Featuring: Lindsey “Terror Firmer” Anderson , Lance “Hellementary: An Education in Death” Predmore , Ryan “Saturday Night Pillow Nights” Francis
Director: Jordan “ThanksKilling 3” Downey
Writers: Jordan “ThanksKilling 3” Downey , Kevin “ThanksKilling 3” Stewart , and three people whose names I refuse to type for their nebulous contribution of “additional dialogue”
Sequel: ThanksKilling 3
“Come on! I mean, it’s totally impossible for a turkey to kill a human, right?”
Welcome to TheTombOfAnubis.com: the fly in your yams, the rock hard “tooth chipper” breadcrumb in your stuffing, the pubic hair in your grandma’s pumpkin pie. Putting the “turd” in your turducken since 1999… or 2013 if this version of the site is the only one you’re familiar with. I’m sorry I couldn’t pull off Turkey Day Month this year because I fell behind on a LOT of shit, and pushing it back to next February just didn’t seem right. Instead, I hope you’ll enjoy this holiday themed sampling of cinematic cranberry sauce. And if you don’t? I don’t care. I’m probably stuffing my jaws with actual cranberry sauce while you’re staring at this bullshit review! But, if you don’t wanna read this, just go to YouTube and watch riff master Joel Hodgeson do his own Turkey Day marathon of classic “MST3K” eps. It’s probably a hundred times funnier than whatever nonsense I’m gonna spew here for the next dozen or so paragraphs anyway. Or do both. Don’t care. The only thing I give less than thanks today are fucks. My “Give-a-Fucks” tank is on ‘E’. Speaking of ‘E’…
Remember Blood Freak? If you don’t, you should feel survivor guilt levels of shame, because those of us who do remember Blood Freak will never be allowed to forget it. For 37 years (hey, a dick for each one!), BF was the preeminent (and solitary) killer fowl feature for bad movie masochists like yours truly to properly celebrate the holiday commemorating the genocide of almost an entire race of people! And no, I’m not talking about the Holocaust. But the day someone finally produces my World War II script about a ragtag crew of Jewish and Native American freedom fighters battling to save the world from Hitler’s legion of zombie turkey men led by the mutant clone of George Custer (and powered by engines of black magic infused alien technology), will be the day when we can truly end prejudice and accomplish world peace among all mankind. Make it happen, Hollywood. My phone is waiting for your ring-a-ding-ding. Oh wait, I dropped my phone in the toilet last night. Wait a week while I see if that trick with the bag of rice works and see if I can get the smell out.
Speaking of Hebrew Hitler hunters, since Eli “Bear Jew” Roth never gave us a full lengther based on his Grindhouse faux trailer Thanksgiving, director/writer-to-be Jordan Downey stepped in to fill the cheesy Tom Turkey terror gap with gallons of his own off-brand Velveeta. Made in more time than it took Yahweh to create existence, but less time than it takes your true love to give you 12 drummers drumming (or 12 ramblers rambling if you’re doing the 12 Days of Robert Rodriguez), in 2009 Downey spent 11 days figuratively gluing macaroni and glitter to construction paper to FINALLY gift us trash cinema fetishists with something else to kill the time between the Feast of Gluttonsaurus and the sacred Next Day ReAnimation of the Leftovers. Like Atum jacking off into the primeval mound to create Shu and Tefnut (look it up), Downey used his self-love and spawned unto us ThanksKilling: a creation myth we should all stand behind…far behind…well defended by lead shielding if it’s available. Don’t want your genitalia to melt off/out like Tarantino’s in Planet Terror.
Can we not have one Thanksgiving without someone’s reproductive organs ending up as molten slop all over the centerpiece?!
Our story begins back in “the olden days”, circa 1621. Mere moments following the first Thanksgiving feast, we watch as a gifted (in the be-titted sense) lady pilgrim is stalked topless through the flora by Mother Nature’s most perfect killing machine: a tough talking turkey wielding a hatchet! Or, as Seneca Gallagher would call it, a Scalp-O-Matic. The fowl fatale catches up to the buxom blond, and murderizes her right into our opening credits. From here we’re DeLoreaned into the present. We meet jock alpha douche Johnny (Lance Predmore); obese redneck party guy Billy (Aaron Ringhiser-Carlson); socially awkward geekazoid Darren (Ryan Francis); “Girls Gone Wild” leftover Ali (Natasha Cordova); and her good girl/sheriff’s daughter/foil/friend Kristen (Lindsey Anderson). This “only in the movies” quintet are just thrilled to the gills (sorry, I apparently just became a 70 year-old lady) for their Thanksgiving break, and plan to spend the long weekend away from the prison system of academia partying together. Darren even declares that he’s going to have sex with a member of the group…not exactly naming names, so I wouldn’t rule out him blowing a load of cock snot between Billy’s sweaty side meat at some point, given the movie’s Troma-tic vibe.
On the way to their destination, John’s jeep engine overheats in the middle of the night, so the party posse is forced to pitch their tents nearby and empty their alcohol reserves before the beers get warm. It just doesn’t taste right without that big stupid blue mountain on the side of the can! While they seek a campsite, the nerd trips over an old wooden sign (that looks like some inbred kids made it in summer camp arts & crafts) that says “Crawberg”. Once they’ve settled in, gathered ’round the fire and emptied some brewskies into their brains, Dorkus holds a little history lesson on Crawberg, and what turkeyologists the world over refer to as “Thankskilling”.
Almost 400 years ago, one of Billy’s pilgrim ancestors besmirched a Native American medicine man in some fashion. Old Man Wampum Stomp ‘Em used the necromancy powers of his people (bet you didn’t know Indians could do that, didja?) to give rise to a feathered, gobbling, hatchet-bearing, revenge engine (revengine?) that would not only slaughter the buckle hatted denizens of the first feast, but would return from its murder hiatus every 505 years to do it all again! So…in 2126 then? Oh. Okay. I assumed it would be resurrecting sooner, like RIGHT NOW, but I guess we’ve got no movie now? Fuck. Well, good night everybody! Drive safe and don’t let your coffin be sealed with Tryptophan nails.
Wait, nevermind. According to Darren, it IS 505 years later, thanks to the magic of *wink*wink* style movie bullshit. Probably the result of the writers either mocking bad movie tropes, or just straight up confounding people with basic math skills (or just proving their own lack thereof). Whatever the truth (it’s out “there”), the Gobbler of Gore is reanimated Elm Street 4 style, when a dog with a doom bringer bladder pisses its bestial sacrilege sauce onto the turkey’s tiny totemic tombstone. Flashy (the dog) is axed for his part in marking our monster’s like he was territory. This doesn’t sit well with Flash’s (ahhhhhhhh! Savior of the universe!) owner, Oscar (a guy credited solely as “General Bastard”), a crusty old reject from a Lynard Skynard concert who takes it upon himself to avenge his now-departed doggy/wife.
Though the egregious game cock stalks the group, he’s not the most efficient of avian assassins, as everybody in the group makes it through the night with little more than the most minimal of run-ins. Kristen’s the only one to actually have a face-to-face with Turkie (as he’s credited on the box cover) before she runs off to tell the others, while Billy just gets shit on in his sleep. That’s what happens when you’re the first to fall asleep at the slumber party! We can chalk up Turk’s failure to being off his game due to Oscar’s interference, but the truth is more that this gives the bloodthirsty bird an excuse to pursue them further into the movie’s running time and up his bodycount with a few more throw away bit players.
The kids reclaim their no longer overheated transport and continue on to their destination. Turkie gives chase, and his first human victim in half a Willennium (go ahead, get jiggy wit it) is a guy looking to get his dick wet in the feathered hitchhiker’s giblet gravy…he tries to fuck Turk is what I’m getting at. This nameless zoophile ends up as a shotgun smear on his car’s interior, and the succulently breasted bandit carjacks his way to continue his pursuit of his real prey. Though how Turkie manages to operate the gas pedals (let alone the shotgun) we’ll never know. Chalk it up to that wacky Indian necromancy, I guess!
Upon arriving at his hunting grounds, Turkie wastes no time in decapitating Johnny’s dad following a cornholey Varsity Blues bonding moment, sending the (backup) quarterback fleeing in terror. Next on the killing floor is Ali’s ersatz lover (since John Boy didn’t take her slut bait) as the lad is slain mid-coitus, leading into the darkest scene of these 67 minutes when…uhm…Turk does the bump & grind on Ali in that “surprise! You thought it was somebody else’s penis inside you, but it was me all along!” way that’s kind of a gray area on the scale of 1 to rape. Either way, it’s a really unsettling scene watching our two pump chump antagonist achieve clucking climax, then telling the girl that she just got “stuffed” before he breaks her neck. Speaking of, I can taste my Stove Top coming back up typing about it, so let’s move on before I decorate my keyboard in herbs and spices. I ain’t got time for a game of “Name The Chunks”.
With one of their number down, our remaining four head to Kristen’s dad’s place to pore over his vast volumes of forgotten lore in search of any useful knowledge they can use against their pluckable pursuer. This includes one of the movie’s most satisfying sequences, as a Groucho glasses wearing Turkie has a sociable conversation with Sheriff Roud (Chuck Lamb), who’s dressed like a turkey. It’s almost surreal, and ends with Turk wearing the old man’s face as the kids come knocking at the door. And of course no one realizes Kristen’s pa is a 2ft tall turkey wearing a cheaply constructed skin mask, chalking up the doppleganger’s odd appearance to the lawman having done “something different with his hair”. He’s no Uncle Frank (go watch Hellraiser). Shit, he’s less convincing than Leatherface wearing Jessica Biel’s boyfriend’s mug in the TCM remake! But, that’s the joke. Just let it go.
After an extended “researching random books bought at a local yard sale” montage in the Rouds’ garage, our heroes (is that what we’re calling them?) discover the first step to their self-preservation is making Turk vulnerable by removing the mystical talisman around the monster’s scrumptious neck meat. When tub o’ guts Billy catches the killer motherclucker disposing of the real sheriff, he gets the terrorizing tom in a headlock and gives the others a chance to grab Turk’s neck decoration (neckoration?), but the entree escapes amidst the mayhem. Now they need to hunt him down so they can recite a demonic verse backwards in unison and burn him at the stake to be good and rid of him for reals.
While separated from the rest, Billy is tricked into eating an illusionary turkey and gets Kaned (go watch Alien) as a result, with Turkie in the role of the baby Xeno. When the others find his big bloated inside out corpse, Darren breaks into another montage: this one of pleasant flashback scenes about the best friend times between he and his corpulent compadre. Awwww. When the time for reminiscing is finally over, the Triple Threat hunt Turkie to his roadside teepee (for my bunghole?) where they bind him and recite their backwards gibberish. They’re just about to set him ablaze and send him to poultry hell when Oscar appears from nowhere, shoots the fleeing fowl full of buckshot and sends his carcass flying into a nearby garbage bin packed with radioactive refuse. Convinced this is enough to end their holiday ordeal, Oscar says adios while Darren, Johnny, and Kristen decide to leave well enough alone and venture forth to watch Christmas specials! Oh how I hope they’re watching “Christmas Comes to Pac Land”…
As expected, Turk’s not even close to being worm food and instead makes his inevitable return, now powered by the miracle of atomic mutation and varnished with a fresh coat of glowing green Toxic Avenger spooge. Darren will never again get to ply the famed “dance grooves” for which he’s known (you’d hardly recognize him under all that movie makeup), ending up instead with his tongue torn out and a peck hole in his chest big enough to put a penis into. If fucking dead nerds’ chest cavities is what you’re into, anyway. Hey, I don’t judge. Johnny gets an electric carver in his gizzards, but Kristen proves herself the sole survivor as she sets the gobbler ablaze with the classic DIY WMD Deus ExMachina: the aerosol flamethrower. Turkie’s toast. Oscar shows up for one last random pop-in and the movie ends on an epilogue about a family getting attacked by their Thanksgiving dinner while the threat of “To be continued… IN SPACE!” emblazons the screen. Truly, a movie made for b-horror nerds by b-horror nerds.
I feared I was about to step into a dog turd minefield when I opted to take on ThanksKilling. Too many indie (i.e. cheap) horror comedies try to emulate Troma with hyper over-the-top gross-out moments, shocker humor and flagrant dick & tit barrages without managing even a molecule of the more subtle jokes and gags that keep Troma features from being overpowered by the sum of their own parts. They also neglect to realize the importance of delivering such elements to make them funny rather than just garbage. Great example? Anybody can say “fuck” and it won’t mean shit. But when someone like George Carlin or Richard Pryor said “fuck”, it was funny. They knew how to deliver it. ThanksKilling understands that. Downey knew the limitations of what he had to work with and utilized it to make something palatable rather than putrid. For starters, it’s shot on video, but doesn’t try to reach beyond those restrictions. The gore’s actually NOT excessive. By limiting it to just a few scenes, what is there could get the proper attention needed to look as good as they could afford to make it. Keeping on effects, Turkie is a pretty solid puppet for a no budgeter! Certainly not Jim Hensonian by any stretch, but pretty slick for a flick that was likely shot on cameras borrowed from the AV department of a community college by a group of nobodies who probably failed out of the same acting class.
Overall, I was pleasantly surprised by ThanksKilling. Under the old laws, I’d give it a 3.5-out-of-5. But with the new ratings system I’m stuck on whole numbers, so I’m bumping it up to a 4. Definitely deserving of an annual Turkey Day double bill with Blood Freak. When watching, just be sure to apply the “Mystery Science Theater 3000” Principle to your viewing experience: if you’re wondering how that does this, and other science facts, repeat to yourself it’s just a movie and you should really just relax. More often than not, I’m the first to give the finger to such absurdity, but in a movie whose premise centers around a murderous, centuries old, trash-talking zombie turkey, save yourself the trouble and give in to the trusty old “popcorn movie” adage of shutting off your brain before you hit play.
Before I go, does anybody know where I can get extra small, gravy flavored condoms? I’m asking for a friend. No, really. Horus is hung like a hamster and this half-raven demigoddess He’s been seeing lately has this fucking weird gravy fetish. Nice girl though.
“… there was the first utterance of the ‘pull my finger’ joke.”
First released image of Chandler from the “Friends” prequel series “Peers“.
“How about you and I discuss my proposal to change the traditional Thanksgiving food? How do you feel about… ham? Lasagna? Big Macs?!”
Before he became famous, Larry the Cable Guy used to donate sperm 5 days a week. Say hello to every high school dropout below the Mason-Dixon Line for the next 10 years.
“Can you count my nipples for me? I lose track after 5.”
Coming to IMAX next summer, Ted Nugent: In Search of the Wango.
Wow. They’ve officially reached “bottom of the barrel” with the newest season of “Survivor“. At least it shouldn’t last more than a few episodes.
Following the loss of his other shed, The Artist Formerly Known as Arthur “Two Sheds” Jackson chose to live the rest of his life in seclusion with his remaining shed.
“Hello, Mustache Club for Men? I received my Mustache of the Month for November, and nobody believes it’s real. I’d like to return it for a refund.”
The Three Stooges, as chosen by marketing demographics and test audiences today.
This is why you never hire a demonic turkey as your barber. Especially if he would’ve preferred to be a lumberjack instead. (Yep, that’s two Monty Python references today. You’re welcome.)
There are some who say the Boggy Creek creature is still out there, thumbing his way across the back roads of Americana, gathering material for his own version of the Great American Novel.
I haven’t seen this much fully-clothed intercourse since that Mormon porn video my friend made me watch. His hope of kickstarting the next great wave of viral reaction videos didn’t exactly live up to the legacy of “Two Girls One Cup”.
If you put psychedelic mushroom gravy in your mashed potatoes, then watched Eraserhead and My Dinner With Andre on two TVs set next to each other, eventually this is what you’ll see.
“But… I still don’t get it. Why would anyone wanna eat GREEN eggs?!”
“I’ve got the weirdest boner right now!”.
“Honestly Jim Bob, when you said you wanted to ‘cream in my mouth’, I thought you meant something much different. This is SO much nicer though!”
Another unfortunate victim of Russell Crowe’s latest trip to the AT&T Store to complain about his iPhone.
A promotional still from Jordan Downey’s new project for the Hallmark Channel, ThanksCuddling.
Anubis will return next time in
Featuring: Jared “Supernatural” Padalecki , Danielle “Piranha 3DD” Panabaker , Amanda “The Mentalist” Righetti , with Derek Mears as Jason
Director: Marcus “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (2003)” Nispel
Writers: Damian “Freddy vs. Jason” Shannon , Mark “Freddy vs. Jason” Swift , Mark “The Messengers” Wheaton
Editor’s Note: None of that last part happened. He paid $200 for a cheap plastic elephant bottle filled with Country Time Lemonade drink-mix powder.
Writer’s Note: Damn it…
This is the first of a four part series I’m calling “Shake, Bake, & Remake”, focusing on remakes (duh) of otherwise infamous flicks that I can’t actually review here in the New Tomb, thanks to my self-imposed “Current Millennium Movies Only” edict. I’m not saying I’ve got it as hard as those religious kooks who put themselves through self-flagellation to prove their piousness, but I’m not not saying I’ve got it that hard either… and yes, I just said “I’ve got it that hard” ladies, in case you’re feeling frisky.
There have been a LOT of these remakes in the last 15 or so years, so it was only a matter of time before I could stop ignoring the epidemic and had to spread awareness though my only available portal to the masses. “The more you know” and all that. Anyway, it seems that every 365 days the Hollywood Xerox machine is sputtering out new half-assed paper jam abortions to try and cash-in on recycled ideas, much to the chagrin of long time movie lovers. The kingpin of this human centipede-inal process of turning food into shit into somebody else’s food is Michael Bay. He’s not just a boogeyman that creative thinkers use to scare their children into brushing their teeth and washing their ears before bed, lest he steal their imagination, either. Depending on who you ask, Bay’s career is either one big punchline (with an explosion at the end) or a new holocaust that will be marked as one of the darkest times in human history. I personally would like him to hang himself with his own intestines, but I write the same thing whenever I get one of those damn customer service surveys on my receipts. That’s just the kinda Death God I am.
In honor of the holiday (What? I always take Friday the 13th off from work. You don’t?!), I’m kicking things off with a figurative kick in the balls: 2009’s Friday the 13th. Now, since it’s officially hit its 5 year expiration date, this movie’s now ripe for spoilage. If you haven’t already seen it, and you’re expecting anything beyond “a guy in a hockey mask kills a bunch of horny teens”, you may want to close this window now and go on with your blissful ignorance until you can see it for yourself. For those of you who have seen it, or could care less about watching paper-thin plots put through the proverbial shredder, I’ll do what I can to make your stay a pleasant one. Now, onward to violence!
Not a true remake of the original (because 95% of casual slasher movie fans don’t even know who the fuck Pamela Voorhees is), this F13 takes the broad-minded clusterfuck approach of jamming an un-lubed speculum into a 106 minute running time and trying to stuff four movies worth of dongs into it. Sure, most people would say, “Dude, they’re just slasher movies. You’ve seen one, you’ve seen ’em all, so what’s the big deal of cutting four down into one?”. Jane, you ignorant slut. You know not of the things you speak, so I’ll forgive your lack of awareness long enough to let you get out the front door and leave this place, never to return again. Seriously though, you’d be surprised how much more there is to the story of Jason Voorhees than “kills naked thirty-somethings pretending to be teenage camp counselors”. But, I’d probably have better luck trying to teach a cat how to evolve into a squid. Either you get it or you don’t. I’d rather eat razor blades than watch Twilight, so different strokes get off different folks…unless you get off to “Diff’rent Strokes”, in which case there’s help for your sickness – at the bottom of a well. Go find it. Headfirst. The world thanks you.
The original movie gets put through the Cuisinart worst of the four originals, being hacked into little more than a black & white flashback played during the opening credits (yes, the opening credits) of Pam voiding her hat-of-the-month membership thanks to the final would-be victim of her Camp Crystal Lake murder revenge tour. The story’s still the same – she blames the counselors for the drowning death of her special needs son Jason, having been too preoccupied with cavorting of the pants-less kind to watch the little mutant while he was swimming. As any parent would like to do, Momma hacked ’em up like a butcher on bath salts. But, her death by self-defense decapitation was viewed by her still-living little boy. Taking up the very machete used for the aforementioned decap attack, Jason would go on a lifelong crusade of surviving on his own and serial killing anybody unfortunate enough to set foot on the campgrounds of Crystal Lake. The time it took you to read that is about 3 times longer than the movie actually spends setting things up.
There are a number of barbs this movie maliciously drops down the back of our pants, but there are two in particular that gave me the greatest trouble sitting down after experiencing them. I’m now going to address the first – of all the things the writers could’ve done to tweak the tale of Jason Voorhees, the one most in need of adjustment are his years between seeing his mother die and starting his successful career as a killer of the people that Mountain Dew and Miley Cyrus are marketed to. It never sat well with me that we were expected to believe that a deformed retard child not only survived his drowning (The police never recovered his body from the lake?! Are you fucking kidding me?!), and not only chose to live in the wilderness rather than seek help from anyone in the community, but he actually MANAGED to live off of small animals and berries and raccoon shit for two decades, then just happened to witness his mother’s death, which sent him a killing spree for the next 20 years?! All of this is stupid! So, perfect chance for the reboot writers to retcon it the fuck out and make something more sensible, right? Like, maybe Jason survived the swimming incident and Pam’s killing spree wasn’t due to his death, but still due to the negligence of the counselors? She obviously wasn’t the sanest kumquat on the fruit cart, right? So it would make sense, especially if she brought Jason along with her to witness how much she loves him by striking wrathful vengeance in his name. It would definitely go a long way in explaining his own use of violence in avenging her death for the rest of his life. As far as the whole “living off the land for twenty years licking moss” bullshit, just put him into foster care following mom’s rampage, have him murder his caretakers at some point in his teens, then let him make the trek back to Crystal Lake to set up shop and we’re on our way! But no, let’s not do that. Instead, these dipshit fuck bags decide to fart in the face of effort and just stick with the whole Mowgli thing – Jason’s raised by squirrels or some nonsense and he’s just there and he’s always been there and when everybody who goes out there is never heard from again NOBODY WILL NOTICE OR DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT! GRARRGHGRRRRRAAAAARRRRRRRRGH!
Pardon my embolism. Uggh. So, yeah. New Jason is an adult now who may or may not have his own marijuana crop out in the woods around Crystal Lake. He lives in the abandoned remains of the camp (abandoned following the mass murder incident), probably drinking his own urine or just coating his intestines with parasites from chugging the lake water. There’s probably a whole hive of squirmy things in his guts. He probably doesn’t even poop anymore because the colony of colon worms just eat all his feces for him then re-poop it back into his blood stream, gradually turning him into an unstoppable dung golem. Where was I? Oh yeah, Jason’s pot field. For something like 10 minutes we’re introduced to a small group of friends who have come to Crystal Lake to sleep (and pork) under the stars. Two of the guys (one of which is a poor man’s Seth Rogen that looks so much like Ragnarok from Cinemasochist Apocalypse that I had to rub my eyes in one of those slapstick comedy double takes to make sure I wasn’t imagining it) are secretly there to steal weed from this legendary crop the one guy’s dealer told him about, the third guy is there to snoop around the campgrounds with his “girl next door” lady love, and the remaining female is there to show off her nauseating botched ’80s boob job and have silhouette doggystyle with one of the weed guys in their tent. They’re solely here as Jason fodder, hence all the marijuana and sex and trespassing. Jason himself is wearing a sack on his head a la F13 2, but it looks more like a pillowcase wrapped around his face than the traditional potato sack. Back to the delinquents. Imperfect Ragnarok Clone gets hacked up, his New Wave Holdover pot hunting partner gets macheted in the face like Leonard Lies, Gross Tit Job gets torched alive in her sleeping bag, Unthreatening Trespasser Boyfriend gets dragged through a floor and presumably slaughtered off-screen, and Appropriate Acting Trespasser Girlfriend is presumed also macheted. Until later on, when it’s revealed that Jason just takes her captive because she looks kinda like this picture of his mom that he keeps in a locket.
Hey, I told you I was gonna be spoiling this nonsense like 6 month old milk! If you stuck around to drink it, you’ve only got yourself to blame, Jermaine. Hope you like sour and chunky, cuz I’ve got plenty more to pour down your gullet. NO WASTE!
After ALL of this, we finally get our title card, some 25 minutes in. Somebody cal Guinness, because that’s gotta be the longest pre-title prologue sequence ever witnessed. From here we fast forward to “6 Weeks Later”, where a second group of irresponsible twenty-somethings are also making an ill-advised trip to corpse country. Since this is supposed to be the part where the Friday the 13th Part 3-D “homage” initiates, this rainbow coalition (well, it’s 5 white people and their token black and Asian friends) is assembling at the family summer house of their leader Trent (Travis Van Winkle) who, if you couldn’t already tell by his name, is such a massive douche bag that he might as well be played a gallon milk jug filled with vinegar that has “Summer’s Eve” stamped on the side. The only real elements of note from this group are that goofy blond pretty boy slacker Nolan is played by Ryan Hansen of “Party Down” (a criminally under-appreciated comedy from Starz that NOBODY watched), and token black guy Lawrence (Arlen Escarpeta) who, despite the *wink*wink* moment of not wanting to be stereotyped as one of those black guys, doesn’t even come off as an n-word, he comes off like a whigger because he tries too damn hard to be one of said black guys! I’m pretty sure he graduated Valedictorian of the Black Acting School’s Class of 2008… Hollywood Shuffle? Nothing? Really!? Isis help me…
Transitioning into the Friday the 13th: the Final Chapter section of our movie, lone wolf heartthrob-on-a-motorcycle Clay Miller (Jared Padalecki) is also in the area, not just to play the forbidden love interest to our female lead – King Douche’s set-upon good girl girlfriend Jenna (Danielle Panabaker) – but to find his sister Whitney (Amanda Righetti), who went missing in the area 6 weeks earlier. Yep, Locket Girl. Speaking of, she’s spent the last month and a half captive in Jason’s underground cave lair (which is way more “influenced” by The Texas Chainsaw Massacre Part 2 than anything F13), and looks WAY too clean for someone shackled in her own filth for 40 days and nights. Here’s a sticking point that Michael Bay’s welcome to stick in his boom boom hole: despite Camp Crystal Lake being long abandoned, it’s still wired for electricity, which Jason turns on with one of those big mad scientist switches that just don’t carry the same panache without the “It’s alive! ALIVE!” schtick accompanying it.
Clay’s search for sis isn’t helped by the incompetent local podunk police force (an F13 series staple), especially Officer Brackle (Richard Burgi, who looks like the bastard spawn of Patrick Warburton and Huey Lewis) who recommends that Clay go looking elsewhere because Whitney and her friends probably just ran away somewhere else to disappear without a trace…having NO CONNECTION WHATSOEVER TO OTHER STORIES OF ERRANT CITIZENS THAT HAVE REMAINED UNSOLVED IN THE CRYSTAL LAKE AREA ALL THESE YEARS ……… and there goes another embolism. Though there’s no Crazy Ralph proper in this movie, there is an unnamed old demented lady (Roseanne Knower) who does the job, filling in Clay on the whole sordid history of Crystal Lake being a Bermuda Triangle for missing credit card applicably aged delinquents.
And beyond that? Not a whole lot to report. Jason kills everybody. In fact, he starts with a local yokel white trash stoner (who my Evil Dead Bride perfectly described as “exactly the kind of guy who would lick the pages in Hustler”) who I can’t help but feel is playing a part that was originally written for Jason “Jay of Jay & Silent Bob fame” Mewes. Whether you agree with me at first glimpse or not, once he starts sexually harassing a decrepit mannequin, I think you’ll come to my side of the opinion pond. Beyond licking porno mags (bet they taste salty) and groping inanimate objects, this guy’s reason for being isn’t just to be killed, but so Jason can find a certain iconic piece of sporting equipment in the dumbass’ smoke & stroke shack. Having taken up his sword (machete) and donned his magic helmet (hockey mask), the mighty masked mauler can go about his destined destruction of these purveyors of moderate debauchery. Using more skillful hunting techniques rather than simple smashery & slashery for the most part, the result is the same – everybody ceases to be and joins the choir invisible. I’m fine with that, except for Jason’s more agile feats, like climbing onto a roof with relative ease (ninja fart style: silent but deadly), then leaping down afterward to stab someone through the eye. I prefer my mute murdering juggernauts to be more the lumbering colossi type, but maybe I’m just old fashioned.
By the last reel, it all comes down to the final four: Jason, Clay, Jenna, and the recovered Whitney. In somewhat of a shock, Jenna ends up the victim of implement impalement while trying to escape Jason’s silly underground lair. Which he probably fixed up at the cost of *dramatic pause* one BILLLLLLLION dollars! Man, nothing says you’ve got your bloody talons on the pulse of humor like a 12 year old Austin Powers joke. Blart. The chase eventually ends with a chain around Jason’s neck and our mongoloid mangler being dragged headfirst into the business end of an industrial wood chipper (which I would’ve expected to immediately screech to a halt once the first few feet of chain got wrapped up inside the blades, but hey, movies and stuff) which shuts down after leaving the top of Jay’s dome looking like he just tried on a toupee made of piranhas. I could have done without the Velveeta that Whitney vomits on us in triumph over her captor (“Jason! Say hi to Mommy…IN HELL!”), but as far as endings go, I’ll allow it. No yellow card.
Sorry. The Tomb’s marketing department told me to try and pander to the World Cup crowd. I wouldn’t review Shaolin Soccer, so this was the best I could do to get them to stop poking me with their stupid marketing pitchforks…still don’t know how those slipped by me during the annual budget review…
Immediately following the figurative disposal of the villain is the literal disposal of the villain, and this is where the movie’s second GIANT ass barb falls squarely betwixt my seat cushions. Okay, if you were in Clay and/or Whitney’s shoes, and you’d just stopped a crazed serial killer in a mask who slaughtered a dozen or so people around you… What would you do? Yes, you’d call the police and have them rush out to you immediately while keeping a sentinel-like watch over said murderer’s body, probably while wielding a large, sharp, weaponized gardening tool. And if you’ve seen slasher movies at any time in your life, you’d go the extra mile and chop off his hands and feet, crush his head with a cinder block, and/or park a tractor on top of his corpse as added insurance. What do the siblings do? Dump his body into the lake. What do you think happens when the cops show up, find a whole bunch of bodies, and a brother and sister say “It wasn’t us! It was this big redneck in a hockey mask that we managed to kill in self-defense, then dumped his body in the lake! No, really, we dumped him in the lake! Why!? Uhm… hey, Clay? Why did we dispose of the biggest piece of evidence corroborating our story again? Shit. We’re going to prison, aren’t we?”. But no, none of that matters, because the whole lake dumping thing is done solely for the goofy last-minute movie jump scare attempt when Jason leaps out of the water to finish off our heroes before the end credits roll. This is what happens when you get a friggin’ music video director to helm your slasher flick.
I know movie criticism has a long history of people saying, “That sucked! I could’ve done a better job and I don’t even make movies!”, but in this case I have to agree. As of this review, I’m happy to report that we can at least find solace in knowing that none of F13‘s trio of writers has done anything of note in the half-decade since, possibly crushed by the torrent of hate mail from the Friday Faithful following this fart-in-the-wind remake. As for director Nispel, he seems to have ignored the bloody writing on his bathroom walls and chosen to soldier on with pissing off children of the ’80s, because his next credit was that Conan the Barbarian remake. As least the “slick kinetic Hollywood production” look fits something like a swords & sandals monster mash better than a slasher production, because aside from the hockey mask and all of the stuff lifted directly from the previous F13 installments, this is in no way a Friday the 13th movie. Just like other Michael Bay productions like Transformers and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in no way represent their source material in any means other than the duplicitous “name only”. Jason looks like he’s been sticking to a strict routine on a BowFlex he found in one of the abandoned cabins, and has apparently mastered electrical engineering with one of those “earn your degree through the mail” programs. I blame the deaths of these people squarely on YOUR shoulder pads, quasi-celebrity Sally Struthers!
Final judgment time: Friday the 13th has some decent violence, but any idiot with a blunt instrument can commit violence. A butcher can turn meat into a meal with skill. An artist can turn violence into entertainment with creativity. In the hands of these people, it’s just “stab stab kill kill”. An uninteresting story with even less interesting characters. A lazy for-profit attempt on a storied slasher franchise (just go with it) disguised as an homage to a legend when it’s really just an excuse to reuse someone else’s leftovers and try to call it your own fine cuisine creation. I’d rather watch Jason Takes Manhattan for a weekend straight than bother with this “re-visioning” by people blinded with dollar signs made of diarrhea. When you try to legitimize an illegitimate genre like cheesy ’80s slashers, you miss the point entirely. They put so much effort into being tongue-in-cheek that the whole affair ends up being way too on-the-nose, which eventually turns it into some kind of awful tongue-in-nose thing that’s just nauseating. And that’s all the time I’m willing to put into this review. Join us next time to see who the next slasher icon is to be put through Tinseltown’s imperfect cloning machine in “Shake, Bake, & Remake Part 2”! But for now, as Uncle Gunter would say, “Leb wohl mein kleines Schnitzel-Abgründe!”
Moral of the Story: You know those parents of handicapped children who say that one day their special needs child could grow up to be the President of the USA or some other really huge achievement as such? Jason Voorhees just makes me want to go down to the Special Olympics and smother every last potential serial killer in the lot before they can come to maturity and take their hatred for the world out on me. I am the comic relief for any slasher movie, so there’s no way I make it long enough to hear the awful nu-metal shit they’re gonna shove into the end credits!
“Damn it Steve, if you forgot to pack the tweezers my brow line is going to look like a Pakistani during No Shave November! We have to go home and get them NOW!”
See what I mean?! Switch out the Star Wars shirt for something Godzilla and this guy’s the movie version of Brother Ragnarok!… and clicking that link will result in no support for my argument, because Raggy doesn’t have a pic of himself on his profile… blart.
Jason is terrifying enough on his own. These two just walked in on him jacking his jerky to bathing suit photos of his mom. They’re scarred for life. But, on the plus side, at least their lives won’t last much longer!
If you thought termites were hard to get rid of, once you’ve got a Voorhees in your floor boards you might as well just burn the place down and start over… on another continent.
“Excedrin Headache #13: the camping trip”
Wearing a pillow case on his head and standing next to a burning effigy?! I know he’s a vicious serial killer, but I never realized Jason was a white supremacist too! Things are gonna be very awkward with Candyman at this year’s MurderCon.
No, I haven’t. I don’t really like Whitney Cummings, and I’ve heard that show was unwatchable anyway. It was also canceled a year ago, so… no, poster, I haven’t seen ‘Whitney.
“Are you on drugs, young man? Because, to be honest, I want a new drug. One that won’t make me sick. One that won’t make me crash my car, or make me feel 3 feet thick.”
That moment you realize that the secret ingredient in your buddy’s “special brownies” wasn’t marijuana…
No, before you say anything, I didn’t boot up the Maniac remake by mistake. Believe me, I really wish that was the case, but no such luck.
The Invisible Man? The Mummy? Darkman?! Nobody knew who Jason was supposed to be at last year’s Halloween party, and every time someone asked he stabbed them in the eyes with candy corn!
FYI – he was dressed as Hush. JV’s a big Batman fan.
All she’s missing is a naked Richard Branson clutched on her back like a baby lemur.
Kids, never go drinking with William Tell. That guy doesn’t just carry a chip on his shoulder, he’s got the whole stack of Pringles. After a few Pink Squirrels it always comes back to that stupid apple and, well, this happens.
Michael Bay’s veiled threat to ruin the Puppet Master franchise next… oh wait, Charles Band’s been doing that since 1993. Never mind.
This is why you’re supposed to take your contacts out at night, folks. The warnings on the box are there for a reason!
“Hail Hydra.” (I’m not 3 months late, I’m just moving up the timetable for bringing it back.)
There you go, ladies. Don’t say I never gave you anything… well, other than the creeps… and hepatitis.
Anubis will return next time in
“Pizza Puss Reborn”