Featuring: Kelli Jensen ; Nathaniel Ketcham ; Chris “Surviving the Rush” Peters
Director: Tommy “They Must Eat” Brunswick
Writer: Todd “The Remake” Brunswick
Sequel: Jingles the Clown
In the greatest piece of fast food news since they brought back cheesy tots, for Valentine’s Day Israeli Burger Kings offered “adult” meals that came with free sex toys, upgrading from happy meals to happy ending meals!… yes, I know that’s McDonald’s, but suspend your disbelief for the sake of the joke, okay? Though I don’t expect this to be a thing at BKs in our neck of the planet anytime soon (despite the rapist-in-chief being in office), it wouldn’t surprise me if Carl’s Jr. took their dirt-bag exploitation business model in a similar direction by offering a free bottle of their famous Budweiser cheese-flavored lube and a mini-fleshlight/pocket vibrator with every purchase of a Double Bacon 3-Way Burger value meal.
Get it? “3-Way Burger”? Cuz it’s sex. Get it? Yeah. Softcore commercials of Hustler rejects jamming garbage-even-by-fast-food-standards burgers in their mouths while stuffing bacon cheese fries up their o-rings (and that ‘o’ doesn’t stand for “onion”). Of course, that last part is always cut from the ads, as they’re only meant for Andy “Jerks off in the special sauce” Puzder’s private collection.
With that out of the way, it’s time to put on your rainbow wig, refill your squirting flower and lace-up your over-sized novelty footwear!
Before we delve too deeply into today’s quicksand cinema, I’m sad to report that The Tomb’s beloved feline elder, Merlin “Don’t call me Murray” Cow, has written the final page of his life story. Living to the ripe old age of 16, he was too good and pure (and stupid) for this world, and will take his place in the pet pantheon of the great beyond. However, as Mrs. Forrester once historically proclaimed, the only balm that truly soothes an aching blood pump is a skin-peelingly bad movie! If that’s true, then boy howdy is Mr. Jingles just the hypodermic full of morphine I need right now.
Today’s Zodiacal feature is probably the no-est no-budget backyard bad movie I’ve seen since Addicted to Murder or pretty much any movie released by Brimstone Productions in the ’90s. Don’t feel bad if your crap movie education doesn’t include a course in Brimstone, because not only are they obscure as fuck (and for good reason), but you’re better off not losing anymore hours of your life than you’re already losing reading these reviews. Maybe I’ll break out my old VHS tapes and write an e-book.
Back to the Jingling (which is what the sequel should’ve been called), the length is a merciful 74 minutes, 7 of which could’ve been further shaved from the opening and closing credits. You know what’s not a great way to start your movie? Almost 4 minutes of big orange names fading in and out of a black background while some slow, generic rock song plays over it. No doubt performed by the director’s cousin’s Stryper cover band, probably recorded the morning after they were yet again eliminated in the first round of another “Battle of the Bands” competition at The Chug & Piss & Chug Again Pub.
When we find our way to the other side of this debilitating limbo of an intro, it feels like we walked into the theater a few minutes late. A twenty-something actress (Kelli Jensen, whose only other IMDB credit is an episode of ‘Nash Bridges’) trying to convince the audience that she’s a 12 year old girl (by putting her hair in pigtails and wearing little girl pajamas) named Angie Randall hides in her bedroom closet while a murderous maniac in clown makeup named Mr. Jingles (Dr. Rudolph Hatfield, because he didn’t go to evil clown medical school to not be addressed by his honorific) kills her parents with a pair of hatchets. Dad (David Cunningham) has already been dealt with by the time we walk in on the situation and, if Mr. J’s taunting of Angie minutes later is to be believed, the greasepainted spiller of gore put a fatal hatchet wound in daddy’s ass! Icky. Jingles is NOT to be believed, however, as when Pops pops back up later in a last breath effort to protect his daughter, the seat of his acid wash jeans remains fully intact and without so much as a Chipotle stain, let alone the promised superfluous additional ass crack.
So, not only is our eponymous antagonist a murderer, but worse he’s also a liar. Well that’s just great. Given such a poor role model it’s no wonder the youth today are such a mess what with their underwear on the outside and their “emorgies” (emoji orgies) and the Twix-ing. Just thinking about it makes my lumbago act up! Somebody get me my Dr. Johnny Walker’s Patented Magical Miracle Tonic!
Though we missed Mr. Randall’s initial injuring, we do show up just in time to see his wife (Karen Turner) get her own innards eviscerated! Well, not really. Technically her sweater gets sliced open and we watch as the pile of butcher shop pig guts she was storing in there for some reason spill out onto the floor.
(Weird. I always thought the large intestines were attached to things. Human biology be damned!)
While hidden deeper in the closet than the dad on ‘The Brady Bunch’, Angie soaks her unmentionables like they were one of those diapers they pour the blue liquid into in the commercials. I’m guessing she had a lot of asparagus that day too, as Mr. J can smell it from across the room, declaring her a bad girl for pissing her panties. Now I just wish I were watching the original Last House on the Left, because as much as watching Krug and friends torment the girls makes my soul want to vomit all over the entirety of existence, at least I wouldn’t be watching Mr. Jingles. Existential dilemma…
(Strange how neither her pajama bottoms nor underwear absorbed that. Maybe they were made of that water repellent fabric that only looks like cotton.)
As I was saying before being so rudely interrupted by myself, the now cornered Angie opts for flight over fight and makes a break for freedom, easily slipping by her pursuer only to trip over mom’s corpse. Her resultant screaming alerts a pair of plain clothes detectives sitting outside in their car (stakeouting because, as we find out, Jinglypuff has been busy on this particular street as of late), which I find odd since J’s louder shouting as he taunted Angie throughout the house wasn’t enough to catch their attention. The cries of distress prompt the pair to spring into action (good thing Coily the Spring Sprite wasn’t there to fuck things up) and fire a few new breathing holes into Jingles with their prop guns that don’t have muzzle flash when fired, and whose shots were just blatantly made with dollar store pop guns. Angie is saved, preceded by the odd random sound of sleigh bells as circus boy attempts to tell her something that will no doubt result in a major pseudo twist/reveal before the finale. Whoopee. And I don’t mean cushions.
Lucky Number Sleven years later (or “seven” if you just want to sandbag my terrible joke), Angie’s lack of pigtails and shapeless bedtime attire denote that she’s all grown up now. And just in time to be discharged from the mental health facility (which is clearly just someone’s living room) she’s been kept in since the death of her parents.
She’s released to the care of her Aunt Helen (Nicole Majdali) with whom she moves in, along with our heroine’s clear lack of significant possessions. Also living with her are her cousins Heidi (Jessica Hall) and Dylan (Nathaniel Ketcham). Heidi’s your typical unremarkable “business casual” girl who is in her early-twenties, while Dylan is your stereotypical Hot Topic high schooler (despite looking to be hovering around 25) and looks like he’d be better suited to play Renton in a musical version of Trainspotting. At least he wears a Goblin shirt for the entirety of his screen time, so that’s one thing not to be disgusted by. It turns out that he’s also enamored with the Mr. Jingles legend and keeps a binder of his collection of newspaper clippings (I’m assuming, since they never show what’s in the damn binder!). He leaves it out in the open too, where Angie immediately discovers it not even five minutes after moving in. Intentional or idiotic? You decide!
Dyl Pickle’s girlfriend and fellow mall goth emo stoner punkish is Melanie (Heather Doba), who decks herself out as a wanna-be member of The Craft. She’s so dark and brooding that when we first meet her she’s smoking weed and giggling profusely about being “The Pretzel Queen”. With the help of their doobie buddies, Chris (Doug Kolbicz) and Curtis (Brian Zoner… which can’t be his real name), the couple plan to ruin Angie’s big welcome home birthday party later by attempting a convoluted Mr. Jingles themed knock-off of the already convoluted sequence from Halloween where Myers, for no other reason than adding some extra theatrical zing to his murder spree, dug up and dragged a quarter-ton headstone around with him… I hate that movie sometimes.
When the quartet head to the local boneyard to dig up Jingles’ tombstone, they find Mel’s dad Bill (Chris Peters – one of the only actors in the cast with a picture in their IMDB profile), who we’ll remember as one of the cops who saved pigtails Angie in the opening. Along with him is Bill’s then-partner-turned-mayor Baines (Tom Reeser) and the cemetery caretaker (Michael Pilson), who called them upon the discovery of a dead body on his God’s acre. The corpse in question is a nameless stranger (John Anton – another actor with an IMDB head shot!) who was dispatched earlier while drunkenly yelling at his mom or dad’s grave, bitching at them for leaving him nothing but unpaid bills and “an alcoholic gene”. His immediate massacre was heralded by a familiar sound byte of sleigh bells before his hand was hatcheted off, screaming all the while like a proverbial girl. The caretaker, who I’ll call “Carl” for the rest of the review, shouts rampant angry accusations at Baines, blaming him for inciting the initial Mr. Jingles murders and also for the new mass killings to come on this, the Sleventh anniversary of the madman’s violent ventilation. But wasn’t he turned into Swiss cheese in a rainbow wig? If he’s dead, how could he possibly be responsible for this nameless dead extra? Surely you, dear reader, underestimate the power of half-assed screenwriting!
After chewing out Baines, Carl takes Bill back to his creepy little apartment for a friendly plot drop over a cup of General Foods International Coffee. According to his story, Jingles was wrongfully accused (starring Leslie Nielsen and Kelly LeBrock!) fifteen years ago when, on her birthday, a freshly four Angie was almost abducted by a bad bad man in their neighborhood. Children’s party clown Mr. Jingles actually saved Angie from the bastard, but her family and neighbors thought her hero was actually her kidnapper and proceeded to beat the Samaritan within that inch of life people always like to refer to. How can you measure someone’s life, either by length of time or quality of physical being, using inches? Shouldn’t you say that he was “near-fatally beaten” and leave it at that? Meh. Pardon my semantics. Not to be confused with my mutant ticks that killed all those seamen.
(Semantics. Seamen ticks. Laugh.)
Though the real Freddy
Keurig Krueger copycat was later captured in the act of trying to nab another brat, Jingles was still jailed for his non-crime to cover up the fact that his gang assault was one big illegal beatdown that would’ve landed everyone involved behind bars themselves. During his time in the big house, Jing-a-ling took up the popular horror movie hobby of occult studies between sessions of being beaten and raped by the guards and his fellow inmates. After 3 years he managed to escape, leaving his little black magic handbook behind in his cell, allowing Carl (who worked at the facility at the time) to snag it for his personal collection. Over the next 4 years (at least if the movie’s muddled timeline is to be believed) Jingles exacted his revenge on the guilty families before finally being stopped that fateful night by Bill and his stupid prop pop gun. But, if Carl’s to be believed, our dollar store Pennywise, with his dying breath, uttered some manner of incantation that made his body a flophouse for residents from the lake of fire. For whatever reason (movie magic is often oddly [i.e. conveniently] loose with the details), said Satanic slumlord of his own biological apartment complex has now returned, Slevin years after his seeming demise and coincidentally coinciding with Angie’s release from the loony bin. Following his long period of unemployment he’s ready to get back to work, confusing his victims with his out-of-season sleigh bells before shoving hatchets into their faces.
Despite being the protagonista of the production, Angie’s part of the movie is the least entertaining, hence why I’ve made a zilch level effort in talking about it till now. It’s just girl talk garbage scenes of Angie, Heidi and Heidi’s friends planning the “Welcome Back to Normalcy and Happy 19th Birthday!” festivities. Oh, and Aunt Helen gets called out of town for important business reasons we’re supposed to ignore. Why? Without her around, the girls can invite boys over against their legal guardian’s instructions! Scandal!
At one point, Heidi just stands in front of the bathroom mirror eye fucking her own amateur porn chesticles for several minutes while letting the shower run (thus WASTING HOT WATER!) as Angie drifts off to sleep in the adjoining room and has a nightmare about Mr. J. Once we get past the detours, our destination leads to the “party”, where the girls and a handful of “band guys” they’re all squishy over sit around smoking weed and trying to get Angie (at her behest) a piece of Rusty (Jacob Baily), the townie Frank Booth – in that he’ll fuck anything that moves. With a name like “Rusty”, and given his infamous promiscuity, I’d bet anything that his circulatory system is swimming with more STDs than Kid Rock’s nut chum. When he walks out on Angie during foreplay (10 minutes of tongue wrestling is about 8 minutes too much) because she has the ill-timed hallucination of her stalker’s face that every PTSD female has in any horror or thriller movie, you have to figure she’s better off not spending the last few moments of her life being invade by Rusty’s penile plagues.
Back to that whole prank thing the potheads were putting together, Dyldo and Mel go back home to pretend sex and leave it up to the C-Boyz to acquire Jingles’ headstone. The fuckoes fail their task when you-know-who literally materializes from nowhere in his new demonic form (i.e. under a rubber mask and wearing demon dentures) and wrecks them both, smacking one in the face with the other’s dick… well, a dildo that we’re supposed to believe is a dick, except that it’s fully erect and has the little “for heightened realism” rubber ballsack front portion still attached…
The murderer's marker in question is hilariously fake too, as it's set aside from the rest of the cemetery stones and much smaller and cleaner than the others despite having been there under little-to-no tree coverage for the last Slevin years. Although Jingles' real name is never mentioned (he's solely referred to by his stage moniker), his stone lists his name as “David Hess”, which explains his perving predilection for Angie's soiled drawers. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't murderers' bodies cremated after they die? I mean, sure, Friday the 13th Part V could have been lying to me about that (which it clearly was, given Jason’s non-cremated body returning in Part VI), but even if Jingles’ body was left for worm food instead, wouldn’t it have been in an unmarked grave to prevent vandalism and/or body snatching? Uggh, this review is going on longer than this movie deserves and making my brain burn way more calories than it should be.
Back at Carl’s place, after spending 10 minutes of runtime convincing Bill that they need to defeat Jingles with an enchanted ceremonial blade (that was probably purchased for $19.99 on one of those 3am knife-o-mercials), the clown shows up at Carl’s door without any explanation of how he knew where to find him and jams his fist through the torso of the only enjoyable member of the entire cast, making the middle finger he flips the camera all the more painfully pertinent.
(Take that people who paid money to watch this camcorder crap pile!)
Our painted predator then proceeds to beat Bill down with the dull sides of his hatchets…thus solidifying that the former law enforcer is now guaranteed to show up again during the finale, bruised but brave, to make the save because Jingleberries forgot how his baby axes work. Maybe he should get a pair of “this side toward victim” stickers for future reference.
From here on out, it’s just a matter of upping the bodycount as much as possible before the curtain call. Mel dresses like Mr. J to scare the uppity party guests devoid of feces, only to be predictably taken out by the real thing, stabbed in the back with the dildo that’s supposed to be her dead friend’s still very erect dismembered member. This leads to Heidi and her boyfriend going into the backyard to investigate, only to be killed themselves. The rest of the group (Dylan included) are all killed off as well, leaving Angie alone to experience Jing Jong-un’s Happy Birthday to Me inspired “corpses positioned sitting around a table” set piece. The two seem poised for their final confrontation, but instead we cut to Mayor Baines and a pair of patrol piggies busting onto the scene, discovering Angie alone among the dead (great name for my next Sex Golem album) and wielding a familiar pair of hatchets. Twist ending that doesn’t make any sense because it was impossible for Angie to be in two places at the same as much as she would have to have been to be the movie’s surprise killer? Nice try, Todd, but nobody’s stupid enough to fall for it. Especially not the guy who sussed the plot twist of The Village just ten minutes into the movie!
Immediately dropping its false finish, as Angie is being led away for the suspected slaughter of her peers and dickhead Baines postulates she’ll spend the rest of her life in the dangerous criminals wing of the mental ward, Bill (toldja so) appears from the darkness and cold cocks the attending female officer (Hitchcocked by directress Tommy Brunswick). He makes off with Angie so the pair can seek to end the menace of The Jingler in the sequel while said unholy roller gives himself two last victims in Baines and the male officer. They made a sequel to this bowel obstruction?! Yep. When your first movie is made for the cost of a rented camcorder, a boom mic, some blank VHS tapes, and enough Red Vines and Mountain Dew to keep your cast happy, you just knew the Brunswicks would be back to make a follow-up as soon as their income taxes cleared!
Oh, and about that big reveal of the thing Jingles tried to tell pigtails Angie before he was shot? Well, according to the nightmare she has before things go to shit, he said “I’ll see you later”…yep, that’s it. A meta joke about the trite cliches of mass produced movie scripts, or just another lead zeppelin attempt at unironically engaging in said cliches? I’ll leave you to figure that out for yourself, as I now need to grab a nap thanks to the narcolepsy that watching Mr. Jingles has struck me with.
…Or, as the imp in the red pajamas keeps telling me as it pokes my ribs with its pitchfork, I need to finish this review. In the name of Dan Kester’s stained man girdle, sometimes I really regret signing my name to that ominous looking scroll in my own blood. Uggh.
Maybe it’s the chronic depression talking, but this movie wasn’t even “so bad it’s funny” fare. It was just pathetic. Bland. Boring. Incapable of eliciting any emotional response from its audience beyond a lot of yawns and watch checking. Funny must have had an order of protection placed against Jingles’ jokes, because there wasn’t a chuckle to be had from any of them. Even Killjoy had a better gag writer than Mr. J, and I harbor a non-racially motivated HATRED for Killjoy!
Mr. Jingles is so stagnantly written and acted and just made that it’s not even worth doing a proper breakdown of. How it found any kind of distribution, even with one of those generically made “look at the evil painting of the monster on the cover!” DVD covers that were so big in the early 2000s, is less stupefying and more sad. Sad that some shithead at Lions Gate agreed to put it out, and I hope whomever it was that signed the contract in question has since exiled themselves to a tiny underground cell to live out whatever remains of their shameful existence, wallowing in their own filth.
There are no actors in this movie. It was not written by someone who deserves to call himself a writer, nor directed by someone who deserves to pretend she’s a director. This is not a movie. What we have here are just…lies. Fucking lies.
It’s probably gonna take me Slevin years to forget this friggin’ dick wrinkle excuse for a feature even exists, and that’s provided I never fall so far down the stairway of my own self worth that I opt to review its sequel first. But then, such is the suffering of the cinemasochist. Don’t cry for me, Argentina. I’m already dead…
Too dramatic? I should’ve been an actor. Speaking of, there is one worthwhile piece of this movie I can get behind besides Dylan’s Goblin t-shirt – Michael Pilson. Mike is the only person in the cast who actually made an effort to act, and boy does he go over the fucking moon. His aggressively angry, shouty style of thespianism made me wish he was the center of the flick, because he was the only star shining in this otherwise pitch black sky. So at least there’s that. Thank you Mr. Pilson.
On that note, cue the end credits. You can call me Doug, cuz I’m outta heeeeeeeeeere.
I call bullshit! That should say “A Tommy Brunswick VIDEO”, because there’s no way this movie was shot on film!
First, “Station Wagons” is two words. Also, the other name sounds like an obtuse way of saying “palm full of jizz”.
A 20 year-old blond wearing pigtails and pretending she’s much younger? That’s usually something you only find in those movies that are preceded by an “All models appearing in this video are 18 years or older” disclaimer.
How the rest of the world sees our new Cheeto-in-Chief.
I never knew Juggalo scrapbookers existed until now.
“Hello? Nintendo Power Line? I was wondering if you had any tips to help me with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Throw it in my toilet, then burn the house down? Got it!”
“Come on, guys. I found out where the neighborhood boys hide their stash of Playboys! We’ll steal ’em all and replace them with my mom’s old Playgirls!”
Every hetero guy’s worst nightmare: when your girlfriend/wife gets her hair done and asks you how it looks.
Set props provided by whatever was left over after the Brunswicks’ last garage sale.
Hey! It’s the movie’s only fan! (And the look on that guy’s face is probably very similar to yours having read this.)
“It’s not gay, man, it’s a prostate massager! Prostate massage is a perfectly natural and healthy way for men to enhance sexual stimulation! Don’t be such a judgmental puritan!”
Folks, never buy your girlfriend lingerie from the “Day After Valentine’s Day Discount Bin” at WalMart. It won’t work out for either of you.
And here we have a failed prototype design for unused Thundercats character Jestro. I’m not sure the story behind it, but it’s easy to see why the show’s creators passed on using him.
Anubis will return next time in
“Guess Who’s Dying at Dinner”
Featuring: Violent “Big Money Hustlas” J , Shaggy “Big Money Rustlas” 2 Dope , Scott “Sleeper” Levy
Director: Roy “Demons at the Door” Knyrim
Writers: Andrew “A Halloween Puppy” Helm , Patrick “Demons at the Door” Tantalo , Roy “Matthew Blackheart: Monster Smasher” Knyrim
So here we are. Death Racers. I came across this speed bump in the autobahn of my self-preservation some months past while researching the list of “bordering on plagiarism so as to confuse ignorant DVD consumers” titles/hate crimes the Asylum’s amassed since its inception. By simply adding “rs”, they somehow managed to Gymkata dodge any legal action by Universal and the creators of Death Race, which itself was just a “re-imagining” of Roger Corman’s Death Race 2000. In other words, today’s roundtable trial by fire (the flames of which are just lit meth farts from a ring of drunken Juggalos) isn’t just a rip-off: it’s a rip-off of a remake of a Roger Corman movie starring the Insane Clown Posse and a professional wrestler who once went by the moniker of Johnny Polo.
To quote a character from the movie, “When, in a million fucking rim job years, was that thought to be a good idea?!”.
Now, the involvement of ICP isn’t an automatic garbage indicator for me. They don’t overload my Detectron (“MST3K: The Incredible Melting Man” joke). I’d rather fill my ear holes with flesh eating Star Trek parasites (“KAHHHHHHHN!”) than listen to any of their music. I’d like to slap them in the face with a grade school science textbook for not knowing how fucking magnets work. But when it comes to their own cinematic side projects, I find them entertaining. Starting with their StrangleMania wrestling tapes in the ’90s and up through their stupid joke movies Big Money Hustlas/Rustlas, if they’d just drop their “nails on chalkboard” horror-rap, or whatever the fuck you wanna call it, I’d have little problem with them! But those are their own productions. For the next 90 minutes, they’re in an Asylum movie. My penis is in love with ’80s Barbara Crampton, but if she was submerged for an hour and a half in a pool full of piss culled from the men’s room troth in the No Holds Barred redneck bar, Lil’ Anubis would turn into Quentin Tarantino’s dick in Planet Terror. Her touch would be like getting a blowjob from the Arc of the Covenant. And I don’t even like ICP, let alone have Crampton love for ’em.
I had to swallow a hand towel before typing that piss pool scenario just to roadblock the column of vomit that I knew would be born from imagining it. Review…saved? Fuck biscuits. I just used my last wish on the monkey’s paw for immortality and get a life sentence in an Arizona prison.
From the opening narration, things literally dosn’t add up. The movie tells us that “3 years from now” (which would’ve been 2011 based on the 2008 release year), a big ol’ war breaks out. Not the usual global conflict between nations, but a war in the US between social and/or fiscal classes. The president declares martial law to bring an end to the chaos and designates a chunk of the western US to serve as a mass penal (huh huh) colony known as The Red Zone (Cuba?), which becomes active in 2033. I can deal with the ambiguity of the “3 years from now” opening. As far back as Mad Max (at least from my own decaying memories), dystopic cinema has made use of the “some imprecise point years from the time you’re watching this” pretense to keep the movie from being badly dated. Many sci-fi movies from the black & white days of low low budgets made bold claims of daily commuter rocket ships to the moon and personal jet packs by the year 1999 that just left most people laughing and others crushingly disappointed on their death beds because b-movies from the ’50s gave them impossible dreams. What cuts massive holes in your “unclear future setting” safety net is when you date a specific event in the same opening narrative as taking place in 2033! Even worse is when you later have a character drop, during a moment of dialogue, the year 2017 being the beginning of said massive conflict! Hey Sisyphus, let’s try rolling this mathelogical boulder up that hill with the 80 degree incline!
Ironically enough, watching this movie in 2014 would make the whole 2017 class war chronology line up perfectly. What botches my brain functions is that this class war supposedly went on for SIXTEEN YEARS before the president declared martial law. Given that martial law wasn’t declared until much later, that would mean that FOUR presidential elections would have taken place amidst the anarchy, since a president can’t stay in office past their term limit unless a state of martial law is indeed in effect. Weird how any president would allow a civil war to take place in the US for such a long period of time without enacting military intervention, or how the opposing factions wouldn’t just overthrow the government altogether in that period of time. Even if we ignore all of that timeline retardation, I’ve got another one for you that we’ll cover a little later. This tangent’s already gone on long enough and I don’t wanna risk losing everybody’s interest before I get to complain about the other few hundred jellyfish stingers, broken glass bottles, and discarded hypodermic needles awaiting us during this walk on the beach.
Let’s take a tour of the vacation hot spot of 2033 vagrant population: the Red Zone. It’s home to a million or so convicted criminals, bloodthirsty maniacs, and the kind of people who would listen fondly to the ICP soundtrack the rest of us are saddled with for the next hour and a half. Being the “stars” of this feature, did you really expect your ears not to be insulted/assaulted by the duo for the extent of your “viewing pleasure”? Your naivete is cute, but it won’t spare you the barbs of reality. Amidst the booming (often literally) population of ne’er-do-wells, the most nefarious is Dinsdale Piranha. At least he was, until Spiny Norman came through looking for him. Dinsdale hasn’t been heard from since. In his place, a super terrorist known only as “The Reaper” (Scott Levy, a.k.a. Raven, a.k.a. Johnny Polo) has ascended the Iron Throne of this evil kingdom. Feared by all in the RZ (though entirely unknown by some residents, as we’ll learn later), Reaps has learned that whoever mapped out the prison completely ignored that there’s a water treatment plant inside that had access to a water shelf through which he can poison the entire country’s H2O supply! Good thing he doesn’t have mass quantities of poisonous chemicals with which to do such a thing…oh, he has a vast and inexplicable supply of Sarin with which to achieve his goal? Well, shit. The government probably should’ve made sure there weren’t barrels and barrels of lethal Sarin in the area too, especially not within such close range to A FUCKING WATER TREATMENT PLANT. Oh government! What are you gonna do, huh? Am I right?! *Blart*
When California governor Reagan Black learns of Reaper’s evil scheme, the best option he can come up with is to hold a Savage Run! No, wait, Savage Runs carry the negative social stigmas of being brutal and barbaric. Instead, he announces the carnival of carnage as “Death Race”! Actually, I’m sorry. In keeping with the movie’s theme, every instance of the term “death race” for the remainder of this episode (with the exception of referring to the title itself) will have to be stated in all caps and accompanied by no less than three exclamation points, like so – DEATH RACE!!! That’s better. The rules of this DEATH RACE!!! are as follows: four groups of two (driver and navigator) are tasked with going to the water treatment plant and dealing with Reaper. If they “deal” with him in the permanent sense, the team will be rewarded 200 points. If he’s “dealt with” in the “bring him back alive” sense, they’ll score a whopping 400 points! But, between the starting line and their target stand hundreds of Reaper’s ravenous Red Zone reprobates. For each of them that these duos deadifies, they’ll rack up 10 points. The team with the most points at the end of the DEATH RACE!!! wins…can you guess? That’s right, their freedom. I see you’ve watched at least one of the 700 other similarly themed “fight for your freedom” movies made in the 80+ years since The Most Dangerous Game. Good for you. You’ll find an extra cookie in your Oreo pie tonight.
To prevent the competitors from killing each other before Reaper can be reaped, there are no points for offing the other teams. But, at the same time, there’s no penalty for doing so, so why not just kill each other anyway? Oh yeah, the explosive planted in each of their necks might be a good motivation to play nice. Indeed, just like contestants in EVERY murder game movie, they’ve been Plisskened. Or rather, Plissken’d. Well played, Governor Black…though there’s never an explanation as to HOW these explosives end up in our racers’ neck meat, of course! Then again, the devil’s in the details and this is obviously a wholesome Christian made movie full of family values and praise for (y)our Lord, and thus there is no room for such infernal information. I CAST THEE OUT, SPECIFICS! Speaking of casts, let’s meet ours:
I ruined everything during the team intros to save time, as I’ll be rapping the entirety of the movie’s remainder in the following two paragraphs. Before you ponder, yes, there is a LOT of pink slime filler in this ground beef, boys and girls. And probably more than the Health Department’s acceptable levels of carcinogens and rat/insect feces. We’re going to be diving headfirst into the Shatlantic Ocean (or the Poocific depending on which coastest you’re closest) from the moment the race starts, so just bite the pillow and accept it and it’ll be over before you know it.
All scenes of “racing” consist of slowly driven cars in sped up footage killing seemingly dozens of extras who run directly in the path of/throw themselves again said crawling automobiles, despite driving barely within range of said extras. These nameless goons wear bandanas bandit style so as to hide their faces in the hopes that you won’t realize they’re re-killed again and again throughout later scenes. An Asylum method that would be unironically recycled years later for the waves of nameless thug fodder murderized in Android Cop. Computer generated rockets and cheap muzzle fire animations lead to Karo Syrup gore splatter. You basically get more realistic scenes of automotive brutality in a round of Mario Kart than you’ll take away from this smorgasbord of so-damn-bad that we’re served here. When they’re not puttering along behind the wheel at 6mph, our combatants leave their cars to engage in extensive scenes of hand-to-(severed)hand and gun-to-head combat with more of the same masked goons. You’d think they wouldn’t want to leave their cars considering it’s a race and they need to get to Reaper by sundown (forgot to mention that part), but as I warned, we’re talking a LOT of time killing in this movie. Someone call the fuzz, cuz’s it’s a full-on chronocide up in here. Wee-woo. Wee-woo.
And, here’s how the last hour of the movie goes – extras get run over; everybody drives; everybody stops to kill the extras again; everybody fixes their cars; everybody drives; love triangle; more killing of extras; the mystery of Governor Black having “insides guys” is introduced; still more driving; “Hey! Let’s go check out that giant circus tent full of (three) whores that wanna castrate us!”; fight Reaper’s killer rape cyborg (we’ll call him RoboCock); back to driving; finally catch up to Reaper and…does it really matter? Spoiler: nope. I pretty much told you everything before. Everybody dies, the west coast is engulfed in flames, the motherfuckin’ END.
It somehow took THREE people to write that…and they already ripped off the entire premise from another movie!
And now, on to the gripes. There’s a lot of ’em people, so you might want to go grab a cup of coffee and a slice of pie before we get started. Hit the bathroom too. I don’t want anybody getting up in the middle of this thing and interrupting me. Ready? Good.
Okay, let’s start with the eyeball burning visual “music video effects” bullshit. Holy creeping terror does this shit get old after the first time we have to watch the movie “rewind” then play the same moment sped up! This is the fucking garbage that a fifteen year-old puts on YouTube when they downloads a pirated copy of Movie Maker for the first time! Crap like this is why MTV doesn’t show music videos anymore! In the sage-like words of the bard Kim Pines, if these shit tier visual “tricks” had a face, I would punch it. Not just punch it, I would punch THROUGH it, with the fist of an angry god. I would punch it so hard that every fragment of solid matter above their neck would simply become a red mist raining upon their shoulders like a crimson version of those dandruff snowstorms you see in the Head & Shoulders commercials. And the Red Zone? For a wasteland of remorseless psychos with no regard for property, much of the place seems to be rather well kept and even peaceful! Honestly, it looks not unlike a small, quiet neighborhood that would be very cheap to film a movie in… The rest of the RZ is just horribly put together images of digitally matte painted industrial shitholes with poorly crafted pixel flames randomly placed to “heighten” the illusion. BLART AGAIN!
Speaking of poorly crafted, Reaper makes for a not great villain. He’s pretty damn one-dimensional, mainly because he’s not really given anything to do but bully and threaten his hench-nerd with varying degrees of bodily harm and death, while simultaneously diminishing the guy’s timetable on getting the whole “poison the water basin” scheme complete. I’d like to blame the writers for Reaper’s faults, but at least half of the problem comes from Levy, who just reinforces the old Tinseltown stereotype of “wrestlers can’t act and actors can’t cut wrestling promos”. Roddy Piper, Jesse Ventura and The Rock notwithstanding. Also, the DVD cover heralds Scott Levy as “WWE’s Raven”, even though Levy had had NOTHING TO DO WITH WWE SINCE 2003! Actually no, that’s not true. At the time Death Racers was made, he was involved with World Wrestling Entertainment…IN A LAWSUIT! Yep, Levy and several other ex-WWE performers were suing their former employer for medical bills and other shit they figured they deserved. In case you were wondering (and I doubt you were), the case was dropped due to some statute of limitations issue. Plus, one of the other wrestlers killed himself. Wrestle In Peace, Kris Canyon. Anway, the Asylum’s entire business model is movies that rip-off the titles of big budget movies in the hopes of getting sales based on name confusion alone, so I think I would’ve been more shocked if they hadn’t name dropped the world’s biggest wrestling company right across the top of their box art. Knobs.
Before we move on from the characters, everybody else is just kinda “kill and get killed” throwaway casting, so they’re no big deal. I DO have a Faygo Jazzin’ Blues Berry 3 Liter sized problem with ICP as characters though. They’re supposed to be fighting for their freedom, but they know NOTHING about the Red Zone! They don’t know that people don’t get to see movies there, they don’t know anything about where they’re going, and despite being a terrifying tyrant who’s supposed to rule the entire Zone and all of its captives, ICP have NO idea who Reaper is! And I’m supposed to believe these two are trying to escape a place that they’ve seemingly never spent any time in?! If I weren’t down to my last keyboard, I’d be smashing my head into mine right now. FUUUUUUUCK!
The movie’s a tribulation of aggravations to be sure. And, as one of the announcers says, it goes “from zero to suck-my-dick in 4.1 seconds”. However, Death Racers is a few curly short hairs shy of being suffocation by a mouthful of pubes. It’s saved from the eternal damnation of Ammut’s digestive tract by the following –
And that’s pretty much it. These three small things don’t excuse the movie from still being terrible in every calculable way, but I didn’t get food poisoning symptoms while watching (not fun, I don’t recommend ’em), so it could’ve been worse. Any accident you can walk away from, right? I mean, sure, it’s the kind of accident where all of the flesh on my arms was torn off…and my face was rearranged… and all of my ribs were broken…and I punctured a kidney…and my genitals are completely unrecognizable…but…at least I’m walking away, right?
3B Theater: Micro-Brew Reviews – Cyberjack
Checkpoint Telstar – Battle Beyond the Stars
Cinematic Apocalypse – Inseminoid
The Terrible Claw Reviews – Carnosaur 2
Now, if you’ll excuse me, my teleprompter has gone dead…“DEATH RACE!” *blip*
Moral of the Story: Sometimes life licks across your anus with a sandpaper tongue. Good news for all you weirdos out there who have ever put peanut butter on your butthole and had your cat lick it off, I suppose.
Most kids walk in on their parents having sex and run away in horror. Then there are kids like this, who run to grab the camcorder. I think I just became impotent thinking about that one.
This is why I don’t trust machines with my health. If I have a heart attack, keep your damn defibrillators away from me!
They say that he who smelt it dealt it, but he who grins like an idiot had broccoli and black coffee for breakfast.
I see somebody’s trying to bring back “Two Girls, One Cup” reaction videos.
I see there was at least one Hot Topic inside the Red Zone when the walls were put up.
He thinks his tats mean something prolific and deep, but they actually say “Eat at the Wanton Won Ton – Daily Lunch Specials! Mention this tattoo and get 10% off your next eat-in order!”.
“Damn it! I can’t get ‘Hip to Be Square’ out of my head!”
“Ahhhhhh! That’s better!”
That’s where the part of my brain that burned with white hot rage every time I saw Jay Leno used to be before I had it removed. Sure, I lost 20% of my memories. Sure, Jay Leno’s finally off of TV (for now). I still stand by my decision, though.
I don’t know. He looks pretty white to me.
“I’ve got that urine sample you asked for, doc. Tell me the truth – how much blood in my urine is too much blood?”
[insert penis innuendo here]
“You ever wonder about how things work, sometimes? Like fucking magnets. How do they…”
“SHUT UP ABOUT THE FUCKING MAGNETS ALREADY, YOU SHIT-FOR-BRAINS CHILDREN’S PARTY REJECT!”
“We live in total squalor and you’re still wasting my money to dye your god damn hair?!”
*whisper* “Keep buying this eye shadow though. I really like it. It smells like apples.” *whisper*
Hipster farmer insists on reaping his own wheat for his whole grain organic artisanal ‘o’ shaped breakfast cereal.
How every boy sees their mother after their circumcision.
She just happens to have a Pagliacci fetish and in Detroit, he’s the best she can do.
Before the creation of batteries, vibrating strap-ons had to be gas powered monsters like that. Given the user fatality rates, they were rarely worth the effort.
“Before you ask, I don’t know how all of those Japanese fart fetish sites ended up in my browser history. Would just please get rid of all the viruses and pop-up windows? I’m watching an eBay auction for a Cheeto that looks like Larry Hagman that ends at 9!”
Most people have the “devil & angel” personifications of morality that materialize on their shoulders. She just has two militants in white pants who tell her to shoot everyone.
Anubis will return next time in
“Viva Spook Vegas”
Featuring: Jessica “The Illusionist” Beil , Jonathan “The Ruins Tucker , R. Lee “Full Metal Jacket” Ermey , and Andrew “Street Fighter Bryniarski as Leatherface
Director: Marcus “Pathfinder” Nispel
Writer: Scott “The Machinist” Kosar
Given how you’re one of those “SPORTS ARE ALL WE LIVE FOR!” states, you might wanna get some first aid cream for that sick burn, Texas. No, that’s A-1…actually, you know what, stick with the A-1. It fits the theme of tonight’s movie!
“Shake, Bake, & Remake” continues tonight with episode 3: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre…yet ANOTHER production of the living intellectual black hole Michael Bay. Originally a cosmic entity who came to Earth to steal the collective intelligence of the world’s inhabitants, with which he would power the dreaded doomsday device he planned to destroy his home planet, Bay discovered the perverse joys of bilking we humans of our hard-earned wages using big budget Hollywood productions that corrupted the creations of others to serve his purposes. His evil is eternal, and as long as his victims continue to murder their minds at his hands, his reign will remain unchallenged and continue to spread its corrupting influence until the childhoods of ALL people have been irreversibly eradicated.
Bay’s actually the perfect knob to produce a movie like this, because much like Texas his stuff’s all loud noises and bluster without any actual substance. Hell, even the way his company Platinum Dunes has made its name bastardizing other peoples’ work fits because Texas’s greatest boogeyman, Leatherface, is just a “remake” of infamous ol’ Ed Gein, a native of Wisconsin! Ah, Wisconsin…whose virtues can all be found in the MST3K episode for The Giant Spider Invasion, as seen at >>THIS LINK<<. PUDDING!
Okay, I’ve been shitting on Texas and Michael Bay long enough (at least for this episode), so let us tarry (Gilliam?) no longer. Let’s sink our teeth deep into the steak sauce soaked heart of the Lone Star State and have a family reunion with the Sawyers. Wait, they’re the Hewitts now? Damn it. Well, at least they’re not the “Slaughter” family anymore. Stupid fucking “Next Generation” Zellweger/ McConaughey bullshit. Damn it Kim Henkel, if you hadn’t contributed to the original Hooper movie I’d gas up my time machine, go back to 1944, and burst your dad’s testicles with an air hammer.
Much like he did 30 years earlier, John Larroquette narrates us into the proceedings, starting almost word-for-word with his original TCM intro (which was so great I used to have it as a track on one of my mix cds) before going into further detail about the post-incident police investigation and spoiling the ending of the movie right away by telling us that the mystery was never solved. What seems like the setup for a sequel instead rewinds us back to 1973 and a Scooby-Doo style group of 5 twenty-somethings in their Scooby-Doo style ’70s VW van. The gang are on their way back from a trip to Mexico, smuggling 2lbs of Tijuana Mary Jane, as they make their way across the Texas outback to a Lynard Skynard concert in Dallas. For our younger readers, Lynard Skynard are those guys that Kid Rock wishes he was when’s not pretending he lives in a trailer park in Compton.
Gone are Sally Hardesty and her invalid brother Franklin, replaced instead by our heroine Erin (Jessica Bile errrrr Biel), her boyfriend Kemper (Eric Balfour), and their friends Pepper (Erica Leershen), Andy (Mike Vogel), and Morgan (Jonathan Tucker). Because chainsawing an obnoxious gimp in a wheelchair only brings bad press in this day and age (11 years ago), all of our cast are able-bodied victims-to-be. And because audiences don’t like innocent victims, they’re smuggling the weed to make them morally impure and thus acceptable saw fodder. Of course Erin is the exception though, since she needs to survive the whole ordeal, so she was unaware of the illicit substance transferal, proclaims herself against it when she does find out, and subsequently turns down a toke of the communal joint when it’s passed her way because she’s “nauseous”. If Vegas was taking bets on the mortality rates for this group, “Erin is the only one who makes it out alive” would be 1:10 odds – in other words, for every $10 you bet, you’d only get $1 back when, not “if” but “when”, you win. Doesn’t make sense? Let it sink in for a minute, then go call whatever member of your family has a gambling problem and ask them to explain it to you. Every family has at least one. And if you don’t know who it is? Spoiler: it’s you.
While motoring down a deserted country road (i.e. every road in Texas not found in a major city), our meddling kids almost run down a young woman walking aimlessly on the pavement. In an apparent state of shock (an obvious victim of some manner of brutal torment), they offer the dazed female a ride back to civilization, only to have her whimper something about how she “won’t go back there” and condemn everyone in the van to their doom. She then pulls a revolver from between her blood caked inner-thighs (I used to know a girl who did photo shoots like that…minus the blood, of course), puts it into her mouth like it were Ryan Gosling, and sends her brains on the next bullet train to Fort Worth! With a massive hole blown through their rear window and their interior now painted crimson with accents of “Skull Fragment” White and “Gray Matter” Gray, the gang pull over to have their individual freak outs and try to remember the Drivers’ Ed protocol for “What to do when a hitchhiker kills his or herself in your back seat”.
Since they’re a few thousand miles too far from the San Fernando Valley to drop by The Wolf’s place (and trapped in a far worse feature), they opt to take their new friend (or what’s left of her) with them to the nearest semblance of civilization so they can report the freak suicide to the authorities. But, because they’re snarky tourists who do nothing but bitch about the stupid podunk no-horse town they’re in, they wind up getting the runaround (starring Stiffler and The Rock!) and eventually take a vote to decide whether to keep trying to hunt down the local constabulary or just dump Suicidey and get the fuck outta Dodge before they miss opening act Molly Hatchet and their sweet live extended rendition of “Flirtin’ With Disaster”. The gents vote for the hasty retreat, but the girls invoke the Veto Right of Cock Block, so once again, everyone’s going to be disemboweled because the ladies have misplaced sentimentality for some stranger who opted to ventilate the back of her brain pan in their Mystery Machine. Oh, the dangers of estrogen.
The search for the Sheriff leads our crew to an old Scooby-Doo style abandoned mill, where they run into a little deformed boy named Jedidiah (David Dorfman), who looks like he wandered away from the set of a Deliverance remake three sound stages down. He directs Erin and Kemp to the Sheriff’s home nearby, which is an old Scooby-Doo style rundown plantation house. Though there’s STILL no Sheriff to be had, they meet a stump legged, molest-y handed geezer in a wheelchair named Monty (Terrence Evans) who offers to let Erin use his phone to call the Sheriff’s office, while Kemper is elsewhere being introduced to big Scooby-Doo style goon Thomas Hewitt (Andrew Bryniarski) wearing a very non Scooby-Doo style mask that’s less “rubber werewolf face” and more “patchwork human flesh”. Kemp gets a splitting headache via sledgehammer (and I don’t mean David Rasche) and dragged off to become tonight’s main course while Erin is told her boyfriend went back to the van, so she heads back herself. Speaking of the van, Sheriff Hoyt (Lee “please save this movie” Ermey!) finally arrives, takes the gun the dead girl shot herself with and pops it into his empty ankle holster (that’s not good…), then has the guys help him mummify her in Saran Wrap and dump her into the trunk of his cruiser before leaving. When Erin comes back to no Kemper, the gang does the Scooby-Doo style “let’s split up (so we’ll be easier to kill)” thing with Pep and Morgan staying with the vehicle while Erin and Andy go back to the shithole mansion to search for their errant amigo. Rut-roh, this can’t end well, Raggy…
Grandpa Gimp (“Gimpa”?) catches the snooping kids meddling around the house and summons up his juggernaut kin to dispose of them in the most violent manner possible, which includes bringing the titular power tool out for its big screen debut. Erin escapes, but while being chased through the world’s largest labyrinthine collection of clothesline dried sheets Andy gets his leg bisected by the hungry teeth of Bubba’s, I’m sorry, “Thomas’s” flesh-rending, gas-powered, death dealing chainsaw. If you had to use a chainsaw to cut open a pregnant woman and remove her child, would the baby be…………… “STIHL-born”?! Wakka-wakka!
No sooner does Erin-on-the-safe-side (BLART!) get back to the van and declare her intentions to hit the road harder than Ike hit Tina (Don’t boo me! Dig out your Ouija Board and boo Ike Turner!), then Hoyt returns, this time acting even less like genuine law enforcement and just straight up starts torturing the remaining trio: threatening them, interrogating them, and ultimately dragging Morgan off in the back of his squad car. The girls are left to deal with Leatherface (a name that’s never actually used, but I insist on using for the rest of the review), who runs into the scene showing off his newest acquisition: a mask made of Kemper’s face, which is actually pretty damn creepy! Pepper dies when she tries to ward off ‘Face’s spinning death blade with her bare hands, and the gruesome stuff is left off-screen, likely because Suicidey’s self brain blowing probably burned up all of the MPAA’s allotment for graphic violence portrayed against women within a 90min run time.
Erin escapes to a nearby trailer, but as you can imagine, EVERYBODY within a 3 mile radius of the place is a member of this family. Such is the case with the two creepy ladies our protagonista encounters. Before she realizes it though, they exposition us on ‘Face’s backstory (he was born with a weird skin disease so HE HAS NO NOSE…shock…horror) and drug her with Celestial Seasons’ new Sleepytime EXTREME!!!!® herbal tea. She wakes up back at the house and gets dumped into the Hewitts’ confusingly HUGE basement, which is flooded with water for no other reason than to get Jessica Biel into a wet white t-shirt with no bra. She finds Andy clinging to his last morsels of life while suspended on a meathook, and tries against his wishes to lift him off of it, only to get it jammed in even deeper. Ouch. Finally giving up, Erin plunges a filet knife between her buddy’s ribs as his one last behest (all I can think of is Glen Danzig singing those last three words in his Elvis horror voice) before moving on and finding what’s left of Morgan, pummeled to shit and handcuffed with a gunshot in his back, doing what I can only assume to be basting in a bathtub full of filthy water. Practically carrying his busted ass on her own, they manage to escape the reappearing Leatherface thanks to help from the little deformed boy, who I’m starting to think may be ‘Face’s son…or nephew…maybe brother? Whatever. He could be his grandpa for all I know! Keeping track of an incest family tree is harder than figuring out the Pullman-Paxton Principle.
The duo escape to a nearby cabin/barn (all these dilapidated buildings look the same to me), but the struggle to save Morgan is fundamentally for jack naught, as he just ends up another sacrifice on the altar of the saw gods…and as a cautionary tale reminding you to only have your vasectomies performed by trained professionals! Now, having failed to save any of her friends, and the only remaining ham yet to be hocked, Erin takes flight once more. This time their Scooby-Doo style chase sequence (sans Monkees music) takes them to a nearby abattoir, partially because her shirt has now dried and needs to be drenched again in the animal shower. Ironically enough, I feel this is the ONLY place within running (and screaming) distance of that house that isn’t under Hewitt control. Not because it’s full of cows rather than humans, but because it’s just so damn clean and well maintained compared to EVERY other structure this movie’s taken place in up till now. For the first time in the entire movie (except maybe for the earlier scenes where she hot wires the van and picks a padlock with the tip of a pocket knife) Erin proves herself a potently bad-ass female lead when she lures ‘Face into a small locker room too narrow for him to maneuver his huge overcompensating chainsaw, then hacks off his fucking arm at the elbow with a meat cleaver! You GO, grrrrrrl!
Someone please hit me with a brick now. *THUNK* Thank you.
All awesomeness from the preceding scene is immediately flushed out to sea like so much improperly disposed of toxic waste though, because Leatherface’s arm does NOT spray geysers of gore everywhere, despite having MAJOR ARTERIES HACKED THROUGH! None at all! He flails around screaming his animal noises and recoups his still running saw without dumping so much as a pint of blood, let alone the gallons of ichor that losing half your damn arm would result in! I thought we had a moment there, TCM. We looked into each other’s eyes, stood on the verge of a deep, nigh-kismetic exchange of our very souls…and you threw up on my ceremonial reviewing robes. Expect my dry cleaning bill. And please don’t attempt calling me for another date. I won’t be kind. In fact, I may burn down your house.
Finally, Erin makes her way back to the family (long story about a truck driver I prefer to truncate for the sake of not wanting to type anymore about this movie) amidst a pouring rainstorm (can’t let that t-shirt get dry or the little boys in the audience will stop watching!), kidnaps a baby (again, not interested in explaining), steals Sheriff Hoyt’s car, and ends the movie on a high note by running the twisted bastard over THREE times (if you’re gonna do a job, do it right!) before escaping into the night… and narrowly running over ‘Face, who’s not only barely phased by LOSING HIS ARM, but somehow acquired the Jason Voorhees teleportation engine to get that far ahead of her in the time since she left him back at the plant.
In an epilogue (that actually continues our opening narration), we learn that ‘Face is STILL ALIVE SOMEHOW, thus threatening a sequel (that would be dropped in favor of a prequel before Lionsgate bought the rights from New Line) where I was hoping we’d see our villainous psychopath pull an Ash and run around with his chainsaw now strapped to his stump. Denied. Oh well. The weirdest part is that this epilogue is delivered through footage of a police walk through of the Hewitt house after the events of the movie proper. ‘Face attacks and (presumably) kills the cops in question while the camera is rolling, but John Laroquette never says anything about how or when the footage was recovered… or how the cops got their asses handed to them by a big galoot with only one arm. Whatever. Fuck it. The END!
If nothing else, Texas Chainsaw Massacre continues/started the general disdain of horror movie fans for weak cheese, needless remakes. I tried to go into it with no expectations so I could keep my disinterest pure, but when I found out that the writer of The Machinist was in charge of the screenplay, it came with the hopeful implication that this might not be the slog through sewage that I feared it would be deep in the cosmic vortex where my heart should be. In the end? Well, it was still a slog, but the shit sludge was more chest deep than eyeballs, so at least I didn’t get any in my mouth. In addition to the half-competent writer, I was happy to at least see director Nispel knew to remake Hooper’s classic shots of the wide open Texas sky. And he does a solid knock-off “homage” to Hooper’s eerie tracking shots of the family’s rundown abode, made all the more effective by the Hewitts’ decrepit plantation home. Speaking of creative, Hooper and Henkel were on as co-producers, but as far as how much of a hand they actually had in this shit show is unknown. I want to say very little, but neither are exactly well known for being infallible bastions of cinematic greatness. I refer you to my previous statement regarding a time traveling air hammer and exploded balls.
Now, we know why TCM is slightly better than our previous two half-baked remakes, but let’s really tackle why it’s still a steaming Texas Chili Bowl of a movie…and yes, before you ask, a “Texas Chili Bowl” is a poop-sex thing. The biggest offense? It’s boring. I checked my watch several times wondering how much more I had to sit through, and that’s REALLY not good when your movie is only about an hour and a half long. I had no real problems with Leatherface himself…except that he’s not ONCE called Leatherface…and the mystery is ruined when we’re very clearly shown his face…and they try to make him sympathetic by turning him into a ridiculed man-child with a skin condition…and this skin condition assumingly made the blood in his arms stop flowing…and they took away the whole transvestite thing because it was probably too “sissy” for a “scary” horror movie villain…and I couldn’t get over the fact that he was played by the same dude who was Zangief in that Street Fighter movie that was so campy it could’ve been a Meatballs sequel. So, yeah, I guess I had plenty of problems with “Thomas Hewitt” after all.
The victims were pretty much all useless skin sacks, starting the trend of Platinum Dunes characters that we couldn’t care less about when they’re being hacked to bits, and that’s NOT just because I’m a sociopath. When Alfred E. Neuman images get more of a reaction out of me than any member of your actual cast, you’re doing something terribly wrong. Speaking of the cast, whose idea was it to expand the family to include so many ancillary members?! When it was Cook, Hitchhiker, and Leatherface, or Drayton, Chop Top, and Leatherface, the family was at its strongest because we only had three members to keep track of and they each had their chances to stand out! Not only do the Hewitts have five or six (or seven) members, but out of the only three whose names I remembered, Thomas was one of the least dimensional, Jedidiah was only around for two scenes, and despite being the clear focus of the group, Hoyt feels like he wasn’t taken far enough. He came off less like the sadistic animal that Chop Top and Hitchhiker were, and more like just another Texas asshole with a badge.
Final judgment? If the saw truly is family, then this family member deserves to be driven out into the desert and left to the coyotes. Though not the strike that Friday the 13th and A Nightmare on Elm Street were, this installment of “Shake, Bake, & Remake” was definitely a hard foul and has made no case that remakes shouldn’t be allowed by penalty of death via air hammer between the legs, for males and females. Avoid this Scooby-Doo mystery if you can, ignore if you can’t, and kick it in the gonads while shouting “NO MEANS NO!” if it persists. Say no to cash-ins, kids. Zoinks. Good night, patriots!
Moral of the Story: Brains look kinda like lasagna…so John Arbuckle is the first/most fucked if a zombie outbreak hits the Sunday Comics.
When asked if his cameo in Texas Chainsaw Massacre caused him any concern for his safety, Mr. Neuman replied, “What? Me wo… you know what, *expletive* this. Interview over.” before giving his interviewer a crass gesture and walking away.
An alternate time line’s Courtney Love in a dimension where Nirvana went on to have a long and illustrious career.
“Hey, I never agreed to have my likeness appear in a Michael Bay production! Someone get my agent on the phone! RIGHT MOO!”
Hey Jessica, don’t look it as a filthy toilet bowl. Look at it as a crystal ball showing you the future of your career!
It’s the rare San Diego ComicCon exclusive “White Trash Legolas” collectible variant figure! Buy one to resell and another to pose on your shelf making out with the mail away “Rodeo Clown Aragorn” figure you got for sending in 300 Lucky Charms box tops!
“Does anyone else hear banjo music and the sound of a middle-aged man squealing like a pig?”
Keep feeling around old man. You could be back there all day and you still won’t find anything. You’ll have better luck finding a hymen in a strip club than you will an ass in those pants.
What a mansion! It’s like redneck Xanadu! It’s Texas’s Tarra!
Lee Ermey tried to turn this role into a Reynold’s Wrap spokesperson gig with limited (i.e. no) success.
I was gonna make a joke about how good it was to see somebody finally shut Harry Knowles up, but then I realized this is actually him and I just feel completely ripped off.
Did you know that the best way to preserve old photographs is inside of a mason jar full of urine? It’s true! Don’t ask me how I came to that conclusion.
Special cameo by Michael Jackson! If he doesn’t have a nose, how does he smell? Awful. *rim shot*
Sweet mother Isis! That’s the most nightmarish thing I’ve seen since the unreleased Hulk Hogan/Bubba the Love Sponge sex tape! GAH!
Leatherface put a lot of effort into the mask for his Tony Stark Halloween costume, but everybody thought he was supposed to be James Franco and avoided him.
That reminds me, whatever happened to Calista Flockhart?
I think I’ll order a pizza tonight. I don’t know why, but I’m in the mood for sliced pepperoni.
Ahhhh, somebody saw Field of Dreams and thought it’d be a good idea to build a baseball field behind their house too.
“Blair Meat Co.”? A subtle hint that Platinum Dunes also plan on running The Blair Witch Project through the meat packing remake factory too? Probably not. They only ruin good movies.
“Now let’s get you home, little lady. Momma’s had a long night and she’s got a hankerin’ for veal!”
Anubis will return next time in
“The Shape of Things to Come (Looks Kinda Like William Shatner)”
Featuring: Michael Jai “Black Dynamite” White , Randy “The Dukes of Hazzard: the Beginning” Wayne , Kadeem “Def By Temptation” Hardison
Director & Writer: Mark “Knight of the Dead” Atkins
“That skin job. That psychopathic soda machine. That menace!”
Disclaimer: in the wake of our last episode, Abraham Lincoln Vs. Zombies, I’ve challenged myself to stay clear of any and all fecal allusions (aka “poo-llusions”) for this review. Will my wit carry me through this self-imposed censorship to new heights of humor, or will it go over like a wet fart at brunch? Only one way to find out…
Oh, and that “wet fart” comment was part of the disclaimer and NOT the review proper, so it doesn’t count. Blart.
The Asylum. We meet again.
Every time a big deal movie comes out, you can bet they’re just waiting in the rafters to swoop down and torment us again like Gilberto’s war wound (“THE WOUND!”)! We’ll never fucking be rid of them. This is my second Asylum visit in as many weeks, and my third such run-in in six months. I’m starting to have nightmares. Poorly shot, badly structured nightmares where the people all talk like they’re reading from scripts by high school dropouts who couldn’t get work writing for small town used car lot commercials on their best days. Nightmares littered with special effects horrors thrown together on some AV geek’s iPad. Do you think they call themselves The Asylum because sitting through too many of their movies will get you institutionalized? If enough of my next-of-kin read these reviews, can they call the guys with the straitjackets on me and get me padded room accommodations at the loony bin (preferably the one from Dead Pit) because I’m a danger to myself? Wouldn’t be the first time and won’t be the last, either. To paraphrase Bob Dylan: how many Asylum movies must a man sit through before they can call him a man? Whatever that hypothetical number may be, I’m pretty sure I’m due my Bar Mitzvah after this one. Though you can bet that, were I a Jewish girl, my Bat Mitzvah would be populated with people dressed as Batman in yarmulkes. Appropriate since his creators Bob Kane and Bill Finger were both Jewish! *The More You Know*
Alright, Android Cop. I “discovered” this clusterfuck like most parents “discover” their kids’ lost LEGO blocks – with complete surprise, followed by seemingly endless pain, and a rage that makes the skies tremble. While researching for my Black Dynamite review, I wanted to see what’s been distracting Michael Jai White from making Black Dynamite 2. Amongst other things (like the critically acclaimed “Mortal Kombat: Legacy” web series and the “Black Dynamite” animated series), White made a car payment with this Asylum cesspool of elements stolen from WAY better movies. More than just the RoboCop rip-off you’d expect it to be (it even straight up steals “The Future of Law Enforcement” tagline from the RoboCop poster!), Android Cop gets greedy and makes its way through the sci-fi movie retirement home, stealing pills and jewelry from the rooms of a handful of unsuspecting movies left to stare out of their windows while they piss their Depends in blissful ignorance. Way to scumbag it up, AC. Dredd. The Surrogates. Escape From LA. Doomsday. Hell, they even try to steal the entire plot of non-sci-fi classic The Warriors, but just kinda dropped the idea altogether, nonplussed with whether the audience (i.e. poor suckers like myself forced to watch it Clockwork Orange style) would notice or not! Then again, given their track record, The Asylum’s too busy wondering which movies to purloin for their next feature (and which off-shore account to hide the unspent production costs in) to worry about what the people paying to see their movies think…proof that capitalism doesn’t work.
The year is 2037…but ignore all of the early millennium brand cars and technology, because it’s 2037 and it’s your own fault if you ruin the illusion by pointing it out. A massive earthquake has left much of L.A. looking oddly similar to a gravel pit in some parts, a Spahn-like movie ranch set in others, and some poorly made dystopic digital cityscape background art for the rest. What was once Beverly Hills is now referred to as “The Zone” (sharing its name with this awesome DVD store I used to frequent that sold bootleg discs for Japanese movies like Lady Snowblood, Baby Cart to Hades, and this weird ass Ninja Turtles henshin cartoon called “Super Turtles” that you can watch here). A victim of nuclear fallout, it’s where the poor radioactively contaminated people are forced to live in exile while the nastiest gangs of miscreants on the West Coast have ALL set up shop there due to the lack of a police presence… and because they’re not too worried about the minor nuisance of all that RADIOACTIVE FALLOUT. When the LAPD SWAT do go into The Zone to hunt down a dangerous terrorist, lone wolf officer Hammond (Michael Jai White) runs off from his group (and the horrible, feather-strewn-for-no-reason, slow motion shootout they’ve gotten themselves involved in) in pursuit of the suspect. The bad guy gets the drop on our hero, but Hammond’s ham is saved at the last second thanks to the LAPD’s newest addition: Android Cop!
I’m sorry, I feel that exclamation point is really mis-representative of my feelings on the titular character. I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea. I’m in no way excited about Android Cop, nor am I shedding anything even remotely implied as a positive light upon him. Android Cop is, as his name states, a robot who looks like a man and fights crime. But, since this is an Asylum production, that just means he’s a dime store Val Kilmer knock-off clone (or as he’s known in the credits, “Randy Wayne”) doing a bad Data impression and decked out in some repainted Stormtrooper cosplay outfit over a black mock turtleneck, and makes those generic whirring servo sound effects every time he takes a step. And occasionally he wears a big dumb helmet with a plastic bubble face-shield. How dumb? Oh, you’ll see. Shit like this is why I insist on including screenshots with my reviews. But, that’s for dessert, children. First, finish your creamed okra and Pickled Fish Lip Surprise. I slaved over an open flame all day making this slop… it melted my laptop, so you better appreciate it.
It turns out that Advanced Autonomous Artificial Intelligence Neural-net Law Enforcement Droid I-1 (as my first girlfriend used to say, “That’s a MOUTHFUL!”) is Hammond’s new partner. Their team-up is a field test to see if androids, whom have basically been relegated to house servants and sex toys until now, will work as police officers. Despite his obvious prejudices against working with a “skin job”, Hammy bestows the whimsical nickname of “Andy” to his tin can lawman, but mostly because the acronym A.A.A.I.N.L.E.D.I-1 doesn’t lend itself to any good names of its own like M.O.D.O.K. or M.A.N.T.I.S. or Robo-C.H.I.C. Engineers of the future are uncreative as fuck. Don’t they know you’re supposed to make the cool acronym first then figure out the actual words after?! Isn’t that one of the prerequisite classes to get your Engineering degree? I mean, it never worked for us at H.O.P.E.L.E.S.S., but we were a bunch of stoned high school kids, and you don’t need a Master’s to do bong hits and watch shitty movies… though I’m pretty sure an Associates in Liberal Arts wouldn’t hurt… my point is, engineers – DO YOUR JOB!
After the new odd couple (Simon & Simulacra? Jake and the Bot Man? MicroCHiPs?) talks a guy out of killing himself in an overly long scene that’s only there to show us that Andy can hack cell phones, the duo are assigned to a case that takes them back into The Zone… for a place that’s supposed to be lawless, this is the second time the LAPD’s been sent into it in as many days. Helen Jacobs (Larissa Vereza), the daughter of L.A.’s Mayor Jacobs (Charles S. Dutton), has gone missing in the fallout area and it’s up to our shield bearing heroes to find her and bring her back, safe and sound. There’s actually a LOT more to the mission, including two different conspiracies (one about wiping out The Zone’s criminal base, the other regarding a higher brow realty scheme, and both involving Kadeem “Dwayne Wayne” Hardison), a whole plot point about Helen being in cahoots with a faction of revolutionaries, some complicated crud revolving around more androids, and a full-on Shyamalan (“What a TWIST!”) that forgets surprise endings are supposed to come at the end and NOT at the 65 minute mark! The sad part? Mark Atkins probably considered having the big plot twist reveal 30 minutes early is the big plot twist.
You know what Mark should’ve considered? The palpable disappointment of every woman whose partner’s premature ejaculation has ruined their night, of which I’m sure Mr. Atkins has had a few. Remember the pain of being asked “Is that it!?” by the dissatisfied lady beneath you, as your already softened dong slipped out, smearing spilled seed against her leg as you pleaded “This NEVER happens to me!” and begged her to stay the night, knowing full well she’d be dressed and out the door in mere moments, spreading the tales of your “twelve second hero” prowess to all of her friends the next day while you considered playing roadkill under the tires of the nearest bus? Why would you do this to us, Mark? Why would you do it to yourself? Oh well, this is (for the hundredth time) an Asylum flick after all. If there were such a thing as transparency in the movie industry, the title for this 90 minute headache would be Hemorrhoid Cop…which is a butt joke, not a poop joke, so keep your challenge card in your pants.
In my Abraham Lincoln Vs. Zombies review, I noted the almost obscene amount of extras that Asylum had hired to play zombies and soldiers. It probably helps that the closest thing they had to a known actor in the entire thing was Daytime Emmy Award winner Bill Oberst Jr., and the effects budget was restricted to zombie makeup and digital splatter. Android Cop went for bigger names from the Hollywood unemployment line, and their effects budget required that goofy CG VTOL chopper (more on that in a minute) and all the odd, needless lens flare effects, so when they promise us “all of the most dangerous gangs in the west coast” they should’ve been more honest and said “a dozen or so guys with their faces obscured so you won’t realize we’ve used them once or twice in the movie already”. The way it’s done, it feels like they shot the sequence explaining the gang war battle royale before they realized they couldn’t afford it, then realized they couldn’t afford to go back and re-shoot it. They may have forgotten to go back and just edit it out, but that feels like I’m giving them way more credit and not nearly enough scorn in their scornhole. Safe money’s on everyone involved being too focused on getting this garbage over and done with as soon as possible so they wouldn’t miss happy hour at the nearest Applebee’s. Speaking of, I’m pretty sure they paid Kadeem Hardison in Applebee’s gift cards for his work here, because his waistline looks to have been the testing site of numerous Cowboy Burger Bombs since we saw him getting tempted into deffness opposite Samuel L. Jackson. I hear the folks at Asylum tried to get Jasmine Guy for a role in Android Cop, to do a kind of “A Different World” non-reunion reunion the way Kevin Smith had both Mark Hamill and Carrie Fisher in Jay & Silent Bob Strike Back. Miss Guy’s apparently got an exclusive contract for “The Vampire Diaries” though and couldn’t do it… nor would I imagine she’d want to, barring some kind of blackmail scheme or yakuza honor debt. I hear The CW pays in Ruby Tuesday gift cards too, so Asylum can’t really compete with that. Oh well, our “A Different World” fanfic will have to tide us all over a little longer…
Tearing down every aspect of this digital abortion would only waste precious hours of our lives, so I’ll focus the remainder of my loathing into a concentrated laser beam of death and fire on my personal ground zero – the only piece of technology the police force of the future has that can be construed as futuristic (aside from their tin man in the $60 full body plastic armor) is their Vertical Take-Off and Landing (VTOL) helicopter. My problem isn’t with the fact that the VTOL’s 100% computer generated. It shows a complete lack of creativity, but it is financially viable, and it at least looks better than something out of “Transformers: Beast Wars”. My problem (and remember, this is the big stupid construct upon which I am crucifying this movie), is that the inside of this chopper is decidedly NOT digital. For the scenes with our boys-in-blue inside of the ride, a physical set was used, and the higher ranking officers in tow sit in… wheeled office chairs… inside of a high speed aircraft… office chairs with wheels… inside of a very fast moving helicopter. Think about that. Just for a moment. If you don’t see what’s wrong with that, think about it a little longer. Think about it until you do realize what the problem is, then STOP thinking about it. Because if you think about it for even a moment longer, fissures will open up in your brain. Lovecraftian horrors will claw their way free from your deepest fears through these fissures. They will rend your very mind before, finally, vomiting a thick sludge of pure madness all over it. An eclipse of insanity from which the glow of reason will never again emerge… not unlike becoming a Scientologist. All because some assholes threw some wheeled office chairs onto a gods damned helicopter set and thought: “Fuck it. Good enough”.
A few years ago, I teamed with former Tomb collaborator and current Cinemasochist Apocalypse head honcho Brother Ragnarok to double penetrate another Robocop knock-off called Robo-Vampire. It’s this scrod-awful Hong Kong movie from infamous director Godfrey Ho…well, unknown director to most, but infamous as fuck to those of us who have been blighted by the knowledge of his nefarious cinematic violations of the human good. I hate-fucked RV (not the Robin Williams movie, though I’m sure I’d hate that just as much), while Rags popped a blue steel boner the likes of which even Wilford Brimley’s cat couldn’t scratch (holy Hellraiser, Cocoon was WEIRD). There’s something to be said about a movie whose cyborg protagonist’s stunt double is a big, empty, humanoid suit of tin foil, and that something is “sweet zombie Buddha, I need a Vicodin and Bushmill smoothie to get rid of the headache that Robo-Vampire curb-stomped me with”. There’s something else I can say about it now too – “I’d rather watch Robo-Vampire every day for a week than sit through Android Cop one more time”.
In the last few episodes, The Asylum’s dragged me through new levels of movie damnation than I once thought possible, if by no other reason than the sheer volume of garbage they pollute the market with. I never thought I’d look back on the lowest days of Full Moon with fondness, but I’ve been proven wrong. Asylum’s not like Roger Corman, giving stars-to-be like Jack Nicholson or Clint Eastwood reels to get their foot in the door for movies that would lead to legendary careers entertaining others. No, The Asylum’s just a place that gives awful roles to pop culture punchlines who were better left to disappear into the arctic waters of obscurity with their sad, dying eyes like a group of Hollywood Jack Dawsons. If someone like Jeff “Night of the Living Dead 3D” Broadstreet is that guy dumping the occasional barrel of used motor oil into the sewer via the piss drain in his garage floor, then Asylum is a fracking operation poisoning the surrounding land for miles and turning all nearby water supplies into napalm. Sure, they give people jobs, but the damage they do with their productions is tragic and often irreversible.
Speaking of burning fluids, I’ve got a date with Hel tonight and have an appointment for a manicure (my humpin’ socks are at the dry cleaner’s) and a flea dip in preparation, so I gotta bring this episode to a close. I bid you all adieu and, since I made it the whole review without a single poop joke, I bid you all a doo-doo too…number two! 😛
Moral of the Story: Wheeled office chairs… on a high speed helicopter… MY BRAIN!
Wow, pick-up truck technology of “the future” is light years ahead of our own! So many great advances in “the future”… the… future…
In the future, terrorists apparently carry their terrorism tools in briefcases? Oh shit, that means… hipster terrorists are probably doing that very thing NOW before it becomes popular! Someone get Homeland Security to Brooklyn!
National Enquirer exclusive: Madonna captured on film… without makeup!
What’s with all the damn feathers?! Did this gunfight take place on a chicken farm combination land mine testing ground!?
As promised, our hero and his big suppository helmet. Appropriate since he spends most of the movie with his head up his ass. Strap a pair of wings on either side and he looks like the ship from Fantasy Zone!
At all times he has the looks of a man who’s been hit with a fish. Also, I didn’t know androids looked so “moist”. Blart.
“Hey, Chief? When do you think the LAPD will be able to get real offices? Operating out of this abandoned warehouse seems a little ‘unprofessional’.”
A teaser pic from the unauthorized House of 1,000 Corpses prequel, Otis Firefly: Birth of an American Nightmare.
“This is how we do LARPin’ on the West Side, motherfucker!”
Sony regrets the nonrefundable 2 million dollar product placement payment given to The Asylum to promote their newest Kill Zone game for the PlayStation 4. A spokesman said “We misunderstood them when they told us on the phone that they were making ‘the new robot cop movie’…”
This reminds me of that fever dream I had after I ate all those funny colored mushrooms and watched that stupid Charlie’s Angels movie.
Fall asleep during the Hershey’s factory tour and they give you the dreaded “Reese’s Makeover” – half a face of peanut butter and a peanut butter cup monocle.
Promotional image from The Denton Community Budget Theater “Spring Flings” production of “Road Warrior: the Musical”.
I generally don’t judge people on looks, man or woman, but… that’s a nose you gotta learn to love… with a six week course and a very thick textbook.
The LAPD: truly on the ever expanding cusp of technology, what with their high-tech air transport vehicles, decked out with… fluorescent lights… and wooden benches… and wheeled… office… chairs….. MY BRAIN AGAIN!
Holy shit! When did Dwayne Wayne eat Carl Winslow and assume his form?! He’s been Majin Buu this whole time!
Three screens?! This guy’s the most intense Spider Solitaire player EVER! And his chair is made from advanced aerospace technology! He must have a cousin who works at Lockheed or something!
Squelching a cheek squeaker, or miming his consumption of the world’s biggest cheeseburger? Only his undertaker knows for sure.
Anubis will return next time in
“I’d Buy THAT for a Dollar!”
Bill “Krampus the Christmas Devil” Oberst Jr. , Jason “Gut” Vail , Baby “Just Go 4 It” Norman
Featuring: Bill “Krampus the Christmas Devil” Oberst Jr. , Jason “Gut” Vail , Baby “Just Go 4 It” Norman
Director: Richard “A Diva’s Christmas Carol” Schenkman
Writers: Karl “Karl’s In a Coma” Hirsch , J. Lauren Proctor , Richard “A Diva’s Christmas Carol” Schenkman
“A man divided against himself cannot stand.”
“Hey, if you want me to take a dump in a box and mark it guaranteed, I will. I got spare time.” We all remember that brilliant line from Tommy Boy, delivered by the late and (sometimes) great Chris Farley. Well, if The Asylum were ever in the market for a fitting motto, there it is. Change the “me” to “us”, the “I”s to “we”s, and you’ve got a pretty apt description of their mission statement. If anybody reading this happens to work at the Sticky’s All-You-Can-Eat Pizza Hole and Waste Management Facility where the Asylum big wigs hold their board meetings, float that out there like a morning turd in the toilet bowl. I promise that at least one of them will offer you a job in their marketing division!
When I announced to my friends that I’d be reviewing today’s guaranteed dump (originally intended to be reviews for President’s Day until, well, I didn’t), everyone who knew what I was talking about replied that they’d turned it off at varying points in the running time. Not only did NO ONE make it to the end credits (fun bit of irony for a horror movie), but the general consensus of tolerance levels were in the 20-30 minute range. Was there a particular “ground zero” moment that drove these viewers in droves to hit the Stop button and walk away, or was it a steady poisoning of their systems and 20-30 minutes of such contamination was the point of saturation? This isn’t just a movie review now…this is science!
This bucket of bowel movements is Asylum’s rip-off of Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter. Rather than being based on a book though, ALvZ is based on a crumpled napkin an Asylum writer found sitting in the alley behind his basement apartment. Encrusted with the remnants of cheap margaritas and even cheaper tacos, it no doubt fell out of the dumpster belonging to the Tex-Mex restaurant under which he lived. Amidst the multi-colored stains, some scribblings that may or may not have stated “steal both” baffled the alleged scribe, until he looked to his coffee table. Seeing a copy of “Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter” he’d borrowed from a friend sitting next to a DVD of Curse of the Cannibal Confederates given to him by his parents as a high school graduation present, a new Asylum feature was born. In a bit of personal experimentation, rather than have a shred of hope that ALvZ is going to be anything but the standard issue Asylum carnival of stupid, I went into this viewing with my expectations squarely in the john. Then I remembered that, again, this is a fucking Asylum movie, so I took my expectations out of the nice porcelain pot they were bobbing in, and instead tossed them into the infamous crapper from the pub in Trainspotting. Perfect. Now, as Dr. Clayton Forrester would say, let the experiment…BEGIN!
Abraham Lincoln freed the slaves, united the states, taught himself to read with a shovel (or something), and wrestled bears…though as more is uncovered about the secret life of our 16th president, those “bears” may be more in line with the gay community’s definition than Wild America’s. One of the things not covered in his illustrious upbringing is the apparent 1818 boyhood trauma of his mother’s transformation…into a zombie(!)…after she was attacked by them in the forest(!)…because…reasons!? Whatever brought this about, Abe’s dad couldn’t muster the gumption to kill his zombie wife, so he put a bullet in his own brain instead (great parenting, asshole, leaving your kids alone with a ghoul for a mom), tasking young Abe with the duty of decapitating dear mother Nancy himself. He did so with a scythe, which just supports my lifelong plan to live near farm country, providing me plenty of tool sheds and shotguns to pilfer when the zombiegeddon finally gets its lazy ass in gear.
We jump ahead to the summer of 1863. The year James Plimpton patented the four-wheeled roller skate, the first underground train opened in London, and Thomas Crapper invents the one-piece pedestal flushing toilet. Spoiler alert: that last one is an incredibly appropriate piece of info for what’s about to happen here. Meanwhile, The American Civil War rages on as Southerners fight for the right to continue claiming black people as tax-exempt property. Abe’s all grown up and Presidential, in charge of keeping the nation in one piece. He’s also become Bill Oberst, who’s locked in perpetual Lloyd Bridges mode for the extent of the movie. An important lynchpin to winning the war of gray vs. blue is capturing and maintaining the strategic point of Fort Polaski and controlling the Mississippi River. But, after sending a regiment to take Polaski under the banner of “Operation Big Shanty”, only one soldier returned alive…and his skin’s looking grayer than Robert E. Lee’s Sunday best. No sooner does he report to President Lincoln that Big Shanty went FUBAR due to a contingency of flesh eating maniacs residing in the fort, he then turns into one of the man munching monsters himself. Having had experience with the not-so-demised before (Mommy Mommy, choppy choppy), Lincoln fends off the zombie until a lackey can retrieve his trusty folding scythe from his carriage…that he just happens to carry with him…despite having never seen another zombie in the 45 years since relieving his mother’s use for bonnets…okay.
The president’s new “secret service” team is assembled to clear out and reclaim Polaski to both swing the Civil War in the Union’s favor and wipe out the living dead scourge before it can spread like so much shit water from the clogged toilet in a Taco Bell bathroom. They really need to put limits on the amount of food one customer can order. Unless they’re getting it “to go”, in which case they can put their own crapper in jeopardy. Let’s just say I’ve heard horror stories and will never be able to look at a Taco Bell Party Pack again without igniting my gag reflex. Blart. Anyway, when the Major assigned to lead the group is killed by the ghoul, Abe appoints himself the new leader of the task force, citing his “prior experience” with the disease as his leading asset…because just telling a new leader that the disease is spread through bites, and that the only way to kill them is decapitation or burning them would waste valuable time…and because I guess he figured Andrew Johnson was gonna replace him eventually anyway!
Proving that he practiced what he preached, Lincoln’s Suicide Squad (or “Task Force X” if you’re nerd enough) includes one black agent, who could only be given a position on a top secret operation due to the potential political controversy if the public knew their government employed a black man. Hence the term “black op” was born, and the rest is made-up history that you school-aged readers probably shouldn’t reference for any history reports. Also, the black dude’s there so he can bring the term “zombie” into the mix later on, given the term’s Haitian origin, and lay out the irony of enslaved people owning slaves themselves, albeit dead ones. The Abe Brigade also includes an interesting member that eventually leads to one of the solitary good kernels of corn in this shit log of a crap-ass cash-in effort, so I won’t spoil who it is. All I’ll say is that it adds an interesting re-visioning to the President’s ill-fated future as an unsuccessful theater critic. If you want to find out the mystery prize in this box of Cocoa Poops though, you’ll have to earn it yourself and bury your hands in up to the elbows. Whether it’s worth the challenge to your tolerance levels will vary from person to person, but let me remind you–-I’m the only person I know who actually saw this cinematic skid mark through to its dingle-berry bedazzled end.
But, I’m getting ahead of myself here, when I’d much rather be getting myself head. Wakka wakka! Lincoln leads his logs (not an actual joke, just a needless pun) to Polaski, and with the exception of a few fodder agents who end up as bite victims, the good guys do well at clearing out the shuffling maggot manufactories, mostly thanks to Mr. Lincoln and his newly revealed deadly arts of leap-‘n’-slash-fu. I really need to commission Osiris for one of those short-arm folding blade scythes. It’d shave much needed hours off of my reaping schedule and leave me with a lot more time to review… Asylum… movies… fuuuuuuuuuuck. Never mind. Securing the fort (which was mostly secure already, until Lincoln’s men attracted zombies into the place with their gunfire), the Secret Service finds a small group of Rebels holed up in the basement, led by famed southern military strategist General Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson. Not to be confused with county music man Stonewall Jackson, who sang “Waterloo” and “BJ the DJ” (not about what its title implies), though that was the musicians real name and he did claim to be a descendant of the original. Everyone immediately thinks I’m related to David Bowie despite how we spell and pronounce our last names differently. I do like to sometimes claim that Tandy Bowen (Dagger of “Cloak & Dagger”) is my cousin though, despite the fact that she’s a completely fictional character… plus I’d feel really gross for doing the knuckle shuffle to someone who’s actually my cousin… and don’t bring up the irony of how the Egyptian mythological pantheon was full of incest anyway. That was a different time, and I’m not about to take the “racist grandparents” excuse and chalk it up to being “from a different time”. Cork it.
Stonewall (and his HUGE, super fake, glued-on beard) surrenders himself and his remaining men to Lincoln’s Logs (just let me have this!), but refuses to agree with the president that the soldiers and civilians he just got done beheading were necessary casualties. Stoney PlayStation 4 (okay, that one was just to boost search engine hits, I’ll cop) is convinced that the recently diseased/deceased are just in need of medical treatment, and Honest Abe’s just a murder happy maniac looking to take out his “reverse racism” hate on the slavery lovin’ southerners. This from a time period where a shot-off toe resulted in a full leg amputation for fear of the spread of gangrene, yet this knob thinks that a ravenous full-body cannibal infection can somehow be fixed with snake oil and coal water. Must be all that inbreeding. Sorry to offend any southern readers, but stop breeding with your kin. If we deities can help ourselves, so can you, damn it. You just have to want to. If nothing else, do it for the sideshow of tormented offspring you would’ve conceived that would one day grow up to turn on you and burn you all alive in your trailer to wipe the blight of your broken genetic legacy from the face of the Earth. Long-term investments, Cletus.
Fun fact: the name Cletus/Cleatus is of Greek origins, and means “illustrious”. Meanwhile, the modernized definition would be “slack jawed yokel” or “football playing robot that murdered the Burger King”.
Locking the uncooperative grays up, the blues secure the fort in typical zombie movie DIY style. In the basement they find and are overrun by a gaggle of hungry corpses. While escaping into an already boarded up section of the fort, they find another small group of survivors. Shit, this has to be one of the biggest speaking casts for an Asylum movie EVER…which would explain why they all act about as well as a real movie’s background extras. Anyway, this new group is led, conveniently enough, by Abe’s prostitute ex-girlfriend Mary Owens (played by the unfortunately named Baby Norman), and includes a young boy from New York who was separated from his family and ended up there during the outbreak. I won’t spoil who the boy is, but let’s just say that Abe encourages him to avoid attracting the zombies by speaking in a soft tone, and defend himself from them with the use of a sizable length of timber. And yes, if you have a basic knowledge of American political history (or you too watched that Bugs Bunny cartoon where he ran for office opposite Yosemite Sam), your brain probably just vomited acid all over itself in a desperate bid for oblivion too.
Okay, so we’ve got the zombie movie staples all in play – a group of survivors with conflicting viewpoints, both moral and political, some of whom share a rocky personal past, all of which are trapped together in a confined space while a seemingly endless mob of extras in halfway decent Halloween costumes shamble around outside, waiting to pick off the slow, impatient, and unlucky over the next 45 minutes or so. It’s like some big metaphor for the war itself, or humanity itself, or the 1600 or so living dead movies that came before it themselves. Will Abe be able to bring these opposing factions of uninfected together before their so-called “moralities” lead them all to losing their own heads, figuratively at first, then literally afterward? Will you care enough to find out? If nothing else, I suggest firing it up on Netflix and fast-forwarding to the last 10 minutes. That way you can get the whimsical ending and avoid all of the stupid shit the self-proclaimed “writers” culled from a junior high American History textbook to denigrate into goofy characters and bastardized action movie one-liners.
Being an Asylum secretion, watching ALvZ is like juggling a half-dozen water balloons full of diarrhea: you know you’re gonna get shit all over you, and the best you can hope for is that none of it’s infected with anything more dangerous than a level 6 gross-out contamination, and that you lose nothing more than a ruined outfit and a bit of self-esteem. The shit balloon bursts all over us with computer generated blood, dismemberment, explosions, and gun flashes (because squibs and blanks aren’t “cost effective”). We also get splattered with a bleached out visual filter to either push the impression that the movie takes place in olden times, or just helps cover up the sloppy CG gore. (Not to be confused with AD Gore, proprietor of satans-sideshow.com, who supplied much of my wardrobe in high school.) Also running down our faces and pooling in our pockets are Asylum’s staples: bad acting (no surprise), bad script (also no surprise), bad audio (I had to watch it with subtitles on so I wouldn’t have to wear out the volume buttons on my remote), bad lighting (to further cover up the bad CG effects), and bad dance-fight choreography of Lincoln jumping around like the world’s oldest action hero (minus Schwarzenegger and Stallone, who’re both older than the secret sex dungeon under the Appomattox courthouse). It’s all silly. Not a fun silly, but a hemorrhoid silly…because it’s uncomfortable… and itchy…and I don’t fucking know! You try writing something even remotely witty while some F-grade movie hacks’ weekend of work farts in your face!
Aside from the ending, the only thing that saves this movie from total damnation in Ammut’s cornhole is Oberst’s oddly decent portrayal of Lincoln. Sure, the goofy scythe-fu stuff can cause aneurisms if viewed for too long without proper protection, and the painful out-of-context historical quotes turned one-liners could lacerate kidneys, and if you close your eyes you’d swear Admiral Benson was about to tell you about how he lost his eyes to a bazooka round at Little Big Horn (or was it Okinawa?), but when Oberst actually gets to make inspirational speeches like the Great Emancipator was known for, he’s pretty damn effective. Not exactly Bill Pullman’s speech from Independence Day, or Raymond Burr’s ending soliloquy from Godzilla 1985, but if Billy O can bring even a sliver of credence to a shit cauldron like Abraham Lincoln Vs. Zombies, then the dude deserves his Daytime Emmy Award…though that’s like winning a gold medal at the Special Olympics, so don’t put too much credence in my use of the word “credence”.
By the way, if the amount of fecal and/or toilet allusions in this review seem like a bit much to you, you should really stop expecting better of me. When dealing with an Asylum production, a reviewer becomes the sewage treatment plant worker of the movie criticism field – knee deep in waste matter for the length of the effort. It’s a minor miracle if we can keep from killing ourselves after the first few times on the job, let alone just swearing off them for life. Reviewers of Asylum movies are like Ed Norton (the character, not the actor), except our best friends aren’t spousal abusers (hopefully) and we lack the televised medium to benefit from slapstickery and goofy voices, so we’re stuck relying on whatever creative writing we can muster. Forgive me if the majority of creative metaphors I can come up with are shit related, but once you’ve got an Asylum feature’s stench saturating your every pore and follicle, it’s hard to think of much else. I need a heavy dose of anti-venom (viewings of Re-Animator or Return of the Living Dead usually do the trick) just to keep me out of a coma.
That said (with about 50 more words than needed), it’s all the more upsetting that our next episode will be ANOTHER Asylum feature! Has my cinemasochism reached new, dangerous heights from which no sane man or man-dog deity can possibly return unscathed?! Gird your loins and girdle your lions (if you have any) and tune in for what’s bound to be another 5 pages of furious/flaccid shit slinging! Same Anubis time, same Anubis channel! *ONOMATOPOEIA!*
Moral of the Story: The Confederate flag is no longer the most offensive hold over from the American Civil War.
I see the guy responsible for the title graphics hasn’t figured how “stroke” or “highlight” works on text layers. At least make the blood a lighter tone than the damn words!
Kids, if your father looks like this every time he tries to shave, do NOT let him teach you how when you hit puberty.
You know The Asylum’s hit big money time when they can afford enough Miller High Life to pay that many Civil War reenactment actors.
“You might wanna pull it back a little on the buttons, soldier. You’re not Steve Harvey.”
“I’m sorry Mr. President. I understand that you want to bring an end to this war, but I’m Santa Claus! I can’t withhold presents from the good Confederate children on Christmas just because you think it will stop the bloodshed!”
“Hey Jackson, what do you call a thousand coloreds at the bottom of the ocean?”
“If you finish that statement, I will kill you now and seduce your wife at your funeral.”
“… Sorry. I didn’t know you were so ‘politically correct’.”
Lincoln’s got his “serious business” stovepipe on. If this were a Robert Rodriguez movie, that thing would be full of pistols and dynamite.
Dear Isis, no! They killed Chris Elliot! Now we’ll never get another season of “Eagleheart“! You bastards!
The Asylum’s poor spending of the lighting budget to buy more zombie makeup ends up working in our favor by obscuring EVERYTHING. If only all of their movies could be shot by lantern light!
“You may be a high ranking General, but I’m the fucking president! NO ONE gets to have a bigger beard than mine, damn it! Shave it off, or I’ll rip it from your god damned jaw myself!”
Is he doing his Edward G. Robinson impression, or is he trying to eat an entire sandwich in one mouthful? History may never know.
“I’m no doctor, ladies, but I think the best thing to stop my bleeding wound would be to plug it with your ample boobs. Boob fat is very malleable and would mold to the shape of the wound. But… you know… if you want me to just bleed to death on your floor, I guess you don’t have to.”
“And what’s the deal with this Mason-Dixon Line anyway? I mean, who are these people?! Am I right?! Thank you, you’ve been a terrible audience. Remember to tip your waitress.”
They’re trying not to look at his dollar store mustache, otherwise they’ll laugh and the producers will make them pay for the re-shoot.
I’m no lumberjack, Beard-O, but I’m pretty sure that’s not how you hold a hatchet…
Michael Cera’s creepy dad scrapes a booger from a sleeping woman’s face.
Anubis will return next time in
“The Sixty Dollar Man”
Bill “Krampus the Christmas Devil” Oberst Jr. , Jason “Gut” Vail , Baby “Just Go 4 It” Norman
or “Poppin’ a ‘Squatch”
Featuring: Kathryn “Hanna’s Gold” Collins … and a bunch of shirtless boys.
Director: David “Creepozoids” DeCoteau
Writers: David “Creepozoids” DeCoteau & Charlie “Badass Showdown” Meadows
“I promise we’ll have a nice boring time.”
So ends The Tomb of Anubis’s first (of many?) “Turkey Day Month”. In the tried and true traditions and tribulations of the Satellite of Love, Deep 13, and the Gizmonics Institute, I’ve subjected myself to crap from both ends of the shit spectrum – brain peelingly pathetic (Rise of the Zombies) and sensory numbingly bland (A Haunted House). As such, it’s only fitting that my final feature should sup liberally from both buffets of misery, being both boring and awful. Bawful, if you will. Mourn not for me, my friends. Mourn instead for Canada, from whom’s womb this “barely qualifies for a movie” movie was brought into the world with zero fanfare and infinite apathy. Canada. Dear, sweet, Canada. First, I curse you by making Monster Brawl my first review representative of your land here in the new Tomb. Then, rather than make it up to you by reviewing something face meltingly amazing, I just end up insulting you once again with 1313: Bigfoot Island. In front of your friends and family. On Thanksgiving. Our Thanksgiving, not yours. Yours doesn’t count. Like most Canadian things. I’m sorry. I am SO sorry! I didn’t plan for it to happen like this! I’d never want it to happen this way, it just did! It’s not you, it’s me! Here, just let me do this review and I promise to sign the divorce papers…
David DeCoteau, the co-writer/director for today’s affair, used to do a lot of mercenary work for Charles Band, dating all the way back to the pre-Full Moon days of Empire Pictures. For anyone who doesn’t know what that means, Band was the Roger Corman of the ’90s, and Full Moon was the banner under which he cast his dark arts, with Empire being his stepping stone to his later, greater infamy. For anyone who doesn’t know who Roger Corman is, go read a fucking book… just make sure it’s about Roger Corman, cuz just reading a random book isn’t gonna do shit for filling in the Roger Corman portion of your personal bad movie lexicon. Speaking of Corman, he actually gave Dave his start in the artistry of less-than-fine films by hiring a barely legal DeCoteau as a production assistant at New World Pictures in 1980. Eventually he would go on to
fame and acclaim obscurity by directing a dozen or so pornos (mostly gay… so I’m told) that he shot from ’85 to ’87, starting with New Wave Hustlers and ending with Little Miss Innocence, under the aliases of two Davids – Doe and McCabe. In ’86, producer Charles Band let him direct a crazy movie called Dreamaniac, aboot (ya hosers) a heavy metal musician who feeds his groupies to a succubus in exchange for success. This led to further Band collaborations like Creepozoids, Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama, and Puppet Master III: Toulon’s Revenge, which DeCoteau was given, quoting his own words, “by default since I was in Romania and available to shoot.” PM3 is easily my favorite installment of the series, so even in the wake of something like Bigfoot Island, Double D will always have a special pedestal in my personal bad movie love shack. Speaking of love shacks…
1313: Bigfoot Island takes place on an island. Mind blowing, right? On this island is… a Bigfoot? Why, yes there is! Very insightful of you. Truly you are the Chosen One the legends have spoken of since time immemorial. I like big butts and I cannot lie. Anyway, aside from the skunk ape, this island also has a cabin, hence that “love shacks” thing 4 or 5 sentences ago. My sorries for the delay in segue. About that cabin, it’s the annual hangout for a posse of strapping young lads who like to have a “boys weekend” every summer. We’ll just call ’em Bruce, Lance, Fabian, Kyle, Troy, and Twinky for posterity, though neither of them will be mentioned by name for the rest of the review anyway, so who gives a fuck. They’re all physically fit college kids in the prime of their lives, but all six suffer from an apparent allergy to shirts. They probably met in a related support group or something. Like Never Nudes, only the opposite. Like… Never Tops. Anyway. the gents interact with each other through a series of brief phone calls that drop hints about how things at their last annual get together “got out-of-hand”, and refer to a girl who may or may not have “gotten what she deserved”. Danielle is our “deserver” in question, and whatever it is that she “got” (I’m going to assume it was rape… though one boy’s flashbacks indicate sugar to be a possible “got”), she looks to be ready to repay the lads in the form of a murderous spirit of vengeance she summons from the forest. Think less “flaming headed Ghost Rider” spirit of vengeance though, and more “guy in the worst rubber faced Sasquatch costume since The Alien Factor” spirit of vengeance. Give me $10 and 20 minutes at the nearest Salvation Army store, and I’ll give you something way better. I’ll give you something to cure your grandma’s constipation!… and probably give her catastrophic heart failure… make sure her will’s in order… and try to have her leave me something nice too… it only seems fair.
By the way, that last paragraph? Yeah, that’s the entire story. Sadder still? If I hadn’t filled that paragraph with inane sentences of bullshit that had nothing to do with the movie itself, it wouldn’t even have qualified as a paragraph. Though it runs a full 75 minutes (and feels like 175), the script couldn’t be more than a page and a half. There’s EXACTLY how it plays out for 5 of the 6 boys – each shows up on the island separate from the others (neither of which is carrying any luggage for this weekend getaway…), calls one of the others to let them know they’ve arrived, then makes his way to the cabin. Rather than hang out and wait for the others, they each go for a walk/run through the local scenery (except for one, who makes sure to take a shower first, cuz, you know, showers) until they’re eventually chased down and killed by our titular beast of excessive shoe girth. At some point during the “stalk, chase, kill” sequence, Danielle has a weird blue-hued “angelic molester” flashback about the boy where he says something vaguely rapey during a close up like “Look at her. She totally wants it.” or “I’m going to forcibly enter your vaginal cavity with my penis against your will, and will not stop despite your efforts to deter me.” Copy and paste that scenario several times, and that’s enough to qualify as a movie to some people. If David DeCoteau can do that, I should just copy and paste “This movie is a piece of shit and everyone involved needs their testicles tased” a few dozen times and let that be the end of it. However, unlike DeCoteau, I appreciate whatever audience I can get and will actually make an effort to entertain you by continuing to review!… and to whoever said “What are you gonna do, END THE REVIEW NOW?!” in a heckling effort, remember two things – you don’t have to keep reading if you don’t want to, and yes, I can hear everything you’re saying because I’ve filled your home with cameras so I can stalk your every action. Also, I’ve been jerking off in your orange juice when you leave the house. Every time you leave the house. How does it feel to have me swimming inside you, (Your Name Here)?
I know the old adage of movie makers is that “even the cheapest, crappiest horror movie will make a profit based on the sole distinction that it’s a horror movie”, but… for fuck’s sake! This is barely enough material for a shitty short film, let alone this fugly feature lengther! There’s so little dialog and story that explaining how this movie needed TWO writers requires a level of homological algebra (real thing, not a gay joke… well, not JUST a gay joke) that would make Einstein’s asshole clench, so don’t waste your time. I’m only a theoretical physicist myself… theoretically. Whatever your field of mathematical prowess, “Charlie Meadows” is probably just another DeCoteau alias and he’s using this whole “co-writer” bullshit as some sneaky tax dodge. Don’t ask me how it works, I’m a Death God and a self-worshipper. I’m my own religion, so I’ve been tax exempt since before taxes were a thing.
You know what’s REALLY weird about this movie? Beyond the half naked barely legal boy toys and shabby piles of peed-on rugs someone found at the dump and thought would make a menacing, bloodthirsty bigfoot? Other than the final scene, where Cute Boy #6 is confronted by Danielle, NONE of the actors are ever filmed together! Could it be a subtle commentary on how technology has isolated us from each other in this age where everybody has a cell phone and social media has allowed us to connect with people across the world, yet simultaneously causes us to shutter ourselves in our homes away from actual society? I’m more inclined to believe it’s because DeCoteau wanted their scenes shot in no more than an afternoon, and the lads all had separate lunch breaks from their jobs at the local Buy & Bag… which probably makes 97% of their revenue from middle-aged women. Their prices are a bit higher, but the “service” can’t be beat! I hear they do home deliveries now too, wink wink.
Anyway, even when “the spirit of the forest” enacts his deadly penance upon the perpetrators, NOBODY APPEARS ON CAMERA TOGETHER! Was DeCoteau going for a “less is more” method, where the audience fills in the deaths with their own gruesome imaginations, or was he just worried that the kids would ruin their scenes by laughing uncontrollably upon finally seeing what the movie’s antagonist turns out to be!? You couldn’t really blame them if they did. I mean, George Clooney, seasoned veteran of Return of the Killer Tomatoes he may be, would have a hard time keeping a straight face if a guy dressed in the mangled remnants of a shag carpet from some ’70s swinger couple’s “social room” got in his face, reeking of spilled beers, cigarette burns, and cum stains past, staring at him through the eye-holes of the rubber dollar store monster mask hot glued to said shag… can you imagine the smell of that filthy forty year-old carpet burned with hot glue? Like, really cheap, nasty hot glue whose overpowering chemical odor you can smell from across the street and will still be stinking up your clothes long after you donate them to the homeless shelter ten years from now following an attic clean up.
The thought alone makes my Thanksgiving dinner wanna refute its marching orders and beat a hasty retreat. I feel the pumpkin pie making a violent escape through Esophageal Ridge as I type this. Let’s save me the trouble of mopped mashed potatoes and barf off of my bathroom floor and stop talking about it.
Now to address the big shirtless elephant in the room – is this movie geared toward a gay audience? The initial reaction to the DVD cover (the cast sans chestal coverings) from most people I’ve mentioned it to has been “Is this gay softcore?”. Unafraid of the homoerotic (I lived in NYC for a decade and I’ve seen Rocky Horror Picture Show enough times to explode Rush Limbaugh’s fat bigoted hate demon skull), I too expected it to be a big gay monster orgy, and was actually very surprised that the guys are all (at least portrayed as) heteros. Hetero rapists, granted, but heteros none-the-less. There also aren’t any dicks flopping around, which leaves this as a very PG-13 production. As such, this definitely isn’t a gay movie, but I think it’s definitely a bait flick. By not showing these youngbloods as anything other than attractive shirtless dudes (who, again, MAY have gang raped a girl), the movie appeals to not only a gay audience, but also the female demographic, ranging from young girls looking for “safe skin”, all the way up to mothers and grannies looking to slap their squishies to a bevy of virile lads without a full-on dick display. DeCoteau’s seemingly gotten into the market for male cheesecake, capitalizing on garbage like Twilight and “the Cougar Movement” while the horror flicks he’s made his career on now taking a distant backseat. It’s like those “Divas” videos that WWF did back in the ’90s – a professional wrestling company releasing videotapes of women in bikinis cavorting in exotic locales that have nothing to do with professional wrestling beyond said bikini models appearing in wrestling rings when they’re not posing for calenders and more bikini videos. And that’s the best possible analogy for Bigfoot Island: it’s young male models running around without shirts with brief moments of Sasquatch murder happening between scenes of more young male models running around without shirts on and pretending to act. Technically there’s little bits of horror in this stew, but you need to wade through a lot of okra and spoiled cauliflower to find any of it. And when you do, it’s never satisfying enough to warrant all the shit you had to eat to get there.
Finally, I have no idea what the “1313” comes from in the title beyond it being the name for DeCoteau’s series of similarly themed “shirtless guys” movies. It could be some obscure gay code, it could be the numerical equivalent of “BB”, which could stand for any numbers of things (I’m guessing “Boys” or “Beefcakes” or “Buttsex” being one of them). Whatever the case, I don’t have the fucking slightest. I tried to find ANY reference to its definition and/or roots on the internet, and came up with nothing. NOTHING. Even the production company’s website makes no attempt at explaining the significance. In a world where every shred of information and every embarrassment anyone has ever committed ever is forever etched in a universe of digital granite, you either need to generate an Absolute Zero level of interest from the rest of the world, be an international spy of the 007 caliber to keep your shit out of the worldwide wasteland, or make a weekly sacrifice of a dozen chickens and goat to the Elder Gods to have them wipe your sins clean… every Tuesday night at 9… followed by a brand new “Herman’s Head” at 9:30! Did you know “Herman’s Head” aired the first television advertisement for condoms in the US? There, you’ve now learned something from this review whether you wanted to or not. I get to retain my teaching license for another year. Time to go file for some educational grants while you go choke your giblets or something. Later, taters!
Moral of the Story: Does anybody else find it odd that Mother Nature’s tool of revenge is made entirely of synthetic materials?
I looked all over the internet (well, 3 sites that I trust) for a Bigfoot Island torrent I could take screen shots from and came up empty taloned. And I sure as shit wasn’t going to spend $5 on a DVD from Wal*Shart just to take pics… though I would’ve worn a hidden camera just to get the register jockey’s reaction once they looked at the DVD cover. Anyway, not wanting to come into your home with nothing to offer, I instead present you with the following trailer. If you still have any interest in seeing 1313: Bigfoot Island after seeing it, hammer a few nails through your nipples and send me the pictures.
Anubis will return next time in
“Walk Like Aman, Talk Like Aman, Kill Like Aman”