Quickie 06 – Puppet Master: Blitzkrieg Massacre (2018)

or “This One Time, At Band Kampf…”

In honor(?) of Charles Band’s birthday (Dec. 27th), I thought there was no better way to celebrate than shed my lead-lined protective suit and expose myself directly to the fatal radiation of his latest (and, likely, lowest) attempt at monetizing his longest running franchise. How long? Not counting the alternate universe kickstart that also released this year, The Littlest Reich, nor the glass canon (see what I did there?) SciFi Channel Original Vs. Demonic Toys, the story of Band’s murderous marionettes has written its 11th chapter as of last calendar’s Axis Termination, catching up to the 11 volumes of lore attributed to the Jason Voorhees legacy (also not including its related reboot). You’d think the puppets would’ve reached that milestone much sooner, given Band’s personal experiences with “Chapter 11”s…

”You trying to trick me?!”

Did you know that aluminum is a “sustainable metal”? It can be recycled infinitely without any loss of material! While Charles Band is known for recycling certain pieces of footage between flicks, it looks like he’s pushing for Puppet Master to be the first “sustainable movie franchise”. Blitzkrieg Massacre is not an actual movie, rather it’s the first installment of Full Moon’s latest dedication to CB’s apparent “Reduce, Reuse, Recycle” fetish: Bunker of Blood. And just what in the name of Sutek’s sweat socks is that?!

BoB is a series of thematically assembled movie clip compilations scavenged from Full Moon’s back catalogue, introduced via static illustrations and narrative voiceover that see a nameless wanderer compelled to traverse a post-apocalyptic wasteland. The mysterious force behind this urging resides in a bunker with decayed corpses stacked upon its doorstep, much like the newspapers do when your neighbor goes on vacation to one of those orgy cruises. No-name enters the bunker, where a sinister presence edge lord-ing itself up the moniker of “The Gore Collector” commands the man to have a seat and watch one of Gorey’s horded wealth of… VHS tapes.

Yep. If you thought that the media of the future was going to be preserved in a digital format on massive server banks, you lose the office pool. Turns out the format of the future is fragile, decaying strips of mylar encased in bulky polypropylene bricks. Go figure.

And for the next hour, we’re “treated” to a constant piss stream of killing scenes. Not just the money shots, but actual scene bits that give us zero context and make little-to-no sense for anyone who hasn’t seen every movie! I…don’t…what…but… WHO THE FUCK IS THIS SUPPOSED TO BE FOR!? Even for gorewhore types, the PM movies aren’t exactly known for their graphic or impressive death scenes! How many times can we watch Blade randomly slashing someone’s face, Tunneler perforating another leg, or Leech Woman spitting slugs into somebody’s mouth? It’s not even strictly puppet kills at that! There are several scenes of those stupid little totem demons from parts 4 & 5 killing people (i.e. actors rolling around while clutching them and screaming) and one where a woman with syringes on her fingertips stabs a guy in the chest.

While I’m thinking about it, did none of the little ankle slicers in Retro Puppet Master kill anyone, or has Greg Sestero finally made enough money to have an injunction placed against Band reusing any footage from it ever again? Why am I even wasting time trying to suss the logic behind this…I can’t even call it a movie! This makes Silent Night, Deadly Night Part 2 look like an Academy Award nominee for Best Original Screenplay in comparison!

Once the final clip ends (Kraus’s execution from PM3), there’s a hint of a storyline for our comic book intro as the blood bunker of bloody blood’s viewer/victim’s body starts to twist and mutate into a monstrous mass of mangled limbs and tumorous masses. Goresworth Von Collectorschmidt drops clues about a hospital the amnesiac man-turned-monstrocity apparently escaped from, as well as knowledge of an uncanny ability Nameless supposedly possesses that allows him to withstand incredible pain. Though, in this case, “incredible pain” translates into “60 minutes of boredom”, so in that regard I guess that would make me a gods-damned Achilles.

The disembodied voice also reveals its plot to groom this humanoid horror as a successor, becoming the new Gore Collector. He (and we) are finally threatened with the next chapter of BoB; “Deadly Dolls – Deepest Cuts”. As much as it pains me to admit it, I will be watching it, because I want to see just how far retard Band’s clan plans on going with this particular bullshit caravan.

Obviously influenced by the EC Comics horror anthology monthlies of the ’50s, the only thing of interest from this entire effort (or effart, as it is) is the bookend in-animation segments. Had the creative types behind these segments gone further with the concept, refitting the clips into some semblance of a narrative, it may actually have been a half-way decent attempt at a cash grab. That said, Full Moon also should have gone full-in (**rimshot**) on the “vault of videotapes” gimmick and released the Bunker of Blood chapters exclusively on red VHS cassette tapes with bootleg looking labels on them and oversize “Wizard Video” era boxes. Have Band himself sign them, sell ’em for $10 a pop, and you’ve got a b-movie collector’s wet dream!

Would’ve been a ton of tits better than the fifteen-fucking-dollar DVDs they’re actually released on! Yep. $15. For 60 minutes of regurgitated footage. ON DVD. And the digital version? $8. FOR A PIECE OF SHIT CLIP SHOW! I’m going to rupture a literal fissure in my Fissure of Rolando if I have to talk anymore about this emotional kidney stone. END!

Moral of the Story: The old saying goes, “drive it until the wheels fall off”. Charles Band asks you to hold his beer while he Gorilla Glues the wheels back on, then proceeds to “drive it” another 100 miles. He has officially out Corman’d Roger Corman at this point.

Final Judgment:

One Big Turd (Played On a 60 Minute Loop)

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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.

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Quickie 05 – Black Christmas (2006)

or “That Yellow Bastard (and His Yellow Bastard)”

We started off the season with a bloody good Red Christmas, and now we end it in a grimy puddle of Black Christmas.

I’m not a fan of the original 1974 Black Christmas and don’t really care if it’s “the genesis of slasher movies”. I didn’t enjoy it the solitary time I watched it, and though I should probably give it another viewing as it’s been about 20 years since I did, I probably won’t. Time is money and some asshole tossed my pocket watch out of a window because he wanted to see time fly…

Don’t waste your time sending me hate mail, because I just feed it all unseen to Amut. Anyway, as was the style at the time of the early 2000s, remakes for slasher movie staples were being regurgitated in waves, so it’s of zero surprise that the prototype for the genre was going to be dragged into the undertow. If you’re like me and managed to evade watching it for the last 12 years, allow this potluck of spoilers to sate whatever curious hunger you have and save you the time better spent learning to play the harpsichord. Consider it my Cthulhumas gift to you.


“Santa’s not coming for you. He was shot down by the Russians.”

Rather than relate the events of the feature to you in the chronology they’re presented, I’m going to makes things much easier and throw the backstory at you all at once rather than peppered in via “frequent flashbacks” mode. Here goes – Billy Lenz had the kind of upbringing that would turn any cherub-faced ragamuffin into the type of psycho killer (Qu’est-ce que c’est!) that would cure even G.G. Allin of the worst case of constipation (aka the “Wisconsin Death Trip”, caused by eating a cheese wheel the size of a tractor tire). Born in 1970 with a permanent jaundice (my own was fortunately temporary), the lad’s skin took a yellow tone that made him look like he’d been grown in a test tube full of liquid waste from some frat boy on the “Monster and Miller” diet.

While his dad still loved him, Billy’s mom was about as warm as Joan Collins, treating her son like a case of crotch rot. As if being raised in Dickensian conditions weren’t traumatizing enough, Christmas Eve ’75 was where things took a dizzying downward spiral for Billy from which he’d never recover: when Mom and her extracurricular lover killed dear Dad! When he’s caught sneaky-peekying the pair as they Gacy their victim’s remains, Mom chases him into the attic and locks him up there… permanently!

After 5 years of getting the Hugo Simpsons treatment (no word on what type of fish heads he was fed), the now 10 year-old receives his first expression of affection from his frigid mother when, following an unsuccessful drunken screw with her passed out partner, she creeps into the boy’s sanctuary and proceeds to rape him. Albeit needless nastiness likely included for the sake of shock value, the scene is shot in such a disgusting, depressing, predatory atmosphere that it genuinely reaches down my throat and punches my stomach from the inside just thinking about it. Congrats to writer-director Glen Morgan for reminding me that I’m NOT completely inured to the horrible lengths humans are capable of. Now, pardon me while I tamp my vomit.

The (presumably) solitary forced solicitation results in the beast being fertilized, leading to the eventual harvest of Billy’s sister-daughter (daughster) Agnes. Despite also carrying the family “piss skin” gene, mother dearest shows Agnes the love she never had for Billy (better than the “love” she did show him *barf*), until Christmas Eve some years later when Billy finally snaps. Killing both Mom and his stepdad, then eating one of Agnes’s eyeballs, Old Yeller proceeded to make Christmas cookies from his mom’s back skin (damn, those cutters really do cut!) while awaiting the arrival of the cops. Put away in a mental asylum for 20 or so years, the son of suburban Lilith finally escapes his confinement and makes a beeline to his childhood hellhole. Blame the egg nog if you like, but I have a feeling this isn’t going to go well for the sorority sisters currently occupying the abode.

In an effort to further differentiate this remake from its source material, much of the slasher fodder are saddled with suspicious character contrivances to plant seeds of doubt in the viewers’ minds about who the mystery killer among them really is. Not only does the sheer number of these false leads get incredibly convoluted, they also lead to ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOWHERE, because the killer living in the crawlspaces this whole time is just Agnes! She’s then joined by her fugitive brather in a family reunion body count that, impressive it may be, ultimately left me overwhelmingly unfulfilled….

Made all the worse by the tacking on of an entirely extraneous epilogue sequence that not only blows out my logic chip (what coroner doesn’t check to make sure a crime scene’s bodies are DEAD before bagging them up for the morgue?!), but feels suspiciously like an homage to Halloween II, leaving me with, to put it kindly, “mixed feelings”. Sure, we get to see a pair of defib pads used to fry someone’s brain and another person decorating Vlad Tepes’ Christmas tree, but we had a perfectly good ending with daughster and brather being burned alive in the house that the movie chose to ignore.

Aside from a few moments of legitimate laugh-out-loud-itude (including the circumstances of Andrea Martin’s Mrs. Mac’s sudden death) and the occasion jolly moment of set piece gore, Black Christmas is another pointless production that never needed to happen. Sure, its modest budget of 9 million returned 21 million at the box office, but here we are, 12 years later, with a movie most have forgotten and those who remember tend to spit on the ground after saying its name. It’s not just a piece of coal Santa leaves in your stocking, it’s a steaming pile of Donner dump that you have to scale the roof to dispose of before your whole house is left reeking of reindeer refuse. Just another addition to the wreath of remake wretch. Happy fucking holidays, folks.

Moral of the Story: Don’t give dangerously psychotic people candy canes! Even 5 year-olds know those things are just refreshing, sugary shivs waiting to be jammed into somebody’s tender vittles!

Final Judgment:

One-and-a-Half Red Herrings out-of-Five

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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.

Quickie 04 – Slay Belles (2018)

or “Kringle’s Angels: Full Stocking”

The last time I watched a movie by horror movie website-cum-production company Dread Central, it was pseudo-shocker schlocker let down Terrifier. Will mentally chaining my bias against that wannabe snuff film around its neck work against Slay Belles, or will it put my expectations so far below the limbo stick that it can’t help but holly my jolly and jingle my bells?


“Santa Claus is comin’ to town, bitches!”

Dahlia and Sade are the self-proclaimed YouTube stars behind the “Adventure Girls” channel. Their gimmick? “Urban exploration”. And that is…? It’s what the kids call breaking and entering, criminal trespassing, vandalism and theft. In less legal terminology, these anime gothic (like American Gothic, but nothing at all like American Gothic) scene-girls get dressed up in eye-catching (i.e. sexified) costumes, break into vacated and/or condemned properties, then record themselves running around like sugar plum faeries spazzing on novelty size Pixie Stix. For their new Christmas special “adventure”, they shanghai their “only mildly Hot Topic because she has a professional job during the day” amiga Alexia and take their guest accomplice to plunder an abandoned, middle-of-nowhere, season appropriately themed amusement park called Santa Land. To make matters further obvious fodder for an R rated Scooby-Doo mystery, a serial child murderer (that may or may not be a bear) has recently set up shop in the county too. Jinkies!

During their edge lady frolics, the gals are unaware that the head of the North Pole chapter of the Hell’s Angels is observing their antics over the park’s still functional security cameras. Before you even get the chance to consider this hairy red herring to be a threat, the broads are broadsided (*rimshot*) by what the Weekly World News would’ve described as the gestational by-product of a werewolf and a wildebeest getting drunk at their office Christmas party, sneaking away to the supply closet and letting nature’s disturbing sense of humor take its course.

Before the wayward wendigo can turn the females into foie gras (well, they are color-coded like Huey, Dewey and Louie), Grandpa Never-Outgrew-His-Midlife-Crisis intervenes (with his magic wizard walking stick?), ushers them to safety and exposes himself to them! …to be “the real fuckin’ Santa”. Yep, it’s a yuletide smack down in the Santa Land Memorial Ampitheater this Sunday Sunday Sunday when Kris “the Mangler” Kringle matches his magic against the frothing fangs of the one and only Killer Krampus Kadoogan! Don’t get too excited though, because unlike the Legendary Pictures incarnation, this version of Krampy doesn’t have a 20 million dollar budget and top-notch creature feature creative crew backing him up. It does have Barry Bostwick (and an all too brief Richard Moll cameo) though, so…if you’re old enough to remember who they are then…hooray?

While Slay Belles‘ production values are barely acceptable, let alone great, with its budget being what it is, you may well forgive the final product. Or you won’t. It actually works with the movie’s overall goofy tone. Though much of the main gals’ dialogue feels poorly scripted and their acting not up-to-snuff, Barry fucking Bostwick is great as grumpy old Harley-Davidson calendar Santa. Beyond its budgetary constraints and mostly novice cast (and moments of generic dubstep that felt like unnecessary splinters of rosemary wood hammered into my fucking eardrums), I also am not a fan of the crew’s camera person(s) having seizures while shooting. The proliferation of steady cam technology should make it affordable even to a minute money movie like this, leading me to believe it’s a style choice for a style my equilibrium isn’t having any of. And if it’s for tactical purposes in an effort to cover up not-so-special effects work, just don’t. We all know that gold around your wrist says “Bolex” and we can see the green ring it’s leaving on your skin. Stop.

Moral of the Story: Never question the power of Santa’s pimp stick. He’s also a lot cursier with the potty mouth than Rankin Bass would have you believe. Oh, and don’t ask about the reindeer…you don’t wanna know.

Final Judgment:

Three Santa Right Hooks out-of-Five

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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.

Quickie 03 – All the Creatures Were Stirring (2018)

or “Christmas Tales From the Darkside”

Like a lot of people, I signed up for horror streaming service Shudder for the sole purpose of seeing Joe Bob Briggs’ “The Last Drive-In”. I was going to sign up for the free trial, hit it and quit it. Instead, here I am months later, too lazy to cancel my subscription. It’s fine, because it’s only a fiver-per-month and JBB has since had his “Dinners of Death” mini-marathon with his upcoming “A Very Joe Bob Christmas” mere days away from the time of this review. In the interest of getting my $5 worth though, it felt like a good idea to watch some Shudder original movies. And since it’s that time of year, I bring to you their exclusive holiday horror anthology: All the Creatures Were Stirring

“There’s nothing worse than being alone on Christmas.”

Oh, I can think of about 17,000 things. Only 3/4 of which involve death or physical mutilation!

Co-workers Max and Jenna are “orphans” at Christmas. With no one else to spend their holiday(s), he invites her to some off-off-off-off-Broadway independent stage show that just so happens to share its name with our movie. Weird coincidence, right? Performed by its trio of players in acts, each tale is presented to we the audience instead as short film segments, with the title cards between each performance handled by the human representation of a grown-up Helga Pataki after she declared herself asexual and joined a jazz-oompah-barbershop quartet.

The Stockings Were Hung – A joyless office Christmas party goes from Dunder-Mifflin doldrums to a Would You Rather hosted by Jigsaw, initiated by an annoyingly “wacky” Killjoy-like voice via an inter-office conference call from Hell. The previously painful extracurricular escape from their cubicles turns worse than those staff meetings you were force to sit through on your lunch break! Unfortunately, a decent (albeit not exactly original) concept is wasted on what feels like a first draft script acted by people reading their lines as they’re being written. Even the ending is awful and rushed, leaving much unresolved and furthering my hypothesis that much/most/all of this calamitous crud was improvised on-the-spot.

Dash Away All – The very last customer of a department store manages to lock himself out of (and his phone inside of) his car and is left all alone in the parking lot. Well, with the sole exception of a sketchy looking van. The Mystery Machine it is not, but on the plus side it’s also not “a rockin”, so he goes “a knockin” in search of help. He’s greeted by a chocolate and vanilla pair of pseudo-hippie ladies who loan him their burner…and watch him like he’s a 5’8” honey-glazed Christmas ham the entire time. Needless to say (yet I’m clearly saying it anyway), things are not going to end well for someone(s) in this scenario. Overall, it’s a dozen times superior to its predecessor, in direction, cinematography, story cohesion, acting and ending! Whereas the only horror “Stockings” instilled in me was the worry that I was in for a looooong winter’s night with the rest of these shorts, “Dash” gave me moderate hope that what appeared to be a pile of awful offal would yield something edible.

All Through the House – The poor man’s non-union equivalent of the hot dog scientist from The Happening plays Chet, a bag of dicks type of guy (as are all who bear the mark of “Chet”) that goes through the Ebenezer Scrooge wringer. It’s nothing creative like Scrooged, instead taking most of its influence from the similar segment of ”Beavis and Butthead Do Christmas”… but not nearly as funny as it seems to think it is. It’s not James Nguyen terrible, but it’s just kinda “there”, like figgy pudding.

Arose Such a Clatter – A man who may or may not be a private-eye (he’s watching you *clap clap*), resembles the platonic ideal of a mash-up between pre-morbid obesity Orson Welles and pre-coke nose Artie Lang has a hit and run-in with a deer on his way home one night. Though he puts the creature out of its misery, his own misery is just beginning…as is ours…but it’s the shortest short of the set, so at least it’s a short-lived misery. Get it? Short-lived? Yeah, well, fuck you too, Hermey. Anyway, not only is this a poorly made (though semi-acted as opposed to not-at-all) story that includes needless foreshadowing, but it face fucks us with that same prognostication not five minutes later, I’m presuming to explain itself to those viewers whose moms may have drank heavily whilst in utero.

In a Twinkling – And no, a “Twinkling” is not a tiny Twinkie…nor a midget that’s also a gay stereotype. Aaaaaaaaaaaanyway, Paul Giamatti’s illegitimate son is hiding himself out home alone on X-mas Eve, fortifying his home and preparing to chain himself into bed for the night. You know, as you would in a case where you’re a sleepwalker or a werewolf. His friends show up for a surprise holiday dinner, much to his chagrin, which leads to all manner of “Twilight Zone” chicanery and “Twin Peaks” tomfoolery going down (like your mom did to that mall Santa last night! ZING!). Acting’s not bad, comedy’s okay, visual effects are cheap but fun. A weird little yarn that’s out-of-place in a horror movie, but let’s just call it “The Xmas-Files” and have a laugh. I’m running late for the pantheon’s Cthulhumas party and still need to wrap up something hastily pulled from a drawer in my garage for White Elephant!

And to All a Goodnight – As with any anthology, our feature’s finale wraps up our bookending narrative with Maximilian and Jenna-bifida. For the sake of not spoiling anything, consider this the part where I carve the roast beast for all you Whos down in Whoville so the ghost of Boris Karloff can get back to haunting Alex Trebek’s attic. Remember, even a miracle needs a hand, ya filthy animals!

Moral of the Story: (with Anubis having already left before deciding on a moral, we turned to the Wheel of Morality for guidance) “Maybe Christmas doesn’t come from a store. Maybe Christmas means a little bit more. Now give me your wallet and nobody gets hurt.”

Final Judgment:

Two-and-a-Half Grither Fists out-of-Five

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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.

Quickie 02 – Krampus (2015)

or “Let’s Have a Good Old Fashioned Christmas… IN HELL!”

When I was a pup, my heathen family was all about the Christmas traditions: traditional fir tree decorated with a traditional cacophony of tangled colored lights and mismatched random ornaments, traditional Christmas cartoons, traditional readings of ”The Night Before Christmas” before bed on Christmas Eve, traditional piles of gifts labeled “From: Santa”, traditional milk and cookies, and traditional family get-togethers where no less than 3 people ended up blackout drunk in the snow and someone always Keifer’d the host’s tree. All these years later, getting a tree is a question of effort and finances, the cartoons are split up between 10 different channels (some not available at all and some edited for time or content), gifts have turned from boxes covered in bright paper and ribbons into plain envelopes with generic greeting cards holding money or gift cards, and half the family is in AA while the other half hasn’t talked to them ever since “the incident”.

I’m generally not one to gripe (it’s not slander if I’m not under oath!), I’m just setting the stage for tonight’s quickie: Krampus.

“It looks like Martha Stewart threw up in here.”

For some of us, Christmas means happy family gatherings of warmth and love and all the other stuff that would give Ebenzer Scrooge a raging bah-humbugger of a hate boner. For plenty of other clans, it means being trapped alongside people whose DNA you’d rather see splattered over a crime scene than admit to sharing strands of. The Engel family are the latter. Imagine the Griswalds being forceably bred with the McAllisters as overseen by the Lockhorns and you’ve got…a pretty fucked up scenario swimming in your brain now, dontcha?! Merry Christmas.

On Christmas Eve, the wealthy “liberal elite” household of the Engels host their “trailer trash conservative” other-half for an evening that most would rather avoid in favor of whatever flesh-eating bacteria they can come up with on short notice. The only lad in the gang, Max, won’t exactly admit to believing in Santa, but he won’t have anyone talking shit about the jolly philanthropist in his presence either. But, when his shit-sneeze cousins abscond with his letter to the Giftfather (written at the behest of his Eastern European granny to keep with ritual) and push everybody’s blood pressure into hypertension levels by reading it aloud at an already anxiety inducing dinner, Max’s disgust for his (un)loved ones boils over into tearing up the correspondence and shit-canning it out of his bedroom window.

Much like Frosty’s arcane chapeau, there must’ve been some magic in those Old World wives-tales told by superstitious elderly immigrants, because with Max’s faith in the tide of Yule now broken worse than Christopher Reeves’s neck, the family’s fate is officially fucked. In his defense, grandma probably should have warned him YEARS ago that committing heresy against Saint Nick results in the damnation of his entire bloodline, but stuff like that’s usually left up to the parents so… I guess granny can be forgiven.

The next morning a freak snowstorm has bukkaked the neighborhood under two feet of frozen white fuckery! The power and all communications have been knocked out, every house on the block is barren of life, and somebody had time to build an unnerving snowman in the fam’s front yard. Snowmen have peepers. Peepers to watch. To watch for a moment of weakness and then *BAFF!* comes the knock on the head and we’re down!

…by which, I of course mean that Krampus has come to town. Don’t even bother to hold onto your butts. Nobody wants to die shitting all over their hands.

If the “breaking holiday praxis = murderous retribution” thing sounds familiar, it’s no doubt because writer-director Michael Dougherty was also the mind behind analagous dark comedy-horror Trick ‘r Treat. Legendary and Universal gave Mikey Dough four times the budget and a shot at plying his trade on the big screen with Krampus, and I feel like it mostly paid off. While the design for Special K’s is wonderfully terrifying and intimidating (He is the marquee menace, after all), His “helpers” tend toward being a tad too goofy at times to give even Goofy a spine tingle and are dangerously close to getting a copyright infringement lawsuit from Charles Band’s worst bratwurst and Billy Beer induced nightmares. They’re fun, but a tad too fun sometimes for my tastes.

As much as I enjoyed Adam Scott and Toni Collete (even Emjay Anthony, who breaks my age old stance of being anti all movie children), I’m sad to say that David Koechner has never shown me to be even a moderately good dramatic actor, and this movie has not changed that. He’s always too large a “presence” and steals the attention from everyone else he’s in a scene with. Though that’s generally a good thing, an overly comedic person such as himself just ends up leeching any sense of tension from EVERY SCENE. Far be it from me to tell anyone what direction they should take their life, but after Krampus I’ll be approaching any future horror flicks Koechner may be involved in with much apprehension.

Consider me curious to see what he could do playing John Wayne Gacy in a movie though. It worked for Mark Holton!

And on that vision of prancercising sugar plums in Pogo paint, I give Krampus my exhortation for anyone seeking a PG-13 holiday horror that’ll leave your young-ones soiling their stockings by the chimney with care. Merry Christmas to All, and to All a good night terror!

Moral of the Story: When an old woman tells you to “keep the fire burning”, YOU KEEP THE FUCKING FIRE BURNING!

Final Judgment:

Four Baskets of Abducted Children out-of-Five

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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.

Quickie 01 – Red Christmas (2016)

or “Cletus the Red-Nosed Mutant”

Who’s ready for some holiday cheer? I said, WHO THE FUCK IS READY FOR SOME HOLIDAY CHEER?!


(Actually footage of my brain after being forced to sit through the 37th iteration of “Jingle Bell Rock” while waiting in line at the liquor store.)

I hate this time of year. Well, my mental disorders do. I’m good with the thematic commercialism and all that holly jolly trash, but I liked it better when “50 Shades of Gray” was just softcore for soccer moms, not the fucking five day forecast. There’s a reason the short form of Seasonal Affective Disorder is SAD. Blart.

“Cheers for letting Satan into the house, Di.”

Anyway, our tale begins in the household of a wacky Aussie family that has reunited to celebrate the Christmas season. Their surname is never given, and though that’s not really important, it always bothers me when a movie can’t bother to give their characters something more than first names. Pet peeves left in the Sematary, the (insert name here)s are a sitcom waiting to happen. There’s widowed American matriarch (Dee Wallace, GILF of my dreams!), her stoner bro Uncle Joe, Shakespeare obsessed son Jerry, adopted teenage art school drop-out-to-be Hope, pregnant no-shits-given sister Ginny and her husband Scott (the pair of which is uncomfortably liberal about sex around family), uptight “can’t conceive” bible thumper Suzy and her awkward “reminds me of Lionel from Dead Alive” knob end husband Peter. Ozploitation Roseanne The Conners’, here we come!

When a cloaked vagrant named Cletus darkens their doorstep, bandaged up like Darkman, stinking of piss, and mumbling like John Merrick on ‘ludes, Diane invites him inside in the spirit of some seasonally appropriate pity. While everyone else gives mom slack for letting the transient mummy in, she soon regrets her charity when the putrid-yet-peaceful punchline to the joke that is God’s “love” tells them why he’s there. What results is a night of over-the-top carnage and blood-soaked cheer befitting a pre-Tolkien Peter Jackson or pre-Spider-Man Sam Raimi feature! And I can’t recommend it enough if the thought of either or both of those jingles your bells.

Though the balance between comedic carnage and thriller tensions can feel as uneven as a session of teeter-totter between zombie Andre the Giant and zombie Vern Troyer, writer-director Craig Anderson and his cast (special mention to Gerard Odwyer for making Jerry my favorite member of the bunch) bring joy to the world with their better-than-average production. Warning for the photosensitive among us though, as Anderson’s penchant for playing with colored lighting could give Dario Argento an aneurysm. The mandatory horror movie plot twist is present, but can be sussed by 95% of viewers within the first few scenes and is made clearer for the foggier-minded by the halfway point, so at least there’s no fear of it being a huge letdown mere moments prior to the finale!

Minute niggling aside, let Red Christmas be the North Star by which my fellow gore whores and horror freaks find their way to yuletide torment on this and every Winter Solstice!

Oh, and should you choose to seek out this slasher sin-a-palooza sleeper on your own time, note the following: (1) it’s available to stream on NetFlix as of this review and (2) I’m gonna tack a big fat trigger warning on it. Red Christmas covers topics of a sensitive nature that I won’t even hint at here because it could spoil the whole damn thing. If you suffer from such conditions, I suggest having a friend or loved one watch the first 15 or so minutes to make sure it’s all clear for your individual standards.

(When it comes to Quickies that I intend to do full feature reviews for later down the [sewage] pipe, Red Christmas is a guaranteed contender. Probably not until the spoiler embargo burns out though, because I have some thoughts I’m itching to share on the controversial topics addressed during these 80+ minutes.)

Moral of the Story:Food allergies give your body the durability of a circus peanut. Also, if you value your ability to urinate without the use of a catheter, never piss on someone…unless that’s what they’re into. No judgies.

Final Judgment:

Four Family Counselors (in Santa Hats) out-of-Five

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