Featuring: Monica “The Encounter” Engesser , Amelia “The Toy Soldiers” Haberman , James “Match.Dead” Ray
Director: Robert “Exit to Hell” Conway
Writers: Robert “Exit to Hell” Conway & Owen “brother(?) to Robert” Conway
Before we start, here’s my statement on the death of Stone Temple Pilots front man Scott Weiland, as posted via my private facebook account – “The shock isn’t that Scott Weiland died at 48. The shock is that he didn’t die at 38. Or 28. He outlived most rock tragedies though. Meanwhile, that painting Keith Richards keeps of himself in his attic has to be nothing but a skeleton and a pile of cocaine by now… “
Take THAT, Keith Richards! Now, back to our regularly scheduled cinemockery.
So Saint Nick’s demonic hench-beast of Germanic folklore has been gentrified by mainstream Hollywood with last week’s theatrical deliverance of Krampus. The Wicked Warden and I saw it during Phase III of our Sweet 16 Hype-aversary Weekend, and despite my mild reservations to the contrary, Legendary once again disproved my paranoia and delivered a new holiday classic. It’s like something that was started by Charles Band, but was finished by professional moviemakers with a decent budget who knew what the fuck they were doing. Anyway, the thing I personally hate most about the monster-of-the-month mentality is the guff I get from people calling me a hipster because I knew about Krampus years before they did. Fucking shitsters have made it impossible to declare that you were a fan of something prior to its popularizing without getting mislabeled like a Sikh in Donald Trump’s anti-Muslim “Days of Future Past” America. It’s gonna happen all over again when Tinseltown (pun intended) finally gets their Cthulhu movie all sorted. Just you wait.
As with any notable wide release (especially one based around a mythological character immune to the laws of copyright), we all recognized the inevitability of at least one jerry-built knockoff coming to a RedBox kiosk near you. Well, whether you’re picking up off-brand cheese curls and Old Milwaukee at the supermarket or just getting your Valtrex refilled at the drug store, the omens were true – Krampus: the Reckoning lives. For those seeking The Asylum’s cursed brand upon this imperfect clone though, you’ll be disappointed/relieved to find your search fruitless. Could they not find a few days between Sharktopus and Sharknado sequels to throw something together? Especially for the all important “holiday horror fiends” sub-sub-(sub)-market? Whatever the case, nature has some longstanding personal vendetta against vacuums (no doubt due to one of those puberty specific “Bissell mishaps” we all had), so somebody had to fill the void. Enter FunHouse Features and the Conway Brothers. Well, don’t “enter” them. I’m neither attracted to men nor am I into putting my pecker in strange holes (no matter the moisture) as a general rule, so that’s just out of the question.
I have zero experience with the Conways or their presumed production company (they don’t even have their own webpage!), which means I’ve got nadda to say about them or their movies, anecdotal or opinional. I considered coming up with an outlandish origin opus for the siblings a la the Adam Minarovich tirade from my Ankle Biters review, but I ran out of powdered caffeine for my Kool-Aid, so that’s not happening today. I’m guessing they’re barely functional mouth-breathers given what they’ve shown me here, so let’s leave it at that.
For those still in the dark about who the Big K is, here’s a flashlight: Krampus is the Satanic satyr of Saturnalia, with the legs of a goat, the face of a demon, and a tongue that gives Gene Simmons envy boners. He is Santa’s red right hand. The vessel through which Saint Nick exacts his punishment upon wicked children (hence the alternate title for today’s episode). He’s the Eastern European embodiment of coal in your stocking, if coal were to kidnap you in the middle of the night, lock you in a cage, and whip you mercilessly before baptizing you in frothy goat piss and sending you home with no shoes. If you’re lucky.
With that said, let’s see what this “Reckoning” thing is all about, shall we? No? Well, suck my sugar plums, because I’m doing this fucking review!
Zoe (Amelia Haberman) is one of those smarter-than-average, cynical girls that everybody thinks is weird. She reminds me of a friend of mine at that age, both in look and attitude. If I weren’t allergic to children, I’d want a daughter like her. Speaking of parents, Zoe’s a foster kid. In horror movies, foster relationships work out less than 0.45% of the time. Either the kids are Satan’s bastard offspring or the parents are the shittiest castoffs of the human race imaginable. Nobody wins. In this case, the Weavers are drunken coke heads who lock her in her bedroom at night, and Zoe has the couple burned alive by her skull-faced subservient fire demon (who, nicking a cue from Marvel’s Man-Thing *snicker*, burns them with his touch), so it looks like Krampus: the Reckoning is having a Buy One Get One sale.
Granted, the duo were selfish assholes who no doubt took advantage of the foster care system to feed their cravings for sinus snow, but there weren’t any signs of physical or sexual abuse at work here. Zoe was reprimanded for changing the channel during mom’s soaps and later locked in her room after she was caught peeping on the pair while they were summoning the beast with two backs (“You mean fucking?”). Not exactly the kind of reprehensible parenting that deserves to be punished by flame-broiling the two like Whoppers at Burger King. Then again, most kids lack empathy and the ability to comprehend the long term scope of their actions, so good luck getting them to understand why setting people on fire just for annoying you is rarely the best course to take. Believe me, my mother used to work at a daycare. If any of those mini-jerkoffs had turned Firestarter, that place would’ve looked like one of Hitler’s Easy-Bake Ovens by afternoon nap time.
Having blackened her fos’rents like Cajun catfish, Zoe is sent to a children’s hospital while the police investigate. Child psychologist Dr. Rachel Stewart (Monica Engesser) is assigned to her in the hope that she’ll be able to talk some info out of the little girl that the police couldn’t. Zoe-Zo-Zo agrees to answer Dr. S’s queries, but only if she brings the pint-sized terrorist her box of yarn and dolls from the house first. The doc does just that, violating the crime scene with the approval of her friend-on-the-force, Detective Miles O’Connor (James Ray). What’s so important about these dolls? Well, it turns out the brothers Conway have a 3rd grader understanding of voodoo, because Zoe has a doll that resembles Krampus (actual Krampus, not ghetto Ghost Rider here), whose tiny adorable slave shackles she removes when she wants her computer generated ghoul to enact her little kid hissy fit vengeance upon evil adults (represented by little yarn dolls she makes) who don’t let her interrupt their TV viewing and won’t let her underage eyes gawk with voyeuristic intention at them while they’re doing the ol’ pump ‘n grunt mambo. Trust me kids, there are some curiosities you shouldn’t be allowed to pursue outside of PornHub and awkward experimentation with your friend that one summer that you both promised never to tell anyone about.
During their back-and-forth, Z-Dawg asks R-Dogg about a gnarly burn scar on her arm that the lady’s clearly not comfortable talking about. She redirects the conversation faster than Marky Mark when someone brings up The Happening or the whereabouts of the Funky Bunch. Dr. Rachel tries to connect to Zoe over their shared history as foster kids and her own adoption, Lamar (Sean Anderson), while Zoe tells her that impostor Krampus was responsible for leaving the Weavers on the stove too long. Rachel looks into the mythological kiddie disciplinarian while also delving into Zoe’s own inconsistent background, balancing being a good mom to Lamar, and exploring a budding, complicated, “more than business” relationship with Detective O’Connor. Or, as Lamar refers to him, “Some drunk cop at the door”. Meanwhile, having reacquired her not in any way magical voodoo yarn, Zoe sends her Purgatory Pet (from the company that brought you Tickle Me Mephistopheles and Cabbage Patch Creeps!) out to flambe a few more ancillary sinners, including a beardo that bears a striking resemblance to a guy I used to work with. I should’ve liked him more (my co-worker, not this character) given our common interests, but he was way too faux-cheerful for me not to push out that window…I mean, not to want to push out of a window.
During the final act, this pooch contracts a surprise case of Shyamalaphobia (“twist-ending rabies” for my fellow laymen and laywomen) and just bashes its skull against a wall until its swollen, feverish brain turns to figgy pudding and oozes all over its own cloven hooves. It has to be one of the most fuck awful “ignores the entire movie up to that point!” finishes I’ve ever made the mistake of irradiating my corneas with. The whole thing throws itself down the metaphorical staircase, crashing battered and broken at the bottom, where we finally get the merciful abortion finale and our end credits eulogy. In short, it stinks. Amen.
In fact, the finish breaks the movie so badly that I’m actually going to contravene my vow of spoiler silence and explain why it’s such a seizure-inducing brain hemorrhage! First, though, I’ll be sticking needles in the feature’s many other shortcomings, so if you’d like to keep me from ruining the experience of letting Krampus: the Redemption floss your central sulcus with thistles itself, feel free to continue reading until you get to the big “SPOILING AHEAD!” warning below. Right now, it’s time for everybody’s favorite part of the procedure – the rundown! In which Anubis tumbles through a downward spiral of bitching, moaning, and cursing about what’s wrong with this direct-to-DVD trail of tears.
Actually, scratch that and reverse it. First, we’ll get the good news over with and let the bad news bat clean up on this one. Though a muddled and plodding mess (it’s a clusterfuck on Quaaludes), the movie’s not bottom of the barrel sludge…until that fucking ending. The direction actually isn’t terrible. It’s competently shot, so I’ll give Bobby Conway a scoop of credit on that one. To quote Dr. Stewart, I’d call it “Nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to brag about.” The cg beastie is Krampusy in as much as he has horns, a furry body, and goat legs, but that’s the extent. The graphics work itself is acceptable for the presumably limited capitol on hand, so I can let it slide. I would’ve preferred something in the realm of a tall person in a Chinese Chewbacca costume wearing a hoodie, but given how affordable halfway decent digital imaging work is in this high-tech era, it was probably more budget friendly to do it as is. It’s better than most of the eyeball cancer The Asylum pelted us with in their early days, at least.
These less-than-agonizing elements were going to be enough for me to originally let the movie squeak by on a solitary heart rating. Then the ending happened…but that loaf of moldy monkey bread known as the story will have to wait a little longer. Before that, the under-card bitching and moaning first.
The acting. Uggh. This isn’t one of those “so bad, it’s funny” instances, either. This isn’t the campy equivalent of 12 cheese nachos. No, the performances on display here are instead bland as a Slush Puppie without the syrup. Our female lead, Monica Engesser, was blessed with all the personality of a popsicle stick. And not one of those sticks with the jokes that have the pun-punchlines so bad that even a hyena on nitrous wouldn’t waste a laugh on them. The woman’s lines dribble out of her mouth as if she was doing hits of novocaine between scenes. James Ray isn’t much better. For starters, he looks like George Eads from “C.S.I.” after a bad stretch of life choices, including shaving his head to cover up the fact that he’s going bald, but not being diligent enough about it to convincingly cover it up. He attempts to deliver his lines like Clint Eastwood, but instead sounds like he’s struggling with a sore throat and is trying not to exacerbate it. Or like he’s whispering his lines so as not to disturb director Conway, who was constantly sleeping off hangovers just off screen. As for Amelia Haberman, well, I feel bad shitting on a child this time of year (mostly because fecal transference is a gray area in the realm of sexual assault laws, all the more so in cases where kids are involved…don’t ask why I know that). The good thing is that she has plenty of time to get some coaching and improve herself, so should she choose to pursue a career, there’s still hope. Good luck, Amelia. Merry Cthulhumas
The music is basically bullshit. Ironic given that one of the tunes, “Modern Metal Theme Zombie”, is composed by someone(s) calling themselves Studio BS! Other notable tracks include the lawsuit skimming “Jingle Bells Christmas Rock”, “Hip Hop Love Beat” by someone who actually chose the moniker Happy M, and a selection by the multi-untalented Conway brother Owen titled “Kick”. The performers for these tunes? They are “Means 2 an End”, who likely didn’t opt to use the number 2 for their name in an effort to be cool, but because they couldn’t figure out which iteration of to/too/two was applicable and didn’t want to look like idiots. Congratulations, M2anE, you failed.
My final pre-spoils gripe? Christmas. Not the holiday itself, as I have no beef against Xeroxed Yule (just the assholes who claim there’s a “war” against it and the willfully ignorant who refuse to acknowledge its origins). No, my venom here is being projected at the holiday’s inclusion in this movie. Krampus: the Reckoning has nothing in it that hinges on the inclusion of the holiday nor the titular terror upon which it’s named. Christmas is only utilized through decorations, references to gift-giving, Santa, and the easy case of “explain away” for the beast’s backstory. I hated Krampus the Christmas Devil, but at least it stuck closer to the mythology of Krampus (or at least his role in Santa Claus’s bullshit) instead of warping it so much that the makers may as well have just invented their own monster and spared those of us expecting something more tangential to the toddler terrorizer’s tale. I wanted something actually Krampy, but just like Highway Patrolman Harland Williams in Dumb & Dumber, I wound up with a mouthful of piss instead.
Cum one, cum all (hope you’ve all got socks handy), cuz it’s SPOILERS time! For the benefit of those with flash photography get your cameras ready, because much like a certain Canadian duo’s vaunted “5 Second Pose” gimmick, this is a one-time event, never to be seen again! Because of the potential shitstorm such an occurrence could possibly result in, I’m going to ask YOU, the reader, to take full responsibility for your part in this. To wit: I will be posting the text of the next few paragraphs in black to camouflage it from unprepared eyes. Those wishing to peek behind the protective curtain of this gruesome Grand Guignol can do so (at their own discretion!) by highlighting said paragraphs to make them visible. Apologies to my EDB editor for the long-winded intro, but my inner-pitchman needed some air! (Editor’s Note: your apology is not accepted. In fact, back to Solitary with you!)
The wrap-up act of Reckoning sees Zoe declaring that it’s finally Rachel’s turn to suffer the vengeful touch of Krampus. But why? What could Dr. Stewart have done to deserve the broken toaster treatment? Earlier in the movie, Doc dropped the blunt foreshadowing that sufferers of childhood trauma often repress memories that may not come out for years, if ever. Though she was referring to Zoe’s experience following the death of the Weavers, when Rachel later reveals to Miles that the mysterious burns on her arm are the result of a childhood fire that claimed the lives of her parents, it’s clear that the aforementioned medical analysis was just setting us up for the rough and raw Shyamalaning we were in-store for. Sure enough, we find out that Rachel was her family’s killer, causing the fire herself by being a mean little cunt and summoning Krampus to kill them, thanks to a book that her grandmother had for some reason (a moment alluded to frequently through Rachel’s reoccurring nightmares). The demon proceeded to scorch Mr. & Mrs. Stewart and Rachel’s sister, whom Rachel had forgotten even having, due to the memory being locked in the darkest recesses of the doctor’s mind because of all that trauma…even though she conjured the demon with the full understanding (and presumed intention) that it would kill her family! I mean, she had to make the little dolls, so I don’t quite get why she’d be traumatized by a situation she willingly caused?! Fuck you, Conways!
One guess as to who Rachel’s little sister was. If you said Zoe, give yourself sixty-four silver dollars! Yep, Zoe was a ghost this whole time. That’s the testi-twister reveal. Sounds stupid, right? We haven’t even gotten to all the reasons this is bullshit. Get ready for the aneurysm part, kiddies, cuz here it comes.
Up to this point, the movie had been establishing that Zoe had been in several foster homes in her time with the first instance being 20 years ago. When Rachel visits the family’s home, she learns from the household’s shotgun wielding son that the matriarch has been a mental vegetable since Zoe’s time there, during which time she had told people that the little girl was evil. Pa went missing during said time, only to be found later, a crispy critter. What dad did to deserve his comeuppance is never explained, but I’m guess he wouldn’t buy Zoe a My Little Pony or made her go to bed without ice cream because she refused to eat her peas. The info about this case was actually in the local government’s foster kid database (hence how Rachel found out about it), but the file was mysteriously wiped from the system the next day, meaning that ghost Zoe must have some kind of supernatural “ghost in the machine” hacker powers in addition to never aging and having Krampo at her beck and call. Kids from those days these days.
Now, when Zoe finally confronts Rachel, she informs her (and us) that she did indeed perish in the fire caused by big sister’s amateur demonology (as did their grandma, who’s seen in the opening scene). Where do I begin in trying to untangle this motherfucking Gordian Knot that the Conways have put before me?! I can’t just pull a sword out of my ass like Alexander the Great, but let’s see what I can spelunk outta there. For starters, if Rachel’s the one that summoned Krampus in the first place, WHY does Zoe control him?! Did her ghost take form and redo the ceremony herself, or can ghosts just control demons through physical dolls at whim?! Speaking of ghosts, despite being one, everyone can see Zoe. So she’s a phantom that can take physical form. Fine. Whatever. If that’s true though, why would she get involved with the other families in the first place?! She was in the foster care system, so she had to have been entered into it by a social worker who paired her with the families she destroyed. Also, she interacts with several other kids in the start of the flick, so not only can she take a solid form, but she’s willing to live the life of an actual foster kid for a while and put up with other asshole kids while working out which people to murder?!
WHY EVEN GO THROUGH THE WHOLE PROCESS OF A CONTRIVED PLOT, KILLING PEOPLE AND GOING THROUGH THE SYSTEM FOR TWENTY YEARS JUST TO GET TO RACHEL?! WHY DRAW OUT THE ENTIRE FUCKING MOVIE IF SHE COULD’VE JUST TAKEN HER REVENGE ON BIG SIS AT ANYTIME IN THE 20 YEARS SINCE ACQUIRING KRAMPUS’S SERVICE ANYWAY?!!?!?!?!? IT’S THE WORST KIND OF ENDING, BECAUSE IT NEGATES EVERYTHING THAT THE MOVIE SPENT 80 MINUTES ESTABLISHING, MAKING THE WHOLE DAMN MESS RETROACTIVELY NONSENSICAL!!!! FUUUUUUUUUUUCK YOU, ROBERT AND OWEN CONWAY!!!!!
This movie just slingshots spherical, disgruntled, colorful birds at the structure of my brain and laughs while it crumbles, killing the little green pigs that represent what’s left of my sanity. The first time I saw that ending, my mind had to shut down and reboot. Fortunately, my gray matter autosaved everything up to that point, so I was able to free up additional memory to handle the load the second time around. I was also properly prepared to fast forward through the sex and shower scenes featuring nude people nobody asked to see nude. Don’t worry, I just had to erase some useless files from my childhood. Of what I haven’t a clue. Like I said, they’ve been erased. Pay attention.
It’s not worth the time, money, or effort, but if the last 20 minutes were re-written, any association with Krampus altered, and the actors given some classes ahead of time, this could’ve been a not-the-worst-thing-I’ve-ever-seen monster movie. As it exists in its current state, this flick would be better suited for the moniker “Kramped-Ass: the Rectuming”. Yes, that was a horrible joke, but it’s pretty much all this movie deserves. Much like the actual Krampus (I know him, he’s a rather affable gent unless you’re an a-hole kid), The Reckoning should be used as a punishment for misbehaving children and full grown douche sacks. It’s not so much for cinemasochists to watch as it is for cinesadists to inflict.
With that, this exercise in tedium has come to its close. Despite the Conways spiking my nog with Nyquil and giving my holidaze cheer a severe case of Hepatitis X(mas), it’s nothing a trip to the local cinema for another viewing of the good Krampus can’t cure!
Our next ep will continue the seasonal scheming of the slightly-to-completely irredeeming with a very special quasi-celebrity guest to this holiday mess! Put on your red shirts and reindeer antlers and get your ass back here for homemade milk and cookies, motherfuckers! For now, I gotta go out and pick up our Cthulhumas tree, then figure out what the Hel I’m getting Set for Secret Satan this year. Oh look! Here’s a copy of Krampus: the Reckoning! Problem solved. Until next time, may your egg nog always be spiked and have a holly jolly go fuck yourself.
“Yes, I can see the picture just fine, dearie. Now get your hand out of my face or you’ll be pulling back a stump. Got it?!”
“I can’t believe Male Character A would cheat on Female Character A with Female Character C! This is the most devastating season of ‘Generic High School Drama Show‘ yet!”
For all you parents with tight purse strings who can’t afford Monster High dolls for your kid this year, try the Dollar Embargo knock-off “Creature Secondary School”! Millie Mummy (pictured here) will be their new favorite affordable friend while you’re waiting for the results of your latest frivolous lawsuit against McDonald’s!
Yikes! Don’t stare at those too long or you’ll go wall-eyed! I hear that’s what happened to Marty Feldman.
Wait till you see the part where Krampus makes her sing while he drinks a glass of water. Amazing!
No matter how hard they all tried, the cast always regretted the day’s efforts when it came time to review the dailies. Ouch.
Milhouse Van Houten – age 35.
Damn it! Clearly this proves that the Conways knew what Krampus was supposed to look like! They were just fucking with us the whole time!
“Merry Christmas, sir! We’re the ho-ho-hoes you ordered from Big Poppa Claus! We brought festive, peppermint flavored condoms in case you’re out! Where should we start?”
Scott Summers’ first pair of glasses before switching to ruby quartz lenses.
It’s the Ghost of Rob Riggle Yet to Come!
“I told you not to come around here no more! We don’t wanna be in your shitty Krampus movie, and you can’t use our house or yard to shoot scenes in!”
Uggh. Some people just shouldn’t be shot in HD. He looks like he washed his face with old pizza grease!
Your Freddy Krueger cosplay’s coming along nicely, Sheryl! Keep at it, kiddo.
Huh. Well, evolution clearly didn’t plan for Krampus to procreate…
Speaking of procreation, my wife will be happy to hear that this scene just made me sterile. Next time anyone asks me if I’m positive I’m not gay, I’ll pull up this screenshot and throw up all over them.
“YOU KNOW WHERE YOU ARE?! YOU’RE IN THE JUNGLE, BABY! YOU’RE GONNA DIIIIIIIIIIIE!”
“Roger, you know I joined the Sherman Oaks Bald Men Society because I believe in your vision. But… I don’t think anyone’s coming to our Christmas mixer. It’s been four hours… I think we should call it a night.”
Anubis will return next time in
“Tales From the Cryptsmas”
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Featuring: Roddy “Hell Comes to Frogtown” Piper , Shane “Divided Loyalties” Douglas , Kurt “Sharknado 2: The Second One” Angle
Director & Writer: Cody “Lucifer’s Unholy Desire” Knotts
“While I wish you would have enjoyed it…I loved reading your review…I laughed and laughed. You have a talent for writing funny reviews (though I would focus less on references to feces..you have a real talent for whit).
Anyways, thanks for the review, even though it wasn’t good.”
Did you know that gods have gods? Yep. You know that old adage “Respect your elders”? Same applies to us, hence the term “Elder Gods”. The elderest of gods, Cthulhu, recently blessed me for my Cthulhumas sacrifices by gifting me with the second highest item on my tribute want list: Pro Wrestlers Vs. Zombies. The highest? Same as it always is: 1985 Barbara Crampton. But, like the little girl who asks for a pony every year (looking at you, Demeter), I’m destined to never get the one gift I really want. Oh well, time to get the disappointment out of my system by kicking the tar out of my silver medal!
By the way, as a lifelong pro wrestling geek, I had a few dozen wrestling related jokes to make through this episode. However, I didn’t want to alienate 90% of my audience, so I’ll be making an effort to stick to the general garbage movie defecation commentary you normally get out of me. Consider it your New Years endowment from moi.
Battling Billy (Michael H. Richmond, whose missing credit I actually had to submit to the IMDB cast listing!) is a professional wrestler. Well, given that performing in high school gymnasiums in front of 15-20 people at a time can’t possibly provided him enough money to survive on, “professional” probably isn’t the right word. Let’s just say Billy’s a wrestler. Period. Semantics aside (not to be confused with “semen ticks inside”, which makes my ebony fur stand on end just typing the words), Billy’s ring name is a big fat blumpkin in the realm of grappler monikers. Given that this was written by an obvious wrestling fan, “Bruiser Billy” would’ve been a much better alias. Not just because “Battling Billy” sounds like some kid’s submission to a Masters of the Universe create-a-character contest, but because “Bruiser Billy” would’ve been a decent call back to Bruiser Brody, whose murder is one of wrestling’s most infamous instances. It’s serious “Diagnosis Murder” type shit. Check out the following link to get the story from wrestling industry mainstay “Dirty” Dutch Mantell, who currently goes by the Tea Party conservative parody persona Zeb Colter in WWE.
Brody’s murder aside, wrestlers like to claim that they’re a brotherhood in the locker room, but they’re really just like any other boys’ club: at each other’s throats the minute money or pussy comes into the picture. Such is the case when Billy crosses washed up (actual) professional wrestler Shane “the Franchise” Douglas (playing himself) by dipping his pen in Dougie’s ink…by which I mean Mr. Battling is tossing his hot dog down Shane’s hallway. Well, not his hallway. I mean the upstart’s fucking the old man’s girlfriend, Taya (playing herself)!
Anyway, catching Tay wrapped around the younger man’s waist like a cheap replica championship belt, Shane doesn’t take too well to the scene. Rather than breaking up with her like an adult though, he instead breaks Billy’s neck during their match with a “botched” tombstone piledriver move. Yep, he kills him with a move called a “tombstone”. No room in the budget for subtlety, I’m afraid.
An indeterminate amount of time later (I guess screen subtitling ended up next to subtlety on the budgetary kill floor), Billy’s brother Angus (Ashton Amhurst) hires promoter Cody Knotts (yep, it’s the director playing himself) and his Extreme Rising wrestling promotion to set up an indie show at an abandoned penitentiary. Anus, errr Angus, insists that Douglas and Taya headline the event, then lets Dog Knotts fill in (yeah, as a man-dog I hear dog knots are pretty filling…) the rest of the card with other has-been grapplers like Roddy Piper and Hacksaw Jim Duggan, still active (just barely) guys like Matt Hardy and Kurt Angle, and some never-weres like what’s-his-name, who’s-it, and you know, that guy. Always wore a shirt? Yeah, him. All of which are self-players as well.
Quick time out. Angus’s ear raping Scottish accent would make Scrooge McDuck and Haggis McHaggis weep with disgust. Someone named Scott Miller gets credit for doing said voice, so Amherst didn’t even do his own lines?! What is this, Horror of Party Beach!? Scratch that. Party Beach‘s monsters were more realistic than the zombies we end up with here. They look like they were made up by a buncha brats during “Bring Your Kids to Work Day” at the Savini School. Blart. Anyway, as we were.
Shane’s given a scene with his extended family shortly after, where he indoctrinates his nephew to be a total Franchise mark. It’s supposed to somehow humanize a bloated sack of shit who we already know is responsible for MURDERING another man just because they became Eskimo brothers (look it up). All this interlude managed to do was make me want to slap the Fruit Loops out of the kid’s mouth, but the urge to backhand kids in movies is normal for me. Annoying turds. Once this is over, Shane and Roddy Piper have a scene where we learn that the two are apparently long term buddies, which is fine. My problem with the scene is the mob of children crowded around Piper begging for autographs. It’s not the kids themselves where my problem lies, it’s that nobody under the age of 25 even knows who the fuck Roddy Piper is! Maybe they mistook him for one of the creatures on “Yo Gabba Gabba!”? Sure, slap a kilt on him and replace his head with a bagpipe with huge googly eyes glued to it and I could see this being a thing.
Reunited for the show, Dougie Fresh and Skanky Not-So-Fresh hook up just like old times…which may very well have been anywhere from a few days ago to a few years. Again, it’s not clear how long it’s been since Billy got broke. Meanwhile, Piper makes friendly with a woman named Sarah (Adrienne Fischer), who’s just been hired as the new Extreme Rising head of marketing. Her whole hook for getting hired is that she promises Snotts (who spends their entire meeting feeling her up like he was that creepy uncle that isn’t invited to family gatherings) that she can make their little wrestling organization the biggest in the world…no. In a movie about zombies fighting men in tights, THAT statement is the most unrealistic thing in these entire 90 minutes. Suspending disbelief is one thing, but that’s the kind of crap that requires utter expulsion of your disbelief into the vacuum of deep space. I’ll let the Iron Sheik express my thoughts further on this one:
In a weird bit of idiocy, when the wrestlers’ bus arrives at the prison (nobody can afford their own cars, it seems), they’re randomly offered a chance to “challenge the gods” and “achieve their destiny” by doing combat “in the arena”. Are they performing in an abandoned prison or at Medieval Times?! Before they’re allowed off the bus though, they’re ordered to hand over their cell phones. Horror movie much? Well, that addresses why no one will be able to call for help later when they’re chin deep in living dead. Stupidly addresses, but addresses none the less. No sooner do our faces (wrestling terminology for good guys) get inside, then they’re confronted by Angus’s personal horde of necromanced undead heels (wrestling’s bad guys) and the movie finally lives up to its title. Well, it only took half an hour to get there, so my “finally” may have been a tad unnecessary. Wait a sec. Now that the zombie rampage has already started, what the fuck are they gonna spend the next hour on?! Uh-oh…
Yep, that’s it. The final 2/3 of the movie is really just a series of sequences wherein hordes of zombified extras chase the wrestlers and other cast members, killing them one-by-one, then moving onto the next. Do I look like a shitter? Because I shit you not. The script has to be about 10 pages long. Well, at least they give what they advertise, so that’s something, right? It’s like going into a place called “Ruptured Balls” and not expecting to get your testicles destroyed. They never said it was going to be enjoyable, they just advertised ruptured balls. Just like nobody advertised an enjoyable movie, just one where pro wrestlers go up against zombies. Hey, at least I can admit when my suffering is my own fault!
Sure, at one point Tying Knotts tries to write in that touching zombie movie staple where one of the survivors has to kill his best friend-turned-living dead a la Pete and Rog in Dawn of the Dead. The Romero one, you animals! But given how little time the movie actually dedicates to trying to make us give a shit about any of the cast on a personal level, NO time was spent showing us ANY connection between the two characters in question! Come on, guys. You invite us over to your place for a party, tell us it was a ruse to get us to help you move out of your 5th floor walk-up when we get there, then expect us to do all of the heavy lifting?! Fuck your couch. This is me throwing it through your big stupid picture window. Good luck getting your security deposit back!…and explaining to the cops how your couch ended up smashing your neighbor’s Lexus. I’m out!
Okay, I’m not out. I’ve still got pissing to piss, moaning to moan and bitching to bitch. While I’m on the topic of failed attempts to connect with the audience on a deeper level, there are a few more that shit the bed just as bad. Think Spud’s big brown breakfast in Trainspotting. These emotional moments resonate about as well as farts muffled by a pillow. Even the “will they die or won’t they?” scenes of manufactured tension end up as botched spots (wrestling lingo for failed moves). You know who’s gonna see the end credits and who’s just gonna wind up as the “meat” in an Arby’s pulled pork. Best example? At one point, Sarah’s overcome by a mob of grabby handed ghouls and struggles on the ground for several minutes as they paw at her. She eventually manages to escape without a scratch though because, surprise surprise, she’s scripted to have a future that doesn’t involve being fast food. Oh yeah, spoiler. Oops. Meh, you’ll get over it.
Speaking of pulled pork, whatever the effects guys spent on their “severed legs and torso” prop, they definitely got their money’s worth. Not based on the quality, mind you, just the number of scenes they use the stupid thing in. Remember that amazing scene where the asshole militant guy in Day of the Dead is torn in half while screaming “CHOKE ON IT!”? It was one of the movie’s greatest moments between his defiant death screams, the graphic realistic violence of the effects work and the fact that PEOPLE WEREN’T BEING TORN IN HALF EVERY 10 MINUTES. Sadly, the blood and gore is what you’d expect from a movie whose budget went to hiring out-of-work ex-wrestlers as its stars. It’s a whole bunch of red kero syrup and the occasional prop internal organs. Real effects zombie makeup and gore are an art. As stated prior, here it’s a shart. Multiple sharts, actually. Unrelenting, left and right, up and down, sharts. If it were to be named after a wrestling company, it’d be TNA: Total Nonstop Assblasters. Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhharts!
Speaking of pulled pork…I mean, speaking of sharts, how about that soundtrack?! The music is generic half-assed metal that brings to mind a garage band trying to emulate Monster Magnet. Then there’s the ear bleeding bagpipe thrash shit. Holy Lucky Charms in a Guinness, Dropkick Murphys it ain’t. On top of that, of all the covers I’ve heard of “Amazing Grace” in my eons, this movie’s end credits easily has the worst. Worse even than when Mike Tyson did it on that clip from the Arsenio Hall Show that never aired. While my ears are still bleeding, let me call out the audio mixing here too, because it’s TERRIBLE! A lot of the lines sound like they were re-dubbed in post, while the music just explodes in your ears at random at a few decibels higher than the dialog. I shouldn’t have to have my stereo remote within talon’s reach when I’m watching a movie to keep the old lady in the tomb downstairs from banging on the ceiling with her broom.
Despite the few exceptions, there’s a general rule in the wrestling business that actors shouldn’t cut wrestling promos and wrestlers shouldn’t act. PWVZ reminds us why that is. Even if this dialogue weren’t…damn it. It’s hard to come up with a dozen different synonyms for feces. It’s just bad, okay? I don’t know how much of it is written and how much, if any, is ad-libbed by the performers, but it’s awful. Anyway, the acting. Mercifully, at least most of the wrestlers only have a few short lines before they’re killed off. The majority of the work comes from Piper and Douglas. At least Douglas lives up to his infamously self-serving real-life personality by fucking everybody else over left and right, letting other people take the fall for his bullshit, and trying to set himself up as the big hero. Not sure if the guy was acting or just being followed with a camera. Very convincing. Fuck you “Dean”.
Then there’s Piper. It’s so depressing to think that Roddy went from They Live to this. Or hell, from Hell Comes to Frogtown to this! The cantankerous Canadian who made his career pretending to be a scandalous Scot (didja enjoy the mind blowing I just put on your brain?) has been through a lot in recent years, beating cancer (as did Hacksaw!) and making appearances on “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia”, but the guy’s lost a few steps. It’s a little too hard to believe someone who can barely walk (damn hip surgery…and age) fending off waves of the ravenous dead just because he’s the best actor on the call sheet. Then again, he does have the uncanny and possibly mystical ability to pull a crowbar out of thin air to plant into a ghoul’s head when the need arrives for one scene, so maybe that’s reason enough he would be able to survive. Wish I could pull that trick right now and put it through my computer screen!
Before I finish off this episode and wipe its residual remnants off of me with a moist towelette, I wanted to point out that Piper calls Angus a “red-headed stepchild Danny Bonaduche fuckin’ throwback red-headed Carrot Top fuck him reason for legal fuckin’ abortions”. It might be amazing, it might be awful, but whatever it is, there it is. He also declares that Angus is just an “All-American bully”, then proclaims his intentions to thrash him for being as such, despite Piper establishing his entire career on being a bully bad guy character who kicked Cyndi Lauper across a wrestling ring and smashed a coconut over Jimmy Snuka’s face before whipping him with a belt. Such is the inherent hypocrisy of the face turn (what it’s called when a bad guy becomes a good guy).
So Pro Wrestlers Vs. Zombies, a movie I anticipated for the better part of a year. It sucked on toes worse than even I had feared it would. Yet Troma still picked it up for distribution, when it couldn’t hang with Troma originals on their worst days. Hell, Troma’s trailer is better than the movie just by tacking Toxie’s face onto it and making a title card that DOESN’T feel like the Great Muta spewed green mist into my eyes while looking at it. For your perusal:
In closing, I’d like to play a round of The Dozens, strictly for my fellow industry nerds on the wrestling memes boards. The rest of you can skip ahead to the screen cap-caps (captures and captions).
And…go! This movie’s so bad, Kevin Nash tore his quad while watching it! It’s so bad, if it had double d titties, even Dean Ambrose wouldn’t wanna master ’em! It’s so bad, it made Rob Van Dam stop smoking weed and made CM Punk start! It’s so bad, it made Shawn Michaels an atheist! It’s so bad, it doesn’t even need Triple H to bury it, cuz it buries ITSELF! It’s so bad, it must’ve been written by Vince Russo and directed by Eric Bischoff! It’s so bad, it botches more in 90 minutes than Sin Cara did in all of 2013! It’s so bad, it made Terry Funk retire FOR GOOD! It’s so bad, it made Jake Roberts AND Scott (Scotch) Hall relapse! It’s so bad, even Dolph Ziggler won’t sell for it! It’s so bad, it makes The Dead Hate the Living look strong!.. but does nothing for Roman Reigns. Fuck you, Reigns. Your new outfit looks like some shitty Tron cosplay that you couldn’t get to light up. Your “Superman Punch” is a twat move.
Unless you’re a celebrity, a politician, or just rich. Then you can kill people wherever you want.
Looks like somebody just discovered Photoshop’s font options.
Grown men (well, adult men) dangerously throwing each other around for the entertainment of a dozen or so strangers in a gymnasium. Living the dream.
Tea bagging an unconscious guy while flipping everybody in the audience the bird? I see Sammy Hagar’s finished “quality testing” his latest batch of Cabo Wabo.
Your writer-director, ladies and gentlemen of the audience. Just as shabbily thrown together as his movie.
“Taz Jaguar”? Is that your father’s name, or did you take your mother’s maiden name after the divorce?
Black Mass Ceremonial Parkas (white only): just $4.99 this week, only at KMart!
“Forget it, kid. You might as well call me Hulk Hogan because I don’t put ANYBODY over!”
Extreme Rising corporate headquarters. Except on weekends, when it’s the gift shop for the historical reenactment village they rent the space from.
“Come on, Roddy. This guy says he wants to Kickstart a Frogtown reboot and he wants us to star! This could be my big break! I mean, OUR big break!”
To hell with expensive CGI effects. Just paint him green and Kurt Angle could star in the next Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie!
Bet Dennis Rodman wishes he would’ve stay in North Korea.
Apparently these zombies don’t crave brains. They just want to sink their teeth into man asses packed into shiny gold trunks like big ol’ Hershey Kisses.
“Stronger Than Death”? Fuck you, Matt Hardy. We’ll see who’s stronger this Sunday in our steel cage showdown!
“With a name like Smuckers, our zombies HAVE to be good!”
“God damn it, Shane! You are NOT going to die owning me fifty bucks! Gimme my damn money, you asshole!”
Roddy Piper reflects on his movie career decisions and wonders if maybe he’s finally fallen to the point that he should’ve just let the cancer take him.
“You don’t need to spend ten grand on a facelift, baby. I’ll just pull back your face like this, slap on a little rubber cement, and you’ll look ten years younger!”
“Shhhh! Don’t let any of the other guys here you say wrestling’s fake or they’ll piledrive your head into your lungs! It’s a very sensitive subject!”
Looks like somebody wandered away from the Nightmare City set.
And this guy used to be the NWA World Heavyweight Champion.
Bet Roddy REALLY wishes he’d left the house in his kilt today, rather than suffer the undead wedgie of doom!
Anubis will return next time in
“Radio Ga Ga, Eh?”
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Featuring: Bill “Half Past Dead 2” Goldberg , Douglas “Stage Fright (2014)” Smith , Emilie “The Hills Have Eyes (2007)” de Ravin
Director & Writer: David Steiman
Also Known As: Very Bad Santa
Merciful Cthulhumas to you, my fellow cinemasochists! May Our Dark Lord from the hoary nether realm spare you and your loved ones for another year! Today (well, 3 days ago) is the day of the Gregorian calender we set aside to honor our eternally dark Lord Cthulhu by paying tribute to the important persons of our lives: generally through thoughtfully chosen presents, sacrifices of personal wealth, oaths of fealty…or gift cards to Red Lobster. This year, I continue my vow to sacrifice my sanity in the name of your entertainment by shutting myself into the iron maiden that is today’s holiday themed episode. You owe me.
David Steiman’s IMDB profile credits him with four production assistant jobs from 1999-2000, before becoming personal assistant to director Bret Ratner for three consecutive movies: starting with 2000’s The Family Man (I’ll have to excerebrate my gray matter with a nasal hook just to literally get Hall & Oates out of my head now), continuing through Rush Hour 2 and ending with Red Dragon in 2002. Three years later, Ratner himself would end up with a mysterious producer’s credit on this celebration of yuletide retardation: Santa’s Slay. Not only would SS (yep, that’s how I’m referring to it!) be the first-and-only writer-director credit for Mr. Steiman, but it’s also the last industry credit the guy can lay claim to of any kind for the decade since…
So, Bret Ratner produces his ex-assistant’s solo-project? Looks to me like Mr. Steiman really put the “ass” into “assistant” during his time working under The Rat, blackmailed Bret into lending his name and credibility (I use the term loosely… possibly sarcastically) to SS, then exiled himself into oblivion after being confronted with the product of his manipulations, having lost any future he may have held for himself after giving up said blackmail material to BR as part of their arrangement. Oh well, sometimes you gotta swallow a few loads to make your dreams cum true…Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, you, you, you, you! Fuck…the H&O earworm only grows fatter. Somebody get me 666 cc of “Super Charger Heaven”, stat!
Our movie cold opens on a Christmas gathering of the Mason family (no, not the Manson family) as they gather for dinner, bickering and implied adultery. They’re your typical horribly WASPy family of well-off shitholes to whom the concept of love died long ago, like a starving polio-ridden Great Depression-era orphan child in a snowstorm. They’re thankful to their god for not making them “poor or Samoan”. Just when the dad (James Caan) is about to stab the son-in-law (Chris Kattan) for fingering the mom (Fran Drescher) under the dinner table, a pissed off mountain of a man dressed like Santa (Bill Goldberg) explodes from their chimney and proceeds to brutally slaughter the whole useless clan till they’re Feliz NaviDEAD! Bludgeoning, immolation, impalement, drowning in egg nog, and finally, James Caan getting a turkey leg jammed down his throat pipe. (Death) God bless them, every one.
Who is this Herculean icon of holiday cheer-turned-brain smashing behemoth (this line to be spoken like the narrator from the Adam West “Batman”)? I’ll spare you the wait and express pass your ass to the head of the class. It’s almost a decade old at this point, so the grace period for plot spoiling is long gone! You know how Jesus Christ was supposedly the result of immaculate conception between an angel and his “virgin” mother Mary? Turns out there was another such birth some time ago, as Satan himself spawned his own offspring from another mortal woman (named Erica)’s baby maker. That child’s name? Santa. What, you though it was a coincidence their names are so similar? The SNL Church Lady knew the score!
Anyway, every year on his birthday Santa would go out and slaughter random people. These annual bouts of unsolved murders were dubbed “The Day of Slayings” (YesVirginia, we have a title), also known as Kerry King’s birthday. As Christianity spread like a plague over the Nordic lands, the people would gather every year for a Christ mass, where they’d beg their new god to save them from Santa’s traditional birthday bash(ing of their skulls). Sometime around the year 1000, Big G finally answered their whining by sending down an archangel to do a BTO job (i.e. take care of business). Disguising himself as just another jobber, the angel challenged the big bully to a winner-take-all round of curling. Curling?! Yep, this movie is definitely a product of Canada. Blart.
If Santa won his challenger would be condemned to an eternity in Hell, while a loss would result in Santa becoming a harbinger of charity and good cheer for the extent of the following millennium. The winged deceiver triumphed and the rest is history…until now: exactly 1000 years later (to the day, since this is a movie), when Santa’s personality inversion has expired! Now he and his reindeerish beast the Helldeer (it’s just a white buffalo…someone call Charles Bronson!) are on the hunt for the heavenly body that pulled the holy wool over his soulless black eyes and permanently scratching a few names off of his Naughty List along the way. Where’s this angel now? He resides in a little middle-of-nowhere hamlet in the wilds of Canada known as…Hell.
And yes, the township’s moniker is abused to full pun effect throughout the next 75 minutes, so gird your laughter loins (or your groan groin), lest ye suffer a pulled muscle from all of the agonizing efforts of fifth grade humor you’re in store for.
Also residing in Hell is a disgustingly mild mannered teen by the moniker of Nicholas Yuleson (Douglas Smith looking like the son of Bud Bundy), whose possession of the Christmasiest sounding name since Santa’s Little Helper (or “Santos L. Halper” if you work in customer service) is guaranteed to get him involved in the coming blizzard of bloody battery. In fact, if I just outright told you now that the elusive angel is his grandpa (Robert Culp) and young Nick was oblivious of the fact until now as Santa Claus is comin’ to town, your shock level would register somewhere around a “minor static shock from touching a doorknob after crossing a carpet in socks” level, right? I thought as much.
Nick works at a Jewish owned deli (is there any other kind?) along with his friend/co-worker/scripted love interest Mary “Mac” MacKenzie (Emilie de Ravin). Mary’s obviously got a girl boner for the gawky weirdo, and if she has her way, she won’t be going the way of the Biblical Mary…by which I mean she’s looking to get her factory seal ruptured for Christmas…by which I mean she wants the Nick dick. As for deli owner Mr. Green (Saul Rubinek), I don’t know his intentions for “the Nick dick”, but I will say that he looks like the bastard love child of Elliott Gould and Adam Carolla. He winds up pinned to the back wall of his establishment by a menorah jammed through his windpipe later on, courtesy of Claus. Does this count as a hate crime? Shouldn’t Santa be down with the Chosen People given their mutual hatred of Jesus anyway? Also, if you say “hatred of Jesus” using the Spanish pronunciation, it rolls off the proverbial tongue nicely. Very lyrical.
Here’s the rundown on Nick’s grandpa (simply credited as “Grandpa”): in his current form, he’s considered the town nutso. He’s a bit of a recluse who refuses to celebrate Christmas, spends his time in his basement bunker watching his oddly extensive surveillance equipment and making weird inventions like a weaponized nutcracker that shoots exploding chesnuts out of its hideous grinning maw. Before all of this, back when he tricked Santa into a thousand years of slavery in the shackles of holiday cheer, the angel gave up his halo and wings to start a life with a mortal Norse woman (little to nothing of which is covered beyond “I fell in love with a human woman”) who we’re presumed to believe became Nick’s grandma. I guess giving up your angelic status doesn’t make you “mortal” though, because the old man’s still spry after ten centuries. That’s just the tip of the WTF iceberg, because there’s no mention of what happened to Nick’s parents, or just how shallow the roots are on his family tree. Did Gramps fall in love, spend a lifetime with the woman, then just kinda live and love for the next 900 years or so until he met Nick’s actual grandma before settling down and raising a family? Did he sire another family, or possibly multiple other families, before spawning the bloodline that would lead to young master Yuleson? It’s never addressed, let alone made clear, and just leaves gaping-like-a-size-queen plot holes big enough to fly a team of reindeer through. Thought I’d stuff your stockings with a little holiday twist to an old reviewer’s cliché.
While all of this is going on, we’re introduced to Hell’s resident representative of the Christian faith, Pastor Timmons (Dave Thomas!). PT is your standard issue “Don’t be a sinner – give money to me! Errr, the church!” man of the cloth, and regularly holds mass…by which I mean the mass of the big fake titties hanging off of the pole jockettes sluttin’ it up at the town gentlemen’s club. Yep, the contents of the collection plate are destined for the g-strings of Hell’s single mothers and “working girls”. In no way surprising, but makes the Pastor’s statement in a prior scene telling his congregation to not donate loose change and keep it to bills incrimentally funnier in retrospect.
Juggernaut Claus runs (unstoppably so, “bitch”!) through the club and murders a handful of denizens while casually sexually harassing and/or assaulting several of the employees before just burning the STD hole to the ground via a flaming hot coal grenade that leaves the place looking like a Vietnamese orphanage after one of Uncle Sam’s anti-communism napalm showers. Timmons eludes paying the proverbial piper (only to be corpsed up while dressed as Santa later on, in the moments before the closing credits roll), but professional wrestling nerds should take note – infamous pro-wrestling writer cum onscreen character Vince “Vic Venom” Russo cameos as one of the victims of Santa’s rampage! Funny from a geek standpoint since many fans blame Russo for the murdering of former “sports entertainment” titan and builders of Bill Goldberg’s career World Championship Wrestling. The only true WCW, by the way, for all the those “woman crush Wednesdays” social media she-wankers. 😛
Eventually Santa gets around to hunting Nick and Grandpa so as to wipe their lineage from the face of the Earth in revenge for being reduced to “a bowl full of jelly” with “dimples so merry” for most of his existence. He managed to locate the duo thanks to a letter Nick sent to him years ago (where did you think those letters to Santa wound up?!), asking for an Easy Bake Oven. Mary tags along for the adventure (gotta have those “Don’t you realize yet that I want the Nick dick!?” moments) and Nick somehow comes to the conclusion that they’ll be okay so long as they can survive until 7PM their time, because that would make it midnight at the North Pole, thus Christmas would officially be over. I hate it when the protagonists just make up their own rules to shit like this! Not since Friday the 13th Part VI: Jason Lives!, when Tommy randomly decides that the only way to stop super zombie Jason Vorhees is to chain a boulder around his neck and trap him in Crystal Lake amid a ring of fire just BECAUSE, have I screamed “Who gave you creative control of the script?!” at my TV screen. Horse. Shit.
Almost as annoying is Nick’s insistence on putting his dick in the fourth wall glory hole by reminding everybody several times about how absurd the whole scenario is. Christ’s nipple clamps! If you’re gonna have a character riff on how stupid your own movie is, just go all out with it. He comes within inches of just saying “It’s like we’re in some bad horror movie!” before looking straight into the camera and winking anyway, so take a fucking cue from Nike and JUST DO IT!
Santa follows Nick back to Grandpa’s, but while our teen heroes try to escape the brutal bearded beefcake, Grandpa gets run over by the Helldeer…and yes, they make the obvious joke, in case you were wondering. The rest of the movie is basically the Degrassi dropouts running away from Santa until they wind up at the local high school, where Santa pulls out a glowing green candy cane (like one of those throwaway glow sticks spelunkers use) to light up his face for dramatic effect…then immediately throws it down…because he only needed it for that one second…oy. He chases them onto the school hockey rink, but just as the homicidal holiday icon is about to run down the soory pair under a hungry Zamboni, he’s stopped by a glowing golden curling stone…
Yes, apparently when an angel gives up their angelic status to become a seemingly un-aging human (is this where Highlanders come from?), once they’re killed they’re allowed to get their old jobs back. If that’s the case, then why don’t ALL angels do this?! Shit, it’d be worth it just to experience the blowjobs and cheeseburger pizza alone! You get to just become an angel again when you die anyway!
Grandpa tries to trick the sadistic behemoth into another curling match, this time demanding Claus becomes a good guy forever (why wasn’t that the stipulation for the original face-off?!) if the golden geezer triumphs once more, once again offering himself up to eternal damnation in Hell if he loses… except that angels aren’t human and thus do not have souls to damn, so the bet’s already bullshit to begin with! Anyway, Santa agrees to the wager, but this time demands that Gramps shoots first. Star Wars geeks, please save your Han-Greedo arguments (and slash fiction) for the appropriate message boards and Facebook groups. Thank you.
Santa pulls a shitlord move (he is Beelzebub Jr. after all), and rather than taking his turn at slide ‘n sweep, just grabs Gramps and tosses him into a literal hell hole! Nick’s completely meritless deadline finally expires, to which Claus pleasingly tells Nick to go fuck himself with that bullshit. He’s Santa Claus. HE decides when Christmas is over! He then tries to blow up Nick and (There’s Something About) Mary with a Megalon napalm loogie (why did he even need the coal bomb at the strip club?!), but it’s deflected by Nick who uses the nutcracker weapon from earlier in one of the most gob smackingly dumb-fuck moments in a movie infested with dumb-fuck moments. Santa takes a chestful of chestnut shrapnel (yeah, they make THAT pun too) in the exchange and escapes into the night on his Zamboni while the kids help Grandpa, who’s been hanging onto the edge of the Hell portal for longer than an old man should be able to hold his own body weight. Grandpa can’t leave the boundaries of the hockey rink (huh?!), so Nick and Mary set off to finish the job on Santa on their own. Rather than find him and defeat him, they opt instead to get Mary’s family of Canadian rednecks to shoot down the Helldeer (with a rocket launcher, because Canada’s seemingly littered with live military armaments), blowing it into scattered meat and guts…until it’s shown again two minutes later as a complete carcass tied to the top of someone’s truck! I can only wish that I regenerate the brain cells killed from watching SS as fast.
The movie ends threatening us with the possibility of a sequel as Nick takes up Grandpa’s Santa grimoire (which I’ll call the Navidadicon) and bukkakes the screen with Velveeta as he declares “my saga’s just beginning”. BLAAAAART! Meanwhile, Santa winds up at an airport with a plane ticket to the North Pole…and that’s it. It’s over. Roll the really shitty end credits theme “Bye Bye Santa”, as done by a sad excuse for a Ramones cover band called Jim Diamond’s Pop Monsoon, a half-hearted hardcore version Deck the Halls, and some more JDPM shit called Christmas In Detroit…for this movie that was filmed entirely in Canada. May that threat of a sequel be an empty one, and let us thank Cthulhu that Dave Steiman’s resume has since been trapped in magical Christmas ice, from which we can only pray it is never thawed and is freezer burned beyond recognition.
I’ve been shitting on the writing enough by this point, so you already know how I feel about that. What I’d like to do now, is drop a few Cleveland Steamers on the friggin’ editing hack job. It wasn’t horrible for the most part, but during the last chunk of this hour and fifteen it read like a clusterfuck. It came off like someone with a meat cleaver and high on airplane glue was told to chop off 20 minutes or so of footage and this is what was left. Ever seen Evil Ed? That. The entire non-ending was awful, and any movie that sets itself up for a sequel doesn’t deserve one. Every movie should be made under the idea of “THIS IS OUR ONLY CHANCE TO MAKE SOMETHING, SO LET’S NOT DO IT HALF-ASSED! WE USE OUR WHOLE ASS, DAMN IT!” because you don’t wanna be a one-termer asshole like Carter or Bush Sr. who didn’t get to live up to their first term promises.
Creative now properly crucified, how about this cast? Douglas Smith? Simply put, he sucks. Remember how I said he had this next-gen David Faustino/Bud Bundy thing going on? I would’ve preferred a time traveling David Faustino circa 1992 playing Nick. Robert Culp’s okay, but his Nordic accent sometimes dips into “I didn’t know the Nords were from Ireland” territory. Emilie de Ravin is passable, but delivers lines at times that give me the impression she’d just put her retainer in between scenes. Take this how you will, but she also looks like a barely legal Patricia Arquette. If I were 10 years younger…I’d still feel like a dirty old man for wanting to see what she looks like with my balls on her chin and my pubes making time with her nose hairs. Shit. Onto a less damning statement, Dave Thomas (the Strange Brew guy, not the dead guy from the Wendy’s commercials) is… well…there. He showed up for work and read his lines. He wasn’t very funny, but the material wasn’t exactly Mel Brooks. Tommy “Tiny (but I’ll always know him as Zeus)” Lister gets a paycheck for a short cameo as a gas station attendant (AKA the only black guy in rural Canada) who’s moved to Hell to get away from all the violence in “the hood”…Canada has a “hood”?! I was really hoping Lister would reveal himself to be some kind of opposing force for Santa, but once Grandpa came back into the picture as a member of the haloed crowd, I knew my hopes were for naught and his appearance was just a nod to old school wrestling geeks like yours truly. Go watch No Holds Barred and weep at the smell of dookie.
The only worthwhile stand out from this movie is Goldberg, and that’s because Santa plays to his strengths: look like a big psychotic colossus, snarl and grin like a maniac a lot, and speak English clear enough that you can recite bad holiday themed one-liners. The one-liners themselves are crap, but Bill delivers them with enough aplomb to show that he was at least having some laughs behind his gigantic fake facial mane.
Everything started out great, with Santa handing out comically graphic violence to the jerk-off brood, followed by running a bitchy old lady off the road to her great reward (that’s what happens when you berate Jews for saying “Happy Holidays” rather than “Merry Christmas”!), but once the story started to form, the foundations for this gingerbread house immediately dried out and began crumbling. The whole thing starts to feel like a slapdash Hallmark Channel Christmas Original, only littered with foul language, crude humor, big naked fake-o boobs, and cartoony (albeit bloody) levels of murder. You could slap “Hallmark After Dark Presents” on the title card and I wouldn’t be surprised. On the plus side, if you’ve ever wanted to the see The Nanny’s head set ablaze, here’s your chance!
I say watch Santa’s Slay for the bloodshed and fast forward through the rest of this mire. And this is coming from someone who likes Jack Frost…no, not the Michael Keaton movie…and not the Russian one they watched on the Satellite of Love. All in all, I’ll use a quote from Nicholas and sum Santa’s Slay up as “File that next to brown colored toilet paper as a bad idea”. I thought SS would be gold, but it was bronze. Sorry, I wanted to get this movie out of my system so I marathoned “Snuff Box” last night and now I can’t get that damn theme song out of my skull.
Fun fact: Goldberg’s not the first professional meathead to don the red, white and beard! In 1996, man-shaped Ziploc bag full of gravy Hulk Hogan starred in Santa with Muscles, where he played a guy who did things, presumably dressed as Santa, that likely included performing wrestling moves on some less-than-noble types. It’s so shit streaked that it makes it almost impossible for me to masturbate to Mila Kunis, knowing that she was in it. Sadly, it’s outside of my realm of influence, as the be-hair curtained Real American’s entry into the pantheon of holiday “Why hasn’t this been done by RiffTrax yet?” cin-enemas was left behind in the wake of the last millenium with the rest of the Hulkster’s floppy dicked attempt at a movie career. If I could have my way though, I would Charles Band the crap out of these two bicep blasted incarnations of Ol’ Saint Nick and make them do Yuletide combat in Santas with Muscles: 2 Holly 2 Jolly 2 Slay.
In more positive news, this week marked the 20th anniversary of the release of Street Fighter – the world’s first movie adaptation of a video game, that also had a video game adaptation of itself…dividing by zero before dividing by zero was a thing. It killed Raul Julia. To celebrate, here’s movie Blanka! Despite the rest of his body being violently deformed through experimental mutation, at least his dentist will be happy to see that it didn’t effect his teeth. Merciful Cthulhumas, everyone!
Nothing much changed, we’re just older
But if I see you again back in detox
Put my remains in my snuff box
“Got any roles I can audition for? I’ll do anything for a part! I sucked off and swallowed 14 studio execs in a sauna once for Corky Romano, and I knew that movie was going to be shit from first glance!”
James Caan’s just gone straight senile. Every time we invite him to our Tuesday night Knifey-Spoony games, he always shows up with a fucking fork…
It’s Kool-Aid Claus! “Ho-ho-hoooooh Yeah!”
“Where’s the (roast) beef!… oh wait. There it is.”
“Every time you come in here Mrs. Smith, I tell you I’m NOT Paul Reiser. Please stop asking for my autograph and telling me I should give Helen Hunt a call to see how she’s doing.”
That has to be the most name brand stocked fridge I’ve seen in a long time!
“And don’t ever try putting your dick in that thing, kid. There’s a reason they’re called NUTcrackers!”
Despite what this may look like, that guy’s just trying to give Santa a complimentary shave. The beard’s just getting too big to manage.
She’s either doing her impression of Frankenstein’s monster, trying to keep her “silent but deadly” silent, or showing us her “o face”.
Billy Baldwin, tired of waiting for the call to come, goes ahead and starts up his own homemade sequel to Sliver.
“Ho-ho-HOLY SHIT! Who slipped acid into my milk and cookies?! I am freakin’ out!”
“Today’s passing of the collection plate is to raise the funds needed to replace our tissue paper windows with actual stained glass. Please give what you can, then add $10 on top of that.”
“What are you punk-asses looking at?! Tell Hanukkah Harry I’ll be waiting for him at the Nativity Scene downtown whenever he’s ready to man up and settle this once and for all!”
“Look, after Ice Cube sold out and stopped making Friday sequels, I had to make money somehow! Not like No Holds Barred 2 is every gonna be a thing! Now, you gonna buy these Cheetos or what?!”
He was only supposed to bleed from the throat for a few hours, but he somehow bled for 8 nights. It was a new Hanukkah miracle!
Having taken a bunch of Ecstasy and eaten several snowballs packed with Viagra, Santa is ready to rave straight on into the New Year!
A still from the Canadian remake of Heaven Can Wait. This is what angels look like North of the border.
President of the Canadian expansion of the NRA. Not sure how rocket launchers classify as “Rifles”, but if you ask them why they’ll just threaten to murder your family for “trampling their rights”.
Anubis will return next time in
“The Wrestling Dead”
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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.
Featuring: David “Roommates” Weidoff , Kristyn “Doll Graveyard” Green , Tommy “Up In Smoke” Chong
Director: Charles “Trancers” Band
Writer: Domonic “Critters” Muir (as August White)
Sequels: Evil Bong II: King Bong / Evil Bong 3D: the Wrath of Bong / Gingerdead Man Vs. Evil Bong
Intro: Oh man, Evil Bong. Sweet Cleopatra’s cleavage. I was emotionally scarred by Demonicus to the point of impotent whimpering (THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENED!), but at least Demonicus never beget Demonicus II: Demonicuster’s Last Stand , Demonicus 3D: Spies Like DemonicUs , or Demonicus Vs. Jack Deth Vs. The Head of the Family. When I first reviewed Evil Bong, it was a worthless throw away bag of garbage juice. I hated it, but it was harmless, and it gave some bad movie people I like a paycheck. Probably only enough to put a down payment on a General Tso’s Dinner Combo at the Wanton Won Ton, but some pocket change exchanged hands nonetheless. In the time since said review, the garbage juice has spilled from its bag and spread outward into the bad movie world, replicating itself in the form of three sequels. Comparing Demonicus to Evil Bong is like comparing getting your genitals obliterated with a chainsaw or having your hands and feet cut off via guillotine. Both are horrible things no sane person would want to ever experience, but on entirely different scales of awful.
So, while its initial crime may not be as abhorrent as that of Demonicus, the legacy it wrought has ensconced Evil Bong on my list of “things to go back and prevent once HG Wells finishes my damn time machine”. It’s right between The Great Chicago Fire and “American Idol”.
Anyway, here’s the original review in all its inebriated randomness. For those wondering, yes, I was actually stoned when I wrote this! And no, sadly I was not stoned for this updated re-reviewing. I’ll even pass a piss test after if you don’t believe me.
Note: this review is being typed while its writer has been infused with a sizable dose of THCs in the hopes of improving his outlook on this movie. Spell Check will likely pick up all the spelling mistakes, so hopefully this still makes sense when it’s over. If not, Microsoft will receive an angry letter from me when this chemical laziness wears off…
Note #2: I just had a five-minute conversation with my girlfriend (also high) about putting Cobra Commander on the “Don’t Tread On Me Flag”, because as G.I. Joe: the Movie taught us, Cobra Commander turns into a snake that “was once a man”, so he qualifies for the flag because he was once a man and now he’s a snake and he doesn’t want to be tread upon…
Man, fuck Charles Bond. He’s always bitching about how his brother James gets the mad bitches and takes what he wants and gets to drive all the best phallic objects and… oh wait, we’re talking about Charles Band? Oh jeez, not this douche bag again. Okay, a few years ago there was this new cartoon based on the original “He-Man and the Masters of the Universe” that was actually much better than the original. It didn’t last as long as the original, since cartoons these days are actually outlived by their merchandise rather then simply existing to sell it, but it was definitely of better quality than its predecessor. On the other hand, (and Spell Check just told me that “otherhand” is apparently not a word in itself, in case you were wondering), there have been numerous retreads on the original “G.I. Joe” and “Transformers” franchises over the last 10 years that have all sat firmly between my legs, chewing on the long nappy hairs of my dog-man crotch until someone finally put them out of their misery.
What’s this mean to you? Well, from the late ’70s to the mid ’90s, Chucky Band (son of the now zombiefied Albert Band) tossed a lovely bunch of coconuts to bad movie fans under his various production companies (Wizard, Empire and Full Moon) before his creditors caught up with him and he had to either go into bankruptcy or go into hiding for a few years till the “smoke” blew over. Whichever he chose, Band went away for a little while, popping his oddly shaped skull up from time to time to put out some softcore vampire flicks so the guys too embarrassed to rent actual porn could pick up some action at the local Cockblocker Video on those lonely Saturday nights. Amazonian grandma Julie Strain was in a couple of ‘em. Whether these movies made him enough money to pay off his financial predators, or his loan sharks were found with fatal doses of leeches/large drill holes/knife and hook gashes/12th degree burns/crushed heads one morning, Band apparently felt the time was right to bring back the new and “improved” Full Moon! There was a road show/traveling convention to promote it. William Shatner and Alex Band of The Calling were dragged along (likely to cover up their involvement in one of Band’s mass hooker orgy murder sprees), midgets and fire-eating chicks in their underwear tagged along for a freak show street performance, and the country was introduced one city at a time to what the next generation of Band sinema held in store – Crap.
Yes, crap. A big killer puppet shaped pile of it… made of some of Charles Band’s older craps that he’d been saving in his bread box for a special occasion. The special occasion of putting them all together in that aforementioned pile, then adding a few freshly squeezed ones too to adhere the old craps together, then further shape everything into what Full Moon would become today.
Everything from Full Moon has been totally thrown away in the last few years. There are no new stars of the industry, just cameos by washed up favorites from yesteryear and fresh faced youngsters who can’t figure out when it’s time to act or when it’s time to give a golden shower to the viewers’ senses. The great (or at least serviceable… most times) creators of the good ol’ days have long since departed, so we’re left with know-nothings (whose “artistic vision” has been blurred by disinterest and/or donkey ejaculate) and, sometimes worse, Band himself. The quality special effects, explosions, gore, and nightmarish marionette designs of the grand old times have been bait-and-switched with half-assed characters, cheap plastic toys, and home computer visual effects. The official final atomic bomb for Band’s proverbial Hiroshima was Puppet Master Vs. Demonic Toys. But, much like the people in those nuclear dystopia fallout movies, I stick around Full Moon to see what kind of glowing green ghoulies will emerge to vomit their blistered entrails on my feet in a desperate plea for help, only to be swiftly crushed in a splatter of digital blood and tiny plastic bones. It’s better for the poor things this way, so that they can get the truth and start to get over it as soon as possible, instead of suffering through less harsh pains for years, only to suddenly die one day because they’ve grown too weak and vulnerable from all the picking and poking…
Damn it, I’m sleepy…
Run, children! The crazy evil chipmunk man wants to fill your no-no places with his bad touch! Waaaaaaaaaaaaa!
Okay, that woke me up.
So then I saw Evil Bong one day. I wanted to rent Talladega Nights or Death Trance instead, but I only had one coupon and something told me Evil Bong was to be the one for me. I now regret that decision and wish I could go back in time, not to tell myself not to rent the movie, but to go back a bit further and choke Charles Band to death with a fish wrapped in barb wire before he could even make his first phone call to Tommy Chong, who I’m hoping did this movie simply because “That ‘70s Show” was canceled and he needed some quick cash to cover his recent legal expenses. Stupid government, forcing Tommy Chong to do Charles Band movies because you can’t leave the whole “water pipe” issue to your constituents…
Sorry, my girlfriend and I just had an exchange about cannolis (that had nothing to do with The Godfather before you ask) and I called them “coli-olis” and I had to stop and laugh about that for a few minutes… She’s asleep now, so I can talk again. Don’t tell her you and I meet like this, otherwise we’re both in for some real trouble! I’m talking, “Holy shit, we gotta hire the A-Team to get us out of here!” type trouble, and not the original A-Team that had the Mexican guy playing Face either, but the improved version that everybody recognizes with the guy from Body Slam!
Evil Bong came about because Charles Band was looking to do an “homage” to Little Shop of Horrors and his sons were talking to him about bongs. He said he doesn’t know why they know what bongs are, but when you’re a guy who has to pay people to hang out with you, I can guarantee he’s bribed his kids for some patented “Band Bonding” on occasion with a few tokes off his 3ft Tunneler Tower. Anyway, as we all know, “homage” is a legal term that everyone in Hollywood uses these days that means “if I mention the original material that I’m ripping off, no one’s allowed to sue me, because this counts as promoting the sale of said original material, and therefore the stealing of its ideas and characters is considered payment for making said promotion”. Yeah, Band kinda ran out of old horror comic books whose copyrights had expired to use as “inspiration” for his flicks, so he’s been relegated to the old “homage” trick.
As for this movie, a group of college stoners all live together in a studio apartment (because even adding a bedroom or two would require getting another set and it was expensive enough getting the velvet curtains and stripper stages for the hallucination scenes later on). The four guys each cover a different stereotype of the “college cinema” dichotomy: Larnell (John Patrick Jordan) is the charismatic fast talker leader bean whose only goal in life is entertaining himself; Bachman (Mitch Eakins, who’s totally not an Ekans) is the career stoner and preeminent couch decoration; Brett (Brian Lloyd) is the machismo oozing, protein guzzling, skank plugging, jock-of-all-trades; and Alistair (David Weidoff) is the four-eyed super nerd with a subscription to “Calculus Hotties Quarterly” and a t-shirt that says “Nerds do it to the 9th Power” is his “club wear”… by which I mean chess club. Please note that neither of those cool things are actually in the movie, so don’t go renting it in the hopes of seeing them.
These four guys order a giant cursed bong named Ebee from the back of an issue of “High Times” and one-by-one they start getting sucked into an evil strip club dimension inside of the bong where chicks wearing flesh eating bras (as sold on Band’s Monster Bras webpage… because Band’s a whore and isn’t ashamed of trying to disguise a commercial as a movie, then sell it to the few loyal followers he still has left) kill them upon arrival… after a quick (and extremely lazy) lap dance, of course. When Alistair’s new girlfriend Janet (Kristyn Green) gets sucked into the soul slurping paraphernalia though, he takes a hit and goes in to save the day while the bong’s original owner Jimbo (Tommy Chong) shows up to try and defeat his old enemy/water pipe for good. If I had a nickel for every time I watched Tommy Chong get medieval on a 4ft bong with a chainsaw, my pockets would be very quiet… much like they are right now.
The movie itself is shit. The actors don’t act so much as look like they’re trying to improvise all of their lines because they thought The Blair Witch Project was a “stroke of genius” (when it was really more a “stroke of penius” that was never washed properly and instead stained your daughter’s prom dress…). The sad part is that they apparently ARE trying to act for real and aren’t just “running with the camera”, as illustrated by one scene that finds Larnell playing Super Mario World on his old Super Nintendo, and somehow winding up in four different levels in the 2 seconds it takes for Alistair to walk across the room and turn off his TV! Is this the result of having to do numerous takes, or did they just not pause the game while the camera guys had to stop and relocate their single piece of equipment for each different angle?!
Of course the “special” effects are just the opposite, as practically inanimate puppets and props plague us for 90 minutes with little-to-no movement whatsoever. The entire thing happened inside the movie’s single set and I got real bored of this loser lair real quick. I may hate natural light and there being a world beyond my apartment, but it doesn’t mean I don’t like to be reminded of what it looks like from time-to-time. And what the fuck was up with the bloated padding being done near the middle of the movie?! There’s a pointless 10 minute scene involving Larnell’s wheelchair bound millionaire grandpa and the geezer’s new wife dropping by for a visit that doesn’t contribute to anything in the movie but the running time! I could’ve used that time for sleeping or showering or writing a letter to my congressman banning the sale and rental of any new Full Moon releases in New York and the surrounding areas! Sure, the rental was free, but it’s not like I can take Charlie to “The People’s Court” and sue him for wasted time!
Evil Bong is not just a horribly done movie, but it’s a lame commercial too. You can’t look up anything about the movie online without being bombarded with ads for the Monster Bras or the Ebee replica bong or Tommy Chong’s autographed jockey shorts. The fact that the deaths in the movie were all lame and all the same is bad enough, but having each death caused by the soon-to-be-released product of the movie’s director is shameless and just adds to the disdain. Which dain? Dis dain. Dis dain right here! And there it is. To further the proof that it’s all one big advertising campaign, the movie is packed to the rim job with weak cameos by the likes of Bill “The Devil’s Rejects” Moseley, Phil “Ghoulies II” Fondacaro and Tim “Trancers” Thomerson, as well as Full Moon characters like Ooga Booga from Doll Graveyard, Jack Attack from Demonic Toys (the really crappy inanimate face version used in Puppet Master Vs. Demonic Toys too, not even the cool original version) and the titular wonder of The Gingerdead Man.
They should change his name to Charles Banned and exile his ass from the director’s chair after this one! It’s over, Chuck. Just let it go. She was good to you, she took care of you, she loved you like no one else, and you fucked it up. She’s gone and you have to give her up. Maybe she’ll come back and find you again someday. Until then, you’ve gotta let her go. If not for yourself, then for the sake of all those poor mutilated bunnies. Come on Charlie, put the corkscrew down and leave the bunnies alone. They have families, Charlie. And though they’re likely to eat their own offspring sooner or later, that’s for nature to decide, not you.
So there you have it: Evil Bong isn’t just a movie, it’s Charles Band’s way of promoting animal cruelty. For shame on you and a hearty “go fuck yourself!” from me, Mr. B. Walk away, old man. Remember the good times and let them keep you warm on the cold nights while you’re sleeping in the streets. Just let the darkness take you. We’ll see you on the other side, tiny dancer. The Full Moon has set. KA-BONG!
At least it was nice seeing Sonny “Rabbit” Davis again. I missed that guy…
Xtro: As with every rerun review, I had to fight myself Ash Williams style to keep from editing the bejeezus out of the preceding opinion piece, but interest in authenticity won out. Moving on, my recent re-viewing of Evil Bong warranted addressing the following points. Moot as they may be, I thought I’d bring ’em up anyway just to kick the movie around some more while it’s already concussed and bleeding out, face down in a gutter.
Out of the gate? The soundtrack. The generic pot smoking tunes by some Sublime knock-off band (possibly Kottonmouth Kings?) aren’t made any easier to stomach when a full page ad for Sublime is prominently featured on camera while our stoner doofi peruse their copy of “High Times”, reminding us of what we’re NOT listening to. Beyond that, there’s also plenty of shitty rip-off wanna-be Insane Clown Posse and Cypress Hull music to drag barb wire over your eardrums… oh wait, that’s not a wanna-be ICP, that is ICP! Blart! It’s really too bad that the two things those clowns (literally) are best known for (their music and their fans) are also the things I hate them for, because as bad movie nerds and pro-wrestling geeks go, Violent J and Shaggy Too Dope are top notch. Oh well, just add contributing to the delinquencies of Charles Band to their rap sheet.
The cast didn’t really go on to do much beyond the Bong, and it’s no surprise given that the best they probably received from acting class was a certificate of participation. Jordan, Eikens, Lloyd, and Robin Sydney (whose patience immolating character Luann was omitted from my original review for what seem to be obvious reasons of sanity preservation, in hindsight) all returned for the sequels, and Sydney would later get high and fuck a corpse as DyeAnne in the new Tomb’s maiden voyage (and undisputed toilet bobber), Night of the Living Dead 3D: Re-Animation. Man, her agent really needs to point her in the direction of better quality casting couches. As for Weidoff and Green, they would fizzle off into relative obscurity, which is probably for the better on both accounts. The next year, Green would do another Band-Muir blumpkin in the shape of Dead Man’s Hand, which… did not end well… at all… for anyone… As for Tommy Chong, his playing Hot Wheels with topless women at the flick’s finale was the only thing work taking into the lifeboats from this sinking ship movie, and 10 seconds of that doesn’t come remotely close to removing the taste of the 80 minute diarrhea deluge force fed to me via fire hose before it.
In summary, after wading through this chronic-based cloudy discharge again, I feel far more ashamed admitting to being a pot smoker now than I ever did after ANY anti-drug public service announcement. If you held free public showings of Evil Bong for Colorado stoners, those marijuana legalization laws would be repealed faster than you can say “Pass me the Goldenseal!”. I may review the sequels someday, but I may also smash my talons with a claw hammer. Just don’t expect both… though I do have a finite number of talons, so never say never.
Moral of the Story: If I ever hear the word “bro” again, I’m gonna jam a 5ft bong up somebody’s cornhole. Or I’ll just have Bill Moseley work you over with a car battery and a grapefruit spoon. Maybe both.
Cast simply because his last name sounds like “weed off”… and it’s a movie about weed… ha…. ha.
By “Special Appearance”, they mean he’s on screen for about 12 seconds and says “grapefruit spoon”.
A wholly appropriate image for a year where Easter falls on 4/20.
Brett learns of the horrific accusations against Penn State coach Jerry Sandusky.
Brett then learns of the “totally unfair” penalty of “no bowl games for 4 years” levied against Penn State in the wake of Sandusky’s conviction… sadly mirroring the same disturbingly unbalanced sentiment of far too many Penn State fans (i.e. more than zero) after the same news. Some people just need to be burned alive.
“Dude! That’s not a cereal bowl! It’s my bedpan from that time I broke my legs! Sick, bro!”
“Don’t worry bro, drug tests don’t pick up second hand buzz! SHOTGUN!”
“Dude, I’m wearing my sweet Chinese dragon kimono and playing my Japanese video game. Can’t you see I’m busy with my Asian Studies homework?! Stop cock blocking my education, bro!”
Sonny Davis, you’re the winner of the 2014 Reggie Bannister Look-a-Like Contest! You’ve won a $20 Arby’s gift card and our condolences. We’re so sorry for you…
Careful friend, you’re dangerously close to over-Spicoli-ing. It’s not good for you.
Hey, Phil Fondacaro. You doing okay? You look a little UNDER THE WEATHER! Ahhhhhhhhhh… ha. Seriously though, Phil’s looking great! Good for you, Sir.
He only gets one bowel movement a month, and damn it, you’re not going to ruin it for him!
Good thing Larnell’s wearing his camo. That bong will never see him coming… Blart.
[John Larroquette voice] “The events of that day would lead to the discover of one of the most bizarre crimes in the annals of American history – the Tommy Chongsaw Massacre.”
Ebee looks like somebody’s taking their love for pot smoking to a very dark place… a very dark, violating place… a very dark, “violating her with their penis” place… I think somebody’s fucking Ebee’s smoke stack is what I’m saying.
Anubis will return next time in
“The Doctor is In(carcerated)”
or “May Krampus Never Cramp Us”
Featuring: A.J. “The Four” Leslie , Bill “Abraham Lincoln vs. Zombies” Oberst Jr. , Richard “Professional uncredited movie extra” Goteri
Director & Writer: Jason “Chasing Darkness” Hull
“Time is short, and the naughties must be PUNISHED!”
Well, I’m sorry to tell everybody this, but January and February are apparently canceled for 2014. I bought myself a Marvel Heroes calender at the Emporium of Savings for $1, and opened it up to discover that 2014 actually starts with March. Though this means Spring will be early, it also means that we won’t be celebrating Washington and Lincoln’s birthdays with discounted mattresses, nor will we be forced to buy our significant others’ senseless idols of emotional intent for Valentine’s Day, nor will we need to respect the African-American community for Black History Month. Then again, maybe my calender was just defaced by a heartbroken white supremacist with a hatred for elected officials? Or, maybe I’m being punished for my misdeeds of the last year. What misdeeds? Well, for starters, this review was supposed to be done in time for Cthulhumas! Oh well, for anybody who didn’t get what they wanted for the holidays, here’s your chance to live through the disappointment of the season all over again! Maybe this disappointment is courtesy of the original holiday disciplinarian, Krampus!
I learned of today’s movie during my review for Saint Nick in episode 11. Much like Cthulhu before him, the holiday hellbeast myth of Krampus has been getting a lot more mainstream exposure in recent years, being the subject of various TV show Christmas specials like “The Venture Bros.”, “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia”, “Suburgatory” and just last month on “Grimm” and “American Dad”. Given that various sinister shapes of Santa Claus have been given the movie treatment this millennium, I thought for sure that someone had to have given the penance fiend and child abuse factory known as Krampus a creature feature! Though I found references on the internet base of movie datas for a few shorts focused on ol’ Special K, the only long-in-the-dong running time entry I could exhume was this independent flick filmed in the wilds of East Bumfuck, Pennsyltucky. So hyped was I for such a find (and because it’s so obscure that I couldn’t find it on any of the torrent sites…), I immediately made my way to the movie’s website, slapped down my $15 for a copy, and awaited what would either be an amazing triumph of the human will, or the mad creation of a bloodthirsty despot-to-be like Triumph of the Will… or could very feasibly fall anywhere in between these two extreme (or, if this were the ’90s, “x-treme”) extremes of extreme extremism… EXTREEEEEEEEEEEEME! Anyway, after sitting on it for almost a month and missing my Cthulhumas review deadline with the “couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn with a bazooka” scheduling accuracy I’m well known for, the time has arrived. Now, let us all share our collective punishment for being bad boys and girls by watching Krampus: the Christmas Devil… and to all you bad girls out there, I’ll be doling out your mandatory spankings after the show. I suggest warming your butts ahead of time, cuz 50 lashes on cold asses sting like a beard of butthurt bees… hurtin’ your butt… cuz they’re bees… you get the idea.
If you’re unfamiliar with the legend of Krampus, I’m not a tutor. Not anymore. Certain “allegations” of “misconduct” and “abuses of power” got my “license” “revoked” for the foreseeable “century”. Now, just imagine me dressed like Chris Farley’s Bennett Brauer character while tossing up air quotes for those parentheticals and that last line might be funny. You know what would’ve been funny? An SNL movie where Chris Farley dual roled as Bennett Brauer and Matt Foley. Even if it somehow turned out worse than Beverly Hills Ninjas, it still would’ve been a few hundred times funnier than Jack and Jill or Norbit… sidetracks about NOTHING RELATED aside, if you need an intro/refresher on the patron saint of ass lashing, just wiki dat shit right here.
The version of Krampy in today’s movie is portrayed as not merely the unholy antithesis of Saint Nicholas, but as the jolly red meat sack’s twisted monstrous brother! Sadly, there’s no origin story to explain who these brothers are, how they came to be, or why Kramps sports cloven hooves and a face that looks like a big animal skull-turned-underground art piece, because that would’ve been a way better focus for the movie given the big guy’s name is the friggin’ title. As our opening narration, uhm, narrates, Krampus travels the world every December kidnapping bad children and murdering them for their misdeeds. I don’t mean kids who don’t wash their hands after they use the toilet or who swipe from the cookie jar (though putting your hands in the cookie jar after having not washed your hands after using the crapper is a killable offense), but the REALLY fucked up little punks whose obituary bullet-points will be about how they killed their parents and burned down retirement homes in their spare time.
Krampus has to complete his appointed terror tasks by 11:59pm on Christmas Eve though, cuz once those clock hands cross, he’s back on unemployment till next December. Union rules. One such candidate for comeupance in the bygone year of 1900 and 83 was little Jeremy Duffin, whom Krampy ‘napped while the boy waited for his school bus. Wrapped in a sack, dumped in a frozen pond, and left to drown, Jer managed to squirm free and wander through the woods back to his house before turning into a hypothermia flavored kid-sicle. He would grow up to be a healthy, sane, perfectly adjusted adult male with a family who love him. End of story.
Okay, the “adult male with a family who love him” part is the only truth to that statement. Jer (A.J. Leslie) actually ended up becoming a PTSD ravaged police detective obsessed with hunting down the murderous monster that nearly denied him the tortured life he would grow into. Cuz, who wouldn’t want to spend every night after work drinking yourself ugly and having single player games of Russian Rhoulette? Not because it’s depressing and life threatening, but because it’s so fucking cliché! Besides, the hard boiled types that end up with a scotch on the rocks in one hand and a single-rounded handgun in the other don’t have nice things like a loving family. Everyone they know is either dead or left them because of their insane depression (i.e. alcoholism) and self-destructive ways. Don’t worry though, as this sure as shit isn’t the only time writer/director Jason Hull (who also credits himself as both a Producer AND Executive Producer…) decides to needlessly shoehorn one of his favorite “monkey see, monkey do” story elements into his own production… and I use that term much in the same way that a stool sample is a “production”, in that it’s something that’s been produced… by your butt.
Okay, so operating on the idea that Kramps is real (and they are, just ask my WIFE! ZING!), then at what age do kids no longer need to fear him? I mean, he obviously doesn’t drown evil adults, otherwise overcrowded prisons wouldn’t be an issue. Just lock the fuckers up till December, send the guards home till January, then come back and start over again for next year. Easy peasy titty squeezy! Who decided that the 18 and older crowd are well enough off that we can just govern each other, but our kids require discipline from a hairy hellbeast with a tongue that would give Venom a run for the Gene Simmons King of Lickers Award?! Speaking of, who makes a Having a Krampus of our own to weed out the shitbags would definitely make life easier on the law abiding. Anyway, let us continue down this road paved with complaints.
It’s been 30 years since Jeremy escaped the frozen ebon clutches of yours truly, and the yuletide has taken a grim turn for a few families in the Podunk Eden of East Bumblefuck, Pennsyltucky. Or, as our hero and the rest of its citizens call it, Caimbridge. A new rash of missing children have sprung up, and while it means a very un-merry Christmas for some, it means a chance at violent, final vengeance for Det. Duffin!… okay, I need to break now for another aside: my biggest problem with small budget movies isn’t the lack of money. I can deal with the chinsy “made with common household items” special effects and actors who were never in a high school drama club let alone professional acting institutions and shitty generic garage metal soundtracks and opening credits sequences that look like the kind of half-assed self made DVD menus I used to whip up on Roxio Creator. What I can’t deal with are overreaching concepts. If the best locale you can afford to shoot your shit show in is a little town in the middle of nowhere, then go with a story that could take place in such a place – serial killer, escaped mental patient(s), shellshocked war vet drifter pushed too far by bloated asshole sheriff, crashed alien ship, marauding biker gang, top secret government science experiment gone wrong, cave of flesh eating evolutionary off-shoots stumbled upon by spelunking friends, haunted bed & breakfast, clandestine devil worshipers trying to summon their hoary horrorist master from within the walls of their black lodge, or just go with the classic standby – local Sasquatch. Hell, just watch a few episodes of Scooby-Doo and see if anything percolates! Fuck, if it’s an episode of “The Scooby-Doo Movies”, provided the special guest is still alive, they might even appear in your shitty knock-off for a plane ticket and a month’s prescription of painkillers! The point is, Krampus is sure to tell us that these cases of missing children show up every December all over the world. If Krampy’s a globetrotting terrorizer of youth, why would he EVER stop over in a dump like Caimbridge, where there aren’t enough people to warrant one owning a horse by which to call it a “one horse town”?!
In short (which, as you can see, I never adhere to), if all you can afford to shoot in is a minor village, don’t try to make it a major hub of the fucking global community.
Oh yeah, and when your movie’s antagonist is a worldwide threat, stop making the only person who can hope to defeat it a denizen of said small town! I get that it’s supposed to feel empowering to the Joe Six Packs in the audience to relate to the average shlub and inspire them to think they can do great things in their own lives (which Joe believes more so after the ingestion of a few of his namesake), but it’s so damn common anymore that it actually makes me pine, PINE, for the ’50s glory days when every cinematic Armageddon (or “cinemageddon”) left entire militaries impotent and could only be stopped by ruggedly handsome scientists declaring martial law and killing the threat with whatever box the writer hit with a dart on his Periodic Table of the Elements. You know what Krampus’s only weakness is? It’s… one sec… shit, missed it entirely… okay, it’s… *thunk*… Cobalt. Krampus will die if you stuff Cobalt up his butt in the light of a full moon. There. There’s your movie.
Jeremy (who spoke in class today *rimshot*) is convinced that Krampus has targeted Caimbridge for 2013, and is determined to put an end to the monster. I’m hoping Kramps is back to finish Jer off as punishment for the stupid douche bag soul patch he’s chosen to grow as a sign to those around him that he really has just given up on life. You know, in case the Russian Roulette and alcoholism weren’t sign enough. He has the support of his Captain (Richard Goteri) to put together a small task force to scour the woods around the local lake and hunt the beast down in the hopes of saving the missing brats. Cap either believes Duff (not to be confused with “Düff, from Sweden…”), or just goes along with the loony’s tale because he was close buddies with Jer’s old man (who was also a cop before his own untimely death), so he tells our tormented hero to get his team together and go kill a mythical creature!… worst police captain ever. Jer’s dynamic backup duo in this Destiny’s Child of destruction are Bob Norris (former Hell’s Angel and author Jay Dobyns) and John Walker (played by Jeremy Sidun and, sadly, not just a big debonaire bottle of Scotch Whiskey with a fake beard glued to it). John is the fat, bald, bearded Michelle Williams of the trio – completely forgettable and destined to die cold and alone. As for Bob, he’s the Kelly Rowland to Jer’s Beyonce Knowles, also shares his partners’ penchant for head shaving and facial hair, and knows that, despite the vast wealth our hero has sitting in the bank (inherited from his dad, who inherited it from Grandpa Duffin), Jer chose to be a cop to help people and isn’t “in it for the money”… well NO SHIT! The only time you become a cop for the cash is when your goal is to be one of those big city crooked cops in the back pocket of organized crime! Small town cops are in it for the free drugs and beer seized from high school keggers, and the occasional bj from the toothless strippers who work street corners on weeknights hooking for rent and baby formula. But, again, Jason Hull feels the need to shoehorn all of his favorite characters (*cough*caricatures*cough*) into his movie, so not only is Jeremy the tortured, hard-boiled, suicide case, not only does he have a lifelong vendetta to accomplish, and not only is he following in his father’s dead cop footsteps, but he’s ALSO the secret rich guy whose heart is just as golden as his bank account, and thus chooses to risk his life to make the world a better place for everyone else rather than sit around doing rich guy until he dies of a cocaine overdose in bed with half a dozen Maxim cover girls! If we get anymore scenes of needless protagonist background padding, we’ll discover that Jeremy’s also been stalking Caimbridge’s deviant criminal underworld in his off-hours as the mysterious masked vigilante known only as THE NEIGHBORHOOD WATCHMAN! Jeezus Kryst riding naked on a giant fiberglass banana…
While our threesome of bald headed, chin furred law enforcement officials lay asleep in their beds, resting off the night’s boozing before their big Kramp hunt, their prey gets a visit from brother Claus, who came all the way to Pennsyltucky from the friggin’ North Pole just to tell goat legs about adjustments to this year’s Naughty List. I’ll get this out of the way now – this rendition of Santa is less a “right jolly old elf”, and more like the President of the Santas of Anarchy motorcycle club. He’s got long white hair and a beard, sure, but both are “serious business” straight, not cottony fluffs of merriment. He’s got the red outfit, and though it’s not a leather jacket and chaps, it’s still not the velvety ensemble of the Christopher Kringle we’ve been told of since childhood. Also, whereas traditional Santa smokes a tobacco pipe with which he wreathes his head in smoke and fills his bulbous torso with cookies and milk, Krampus’s bro looks like his pipe’s full of meth and his gut’s full of cheap beer and various pickled food stuffs like eggs and tube meat. To go with the biker look, he’s also a total hard-ass PSYCHO! He’s fucking crazy! He acts like Scarface, or Toecutter, or Jack Nicholson… I was gonna say Jack Nicholson’s character in The Departed, but I think old Jack himself is just as good a description.
Anyway, since mythical creatures like Santa and Krampus are devoid of a more convenient method of communication like cell phones, Nick traversed a good 3500-4000 MILES for a 30 second face-to-face about who gets highest whacking priority. For me, Aubrey Plaza currently has highest whacking priority, hands down… then up… then back down again… repeating until climax. Hubba hubba!
Okay, got another detour in the road here for ya, folks. Now, Santa and Krampus are supposed to be brothers. Fine. They’re both immortals who never age. Fine again. We can assume that Santa has some kind of mystical powers, given that he’ll travel half way across the Northern Hemisphere for a half-minute conversation, let alone that whole “presents to every good kid that celebrates his holiday in one night” thing. We can also assume he’s got some kinda polar voodoo powers that allow him to pull his invisible man act and avoid all form of surveillance, AND keep track of the karma for every child on the planet, or at least, again, the ones who celebrate his holiday. In light of all of this, how is it that Krampy got the shortest of all possible short ends on the whole “super powers” stick?! He has no connection to the collective spiritual realm of the populace (since Santa has to play manager and pop down to update the Naughty List FOR him), he can’t turn invisible (since he’s seen by EVERYBODY he comes across), and instead of turning into smoke or a swarm of spiders or some such coolness so he can slip into kids’ houses and snatch them from their beds, Krampy has to wait until they’re outdoors and alone before tossing a potato sack over them and absconding like a bank robber in a striped shirt and bandit mask holding one of those fucking bags with the dollar sign drawn on it! Then he has to dump the kids into the nearest body of water to drown them. If the water’s frozen over? I doubt he can melt it with firebreath or even hot charcoal briquet oral projectiles like Megalon. He probably has a rusty pickax or an old spade with a busted handle wrapped in duct tape that he has to use to manually break up the ice enough to stuff the kid through. And if someone catches the creature in-the-act? Krampy knocks them out with his length of rusty chain… this really is a horror movie made by and for bikers. He’s not completely devoid of magical powers though. He does have the abilities to move fast and to shoot little electrical impulses from his fingers that cause a sensation in his victims not unlike giving them Ecstasy… because the guy responsible for PUNISHING the bad kids should have the ability to instill EUPHORIA?! My eyes are starting to cross…
I’ll address the latter of these two magical gifts later, but for now, allow me to explain why Kramp’s other power is of note – it’s fucking HILARIOUS to see in action. You know that cool little jumpy-jerky “teleportation” visual effect a lot of movies have these days that show the monster/ghost/alien kinda shifting through reality in quick steps? I’m pretty sure that’s what Hull wanted Krampy to have here. I can get behind that. I love that effect. It was one of the standout points of the House on Haunted Hill remake watching evil ghost Jeffrey Combs doing it. I’m guessing they didn’t have the tech and/or know how to make that visual a reality for this little project, so instead they just put these scenes of Krampus into fast forward… and it just looks like he escaped a fucking Benny Hill chase sequence, minus the wacky music and women in their underwear… ARGH! I just put a lit cigar out on my left testicle to keep from flipping my desk, lighting my computer on fire, and just walking away from this bullshit right now! Don’t worry, ladies. If any of you still want to carry my jackal headed offspring, I’ve got 20 plastic gallon milk jugs brimming with my semen in a refrigerated storage locker in the basement of the University of Dubuque in case of movies like this where severe genital mutilation are always a risk. However, all pups spawned from the unholy gestation of my seed in your cursed wombs must be named “Abobo Bowen” as part of the contract. Don’t ask why. It’s a lot of red tape involving cosmic prophecies and the end of man. Nothing you’d be interested in… JUST ACCEPT MY SPERM!
Wow, almost 4,000 words in and I’m not even halfway through the review. Shit. This is gonna be a marathoner. Hope you stretched before we started. Well, back to the grindstone.
Armed with tactical automatic rifles and decked out in arctic camouflage (the purpose of which is kinda defeated when you wear black pants, black hats, and black flak jackets OVER THE CAMO), the trio sets out the next morning on their hunt, doing all those military hand gestures and sticking way too close to each other to effectively comb an area the size of which they’re investigating. I see three guys who play way too much Call of Duty… It’s not long before they see somebody in a long black robe that they assume to be Krampus, but that assumption is enough proof for them to bypass police protocol like telling him to freeze or identify himself first, so they just open fire on the guy with a few dozen rounds! To further sandpaper my nipples, the gunfire is completely muted and instead replaced with a few seconds of generic metal music… if they had to use paintball guns or silence the rifles so as not to startle unsuspecting neighbors while shooting the scene, they could’ve at least used actual gunfire sound effects over the muting. Hell, they do it later on when someone’s pretending to fire an uzi, so why not do so here?! WHY THE METAL MUSIC?! ARGGGGH!… well great, there goes my other testicle…. sheesh.
Because I haven’t had enough metaphorical salt poured into my metaphorical eyes or metaphorical toothpicks jammed under my metaphorical toenails (metaphorically speaking), when the shadowy figure escapes the hail of bullets, the trio don’t immediately pursue like you’d imagine they should. I’ll have to slap your hand with The Disciplinarian now (a wooden ruler with thumbtacks taped to its surface) as punishment for your flagrant use of common sense. Instead, the guys hang out for a minute or two talking about what just happened, reload their guns (because, much like the old Resident Evil games, they apparently can’t reload or shoot while moving), then casually pursue as is convenient for them… NOW they opt to split up, allowing Krampy to take them each out with his magical beatin’ chain. He takes Bob and Jeremy back to his nearby lair (funny how a bunch of kids go missing in the area and nobody thinks to search the local transient cave…), but stomps Johnny’s big fat head in with his hoof, because he probably didn’t wanna risk his scoliosis dragging SuperChunk around the woods. Back at the cave, Kramps tears out Bobby’s heart (he dragged him all the way back just to kill him anyway!?), which looks like a bright red rubber children’s toy upon removal, then oozes out of his fist like that pink slime garbage they put in the ground beef for school lunches when he “crushes” it. I guess Hull missed that day in biology where they taught you that the heart is a large organ made of very densely fibrous muscle and not just a cheap stress ball full of strawberry Jell-O.
Since Krampus couldn’t be bothered to actually restrain Duffin in any way, the hero regains consciousness and escapes. Rather than give chase, the villain’s too busy raping a topless blond woman he has chained up in his drifter den. Yep, you read that right. Go back and read it again if you need to. Now, just who this unlucky lady is is never made clear. She’s just there. She screams and writhes and struggles, so I’m assuming she’s not the type of freaky dame into that weird ass kink like the kind I usually entertain in the Tomb’s own sex dungeon every other Thursday. I’m not sure if she’s there for Krampus to punish with this rape, but if she is, the punishment’s pretty shitty since he zaps her eyeballs with his previously mentioned Spanish Fly powers and turns her on like a vibrating fleshlight. If she’s going to enjoy the rape, it’s hardly punishment, right? I mean, women do have the capacity to enjoy sex, right? I’ve been with the Evil Dead Bride for almost a decade and a half, so I hope she hasn’t just been faking it all this time.
This leads us to detour #37 on our journey – who exactly is Krampus supposed to exact righteous vengeance on? In the opening (and pretty much every myth about the monster), it says that Krampus punishes bad children. Let’s just go by the legal definition here in the US that anyone under the age of 18 is not an adult, so we’ll include teens and infants in this whole “children” argument. Now, killing two of the men who attacked him first, I can understand Krampus getting away with that on either a “self defense” plea, or because their escape would mean others finding out about him and his hobo habitat. Fine. But, unless the roofied rape victim chained to his wall is supposed to be underage (in which case I may have to dispose of this disc before it can be used against me in a court of law), this scene would mean that Krampus is also responsible for the punishment of bad adults… which would make no sense, as I discussed earlier! On top of all that (no sexual assault pun intended there, honest), once he’s done with the girl, Brother Claus shows up again release the dame back into the wild (complete with an “And have a merry Christmas!” send off) to chastise Krampy, not for raping the girl, but because “play time was 2 days ago”… meaning that this rape is his extra-curricular activity?! Is Krampus drowning boys and raping girls, drowning all children and raping teens, or has he upgraded to adults and is raping them now too!? WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING TO ME, JASON HULL!? You’re shitting on continuity harder than fucking Jason TODD!… a completely wasted joke unless you read DC Comics around 2005 and saw that whole “Superboy-Prime throws a fit and punches reality’s butt” bullshit from Infinite Crisis that single handedly gave Marvel Comics the win in the “I don’t read DC Comics because they’re retarded” argument. Gwen Stacey having Norman Osborn’s statutory rape babies? Nothing compared to “Superbody-Prime FISTED REALITY”.
Okay, keep it together Anubis. You’ve survived Demonicus. Keep repeating, “It’s only a movie. It’s only a movie. It’s only a movie…” Alright, so Jeremy escapes back to his truck and drives to the police station, where the Captain takes his badge and gun. Not because he thinks our hero’s lost his mind and is a danger to the public, but just because. I thought that this was going to be an obvious setup for someone to steal both and frame Duffin for all the child murders (possibly even the Captain himself for some nefarious reasoning), but no, NOTHING HAPPENS to the badge and gun. Cap just tells him to go take a shower, cool off at the local bar, and they’ll investigate Kramp’s murder hole… maybe later? I mean, two of this guy’s men were just killed, but rather than mobilizing more officers to go out and investigate the murdered cops, he sends Jer off to clean up and go to the bar for a few drinks?! HOW MANY ANEURISMS MUST ONE MAN-DOG SUFFER BEFORE HE CAN ENJOY DEATH’S SWEET EMBRACE?!… oh… right…………. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!
You know what would’ve been great? If, while recuping at the bar, Jeremy looked over to a bottle of Johnny Walker, put on his best/worst Anakin, and just screamed “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” to the heavens. But my job isn’t to write movies and make them better, my job is to sit here and watch garbage that other people have no place making and write about them after the fact, because I apparently kicked old ladies off of cliffs in my past life. Fuck. Anyway, as he’s throwing back shots to numb the pain of his dead friends from the Hairless Club for Men (WHO HE’S NOT OUT TRYING TO AVENGE!), our hero gets a call from his angry wife who found out about Jer’s fatal hunting trip not from him, but from the world’s shittiest newscast. Seriously, that fucking report made even the crappiest episode of “Action News for Kids” look like the best produced episode of “Dateline”. That shows you how much Jer gives a crap about his family when he ends up at the verge of death from some mythical goat man demon, and the first person he wants to see after showering his friends’ gore of his face is… his bartender. Uggh. Still hanging out at the bar rather than going home to his family, Detective Duff is approached by a trio of fellow cops who aren’t too happy about him getting Norris and Walker (Get it? Chuck NORRIS was WALKER, Texas Ranger. At least, I hope this was Hull showing some kinda creativity.) corpsed. These must be the kind of cops who are just in it for the money though, otherwise they’d be going out to the FUCKING LAKE TO KILL FUCKING KRAMPUS! Is Caimbridge the only hicksville burg in the country where drunken posses aren’t a thing that happens every time a heinous crime is committed?! The only real justice is mob justice! No, instead these dipshits would rather dog pile on Duffin, threaten to force their hot dogs in both his AND his wife’s chocolate starfish, and engage in the WORST BAR FIGHT EVER FILMED! How “worst”? Not an ounce of hyperbole there. Take the crappiest round of William Shatner fisticuffs ever seen on an episode of “Star Trek”, and it would look like the greatest brawl ballet of the most perfectly made Jackie Chan “beat up thirty guys with everything in the room” choreography after watching the bar fight from Krampus…
I’m running out of hate for this movie. There’s just so much of it, and my rageahol is actually starting to run dry here. I feel my agner sputtering to a miserable halt and… I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do for the rest of this review! There’s still SO MUCH blood that needs to be spilled on this trash carnival… 5000 words in, and it’s STILL not enough bitching and moaning and self-abuse to get across ALL of the incompitent, stupid, HORRIBLY written, toe-sucking SHIT on display here… it’s an ineptitude event horizon creating an stupidiocy vaccuum – a black hole of cinemasochism that’s inhaled every ounce of tolerance I can muster… Even going into the movie with a love for Krampus and incredibly low expectations… even forgiving it ahead of time for what was sure to be a poor effort… all of these caveates that I put forward, and Jason Hull STILL manages to vomit up a repugnant script the likes of which has left a stain on my soul I will never be able to remove. Weep for me, children. Weep long into the darkness of night for the heart that was broken and scarred here today…
Alright, taking the shortcuts for the rest of this fecal field trip to Grandma Suck’s house. Nearly publicly butt humped by his disgruntled co-workers in the fight, Jer’s saved by the Captain, who arrives just in time to send Duffin home while he and the bartender (a former beat cop himself) beat the rape happy officer with a baseball bat… and kill him and his two cohorts if the end credits epilogue is to be believed… because police captains are all about mafia justice, killing insubordinates, disposing of the bodies, then just hiring new cops and giving public service announcements to anyone who asks questions about how unhealthy it is for people to ask questions.
While this whole stupid bar scene was happening, the Duffin house was being home invaded by a trio of ne’er-do-wells (lots of people in groups of three in this movie…) – two nameless rednecks and their leader: a bank robber/kidnapper/rapist/jaywalker named Brian Hatt (Bill Oberst Jr.) who’s out of prison thanks to his blanket “scumbag lawyer” on one of those nebulous “technicalities” that movies like to use but never explain, because that would require dipping into the budget for a law consultant… or doing a quick internet search…
You can’t just have Hatt terrorize Jer’s wife Rebecca and their daughter Heather though, because Jason Hull has seen Real Killers or Last House on the Left or any of those other movies where the murderous gang picks the wrong family to terrorize, and decided to make Heather (who could be anything from 16 to 26, I’m not good with guessing ages… thank Osiris for state issued photo id cards!) a secret serial killer who seduces one of the thugs and stabs him to death… and don’t jump up my ass about spoilers on that little twist, because not 10 minutes before it happens, HULL RUINS THE TWIST HIMSELF BY HAVING SANTA FLAT OUT TELL KRAMPUS THAT HEATHER DUFFIN IS A SERIAL KILLER! Sure, seasoned vets of horror flicks like myself (and I’m sure many of you reading this) probably wouldn’t have been all that shocked by a surprise like that, but Hull doesn’t even give us the chance! It’s like he knows it’s a stupid idea and wanted to avoid people being able to say “Oh yeah, I saw that coming a mile away!”, so he just went scorched earth all over the fucking thing and ruined the surprise ahead of time himself rather than rewrite it.
Home stretch now, folks. Kramps and Jer show up at the house at the same time – K to claim Heather and J to makes sure his daughter (who he doesn’t know has been murdering people in her spare time) is at least safe until midnight. Hatt winds up Kramp’d (after trying to shoot skull face with his uzi), Hatt’s remaining redneck partner ends up getting third-eye blinded by Jer’s gun (didn’t the Captain take that from him earlier?), and our hero ends up bonked on his coconut for the second time today by K-Fed’s chain. When we comes to he finds Heather missing… and Rebecca strangled to death by a length of chain?! What the fuck did she do now!? You know what? Fuck it. I’m done here. I’m not adding to my blood pressure anymore, nor to my count of gruesome burn scars below the belt. Even ignoring all of the amateur camera work, poor cinematography, crap-ass musica generica, miserable acting, and dollar store special effects work, Hull’s writing is such a gods damned shartnado that there’s nothing left to excuse! The only saving grace is that pretty much no one will ever see Krampus: the Christmas Devil. It will smolder in obscurity, its final fading embers doused in a golden shower of its creator’s own incompetence, forever extinguished and never heard from again. Sorry Krampy. Maybe someday someone will do your legend justice. Jason Hull just is not that person… and you should probably hit him with a chain.
The Moral of the Story: “There’s nothing that any of us can ever do to bring those dead babies back!”
Are they a movie studio or a snowmobile detailing shop? Maybe both.
Oh sure, they make Krampus put on clothes around children now, but Porky Pig is still running around with his asshole hanging out!
“I know they say sex dreams aren’t about being turned on by the person, but all these George Wendt fantasies I’ve been having must mean something!”
“As you can see, I’ve drawn what looks to be a booby on the map. Boop. Boop. Booooooop. Come on, touch it! It’s fun!”
I hope they’re done shooting his scenes early. He’s got auditions at the “Grimm” sound stage to try out for Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dum, and Humpty Dumpty.
I know it’s incredibly blurry, but do you think that’s enough for Mark Zuckerberg to sue and have this movie legally blocked from ever getting a distribution deal!?
“So the lady at the CVS was like, ‘Sir, I don’t think Just For Beards has a whitening option.’ So I told her to go fuck herself, bought a can of aerosol snow, and made my own magic! What do you think?”
Dooo it… Dooo it….. Dooo it…….. DOOO IT!……. DOOOO IIIIIIIIIIT!
Okay, (1) – those missing posters are all duplicated! (2) – one of those missing “children” has a beard!
“I don’t like this Naziopoly game grandpa gave us. I can’t pronounce any of the properties, and the railroads don’t even have different names. They’re all just labeled ‘Holocaust Trains’. And why are the Electric Company and Water Works replaced with Oven Works and Gas Showers!? This is worse than that Cambodian Candyland knock-off, ‘Pol Pot’s Killing Fields’.”
I hate guys who treat their paintball games like it’s fucking SEAL Team training… at least that’s what I think is happening in this shot, given how it’s SO FUCKING OUT OF FOCUS! Kids, always learn to USE the camera before you start making your movies.
Taking a cue from his hero, Jim Varney, Larry the Cable Guy decides to star in a bunch of really dumb cheap-o comedies. Up first: Larry the Army Guy. After this? Larry the Camping Guy, Larry the Christmas Saving Guy, Larry the Scared Stupid Guy, Larry the Slam Dunking Guy, and if there’s enough money left over, Larry the Fat White Redneck in Africa Guy… which sounds like an interracial gay porn. Perfect.
Krampy tries out his new UrbanDictionary sexual maneuver entry on his girlfriend. He doesn’t know whether to call it a “Sam Elliot” or a “Wyatt Earp”. You can’t just call it “the Cumstache”, after all.
I have a feeling his jolly red nose isn’t because of Jack Frost so much as it’s thanks to Old Milwaukee and cocaine.
Typical fucking cop – pulls over everybody he sees driving on their cell phones, then just goes right ahead and does it himself! What a dick cheese!
Ah, I see Santa’s starting his own veal venture geared toward cannibals. Always the entrepreneur, that guy.
How to make the world’s least believable Action News cast – for starters, her teleprompter is apparently GLUED TO THE CEILING! Also, the file photo they have for the dead Officer Walker? Apparently taken from Duffin’s cell phone RIGHT BEFORE THEY STARTED HUNTING FOR KRAMPUS!
Heather (in the pink): “Mom, I’ve always wondered but… have I always looked five years older than you?!”
“Excuse me ma’am, but I’m a door-to-door lung salesman. Are you in need of any lungs? Or, perhaps you have any lungs you don’t need and would like to part with?”
Man with massive head wound (or was just hit with cherry syrup) is watched from the window behind him by a happy cartoon polar bear who’s apparently masturbating, while the jersey of an infamous football playing rapist hangs proudly on the wall behind them… this is a shot worthy of Lynch.
He’s about to learn that you don’t ignore this bar’s two drink minimum policy!
Imagine this guy coming at you while making that face and waving his dick around. If he’s the President of Steelers Country, I suggest you stay the fuck away from Steelers Country!… though he would be perfect to play Egg Head in Edgar Wright’s Ant Man movie!
If David Cronenberg’s mask from Nightbreed were a person.
So that’s Krampus. Pretty bad ass for a Halloween mask from Spencer’s Gifts, right? Except for one huge problem. See that little band of white right behind his top row of teeth? That’s the mouth of the person inside the mask… it’s prevalently viewable during the ENTIRETY of this scene…
Oh my gods! They killed Bubba Ray Dudley!
“PADME!… I mean, KRAMPUS! NOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
Anubis will return next time in
“They Prefer to Be Called ‘the Vertically Challenged Living Impaired Motorcycle Enthusiasts’”
or “Heaven is Full of Naked People”
Featuring: Kirk “The Growing Pains Movie” Cameron , Brad “Supergator” Johnson , Gordon “Blood & Donuts” Currie
Director: Vic “The Legend of Gator Face” Sarin
Writers: Alan “Spawn” McElroy , Paul “Judgment” Lalonde , Joe Goodman
“Maybe the common factor isn’t in those who were taken. Maybe it’s in those who were LEFT BEHIND.” (Yes Virginia, we have a movie title)
In the time since I’ve been out of the proverbial “game”, more than a few gullible fucks on the face of the Earth thought the Rapture was around the corner… not to be confused with the raptor that’s around the corner… AND IT’S RIGHT BEHIND YOU! AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!… Sucker. Undiagnosed lunatic Harold Camping (who died recently… and yes, he was ultimately deposited in Ammit’s litter box, if you were wondering) got faithful followers of the ab ripped hippie masochist known as Jay-Zeus to believe that their imaginary father figure in the sky was finally ready to scrap his grade school science fair project ant farm (you know it as “Earth”), bring all of his loyal ants home to roost alongside him with Lando and the rest in Cloud City, and leave those monkeys not willing to stroke his petty ego by worshiping him (pretty insecure for a cosmic being… and this is coming from a cosmic being, mind you) back on Earth, which will be given over to Satan (one of the “infallible” one’s many failures) who will take the former realm of man under His management as a brand extension of Hell. We’ll still have most of the comforts of life, like Slush Puppies and Subway franchises, except Slush Puppies will be made of actual puppies and Subway’s five dollar foot-longs won’t be sandwiches, but foot long lengths of really splintery wood, wrapped in rusty barb wire, and covered in your choice of incendiary before being set afire and jammed directly into your asshole. I recommend the ethanol. It burns a beautiful blue and doesn’t sting nearly as much as gasoline or butane.
(the REAL reason the Rapture was canceled)
Though I could have (and probably should have) gone with a review for the far superior Rapture flick This is the End as my movie-of-choice, instead I opted for today’s feature, which puts me at the complete opposite end of the world ender spectrum – a place where only the likes of Kirk Cameron (and possibly eagles) dare tread. A place where science is a house of lies (except, you know, the branch that made all of the technology needed to shoot their fucking movie) and bananas are proof that creationism is the only true -ism. And if you don’t get that last bit, do a search for “Kirk Cameron banana” and let the One True God known as “The Interwebs” lead you down the path to enlightenment… cuz I’m sure as shit not posting a link to anything Mike Seever takes as gospel just because a banana salesman told him so.
Our film (video) today is based on the book series of the same name, which is basically the Book of Revelation as written by Tom Clancy. Or, as we horror movie aficionados call it, Omen III: the Final Conflict. Of the trio of writers who adapted the tome for the glowing tubes of the direct-to-video movie market, Joe Goodman has written nothing else (which includes the Left Behind sequels), Paul Lalonde has written nothing but other Christian “movies” *cough*propaganda*cough*, and Alan McElory… well, he’s a really interesting story. Alan’s other bodies of work include a few screenplays for some decidedly un-Christian movies, especially Spawn, about a hyper-violent vigilante superhero from Hell, and Halloween 4, which started Michael Myers down the path to becoming the unkillable mystical enforcer for a cult of evil druids. I wonder why Mr. McElroy wasn’t hired to write on the screenplay for Left Behind 2: Rapture Boogaloo…
Okay, enough dicking around. Let’s gut this piggie and play in its entrails! We open with the news that Israeli scientist (He’s a witch! BURN HIM!) Chaim Rosenzweig (Colin Fox) has discovered a miracle formula that can turn acres of desert into fertile farm land. In the wake of a global food crisis, few things are more newsworthy than an agricultural advancement that will allow mankind to feed the starving millions of the world!… except maybe the latest nude pictures hacked off of some b-list celeb’s iPhone. Covering the reveal of Chaim’s great creation is his American friend, GNN (Global News Network) reporter Buck Williams (Kirk Cameron). Being played by Cameron, it should come as no surprise that Buck is a massive doofus. He does have one of the stupidest white guy hero names of all time to further bury any credibility he might’ve had as a protagonist. You do have to love the irony, though. I mean, having an investigative reporter played by a guy who just believes everything he’s told without any factual evidence to back it up (Kirk Cameron’s a bible thumper is what I’m alluding to) is pretty funny casting if you think about it… just don’t think about it TOO long, or your fissure of Rolando (not to be confused with the fissure of the Amazing Rondo) might spilt open and make the inside of your skull look like a fuckin’ abattoir during the busy season.
Chaim refuses to sell his secret techniques to any country, no matter how high the offer, and opts instead to create a new Eden where people will never need to go hungry again. But, much like Newton’s third law of motion, the climate between Israel and Palestine is all about actions resulting in reactions. In the case of Chaim’s agricultural miracle method, it’s an all out air strike by hostile Palestinian military forces. Due to some nefarious sabotage, Israel is unable to get their own planes off the ground to mount a counter offensive, so from the outset it looks like our heroes are boned… until the sky goes completely black and the enemy planes start blowing up for no reason! All I can imagine are archangels wearing those old World War II helmets and firing anti-aircraft guns from the clouds. Anyway, amidst the turmoil, Buck (being an intrepid man-of-action reporter with a big manly name like BUCK!) does the gutsy tough guy thing and goes out amidst the chaos in his khakis to try and grab some exclusive footage for the ll o’clock hype reels. Dodging bad computer gen explosions and debris, he’s approached by an old beard-o who appears from nowhere, touches him, and says “Stephen King’s Thinner!”… not really, but that would’ve been a lot better than the mumbo jumbo he actually mutters about covenants and continued wars and 7 years of suffering and blah blah blah. Probably something about wanting “Murder She Wrote” back on the air, or some bitchery about how back in his day they didn’t have jet planes and everybody had to walk 200 miles barefoot in the snow to go to war.
Once he gets back to the States with his eyewitness account and regales everybody with his Tom Brokaw-like dedication to his craft, Buck’s contacted by an old buddy of his from reporter college named Dirk Burton – who has one of the most generic Action News names, second only to “Buck Williams”. Dirk’s onto something big, literally WORLD ENDING BIG, regarding shady dealings by a super mega jumbo conglomorate we’ll just call The Enterprising Villainous Industrialized Liasons Corporation, or “EVIL Co.” for short. Whatever Armageddoning shit he’s stumbled upon has Dirk’s normal paranoid delusions up from charming to alarming, as he’s got the bad movie stool pigeon sweats and manic air about him of a man who hasn’t slept (or probably washed his stank parts) in days. Though he makes sure to show Buck the hidden compartment in his watch where he keeps a mini-disc (that looks oddly like a watch battery…) filled with all of the evil evidence he’s collected on EVIL Co’s evil dealings of evil, he doesn’t feel safe actually giving the disc to Buck. It’s not because he doesn’t trust Buck, cuz why make the meeting in the first place if he didn’t? No, it’s so that when Dirk eventually winds up dead at the hands of EVIL Co’s evil corporate killers, Buck will know where to retrieve it from, cuz that’s how movies work. On a brief side note, the term “corporate killers” makes me imagine Iron Maiden’s Eddie is a power suit, which is fucking awesome.
(He has to return some videotapes.)
While on an airliner headed to London to attend an investigation on the attack on Israel, Buck becomes a witness to history when a panic suddenly breaks out amidst the passengers as various people just up and disappear, all leaving their clothing behind. The funniest part of course being that NOBODY saw ANY of this while it happened, thus saving the budget the massive strain of having to use any of that expensive Star Trek “phasing” effects tech. Unless there was some creepy naked flash mob planned for this particular flight, it looks like the Rapture has finally struck… or they’re all members of one of those nudist sky diving teams… and yes, that’s a thing. Go ahead and look it up! Just, you know, not at work or on the family computer. I don’t need any more tear stained letters by little kids who blame me for destroying their families. Anyway, despite being played by Charlie Church Fucker, Buck is NOT amidst those who get the one-way ticket to the pearly gates! Odd that someone who can’t orgasm without quoting bible verses while staring at one of those sad paintings of Jesus with the droopy eyes would allow himself to be in a movie where his character ISN’T one of the truly faithful who gets ascended from the get go. Looks like Kirk’s need to be the center of attention is more important than being a good Christian… I know one guy whose clothes won’t be empty come Judgment Day… unless he’s yanked out of them by a T-800 disguised as Alan Thicke before it tears out his intestines. Now THAT is a Judgment Day I think we can all get behind! 😀
Despite settling down the panicked passengers (with some help by Buck, of course), the plane’s pilot isn’t ready to risk potential escalating mob madness while they’re too far from anywhere safe to land, so he turns their ride around and heads back to the airport. This pilot becomes a big part of the story, so let’s take the time now to meet Mr. Rayford Steele (Brad Johnson).
Yep, if you thought we were going to have a character without a stupid name that you’d expect a Reb Brown character from a bad ’80s/’90s action movie to have, then you are a fool. A sad, naive little fool. Here’s some pity, fool. Now go eat it where no one has to look at you. There’s a good fool.
Ray is a typical suburban father of two. His wife (name withheld for lack of interest on my part) is a born again Christian who Ray openly mocks in front of her friends and loved ones. But, he doesn’t want to have to have alimony or child support yanked from his ass for the rest of his life, so instead of leaving his family he just opts to flirt it up with one of the airline’s stewardesses, Hattie (Chelsea Noble, real life wife of Kirk Cameron [despite not taking his last name like a good Christian woman would] and former co-star of his eye-gougingly awful sitcom “Kirk”). Hattie also happens to be a friend of Buck’s, and through said connection has earned herself a job working at the United Nations for some reason… because that’s the next loigcal step on the career ladder when you’re a sky waitress… She’s apparently in love with Ray, but as is the case with most mistresses, isn’t content with playing second banana (or clam?) to Mrs. Steele, so she’s hoping that leaving the airline will either convince Captain Dickbag to drop his old lady to be with her, or leave her free to pursue some international wang at her new position. This would explain why neither of these pillars of morality were invited to the big skinny dipping party at Jesus’s private grotto. It’s either the affair, or it could be because Ray ditched his son’s birthday party so he could fly the friendly skies of Pan(ty)Am instead. Everybody knows Jesus has issues with his dad for never showing up at any of his own birthdays. That can really leave a vindictive streak on a guy’s psyche.
When Ray returns home, he discovers that his betrothed and their boy were both ascended, but his college student daughter Chloe (Janaya Stephens) was, just like dear old dad, LEFT BEHIND! What did she do that was so wrong? Well, she’s attending a non-Christian college (dirty liberal whore!), she has a nose-piercing (probably a LESBIAN!), AND she also missed little what’s-his-name’s birthday because she had exams to take, so… I don’t know. I’m a friggin’ deity and even I don’t know what the secret code to spiritual worthiness is. I asked Osiris one day and he just gave me a piece of papyrus that said “up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B, A, Select, Start”.
Hoping that mom and Junior might just be at a shelter somewhere, Ray and Chloe start a search that ends at their local church. Though he doesn’t find his wife or son, Ray does run into the church’s pastor/preacher/priest/whatever Bruce Barnes (Clarence Gilyard), also LEFT BEHIND(!) because, while acting as his god’s salesman, he didn’t actually believe in the snake oil he was pushing (and missed his true calling as a pitcher for the Cubs if the fastball he beans a crucifix with is any indicator). So, even though he was freely sharing god’s Kool-Aid and made others believe (others who WERE ascended themselves, mind you), that’s not good enough for the egotist upstairs, and he left the disenfranchised recruiters like Bruce behind to wallow in the lakes of shit and fire alongside the heathens and heretics?! How the religious world gave up on far more forgiving deities like my own pantheon in favor of this self-centered, insecure, hateful old fart (who, yes, I’m WAY older than, thank you) will always be beyond even my grasp. I guess ignorance is just too great a bliss for some people to even consider giving up without throwing their hands over their ears and singing very loudly “OUR GOD IS AN AWESOME GOD! HE REIGNS FROM HEAVEN ABOVE!” until the challenge of common sense just gives up and walks away.
When I found out that Buck wasn’t going to be a preachy a-hole like the actor playing him, I thought that we might be spared the heavy handed cranial bludgeoning that comes with most Christian based movies. Shit, if the star’s not going to spend the 90 or so minutes telling us how much the collective delusion loves you and wants to share nirvana with you, then maybe it won’t be so bad, right? Wrong. Though Buck’s not the preachy one of the cast, that’s LEFT BEHIND(!), errrr left up to Ray. Seeing that his wife was right this whole time about which horse to put her money on, he hedges his bets and tries to get behind Jesus in overtime, with the bible as his playbook. Can sucking up to his new best buddy ultimately save his ass from burning pitchforks and searing coal suppositories? Can he convince Chloe to go along with it and maybe save her soul a seat at the family reunion? I can’t muster the attention span to care. As such, let’s leave the Steeles to their bible thumpery and stick to the breadier parts of this garbage hoagie – BUCK WILLIAMS: REPORTER OF ACTION!
Actually, let’s kick Buck back onto the back burner for another paragraph or two and check out Mr. Nicolae Carpathia. For starters, Nick’s played by Gordon Currie. If, like yours truly, you’re a fan of Charles Band’s Puppet Master series, you’ll remember that installments 4 & 5 featured some goofy blond nerd named Rick stumbling upon Andre Toulon’s trunk of sinister sentient wonder toys and becoming the new holder of the title role. I hated Rick. At that point, Band was trying to brand the murderous marionettes as heroic figures to sell merchandise, so rather than drilling through people’s skulls and pulling their tracheas out through their eye-sockets, the puppets were fighting evil little totem monsters controlled by a huge foam rubber demon (who, ironically enough, looked like a giant muppet)… and the whole thing was a mess. Eventually Band would go back to what made the puppets great in the first place, with the exception of a Demonic Toys crossover (starring Corey fucking Feldman and that hot redhead from the “Weird Science” TV series) that summarily crushed the hopes and dreams of fans who had waited a decade of more for such an event to occur… thanks to funding from the SciFi Channel, if I remember correctly.
Sorry, any excuse to talk about Puppet Master instead of Revenge of Jesus and I had to make it last as long as I could. The point is, Rick was a shitty heir to the Toulon legacy and every time I see Gordon Currie I want to punch my toilet. Fortunately, I see him about as much as I find a random $20 bill in the pocket of an old pair of pants, so my toilets rarely need replacing. Now, back to Nicolae.
Nick is saintly gentleman with an ear-bleedingly bad Eastern European accent. Others refer to him as the new Mother Theresa, but much like the infamous “New Coke”, there’s something not right about Nick. He’s a close associate of Dr. Rosenzweig, and it’s this connection that has the interest of Nicolae’s financial backers – a pair of not-so-legitimate businessmen who want to use Nick’s relationship with Chaim to get their evil hands on Chaim’s miracle grow formula and corner the global food market! That’s right, Nicolae’s good deeds and charitable activities have been funded by the blood moneys of EVIL Co! There’s also some shit about building a temple in disputed Palestinian territory as some kind of effort to win Chaim’s favor because his formula will bring peace to the Middle East… or something… don’t ask cuz as much of a badass as I am at Clue™, I haven’t got clue 1 here. And as far as that “something not right” about Nicky, ask yourself this: why is it that someone who’s worked so hard to spread peace, love, and charity the world over wasn’t teleported to St. Peter’s office with the rest of Jesus’s good and faithful ones? Don’t strain yourself over it. Since this movie came out over a decade ago, I plan on taking a cue from the rampant bacteria living in my crisper drawer and SPOILING EVERYTHING! Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!
Okay, let’s give the spotlight back to Buck, now. Thanks to his big reporter man expense account, Buck outbids an airport full of would-be commuters in hiring a private pilot to fly him from Chicago to New York for $25,000 (he better hope the GNN accountants were all god fearing Christian types reduced to piles of cheap suits!) so he can seek out Dirk and find out what else he knows about these Rapture shenanigans. As alluded to previously though, Dirk gets deaded up. Our hero finds the body, and the watch battery “storage device” is still in its hidden compartment. Dodging a sniper’s attempt on popping his noodle like a fucking blood balloon, Buck escapes the scene with the data. However, either this sniper dropped out of sniper school (he chooses to shoot a computer monitor when he has a perfectly good shot at the back of Buck’s skull, then pops several eye level items in the room while Buck’s squirming on the floor), or he was just meant to scare our protagonist, given the satisfied smile the shooter sports when his quarry eludes him. Or, maybe he was only getting paid to ice Dirk and he was just dicking Buck around for the fun of making the dingus piss himself. I could see terrorizing Kirk Cameron simply for the satisfaction.
After his (presumably) lesbian tech friends from GNN help him decode the info, Buckaroo heads back to Chicago, where he hooks up with an old CIA connection named Alan (Phillip Akin… mis-credited as Phillip Akon), who happens to be the last person Dirk emailed before his untimely passing of natural causes… cuz bullets are made from things found in nature and it passed right through his chest. What’s more natural than that? Al informs us that the government’s blaming the disappearances on long term radioactive activity on the planet that created freak pockets of Twilight Zone-y weirdness that randomly disintegrated people all over the globe… in the land, sea, and air… and left their clothes entirely unaffected… yeah… I really think alien abductions would probably have been more believable, but alien abductions wouldn’t give Nicolae the excuse to go in front of the UN and demand that the world disarm their nukes. Sure, any nuclear scientist will tell you that latent radioactivity can’t possibly disintegrate random Christians, but who’s gonna argue with nuclear disarmament? I mean, that can only end in peaceful results, right? Sound logic. Besides, there’s no place for scientists in a Jesus flick… except for Chaim… who’s an unknowing pawn for EVIL Co’s world domination schemes… because you can’t have a SCIENTIST, who’s also JEWISH, in a CHRISTIAN movie without him being either evil or easily duped into bringing about Armageddon. I thought there was something funny about a Jewish character being heralded as a hero whose discovery would feed the world’s hungry. As the saying goes though, the road to Hell isn’t paved with blacktop…
Speaking of good intentions, they certainly save Buck’s ass! After his meeting with Alan, his buddy offers him a ride. Buck stops to give some cantankerous old lady some beer money, while Alan’s bee-line to his car gets him a Sam Rothstein Special, inadvertently saving Buck from being blown into charred meat and bone fragments, all while that same sniper from earlier watches on and smiles approvingly. After the Steeles patch him up (him got a boo boo on him’s widdle weg) and pray to god to watch out for him, Buck heads back to NY to warn Chaim about the evil intentions of his nefarious benefactors. Chaim and new UN Secretary-General Nicolae show Buck their plans to build the new temple in Israel that’s going to doom the world, and invite him to attend a meeting with UN officials and Nicolae’s EVIL Co. financiers. Realizing that the thumpers have been right about the Armageddon all along, Buck takes a knee in the mensroom (you know what happens when someone’s on their knees in a place made for unrestricted dick exposure…) and uses his Phone-a-Friend to call in a favor from the all mighty. Little g (Seriously, he’s barely 5′ 2”. He just has all of his portraits made from a low angle to seem big and imposing) grants Buck his wish and allows him to keep his free will (iiiiiiiiroooooooooooonyyyyyyyyyyyy) during the coming meeting, where Nicolae reveals himself to be…. THE ANTICHRIST!… or, based on the mind control powers and possible telekinesis, he could just be a Sith Lord. It’s makes sense that a Russian guy would be the Devil, right? I mean, we all remember that passage in Revelation where it says “And the horned deceiver shall come from the land where car drives you!”, right?
Either way, Evil Nick shoots Businessman 1 and Businessman 2 in front of a room full of people, declares his intentions to rule/destroy the Earth, then mind wipes everybody with the story that Businessman 1 grabbed a guard’s gun (of which there were many who could have intervened if this was legit) and shot Businessman 2 before turning the gun on himself. Buck’s the only one who was able to see the truth because his brain was preserved by Jesus brand tin foil! Jesus brand tin foil – when you need to keep your gray matter safe from any toxic influences NOT emanating from official Jesus brand salesmen! Jesus and the Jesus brand are copyright of Jesus Co. Trust no imitators, only items bearing the Jesus label, sold by officially licensed Jesus Co. representatives!
Now Nick looks like a grieving hero (his two best buddies were using him to try and bankrupt the UN, then killed each other, after all), the remaining UN leaders are under his sole control, he’s well on his way to dethroning DiCaprio as king of the world, and Buck can’t say anything about the truth because he risks giving up his only advantage. Unable to do anything about these new events alone, he returns to Chicago (good thing he opted for the 48hr package, otherwise he’s be buying that pilot the nicest trailer in Hell!) to rejoin the Steeles and Bruce to start praying he can get a late pass through the pearly gates… which are always portrayed as golden, so I don’t know where the “pearly” part came from. And so, what could be building to an end-of-the-world showdown of The Stand-like proportions between the forces of good and evil will have to wait till next time, as this is only part one of the “epic” Left Behind movie trilogy. Will we see those other installments reviewed here? Who knows. I’m almost intrigued enough by the story to see how it plays out, but I really don’t know if I’m FOUR HOURS intrigued. Not to mentioned the additional 4-6hrs of time required to write two more reviews of THIS length, AND take screenshots for the whole donkey show. Let’s put this one to bed first, then we’ll talk about it later, okay kiddies?
Okay now, allow me to put aside all anti-religion biases so I can objectively judge Left Behind as a movie rather than just bash the dogmatic ignorance behind it. If it weren’t for the god apologist crap and the wrist slitting soundtrack of christian soft rock and the generic “sounds like it was taken from a ’90s Ninja Turtles movie soundtrack” hip hop theme that hits you out of nowhere like a kidney punch from a morning star (not even a joke, hear it for yourself and be awed!), this might’ve been a fun watch. Edit out the 20 or so minutes of “message” and not only do you get a more accessible flick, but you get a trimmer running time that feels like less of a drag.
Director Vic Sarin (not to be confused with the toxic gas of the same name) does a competent job with what he’s got. As you’d expect from a direct-to-video creation of the year 2000, visually you’d think you were watching an ABC Family original movie. Again, you’d expect that on this kind of budget, so lacking the slick Hollywood look of budgetary lubrication can’t really be held against it. Beyond giving it a pass for its appearance though, the dialogue can get into artery clogging zones of cheese and the acting is over-the-top. Not enjoyably over-the-top like an ’80s action movie or a Troma flick, but painfully overacted over-the-top. This cast feels like they were hired out of a small town community drama group, and even Cameron and Noble, who are supposed to be doing a passion project here, show very little of said passion. They should probably retire from acting and dedicate themselves to missionary work like “true” believers. Maybe the rest of us will luck out and they’ll wind up like the missionaries in Rambo? One can only pray. Cuz we got to pray just to make it today. We got to pray. Pray… please Hammer, don’t hurt ’em… let ME do it!
That was… very ’90s of me. I really need a drink.
Finally, I have little idea as to what I was referring to when I typed up the following paragraph (this review has been a week in the making and a LOT has distracted me in said week), and I couldn’t find anywhere to properly fit it into this review, but after reading it over a few times and not wanting to lose it, I’m just gonna end on it. Enjoy! –
But, as is the way with Left Behind, such is the way of religion – lure them into the windowless van with promises of love, acceptance, understanding, and an eternal afterlife in the Bahamas, then ferry them away into a musty locale, and force a Pandora’s Box of unpleasantness into every hole until their free will has been broken beyond recognition and they accept no one’s truth but yours. However, my doubly mammalian brain (I am half-simian and half-canine, after all) decries superstitions and mental hostage taking through threats of imagined spiritual torment. So, even as a supposedly impressionable lad/pup, I wasn’t one for taking on unfounded guilt and shame just because some old man who smelled like moth balls and beef bullion told me to. You can call it rebellion, you can call it sin, either way I’m happy, either way I win. I’m out like a boner in sweatpants.
The Moral of the Story: Everyone’s welcome in Jesus Land Theme Parks! Note: Jesus Land Theme Parks reserve the right to deny entry to the park if you have a pierced nose, make out with a stewardess while she’s on the clock, act as “god”’s mouthpiece but don’t eat the same shit you’re shoveling into others’ mouths, jerk off with thousand dollar bills, plot to rule the world, have a miscarriage-inducingly bad Eastern European accent, have ever skipped out on a child’s birthday party, or work for a tv news network whose call letters rhyme with “CNN”.
Jesus Land – where all of our water slides lead to SALVATION!
Doesn’t this violate that whole “separation of church and state” thing?
I see somebody’s still trying to figure out their caps lock key…
“You know what I hate, Jim? Large formations of fighter jets… there’s one right behind me, isn’t there?”
While watching the dailies for Left Behind the cast starts to wonder if they haven’t made a huge mistake…
“Come on grandpa! If you don’t let the shovel hit you in the balls we’ll never win the $10,000 grand prize for funniest video!”
“Yes, I realize my best friend’s name on the show was ‘Boner’, and yes, I realize what a ‘boner’ is. You’re only the 30th person to tell me that… TODAY.”
“It’s a sandwich, but they replaced the bread with pieces of FRIED CHICKEN! What don’t you understand?! THEY HAVE TO BE STOPPED!”
“Most people suggest hot coffee or warm tea every morning to stay regular. But for me, if I don’t have a piping hot cup of baby’s blood with my breakfast, I won’t have a bowel movement all day!”
“And Alex Kidd begot Sonic. Sonic begot Kid Chameleon. Kid Chameleon begot Streets of Rage. Streets of Rage begot Vectorman. Vectorman begot Ecco. Ecco begot Toe Jam and Earl…”
“So, you’re telling me you can travel through time with this single engine plane… but there’s NO sky diving grandma!?”
(Kudos to you if you got the reference on this one!)
I see someone didn’t learn his lesson from Superbad – never let drunk girls in mini-skirts lap dance you at a party!
So, she took out her nose piercing to appease Jesus, but JC’s totally down with ear piercings!? Fuck this religion!
Anubis will return next time in
“May the Krampus Never Cramp Us”
or “Let’s Scare Megyn Kelly to Death!”
Featuring: Ken “Dawn of the Dead” Foree , Todd “Metal Messiah” Robinson , Danny “‘Grimm‘” Bruno
Director & Writer: David “Uncle Tom’s Apartment” Walker
Intro: Merry Cthulhumas! Or, if you’re one of those weird “alternative” religion types, Happy Non-Denominational Gift Exchange Day. As your gift this year, I’m taking us all to Gator World! In the meantime, I give you a stocking stuffer to hold you over: this review is the introductory feature to my concept of the “rerun” here in the new Tomb. While I won’t be importing most of my old stuff from the original site (saving those for the book[s]), and though I lost most of my prior works thanks to poor planning on my part and Yahoo purging inactive data storage accounts a few years ago, I still have access to plenty of my musings on bad movies made in this millennium. Since that’s the only real limit I’m holding myself to as far as reviews go for the new Tomb, I figured why not save myself some trouble on weeks I’m too burnt out or busy to write something new, re-edit these old articles, toss in “Intro” and “Xtro” (kudos to you if you get the joke there) sections, take some new screen shots, then *SPLORT!* we’ve got “reruns”! For you longtime fans, it’s a chance to re-live remnants of the glory days, and for those only familiar with my current crop of contemplations and condemnations, well shit, it’s new to you! If you like it, great! If not, you’re not paying anything to be here right now, so boo fuckin’ hoo you leech, don’t read ’em. Whatever your alignment on the matter, here comes some holiday boom boom in my rerun review for Black Santa’s Revenge!
It didn’t occur to me to rerun this review until two weeks ago when FUX “News” anti-personality megyn kelly (those lower case letters are not a typo, I promise) stated on the air that, not only are Santa Claus and Jesus Christ real, but they’re both white… she later gave us her best half-assed argument that the whole thing was a “joke”, but the seething manner with which she made her initial comment (in response to an editorial by Slate contributor Aisha Harris about making a race neutral Santa in the form of a penguin) is the only proof you need that she was genuinely flustered, likely offended at the idea of Santa being anything other than a white man… even though the original Saint Nicholas upon which much of the Santa myth was establish was a Turkish dude… a lot like how Jesus Christ was from the Middle East… so, believing that either historic figure was Caucasian displays a willful ignorance that makes my stomach churn and my fists clench. The same way they do whenever someone thinks the programming on FUX is actually “news” in anything but name only. News is the relaying of facts and information, not the vomiting, consumption, and re-vomiting of extremist opinions and ignorance smeared editorials. That entire cast of characters needs ethnic cleansing, then all of their parts should be broken down to their basic components and returned to the Earth so nature can start again.
Anyway, I thought there nothing better to make people like megyn kelly shit their granny panties with horror and disgust than BSR! Hence, our alternate episode title, “Let’s Scare Megyn Kelly to Death!”… in which her name is only capitalized because it’s being used in a title, and not due to any misguided sense that she deserves the respect of a “proper noun”. I just hope I used enough Reynold’s Wrap on my laptop while it was kept in storage to keep the freshness of funny and/or offensive in these old reviews. Oh well, I guess we’ll find out!
Original Review: I’ve always had a soft spot for Death Wish flicks. I’ve always taken an interest in Christmas themed bad movies. I’ve always enjoyed Ken Foree. Take these three and duct tape ’em together, wrap ’em up in a happy little bow, then plant the resultant triumvirate under the mistletoe and you get Black Santa’s Revenge: a tale of season’s beatings for the whole family to love!… provided everyone in your family is 18 or older and enjoys excessive violence.
This lovely little mess of holiday cheer was pointed out to me on the forum over at badmovies.org. Currently being shopped around in the hopes that St. Nicholas will bring its creators a Christmas contract to turn the short into a feature, I figured that buying a copy of the DVD will only help get Ken Foree that much closer to his next starring role. Was it money well spent? Well, that depends on two things: (1) If the crew gets the fundage to make their feature and (2) If Black Santa’s Revenge is even worth expanding beyond it’s 20 minutes running time.
Ken Foree (star of the original Dawn of the Dead and one of Rob Zombie’s cinematic entourage since The Devil’s Rejects) plays Black Santa; a dude who decks himself out in the red & white and sits his ass on a big leopard print throne each year so he can listen to poor kids ask him for commercially packaged happiness. Not your average mall Santa like the ass grabber in Elves, BS actually does the job as part of a charity group who passes donated toys on to the tots to bring them a little holiday cheer and hopefully keep them from becoming street statistics a little longer. It’s not going to be a very silent night this year though, as 2007’s big haul is hijacked by a quartet of lumpy thugs wielding shotguns, who lay out BS and Grinch the kids’ Christmas cheer! And what are the 5-0 gonna do about recovering the community center’s stolen merch? Jack and shit, and Jack’s off pinchin’ yule logs into Grandma’s figgy pudding. And so begins, that’s right, Black Santa’s Revenge! Yes, our feature has a title! In celebration, allow me to try and be a little creative with the next paragraph:
Laying out the look out and busting the thug’s nose,
Black Santa cocked his 12 gauge and into the air the honky blood rose!
He spoke a few one-liners and went straight to work,
exploding fools’ heads and ventilating each jerk!
The ruckus he caused resulted in such a clatter,
anybody left alive was severely assaulted and battered!
Through gritted teeth his vengeance gave a whistle,
as every motherfucker in the room was whipped with a pistol!
Black Santa takes a few shots but he’s not down for the count,
cuz that mofo keeps firing till his ammo’s run out!
Even with two slugs in his arms and losing blood fast,
Black Santa refused to stop kickin’ punk ass!
And from the streets of the ghetto to the columns of Stonehenge,
now all you kids know the story of Black Santa’s Revenge!
Yeah, I’m no Clement Clarke Moore, or even an Andrew Dice Clay, but I thought that was pretty good. As for the short itself, I really enjoyed it! There’s plenty of bloodshed, foul language and even a few tits here and there, plus it still carries this whole ho-ho-ho holiday happiness and “good guys beat the bad guys and Christmas is saved” stuff to keep it lighthearted and jolly. Could it be extended into a feature? I don’t know. Compressing it into 20 minutes works because there’s really no time for the audience to get bored with it and chances are it will leave the majority of viewers either content with it or wanting more. On the plus side though, as I said before, 90 minutes of Ken Foree is usually better than 20 minutes of Ken Foree, so if there’s ever a Black Santa feature and the man’s in the lead, I’m there.
Furthermore, despite a few budget restricted special effects moments where I had unpleasant flashbacks of Night Crawlers, I was really happy with writer-director David Walker’s work! The whole short is based on an original comic book of Walker’s and even without the obvious hint (“You look like you just came out of a comic book!”), the man’s use of black & white shots and scene transitions give BSR a very well done four-color feel. I’m still not 100% on whether it could be turned into a full-on movie, but if it’ll help Walker get noticed and give bad movie lovers a Ken Foree Christmas classic to break out every December, then by all means, it should be turned into a feature!
Xtro: Sadly, it looks like Black Santa’s Revenge: the Motion Picture isn’t likely to be realized any time soon, if at all… at least in this reality. Who knows, maybe in some other dimension along the cosmic wavelength the vibrations of existence varied just enough from our own that Ken Foree as a shabby Santa vigilante replaces Jim Carrey as the live-action Grinch (which rhymes with “pinch”, that stands for “loaf”, as in “of shit”) and became a celebrated annual classic to rival the likes of Rudolph!… well, Ernest Saves Christmas at least. Either way, in our existence Dave Walker wasn’t able to pull off the feat that Jason Eisener managed with Hobo With a Shotgun (the original short of which ALSO came out in 2007), despite my whopping contribution of $10-$20 that bought me the DVD (and some neat-o stickers!). But, given today’s new Kickstarter-centric world of crowd funded projects though, I’d never rule out the possibility for a Black Santa resurrection! I’m keeping my talons crossed.
Now, while megyn kelly and her cohorts at FUX Opinions have a Ku Klux Kinda Kristmas, to the rest of you I bid a “Happy HOLIDAYS”, kiddies! 😀
The Moral of the Story: Don’t dick with St. Nick! You try to piss in his cereal and he’ll carve out your bladder and make you use it as a sippy cup! Then he’ll rip out your intestines, use ’em to make sausages, then make you eat said sausages! Or, he’ll just feed you the business end of his shotgun. Whatever he’s got time for, really.
Anubis will return next time in
“Heaven is Full of Naked People”