickery level, how the fuck does a werewolf wind up in the Heavyweights division, while a cyclops, know to be the giant superbeasts of the mythological world, ends up slapping around Witch Bitch in the Middleweights!? If you don’t want me to shit on your show, don’t feed me Taco Bell in every segment then lock the door to the Port-a-Johns. That brown’s comin’ down, and it’s gotta go somewhere.

 We’re told that the Brawl itself is only viewable on Pay Per View, as it’s too dangerous to hold in front of a live audience due to “insurance purposes”, so the fights take place in a ring set up in an empty graveyard. This cuts out the potential for crowd casualties if/when things get out of hand and helps keep Blackburn’s insurance premiums down. Also, to cut out the movie’s budgetary burden of hiring and insuring extras. As a lifelong wrestling fan, this lack of a crowd KILLS any excitement to these “fights”, because one of the things that really makes or breaks the ballet of choreographed fantasy brutality is the teeming masses cheering or deriding the participants. Even King Kong vs. Godzilla and Freddy vs. Jason benefited greatly from having audiences to hype the blow-by-blow. When you reduce that audience participation to two intoxicated announcers just telling us what we’re looking at with little more than a “Why am I here?” interest while infamous pro-wrestling pitch man Jimmy “the Mouth of the South” Hart spews whatever artificial hype-juice he’s got left in him, then you’re shooting yourself in the foot instead of selling your product. An audience, even one PAID to cheer, is still better than none at all. And NO Jimmy Hart is still way better than ANY Jimmy Hart.

 Maybe the thought was that the viewers themselves would be the audience? Maybe the creators envisioned movie theaters filled with cheering nerds holding up signs like “Swamp Gut 3:16” or “Who wants to see MY cyclops?!” while jumping up and down like over-caffeinated howler monkeys covered in spilled nachos and Junior Mints. How could you not want a Junior Mint?! They’re VERY refreshing! Back on track, the idea of Monster Brawl being shown in theaters outside of indy festivals is almost as farfetched as running into any of the movie’s titular brawlers in real life at the Rubber Love Toys Depository… you know, the place down at the corner of Russell Ave. and Waters Dr. across the street from the Arby’s where that junkie overdosed on the toilet. As such, even if the theater crowd thing WAS the intention of its makers (I really need to stop making up excuses for these movies), it still doesn’t fix the glaring problem of there being NO CROWD… or that I STILL have to listen to Jimmy Hart! Argh!

 If you can’t afford to pay off a big group of extras with free lunch meat and off-brand cigarettes, you should at least try and cover the lack of crowd noise up with some exciting music to accompany your thematic rumbles. Yet again though, a potentially good concept farts all over itself. We get music, but instead of anything exciting to ramp up the already dwindling interest, the matches are further bogged down by droning horror movie generica that’s more suited for curing insomnia than stopping me from checking the time code every 10 minutes wondering why the fuck this movie’s STILL not over. My first viewing actually did end in a solid KO for me, as I drifted off about 25 minutes in and didn’t wake up until well later when I was greeted with the NetFlix “Other Shit You Should’ve Watched Instead of Monster Brawl” screen. I had to take half a bottle caffeine pills and a very minute dip of cocaine to make sure I didn’t fall asleep for the second viewing. I went to the imdb.com message boards for this snore orgy (a.k.a. “snorgy”) to see what others had to say about their own viewing experiences, and one of the first posts I noticed was another guy who took a spike piledriver from the Sandman during his viewing too! Professional wrestler CM Punk has a signature move he calls the “Go to Sleep”, where he drives his knee into his opponent’s face to knock them unconscious. An appropriate name for such a maneuver. But, you know what I think would be an even better name for it now? Yep, “The Monster Brawl”.

 You can’t have a movie review without talking about the story, so let’s address that now – there is none. That was easy. Next? You can’t have a movie review about a feature that centers around a combat tournament without commenting on the action, so let’s do that too. For starters, each match features Mortal Kombat style narration comments by God (if you’ve rented Lance Henriksen’s voice for the hour, you’re gonna get your money’s worth, right?), which is wholly unnecessary in the presences of the running drunken commentary already being provided by Buzz Chambers (Dave Foley) and “Sasquatch” Sid Tucker (Art Hindle). Obviously these are meant as a nudge to gamer geeks, but when you’re already clusterfucking several genres to begin with, adding more ingredients to the stew doesn’t cover up the fact that your meat is just rancid, slimy, gray chunks. Speaking of video games, there’s also a callback to Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out!! stand out King Hippo. Tidbits like this used to make me feel so smart, being able to pick out the inside jokes. Now they just annoy the shit out of me. I don’t know why, they just do. Call me a bitter old Death God curmudgeon if you like. I’ve called myself way worse.

 The combat itself is incredibly basic, which makes sense since you wouldn’t expect a mummy to do Moonsaults or a swamp monster to pull out a Tiger Driver. The most technical maneuver you’ll see is a figure-four leglock. Weapons and supernatural powers (and managers) come into play more often than not, including a rather nauseating scene of Cyclops beating Witch Bitch in the face repeatedly with a hammer… Not that I’m a weak-kneed pussy, but witch bitch or not, watching a woman’s face bashed numerous times by a big dude with a hammer while he’s pinning her down? No. You know what might’ve been a better idea? Why not just have Witch Bitch and Lady Vampire fight for a Monster Brawl Women’s Championship separate from the man-beasts? It’d make a lot more sense, especially from a wrestling nerd standpoint. Cyclops melting the bitch’s face with his monocular doomsday ray is fine, but jesus on a pogo stick, that face hammering scene unsettles me in a non-enjoyable fashion. So, strike 8 Monster Brawl… you really should’ve walked away from the plate, like, 5 strikes ago. This is just kinda sad to look at now. You’re just depressing us.

 The glaring “powerbomb onto a bag of broken glass” with Monster Brawl isn’t that it’s not a movie (which it isn’t), but that it’s a big budget idea done on less money that it would take to hire Verne Troyer to host your next back alley cockfight. Cook & Brown scrounged up enough money to cast Dave Foley (who, having done Postal, obviously has no illusions of dignity left to get in the way of even the most modest of paychecks at this point), and after that it was just a matter of buying Hindle a bottle of Wild Turkey (or “Moderately Excitable Turkey” as the budgetary case may have been), convincing one of their sisters to blow Jimmy Hart, telling Kevin Nash he could be on camera without having to dye his hair (that one’s for my fellow wrestle-nerds), and, let’s say they blackmailed UFC official Herb Dean into reffing the matches… which are to the death… so… what needs to be officiated exactly? With the so-called “stars” in alignment, our intrepid troubadours bought an old wrestling ring from an abandoned storage locker auction (likely left by some crippled ex-wrestler wanna be who probably broke his neck during the backyard wrestling craze of the ’90s), and hired their buddies who dropped out of the Tom Savini Special FX School to monster up a group of local independent wrestlers he found falling all over each other during a show at a local bingo hall.

 Actually, the makeup jobs and costume designs are pretty good, so I’m gonna say the buddies are graduates, not drop outs. Also, two of the monsters are actually played by experienced professional wrestlers – Lady Vampire is played by freelance Canadian grappler Kelly Couture (who knows how to throw a bitchin’ dropkick) and Frankenstein(‘s Monster) is played by former WWF colossus turned b-movie bigfoot Rob Maillet, who wrestling fans will know better by his ’90s era character Kurrgan. That’s right Highlanderers, the WWF had a Kurrgan of their own. On a more modern note, fans of Pacific Rim will recognize Maillet as Kaidanovsky, the towering bleach-blond co-pilot for Russian Jaeger, Cherno Alpha! Aside from these two things, I’m relatively sure the rest of my prior paragraph is apt.

 In closing, though I will gladly shit all over the product of their dreams with my trademark Anubis aplomb, I will not shit all over Jesse Cook and Jason Brown for making said dreams come as close to true as they’ll probably ever get. Brown especially, who even steps into the ring to fill the shoes of two of the gruesome competitors – Cyclops and Swamp Gut. On my old site I tried several times to set up a monster brawling league of my own (Who Would Win a Fight? – WWWF?) that was little more than my poor attempts at illustrating fantasy face-off scenarios and posting polls for readers to determine the outcomes. I couldn’t even do that without giving up almost immediately following the first month or so, so going through with making a very niche movie about this kinda thing and actually getting it produced and shown at a handful of film festivals is an accomplishment I myself will never live up to. In that respect, I say congratulations Sirs. Be proud. Just don’t do it again, because fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, beg for mercy… while I bite off your fingers one-at-a-time… and your legs are lodged in bear traps… the big steel shark mouth looking ones at that… Good night, everybody!

Moral of the Story:  Some playthings are better left in the toy-box.


Okay. I gotta admit, that’s pretty damn clever. Bravo.

“The three of us are only here because we’re getting paid to be. What the hell’s your excuse?”

Not sure which is more pathetic here – the guy dressed in the weird ’70s suit that should’ve been burned 30 years ago, or the 70 year-old man wearing Converse All Stars.

“Everybody stay where you are! I dropped my contact lens!”

“I thought that the most demeaning point of my life was taking that job as the helper elf to a mall Santa, but here I am!”

The girls are being paid for their appearance with cocaine. Jimmy’s being paid for his appearance with the girls. Life is cruel.

I call bullshit! If this were really shot in a Southern bayou, there’s no way that sign would be spelled right!

I know dogs can’t help but roll around in big piles of rancid filth, but come on. You don’t know where Swamp Thing’s been!

“Son, I used to make millions of dollars a year to pretend fight people on a globally broadcast televised wrestling program. Now I’m doing shit like this. Trust me, LET SOMEONE WITH A DIPLOMA INVEST YOUR MONEY FOR YOU!”

“By the time anyone discovers we’ve got the real Miley Cyrus locked up here, it will be too late and World War III will be unavoidable!”

“But… this… so sudden! Me… no prepared! But… YES! YES! Me… marry you! Me… love you!”

Looks like Kevin Nash was making pancakes and tore his quad AGAIN!… sorry, that was a joke for my fellow wrestling nerds.

Gerard Butler partakes in “No Shave November” to help raise awareness for cancer. After one week he’s kidnapped by a Mexican traveling circus and forced to perform as The Dog-Faced Boy.

Somehow, I don’t think he’s got any outfits that would go with that belt. It looks like something he bought at GWAR’s yard sale.

Anubis will return next time in
“It’s Okay, I Have a Black Friend”

Enjoy the review? Hate the review? Have a movie you’d like to see judged in The Tomb? Fill out the feedback form! Never has it been easier to make contact with a deitic being!

All materials found within this review are the intellectual properties and opinions of the original writer. The Tomb of Anubis claims no responsibility for the views expressed in this review, but we do lay a copyright claim on it beeyotch, so don’t steal from this shit or we’ll have to go all Farmer Vincent on your silly asses. © October 1st 2013 and beyond, not to be reproduced in any way without the express written consent of the reviewer and The Tomb of Anubis, or pain of a physical and legal nature will follow. Touch not lest ye be touched.

Feature 06 – Rise of the Zombies (2012)

or “Save the Patients! Burn Down the Asylum!”


Featuring:  Mariel “See Arnold Run” Hemingway , Ethan “My Name is Earl” Suplee , LeVar “Roots” Burton

Director:  Nick “Species: the Awakening” Lyon

Writers:  Keith “11/11/11” Allan & Delondra “Ragin Cajun Redneck Gators” Williams

Origin: USA


“I’m a pilot! I can fly it!”

When I woke up this morning, I stepped in a big pile of cat vomit on my way to the toilet. On my way to hose my foot off in the shower, I managed to smoosh my other foot into a wet cat turd that found its way out of the litter box. Bastet has that overwhelming cat ego too, so she doesn’t feel she should have to clean up after herself. Such are the perils of shacking up with a cat goddess. Joy. So, while I was hosing her various bodily excretions off of my feet, I thought that would be the worst part of my day and at least it was over with. Then, I watched Rise of the Zombies... I’d like to go back in time to this morning and hit myself repeatedly in the face with a wet toilet brush… which would actually have been preferable to watching Rise of the Zombies.

Random trivia: this is the first new review I’ve done since rebooting the Tomb where the writer(s) and director(s) are not the same person(s). Does this mean that movies with a singular creative force are superior to those diluted by divided duties? Need I remind you of Jeff Broadstreet? If any one person is capable of sucking on an apex the likes of which the movie fakers at the Asylum have set the modern standard for, it’s that forced fart of a human(oid). Jeff fucking Broadstreet.

On to today’s pseudo movie, this isn’t my first tragic tango with an Asylum production, but it may well be my last. I’m not a suicidal man-jackal. The irony of being a Death God with a death wish would just annoy me to no end. I hate irony. Alanis Morisette and dipshit hipsters ruined that particular literary device for me long ago. No, I’m taking Asylum off my dance card because I just can’t take their bullshit joke productions anymore. It’s bad enough they intentionally put out direct-to-disc concentrated dumpster juice with titles ripping off blockbuster movies to target Bill and Jill Shit-for-Brains, who go to their local Red Box kiosk, brimming with ignorance and confusing A Haunting in Salem for Rob Zombie’s The Lords of Salem, Atlantic Rim for Guillermo del Toro’s Pacific Rim, or Sharknado for Steven Spielberg’s Shark Storm. It’s his Jaws reboot that’s since been shelved due to unfounded rumors of Spielberg’s renewed interest in his quest to uncover a legendary bunker of Nazi gold hidden by Oscar Schindler in the final days of WW the Deuce. It was his whole reason for making Schindler’s List. Look it up. I dare you.

Back in the waning days of my original site, The Asylum was putting out new nose hair pullers at the rate of one-a-week, which is on par with the average rate of actual bowel movements someone hooked on painkillers would pass in that same time period… not that I’ve ever been hooked on painkillers… which is surprising given the toxic level of shin-shatteringly insufferable sinema I’ve shot directly into my brain stem over the extent of my (current) lifetime. Such confuse-a-consumer classicks as Transmorphers, Death Racers (the “rs” makes it okay!), AVH: Alien Vs. Hunter, Universal Soldiers (it’s plural! Not the same movie!) and Snakes on a Train, have since cited some major studios to not only take note of the company’s septic scheme to hornswaggle their own films’ would-be audiences with this blatant (to people of average-or-greater intelligence) title theft, but to take legal action against them… when combustible action would probably be much more effective. Most notable example? The Asylum was making a Hobbit knock-off in preparation for the release of Peter Jackson’s new furry midgets trilogy. Three different companies involved with The Hobbit said “FUCK THAT SHIT!” and went into action. A judge decreed that this ipecacal epic (or “epicac” as I’ve just now coined the term) would not be allowed for release under its title “Age of the Hobbits”. Instead, Asylum left the entirety of the movie intact and changed the name to… Clash of the Empires. Too late to attempt a cash-in on Clash of the Titans, too little to make money off of any Wrath of the Titans confusion, but they still went with their instincts and tried to rip off somebody. At least they’re consistent with their dirtbaggery.

Well, as much as I’d rather have Isaac Yankem give me a root canal or Dr. Giggles do my vasectomy, I knew I’d have to get to the actual reviewing part of this review sooner or later. Pass me my cigarette and blindfold so we can get this over with.

Rise of the Zombies isn’t the failed mutant clone fetus of any specific zombie movie, which makes it an oddity among Asylum productions. It’s just another extremely generic walking dead flick, of which there are a dozen or so released into the wild every month. In an unholy alliance that somehow didn’t result in the Apocalypse, SyFy paid the Asylum to create this entirely unoriginal Original. There’s one moment where I think they might almost be trying to bite (no pun intended) off of a scene from the World War Z trailers, but we’ll trudge that river of Ebola sludge when the time comes. No sooner.

We open in San Francisco, where a zombie outbreak is either just starting or well into its “humanity is doomed” throes. It’s not really clear… or I just don’t care enough to go back and look. I’ll try anything twice – once to see if I like/hate it, twice to make sure. I’ve already used my allocation of RotZ viewings. I’m not watching it again. As for that acronym? Fitting as hell, cuz this movie rots the goodness and charity from your heart. I’m now going to kick the next homeless person I see and steal their shoes because of prolonged RotZ exposure. Send your hate emails to The Asylum, care of their COO Paul Bales at bales@theasylum.cc, with the subject title “Don’t the homeless have enough problems already?” Erase the hate. Give a hoot. Crack is whack. No means no.

As I was saying, San Francisco. City of 49ers and 69ers. Do to some shenanigans at a major water treatment plant, 99% of the populace is doing the undead waltz. Some kind of parasitic bacteria has chosen to colonize with mankind as their carriers, transferring their population boom through, as always, bites. So, they infect their hosts, multiply, then take over complete control of the bodies to set forth their own zombie plague. Kinda cool for a concept, right? Reminds you of that freaky ass Brazilian fungus that takes over ants, or the Costa Rican wasps that ‘jack spider brains. Even spookier? This mystery bacteria doesn’t just infect the brain, it infects EVERY CELL. The stupid part? These zombies are subject to the Romero Principal – kill the brain and you kill the ghoul. Yep, they actually had an interesting concept that should’ve resulted in nigh-unstoppable O’Bannon Returners, but decided to completely contradict themselves and go with the more popular Romero Post-Lifers, because casual horror fans get mental yeast infections when anybody makes a zombie movie where the munchers can’t be stopped when you pop their top. You know what they should’ve done instead if they really wanted to appeal to horror fans? Not make the fucking movie in the first place. Who didn’t see that joke coming from a mile away like Dr. Manhattan’s giant blue Vietnam dick? Now THAT is how you stop a war!

Speaking of penises, back to San Francisco. We know it’s been long enough that the dead outnumber the dead-to-be, and there’s no police or military left… or they haven’t gotten there yet… I don’t care.We watch a group of hopeful survivors trying to escape the city in a bid for refuge on Alcatraz. Nothing seems safer during a global ghoul riot like a fortified island, right? Makes sense. So, packing into their SUV, they run down a modicum of mortuary escapees until their leader decides to fulfill his childhood dream of being a stunt driver and takes SF’s infamous Lombard Street doing 60. Half way down he rolls the beast… which continues its roll down the other half of the street, including roll-navigating EVERY TURN… My fingers feel like they’re getting cancer just typing this. My fingernails are starting to splinter and turn a sickly black. It’s gross. Well, the crash kills the driver and incapacitates the rest of the passengers, making them instant brunch of the living dead for a group of ghouls who materialize seemingly from nowhere. The only one to escape is a pregnant woman, because the writers have a very important role for her to play later on…

The real cast is a group of survivors already holed up in Alcatraz. They’re a small gathering made up mostly of fodder, with the members of significance being Lynn (Mariel Hemingway) – the tough lady scientist who will fight to her last breath to help find a cure; Marshall (Ethan Suplee) – the Christian Air Force pilot(?) who still has faith in a god who would let something like this movie happen… funny cuz Suplee’s a practicing Scientologist… which is the only explanation for why he can still get work; Dr. Halpern (LeVar Burton) – another scientist who is trying his damnedest to study the infection and try to find the previously mentioned cure, no matter how many rainbows or final frontiers he has to explore; Captain Caspian (Danny Trejo) – former Army man whose ability to shoot things in the head will come in handy; and Ashley (Heather Hemmens) and Kyle (Chad Lindberg) – a young interracial couple brought together by the OkCupid nightmare that surrounds them, despite Ashley being black and Kyle being the kind of white trash who would show up to one of her family dinners wearing a white sheet… and not because he was pretending to be a ghost. Naturally, this being a zombie flick, just because they get a higher billing than the rest of the cast doesn’t mean all or any of the aforementioned are guaranteed to see the end credits, they’ll just have more screen time.

When a siege of zombies swims (yes, SWIMS) the entirety of the San Francisco Bay to attack their fortress en masse, the hitting of the fan with shit commences. Once the horde’s been finished off, the remaining unturned decide it’s time to fuck off from this penal system paradise, with half opting to go to an evacuation point in nearby *cough*Ididn’tpayattentiontowheretheyweregoing*cough* while the others seek out Dr. Arnold (French Stewart) – yet another scientist, this one seeking a vaccination for the disease rather than a cure. Meanwhile, Dr. Halpern stays behind to continue his own research, what with all the new fresh specimens and captive test subjects to play with. Escaping on their giant rubber raft (on which they’re attacked by MORE SWIMMING ZOMBIES!), the groups reach land and head their separate ways. The evac team (Caspian, Kyle, Kyle’s uncle, and some old lady) stop at a house to pillage some supplies, and Danny Trejo is immediately killed! Not only does he die, but he’s killed by a female zombie who only has the use of ONE arm, who he makes NO attempts to fend off! In fact, he puts his arms around her and hugs her to him, then slides down a wall while still fully embracing her, HELPING HER BITE HIM! The guy’s on the fucking COVER of the movie, and not only does he die in the first 35 minutes, but he dies the King Bitch death of bitch deaths! It’s such a bitch death, that it brings into question the bad ass legitimacy of Trejo’s other film roles! I’m supposed to believe THIS GUY is MACHETE?! Blart me in the blart! BLART! Somebody tell Robert Rodriguez to rein Trejo in before shitty roles like this start retroactively ruining all of his back catalog too.

While Kyle is the only one to escape his group alive, Lynn’s group fares much better. They make it to the Golden Gate, littered with abandoned cars, where they’re attacked by more zombies. Special zombies. How special? They scale the broad steel of the bridge’s supports… with their bare hands… Holy Nefartiti’s titties, you heard me right – zombies scaling the broad face of a steel bridge with their bare fucking zombie hands. If ever a moment required an atomic smh (smack my head) the likes of which would leave the entire population of Argentina with their heads impaled on their own arms, it’s FUCKING ZOMBIES SCALING A BRIDGE! THIS is the big moment that I feel they lifted from World War Z. Instead of spending the graphical resources to computerize swarms of zombies crawling over each other to scale the sides of the bridge (as they did the walls around Isreal in WWZ), they realized they couldn’t afford that level of hardware and, having written themselves into a corner with this entire “zombies scale the sides of the bridge” movie moment, they threw all sense out of the proverbial window and just went with zombies FREE CLIMBING UP NAKED STEEL! If this wasn’t the only remaining functional computer left in The Tomb (I went through the others during my Night of the Living Dead 3D: Re-Animation review), I would smash it against my wall right now, pack the remains into a box, and mail it to The Asylum with a note that read “This is your fault. Fix/replace it”. After making me look at these undead pseudo Spider-Men, I think they’d agree it’s the right thing to do.

After Lynn kills all of the zombies (and one of her own people…) with a single hand grenade, they find the pregnant woman from the movie’s opening hiding in an ambulance. I told you she’d be back. Wanna know why she’s so important to the movie’s writers? Well, it turns out they really liked that zombie baby from the Dawn of the Dead remake, and wanted to rip it off for their own movie. Yep, preggo is saved for the singular purpose of having her get bitten AS SOON AS SHE STEPS OUT OF THE AMBULANCE. Begging them to save her unborn child, it’s cut from her guts, turns zombie, and gets its cheap rubber doll body stomped to death by a freaked out Ashley. The same reason people don’t ask me to hold their own suckling little mutants… anymore.

Oh, and this bridge sequence has another thorn to ram into my balls (in addition to the fact that the railings are obviously painted wood and not steel) – Marshall finds a stray dog in an abandoned car, and we learn that these reckless, psychotic ghouls who will throw themselves at moving cars and groups of people firing at them with high caliber boomsticks, are scared of barking dogs… so a team of sheep dogs could have easily rounded up the zombies into a single holding pen in the early days of the plague and pretty much saved humanity? Yep, I’m done. It’s over. If you really want to know what happens with the rest of this movie, watch it yourself. This is only about half way through, and there’s plenty more stupid bullshit after this. I really don’t wanna see if I can survive talking about French Stewart at this point either. My defenses are already bottomed out as it is. If you think you can stand it, go right ahead. In the words of Chief Clancy Wiggum, “Heck, it’s not my job to talk people out of killing themselves.”

Alright, having cut this Golgotha shit beast in half, let’s address the other crimes RotZ has been charged with here today in Judge Anuby’s court. I’ve already run down the majority of its story infractions, so let’s get to the misdemeanors that most made-for-TV movies find it impossible not to commit – special effects and acting.

The makeup for RotZ is competent. It’s about the only thing is does right. There are a few moments of crushed heads that get the job done surprisingly well. This makes the next part all the more disappointing. Miserable digital gore and electrocutions that make The Dead Hate the Living‘s look brilliant by comparison not withstanding, as with WAY too many plague movies these days, hiring hundreds of poorly paid extras in slap-dash monster makeup isn’t even a viable option when shitty computer generated ones are the far easier traveled road. Foregoing any sense of realism in favor of muddy, stiff, plastic looking pieces of visual garbage whose only achievement is reminding me of the harm computers have done to movies after the fantastic lies they told us in Jurassic Park. Someone needs to build SkyNet and put it in charge of the cgi for all movies. ALL movies. At least their fake humans look believable. You know those little plastic Candyland game pieces? The flat plastic gingerbread man standies? You know what they look like when you send them airborne with a flick of your finger? The digital dead in RotZ look like that when you hit them with a car. I shit you not. No shittery here. And “The Digital Dead” sounds like a fucking gnarly title for a modernized remake of The Video Dead. Somebody make this a thing. Just not The Asylum.

Now, the acting. As you might’ve guessed, it all sucks. ALL of it. What isn’t bland is tantamount to everyone making mouth fart noises. Most notably, Chad Lindberg should change his last name to Hindenburg, because even in a cast of cut rate actors just there for a paycheck, he’s a human disaster. Every spoken line makes my ears want to vomit. I mean, NONE of the cast makes me think they could cut it in a community theater production of “Dude Where’s My Car?!”, let alone should they be allowed in front of a movie camera, but the ambivalence with which they drown me is better than the reaming Lindberg’s acting forces on us. He should be arrested for assault and director Nick Lyon should be charged as his accomplice, with the casting director brought in as an accessory.

There you have it – Rise of the Zombies. The first irredeemable movie on the new Tomb’s death row. The first flick to serve as dinner for Ammut, and subsequently, her first bowel movement too. That’s about the best bit of prominence it could ever hope for, and I almost hate doing it, just because it deserves NO prominence. It’s lazy, miserable, and a waste of the viewers’ time. It serves no purpose beyond making others suffer and inspiring people with no discernible skills to watch it and think they too can make their own shitty movie. Speaking of making others suffer, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go take a massive dump in Bast’s shower before she gets home from work. Then I need to start thinking up the fake name I’m going to register under when I stay at a motel tonight, since I can’t use “Carlos Danger” anymore. Thanks Anthony Wiener, you dick. *RIMSHOT!*

 Moral of the Story: I’ll leave this one up to the movie’s final lines of dialogue, which reflect what I imagine would be the sole budgetary meeting between SyFy and Asylum for this movie –
“Anything is possible! Anything and everything!”
“Or nothing at all…”


Danny Trejo looks so different since shaving his mustache…

“Thanks to everyone for the well wishes on our marriage. She may not be much to look at, but at least she didn’t make me sign a prenup!”

Damn it, they bought green latex pants for this shoot, and they’re gonna use ’em!

“I’m sorry I couldn’t find a cure for the zombie virus, but I can recommend some good books you won’t wanna miss. But you don’t have to take my word for it!”

Gah! Look at that hideous zombie! Oh wait, it’s just Danny Trejo. Never mind.

Really? You kill zombie Danny Trejo and you can’t even use a machete to do it?! HOW DO YOU MISS SUCH AN OBVIOUS GAG?! Morons! Morons all of you!

“Ha ha ha! You dumb bastard. It’s not a schooner, it’s a sailboat!”
(Am I the only one who remembers Mallrats?)

Those zombies were all bitten by radioactive zombie spiders.

“I keep telling you, my name’s not Daryl Dixon and I’m sure I’ve never killed any of your friends! Just leave me alone!”

Mothers, THIS is what happens when you don’t breastfeed your kids!

Coming this summer from The Asylum, the SyFy Original
Super Trolley Vs. Mega Bus.

“Special” effects courtesy of decorative “electricity ball” orbs from Spencer’s Gifts.


Anubis will return next time in
“From Beyond the Mat”

Enjoy the review? Hate the review? Have a movie you’d like to see judged in The Tomb? Fill out the feedback form! Never has it been easier to make contact with a deitic being!

All materials found within this review are the intellectual properties and opinions of the original writer. The Tomb of Anubis claims no responsibility for the views expressed in this review, but we do lay a copyright claim on it beeyotch, so don’t steal from this shit or we’ll have to go all Farmer Vincent on your silly asses. © October 1st 2013 and beyond, not to be reproduced in any way without the express written consent of the reviewer and The Tomb of Anubis, or pain of a physical and legal nature will follow. Touch not lest ye be touched.

Feature 05 – The Lords of Salem (2012)

or “Jim Henson’s Rob Zombie’s Rosemary’s Baby’s Babies”

Featuring: Sheri “The Devil’s Rejects” Moon-Zombie , Bruce “Willard” Davison , Meg “Masters of the Universe” Foster

Written & Directed By: Rob “House of 1,000 Corpses” Zombie

Origin: USA



Well, it’s Halloween. Tomorrow it’ll be time to take down the 5 life-sized cutouts of the Cannibal Holocaust girl (you know the one) sitting on our balcony, send the night’s fun size lumps of artificially colored sugary treats off into the toilet sea, then it’s off to the local merchants to acquire 90% off leftover Halloween decorations! But today, it’s time for tricks and treats and torments and transvestites (Rocky Horror!). You know who probably used to put on awesome Halloween displays? Rob Zombie. Well, before he became a candidate for Grumpy Old Men 3 – The Artificial Hip of Braxis.

Yep, if news stories are any indication, Rob Zombie’s become a curmudgeonly old fart. Apparently he and Shari filed complaints with their local representatives about a skate park that was constructed near their home in Connecticut due to excessive noise… yes, the man responsible for Super Charger Heaven, Superbeast, and many many other songs without “Super” in the title that would make the average housewife’s eardrums rupture and bleed melted brain soup all over their copies of Twilight, was complaining about too much noise… It sounds like something you’d read on a fake newspaper headline in a Mel Brooks movie! As a result, various noise dampening modifications were made to the place, and its hours were cut, including closing the place entirely on Sundays. Originally, Mister and Missus Zombie wanted the place removed entirely and shipped off to some other part of town far away from them where it could be some other neighborhood’s problem. Jeezus. I almost punched down my shithead downstairs neighbor’s front door and made veiled threats of dismemberment if he didn’t stop playing his bass thumping retard baby club music all hours of the day and night, but I’ve also never been one of said assholes who rattles every window in the apartment building by cranking The Transplants to fucking eleven! A noise complaint from Rob Zombie is tantamount to the NRA calling for more federal gun control laws, or the KKK initiating affirmative action for their membership drives! Did I hit my head on a box of Superman back issues and wake up in fucking Bizarro World?!

(Any excuse to post some Eric Powell art)

Well, even if the Hellraiser of Horror Rock one day fully transmogrifies into a shotgun wielding Clint Eastwood telling kids to get off his lawn, if he continues making movies like today’s subject material, he’ll always have my support. The man’s movie maker resume is a polarizing one. House of 1000 Corpses was a rocky start, but an expected first effort from a horror film devotee and alternative metal legend known for his epic stage shows. The Devil’s Rejects was a face smashing white trash odyssey that made anti-heroes out of sociopath serial killers, turning away anyone with a stomach too weak to handle the onslaught of viscera and moral filth. His Halloween reboot infuriated a legion of horror geeks who’d spent most of their lives following the exploits of their Michael Myers, and would rather watch another washed up rapper make fun of the Shape’s William Shatner mask than accept a pretender to the mute murder-meister’s throne. When Halloween II came along… well… half the people thought Zombie was going full-on existential and playing puppet master with the audience’s gray matter, while the other half pegged the sequel as a contractual obligation that Zombie couldn’t care less about and just dicked around with as a way of sticking it to the production company, thus guaranteeing a box office failure that could never, in ANY way, warrant another installment. And The Haunted World of El Superbeasto? As one of the dozen or so people who saw it, if you ever wanted to see Rob Zombie characters in a John Kricfalusi (the Ren & Stimpy guy) cartoon, then you got your wish. Anyway, heeeeeeere’s The Lords of Salem!

Heidi (Shirley Temple) is a singing, dancing, angelic little moppet of an orphan who brings happiness and good will to the inhabitants of a small mountain village while dreaming of the day she’ll be reunited with her great grandpa Adolph. She also has nothing to do with this movie. OUR Heidi (Mrs. Zombie) is a thirty-something former meth junkie-turned-late night radio deejay who keeps the up-all-night listeners of Salem, Massachusetts (who don’t have musically inclined smart phones or internet radio apps, anyway) tappin’ their toes and ticklin’ their funny bones to the tunes and antics of she and her radio prattle cohorts. Not a lot in common between the two beyond the name, but it’s hard to review a movie whose protagonista shares that name and not make some kind of Shirley Temple reference. In lieu of an actual joke though (cuz I’m drawing a big fat blank on this one), I was just gonna ‘Shop a pic of Baby Doll Firefly’s head on Shirley Temple’s body. But, I’m lazy, so since it’s Halloween, just check out this pic of another Heidi (Klum) and her fuckin’ bad-ass 2011 Halloween costume!

(Heidi Klum auditions for the lead in a remake of Pin)

Back to our Heidi, her partners in the zoo of Salem radio are the eternally funky blaxploitation movie refugee Herman Jackson (Ken Foree!) and the “looks way too much like Rob Zombie for it to be coincidental” Herman “Whitey” Salvadore (Jeff Daniels… err, Jeff Daniel Phillips). The latter Herman is that unfortunate nice guy that too many of us can identify with. Not due to his massive beard (well, that I can identify with), but because he’s the perpetual nice guy who’s spends every day with the woman he loves like a goddess, but… prepare yourself guys… here comes the real horror… are you ready?… are you REALLY ready?… okay, you asked for it… she loves him “like another”!… I’m sorry, I meant “like a brother”. Toldja it was scary. Like every scare moment from the [REC] series, combined with the hopeless depression of every suicide scene from Kairo. Speaking of, Pulse (the US version of Kairo) has gotta be one of, if not THE most miss-the-point Americanization of another country’s movie since Adam Sandler’s Eight Crazy Nights failed to catch the artistic integrity of its own source material – Salo, or the 120 Days of Sodom. Notice that the former didn’t get a spot in The Criterion Collection.

Heidi’s personal life doesn’t extend much beyond taking her dog for a walk, attending her support group for ex-addicts, and hanging out in her oddly decorated apartment, the highlight of which has to be the giant iconic image from A Trip to the Moon over her bed or the Commando Cody chorus line graphic in her bathroom. I imagine this to be a pretty faithful recreation of what Rob Zombie’s first one-bedroom looked like, minus the psychedelic painting of Horatio J. Hoodoo I imagine mounted over his toilet. When Heidi does leave her home, she notices odd things going on with the apartment at the end of the hall. A strange figure standing in the doorway prompts her to inquire about the new resident with her landlord Lacy (Judy Geeson), but she insists that there is no tenant in that apartment. In fact, she says she can’t rent the room for the life of her… So, is Heidi having one-sided conversations with weird post-junkie hallucinations? Or, is our heroin heroine (I know it’s heroin and not meth, just let me have my pun!) being targeted for a conspiracy? I’m not saying it’s Rosemary’s Baby… but it’s Rosemary’s Baby.

Back to work, Heid and the boys receive an unmarked submission to their show by a group calling themselves “The Lords”. It’s printed on vinyl and delivered in some piss poor wooden box that looks like it came from a junior high shop class, so they’re probably some indie rock hipster douche group. The record’s delivered with no return address and no press material, just a note addressed directly to Heids under her birth name, so who they are and what they’re about is anybody’s guess. They’re so indie, they don’t want ANYBODY to know about them! Anyway, while Beard-o’s hanging out with the object of his unrequited affections back at her place, he pops the Lords’ demo onto Heidi’s needle for a listen. Though the odd, droning melody doesn’t really impress Whitey, it gives Heid a sudden case of hallucinations as her consciousness takes a flashback ride to a witch coven’s dark acts in Salem 1696. On the verge of yodeling her dinner, she excuses herself for the night, leaving ol’ Blue Balls to go home and depression stroke himself to sleep using his own tears and self-resentment as lube. You wouldn’t think self-resentment would make for good meat pole emollient, but you’d be wrong.

The next night, following an interview with local author-historian Francis Matthias (Bruce Davison) about his new book (regarding, you guessed it, Salem’s witchy-poo past), the H Crew play the Lords’ track on the air. Heidi gets another migraine, but the rest of the female demographic tuning in fall into an odd trance while listening… maybe Sarah McLaughlin in the Lords’ front-woman? Presumably local themselves, Funky Herman dubs them “the Lords of Salem”, which catches Matthias’s ear since that was the same name given the coven of witches from Heidi’s prior night’s trip out. The name was coined by then Reverend Jonathan Hawthorne, who condemned the unwashed proto-feminists (led by Meg “Evil-Lyn” Foster!) for keeping him up at night with their drum circles and goat orgies, and had them all arrested and burned to death at the stake. Something I’m sure Old Man Zombie would’ve liked to have done to those skate park kids. Rev. Hawthorne wasn’t exactly the best when it comes to naming evil covens though. Why the Lords of Salem? Aren’t “lords” generally noblemen, with emphasis on the “men”? Why not the Witches of Salem, or the Coven of Salem, or, being a man of the cloth and one for over-exaggerated religious hyperbole, how about the Whores of Salem? No comprende.

Returning home, Heidi-hole gets socially blind-sided by Lacy, who wants to introduce her visiting sisters Megan (Patricia Quinn!) and Sonny (Dee Wallace!). Sonny’s a self-help guru, while Meg’s a palm reader… Okay, being a palm reader, Meg’s obviously a witch. As a self-help guru, which means self-empowering people, and a big component of witchcraft is self-empowerment, Sonny’s a less obvious witch. And Lacy? Well, she’s a landlord… of Salem… a landLORD of Salem… Get it? Yeah, Rosemary’s Baby. Back to the awkward socializing, Meg reads Heidi’s palm and foretells that her dark and dirty lustful loins will direct her fate and are the entire purpose of her life… because ROSEMARY’S BABY! What makes Heidi in particular the perfect spawning pool for the seed of Satan? Can she shed her fated horizontal mambo with the Great Deceiver? Will Ken Foree reveal himself to be a disguise Archangel and strike down the enemies of Jesus with his holy knuckle dusters?! Probably not. But back to the topic of sinister conception, if Lucifer started off as an angel (who have no genitals) then how the fuck is he supposed to impregnate Heidi-go-seek anyway!? Did god grant him a wedding tackle as a parting gift on his banishment to the Great Beyond? Did he fashion one for himself out of the mutilated genitals of rapists and child molesters?! While we’re on the subject of penises, why do witches, who act out against the oppression of the Xyers and denounce the patriarch deity they worship, swear their service and faith to ANOTHER male figure?! Rebel he may be, Satan’s still addressed as a dude. It’d make a LOT more sense to devote your shit to Lilith, Adam’s first wife who was punished for DISOBEYING GOD!

You ever have one of those days where you feel like you’re the only one who makes any sense, and everybody else is incapable of grasping the obvious? Are there pills for this kind of thing?

The slow, satisfying burn (witch trial humor!) of the movie’s first hour or so gives way, bit by bit, to Zombie’s more manic, music video core, climaxing in the last 10 minutes in a visual array that leaves you just a little too addled by the end credits, feeling more confused than fully satisfied. It’s as if, while having dinner with Zombie, he slipped some lsd into your wine as they were serving the main course, and by the time you realized there was something wrong and you were about 10min away from losing your mind, you snapped out of it, dessert was over, and Zombie had excused himself for the night, leaving you with the bill and about 2hrs of alone time wondering what the fuck is going on… Rob Zombie broke my heart is what I’m saying.

There are some out there who want to believe that Lords is Zombie’s secret prologue to his Halloween remake, with Satan’s evil coven spawn growing up to become Michael Myers. Hearing this made my curiosity shoot straight up my spine and explode out of the top of my skull Brain Damage style. After watching it myself, whoever thought this idea up in the first place is a fucking MORON. If Lords took place in the ’70s (which I actually thought it could have by the trailer I first saw), then I’d be all over the theory. Hell, before seeing it, I immediately started making my own parallels to how Lords could totally have been Zombie’s own personal spiritual homage to Halloween III: Season of the Witch! I even managed to blow the mind of fellow horrorphile Ragnarok of Cinematic Apocalypse with my Oliver Stone-ian levels of conspiracy imaginings.

Unfortunately, Lords takes place in the modern day, so unless Satan teleported Heidi and the Hell Baby (coming to children’s bookstores this Halloween!) back through time and space almost 40 years, and Micheal’s older sister was adopted, then again, whoever thought up this imagined connection between the movies needs their ears boxed with a pair of those small military survival kit shovels. It’s really too bad Zombie didn’t have the same idea though. The whole thematic Halloween III idea would’ve been brilliant. Oh well.

As it stands, The Lords of Salem is a really good flick. When given his freedom, Rob Zombie can do great things. I may not have enjoyed much/any of his music since “The Sinister Urge”, but his movies are always interesting, and mostly in the best ways. His take on the Rosemary formula is great, and wastes no time trying to deceive the viewer as to what’s going to happen. He assumes you’ve seen the movie and know where everything’s going, so he takes the scenic route in getting there. It’s pretty great. Go into it expecting more style and suspense than energy and slaughter than Zombie’s other fare, and you shouldn’t be disappointed. Plus, you get to see Dee Wallace, the consummate “nice mom” of everything from E.T. – the Extra-Terrestrial to The Skateboard Kid 2, being evil! Granted, it’s a more unsuspecting, below-the-surface evil, so she doesn’t bite the heads off of any babies, but she’s still a Satan lusting harlot!

Oh, and speaking of Satan lusting, if you think the Devil is this studly, debonaire object of crimson-skinned desire, this movie may make you reconsider your Sunday school fanfic. If he had a facebook page, he’d be the type that uses male models for his profile pic and keeps telling you he can’t take any new ones because the camera on his phone’s “broken”. He is the Prince of Thieves Lies after all!

Moral of the Story: Whether they contain explosives, anthrax, or evil migraine inducing records that get you baby raped by Satan, mysterious packages are never to be opened. Straight to the incinerator! And throw in Stephanie while you’re at it!… to anyone who didn’t get that joke, you’re forgiven.


You’re not global. Who know who’s global? Globey. Globey’s global.
Ah, the original Lilith Fair. Before it got all corporate… and clothed.

Damn Rob Zombie. Always reminding us how hot his wife is…

… and that she poops.

Back then, the only way to test for birth defects was to lick the newborns. Thank you modern medical science!

Believe me that Zombie originally wrote this part for himself, now? Shit, I bet Sherri accidentally fucked this guy at least twice during filming.

“I’m heading out, Corpsey. Don’t forget to turn off the lights when you’re done pretending to be a kitchen cabinet.”

“You’re lucky, she’s lucky, I’m lucky, WE’RE ALL LUCKY!”

Hope you like that wallpaper, because you’re gonna see this hallway from about 30 different angles by the time this movie’s over!

For anyone who wondered if Bigfoot was religious, we now know he’s a Neon Pentecostal… *rimshot*

New black licorice Gushers are just as bursting with flavor as regular Gushers!… except it’s the flavor of burnt ass hair… like regular black licorice.

Osiris damn it, white people! BLACK FACE IS NOT OKAY! Stop it.

Hey! It’s the guy from the Quiet Riot album covers! Nice to see him finding work.

I wouldn’t trust these guys to take my temperature, let alone perform surgery on me.

So, Satan lives at the Grand Prospect Hall? I don’t see him trying to make all my dreams come true…

Fuck! I imagine it’s gotta take a lot of getting used to not to wake up to that thing in the morning and just shit the bed outright.

Anubis will return next time in
Save the Patients! Burn Down the Asylum!

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