Quickie 16 – Train to Busan (2016)

or “28 Stops Later”

Ahhhh. The sun shines again. The flowers bloom once more. The inevitability of entropy has been held off for another day. Why? Because The Bride of Anubis and I (Anubis) have been favored by fortune with Train to Busan – a movie that we both now love more than our own children… who are actually just a pair of apparitions that came with the apartment and won’t stop whining about how they can’t rest until blah blah blah. I don’t know. We stopped listening after the first week.

“There was a tiny leak in the Biotech District.”

How do you do something interesting in the zombie/outbreak sub-genre when everyone and their Uncle George has been making ghouls-gone-wild the topic of their terror ever since the damn things first came to get Barbara? Park Joo-suk, possibly after playing a demo for Resident Evil 0, discovered the angle that would make his outbreak flick stand out: put it on a train. It could do for infectious mutants what planes did for snakes!

Aside from the setting, the recipe is a simple “viral outbreak turns infected people into violent killers whose sole purpose for existence is to attack anyone that ISN’T infected and spread said virus as fast as possible” (see 28 Days Later, I Am Legend, etc) and includes the mandatory group of mismatched survivors brought together by horrifying circumstances and forced to work together in the hopes of surviving an seemingly unsurvivable apocalypse scenario. In the interest of keeping this short, I won’t go into extensive details about the movie’s cast of characters, but I will say that it’s probably one of the better fleshed out and established posses of human protagonists in such a movie that I’ve ever seen.

The train gimmick is used to great effect, giving the setting a claustrophobic vibe while literally keeping it moving at an action movie speed. If you took the hordes of fast, rabid, swarming mutants from World War Zand shoved them into Under Siege 2: Dark Territory, but replaced Steven Seagal with a handful of LIKEABLE people, that’s the best and briefest approximation I can give for Train to Busan.

It’s not a perfect movie, though. If you’re a nitpicker like yours truly, you’ll find aspects of the ghouls that are inconsistent (their bodies don’t mend, but when they’re dropped from 60ft they can just get up and run like nothing’s injured?) and poorly utilized (they need to see humans to attack them, but at the same time they’re utterly blind amid mood lighting?), and you may shout colorful language at the illogical choices of some of the lower-on-the-cast-listing characters. But, if niggling things like that don’t poke your figurative ass like a legion of miniature Ash Williams clones wielding eating utensils, then be prepared for guaranteed pathos and tension and feels!*

*Results may vary. Not a guarantee.

Moral of the Story: Whether you’re looking out for your own ass or trying to play hero for complete strangers, bloodthirsty monsters are not agents of karma and will do everything in their power to tear you to pieces whatever your ethics.

Final Judgment:

Four-and-a-Half Mr. Conductors out-of-Five



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 15 – Deadpool 2 (2018)

or “The Cable Guy”

In honor of our collective passage through the stargate known as the vernal equinox, I’ve opted to do a little spring cleaning here in Het Graf van Anubis. Given my dangerous allergy against actual tidying, I’m instead going to do a few reviews for sequels of movies already featured in our ever (okay, “occasionally”) growing ranks of dearly departed diatribes on motion pictures. As such, here’s Deadpool 2!

“Every good family film starts with a vicious murder.”

When we last left the human tumor in red, mouthy mercenary Deadpool had wrapped up his first vulgarity-fueled big screen adventure on a happy ending. He got the girl, he vanquished his nemesis, and he rode that stone pony to the highest grossing (worldwide) box office take for an R-rated movie E-V-E-R. Well, within the first few minutes of his sequel, Freddy Krueger’s stunt double experiences tragedy when his world hopping heroics (well, murdering mass quantities of organized crime fodder still counts as “heroic”, right?) crossover into his personal life with devastating consequences. The fallout leaves ‘Pool seeking refuge in suicidal tendencies (not the back catalog of the band), which don’t sit well with his super duper mutant healing factor. Unable to die, he sinks even deeper into depression until do-gooder Colossus gathers up his broken pieces and takes him to stately Xavier Manor in the hope of dragging him kicking and screaming from the crushing gravitational field of his emotional black hole.

Inspired by a renewed purpose of spoilery extents, Dead joins the X-Men as a trainee in the hopes that doing some gooding of his own will mend his broken soul. This immediately goes the way of my puphood Stinkor figure (straight down the shitter) though when, on his first mission as one of the white hats, our hero(ish) lays some righteous, fatal vengeance on some bad guys who’ve been abusing the wards under their care at an all-mutants orphanage. One such victim is fourteen year-old pyrokinetic Russell, who’s chosen “Firefist” as his nam de pouvoir and spouts gangsta rap references like the whitest Maori kid you’ll ever see. As punishment for Pool putting a bullet in the brain of one of Russ’s tormentors and Russ attempting to arson the orphanage to the ground, the pair are arrested and sentenced to mutant prison, otherwise known as “The Ice Box”.

Here, the pair’s powers are nullified via dampening collars, so the freshest fish of the cooler become easy targets for the lock-up’s hard-asses, fronted by decidedly white dickhead Black Tom Cassidy. While Russ tries to make the best of life in the big house, seeing it as an opportunity to put his not-real street smarts to use and turn himself into a tough guy, Deadpool would rather lay low and slowly die of the full-body cancer no longer held in check by his newly neutralized healing factor. His woe-is-me act dies a quick death though, when a time-traveling mutant militant named Cable pops into The Ice Box, looking for a Hungry Man dinner… by which I mean he aims to Minority Report “Firefist” for some nasty shit his future self will inflict on the grizzled old soldier’s loved ones. With re-renewed purpose, Deadpool’s personal journey now entails him keeping Russell alive and putting the lad down the path of least homicide while keeping Cable from canceling the kid’s service… you know, like you’d have your cable service canceled?

See, this is why you should really come into these (sh)articles looking for nothing because you think you’d realize by now that I’m always going to somehow manage to deliver even less. Make like that ‘MadTV’ video dating service skit and try some *sing songy voice* “lowered expectaaaations”.

The Sophomore Slump is a legitimate concern when sequelizing any successful cinematic opus, let alone one whose receipts amassed the biggest box office cabbage cache of its MPAA ratings classification. All sequels are tasked with measuring up to their predecessor installment, so Deadpool 2 already had quite a fucking incline to ice skate up before it even had a first draft. To its merit, Cable is a welcome addition to the cast, while the entirety of Deadpool’s version of X-Force (fellow mutants hired for a prison break that… doesn’t quite go as planned) works only as a throwaway gag (I feel the writers were fans of MacGruber…), aside from the perfect exception: Domino. I would pay to see a Domino and/or Cable solo movie immediately if not sooner.

Though Deadpool is still his typical wacky, irreverent, “fly your freak flag in the air like you just don’t care” self and the returning members of the last movie’s supporting cast are also great, the “origin movie charm” of meeting the main character and his twisted little facsimile family is gone and, having lost said leg, this follow-up is left hopping around for a while. Fortunately, much like one of ‘Pool’s own appendages, that leg grows back as the new characters are hazed into this foul-mouthed fraternity, each bringing along their own appeal! This metaphorical regeneration doesn’t happen until the latter half of the flick, so the script tries to fill the time with a surplus of dick and fart jokes. I have nothing against a well organized march of potty shtick, but there’s a fine line between Clerks and Freddy Got Fingered, and the first half of DP Deuce falls face first into the Fingering pit.

The second half is a worthwhile reward for sitting through the first half’s frat boy version of the Chinese Water Torture (with toilet jokes being dripped on your forehead in place of water), but for my five bucks, I’ll stick with the original movie over this one.

Also, any movie that has adult men making sex jokes about a fourteen year-old boy? Not my cup of balls. Oh, and fuck TJ Miller. Don’t @ me. My “fuck” stands carved in granite.

Moral of the Story: Just like less can be more, sometimes more is less. But, in this case the “more” is more like Les Moonves. Well, not sexual predator bad, but disappointing enough for that shitty pun.

Final Judgment:

Three-and-a-Half “True Face Les Moonves”es out-of-Five



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 14 – Leprechaun Origins (2014)

or “The Suck of the Irish”

In honor of St. Patrick’s Day, my thorny Irish Rose does me the honor of cooking the dish of her people: corned beef and cabbage. I love it. What nobody loves is the flatulent fallout, because cabbage farts would make even a devout snarfer question their life choices. If the holiday horror-comedies of the Leprechaun series were corned beef and cabbage, Origins would be the subsequent instance of irritable bowel syndrome that follows.

“You don’t abandon your home just because times get tough. Around here, you fight for what’s yours.”

Intended as a series reboot (a word that makes the hairs stand up on most horror geeks’ necks), Origins makes the same mistake the 2010 A Nightmare On Elm Street discharge did – dropping the trademark humor the movies are known for in favor of a more generic “traditional horror” tone. It follows a quartet of American college types who are backpacking across the Ireland countryside, as college Yanks abroad are known to do. Much like every other horror movie featuring the theme, things don’t go well for our travelers. The first clue that they’re on the short path to their imminent demise (which they opt to ignore because movies) comes when the man they hired to drive them to an out-of-the-way village (so much so that the movie was actually shot in Canada) refuses to go within a shamrock’s toss of the town limits. Free advice for any Americans out and about in unfamiliar regions of the globe: if any of the locals react in a horrified fashion at your request for directions or assisted traversal to a specific destination, DO NOT GO TO SAID DESTINATION.

Despite their Emerald Isle Uber driver’s fear, the four make like Deputy Geronimo and go ahead on. No sooner do they find their way to the place, they’re given the red green carpet treatment by village grandpa Hamish (played by the closest thing to a good actor in the movie), treated to comp-ed pints of Not Guinness, and are invited to take a countryside tour of some ancient relics the next day. As much as this upsets starched shirt “but it will interfere with our schedule!” Ben, it’s just the kind of historical Spanish fly that girlfriend Sophie gets brain horny over. When Dave and Jen take a long enough break from drinking and rubbing their faces together to throw in with the excursion, Ben is officially overruled and Sophie makes her choice…

Before you can say “the only good points of The Wicker Man remake were Cage dressed as a bear while punching out a woman and his screaming about being stung by digital bees”, the Americans are locked in a house so as to be fed to the Tuatha Dé Danann – a demonic little mutant creature better known to the world proper as a leprechaun. As you can imagine, it has a Goldmember level penchant for the shiny stuff, including a poor man’s knock-off of Predator Vision™ that allows his vulnerable cave dweller oculi to see his prey. Dananny has been fatally harassing the village since they turned its cave into a gold mine and stole all of the precious metals within. So, rather than give the gold back or just move the village to another spot a few miles down the road Springfield style, the villagers made a deal with the monster (with no means of communication, funny enough) to feed it outsiders in exchange for their own well being. I’m surprised at how many tourists apparently end up at this secluded secret town as meals for Yucky Charms, but that’s the least of the problems going on here. Looking nothing like its predecessor Lubdan (how many of you actually knew that was his name?), the new guy more resembles the aftermath of a drunken tryst between Brundle Fly and one of BatBoy’s extended family from The Descent, #blessed with a big slimy booger for a head and a mouth incapable of movement that just hangs slack for the entire movie.

Yeah. It’s some of the shittiest character design you’re likely to find On Demand.

Our meals-to-be fight for their lives as they’re stalked by the beastie and have every attempted avenue of escapes blockaded by Hamish and his fellow fiendish townsfolk. Loyalties are tested (and fail at almost every opportunity), blood is shed, and there’s a lot of running around in circles as the movie spins its tires before finally concluding with Sophie the solitary survivor, though guaranteed to suffer some serious PTSD… if she manages to make it back to civilization before some other inbred rendition of local faery folklore eats her face. The end.

From 1997 to 2013, Leprechaun 4: In Space was widely condemned as the series’s low point. A less-than-enticing distinction to be sure, but rather than having no foot to stand on in the face of its siblings, Leppy 4 was given millipede denominations of metaphorical appendages once Origins musturd gassed in the bad movie elevator. Easily the new reigning champion of shitty Celtic horror, this movie is a clusterfuck of failures. The story is predictable, the acting is equal parts bland and bad (and not in the fun way), the marketing centered around Dylan Postl (then-WWE performer Hornswoggle) “starring” as the titular terrorizer was completely pointless since he spends the entirety of his scenes BEHIND AN INANIMATE RUBBER MASK, the gore is soft, the nudity is nil, the bodycount is kiddie pool shallow (for fuck’s sake, Jeni only dies because Sophie accidentally puts an ax through her face!) and the characters’ haphazard idiocy puts figurative bamboo chutes under my toenails. Ultimately, the monster is defeated when our final female (I personally don’t prefer to call grown ass adult women “girls”) decapitates the booger-faced gremlin with a machete. Yes, after years of the townsfolk fending the cretin off with floodlights and shotguns and human sacrifices, it was no harder to kill than a camp counselor at Crystal Lake! They could have baited him with gold in a Bugs Bunny box trap, then burned the little idiot alive and been done with him! Logic is the Unobtainium of lazy scare flicks and the sandy intruder of my allegorical g-string.

Finally, I give Michael Bay a zettatonne of hatred over his reliance on shaky-cam for his action scenes, but Zach Lipovsky’s obsession with it (combined with a love of quick cuts, dutch angles, and other “music videos on meth” shooting methods) would give a hardened cosmonaut a case of the dts (short for the scientific term – “dizzy tummy syndrome”). I’ve come off of roller coasters feeling less vertigo than what was induced in me by the time the end credits hit! ALL FOURTEEN MINUTES OF THEM! Yes, in order to stretch the runtime of this cinematic bout of cholera so it would break the 90 minute mark, THERE ARE FOURTEEN MINUTES OF END CREDITS! Somebody pass me a Dramamine & Ex-Lax cocktail, cuz my stomach’s doing a full tumbling routine reliving this trauma and I’m wearing my last clean kalasiris until my dry cleaner comes back from vacation.

Moral of the Story: Much like when being pursued by a lion, you don’t need to be faster than a Tuatha Dé Danann to escape it. You just need to be faster than your friend(s)!

Final Judgment:

One Pyrite Turd out-of-Five



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 111 [Rerun] – Hatchet (2006)

or “Trim-the-Fat Tuesday”

Featuring: Joel “Avatar” Moore , Tamara “‘Gossip Girl’” Feldman , Deon “‘The Cosby Show’” Richmond

Writer & Director: Adam “Frozen (2010)” Green

Origin: USA

Sequels: Hatchet II ; Hatchet III ; Victor Crowley


“I like my tongue without the syphilis.”

Before we open this can of flesh-eating worms, I’d like to take a moment to shout out to Mr. John Carl Buechler, a living legend of the horror genre whose contributions to sleaze, deformed monstrosities, and graphic scenes of excessive violence have made my world a much better place. He’s currently trading blows with some manner of cancerous intruder and his family has established a crowdfunding page to help them in their time of need. Even if you can’t afford to donate some dinero, forward some well-wishes and let the Buechlers know you care. gofundme.com/f/help-john-buechler

Intro: One of the big drawbacks of doing Rerun write-ups is not having anything resembling a clue as to whatever the fuck it was I was rambling on about during my initial spewings of mental vomit. For instance, I don’t have idea one as to the “two-page magazine ad” that I refer to having over-hyped me for Hatchet, given that the only horror magazine I ever really patronized was ”Fangoria”, and even then my exposure to that ended once I stopped renewing The Evil Dead Bride’s subscription around 2002. Perhaps it was one of the random rare issues of ”Rue Morgue” purchased during an exceptionally taxing traversal on the dread ship Greyhound? Much like the genuine durability of a Tootsie Pop when waged against the assault of a lapping tongue, the world may never know.

Well, as today is Mardi Gras, in a bit of last-minute unspiration I thought I’d exhume the remains of my thoughts on what would go on to be one of the more lauded series of slasher flicks from the last 10+ years, so heeeeeeeere’s Hatchet!

Original Review:
I usually take myself out of the hype loop when it comes to “under the radar” movies. Unless I come across a quick forum mention of some epically bad or astonishingly good flick, or my Evil Dead Bride picks up on something from a friend or import website, chances are I don’t know too much about the movies I watch before I actually sit down to watch them. I generally discover them for myself whether by trailer, NetFlix recommendations, or a quick scan of the walls at any of the 14 movie rental stores I’ve got a membership to… yes, I’ve got an addiction, I realize that and don’t need you to act like you’re the first person to point this out to me!

This self-imposed media blackout helps to kill off shit that’s either going to sway me for or against a movie and saves me the “purity” of an uninfluenced opinion when I’m reviewing. Unfortunately, that’s not going to work with my latest review for Hatchet, because I first heard about it through a massive two-page advert, strewn with nothing but the standard cookie-cutter review quotes saying crap like “The Greatest Slasher Movie Ever Made!” and “Absolutely Brilliant! Finally, a Horror Movie That Respects the Viewer’s Intelligence!” and “This Movie Will Make You Rethink the Way You Think About Slasher Flicks!” and “Better Than the Heartwarming Feeling You Get When Grandma Gives You an Apple Pie Enema!”. An “apple pie enema”? I don’t know, that’s a pretty tall order to live up to.

Teasing us to believe that we’re in for yet another in the long line of killer alligator flicks, our opening scene introduces us to two cinematically stereotypical redneck types out on the bayou looking to do a little ‘gator poaching. When the son of the duo returns from a piss to find his father (Robert Englund in a mercifully short cameo) torn in half! Unable to utter any last words about NASCAR or Middle Eastern people, the son’s final utterances are little more than gurgling screams as he’s mauled and torn apart by a mostly unseen assailant.

Without much time to process whatever the fuck it is we just saw, the movie jumps instead to Mardi Gras! Here, where tits of all shapes and sizes are displayed so that drunken frat boys will throw beads at them and reprehensible dick booger Joe Francis can make another $40 million off of pathetic infantile drunk guys who order that shit for $10 a pop from 3am infomercials on SpikeTV and Comedy Central, as opposed to just attending the free mammary parade that is the internet like the rest of us do.

Five standard issue college type guys are in The Big Sleazy for, what else, Drunken Areola Fest 2007. Of the five there are only two that stand out: Ben (Joel Moore), because he’s all depressed over his girlfriend leaving him for a steroid case, and Marcus (Deon Richmond), because he’s the solitary black guy of the gaggle, meaning he gets the best lines while also burdened with the best likelihood of dying due to his skin color. The other guys are just there to fill up camera space or be brutally slaughtered in some way, shape or form, so I’m not going to bother learning their names.

Anyway, being the one guy not interested in the nipple avalanche nor getting drowned in alcohol and regurgitated po’ boys, Benji excuses himself from the group to seek geeky fun via a “haunted swamp tour”. Marcus tags along because he now feels guilty about his love for boobs. It’s very awkward listening to Rudy’s friend Buuuud say “I’d rather skin my own dick”. Just thought I’d put that out there. The two seek out the Candyman himself, Tony Todd, to indulge in his tourist trap trip, but the Harlequin-painted Baron Samedi had a problem with a former patron slapping him with the curse of a voodoo lawsuit, so he redirects the lads to another tour around the block. Oh man, does this mean no more Tony Todd now?! Damn it!

To fill out the body count a bit, there are seven more people along for the tour: an obvious homage to the aforementioned trash fountain that is Joe Francis (never trust someone with two first names!); his pair of booby show “actresses” who spend 20% of their screen time flashing their fun bags and the other 80% arguing with each other; an obnoxious pair of Midwestern tourist geezers; a mysterious and unfriendly chick to serve as Ben’s forced love interest; and the be-caped, top hat wearing doofus tour guide who Marco describes as “Bruce Lee meets Uncle Remus” since he’s Asian and speaks with an unconvincing N’awlins accent.

Of course, they ignore the warnings of a urine guzzling beardo, who tells them not go out into the swamp after dark unless they want to be chopped into gumbo meat by the local urban legend hatchet murderer, Victor Crowley. To no one’s surprise, their tour barge runs aground of a sizable rock and is sent sinking into the swampy depths. To avoid becoming the late night “all you can eat!” buffet for the local cold-blooded populace, our inadequate crew heads ashore amid a torrential downpour. It’s here where we learn that Ben’s enigmatic girlfriend not only has a gun but she also seems to know something about surviving in the bayou (probably FBI or a bounty hunter or on the run from an abusive spouse or something), so expect her to take charge of these chuckle fucks. Meanwhile, old man tourist guy has part of his leg chewed off by a future pair of boots and nobody’s cell phone works! Did these idiots all pass under a ladder on their way to the tour?!

As for Mr. Crowley, he was your average inbred retard mutant child (probably a Voorhees relation) who died in a Halloween prank gone wrong thanks to an accidental face axing by his loving Pa (Kane Hodder!). Pa Crowley later died of grief, but local legends say that the ghost of Vic wanders this very neck of the swamp, crying and looking for his daddy. Either way, our little crew just happens to be nearby the burnt out remains of the Crowley home, so it looks like they’ll be holding up there till the storm blows over… or until sunrise… or until they can figure out Crowley is actually the owner of a haunted amusement park trying to scare away the locals so he can search for the lost diamond stash hidden there by a gang of armored car thieves in the 1940s… or something.

As you probably predicted, the big retarded Neanderthal-in-coveralls is indeed on the warpath, chopping up his victims with a hatchet and tearing them to pieces with his hulking inbred super strength!… and apparently taking his style tips from Jason circa the finale of Friday the 13th Part 2. Now, we just have to wait for everybody to die and let the special effects crew make this trip worth the price of admission… which they do… repeatedly!

Gore whores, this is your stop on the 3:15 express bus to Violenceville. Crazy Vic uses everything from his titular lumberjack-ing tool to a shovel to a gas powered belt sander in his efforts to trim down the fodder while Ben and his new girlfriend try to figure out a way to put Crowley down for the ten count, whether by gun, pitchfork, flammable liquid or some other method to keep him from surviving for a sequel before he can kill them all off first. And you know that even if they think they’ve killed him, there’s no way he’s really dead… unless the movie does so badly in the DVD market that no one’s willing to touch a script for the sequel with a ten-foot stabbin’ pole, in which case Big V might as well be encased in concrete and dropped off the next Carnival Cruise ship heading out to sea.

Well, that’s over with. Now what? All in all, Hatchet is a modern day attempt at recapturing the simplified carnage and magic of the early Friday the 13th movies. Back in the days when Jason was just a deranged gorilla decked out in a modified potato sack and tearing through unsuspecting teens like a scythe through scarecrows, falling off of chairs and bisecting shitheads doing handstands. The differences between Jason’s early exploits and those of Vic Crowley, however, are as follows:

(1) Even if you take out the entirety of what was established in Friday the 13th, in F13 Part 2 we’re still introduced to our main man throughout the movie with little segments here and there as he and the cast build his legend up with stories and the occasional graphic death. Hatchet spends too much time on getting Ben and the rest out into the swamp and not enough time building up Crowley for us. Instead he’s given a slapdash origin before he’s thrown into our face and we’re just kinda left to run with the carnage. Don’t get me wrong, I like carnage, but the setup for said carnage was done better 25 years earlier.
(2) The ending is such a Friday the 13th ending that it’s almost funny, only it’s done like some kind of “extreme sports” rendition… I don’t know, you’d have to see it to understand what I’m getting at. There’s no doubt that the whole project’s a labor of love for bygone slashers of the eternal ’80s, so not only do you need to be a fan of those flicks to dig the experience, but you need to be okay with these so-called “tribute flicks” too. If you need more story and something with a new flavor you haven’t slapped on your tongue a thousand times before, you’re humping the wrong leg here.

Naturally the movie couldn’t live up to the wall of hype built around it (I really wish I hadn’t seen that damn magazine ad…), but in and of itself it’s a fairly decent way to wreck a couple of hours. The dialogue will either make you laugh, annoy the crap out of you, or start off doing one and then switch to the other. The acting is nothing special and the story is obviously generic, but it’s fun to try and pick out all the little nods to other old school horror flicks. Most importantly though with this type of movie: how’s the gore? It’s excessively graphic and plays to the fans of the red stuff. So, if you just need a little bit of bloodshed to hold you close and whisper sweet nothings into your ear till the sun rises, Hatchet‘ll do pig, Hatchet‘ll do…

Xtro: Hey! So, having seen Hatchet again for the first time since its release, have a helping of my updated thoughts. For starters, as a slasher movie throwback, I have to acknowledge an appreciation for the cameos by Tony Todd, Robert Englund, John Carl Buechler (as the piss slurping bayou ‘billy), and Kane Hodder. Technically Hodder stars as the man behind-the-makeup of Victor Crowley, but his flashback cameo as his own character’s father counts, damn you! I used to be a lot more jaded about cameos in horror flicks because they felt like lazy plays at popping the fanboys/fangirls/fanboths/fanneithers. However, in my more sedate and aged state, I see them less as a tease of what could have been and a fair affection for what they are – brief nods of thanks to the history of the before times. Sadly, in this era of less-sleaze more-scares horror movies, the fan service feels disabled so as not to alienate the more casual viewers who won’t recognize the genre’s forebearers in favor of creating their own lore. Whether this is a creative choice or a studio statute probably vacillates between instances, but either way I enjoy cameos more now that I did a decade ago.

What I don’t appreciate, now or at any other moment in the chronology of the space-time continuum, is poor acting, poorer music, and characters shallower than an ice cube tray. If Adam Green was happy with the job his cast did, then a pox on him for making them look unprofessional. Just because you’re “only” shooting a slasher movie doesn’t mean you don’t have to push your people to put in some effort! Of course, no level of oompf is going to support some of this wastebasket level dialogue, so I’d have to give double downed digits to Mr. Green, given that he was the sole creative accused involved. Deon Richmond and Perry Shen were pretty much the only shining spots of the speakers, and even said shines were dulled well before their parts were purged. As for the music? Like I said, it sucked. That’s all the attention I feel like giving it.

In the face of less-favorable elements, I can throw out a few positives, if for no other reason than to prove that the world hasn’t entirely crushed ALL enjoyment from my life! Kane Hodder is great as VC, reminding us that there never should have been a time that he wasn’t the one playing Mrs. Voorhees’s baby boy. Buechler’s makeup and murder effects are top-notch as always (reminder: contribute to his fight against cancer if you can) and if there’s one thing I can’t deny it’s Hatchet‘s admirable push for practical effects butchery! Also, bonus points to Green for not only modeling his man-monster’s hideous visage after Friday the 13th Part 2 Jason, but for the great “Reverse F13 finale” to finish things off. Thank you for your service, Captain.

Finally, I need to address the ax-wielding elephant in the room – Crowley’s signature weapon-of-choice is NOT A HATCHET! A hatchet is a small, single-bladed ax whose sharp end is used for typical ax stuff, but retains a blunted side for instances where a hammer would be more apropos for the job, like pounding a nail or bludgeoning a flat-earther. What Vic is swinging is a smallened woodsman’s ax, bearing two blades that are used for chopping down trees. It’s less a hatchet and more the standard issue tool for a vertically challenged lumberjack who left their chainsaw at home. Sure, you can say this is a minor detail that shouldn’t be subject to such scrutiny, but imagine a Texas Chainsaw Massacre where Leatherface chases people with a miter saw. See my point now? And if you replied to that with “yeah, the one on top of your head!”, then stop talking to yourself, butt brain! 😛

Before I sign off, would anyone care to shed some dignity and flash me their headlights in exchange for a few Dollar Embargo beads that may or may-not have been made with a near-fatal level of lead contaminated materials? Anybody? Beads for boobs? Necklace to see your knockers? No one? Okay. Bye.

Moral of the Story: Your nipples are dumb.


Robert Englund contemplates the amount of his life spent sitting in makeup chairs, getting rubber glued to his face.

Larry the Cable Guy Presents “Moby Dick”.

Someone should’ve told Hodder that Englund was just joking when he said it was “finally time to settle this”.

Nice to see Skeletor take a vacation from the whole “take over Eternia” thing and just wild out for a weekend. You get that groove back, bone face!

Check it out – a woman that’s figured out how to get beads without baring her boobs! She must be going to college for a real degree.

This is why you don’t eat an entire surplus size can of creamed corn before a bar crawl.

From Ken Harper, creator of “The Wiz”, comes his unique take on The Rocky Horror Picture Show – “The Pic”!

“No no no! I keep telling you, man, I’m not Keenan or Kel! I was Rudy’s friend Kenny on ‘The Cosby Show’!”

“Is this your first time on The Bang Bus, boys? This one will finish out our punch card, so the next ride’s free!”

John Carl Buechler is Bear Grylls in the one-man show “Man Vs. Wild: Piss Is Your Life”.

Uh-oh. Shawn looks like he’s about to take this boat ride into Willy Wonka territory.

This still image is all that remains of the canceled Platinum Dunes remake of Motel Hell. Thank Rory fucking Calhoun.

When looking for a chiropractor, be sure they didn’t get their degree from Hooterville Neck Crackers Medical School.

Rocket Raccoon’s origin is a depressing tale indeed.

No, Victor! The festival is called “Burning Man”! You’re not meant to literally immolate yourself!

Blagh! That’s a face not even Pamela Voorhees could love.

Never ask someone nicknamed “Snowball” to explain where it came from. *BLART*


Anubis will return next time in
“Spider-Man’s Not In This One Either”

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