Feature 86 – The Neon Demon (2016)

or “Monsters of the Runway”

Featuring: Elle “Maleficent” Fanning , Jena “Sucker Punch Malone , Keanu “The Matrix” Reeves

Director: Nicolas “Bronson” Winding Refn

Writers: Nicolas “Bronsons Winding Refn , Mary “‘Preacher’” Laws & Polly “Eleanor” Stenham

Origin: USA


“You know what my mother used to call me? Dangerous.”

When I was a horny young pup just looking for a wet spot to stick my prick into, my criteria for what I desired in a sheet staining partner was a very simple three point plan – looks, looks, and looks. Physical attraction was all that mattered to me, as it is for most impressionable post-pubescent types looking to make an “impression” of their own into/onto someone. Much like tickets to a Don Johnson concert, my virginity was something I had an impossible time giving away. The few young ladies I shared the halls of academia with in high school that I had any interest in were either already dedicated to other lads, or had turned down my romantic advances faster than a stepdad turns down the thermostat when somebody puts it over 60. After reaching the ripe old age of legality known as 18, I would eventually find myself a finely figured female who was more than happy to commence with my deflowering (or, in my case, my weeding), and she and I are well on our way to the 17th annual celebration of our first date come the next Krampusnacht Eve. Happy pre-anniversary, dear!

As I’ve aged (and unholy Hel have I!), my taste in women has evolved well past favorite shapes of flesh and into a Twilight Zone-ian preference for dimensions not just of sight and sound, but of mind. Not strictly book smarts neither, but ladies with more esoteric tastes that match mine own. Namely, bad horror movies, sketch comedy shows, and morbid humor peppered liberally with sarcasm and contempt for humanity. Attempts at such relations haven’t always worked out for the best, but whatever doesn’t kill us gives us fun stories to tell our court appointed lawyers, right!? What does this have to do with today’s “Ladies Night!” installment, The Neon Demon? Not a shit ton. Much the opposite, in fact. Today’s feature is actually about physical beauty, and the obsession some have with not only getting it, but retaining it in the face of the unconquerable hellbeast known as Age-zilla.

Given that my looks have been known to make gargoyles cry tears of gasoline (I swear that’s how that church fire started!), I’d know nothing about that. Instead of relating to our tale, I’m just gonna let my eyeballs go gonzo over all the wonky visuals and my ears get made sweet love to by the supersexy swingin’ sounds of its synthy score!

Today’s movie is sadly not the sequel to Neon Maniacs we’ve been waiting 30 years for. It is, however, brought to us by Nicholas Winding Refn (director of Drive), Amazon Studios, and the letter ‘Q’. Despite my recent review for the Amazon Pilot Season episode of “The Tick”, I swear on Horus’ right eye that I’m not being paid to promote their productions! Those dickards won’t even give me a free trial month of Prime at this point, let alone actual capital compensation to type up piss & moan articles. Sorry to say, folks, but the mildly amusing musings of a Death God ain’t worth two farts to the mighty Reaper of Brick & Mortar Stores. Fuck it. As Chris Pratt said, “It’s important to make your big mistakes in relative obscurity” anyway. If this site were popular enough to grab anyone’s attention, it would ruin all the fun of the chase for a lot of bail bondsmen (and bail bondswomen) out there!

The Neon Demon stars Dakota Fanning’s younger sister Elle, who continues her efforts in making a name for herself with a role that’s meatier than just playing a younger version of one of Big D’s parts. Since the movie’s plot is little more than your basic tale of glamorous industries seducing innocent youth just to use them, abuse them, suck them dry, and throw them away like used condoms once they can no longer pull off the “jailbait couture” look, said movie also requires your basic “small town, big dreams” victim to consume the soul of before metaphysically defecating into the empty space left behind. As such, Elle plays Jesse – the latest fresh face the City of Angels cannot wait to R. Kelly upon. Hell, within the first 10 minutes of the movie we discover she’s “not from around here”, lives alone in a sleazy motel room, and has no family of which to speak! To paraphrase Pinhead, “Norma Jeans are such easy prey.”

Speaking of, a makeup artist radiating a strong sexual predator vibe and calling herself Ruby (Jena Malone) comments on our subject’s beautifully smooth skin and immediately attaches herself to Jesse after working together on one of those “gore + glamour = art” photo shoots that the kids these days apparently think are so “edgy”. You know, like that “Girls and Corpses” magazine that people keep gifting me subscriptions to for some reason despite my frequent comments of “If it’s not Linnea Quigley stripping in a graveyard or a severed head going down on Barbara Crampton, don’t waste my time”.

Not five minutes into their new friendship, Ruby invites (i.e. insistently drags) Jesse to a party to introduce the young lady to her new peers in the industry, specifically her pals Sarah (Abbey Lee) and Gigi (Bella Heathcote). Gigs is the faux friendly type whose smile is as artificial as the lips and teeth that make it up, while Sarah is colder and blunter than the sledgehammer I keep in my meat locker. As with any newbie to a social group, our protagonista is circled by the other members of the pack and has her mettle tested in judgment. In this case it’s the usual ladies’ room emotional hazing of woman-on-woman mockery about how the fresh-faced bumpkin isn’t fit to be one of them. Gigi and Sarah might as well both be named Heather, but that’d be too on-Gigi’s-surgically-manipulated-nose.

Despite the pair’s “never evolved past high school” treatment of Jesse, Ruby sticks by the girl and takes her under her big sister wing to help guide her through the labyrinth of the modeling world and not get trampled to death by the metaphorical Minotaur. I’d be more inclined to believe the legitimacy of the cosmetologist’s intentions for the Georgia Peach if only she’d stop throwing Jesse the Big Bad Wolf leer every 10 minutes! Instead I’m anchored with the unshakable presumption that the would-be mentor’s so obviously going to be the one holding the knife that goes into our gal’s back come Jesse’s inevitable nosedive from grace.

Speaking of, much like a modern fairy tale, our Cinderellian peasant destined for princessery is picked up by an esteemed modeling agent (Christina Hendricks) and immediately paired with a highly regarded camera jockey named Jack (Desmond Harrington) who looks more like the type of guy who shoots amateur gangbang porn in the backyard of his stepdad's mansion than he does a sought after fashion photog. You know what really takes the audience out of the fantasy, though? No self-respecting (or self ego-inflating) “artist” in any industry would call himself “Jack”.

As if the modeling industry’s ominous presence as our heroine’s personal chainsaw of Damocles weren’t enough of a threat, Jesse’s also endangered by the sadism of Hank (Keanu Reeves), the manager of the motor lodge in which she’s living. Henry probably got his Hotel Management diploma from the ICS home education courses that Sally Struthers used to shill for…while he was doing a stretch in prison for sexually assaulting a troop of girl scouts. Seriously, the guy would whip out his 3” killer to a single mom at a bus stop and insist she swallow his tadpoles while her preschooler and a nearby nun looked on. He reveals himself as the kind of human garbage that makes even my cast iron stomach churn harder than an industrial washing machine on the “Wipe Clean the Stains of a Life Lived in Filth” setting. His assistant/apprentice Mikey seems generally harmless, but he looks like Iggy Pop Junior (somebody’s gene pool needs a lifeguard!) and works for Hank, so that’s probably enough to land him at least somewhere near the latter rungs of Dante’s ladder.

As much as the deck is clearly stacked against her, Jesse’s not alone in her story. How’d she get to the spiritual wasteland in the first place, anyway? Enter Dean (Karl Glusman)…well, I guess you can enter him if he’s okay with it. I’ll take a pass, myself. Back on topic, Dean is an aspiring photographer who came across Jesse on the internet and convinced her to come to the left coast so they could make art together. I met my Evil Dead Bride in a fucking AOL horror chat room and even I think this pairing sounds sketchier than MC Esher’s high school notebooks! Despite his efforts to woo her while still being respectful and protective of her, Jesse is very reluctant to refer to him as any kind of boyfriend figure in conversation with others. He’s a surprisingly decent dude who never tanks his decency by pulling the bullshit “you owe me sex!” card on Jesse, which you totally expect to happen given how he too leers at Miss Jesse like fucking Jack the Ripper in the movie’s opening scene!

No friggin’ diggity, Jesse gets eye fucked from people so often in this flick, you’d think she farts Spanish Fly. It’s unnerving.

Predictably enough, as Jesse’s successes compile, so does her ego. She mutates from innocent southern teen into Family Guy rendition of Julia Roberts (“ME! ME! MEEEEE!”), talking about herself as if she were the second coming of Cindy Crawford. Such a path couldn’t lead to our heroine’s downfall harder if it were a literal street named “Downfall Avenue”. I’m presuming this transformation is what the title’s referencing, given that (spoiler alert) there isn’t a single giant neon devil sign brought to life to kaiju the downtown Los Angeles area. Will Jesse find love and safety in the arms of her unavoidable love interest Dean, or will the D-Man discover he’s better off with an inflatable girlfriend? Don’t knock it. The only rubber you need to use with her comes in her repair kit! Will Jesse instead be a “grrrl”, pull her life out of her tailspin on her own and conquer her enemies to become the new White Queen of the fashion industry? Will our neon demon predictably wind up eaten alive by the green-eyed monsters that she so naively trusts with her well being? Will this modern fable end triumphantly for Jesse like Disney’s The Little Mermaid, or tragically like Hans Christen Andersen’s The Little Mermaid? That’s for me to know and for you to find out…I mean, if you feel like it. You don’t even have to watch the movie if you don’t want to to find out. The internet will just tell you how it ends, if you prefer to do it that way. Doesn’t effect my day either way. Que sera sera.

And so our story goes. Tale as old as time, song as old as rhyme, beauty and the beast. It’s nothing to write home about, really, unless your family gets excited over loose threads. Plot threads, that is. Story elements that drop off the map, never to be seen again and character threads that drop right off with them. If it’s so bad, though, then why the quartet of disembodied blood pumpers at the top of the review? Because NeoDemo is a classic case of style over substance being a good thing. Oddly appropriate given the theme of the movie, dontcha think? You can almost believe it was poorly written intentionally

The performances are all fine, almost in spite of the roles being generic. It doesn’t help your story’s endgame seem less obvious by having your actors play their characters so blatantly. I do give Elle Fanning credit for not taking Jesse overboard in personality even though her lines still take the character there. It’s a well done balancing act and I hope the young lady earns herself a reputable career. Glusman’s Dean is a good dude done well, with the exception of his almost Captain Howdy levels of “creepy, shadow monster face” in the opening. Everyone else is just as shallow and one-dimensional as their roles are intended to be (at least that’s my guess), so that’s fine. Now, story and cast outta the way, let’s get to the meat and potatoes of this Neon Demon.

Hold onto your bippies, kids, because I’m about to slap you in the faces with a big cold salmon of shock . Surprise you it may well, but this is my first date with Mr. Winding Refn. I’ve never seen Drive. I’ve heard great things, but universally renowned projects are a breed of poultry that rarely cross my proverbial path. You know what else I’ve yet to see? The Force Awakens. Yep. Let that one soak into your corpuscles for a few. Back to Nicky WR, his presentation style fills me with the similar fondness I have for Dario Argento and Stanley Kubrick’s stuff. His heavy accentuation on the use of colors and shadows and mirrors and trippy imagery combined with jarring/haunting music are tres Argubrick. He also throws lots of different patterns straight into our eyeballs, from wallpapers to curtains to bed sheets to carpets to clothing, and they all bleed into this visual clusterfuck that borders on overwhelming without going full-on brain barf. The aforementioned music is very dream-like, and makes the whole movie feel very surreal. It’s a psyche smothering safari for the senses.

Of the biggest complaints I came across while poking around the worldwide wasteland for details were people who called out Winding Refn, some for perpetuating mainstream misogyny (all women are jealous, petty cunts to each other and will do anything to get ahead) and others for ripping off Argento’s style. Regarding the former, I can’t really weigh in, given that my gonads reside on the outside. As for the Argento complaint, it depends on whether you want to call it a rip-off or an homage. Potato, potato. However you wanna pronounce it, I’m all for it. Kubrick’s long croaked and nobody’s really doing the Argento thing anymore. Christ at a Cracker Barrel, at this point even its namesake hasn’t properly Argentoed for a good twenty years! I’d rather watch someone doin’ it and doin’ it and doin’ it well instead of trying to force the old Italian to go back to his roots. So, for those who disagree with my positive take on the matter, I’ll let Academy Award winner Tommy Lee (the actor, not the drummer with the horse dong) answer for me.

Given the mostly cold shoulder reception The Neon Demon was given (50%ish scores on aggregated criticism sites), I’m sure there are plenty of people who would accuse me of “falling for the sales pitch”, but you could fill a thimble with all the shits I give and still have plenty of room left to fit your fingertip so you can deposit it straight into your orifice of choice. If “artsy fartsy” stuff bothers you, bypass this flick because that’s its big selling point. It’s not perfect, but it’s well worth a watch if you’re down for something different and you’re not up for taking Suspiria off your shelf for the 164th time. Keep in mind that, despite ND‘s categorization as a “horror” movie, it’s really more psychological wrapped up in an air of dread. The one traditional horror movie element kicks in in the flick’s final stretch… then it goes on for another 15 minutes. These last minutes have very little dialogue. Like almost zero. Makes you wonder if the actors were getting paid by the line and the budget ran out. What is there is still technically part of the movie, but exists less out of necessity to the story than it does to drop some more visual weirdery and fuck with the audience one last time. It reminds me a lot of what Rob Zombie did with the last act of Lords of Salem, come to think about it. Leaves us with more questions than answers, really.

Still, it looks fucking cool.

Coming up will be the next and last installment of our “Ladies Night!” cineménage à trois, so any misogynists like the one who messaged me last week telling me this kind of “pandering pussy shit” isn’t what they want to see? You can rest easy, cuz it’s almost over. Or, you can just get the fuck out. You don’t like woman-centric movies? Guess what…

Now I gotta head over to the local halal eatery and get a pile of Samosas for lunch. Those taste bud tantalizing s.o.b.s get my salivary glands more excited than Gorunk the Baby Eating Gibbon gets around babies! Yum!

Moral of the Story: If you’re ever in a food court and some guy named Chad tells you that you’re beautiful enough to be a model, kick his dick off. And stay the fuck away from LA!


Dean looks like he’s plotting to take revenge on someone by cooking their family into a pot of chili and feeding it to them… possibly after he’s had sex with it.

Eli Roth’s homage to the 20th anniversary of Aqua’s “Barbie Girl” music video is, well, pretty much what you expected it to be.

“Don’t worry, I was an intern on Evil Dead II. I know how to get karo syrup and red dye out of ANYTHING.”

If Dario Argento directed Mean Girls.

“I don’t care how many penises you have, Mr. Sinclair, this isn’t a casting call for Marilyn Manson’s adults only traveling freakshow! That’s down the hall in Suite 31.”

Was this room decorated by a blind person or somebody on acid? Either way, if I have to look at it much longer I’m gonna lose my Fritos!

“Look, I know SLC Punk 2 was garbage and if you wanna throw yourself off a cliff over it, I totally understand. But I gotta get to my shift at Big Kahuna Burger in 20 minutes, so either shit or get off the pot!”

Could this mean Nicolas Winding Refn’s next project will be that rumored Smokey and the Bandit remake we’ve been hearing about for years?! I’d bet my White Lightning / Gator double-feature LaserDisc on it!

Keanu Reeves finally takes measures to have Alex Winter forcefully removed from his guest house. After 25 years of his “I’m almost done with the script for Bill & Ted 3!” excuses, Keanu has had enough.

Hey, they’ve finally started casting for the She-Ra live-action movie! I really hope they opt to cast a real Pegacorn for Swift Wind instead of cheaping out and ruining her with some stupid cgi crap.

At the Sears catalog model tryouts, dozens of moderately attractive women compete for the chance to be thousands of young American boys’ first effort hording wank material. At least until they can convince their older cousin to buy them an issue of “Hustler”. Well, that’s how it was before the internet, anyway. Kids today have it way too easy…

Only true industry insiders know about the sacred Triforce of Fashion! It’s made up of the Triforce of Beauty, the Triforce of Design, and the Triforce of Film, each of which is held by one of three legendary heroes. The sacred texts say that, one day, the three will be brought together to create the GREATEST fall collection in all of fashion!

“Screw the picture. I’m gonna make her look like Large Marge just to see the family’s reaction when they open up the casket!”

“This is why I tell you not to eat candy in bed. You’ve got a whole Sugar Daddy tangled up back here! Uggh!”

“Is THIS your card?… Ah, shit! Let me try that again.”

I know how she feels. I feel the same way when I have a third Most American Thickburger too. Brutal.


Anubis will return next time in
“The Psychedelic Conception of LSDizzle”

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Feature 85 – Mother, May I Sleep with Danger? (2016)

or “Would You Offer Your Throat to the Vampire with the Camera?”

Featuring: Leila “The Long Home” George , Emily “Adventures In the Sin Bin” Meade , Tori “Cthulhu” Spelling

Director: Melanie “Actors Anonymous” Aitkenhead

Writers: Amber Coney & James “Bukowski” Franco

Origin: USA

In-Name-Only Remake of: Mother, May I Sleep with Danger? (1996)


“Well, she’s bad news Miss Lewisohn. Part of a bad crowd.”

Labor Day. Most people think Union bosses and picnics, but as an everyday appreciator of those baring a sexy pair of XX chromosomes, I think of screaming parasites being torn into the blood soaked agony of existence through unwilling vaginal portals. Instead of making this about the bite-sized monstrosities, I prefer to put the spotlight on the iron ladies who bear said abominations and made all of us possible. Yes, even you test tuber viewers, because you can’t grow a human horror from microscopic tadpoles alone…yet. Anyway, as such, I present to all you of-the-ovarian-sort a trio of flicks for ladies, by ladies (mostly), featuring ladies (FLBLFL). “Ladies Night!”, enrage! Errrr, engage!

Let me start with an apology, kids. I know many of you would probably prefer that the “Franco” in today’s credits was referring to Italian sleeze legend Jess Franco, but no such luck. I may have something from the deceased trash maestro a little further down the pipe (provided I get the gusto to snake the drain that is my motivation), but today you’ll have to settle for James instead. However, if you’re an enthusiast, don’t get too excited. And if you’re a detractor, don’t feel down. The screenplay’s only half his, as you can see by the credits he’s not the director (his character even has a line where he literally says “I did not direct that!”) and his on-screen role might as well come with one of those “for novelty purposes only” disclaimers they stamp on penis pump packaging.

Oh yeah, like you’ve never injured your dick and/or your partner’s dick with a prick thickener before. How’s the weather way up there on your golden pedestal, you high-horsing mothertrucker? That’s what I thought.

On the topic of today’s movie, did you know it’s been 20 years since the original Mother, May I Sleep with Danger? premiered? Neither did. Because I never watched it. Because I don’t tend to watch Lifetime. Being “Television for Women”, I’m not even entirely sure it’s legal for me to post this review! Not that I’m a stickler for following the law, but when you’re covered in jet black fur like I am, you don’t really want to tempt any antsy-pants patrol officers into using yours truly for target practice…

Edgy, socially relevant humor!

You know who did see the original Lifetime Original? My Evil Dead Bride! I’m now turning over the steering wheel to EDB, so She can share Her thoughts:

Ahh, Lifetime movies: an incredible exercise in estrogen drenched dramatics and progesterone chugging shenanigans. Scared yet? You should be. Ladies are frightening, especially when they’re busting cheating husbands and bravely trying to find love again while raising kids with no heads. Okay, the missing head part wasn’t real. That’d be hype as fuck if it was real though, right?

Anyway, Lifetime is “Television For Women”, in that it’s ludicrously written and hilariously overacted treacle often “based on true events” (yet somehow not as entertaining as “Law and Order”) involving Ovarians. In every genre of film, there are certain works that can be considered cornerstones. Lifetime dreck is no different. The first Mother, May I Sleep With Danger? is certainly part of Lifetime’s bedrock, along with A Woman Scorned: The Betty Broderick Story and Her Final Fury: Betty Broderick, The Last Chapter (Seriously, watch the Betty Broderick movies, they’re incredible). It’s the typical “previously good teen rebels against overly involved parent and loves bad boy who is way worse for her than she realizes until it’s almost too late” affair, perfectly un-acted by Tori Spelling and Ivan Sergei (both of whom reappear in the remake for funsies for people like me who’ve spent too much time watching utter garbage like this). The writing is atrocious, yet oddly gratifying. Truly a hallmark in mammarian moviemaking if I’ve ever seen one, right along with that terrifying movie where John Stamos makes out with his dad at the end. That’s a real thing, by the way.

Lifetime isn’t for the faint of heart or those of weak constitution. Kinda like Tori Spelling’s “acting” and unsettling amount of facial fillers she’s rocking these days. (Seriously Tori, you’re starting to look like Robert Z’Dar: face like a catcher’s mitt. Quit while you’re only yards behind.) Lifetime movies are basically exploitation movies for suburban moms who drink box wine and proudly sport that baffling Kate Gosselin hairdo, sans over the top gore and gratuitous nudity. If this sounds appealing to you, question your life choices. I’ve done the introspective work, and am left with a calm that can only be achieved by allowing “Mother, May I Sleep With Danger?” to silence my constantly chattering mind with its myriad mysteries and deep existential inquiries. Perhaps this movie is actually a life altering koan delivered via poor 1990s television filmmaking, meant to teach me something I can simultaneously know and be ignorant of at the same time…

Hahaha. Nah. It’s just dumb pablum meant to pacify bored people like me with no taste. Enjoy it for what it is and isn’t. Don’t think too hard, cause that’ll give you little wrinkles on your forehead. Vaya con Dio Brando, fuckers. >:D

See why I’m frequently bugging her to start up her own movie blog? If you agree, let us know! She has to bow to peer pressure eventually!

And now, Mother, May I Sleep with Danger?

Honey, maybe you should get to know Danger first, before jumping into bed with them. Perhaps by introducing yourself with a firm but genial handshake!

I considered going with a Carlos Danger or “Is Danger his first name or his middle name?” joke there, but I stand by my decision.

Leah Lewisohn (Leila George) is just your typical West Coast college girl. She lives at home with her “why does she wear high heels in the house?” mom (Tori Spelling), she speaks with a soft-yet-grating Valley Girl accent, she awkwardly pretends not to notice that her friend Bob (Nick Eversman) would like nothing more than to suffocate himself with her crunchy underpants, she’s pushing gender boundaries by being the first female lead in her drama class’s rendition of Macbeth (as directed by James Franco’s character), and her new significant other is hiding from her the potential relationship shattering knowledge that they’re a vampire. Oh, and said sucker-of-the-sanguine is a lesbian goth “photographer” named Pearl (Emily Meade), which probably won’t sit well with Mrs. Lewisohn’s conservative Christian outlook.

As if the teenage nosferatu thing wasn’t bad enough, Pearl’s being pressured to bring Leah into the pink & black mafia (the Hart Foundation?) by her fellow monsters. “Monsters” in that they’re also vampires, not college students who think overexposing photographs makes them artists. Calling photography students “monsters” would be giving them more credibility than most deserve, and if their parents never encouraged them while growing up, why should the rest of us? I don’t want a brood of my own. If I wanted a bunch of responsibilities, I’d learn Hebrew and animate some golems. At least they don’t leave DNA evidence at crime scenes…

And that’s pretty much it! In my usual effort to avoid the stink of mold by not spoiling the bread, I won’t elaborate on this grown up After School Special anymore beyond that. To be fair, though, there’s really not a LOT to the plot of MMISwD?, as it’s a very straight forward, simple little horror movie. First time feature maker Melanie Aitkenhead directs the whole affair with a ’90s teen horror flair and moderately intense girl-on-girl makeout montages. Clearly our lady was very much a fan of The Craft (which also came out in 1996, coincidentally enough). Retro. Or, if you’re me, it’s nostalgic of my better experiences in high school: masturbating to Fairuza Balk. Speaking of the ’90s, former smasher of pumpkins and perfecter of circles James Iha’s industrial-goth score suits the movie and sets the tone well for Young Adult soap opera horror. It can get repetitive now and then, but for a Lifetime Original it’s solid, more so given that Smashing Pumpkins are to my ears as Slim Whitman is to Martians’ whatever it is they perceive auditory stimulation with.

And yes, that last line’s analogy counts as SAT tutoring, so don’t forget to pick up your bill at the exit. You don’t want us to have to bring it to your house. Trust me.

Being a bloodsucker pic, the gore in Mother (♫ “tell your children not to hold my hand”♫) is kept mostly to bloody mouths (with oddly clean teeth…), with the most intense wetness kept to the Macbeth play in an oddly meta “story-within-a-story fake violence” angle that I can’t really put any clearer. Sometimes I don’t word good. Now, without any serious gripes beyond some not great acting (and a non-PC concern about Tori Spelling looking like a melted mess of Barbie plastic), what’s my dominant issue with the movie? Sometimes, it doesn’t give its audience enough credit.

Leah’s scholastic screen time outside of the Drama Department is spent in a class that explores the parallels between traditional horror stories and the historically phobic persecution of LGBTQ folk. This, of course, is the theme of this remake/revision/reimagining/rebranding/reskinning, likely in an effort to both let said LGBTQ know they’re not alone, and also get the ignorant of we heteros to empathize with people who have been unfairly demonized for centuries. Pardon me if this is projecting, but it gets too heavy handed (going so far as to juxtapose the professor’s words directly over a scene of the vamp squad on the hunt) in its efforts to make sure the message permeates even the densest of numbskulls. Meanwhile, to those with more open minds, it can come off as condescending. Not due to the message, but how many times we’re told that what’s happening to Leah (IN a horror movie, no less) has already been covered a thousand times before in books and poetry.

You could look at this bludgeoning of subtlety as a negation of any need for the movie to exist in the first place since it’s just the same old story. Or, you could look at it as a statement that the need for such stories sadly still exists today and will continue to until the dickards of the world get over whatever personal problem it is that causes them to try and ruin other peoples’ lives. Hint: it’s usually because they hate their own lives, but are too fucking lazy or helpless to fix it, so they just redirect their angry frustration into aggressive outward displays of hatred and attempted domination. You know, typical grade school bully shit, because some cunt waffles never evolve past a 6th grade level.

Given that you’re probably here because you want to know my opinion (secondary to the dick and fart jokes, of course) , let’s discuss where I stand in regards to MMISwD?‘s message – being neither LGBTQ person nor a homophobe, it doesn’t speak to me. Nor am I saying it should. Much like my feelings on The Babadook, the message is clear to me and doesn’t need to be repeated ad nauseum, rubbed all over my brain like a young intern’s balls across a Republican senator’s face. As a Lifetime Original, the presumed target audience for this flick is middle-aged women (and any channel surfers whose attention can be easily grabbed by TV-14 approved barely legal lesbos dry humping), so if any such ladies out there have seen this and would like to give their opinion, please reach out and touch-a touch-a touch-a me as I’d like to hear your thoughts on whether the script’s hand holding really is overly aggressive, or if I’m just too into buttering my own nuts.

For me, it’s the same as a smoker being told repeatedly by their spouse that cigarettes are going to kill them. I know. I’m not stupid. I’m also not Leonard fucking Shelby. I can retain knowledge, and I do remember the other 500 times you told me about all the cancer I’m going to get from smoking!

…Where was I going with this? Oh, right, the exasperation of repetition. To quote Mr. Horse, “No, sir. I don’t like it.” Ignoring that, as stated prior, it’s an overall okay movie. Direction was fine, dialogue was fine, performances were fine for the most part (minus a little too much of leading lady Leila George’s grating accent). Better than what I expected from a TV movie, albeit a bit too predictable and all that “Bob Huge Hands wearing lead over mitts” heavy handedness. Given Franco’s involvement I was hoping for something a little more guano than the socially conscious made-for-TV remake of Embrace of the Vampire (sadly lacking the lusciousness of 1995 Alyssa Milano in a skirt) we got instead. That was also when I thought he was going to be directing it, though, so fuck me for having expectations scaled to false information. ‘Tis no one’s fault beyond mine own.

There are other heavy topics at work here, like domestic abuse (physical, emotional, and vampiric), peer pressure, date rape, generation gaps, gender politics, parental loss, gray morality, and how the first “Twilight” book was okay in theory but the sequels rolled downhill faster than Barbara Hale and Steve Brodie in The Giant Spider Invasion. Fuck you with a wooden stake, Stephanie What’s-Her-Name. Your hack novels have corrupted more young people than ISIS! You know, the terrorist organization, not actual Isis. She’s thinking of changing her name to “Brooke” now, just to avoid that whole messy “kill the non-believers!” thing. Anyway, one of the smaller, intimate themes I like about the movie fits in with the “being gay = movie monster” matter, but it’s a huge giveaway so I can’t even talk about it under ape spoiler law! Tell you what though, you send me a message asking me to expand upon said story element, and I will spoil the shit out of it just for you, Sugar Tits.

Final complaint? The movie’s finale must’ve been raised in a barn, because it leaves the door for a sequel WIDE OPEN. And in doing so, lets all of the metaphorical heat out. It’s better left as a one off flick and the possibility of a follow-up thrills me as much as mere alcohol thrilled Sinatra – not at all. Lifetime could probably win me back if they give Franco the reins to reign over it, especially if he had a few lines of coke to “inspire” him through the creative process!

Unless and until, I’m just going to treat MMISwD?‘s canned cheese epilogue like another kind of “log” and flush it from my memory. My Evil Dead Bride offered up a legitimate position on how said ending could symbolize certain peoples’ stances about the corruption of…damn it, there goes that spoiler warning alarm in my explosive collar again! I reiterate: if you want me to ruin the movie for you, please submit a formal request. In triplicate. My lawyers’ assholes are puckered so tight that light can neither enter nor escape them.

Beyond being part deux of my “Ladies Night!” Cineménage à Trois trilogy, I won’t say what the subject of our next episode will be. All I can guarantee is that it won’t be anything from a certain knockbuster factory whose name rhymes with “ass xylem”. Afraid I may have been showing the early signs of Stockholm Syndrome with my Sinister Squad review, I’ve had myself voluntarily committed (get it?!) into an Asylum asylum program until at least the end of the year. For now, I gotta get back to work on my death ray, so this ends our broadcast day. Ladies? Keep it sleazy, make ’em queasy, and when you can, top it off with a bit of the ol’ squeezy squeezy. Good night everybody!

Moral of the Story: If you’re a sexually malleable college girl who finds herself being courted by a Photography major, try to make sure your first date includes a quick pass by a mirror store and a garlic plantation before going back to their place. Vampirism is like any STD – a little prevention can save you an eternity of regret (and genital inflammation)!


Someone using their phone to actually talk to someone? This must be a flashback!

When three hot women come up to you out of nowhere and ask if you want to “have some fun” with them, kindly decline. They’re either going to make a blackmail video of you, or use you for a human sacrifice.

“Welcome to ‘Introductory to Film Making’. I am your professor, Uwe Boll, and I would like to take this moment to inform you all that this class is NON-REFUNDABLE!”

“You know how you said you ‘love me like a brother’ yesterday? Did you ever, you know, fool around with your brother or give him, like, a pity handjob or anything when you were younger? I mean, you know, just asking.”

Damn it, Franco, stop looking at the camera! You’re worse than Jimmy Fallon was when he’d break character on SNL!

“Hey! It’s that Tom Green guy! I wonder what he’s doing on our campus? Wait, is he… oh sweet Jimmy Dean! Is he having sex with the school mascot?! That poor platypus!”

“Baby, what did I tell you about throwing away your gum before bed? Jeez, that’s really in there. Well, looks like I know somebody who’s getting a butch cut when we get home!”

Whenever Sally’s feeling down, she knows Alice’s “derp face” will always pick her back up.

Good news, bad movie lovers! Robert Z’Dar didn’t z’die, he just had a sex change! Maniac Cop IV: Meter Maid from Hell, here we come!

Ladies and gentlemen, the world’s sexiest (and worst) ventriloquism act – Madam Marilyn and Her Mischievous Marionettes!

“No babe, don’t freak out! It’s not really my penis, it’s just my thumb sticking out of my zipper! See?!”

Another successful production of “Evil Dead: the Musical” is in the books.

What’s with her costume? Wait. Let me guess. She’s going as a chandelier lamp from WalMart!

A promotional still from the CW’s newest attempt at a recycled franchise: “Eddie Munster: the College Years

“What do you mean they made a ‘90210‘ reboot and I wasn’t a part of it?! Wait, I was on it?! Why don’t I remember ANY of this!?” (Don’t worry, Tori, NOBODY remembers anything about that show.)

She must use Listerine’s new “Blood Blocker” formula mouthwash, or Orbitz’s new “Gore-B-Gone” gum. All this image is missing is a hot British blond saying “FABULOUS!” while light gleams off of Pearl’s pearlies despite her menstrual beard.


Anubis will return next time in
“Monsters of the Runway”

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All materials found within this review are the intellectual properties and opinions of the original writer. The Tomb of Anubis claims no responsibility for the views expressed in this review, but we do lay a copyright claim on it beeyotch, so don’t steal from this shit or we’ll have to go all Farmer Vincent on your silly asses. © October 1st 2013 and beyond, not to be reproduced in any way without the express written consent of the reviewer and The Tomb of Anubis, or pain of a physical and legal nature will follow. Touch not lest ye be touched.

Feature 16 [Rerun] – Ankle Biters (2002)

or “They Prefer to Be Called ‘Vertically Challenged Living Impaired Motorcycle Enthusiasts'”

Featuring: Adam “Also the director/writer” Minarovich , Jermey “Wiseguys Vs. Zombies” Busbee , and a cast of pint-sized extras and fat guys that will never work in movies ever again

Director & Writer: Adam “Wiseguys Vs. Zombies” Minarovich

Origin: USA

This Episode Personally Approved By: Adam Minarovich (Director/Writer)!
“Believe it or not, I love these reviews! I laughed so hard at the Ankle Biters review I had tears in my eyes. Thank you for putting so much time into these. Hilarious! -Adam ‘Minor Ass Itch'”


“I need some help right now! There’s some more dwarves attackin’ my brother with a sword! Come quick!”

Intro: After last episode’s review for Krampus: the Christmas Devil, I had a taste for blood. The blood of severely incompetent director-writers who hire their biker friends to act in their shit-smeared homemade horror movies, shot in their friend’s bar. Director-writers of a level of mental deficiency so severe, that the only reason they’re able to stay alive is because their circulatory and respiratory systems work in a completely autonomous state requiring no skill or attention whatsoever. The natural choice – Adam Minarovich and his cinematic hepatitis known as Ankle Biters.

What are Ankle Biters? Biker vampire dwarfs. If you thought the worst thing that could happen to the genre that gave us Graf Orlok, Vlad Dracula, and Jesse Hooker (not TJ Hooker) was sparkly skin and teen stalker “romance” stories to get teenage girls and lonely housemoms squishy, well… you’d be right. By Set that shit is STILL the stupidest, most pathetic masturbatory loser trash I’ve ever witnessed, and that INCLUDES Fifty Shades of Shit. Uggh. All bullshit asshole Mormon panty staining aside (you twi-tards all deserve a power sander to your genitals), the SECOND worst thing to happen to vampires has been Ankle Biters. I watched it again before adjusting this review, and it’s still an experience I’d have to liken to burning a pile of unwashed ass hair and smearing the ashes directly into my eyes and onto my tongue. Bantam biker bloodsuckers is definitely something different, but “different” doesn’t always equal “good”. I can be different by pouring expired tarter sauce on my ice cream, or bake brownies using pickle brine instead of eggs, but both cases are better served as an ipecac than a “unique dessert treat”. Anyway, close your proverbial eyes and open your proverbial mouth, cuz I’m gonna fill your gulp hole with a fistful of proverbial Roadkill Surprise!… the “surprise” is that’s it’s still partially alive… and oozing mysterious, pungent, horror goo all over the place.

See white trash Blade battle the Hells Angels branch of the Lollipop Guild! Heeeere’s, Ankle Biters!

Original Review: Disclaimer: This review contains various terms for people lacking in height. Though some would say that the term “midget” is the little person equivalent to “nigger” and that “dwarf” is more pc, I’ve also heard that “dwarf” is only better than “midget” the way “darkies” is better than “niggers” or “slopes” is better than “chinks”. I do not hate or discriminate against anyone based on their race, sexuality, gender, or genetic makeup, but because I don’t think repeating the term “little persons” or “people with Achondroplasia” 700 times over the course of this review will make for an entertaining read, I resort to many of these “offensive” terms. Whether you have a problem with these or not, I think it’s more important to realize that we all have one common enemy in this and that’s Adam Minarovich. Thank you.

Vampire biker midgets. Three words that, when used separately fall into the proverbial “hit or miss” category with the latter more often than not being a guaranteed “hit” in my book… which is bound in the flesh of the non-believers and inked in the blood of priests and pornographers.

Vampires are only as good as they’re written. You could have all the power in the world, but if you’re a moping little piss ant who sobs about his station in life as an immortal parasite not worthy of being seen by the eyes of man because you had a moment of weakness 400 years ago in a back alley in Paris, then do the world a favor and stab yourself in the eyes with Linda Blair’s crotchafix. You can also make or break a bloodsucker not so much on their attitude, but with the extent of their power and how they use it. You can be Captain Asskick, but even if you spend half the movie showing how invincible you are and unkillable you may be, all your fang cred goes down the shit bowl if you forget what time of day it is and wind up roasted in the morning’s first cancer rays or don’t realize that your coffin is stored in a room with barrels of flammable liquids. In short, das whampir can be classic cool ala Near Dark or Vampires In Havana or they can be Cleveland Steamer lame circa Billy the Kid Vs. Dracula or Vampire$… that’s right, Vampire$ sucks and John Carpenter is a hack who lives solely off the blind praise of his fans. The man hasn’t done anything worthwhile since… hmmmm… let me get back to you on that.

Bikers are usually pretty cool, but much like vampires it can take one simple character flaw to break them from this stereotype of badassitry. I’m not talking the rice burning, jumpsuit wearing, wheelie popping, rap video making, “Ruff Ryder”, “Biker Boyz” clowns neither, but the beer-gutted, bitch havin’, leather chaps wearin’, wallet chainin’ staples of American culture. They can be the rough and tough, “push everybody around because they’re bigger and meaner looking than everybody else” variety or they can be the pseudo rough and tough, “come out at the last minute with a heart of gold to help the lost puppy/desperate family/goofy man-child on a mission to find his stolen bicycle” type that makes me ashamed to ride a Harley, grow a beard and screw fat biker sluts… if you know what I mean, and I think you do.

As for midgets, well, you can’t go wrong with midgets. It’s movie commandment seventeen, article three, subsection theta: Thou Shalt Make Thine Film Superior With the Inclusion of Thy Lord’s Earthly Jester – Yon Half-Man. Midgets make the world go round. And when they’re drunk? If you missed Vern “Mini Me” Troyer during his disturbing run on VH1’s “The Surreal Life“, then you missed a whole season of drunken half-pint debauchery that made my Shasta go all McNasty!… and if you got that joke and you’re NOT Jake Busey, punch yourself really hard in the head and pray for amnesia like I’m about to. And if you ARE Jake Busey, start throwing yourself out of windows until you cripple/kill yourself. Videotape it though, cuz the Guinness Book people are gonna need proof.

Vampire biker midgets. It would be easy for an amateur movie crew to botch any one of these three elements, but it takes a true team of professional ass-jackers utilizing all the dark forces at their disposal to ruin all three… or a group of completely incompetent morons with their heads firmly planted up each others’ asses and not the faintest trace of skill or talent between them. Figure out which ones made Ankle Biters. There’s gonna be a quiz when this is over.

Yes, even the sacred folk-of-diminutive-stature who have fought so hard to earn their respected place as living punchlines were not spared the idiocy and inabilities set forth upon them by the Coalition for Ruining My Life: a non-profit organization dedicated to breaking me down to my basest form of self-loathing for purposes of their own amusement. How could such a bastard stepchild of abuse and grotesquery have been conceived? What were the debaucherous events and skin crawling situations from which such unloved and vomit spewing stupidity were hatched?! I’m gonna guess it went a little something like this… cue the “Unsolved Mysteries” music Tinfoilio, I’m going into dramatization mode.

*Initializing Robert Stack Voice Modulator*

Picture, if you will, a darkly lit room in a small Southern town (possibly a place called Belton, somewhere in Georgia). Local grease monkey Adam Minarovich has topped off a long day of tuning cars, tweaking spark plugs and inhaling deadly amounts of carbon monoxide with a typical night at Skanky’s Bar and Topless Fine Dining Establishment where he goes to drink himself into a stupor until his crack whore sister Shelby gets off the stage following the 2am donkey show special: fun for the whole family and kids’ appetizers half-off. Adam, Shelby and their seven deformed inbred children (all lacking lower jaws and at least four chromosomes each) head back to the Minarovich residence for coffee ice cream, WD40, and a few rocks of crack cocaine before bed time. While the children convulse soundly under their soiled sheets, mommy/sister and daddy/brother relax in the living room, watching the former rental video copy of Blade they bought each other for Christmas from Ed’s VHS Repair and Rental Castle. While Shelby’s teeth soak in a fizzing glass on the nightstand, her ragged gums massage Adam’s member with the love and gentle caress that only a drug addled sister can provide. Adam watches the movie and suddenly has the epiphany that, “Hey, if a colored man can make money off’n these movies, why caint I?! How hard cun it be tuh make uh movie like this?!”. The idea raced through his mind all that night and distracted him in the shop the next day, where one of his toes was severed in a hydraulic lift accident.

In an effort to keep Adam from making things “too legal” with the accident, Mr. Minarovich’s boss offered him a video camera and two days paid vacation to keep him quiet. Excited that the means to his newly realized life-long goal were being provided to him at the cost of something as insignificant as a toe (not even a big toe at that!), Adam quickly took the offer and signed several papers clearing his employer of any and all responsibility for the incident. Eager to share his dreams of fame and stardom with his chums, Skanky’s was abuzz that night with Adam’s talk of the future blockbuster that would cost him only pennies to make, but would net himself and his friends billions in box office revenues. How did he plan to improve upon Blade‘s formula of a half-breed human-vampire hunting his bloodsucking brethren to cleanse the world of their tainting influence? Dwarves.

Luckily for Adam his beloved hometown (or at least the town on whose borders he parked his trailer) had the highest dwarf-to-norm ratio in the state thanks to the now abandoned birth control pill factory whose unregulated chemical run-off was emptied into the local water supply back in the late sixties. This went on for eight long years before the company finally had to close down, not for environmental contamination or anything, simply because labor was cheaper in Mexico and the people didn’t speak English.

And so, with a cast of drunken bikers, old men who were in town for the annual antique car show, the Skanky’s employees, and half-a-dozen midgets, Adam went about giving his dream form, molding it in a clay of incompetence with hands strengthened by ignorance. Ankle Biters was torn from the bleeding, hemorrhaging womb of irredeemably bad movies to be used as a deterrent for misbehaving children, an initiation for alcohol-free fraternities, and a legitimate “temporary insanity” defense for defendants in the American legal system. Congratulations Adam, you’ve earned yourself a comfy little spot nestled between Hitler’s ass cheeks for eternity as a Nazi dingleberry.

As for the cinematic afterbirth that we’re left with, I’ll break it down for everyone in the simplest of ways to expedite this trial by (rectal) fire. Drexel Vennis (WHAT?!) is a half-vampire, half-human hybrid who feels it necessary to go around killing the undead bloodsuckers of the world. Why? Cuz that’s what they did in Blade. However, whereas Wesley Snipes had tough street attitude, martial arts ass-kicketry, and well written witty remarks to back up his crusade, “Drexel” relies on his unbearably weak Clint Eastwood impression and what he gleened from the first three minutes of a Tae Bo instructional video, which he utilizes to their fullest extents to make himself look like a walking, talking, about-as-useful-as-a-blunt-rock-on-a-busted-carburetor, 100% certified tool. We’re not talking Craftsman™ here though. He’s more like a Crapsman™ tool.

As if Captain Punchline wasn’t already batting a solid goose egg, Wesley Snipes had Kris Kristofferson as his aged, gun happy sidekick, while all Drexel could afford was a pint-sized biker thug named T-Bone (the only film roll of Michael Moore… not that Michael Moore, the other one… no, not him either… yeah, the 3′ tall one. THAT Michael Moore) who spends his time either having short jokes thrown at him by our “hero”, distracting the bad guys by making himself an easy target, or playing the role of the general liability that distracts the hero from doing his job long enough to let the bad guys get away and carry out their evil schemes.

As for what those evil schemes are, there’s a gang (i.e. trio) of fanged biker dwarves whom Drex and Bone just can’t seem to finish off for the life of ’em… because that would end the movie and WHO NEEDS THAT?! Seems these pint-sized blood bank robbers are the only vampires left (which completely goes against that whole “survival of the fittest” theory…) and, for whatever reason, are only able to infect other midgets with their carnivorous disease and not the other 99.9975% of the population. Why this is is never explained, but the solution to the problem is two antiques dealers (supposedly from Europe, yet look and sound like they just fell off the back of a manure spreader in the Corn Belt) who come halfway around the world to a nameless backwater shitburg town to sell a supposedly rare and valuable sword to a mysterious collector on an abandoned bridge in the middle of nowhere… give my brain a minute. It needs to recover and bring the swelling down to a more operational level after .

Wait! I liked The Thing! That was the last useful thing John Carpenter’s done for society! Okay, anyway…

This rare and valuable sword (no doubt purchased from one of those late night “decorative knife and samurai sword sales extravaganzas” shopping shows for three easy payments of $19.95 with Mr. Minarovich’s MasterCard after a freshly polished off case of Miller Lite) is decorated with a jewel (*cough*plastic*cough*) imbued with the blood of the last non fun-sized vampire. This bloodstone thus gives the wielder of the sword the ability to transform any normal sized human into a vampire when run through with the pig sticker of power. This opens up a whole new barrel of radioactively endowed super worms that come burrowing through my fore-brain, sucking out my eyes and eating their way through my innards with the pain of nuclear fire before exploding from my ass and tap dancing on my hollowed, still living body… And by that I of course mean it’s time to go sprinting merrily into my next diatribe!

Why are the only vampires left on Earth dwarves?! The rules say that mini-vampires can only infect mini-people, but I’m assuming the same doesn’t apply to norms? If norms and short-stacks could only infect each other based on height, then where did the first half-pint vampire come from?! Furthermore, can a midget infect ALL other midgets, or only midgets smaller than themselves? Can these shorty ghouls infect norm children? Is this some kind of psychosomatic vampire carnival ride with a “You Must Be This Tall” height requirement thrown into the fine print?! WHY ARE ALL THESE FUCKING VAMPIRES STROLLING AROUND IN DAYLIGHT!? AND MORE IMPORTANTLY, WHY ARE ALL THESE WORLD CHANGING EVENTS HAPPENING IN A SMALL REDNECK TOWN 300 MILES FROM CIVILIZATION?!

Okay, those two I can at least answer: these vampires’ only real weakness is budget restraints, which means they’re unaffected by sunlight because lighting setups for night scenes cost too much (i.e. “more than zero”) and they’re operating out of Bumblefuck Arkansas because it’s the only modicum of established civilization where filming doesn’t require a permits, and the extras all work for last night’s leftover cheese fries from Skanky’s. As for everything else, I guess you could whip out the universal fix-all known as the “They Made This Shit Up as They Went Along” Protocol and save yourself a lot of aneurysms…

Back to business, the evil dwarfs kill the antiques dealer (who just kinda lays still while the pint-sized pint-suckers feed off of his lower extremities…) while the old man’s trigger-happy, f-bombing little bitch face sidekick (“I toldja I was gunna bust some caps!”) manages to escape, whimpering like the proverbial little girl with a skinned knee… which I never really thought of as an absurd thing, cuz if you skin your knee (especially on asphalt), you’re gonna shed a tear and pop out that fat lip whatever your age or gender. Anyway, back to Drex and Bone, they pay a visit to a local lower class drinking establishment whose owner has been fingered for passing out party fliers for the mini-Nosferatu and their rave parties… seriously though, can you really call a room full of late-twenties-to-thirty-somethings ambling around while lit by various novelty party lights purchased at Spencer’s Gifts™ a “rave”? Maybe “down south” they do, but us Yankees up north call that the saddest looking singles night ever… and I mean EVER! E-V-E-R! As in “encompassing all of time and space, past, present and future”! You could shove your hand up Dom Deluise’s heavily greased cornhole and pull out almost anything better than what these backwoods long teeth are trying to pass off as a rave here!

You know, I always used to laugh at those little teeny douche bags who cut themselves to deal with the “pain and suffering” brought on by living at their parents’ homes for free and having no responsibilities beyond going to school and having friends, but I’m starting to see the appeal in “pain as a distraction” right now. I’m not kidding either. You won’t catch me with little retarded ‘x’s carved into my arms or whiny phrases scarred all over my chest, but I’m just telling you to be prepared if you find various gangrenous pock marks all over my genitals from getting too intimate with a lit cigarette a time or two.

This is turning into Demonicus all over again…

Prepared to unleash Hell (or the “Trailer Park Disneyland” equivalent of it), the dwarfish death dealers seek out the perfect target to serve as their new sucking savior. With few options in their Podunk base of operations, the bite-size bad guys choose… a fat guy in a wife beater… whom they pay by eating him alive, of course. The guy’s a 6ft tall, 300lb biker mechanic who looks and acts like every stereotype of a motorcycle enthusiast should… except for the eternal damnation of the soul he shall suffer in Harley Hell for owning a Yamaha… or as the vamps pronounce it in their ritual chant, “Yah-Mah-Hah”. The fleshy golem is turned with ease, because even one of such stature as he can’t seem to fend off the equivalent of a gang of preschoolers in Hells Angels junior wear.

Bubba Dracula proves to be too much for our grimacing, rasping half-and-half hero when the two square off for the first time in one of the most bizarre fight scenes ever. At first I thought it was just terrible choreography, scrod-awful film reversal, and a single pointless back flip performed for absolutely no reason, but when I watched it a second time my brain started to short circuit. Between my screaming “Johnny Five Alive!” and randomly blinking my eyes in some kind of chaotic nexus pattern, something started to think this incompetence was intentional in a “Salvador Dali of redneck home horror movies” kinda way… until I pulled a groin muscle trying to do cartwheels in my apartment, which ripped my somersaulting consciousness back into the agonizing reality of what I was actually witnessing.

The fight itself is interfered upon by an old guy (whose mouth looks like a “how to” on pissing off your dentist) when Gummy Joe starts firing off arrows into the melee… and by “firing off arrows”, I don’t mean he rains down a volley of pointy pain neither, but rather he stands in place, struggling to pull back the string of his compound bow and maintain the pose while fatty pulls an arrow out of his kidneys and Blade Lite walks around doing nothing of interest beyond letting the bad guys casually drive away at a leisurely speed so as not to mess up their beard hair… so much beard hair…

Realizing that the world (or even East Bumblefuck for that matter) can’t be overthrown by one biker and his stumpy limbed amigos, the vamps go about recruiting a few more average-sized minions. On the other side of the coin, realizing that a wanna-be Clint Eastwood and a midget in a do-rag won’t be enough to save the world (or even East Bumblefuck for that matter) from the oncoming vampire “apocalypse”, Drex and Boner recruit help in the form of Bubba’s useless sister and a few elderly buddies with shiny antique cars and a private arsenal of firearms that will hopefully be confiscated from them once I notify the authorities of this abomination in my full police report. While he’s out cleaning up a “rave” with his new buddies though, Drex loses his beloved Boner companion when a raid by the undead (once again, see Blade about this) back at the good guys’ headquarters leaves the little turd croaked and revoked… meaning they make him into a vampire.

Instead of the semi-poignant scene from Blade where Snipes has to kill Kristofferson instead of letting his old friend become a vampire (and completely glossing over this fact later on in Blade II…), we get a muy macho “emotional scenes between guys are for fags” fight between Drex and Mr. T(-Bone) that culminates in TB bitin’ the big blood sammich as overbearing testosterone and darkness drown the audience in another round through the doldrums. Afterward, Drex and his refugees from the vampire slayer retirement home do a three minute “guys loading guns and sheathing knives” scene (not kidding, it’s literally THREE MINUTES LONG!), which is immediately followed by an equally uninteresting three minutes of the bloodsuckers pacing a joint called “SNUFFY’S” (in whose parking lot there are numerous “motorcycle-car” type vehicles like the one the midget patrol scoots around in, conveniently enough) before turning all the leather-clad, billiard balling patrons within into fodder for the coming rumble-to-be.

Speaking of which, the brawl for it all between the quartet of Nosferatu exterminators (whose combined age is probably more than that of the 15 or so ghouls they’re facing off against…) and the drunken vampire extras takes place in THE cheapest of all set locations: the storage lot for a lumberyard!… no doubt owned by, or at least employing of, one or more members of the cast or their “kin”. So, who will win when a “wish he were a tough guy” hero, a “short on dental insurance” codger, his geezerly old sidekick, and their overweight “Wyatt Earp wanna-be” partner trade fists, blanks, boots, a few squibs, a very brief glimpse of home computer graphical editing, MORE bad choreography, MORE pointless back flips, MORE reversed film leaps, and a few syringes of anti-vampire blood coagulant (remember, gotta rip off ALL of Blade, otherwise the movie will just look half-assed) with the party posse from six feet under amidst the back drop of your neighborhood Home Depot™? Well, all the good guys live, all the bad guys die and we learn what happens when Drexel gets injected with his own anti-vampire cocktail. Here’s a hint, “It’s either gonna kill him or make him a helluva lot stronger”… with no offense meant to the fine people at Helluva Good™ cheese manufacturers.

Just when it looks like Drexel might finally have disappeared from our Fuck Awful Radar systems, our Dopplers are raped with a “Nine Months Later, Atlanta” epilogue (if by “Atlanta” you mean it was shot a few miles down the road from Lady Atlanta’s Adult Book Store and Discount Bordello) as Drex and his pals hunt down a stray mini-sucker who was about to target a four year old girl for dinner. Why? Because, again, if you’re gonna steal from a movie, steal the whole fucking thing. With that the credits role and we all die a little inside… unless you actually watched all of this crap like I did, in which case you will continue to die inside from the bowel obstructing tumor this movie has implanted into the core of your being.

End credits highlights/lowlights include the inclusion of Elmo and Mitsy Fagg as “Biker Bartender” and “Biker Waitress” respectively; the Biker Vampires being cast under one credit as “HMD Trike and Rod Riders of Belton” (huh huh, “Rod Riders”); a grammatical error in the crediting of the Art Director as “Chris SMith” (not so much the capitalization of the ‘M’ in “SMith” as the error of saying any of this movie was either “art” or “directed” in any way); crediting Snuffy’s bar as “Snuffey’s Bar” after already showing us there’s no ‘e’ while blatantly displaying the bar’s banner in the movie; mistakenly thanking the City of Ware Shoals (not because the movie wasn’t filmed in Ware Shoals mind you, but simply because I now know where to send the napalm); and finally for telling us that “No animals were harmed during the making of this film but several actors were”, because you guys have no idea what real pain is. You were in the movie, not watching it like I was. This alone is enough to warrant my melting the flesh from your body and rending it with pork fat before pouring it down the throats of your loved ones and catching it in a cauldron as it runs boiling through their large intestines, then cooling it and serving to you through a tube formerly used to hold samples of Ebola infected blood. You want to know pain? As per our pal Pinhead, “We have an eternity to show you pain”.

As if I had to explain the loathing I have toward this shitbag any further (Come on, like you wouldn’t hold any malice toward an obese toothless woman in a vinyl bikini rubbing her feces all over your chest and cleaning your teeth and gums with a toothbrush bristled with strands of her pubic hair as you sit helplessly shackled to a wall trying to breath through the used tampons she shoved up your nose?! Exactly.), allow me to dip into the non-story specific missteps of this clumsy toe-crushing redneck waltz. As far as the look and feel of the flick, we’re forced to digest horrible off-balanced audio that forgets to mic the actors one minute and pops and screams in your ears the next. Compounded with torturous acting (I haven’t seen anything this stiff since I mistook those Viagra for Flintstones Vitamins *rimshot*) and a soundtrack that busts the hammers, anvils AND drums of my ears with a generic metal and hip-hop fusion topped out with garbled shouting that fades out to an even more generic acoustic “cowboy” guitar solo. As if my ears weren’t filled with enough noise pollution, my eyes are heavily salted with nut punching video editing thanks to lazy film reversal work, little-to-no lighting beyond the great floodlight in the sky, the back-and-forth jumps between the only two lenses the cameraman had to work with (which you can easily spot because one of the lenses leaves a black frame at the corners of the screen…), and special effects that consist of fake blood and plastic fangs on a cast of fugly Podunkies. Okay, I can understand, forgive, and sometimes even applaud the use of “normal people” in a cast (not only for budget but for “realism” of the story) but they should at least be able to act as normal as they look, not like there are 10″ splinters lodged under their toenails. Want a perfect example of how using “normal” people can actually work? Three words: Hide and Creep.

The final six nails in this coffin? “THREE FEET TALL! TWO INCH FANGS!”. When your theme music is that line screamed repeatedly over a bed of auditory ass lettuce, you don’t just get the thumbs down, you get the “thumb dragged slowly and violently across the throat as a sign of violent execution in your immediate future”… which I’m doing right now. But, since this is the internet, you can’t really see it, so it loses it’s effect.

Though we all know now that I hate it and will burn it once the screen shots are taken (rental copy or not!), the important question is whether or not Ankle Biters will appeal to you, the reader. If all you need for a movie experience is 90 minutes of antique cars, bikers, midgets, custom motorcycles, guns and guys in trench coats acting tough and sounding like they’re trying to speak their lines with a golf ball lodged in their trachea, then you may have just found your Nirvana. If you need more substance to your viewing experiences or any/all of these things either don’t fit your own personal bill or flat out turn you off in any way, then run for the hills, get your guns and take up siege positions around every small town in the Southern US cuz this kinda shit needs to be prevented from happening again for the sake of future generations. History is written by the victors, so let’s make sure that Ankle Biters and Adam Minarovich (or all bearing the Minarovich name for that matter) lose in life and are made to suffer for it by being forever forgotten and erased from the annals of bad movie history.

Xtro: Adam Minarovich was writing a book at some point a few years ago, about his life as a maker of poor excuses for movies. His rep/agent contacted me through the original Tomb to request permission to use this review for Ankle Biters in said book. Looks like MinorAssItch isn’t just another wanna-be Hollywood douche sack, but a masochist of some caliber who doesn’t take himself too seriously. Good thing too, because after watching the final product that is Ankle Biters, if he’d had any shred of self-respect, he probably would’ve ended all bodily functions with a David Carradine Special. But, he can laugh at himself, which makes him okay in my book. I’d still rather give myself an enema of sand and tiny glass slivers than watch his movies, but the AssItch himself ain’t so bad.

Interesting note for viewers of “The Walking Dead” – ‘Itch played the abusive scumbag Ed in the very beginning of the series, who was beaten stupid by Shane before becoming zombie chow. Also, according to his imdb profile, he used to have one of those “Cash 4 Gold” slash cell phone shops with his cousin… stereotypes exist for a reason, folks.

Finally, for those who lament not being able to subject themselves to “THREE FEET TALL! TWO INCH FANGS!” without tracking down this suckburger, I give you… pain.

The Moral of the Story: White people – always stealing from black people and making it SHITTY.


Meet the white trash Blade – Douche.

“Say ‘midget’ one more time, motherfucker! I double DOG dare you!”

That’s not a band shirt, it just denotes his position on the movie… and life.

“Guys, we’ve been friends for a while now and… well… is it okay if I start casually using the ‘n’ word?”

Borrowed from the executive producer’s cousin, who purchased it at a police auction.

Featuring guest appearances by DJ Qualls and Stan Lee!

From The Little Peoples’ Playhouse presentation of ‘Stand By Me’.

This counts as a stunt scene, so that actor’s getting two paychecks.

“Hmmmm, I want something to spruce up the outhouse, but $15? I just don’t know.”

Thanks Al, but this is an Adam Minarovich movie. Just leave the bottle… and bring me two more.

Are they doing an overly elaborate douche bag handshake, or practicing their shadow puppet routine? You decide.

The Lollipop Guild’s Detroit chapter.

“Hurry up and get the shot, Jake! We gotta be out of here before the people who own this place get back from vacation!”

You’d think a sidecar is a pointless accessory for a guy who rides alone, but you’d be wrong. When you accept Jesus into your heart, he’s always there riding beside you.

He’s a drifter. He’s a mortician. Together they solve the crimes the police don’t have time for. “Drifter and the Mortician”, coming to CBS!

Pro Tip: when your villain looks like a roadie for Uncle Kracker, your movie’s in trouble.

Family Pizza catered this entire production for this product placement shot. The owners of the business hung themselves immediately after viewing the finished movie.

AMC’s original plans for Daryl Dixon were an attempt to bring in fans of TLC’s “Little People, Big World”. Then “Little People” was canceled, plans were quickly changed, Norman Reedus was hired, and the rest is history.

Seriously!? You might as well be driving a car at this point! Just buy a fucking convertible, you knob!

“You’re the purdiest sister/girlfriend a Georgia boy could ever ask for, Lorelei. Now let’s go drink paint and fuck like rabbits behind the dumpsters at Hardee’s!”

Anubis will return next time in
“Stone Cold Killers”

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