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”

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 13 – The 13th Warrior (1999)

or “A Baghdad Poet in King Hrothgar’s Court”

Sure to be a topic of tension, I’m gonna say it right now: I don’t approve of blackface and/or brownface. Before anyone asks, no, I don’t approve of whitewashing either. Well, the version that involves turning non-white characters into white ones so white actors can portray them. However, the one where you Tom Sawyer some chucklefucks into doing your work for you via deception? All about that. Unless it leads to a Trumpening. I draw the line at predatory exploitation of the stupids when elections with global consequences are involved.

Anyway, this comes up because today’s movie features Spanish actor Antonio Banderas playing the role of an Arab man. Given that I’m neither Spanish nor Arab, I have zero personal stake in the politics of one pretending to be another. Racial connotations not withstanding, my personal stake is that of an audience member watching a guy with a heavy Spanish accent attempting to convince me he should be speaking Arabic…which quickly turns into English because subtitles are box office poison. It gives me flashbacks of Sean Connery being cast as a Russian in The Hunt for Red October or a Spaniard in Highlander without the slightest effort to mask his HEAVY SCOTTISH BROGUE/BURR. Just your basic Hollywood bullshit, I suppose.

“I was wrong. These are not men.”

Starting off like a wacky comedy, royal court poet Ahmad ibn Fadlan (Antonio Banderas) gets caught knockin’ pointy Iron Sheik boots with the wife of a prominent potentate, and rather than just getting castrated and/or executed, he lucks out and instead gets reassigned faster than a pedo priest. No longer a sultan of stanzas, Ahmad becomes an ambassador to the faaaaaaaar North, where he’s to build political relations with the typically savage Norse folk. It’s such a zany fish-out-of-water setup, how could it fail!? Well, financially it lost around $130 million, so I’d call that a pretty fantastic failure for starters.

What was intended as a simple summit between two kingdoms that wouldn’t even be able to form an alliance without their interpreters (the Arabians’ of which was played by Omar Sharif, who legitimately retired from acting after the piss-poor reception The 13th Warrior received) ends up with Ahmad joining the Norsemen on a quest to bring peace to one of their neighboring territories. Why? Because an old lady in the throes of dementia prophesied that the mission would be a bust without the assistance of a 13th party member who is not of Viking blood. Therefore, our hero becomes the group’s token brown man because he was there. If you’re wondering whether this is a common outcome for an ambassadorship, it’s not. The only other instances I can think of are the story of Plutarch having to slay the Chimera, and that time Shirley Temple Black teamed with the Ghana Consulate to prevent a malaria outbreak by disposing of a nest of Adze.

Though unable to speak a word of the Northerners’ native tongue, our ‘Mad man picks up the lingo after traveling back to Odin’s country with them. He teaches them, they teach him, he boinks a Viking woman, they work together, celebrate together, mourn together, yadda yadda yadda. Like I said, your basic foundations for a “square peg in a round hole” culture clash scenario. The supposed “monsters” marauding the Vikings’ neighbors turn out to be a clan of cannibal troglodytes dressed in bear skins who slaughter their more evolved prey using guerrilla scare tactics and HUGE FLESH RENDING BEAR CLAWS. Once the good guys sandblast the cave monkeys’ mystique, they raid the man eaters’ lair, kill their brood queen, escape with the help of a conveniently placed underground stream, then regroup back at the village to fend off the looming counterattack and kill the monstrous leader of the pack (*vrooooom*) to wrap up their heroic storyline. Ahmad hops the first Knarr back to Sand Town and avoids the possible fatherhood type responsibilities he probably left behind in his work girlfriend’s womb as the end credits play us out.

If you can ignore Tony B’s accent (though, having read this you’ll no longer be able to, mwa-ha-ha), this is a decent little fantasy-lite semi-epic production. Watching city mouse and his country mice cousins learn from each other is charming, the combat scenes are suitably serviceable, and the Eaters of the Dead (also the movie’s original title, which it shares with Michael Crichton’s thusly adapted story) are an interesting group of marauders that are much more cunning than most movies tend to write similarly savage characters. As expected, there are a few moments that will let loose cries of “HORSESHIT!” from fellow pickers of nit, but if you’re of a mood to ignore them and give The 13th Warrior a pass, pick it at your local library or buy one of the thousands of $1 copies littering any given flea market!

Moral of the Story: Dipping your pen in another person’s inkwell can dramatically increase your risk of ending up a side dish at some cannibal family cookout.

Final Judgment:

Two-and-a-Half Bear Claws out-of-Five



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Feature 110 – End of Days (1999)

or “Last Vatican Hero”

Featuring: Arnold “Last Action Hero” Schwarzenegger ; Gabriel “Stigmata” Byrne ; Robin “The Craft” Tunney

Director: Peter “Timecop” Hyams

Writer: Andrew “Hollow Man” Marlowe

Origin: USA


“Between your faith and my Glock 9mm, I take my Glock.”

Cast your brains back to 1999. In the aural realm, Ricky Martin was “Livin’ la Vida Loca”, Britney Spears was asking her “baby” to hit her repeatedly, TLC were declaring that they wanted “No Scrubs” and a malfunctioning robot simulacrum of Cher was warbling something about a post-love existence. Elsewhere, Matthew Broderick was having his demented, vulgar way with childhoods and the memory of Don Adams (who wouldn’t even die until 2005, possibly out of spite) in Inspector Gadget, while “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire” was the top rated show on television THREE NIGHTS A WEEK. Your humble narrator graduated from high school, was making good money working for IBM, shed his virginity, and fell in love with the brilliant degenerate Evil Dead Bride by whose side he resides to this day. Oh, and from the disease-riddled crypt of ravenous mind maggots known as my brain sprung forth the very first iteration of The Tomb of Anubis! ❤

Now, 20 years later, long after I honestly thought I would’ve died in some manner of fatal, embarrassing, public display of disdain for humanity, I sit here on my hairy ebon ass in front of a computer screen STILL complaining about movies for free to an audience of probably just as few people. In celebration of The Tomb’s big milestone birthday, for the entire year of 2019 I’ll be bending my mandate of “no reviews for twentieth century media”! Yep, from now until the final seconds of 11:59PM (Eastern) on December 31st, I will be peppering in Feature and Quickie reviews for flicks (and possibly shows?) from the days of Y2K bearing that lazy-ass, decade appropriate banner seen above.

Since every beginning is born from an ending, what better way for us to start off “The Partay” than with End of Days!

Having drained himself of every ounce of pun juice in his marrow (and contributed to the ruination of Batman movies until nearly a decade later) with Batman & Robin, Conald the Schwarzinator seemingly wanted to stretch his “acting” chops with a much darker, more dramatic role. Said role put him in the shoes of Jericho Cane (yes, really) – the “darker” side of whom involves being a suicidal ex-cop who forgot how razors work, while a dead wife and daughter check the “more dramatic” box of the actor’s resume expansion. Spoiler: Arnie’s not good at either.

With Y2K just around the corner, we’re all assured Armageddon once the Ball drops in Time Square… or the fireworks go off on Christmas Island? I don’t know. Americans tend to think we’re the center of the fucking Milky Way and don’t know how time zones work. Coordinated Universal Time not withstanding, our tale takes place in the Big Apple in the days leading up to the end of the world. The year 2000 end, not the 2012 end… or the dozen or so ends foretold by David Meade and/or Ronald Weinland. In the catacombs ‘neath the streets of Manhattan (i.e. the sewers), albino alligators, martial artist mutants, cannibalistic humanoid underground dwellers and people baring the branding of “TRUMP” aren’t the only creatures lurking. It turns out none other than Lucifer D. Beelzebubba uses it as his concourse into the mortal world (explains Wall Street) and kicks open our front door via evil-quake. I’m sure there’s a scene somewhere on a cutting room floor back in ’99 wherein we see a news report touting the tremor as a 6.66 on the Richter scale…

After flying around the streets in Predator cloaking mode, the translucent terror from the lake of fire possesses a seemingly random affluent guy in a restaurant mensroom (Gabriel Byrne) then uses the guy’s tongue to mouth rape the wife of who I’m guessing to be one of his business associates before practicing his “cool guy” walk right out of the place, not looking back at the massive explosion he somehow sets off. My guess? The Morningstar’s a big fan of Taco Tuesdays down in the land of eternal suffering and carpet-bombed the entire eatery on his way to the exit, before he flicked his Bic. I call this move “The Lucifarts”.

While Stan gets acquainted with his current crop of zany zealots (like having weird metamorphosis sex with Udo Kier’s wife and daughter, serenaded by a severely out-of-place Limp Bizkit track… seriously, what the fuck was that?!), we get to spend time with our protagonist, Big Daddy Cane. As mentioned, he’s a dark and brooding caricature whose first scene features him verging on a self-inflicted cranial ventilation, interrupted by the appearance of his co-worker/friend/comedy foil Bobby Chicago (Kevin Pollak) who… no… I can’t just ignore it. “Bobby Chicago”?! Go fuck a light socket, Andrew Marlowe!

No longer a cop, Jericho now leads an elite team of gun-for-hire bodyguards who lay their lives on the line for whomever’s signature ends up on their checks. Their latest job is protecting, you guessed it, the nameless banker guy whose body is now Admiral Abaddon’s private flesh yacht. An assassin makes his move on the devil man, trying to pop his head JFK style from the roof of a nearby building, but fails when Jer and the security company’s CORPORATE HELICOPTER chuck the proverbial monkey wrench into works of the disheveled hobo’s murder machine. Before he’s taken down though, the vagrant shouts vague warnings of Lucifer’s intentions to Jer, which is quite a feat when you consider the later revelation that the transient’s tongue ain’t attached!

Despite the hindrances of Detective Marge (CCH Pounder), their proto-Amanda Waller looking friend-on-the-force, our Don Coyote and Sancho Panda pairing investigate the now hospitalized mystery man’s origins further, discovering that he was a priest at a nearby church until he disappeared six months earlier. Seems he’s also a bit of a clairvoyant and left the clergy so he could bring Stan’s vessel to a violent ending all by his lonesome. Now that Jer’s fucked that up, naturally he’s going to have to be the one to kick Judgment Day in the dick and send it packing until the turn of the next millennium.

Also entrenched in this theological drama is Christine York (Robin Tunney), who was marked with snake venom upon her birth (because… cults?) and secretly raised to maturity by Old Scratchy’s clan to serve her part in all of this world destroying hullabaloo – as Stan’s personal meat sheath. And I don’t mean the lunch meat drawer in His refrigerator, I mean Chris’s hot pocket (her vagina) is destined to receive Lucy’s Jimmy Dean Breakfast Link (His penis), thus making her genitalia the meat-based sheath for His meat-based sword. Or you can call her His “bride” if you want to be less icky about it.

Chris has been beset her entire life by vivid visions and horrible hallucinations that her therapist (Udo Kier again) has been telling her since childhood are just symptoms of the PTSD caused by her birth parents’ deaths. Said tormenting sights include an apple covered with humanoid maggots and a freaky albino person (reminds me of the female half of Die Antwoord) that harasses her on the subway before breaking into pieces like the ever-present priceless vase in Three Stooges shorts. She’s also prone to wet dreams involving her being plowed by the nameless banker (who Lucy just recently possessed, so… huh?), and rather than be revolted by her seduction at the hands of this Robert De Niro – Willem Dafoe amalgamation, ‘Tine just knows in her heart that she won’t be able to resist this smoother-than-a-buttermilk shake mofo once he sprays his musk in her genital vicinity.

Whatever your preferable verbiage, it turns out that the planetary alignment for Stan to destroy the world perfectly convenes with being on the East coast of the US between the hours of 11pm and 12am on December 31st, 1999 of the Gregorian calendar, which was supposedly established around this celestial alignment. Now, according to the head priest that relays this horseshit to Jericho during his investigation into the speechless gunman’s origin, El Diablo attempts this same “open the gates of hell with his dick key” stunt every thousand years at the turn of each millennium, meaning that not only has the so-called Master of Sin failed to get laid for (what Christians assume to be) anywhere from six-thousand to fifteen-thousand years, but in each instance he was cock blocked by someone(s) who didn’t even belong to the faith from which He originates! Think about it, every 1000 years these “End of Days” events convened on the same date in the same approximate location, per Father Dowling’s own words, while Christians didn’t set foot on the North American continent until the first Roman Catholic Spaniards in the mid-1500s!

I'm curious if the producers of the movie had any intentions for other End of Days installments, if not a sequel taking place in 2999, than a prequel playing out Lucy’s prior defeat in 999. I picture Him being foiled by a Seneca tribe (remember, no Europeans for at least 600 years!) that become the first tribe of Native American Christians. The title could have, nay should have been, Beginning of the End of Days of Thunder In Paradise. Alternate reality Me where that became a thing? Send me a link to your review.

While delving deeper into The Mystery of the Tongueless Priest (my favorite Hardy Boys book!), Jericho (and BOBBY CHICAGO) and Christine cross paths finally as her life is turned upside down by a sect of rogue religious rabble (led by a Cardinal who simultaneously resembles George Carlin and a young(er) Donald Pleasanace) out to send her to her maker… who is also their maker… Working against Pope-on-a-Rope’s orders to protect Beelzebubba’s bang-buddy-to-be from the Wang of Destiny, this Catholic cadre would rather put their faith in the good old fashioned “Cain and Abel” school of problem solving, intending instead to murder the fair maiden! What better way to protect a woman’s purity than some last rites and a slashed throat, right? I mean, they could’ve just slapped a consecrated chastity belt on her and hidden the key in her hoo-hah, but I operate on logic and that stuff’s like garlic to a vampire when it comes to these Vatican’t types.

Being the big slab of aged beef that he is, the Muscles from Brussels the Atlas from Austria defeats the would-be Hit Clergy, sending them packing back to their deity with their figurative tails tucked under their taints. While this goes a long way in Jericho earning Christine’s trust, it costs Robert Windy City his life when he’s targeted by Stan’s incendiary bladder squeezin’s (yes, you read that correctly) and given an old fashioned “mob informant arrivederci” car-splosion with a pee pee twist. Our hero gets into a throw down with the Italian grandma that’s been watching after and caring for the Lord of Flies’ concubine, actually getting his ass handed to him (never fuck with Italian grandmas!) before he finally puts her head through a glass table. Mama Mia! That’s a SPICY meat-a-ball!

Side note: given that the glass coffee table was owned by sin happy devil worshippers, I don’t even want to imagine the number of Cleveland Steamers that thing has seen over the years. Blaaaart.

Stan casually strolls into the chaos, while ‘Cho and ‘Tine flee the scene, barely evading their flame retardant pursuer who walks through a wall of fire and… stares menacingly at them… Remember, this is a guy with the powers of Hell behind himself that pisses gasoline and explodes entire businesses with (presumably) his farts, but he can’t stop a pair of mortals escaping not 15 feet away from him? Christ on a fucking NordicTrack and eating raw hot dogs out of the package! My eye is starting to twitch! I can feel the capillaries swelling in preparation of their imminent bursting!

Coincidentally enough, the pair egress down an alley where they run into Marge and one of her goons in blue of all people. Un-coincidentally enough, it’s revealed that this duo are paying union dues to Lucy. They’re tasked with recovering their boss’s fiance, but have zero issue with opening fire on them without a lick of warning! Given how he’s treated all of the flunkies that have failed him to this point (murdering them outright in painful fashion), I don’t think Miss Margaret thought this one through too well. Jericho tosses away his gun and agrees to discuss matters with the bad guys, only to remind us why we saw him packing a pair of Travis Bickle Specials up his sleeves during a previous scene. Stan just brings Madge back to continue her employ anyway, but at least that’s one murder charge Rico can redact from his rap sheet!

The good guys seek sanctuary at the church he visited prior, and begins immediately accusing them of being with those stab happy Vatican Knights. If he thought that were the case, then WHY THE FUCK DID HE BRING HER TO THE CHURCH?! Father Kovak (Rod Steiger) assures them that they’re not members of the perishers parish and tells then the wacky fable about St. John’s dream of Revelation and explains that, because it was a dream, he misinterpreted 666 being the number of The Beast when it’s actually 999 (plus tax). What a silly Billy!

Father Grandfather offers the pair asylum from the eye of Saurtan, so since the bad guys can't find them as long as they're within the halls of their holier-than-thou hidey-hole, all they need to do is chill out for a day or two until the year changes over and the planetary alignment de-aligns? Great! Nothing but wine, wafers, and fairytales for 48 hours and the entire world is saved! Put on some Kool & the Gang, crank “Celebration” to 11 and we're all set. Take THAT, Lucifer!

… Wait. Despite this being the easy answer to keeping all creation from being erased, Jericho instead leaves the place, citing their faith talk as bullshit, and heads back to his apartment only to be IMMEDIATELY accosted by Big Sin?! I know Schwarzenegger’s roles aren’t exactly known for their sharp intellects, but this fuck wit is making the inbred bully from Friday the 13th Part V look like Dr. Ian gods damned Malcolm by comparison!

As I was saying, back as his place Co-Co is given an offer by the living sunburn: the return of his wife and daughter to life in exchange for the locale of Christine’s whereabouts. The prince of lies should’ve taken sales advice from Don Corleone, because Jericho refuses his offer with ease, especially after he’s forced to relive his family being murdered by the thugs sent to silence him in the first place. We’re supposed to feel sorry for him as he tries in vain to stop the killings (it’s just a mind fuck, after all), but watching Ahnold crying out while firing round after round into illusions that don’t even recognize his presence carries about as much drama as the amount of water you could carry in this hole-riddled plot. Even the remorse of seeing an innocent woman and child having their blood splattered all over their bedroom is utterly lost when just moments before we watch Jer as he Keifers his own Christmas tree!

Pissed at Jericho's refusal to embrace Him as his new daddy, Stan sends him out a window, leaving him hanging from the ledge to reconsider the offer. Jers fakes out the supposed master of fake-outs, grabbing His wrist and sending Scratchy jackknifing several stories down, face first into a parked car. Before he can follow up on whether he just saved the day or not, Jericho gets another surprise guest in the shape of Bobby Chicago! Claiming that he narrowly avoided his immolation by the Dark One’s black gold shower, we all know better, since WE JUST SAW MARGE BROUGHT BACK NOT 10 MINUTES EARLIER! Our hero missed out on that scene though, so he falls for the twist and agrees to meet the newly evilized Jimmy Miami at the church. Any guesses as to where this is heading? If not, re-read the last few paragraphs and try again.

Back at the House that Jesus Built (despite “The Kids In the Hall” teaching us he was a terrible carpenter), the Papal Hit Squad has found out about Chris’s sanctum so they, led by Cardinal Seven Words You Can’t Say on Television, raid the place with murderous intentions of preserving their god’s creation. Now, given that the thralls of the Baal are meant to be blind to said fortress of solitudity, why wouldn’t they just hang around and help protect Little Miss Chosen Womb until the play clock hits double zeroes? Because the characters in this movie couldn’t pronounce “sense” if they had a friggin’ Speak & Spell and their lives depended on it. Amid the clash of ideals, ‘Cho arrives in the nick of movie-time to shoot the killin’ knife right outta Cardinal Sin (**rimshot**)’s hands. Despite his vow to die in the name of carrying out god’s will, the crimson clad sky captain folds faster than Sadako’s spine once he’s got a 9mm carressing his cheek and orders his goons to let the gal go. Before things can go any further, Stan Himself strolls up right through the front door (apparently being in a church does little more than cause the cross burner indigestion) and brings the faithful fatally to their knees while Jericho and Christine escape him yet again. You know, Stan’s flair for the dramatic is severely stymying his casual walk to the finish line of this whole “consummate the marriage and spend the honeymoon rapturing” thing.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, our heroes’ retreat leads them down the doom of any New York City movie bystander – a dark alley. A mob of extras/catering employees wielding bludgeons and flashlights encircle them and Jericho does his best to fend them off. This is the best the fucking DEVIL can afford for minions? A bunch of vagrants who just attended Free Flashlights and Blunt Objects Day at Shea Stadium!? At least if they were ladies from the Little Italy Retirement Home, Jericho would’ve been broken in a matter of moments! As it stands, he puts up an admirable fight against these shadowy figures (can’t get paid if your face isn’t visible!) considering he’s a middle-aged drunk and they’re going a bit liberal on the classic “gang of thugs can only attack the hero one-at-a-time” action movie mantra. But then Harry Detroit shows up in his luxury sedan to save the day! … and pull the obvious heel turn when he locks Chris in and Jericho out, leaving his former best buddy/boss to a figurative ass pounding.

The beat down ends with JC being crucified (like a certain other JC, in case you didn’t make the connection before), because again, Not Loki can’t ignore his itch to be a fucking Bond villain and give His enemy every possible chance to piss all over His plans! Before anyone claps back about how He’s doing so because He’s trying to corrupt Jericho into breaking before the temptations of sin, SAVE IT! The personal amusement of pushing a mortal nobody to moral corruption when he’s the only one standing between you and your thousand year-old journey to destroy humanity is NOT worth the risk of failing your ultimate goal! YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE THE ARBITER OF FREE THOUGHT AND LOGIC-OVER-FAITH, YET HERE YOU STAND, GRINNING LIKE A MORON WHILE PUTTING THE PLOT YOU’VE WAITED CENTURIES TO NOT SCREW UP AGAIN IN JEOPARDY!

Shit, there’s goes the first embolism … and the second. Ugggh.

The following morning, New Year’s Eve Day, Father Kovak clearly chose not to spend the final hours of existence explaining to the NYPD why his house of worship is full of dead guys, he instead takes his morning constitutional and finds the strung up Jericho. With zilch explanation of how, Jer scene transitions inside the church where he’s attended by Special K and his siblings-of-the-cloth, awakening mid-stitching. With no time to lose (-Lautrec?), ‘Icho Pro ignores his numerous physical injuries and stumbles back to his security firm with purpose. He arms himself to the teeth and hunts down Tommy Bahama’s wheels via tracking beacon, leading him to Stan’s abandoned off-Broadway theater base of operations. A tracking beacon? I guess the Originator or Evil’s been out of the game too long to know what that is. Or maybe He’s Amish and doesn’t acknowledge technology? Wouldn’t that be ironic? Dontcha think?

Also, it figures that the demon who’s too focused on being theatrical rather than efficient would hold up in an actual theater. In fact, it’s such an “on the nose” concept that it has broken my nose! … or at least made it bleed … no, that might be an aneurysm … I sure as shit hope that “extensive brain surgery” is covered under my insurance after this.

Descending to the oddly labyrinthine and industrialized bowels of the playhouse, our hero enters stage right as Beelze’s buds are awkwardly playing audience as He works the smooth talk into Christine’s Underoos with that serpentine tongue of His. You know the drill, ladies – “I love you”, “You know you want this”, “Your hair looks great”, blah blah blah. Preventing her from becoming Satan’s sperm receptacle, Jer guns Him down with a machine gun, rescuing Chris just so he can put a gun to her skull and threaten to kill her if they’re not allowed to leave. Lenny Baltimore then emerges, threatening to shoot Jer himself if he doesn’t give the Deceiver back his betrothed. The power of manly hetero love triumphs, however, and the beefy lead’s wisecracking sidekick lowers his piece and defies devil man’s wishes, facing a flame bath for the second time in 24 hours. The protagonists depart, blowing up the place on their way out. Note to cults planning any major ceremonial gatherings: DON’T assemble in any area SURROUNDED BY PIPES FULL OF FLAMMABLE MATERIAL! Even if it ignores the rules of science and said material ignites in sections rather that exploding through the pipes containing them all at once in an immediate chain reaction.

The duo make their way into the subway system, narrowly avoiding a close shave with a presumably not-in-service train, as there are no passengers that might serve as collateral damage (or more extras to pay). The flashlights & lead pipes crowd are back, running the rails as Jer just blows them away with his Holy M16 of Unlimited Ammunition. Stan appears out of nowhere (so, is teleportation on his list of powers or is he just making up new abilities as he needs?!) in the center of the tracks and gets a hilarious head-on **THUD** for doing so. It’s doesn’t do much more than slow him down, but between watching him take it for the team with no reaction then get blown to pieces by Jericho’s holy hand grenade launcher (“1… 2… 5!”) helps make this scene the decidedly best 6 minutes of the whole flick!

With his mortal coil seemingly too wrecked to pull himself back together again, Hell’s landlord abandons the body and shows us why Revelation calls him “The Dragon” – turns out his actual form is a big, rotting, winged shit monster (whose CGI is only mildly better than Malebolgia in Spawn)! With less than 10 minutes left (not enough time for foreplay!), the heroes are chased by the beast’s hoodie wearing mobites into yet another opportunely located church. Jericho prepares for his final face-off with the fallen angel by tossing away his grenade launcher (proven thus far to be incredibly effective) and embracing Jesus’s love amid the shiny gold finery of religious artistry before him. The Beast quakes the place (even when it comes down to the wire He wastes time showing off!), comes up through the floor, barfs His halitosis (Hellitosis?) on ‘Co-Co, then leaps into the mortal’s body, tosses him around the nave like a Sam Raimi leading man, and takes control of him. Once He’s taken his new vessel, he has just 3 minutes to nut, and that includes convincing Christine that He’s still Jericho and they’ve won. I know the running gag of male sexual performance is that most pop off in the time it takes to nuke a bag of Pop Secret Quadruple-Buttered, but I can’t even self-flog my dolphin in 3 minutes, let alone bone up and do a full pump ‘n dump!

Given what we know about Ahnold, seeing him rip the clothing off of a woman as he prepares to rape her is… likely one of the final deciding factors for him accepting the part. Just typing that smothers any embers of joy left in my soul. Uggh. Since he’s the hero, Jer fights Lucy’s influence long enough to wire-fu leap off of the alter and impale himself on a commodiously located sword amid the rubble of destroyed statues. He probably could’ve struggled for another 20 seconds and just thought about baseball stats or recited Pi to a few dozen places to divide Stan’s attention, but what kind of martyr would he be if he didn’t just kill himself instead? As the clock strikes midnight and the window of opportunity is slammed shut on the devil’s dick, a geyser of digital napalm EXPLODES out of his chest (clearly Stan had severe blue balls!), takes the shape of a big flaming phoenix, then gets sucked back into the underworld from whence it came. Jer’s phantom wife and child appear to guide him to Heaven, Chris mourns his passing as she holds her burly protector’s big dead hand in hers, tears are shed, Time Square is packed with tourists freezing their asses off over a pointless lighted sphere, and the world is saved for the church to cover up more and more child molestation cases every day. Fuck this planet.

Twenty years after the fact, how does End of Days hold up in the eyeballs of a first time viewer? It’s… a bit messy. Though the CGI effects (especially the green screen fire bullshit) have aged about as well as a cheese stick left behind a radiator for the same amount of time, that much is to be expected without some heavy duty remastering, and let’s be fair, who’s clamoring for a new coat of paint on a meh-at-best movie like this? Unless a digital effects person wants to fudge it in their free time and ship me a free sample, I’m certainly not one of them. So, out-of-date visuals off the plate, what else do we have to throw our Gordon Ramsey levels of derision at? Let’s start with the casting, you idiot sandwich!

Udo Kier. What the fuck. You get one of the most under utilized talents in the horror community on your roster and what do you do? You fucking under utilize him. Sure, you give him a hell of a send off by having the Devil treat his head like a Punch-A-Bunch panel, but Udo deserves so much more than to be used as an example of how short-fused Satan is, even with a minion who's dedicated the last 20+ years of his life to Him. Kill him off, sure, but at least let him toady around until somewhere into the 65 minute mark. Much worse offenses in the casting involve our two big daddies: Shwarzenegger and Byrne.

Hilarrible (hilariously terrible) moniker not withstanding, Jericho Cane is meant to be a tragic character. Rather than bad action hero one-liners and excuses to show off his oiled up physique, Cane uses the occasional piece of gallows humor to get through his crushing depression while also putting himself into the direct path of danger because his life is worthless and he’d rather sacrifice it to save someone else since he can’t take it himself. In the hands of a better actor, he’d make for a compelling protag, and you might even be able to overlook that edge lord Spawn villain name. Arnie, at least at this point of his career, was not equipped to portray a character of even minute nuance. The infamous scene where he shouts down The Dragon about how “YOU’RE A CHOIR BOY COMPARED TO ME!” turned whatever semblance of beef the big man could’ve had into pink slime contaminated hamberder “meat”. Even his big final martyrdom moment can’t summon a spark of sympathy because of his big goofy face and his Schwarzeneggering intensifying.

My big hopes for EoD hinged on what looked to be a smorgasbord of sin plated by Gabriel Byrne, but those hinges rusted from general disuse thanks to a halfhearted pseudo Al Pacino rendition of a demon whose flair for the dramatic ironically isn’t very. Did I say “ironically” just there? I meant “disappointingly”. Do your damn job, auto correct, or you’ll be spending your weekend emailing resumes for jizz mopper positions! As I was saying though, this feels like a paycheck role for GB, but come on sir, at least make an effort.

The ultimate unfortunate where this movie is involved can be blamed on whomever’s brain stain it was to make this a Christian Gothic action-horror movie in the first place. Even with a more suitable cast, the action movie tropes (wacky sidekick that ends up dead, needless Bay-splosions, hero on casual terms with the local law enforcement because he’s an ex-cop, frequent lapses in logic, etc) bug bomb any creeping terrors that might have been hiding under the surface. If this screenplay tried to take up tight rope walking, its so unbalanced it’d fall and break its neck even with a net. If you want a good better example of a capable road map for this type of flick, give Constantine a go. It’s an abomination as far as its source material goes, but it isn’t infested with nearly the nest of fleas that End of Days tracks in.

So that’s that. One more off of my “Get to ’em eventually” list. Now, I reward myself with a viewing of one of my favorite Larry Cohen movies paired up “Dark Side of the Rainbow” style with Creedence Clearwater Revival in a little something I like to call, “Suzie Q the Winged Serpent”. G’night, hogs!

Moral of the Story: If the Prince of Darkness compliments your clothes, don’t be a prick about it. Just say thank you and move along. Unless you’ve always wondered what it’s like to be hit by a bus, in which case prick away!

Bonus Moral: You’d be amazed what you’ll agree to when you’re on fire.


That’s the closest Arnie’s been to a book since… ever?

This October, it’s the latest sequel no one asked for: An American Werewolf in Vatican City !

Cardinal Carlin workshops the latest iteration of his “7 sins you can’t commit under Our Lord’s ever watchful gaze” routine ahead of the Pope’s birthday celebration.

Ewwww! Did they just pull that thing out of a vagina or a can of Vienna sausages?! They couldn’t at least wipe off some of the slime before ritually marking the future Bride of Satan?! I feel like I’m seeing the birth of the Greasy Strangler!

You know it’s been a wild night when you wake up to Udo Kier standing over you holding a rattlesnake. Thus the origin of the “NEVER DRINK ABSINTHE EVER AGAIN!” tattoo on my forearm.

When members at Mar-a-Lago complained about having to look at the bathroom attendants, President dumpster leaned on the Pentagon to whip up some Area 51 cloaking devices for the staff.

This is why you never take Gabriel Byrne’s complimentary mint after dinner. #MeToo

Arnold’s initial reaction to finding out he was contractually obligated to do a sequel to Twins. Can’t say I blame him.

Fear not Radiohead fans, that’s a different Thomas York.

Released at the height of The Da Vinci Code Da Mania, Columbia’s advertising department released a series of hollow white chocolate albino heads during the 2006 Easter season. They didn’t sell well.

Uhm, you live alone, Jericho. I don’t think you need to keep a hide box for your weed stash.

You’re telling me that the ambassador of evil is too modest not to cover up his backside while double dipping a mother and daughter at the same time!? No.

I always knew that Adam Duritz was a harbinger of suffering, but I didn’t realize he was a ’90s edge lord doofus about cucking for the Devil.

What the fuck is that supposed to be, “Baby’s First Sigil”? Bloody Hell.

When Maria found out about Arnold’s illegitimate housemaid son, he got what he deserved.

Hey! The Catholic assassins creed work under the guise of employees at The House of Blues!

You know, I thought for sure that Mel Gibson would’ve been the first ’80s action star to martyr himself in a movie well before Schwarzenegger. That’s twenty bucks I’ll never see again.

Kevin Pollak meets his end at the hands of a militant anti-Billy Crystal gang in a case of mistaken identity. My apologies to his family.

That’s weird. Usually Colonel Napalm’s “Scorched Earth Special” hot wings come out the other side. Arnie must suffer from ulcers.

Seriously?! The floor is littered with more presents than I can count, but nobody thought to get Satan’s fiance even one?! Fuck you guys. I’m spreading for Satan so fast when this Apocalypse shit gets started!”


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

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 109 – Shark Exorcist (2015)

or “Your Mother Sucks Fish Sticks In Hell!”

Featuring: A cast of people who each lost a day’s pay from their jobs at the local mall in order to shoot this.

Director & Writer: Donald “Vampire Cop” Farmer

Origin: USA


“We’re gonna need a bigger cross!”

Hey kids and kooks, your favorite textual predator here, with a long overdue feature review. It’s a new year (I’m on to you, big calendar!) and that means making empty promises to ourselves to alter our lifestyles for the better! As stated in my Quickie for The Conjuring (check it out after reading this if you haven’t already!), one of the top declarations of short-lived resolve is to exorcise more. As such, here’s Shark Exorcist!

…and if you’re one of the folks unfortunate enough to have suffered that pun twice now, I make no apologies. Voice your disdain in the comments section provided below!

If you think a bad pun (it’s seriously not that bad, stop) counts as genuine suffering though, you’d turn off Shark Exorcist within the first five minutes. You’d be correct to do so, too. It would be a good sign that your inherent survival instincts are, in fact, functional and you may just survive the horrors the world holds for us all in the year ahead. Being a card carrying member of the Cinemasochism of the Month Club (yes it’s real and no you can’t join), the mental melting pot that is my gray matter will not allow me to follow through with such self-preservative maneuvers. Much to the lament of my few remaining sane brain cells, I did indeed sit through the entirety of (and I say this without a single shred of overreaction) THE worst movie I’ve ever seen. How seriously serious am I about such said seriousness? Prepare to wilt in terror at the digital purgatory I now recount!

The conceptual foundation upon which this castle of soiled cat litter is constructed is actually made of incredibly solid stones: a heretical nun sacrifices people to summon Satan, who takes a great white shark as His unholy vessel. The hell-beast torments the innocent citizens of a small fishing town until His ultimate showdown (of ultimate destiny) against a priest who will sacrifice everything to put Mefishstopheles back into the lake of fire, where He belongs!


Though the needles of doubt perforating my medulla oblongata warned me that this was yet another installment of The Asylum’s collection of shark fetish movies they keep under their bed, I cared not. As it turns out, I would’ve been better off if it had been. Shit, I would’ve been better off with my eyeballs dunked in Clorox and my ears stuffed with those giant poisonous jungle centipedes, but that doesn’t help me now.

Anyway, beyond this incredible initial impression, the express bullet train to Existential Agony that’s been chartered for the audience leaves right on time. Within mere minutes of its inception, the piss poor production values cut down my eagerness considerably. We’re a long way from The Asylum and their mockbuster-of-the-week Syfy letdowns. Think handi-cams (possibly even 3rd generation iPhones) and an audio crew/person that doesn’t know what a windscreen is. If you love the sound of a strong breeze blasting through your auditory canal, then this is the movie for you! Come to think of it, if given the option, I may just opt to go deaf by wind tunnel (rather than by temptation) than listen to this cast reading their lines. I intentionally said “reading” rather than “acting”, because referring to any of these off-the-street amateurs as “actors” would be insulting actual actors. And yes, that includes such luminaries of the art as Eddie Deezen, Tommy Wisseau, the fat henchman from Miami Connection that says “Bye byyyye!”, and the “This can’t beeee! You’re deeeeaaaaaad!” guy from Riding with Death. If you know nothing of these things I speak, get thee to a nunnery… and ask if they’ll let you use their WiFi.

On first blush (or flush), I was almost positive that Shark Exorcist‘s casting consisted of an ad on a Tennessee Craigslist site. Something along the lines of “Wanted: body confident blonde women between the ages of 18 and 25 willing to appear in bathing suits and bikinis for a globally distributed horror film. NO ACTING EXPERIENCE NEEDED! NO PROFESSIONAL MODELS! Payment based on amount of skin you’re willing to show.” Probably with less grammar and more misspelling, but you get the gist. Now, if IMDB is to be believed, this movie had a budget somewhere in the realm of $300,000 and doesn’t credit a casting agency. As such, I’m sticking with my initial hypothesis that the women featured were employees of the local Sunglass Hut, and I presume that whatever criminal organization is secretly running Paris, Tennessee laundered about $290,000 through this digital Heretic Fork.

Technical, production and casting misery not withstanding, what about the story? Sorry children, but put your optimism for a fun movie back into your hope chest and lock it away in your closet for another day because the weather forecast calls for a 100% chance of disappointment. Hurricane Donald made landfall and left total destruction of even the most modest expectancy in its wake. ‘Tis a clusterfuck to be sure. Rather than give us a nice, traditional, Point A to Point B to Point C(redits) story, Farmer chose to mix his crops and hope for the best. The result is a quintet of unrelated stories that never intersect outside of their common location!

The ignoble penguin who invoked the bedeviled beast of the bay only appears in the opening and closing segments. In the first, she strolls barefoot through a cemetery (accompanied by the labored breathing of the person behind the camera) before declaring to no one “The world has betrayed me! So, the world will taste my vengeance!” in a vocal performance that sounds like she’s auditioning for a part in The Room 2: Don’t Worry About It. Sister Stabby’s then accosted by a random blonde who, rather than informing 9-1-1 to the whereabouts of a woman wanted for the suspected murders of 13 children, opts instead to harass the behabited bitch, telling her that she’s going to pay for the atrocities she’s committed. Blondie’s choice of words over actions is her downfall, ending up the final blood offering that jimmies the lock on the gates of Hell for Sister Slays-a-lot, who asks Lord Satan for an avenger. She doesn’t get Iron Man or Hulk or even Hawkeye though, as the Prince of Lies instead blesses her with a 15 second loop of a red tinted CGI shark with glowing yellow eyes, which WebMD tells me could be symptoms of Nuclear Jaundice or Atomic Cirrhosis. You’d imagine her 13th sacrifice would’ve been the one to do the trick, but that’s just a test to see if the freshmen devil worshipers will give up when their first project bares failure fruit. Regarding Nunny’s latter appearance, that brown jewel of a scene will be mined later.


The bulk of this pain parade's runtime is dedicated to our main story, which picks up a year after the opening and follows a trio of friends whose road trip to lakeside sun and fun runs afoul of Satanic Jabberjaw. We have: Allie – the naive southern good girl blonde whose boyfriend Bobby's been cheating on her with Lauren; Lauren – the intolerable bleach blonde who spends all of her time bitching or not-acting her lines, and deserves to end the movie with the Sally Hardy treatment; and Emily – the leader of the trio, mostly because she's the only one not fucking the aforementioned douche nozzle boyfriend, she's the only one with her own car. Since her only blonde attribute is highlights, science tells us she's likely the smartest one among them.

Skull splintering anti-acting aside, when the three arrive at their final destination (if only) Emily declares that she’s going to lay out her towel and saturate herself with delicious cancer inducing solar radiation, to which deadpan Lauren instantly clings like a barnacle. The pair proceed to plant themselves IN A SHADED SPOT, facing AWAY from the scenic body of water that was the whole reason for them to drive TWO HOURS to get there, then faceplant straight into their phones. If the intention is to make these the most tooth-grindingly obnoxious protagonists a horror movie has ever presented, at least it’s a success!

Allie heads straight for the lake and barely gets her bikini wet before Tron Jaws… just kinda swims around in its little animation time loop… Al goes into spasms as if a jellyfish had just swam up her crack (because there’s sure as shit NO SHARK anywhere near her), but is pulled ashore by Em, telling her “you’re my best friend” and begging her to “stay with me” over and over again. With what looks to be watered down catsup on her mouth, throat, and thigh (she even got some of that nasty congealed crapsup that dries on the rim of the bottle. ewwwww), Al spasms for all she’s worth. Or, at least as much as a $20 payday will cover.

(At least it didn’t end up on her cheeseburger. **barf**)

Al's rushed to the local hospital (well, there's GoPro footage of the inside of a hospital) so medical professionals can rinse off that catsup and she’s required to stay and recover from her “shark attack wounds”. Within mere days she’s released, magically healed and hankering to go swimming. Em is concerned and confused by such recuperative wizardry while La is off somewhere not giving a shit and doubtlessly thespianizing about as well as she can. The rest of their portion of this anthology-put-through-a-wood-chipper mostly follows Allie as she seduces strangers, lures them into going swimming with her, then murders/eats them because she’s been possessed by BeelzeBruce(Jaws behind-the-scenes joke. Look it up.) and must do the Devil’s deeds. Agonizing scenes that make me genuinely question my life decisions include the secret Street Shark inveigling a mentally retarded brunet into an uncomfortable, sexually tense, above-ground pool sequence; what feels like a 40 minute scene of Al stalking Bobby and Lauren around a carnival; and a luau exorcism finale where a local priest tries to Father Karras the no-budget Megalodemon (even I’m ashamed of that one), only to have it swim-fly from a black hole in the sky and attack them?! I’m getting an ulcer just thinking about it. BLART!

(Two girls, one pool)

Other portions of the movie (if that’s what you want to call it) involve a second trio of women (all blonde) who go to the doomed lake as part of a sorority hazing; a third trio of women who hold a seance in an alley as a redhead in her nightie runs screaming and undulating through a graveyard (this may have been footage from a homemade music video she shot for her then boyfriend’s goth-metal garage band); a guy out for his morning jog only to end at the lake shore where he sees a dead body, vomits on himself, and says “I’d still do her” to himself; a female ghost hunter and her rotund cameraman investigating the recent rash of shark attacks (from which the local law doesn’t feel the need to barricade the public) only to find herself “possessed” by the evil before coming into conflict with a local skeptic determined to debunk said bullshit; a muscular lady whose sunbathing becomes the subject of a dirty old man’s voyeuristic intention (and who becomes another victim of the killer nun in one of the worst cases of two entirely unrelated scenes being edited together to make us think they’re interacting, complete with one of film history’s WORST screams); and a dialogue devoid post-credits, “we need to pad the runtime so let’s just shoot some random nonsense and pretend it makes sense!” scene of either a girl who’s been collecting Marlboro Miles the hard way since birth or a 35 year-old woman Hard Candy-ing herself to look like pedo bait as she eagerly loiters around an aquarium gift shop before rubbing herself with what I think is a vibrator disguised as a rubber shark toy and finally vomiting up the Valu Time alternative to Linda Blair’s regurgitated pea soup lunch.

Again, NONE of these stories have a common denominator outside of taking place around the same shark inhabited lake (because if there’s one place salt water murder monsters love to inhabit it’s a fucking fresh water body of hydro). A lake that, despite claims from local news sources to the contrary, there’s isn’t a single visual piece of evidence to prove that the local police are doing ANYTHING to keep the public they’re tasked to “protect and serve” from becoming Satan Shark’s diarrhea-to-be! No cruisers, no extras in costumes bought at a Spirit Store clearance sale (nor a couple of discount StripperGrams off of Groupon), not even a few strands of yellow police line tape! I’ve said it a few DOZEN fucking times on this site, but when I see horseshit like Shark Exorcist, I’m always reminded that it bears repeating – DO NOT WRITE A MOVIE YOU CAN’T AFFORD! WORK WITHIN YOUR LIMITATIONS! MAKE THE MOST OF WHAT YOU HAVE, NOT THE FUCKING LEAST OF IT! LLOYD KAUFMAN HAS WRITTEN BOOKS AND MADE VIDEOS ABOUT HOW TO DO THIS! FUCKING LISTEN!

If it sounds ridiculous for a grown man-dog to risk a Myocardial Infarction by going on a tirade over something as trivial as a grade school level movie production whose own creator, cast and crew couldn’t be bothered to put a third of said same effort into making, well, you must be new around here because I live on the edge, baby. I didn’t choose this life, cinemasochism chose me. We all die sooner or later, some of just go out like rockstars… in a dimly lit room, in front of a computer, face grotesquely contorted in a death mask of rage and agony, surrounded by crumpled Burger King wrappers and empty cans of “CITRUS X” flavored energy drink.

Speaking of tirades, for any of you who aren’t fans of the bits where I go on a seemingly endless Möbius band of barely-coherent moaning over how much an irredeemably garbage juice balloon of a movie still gives my brain hemorrhoids after twenty years of doing this (1999-2019, baby!), then I invite you to FF>> down to “The Moral of the Story” as I need to exorcise the chestburster that this movie has impregnated me with. It’s cheaper than therapy and doesn’t come with the “do not operate heavy machinery” side effects of heavy-dose pharmaceuticals, which would prevent tonight’s weekly ride through the town square on Killdozer. I don’t want to disappoint the local children… again… today…

Having recently waded through the glorified clip reel Puppet Master: Blitzkrieg Massacre (or PM:BM, which makes it sound like the last trip to the loo before bed), I thought it would be good to watch an actual movie again. Something that at least bears the basics of a movie, complete with a structured story and cohesive scenes. Not only did Shark Exorcist fail to provide either of those, but hurled me into valleys of misery from whose escape was tantamount to Blade’s “ice skating uphill” metaphor. If I could turn back time, if I could find a way, I would choose my own adventure and instead marathon an entire non-stop barrage of the absolute bottom-of-the-barrel clips from every Charles Band production/excretion, full on, double-rainbow, A Clockwork Orange style if it meant never stepping in the puddle of poodle vomit presented here.

If you ask any cinemasochist what the worst movie of all time is, you’re likely to get a wide wingspan of answers, running the incompetence gamut from Manos: the Hands of Fate to Birdemic to Plan 9 From Outer Space to Troll 2. I have seen most of whatever you can conjure up, and my next statement is 100% bereft of hyperbole: Shark Exorcist is the worst movie I’ve ever seen. Whatever you may think can limbo beneath this new personal lowest of low bars, by all means contact me about it. If I haven’t seen it already, I will watch it, then give you bullet points on why Shark Exorcist is worse. It’s so bad that I can one day see myself pointing to an abuse doll in front of a jury of my peers, showing them where the movie hurt me.

After all of these harsh barbs, Shark Exorcist couldn’t possibly live down to the expectations I’ve established in this article, right? Clearly I must be exaggerating the toxic levels of loathing I’m giving off, correct? This is all a joke piece amplified for the sole sake of entertaining excess, si? Nein. Donald Farmer and his cast of… not “actors” so much as “persons bereft of a solitary molecule of dramatic ability between them”, have left such scars in my figurative flesh that, although not breaking me, have managed to forever alter the state of The Tomb’s millenniums old justice system! The very existence of Shark Exorcist has initialized a Big Bang in these hallowed halls, creating a rift of anti-matter in the fabric of our reality from which a new horror has clawed its way into our world to spit in the face of all creation. I give you…

“The Shartk” – a repulsive monument to the septic depths that only the lowest aspects of movie-making can plumb. So toxic that it poisons even the lead-lined digestive tract of mighty Amut, racing through the beast's Hershey highway and leaving a big brown shark-shaped splatter all over the floor.

In a different time, in a different place, and with an entirely different creative team and cast, Shark Exorcist is a seed that could have grown into a mighty milestone of trash movie greatness. 1970s Bruno Mattei on an oily archipelago off of Italy? YES! Lloyd Kaufman in the ’80s guerrilla filming on the medical waste laden New Jersey shoreline? YES! A hot and humid editing suite in Hong Kong circa 1989, where Godfrey Ho labors to super glue two unrelated horror movies together while simultaneously wedging in ninjas decked out in brightly colored pajamas for nothing more than a marketing gimmick to make a few bucks off of the American VHS rental market? YES! I would gladly move space and time to bring one of these instances of surrogate sinema screaming from the dilated cervix of creation so I could watch it destroy our dimension’s edition of Shark Exorcist a la The One.

Now, to distract me from the bout of mental erosion Sharxorcist (aka “the 11th Plague”) has afflicted me with, I’m going to isolate myself in the ol’ Cone of Silence so I can spend the rest of the day working on my spec script for Twinkie the Kid Vs. Chocula. General Mills and Pizza Hut both shot me down last time over my Pizza Pete Meets Frankenberry’s Daughter presentation, but I’ve got a good feeling about this one! Wish me luck, skid marks!

Moral of the Story: Sam Quint died for our sins. But his soul now lays trapped within a pair of Donald Farmer’s tighty-whiteys and subjected to all manner of stains that can never be washed away. Maybe if we Mxyzptlk his name while facing toward Kansas twice a day, we’ll be able to exile him back to his home dimension, never to be heard from again. Remraf Dlanod! Remraf Dlanod! Remraf Dlanod! REMRAF DLANOD!


There is such a thing as loving cherry syrup too much.

The new viral sensation the kids are all into? The Christ Walk Challenge! You dress up in religious-themed attire then see how far you can walk across a body of water! I think it’s meant to raise awareness of crucifixion disease or stigmata or whatever.

Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to the modern day iteration of the “frozen shark attack” scene from Jaws III.

“Hello, police? I’d like to report the theft of my outfit’s midriff! No, I don’t know my shoe size off hand, why?”

The change over to HD damaged a lot of TV news persons’ careers, but none more so than that of freshman reporter Bill Ugly from Channel 9. He’s only 27!

“Ghost Whackers”? Sounds like one of those gay porn parodies of “Ghost Adventures”.

I’m not sure if this actress is trying to convey “possessed by the refuse of Hell” or “fell on her keys”.

Sadly, when young Karen lost her thumbs in the cigar cutter factory explosion, the hospital’s only available replacements were an elderly woman’s index finger (shown here) and, well, half of a deer hoof ended up on the other hand.

Father Banks works on his sermon for Sunday’s service, “Deuteronomy, Where’s My Corinthians?”.

“You call that a summoning circle, Sherry? I’ve seen better painted streaks of blood on the toilet bowl of the ladies’ room at Hot Topic!”

I sympathize. I had the same reaction to the Dustin Diamond porn the first half-dozen times I watched it too.

I feel bad for fish when they break the fishing line and have to spend the rest of their lives with a lure hooked into their head. I like the feathers though!

If this camera had heat vision, this scene would take on a wholly different tone…

THIS guy knows what I mean!

Here we see Cousin It’s daughter, Cassie It, preparing to “Snicker Snag” on one of her sorority’s latest batch of initiates.

“And why the fuck are you both sitting up front?! I don’t care if you tied calling “shotgun”, I can’t afford another ticket after the last time!”

“Looks like you’ve got egg on your face, nerd! Hahaha!”
(I was going to make a Face/Off joke here, but I brain farted ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ )

Gah! Those have to be some of the scariest teeth I’ve ever seen in a horror movie! At least the top row seem well taken care of.

What the Hel is that?! It looks like someone just gave birth to triplets right on the concrete!

I questioned whose terrible idea it was to cast Nicole Richie as the lead in this new Exorcist remake, but it could really open up some doors for her career! Preferably ones marked “EXIT”…

And that is exactly how I reacted after the second half-dozen times watching the Dustin Diamond sex tape.

The last thing Jerry Garcia saw on his death bed.

In case you’re wondering, yes, sometimes a rubber figure of a goblin shark IS just a rubber figure of a goblin shark. But not here. This is absolutely a sex thing.

I’m not quite sure what Sunny D is hoping to accomplish with this new ad campaign, but it’s making me thirsty… for some purple stuff.

“Contrenchis”? I think I had to get an inoculation for that before my trip to South America for that The Ruins theme cruise I took last year.


Anubis will return next time in
“The Last Vatican Hero”

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.