The Valley of Gwangi – or Parque Jurásico Vaquero

I finally saw the newest Jurassic World movie.  Fallen Kingdom.  Yeah, sure, it’s like the real fallen kingdom is all the dead rich fellers.  Killed by their own hubris.  Death, uh, finds a way.  Sure, sure.

Look, I love dinosaurs.  The Jurassic Park franchise, from the first movie on, has provided me some pretty nifty visuals.  Regardless of if they are accurate to current scientific consensus or not, I like those dinos.

But the stories are just ridiculous and bordering on boring at this point.

What do we get this time? – big corporate avarice, sleazy men of power, a child key to the plot, dinosaurs whose exuberance can’t be contained, lessons never learned.  They did add an explosive volcano and a dino pet show/auction this time, but neither added much.

People can still outrun dinos in this one, and now falling ash too, because we are indomitable!  Except when it comes to figuring out a way to pen in large animals.  Then we’re utter shit.

So, let’s turn back the clock to 1969, dude.  A simpler time.  When dinosaurs were stop-motion animated and horses did their own stunts.  When we still weren’t successful at penning in dinosaurs for the amusement of the masses.  Pan y circos.

The Valley of Gwangi isn’t a great story, but it’s got as much oomph as Jurassic World.  A sketchy old flame (James Franciscus as Tuck Kirby) reconnects with the ex he left (Gila Golan as TJ Breckenridge), who runs a cowboy show in Mexico.

Fun(ish) Fact: Gila Golan had such a strong Israeli accent that her lines are dubbed by a voice actress.  This is noticeable the first time you hear her speak.  Noticeable enough that people like me immediately go look for an explanation.  I got over it, but I bet it was annoying for 1969 audiences.

A tiny horse named El Diablo leads them to a secret valley of dinosaurs.  Called an Eohippus, but shown to be about the size of a cat.  They tried.  It still looks cool.

They built it a tiny barn, with a tiny fence, and a tiny trough of hay.  Star of the show type treatment.  If only the little guy knew how quickly they would toss him aside for something with better box office potential.

Naturally, a serious of ridiculous events ends in the capture of a giant lizard (supposedly an allosaurus, but you know how that is), which they plan to put in a new, more spectacular show.  It doesn’t work out.

The gang is filled out by Lope – a local boy acting as Tuck’s guide for a few pesos, a crank paleontologist, Carlos – TJ’s handsome second in command who certainly has some unrequited and unspoken love issues, and guys named Champ, Rowdy, and Bean.

They are opposed by a crazy, blind, old witchy woman (living out in the desert in some sort of Romani campsite with blazing fires, dancing women, and caravans), a dwarf (uncredited and called The Dwarf), and some locals directed by the old witch who are trying to prevent the curse of Gwangi.  They do so by releasing Gwangi from his cage while the whole town is in the arena.  Because the resulting disaster is obviously better than whatever else might have happened.

The greatness of this movie is in the Ray Harryhausen stop-motion effects and the horses.

Sure, a ten-year-old today would scoff at these jerky looking plastic dinos, but I love them.  The sword-wielding skeletons of Jason and the Argonauts were a revelation to me as a youngster.  I rooted so hard for those boney troops.  Besides El Diablo and Gwangi, Harryhausen gives us a pteranodon, an ornithomimus, and a styracosaurus.  Gwangi even fights an elephant.

Those special effects took a year.  That’s some serious work.  The scene of Gwangi grabbing the ornithomimus was even rehashed in Jurassic Park with a tyrannosaurus and a gallimimus.

The horses did an amazing amount of stunt work.  They ran, stumbled, and tumbled over backward through the landscape.  Tossing the cowboys all over the place.  Hell, the OG stunt in TJ’s act is the old horse jumping into a pool bit (that part was special effects).  Every major character has their own color horse, which pleased me more than it should have.

The story itself is nothing unusual for monster flicks.

We see poor TJ in financial distress and heart-broken by Tuck, but willing to take him back.  She agrees to shack up at some homestead in Montana as soon as Tuck busts out his flimflammer’s smirk.  To be fair, Tuck is the Liberace of fancy cowboy outfits and probably counts for debonair in the Mexican desert – even if Carlos is a smoldering Latin lover who can match any heroics Tuck gets up to.  Until he gets eaten.  Sorry, Carlos, it just wasn’t in the cards for you.

The great “twist” in this dynamic is that TJ bags out on Tuck when it seems like the dino in a cage will save her show.  Turns out, she didn’t really need no man.  Just a big lizard in a cage.  Same thing, really.

As I mentioned, Gwangi doesn’t stay in his cage.  He tramples and roars and eventually ends up in what must be the largest church in the land.  The church burns with some help from Tuck and it all comes down on poor Gwangi.

Tuck, TJ, and Lope make it out of the burning church alive, but feeling a bit forlorn and definitely suffering from smoke inhalation.

There is no happy ending.  For anyone.  As is proper.  Especially not for Carlos, who became allosaurus turds.  Poor, Carlos.  He was my favorite.

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Tree slaughter, Tree revenge, and the Navy

It seems like every other day, one of my favorite trees gets hacked down.  I’m told by the gub’ment that it’s because of the dreaded Emerald Ash Borer beetle, but I think it’s probably the anti-squirrel lobbyists at work.

Pour a little out for my fallen neighborhood sentinels (Spirit provided for scale).

You might think it’s weird to have favorite trees, but it’s not.  I’ll fight you over it.  When I was a kid, I was rooting for the apple trees in the Oz movie of 1939.  The Ents always seemed like they had their shit together, even if they were a bit isolationist (that’s hip among the idiocracy these days if you didn’t know).

The majesty of these big ass trees will not be replaced in my lifetime.  The giant willow trees, oaks, and elms leave a massive hole in my soul.

Naturally, I fill this hole with thoughts of revenge.

Not all trees are harmless.  Take for example the grabby tree outside the Freelings home in Poltergeist.  Then again, maybe it really was a wise, old tree.  Robbie was kind of a sniveler and they built that pool right in the middle of a skeleton sleepover.  Rude.

The rapist tree in Evil Dead is just a dick.  Obviously.  ‘Nuff said.

That kite-eating tree was yet another bully Charlie Brown had to deal with.  Sometimes life sucks, Chuck.  At least your psychiatric help is only five cents a pop.

Old Man Willow is an angry sort, but it’s hard to blame him.  The Ents may have their shit together, but they’re not an inclusive bunch.  I don’t see any Ents coming to the Old Forest to take care of that old Huorn.  Besides, I’ve been told Hobbits are quite nutritious.  Maybe people should stop chopping things down and the old crotchety survivors wouldn’t have to put them to sleep in the strong embrace of their roots.

There aren’t that many evil tree movies (as compared to the 100 asslodes of shark movies).  It’s not easy to make a tree scary.  Poltergeist sort of succeeded, but we were naive and easily frightened in 1982.

Forests are scary.  Because of the implications.  Because of what is concealed.  Because of the ancient nature, the wobbling of time, the darkness, and the closeness.  But a murderous, walking tree is sort of goofy.

There are unintentionally funny shit movies like The Crawlers and Dark Was the Night.  You get the sense they might have wanted to be scary, but they gave up – cued the chainsaw sounds, squeezed some ketchup out of a rubber tree trunk, had a woman scream, and called it a day.

There are weird movies like The Guardian.  I remember liking The Guardian but I don’t remember anything about it.  I have a feeling it wouldn’t hold up.  However, I’m a fan of feeding children to trees.  Or maybe I just have a soft spot for evil nannies and magical nymphs and am willing to look the other way.  Either way, this isn’t about an evil tree.  Not really.

Treevenge straddles the comedy/horror line just like all Christmas movies do.  Family dinner and psycho, man-eating Christmas trees are both bloody and tragic to the point where you have to laugh or lose your mind.  Treevenge is funny and it’s short.  Two solid positives.

Lumber vs Jack is just, yeah….”Just when you thought it was safe to have wood.”  That isn’t worth much more discussion, but I had a hard time not laughing with it, despite the very low budget.  I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone, those of you who would watch such a thing already know who you are.

Non-tree-specific eco-horror is mostly a failure (The Happening, Seeds of Destruction).  With a few exceptions, like Long Weekend and its acceptable remake.  Bad relationships are a fact of life and we all know Australia is out to kill us anyway, so Long Weekend seems more like a documentary than a horror film.  The Ruins is decent enough.  The proverbial “they” tell me the novel is better.  Regardless, there are no murderous trees.  This is a trend I don’t appreciate.

Swamp Things and Man-Things don’t fit the bill either.  Those aren’t trees.  They might be tree-adjacent, but that’s stretching the concept beyond its limit.

I tried to watch The Crawlers.  I couldn’t find a version to stream.  I even searched under all its names – The Crawlers, Creepers, Contamination .7, and of course, Troll III: Contamination Point 7.  A 1989 toxic waste movie would have really done it for me.  Some things are just not meant to be, I guess.  Just like the EPA’s attempt to eradicate the town of carnivorous tree roots.

I watched Acacia: Root of Evil and Devil’s Tree: Rooted Evil.  Roots get so much shit, but they do a lot of the hard work.  Why do we hate them so?  Ask me in the spring when I’m having my pipes rodded.

Devil’s Tree was not bad for a low-budget film.  The story is basic but generally stays on track.  The main actress kept the thing moving.  I was intrigued because I have been to the park in question in Port St. Lucie, Florida.  Nothing particularly bad happened to me there, but I was subsequently late to a St. Lucie Mets game so that’s something.  This is a “based on true events” movie.  It gets the legend correct, but the “based on” part gets pretty thin by the end.  Spoiler – the ghost did it.  No surprise.

Acacia is an interesting film if for no other reason than the family’s home is pretty slick looking.  Scandinavian modernist design with a Korean flair.  The wife does woven tapestry art and her loom is cool as hell.  It’s a movie with a particular style and sound.  Feels like you’re watching a 1970s made-for-television soap opera horror film.  It feels like Burnt Offerings got shoved into a small Korean house.  I can’t dislike the mood it creates even if it seems dated.  Dated isn’t all bad.  Major Spoiler – the ghost did it, with help from the parents.  This might be a bit of a surprise, but you can figure it out if you’re paying attention.  It’s still a solid ending.

The bad – neither of those films involved evil trees.  There were trees, yes, but they were falsely accused.  Go figure.  Never trust the children.  Ever.  You’ve been warned.

What’s left for me is the glorious early days of horror.  The Day of the Triffids.  The Woman Eater.  The Navy vs the Night Monsters.  Maneater of Hydra.  From Hell it Came.

All variously close to what I was looking for.

The Navy vs the Night Monsters got the nod.  It was amazingly enjoyable for how ridiculous and bad it was.

I had a hard time even finding a streaming copy to watch.  After aborted viewings of a Spanish-language version and a copy with sound out of synch by nearly a minute, perseverance and dogged determination pulled me through.  I found what I needed.

The original material came from the novel The Moster From Earth’s End.  I know, the book is probably better.  I’ll let you know after I read the other 69,000 titles in my to-read list.

This film has Antarctic exploration, penguins, tiny acid-spewing spider-like root creatures, Molotov cocktails, plenty of flirting, and one-punch-knock-out fisticuffs.

The $178,000 total budget and 10-day filming schedule were certainly impacted the final product, but looking back, the f/x are going to look schlocky to present day viewers no matter what and the acting is about what you would expect.

There is a noticeable objectification of women going on in this film.  A sign of the times.  It’s pretty blatant.  It’s so blatant as to be nearly hysterical.  There are some creepy scenes with the men talking about the available women on the island.  The funny aspects come about when, as in one exchange, our beautiful, blonde nurse (played by Mamie Van Doran in a sweater, who had been looking forward to being eaten by the monster, but sadly was not) tells the hero, “Chuck, I’m in love with you.”  His response?  “Give me some time, baby.”  Ash Williams would have been proud.

The Antarctic exploration of a hot lake under the ice brought back specimens.  The plane transporting that obviously dangerous stuff crashed at a Naval base on an isolated island.  They planted the strange plant specimens on the island.  As you do.  Naturally, having come from under the ice, these trees are nocturnal and were just waiting for the sun to go down.  Growing up without sunlight, they ate other stuff.  Those walking, carnivorous trees made tiny offspring and tried to take over the island.

Your basic Navy island weekend.  Naturally, the Admiral is peeved, sitting in his office far from this island.  But they have an answer!  Napalm.  Of course.

By this time, the tiny root-spiders have grown into cute two-foot tall walking stumps with wavy little twigs.  This will not save them from the napalm.  Navy firebird leader fired at will, strafing the beach full of cute little crawlers.  It was like watching the air show, but with more napalm.  That’s probably because they used colorized stock footage of the Blue Angels.

Send in the narrator…

Gow Island, in the past, virtually unknown to the rest of the world.  Today a famous landmark in man’s struggle with the unknown. Another step forward in the march of science.”

Who doesn’t love a cargo of deviltry, devastation, and death?  Yes, that sailor’s arm got ripped off.

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Blood Moon

I didn’t get to see the longest lunar eclipse of the 21st Century here in the outlaw town of Chicago, but I did get a Blood Moon, as you would expect.

A one hour and 43-minute totality.  That’s the kind of event that creates gods.  Bad horror movies just create naps.

My lack of lunacy didn’t stop me from watching a shitty werewolf movie.  I would have watched a good werewolf movie, but good werewolf movies are rarer than full lunar eclipses.  They say there are good werewolf movies out there, but that’s just legend.  Tall tales told by ancient folk.

I love werewolves, but they don’t seem to translate well to film.

Blood Moon is a 2015 cowboy werewolf movie.  Outlaws versus lawmen versus skinwalkers.  The Navajo skinwalker legends have been hot the last few years.  Werewolves are passé.

The most interesting thing about this film besides the fact that they got the term “yee naaldlooshii” correct is where it was filmed.

This paranormal Western shoot-em-up was filmed in England.  Laredo Wild West Town, Kent, England to be precise.

The mysterious man in the black hat is named Thomas Calhoun, who coincidentally is also the name of a cricketer from Kent in the early 1800s.  I guess he moonlit as a demon hunter in between matches.

Besides those interesting quirks, the story was typical in every respect.  Hell, it starts with an old man eating beans from a tin plate while a player piano tinkles out an appropriately wild west-sounding ditty.

New Deputy Marshall, his new wife – who is, unknown to him, a former lady of the evening, the saucy woman saloon owner, the mysterious stranger, the outlaw bank-robbing brothers, and a few short-timers who are there just to get killed.

Just add a skinwalker in a bigfoot costume and stir.  Now we got us a horror flick!

Since it is a horror film, they all end up stuck in a building while something horrific prowls outside.

I should have just followed along live with people viewing the eclipse.

But, I didn’t.

There was some silver shot out of a shotgun.  A twist we all saw coming.  And the best performer in this movie, Anna Skellern, didn’t have nearly enough scene to chew and ended up dead by the end.

Despite the translation of the Navajo term, the skinwalker didn’t actually walk on all fours.  Frankly, it wasn’t much of a foe.  It was ugly and I bet its wet, muddy pelt smelled like Satan’s bunghole, but it wasn’t a skilled killer.

Ah, well, it’s over now.  I can go back to watching shark movies.

 

I know that hurt, but we always have symphonic metal bands to make things, if not better, at least louder.

 

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Return of the Moonwalker

It’s Friday the 13th and we have ourselves a supermoon, whether you see it or not.  It’s also hot as Hades and I have a migraine.

In my brain addled state, I thought it was a good idea to watch Return of the Moonwalker, a 2011 film that had a petition with 105,000 signatures seeking to prevent its release.  Apparently, these people thought the movie sullied the legacy of the King of Pop, Michael Jackson.

The movie is certainly a parody, but among the folks that got insulted in it, Michael Jackson was one of the least insulted.  Either way, he’s unlikely to watch the movie and memories are oblivious.

Low budget and bizarre is not something I shy away from.  If that kind of movie is a problem for you, you aren’t reading this.

If you are feeling existential right now, put that feeling aside.  The King of Pop has risen from the grave, with help from the Magician Cagliostro, and he’s leading a revolution.

I’ve been smelling revolution boiling up out of the sewers lately.  It smells like durian flavored lube, melted credit cards, and conceit.

This film is the kind of zany that defies explanation.  There is a plot, of sorts, but it hardly matters.  Viewers are assaulted by scene after scene of tasteless, but marginally funny, ridiculousness.

Freaks of all sorts converge on Cagliostro’s Punk Circus, where undead MJ starts his revolution.  It turns out to be an apocalyptic zombie sort of revolution and nobody wants that, not even Cagliostro.

Dicks explode, kinky sex is had, clowns cavort, blood is drunk, Hitler’s ghost haunts, a crucifixion is called for, and the Illuminati are functionally impotent.  Undead Michael Jackson smokes a blunt.  Everyone gets skewered by this film and rightly so.

Maybe this movie sucks.  I laughed anyway.  Sometimes that’s enough.

If you think exploding dicks are a bridge too far, you’re not alone, but it’s too late to sign that petition.

[The trailer is NSFW.  You should have expected that.  Grab a big fat doobie and check it out.]

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Uncle Sam

Happy Independence Day and Canada Day and boiling hot summer.  Everything’s just great.  Pick up a tariff on your way out.  Everyone gets one.

Let’s talk Independence Day horror movies.

Then again, maybe we shouldn’t.  They’re mostly about sharks and aliens and alien sharks.  With a smattering of knowing what teens did one summer or other.

Those are all movies that I’m not going to talk about.

I watched a movie called Uncle Sam, which came out in 1996.  It comes up on a lot of lists about Independence Day horror films.  I read reviews that said it was fun.  One of those bad slasher films that are a joy to watch.  I was promised great one-liners.

As is de rigueur, it was all damnable lies.

What I got was something that would happen if Lifetime made horror movies in the late 1980s.

I’m having a hard time even being snarky about it.  I couldn’t wait for it to end.  The kills were weak and not just because of budgetary issues.  There’s no tension and no fun.

A kid with a broken leg doesn’t even whimper as the bone pokes through his jeans.  An ax to the face happens off camera.  A lawyer dressed like Abe Lincoln got shot in the head with a gun used for the carnival shooting booth.  I think that was supposed to be funny or edgy.  It wasn’t anything.  I didn’t care.  I doubt anyone else did.  Including Lincoln.

The big fireworks scene was watched by a creepy, smiling crowd of yokels.  Seeing a dirty congressman get blown up has never been so emotionless for me or the townies.  No crowd could enjoy that fireworks display, no matter how many politicians got blown up.

The filmmakers have clearly never been to a fireworks warehouse off the highway at a state border.  I think my neighbors have better rockets.  I can hear them now.  Chicago parks and alleys sound like a war zone tonight.

I’m surprised the congressman didn’t suffocate under a giant black snake ash pile.  That might have been funny at least.

The main kid was thoroughly unlikeable.  I was disappointed that he wasn’t going to die at the end.  He would probably be the killer in Uncle Sam 2 if it is ever made.  I don’t expect that to happen.  There could be no greater evil than making a sequel to this film.

I guess I should mention that Isaac Hayes is in the movie, but it’s hardly a fact worth mentioning.  He plays a guy with a wooden leg.

I could draw some parallels with the current political climate, but why pile that shit even higher.

Maybe they tried to make a statement about crass patriotism, sketchy citizens, or pointless wars, but it was mostly just a really boring movie that didn’t succeed as a decent slasher or a horror parody because it wasn’t committed to either.  Even the musical score was uninspired.

I knew I should have watched Raging Sharks.

 

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Bloody Mary, say it like you mean it – shaken, not stirred

Once again, I’m not going to watch any of the Friday the 13th movies just because it’s Friday the 13th.  Probably.  Don’t judge me.

What I did was give some thought to superstition and then watch Urban Legends: Bloody Mary because apparently, I don’t know what’s good for me.  I have watched the two previous Urban Legend films and remember precisely enough to know I have seen them and no more.

Finding a good horror film about superstitions is dicey at best.  A lot of it has been covered before, but rarely well.

There are plenty of movies about Ouija boards.  They need a whole discussion of their own.

Other topics I wasn’t up for included black cats, hook hands, phone calls from inside the house, monkeys’ paws, witches’ revenge, and phantom hitchhikers.

There was Candyman way back when.  I want to love it for the Chicago connection, but it always felt a little forced and I like bees.  Bloody Mary is the OG mirror chanting badass.  She didn’t need a hook hand or a swarm of bees.

There is more than one movie featuring Bloody Mary, but I went with UL:BM because I didn’t know it existed and I thought Kate Mara and Ed Marinaro (you may know him from such shows as Hill Street Blues, Laverne & Shirley, and Falcon Crest) would mitigate somewhat.

Upon reviewing this line of thinking, I’m not sure why these two actors would lead me to believe this movie would be more than bad.  I saw Fantastic Four and I still haven’t recovered.  On the other hand, I like football.  Ed is in the College Football Hall of Fame.  Kate is football ownership royalty…maybe that’s not such a great endorsement.

Whatever, I made the decision and forced myself to watch UL:BM mainly on the strength of fond childhood memories regarding the Bloody Mary legend.

Some of us kids went into a dark bathroom, lit some matches, and chanted Bloody Mary three times in front of a mirror.  It was definitely a legendary experience and not about expelling waste after a vicious Sunday morning drunken football watching bender.  Not that I would know anything about such activities.

It is a fact that I don’t like Bloody Marys.  I don’t drink tomatoes.  V8 makes me gag.  I still have nightmares about once accidentally ingesting V8.

I love tomato sauce.  There is an infinite number of culinary uses for tomato sauce that I heartily approve of.  It’s not the same thing.

No amount of hot sauce can save a drink based on tomato juice.  Adding another foul “juice” to it is not a solution.  Mixing clam juice into that liquid hellscape is not fixing a damn thing.

I can understand why Bloody Mary is pissed that her good name was besmirched with such a foul witch’s concoction.

It turns out the Bloody Mary legend isn’t what I thought it was when I was ten.  Who woulda thunk?

I thought she was Mary I of England, who was called Bloody Mary for killing Protestants to save their eternal souls from damnation.  My Catholic upbringing was getting in the way of reality again.

At least I hadn’t mixed that blood-bathing Bathory woman into my Bloody Mary mythology.  For me, Mary was just an irate royal who would fuck you up for calling on her ghost.  That made sense to young me.  Who wants to be called back from the grave into some asshole’s bathroom mirror?

It turns out she was supposed to be a witch called Mary Worth, who was put to death for dealing in the black arts.  Or possibly a woman who died in a car wreck and fucked up her face.  But definitely not a misguided, murdering Queen.

There is some belief that chanting “Bloody Mary” in a mirror thirteen times will summon the ghost.  Certainly not.  You only have to do it three times.  Who came up with this thirteen nonsense?  That’s a lot of chanting.  You would need a peasant or two to help keep count.

As I mentioned, in my time, you lit a candle (or a small flashlight or a lighter or fireplace match, glow stick…whichever) and said her name three times.  Usually alone, but that could be tweaked for more fun.  Then you would get scratched.  At some point.  I’m still waiting.

My recollection is that we followed this up by going outside and running around in the woods.  Nobody was murdered on that day, inexplicably or otherwise.

No early demise saved me from growing up and watching UL:BM.

The movie poster for UL:BM looks awful.  Even the font is bad.

The story is slow and predictable.  The special effects are low rent, but not so low rent as to be funny.

In 1969, some girls get “pranked”.  This involves roofies, accidental death by violence, and almost certainly rape.  If you’re going to have a Bloody Mary, her origin story has to be harsh.

In the present, things seem to repeat themselves.  Samantha (Kate Mara) is a victim of a similar prank sans the rape and death angle.

Then we get deaths by urban legend, courtesy of Samantha calling out Bloody Mary during a teen girl sleepover complete with a pillow fight and a weird brother (David, Sam’s twin brother – don’t worry it doesn’t matter).

How do they die, let me count the ways – a spider lays its eggs in some skin, an electric fence gets pissed on, that thing licking your hand by the side of the bed isn’t your dog, tanning beds are bad for you.

The good:  The science teacher talking about gorilla biology and behavior in the background as the football players contemplate their prank.  The only girl still alive from the 1969 incident (Grace) is a cool as ice, pot-smoking hippie artist with a sweet afro and a flower painted Vanagon.  Power to the people, man.  The heroines get right down to business without needing no man.

The horrible:  Viewers are thought to be so stupid that we don’t know instantly that Sam’s stepfather Bill is the 1969 villain “Willie” all grown up.  All of the movie’s failures pale in comparison to viewers being treated like we’re morons.

The music plays.  The movie ends.  Nothing is a surprise.  Nobody cared about David.  Grace survived.  Groovy.

It felt like the movie’s running time was about 13 hours.

The same song played throughout.  Mary’s song.

Niki Haris has a great voice, but the song makes me think of James Bond walking away from wrecking his Aston Martin in the rain after a few too many vodka martinis and a bad run at the craps table.  You never see that motherfucker drinking Bloody Marys.

But Domino did in Never Say Never Again.  Domino’s brother got killed and her boyfriend was the highest-ranking agent of the terrorist organization SPECTRE.  Bloody Marys – devastating people’s lives since 1554.

Let’s never talk about Urban Legends: Bloody Mary again.

Happy Friday the 13th.  The first of two this year!

I hope Jason Voorhees likes the 1960s musical vibe.  He’s definitely a man who never says never.

 

 

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Without Name deserves a better name, something like Gun Anam

It’s good ‘ol St. Paddy’s Day, and Syfy is running a Leprechaun marathon.  Of course, I’ve been catching some of that as I sit bundled up waiting for the HVAC guy to come fix my heater.

Believe me, 57F is way worse than 39F and sunny outside.  It has something to do with expectations and shadows.

The Leprechaun franchise shouldn’t come with high expectations.  As long as you keep it that way, that little asshole is fun to watch.  It’s a great secondary channel for the boring parts of the NCAA tournament, which will now basically be every part that doesn’t include the UMBC Retrievers.

Despite the potential joy and wonder of watching Warwick Davis menace Jennifer Aniston, seeing the Leprechaun in Vegas and outer space, or watching Ice-T play a magic flute, I decided to watch Without Name.

I do love tales of an underdog trying to win back his stolen property, but not as much as I love a good mysterious forest.  So off we go to Dublin and Without Name, Gun Anam in the local tongue.  Google would have me believe that’s “without soul,” but let’s not quibble.  The guy in Mick Murphy’s pub said it was Without Name.

The movie is almost worth it just to see the haunting forest imagery.  Grey skies, green moss, and white mists.

However, we also get the new horror movie staple of droning musical tones and a main character who isn’t likable.  He’s cheating on his wife, unavailable for his kid, will despoil the world for a quick buck, and justify it because he wasn’t personally wielding the chainsaw for the purpose of cheap real estate progress.

This is eco-horror.  Eat some shrooms, contemplate the world, talk to the trees and end up in a prison of your own mind.  Don’t fear the shadow, you are the shadow!

I won’t talk about the Kirlian photography because it doesn’t really matter.  Just like it doesn’t matter what happened to the main character in the end.  He spent the last fifteen minutes naked and confused.  We’re less confused (or should be if you paid attention) but just as happy to have it all come to an end.

Nevertheless, the slow pacing and long moments of silence were enjoyable rather than annoying.  The film eventually devolves into familiar territory, but it was still beautiful to look at.  I happen to love the view of a dreary sky seen through menacing-looking, gnarly tree limbs.  My own photographs would fit right into this film.

There’s more verbal explanation in the trailer than the movie.

Trippy.  I need another beer.

Sláinte mhaith

 

 

 

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Pi(e), man

It’s March 14.  Pi day.

This is great because I like maths and I like pie.  I like all kinds of pie. It’s hard to come up with pie I don’t like.  Apple is classic for a reason. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve had coconut cream pie, but Gilligan and Mary Ann convinced me that it’s aces.  Hostess pies were worth fighting for back in my cafeteria days.  

I’m not picky.

I even accept tarts.  Any size and shape is an acceptable pie.  I won’t quibble if you want to call a pizza pie.

Savory pies are also welcome.  I’ve got fond memories of pot pies, shepherd’s pies, and quiches.

If you put a bunch of birds in a pie, that’s fine.  However, the original doesn’t sound quite that fun.

Sing a Song of Sixpence,

A bag full of Rye,

Four and twenty Naughty Boys,

Baked in a Pye

Whatever surprises are baked into my pies, I leave the long pig out except for very special occasions.

That’s often true of my movie watching as well.

There’s been plenty of cannibalism in movies.  Most of those movies are hit or miss with me. I’m not a fan of the Hills Have Eyes films.  I like some of the Texas Chainsaw films. Hannibal Lecter is no friend of mine – I always found him to be a tiresome braggart.  I keep meaning to watch the Hannibal TV series, but I don’t want it to cool my ire regarding the Anthony Hopkins portrayal.

Generally, I lean more toward the likes of Ravenous, Soylent Green, and Alive.  I like the weirdness and the quandaries more than the gore.  I always mean to watch the various well-known early films (the apocalypses, terrors, and holocausts), but I never get around to them.  The Green Inferno has been collecting digital dust on my DVR for ages.  I have no serious desire to change that.

Give me the humor of Gravy (definitely under-recognized low-brow cannibal humor) before another group of backwoods champs looking for a cheap meal (Wrong Turn excluded because I have a soft spot for the heroine).

Perhaps my tastes were influenced by watching Eating Raoul as a twelve-year-old.  Thank you to whichever over-tired, glassy-eyed adult let us bring that one back from the VHS rental shop.

Nevertheless, I went against my grain and, in honor of Pi Day, I watched Dying Breed.  It has cryptid hunting (Tasmanian Tiger) and an Irish Pieman (St Paddy’s day is coming up, after all).  That should balance out the creepy clan of cannibal clodhoppers.

It was a better film than I expected.

There is a distinct lack of gore compared with other movies of this type.  There are clear hints, but not many in-your-face visuals.  A nude, butcher-hung dead girl was done with very quick, mildly fuzzy shots.  You know what you’re seeing, but you don’t have to soak in it.

The Pieman’s story is done quickly, before the opening credits roll.

Alexander Pearce was an Irish convict who was transported to Van Diemen’s Land for seven years for theft. He escaped from prison several times. During one of these escapes he allegedly became a cannibal, murdering his companions one by one. In another escape, with one companion, he allegedly killed him and ate him in pieces. He was eventually captured and was hanged and dissected in Hobart for murder.

The story is pretty typical of the genre.  The main couple is only different for having the woman (who just happens to be Irish) be the driving force behind the trip to Tasmania – she’s hunting for the elusive cryptid (and, some clues about her dead sister, who disappeared in this exact location eight years ago).  Her boyfriend is a dud and remains so all the way through to the end.  The secondary couple is a nice, attractive but uninterested woman and her horrifically loud, violent and douchey boyfriend.

You can image how they arrive in some untouched-by-the-outside town of creeps.  Everything is named after the Pieman, including the meat-pie “factory”.

They are exactly who we think they are.  The pies, the people, the kid.  Viewers will be surprised by how easily they guess the specifics, but the film doesn’t hide them from us or the main characters.

The pieces come together quickly.  We get a glimpse of the elusive tiger (not awful CGI and better for not lingering on screen), whose sole purpose in the film is to act as an analogy.  See, the creeps are like the hidden tiger!  Cool, I guess.  There’s another scene with puppies of sibling dogs being killed because the folks can’t abide that kind of progeny.  There are rules!  This is a storyline pile-driver, in case anyone didn’t know what was going on here.

The movie ends poorly for the protagonists.  The dud boyfriend completely fizzles out by the end.  I’m fine with that.  He didn’t earn anything better.

The story was pretty unpleasant, but you are left to imagine most of it, which arguably makes the impact of the action more unpalatable, but also makes it a better movie.  It is a cannibal horror movie, after all.  Pleasant was never really the aim.

Anyway, time to go eat a piece of pie or three or fourteen.

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Not so Stranger Things

I binge-watched season two of Stranger Things the day it came out.

NO RAGRETS!

The beauty of Stranger Things isn’t in the nitty-gritty of the story.  The greatness is the characters and the mood.  It is well-acted and it looks good.

Stranger Things is a feeling and a sound.  It feels like home.  The retrospectively goofy looking, but punkishly awesome sounding, days when the fifty cent price of admission for the cartoon masquerading as a video game known as Dragon’s Lair was an outrageous burden.  When our childhood selves left the house after breakfast and came home well after dark.  What went on during that time was important business and it was ours.

Halloween still feels like that.  Candy is still candy.  Pumpkins still get carved.  Kids (or imps and other darklings masquerading as kids) are vampires, princesses, Ghostbusters and weird cartoon characters I can’t identify.

The night is dark and chilly, but it sparks with undeniable energy.  An adventure is playing out under the dingy neighborhood lights.  Not everyone is in on it, but everyone senses it’s happening.

That is Stranger Things.

Experience it, don’t just watch it.  Binging helps, just like when you’re ankle deep in a pile of Kit Kat wrappers.

Halloween was a nice exclamation point to my Stanger Things binge.  I carved, I drank, I watched It’s a Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.  Just like I always do.

I shut the lights out, lit the candles, and fired up the Stranger Things soundtrack.

The neighborhood goblins took me for all the candy in the land.  It kept me from getting tricked for one more year.

 

All the required tools for the job.

 

 

 

The dog taught that pumpkin who’s in charge because that’s what dogs do.

 

 

 

Fire in the hole.

 

 

 

Bring on the bell-ringing weirdos.

 

 

 

The candy tax gets steeper every year.

 

 

 

After the storm.

 

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Friday the 13th: The Orphan

The second Friday the 13th of this year makes a nice October pitstop on our way to Halloween.

I decided to mark this occasion by watching a movie that wasn’t part of the Friday the 13th horror franchise.  If I’m honest, though, I have the sixth film, Jason Lives, playing in the background right now.  It’s not like it will distract me.

After all, there’s plenty of horror to chose from and, while I’ve seen most of them, I haven’t seen every horror movie ever made.  I was thinking about slasher movies.  The forerunners of Friday the 13th going all the way back to silent films like The Bat (which also has a keen 1959 remake with Vincent Price); mid-century efforts like Homicidal, The Scarlett Claw, The Spiral Staircase, and House of Wax; or even something like The House That Screamed.  All (and plenty more) influenced the genre in some way, including masks, point-of-view shots, jump scares and heroines (helpless and not).

While I was dithering about on IMDb; however, I got caught looking for every horror movie with the number 13 in the title.  Why wouldn’t that happen?  It’s like having to count mustard seeds.

That’s a hefty bunch of films.  Some good films (I watched Dementia 13 last year).  There’s some real manure as well.  I’m talking to you 13th Child.  Surely the Jersey Devil can do better than that.  This is why it’s so pissed off all the time.  No respect, I tell ya.

Wonder of wonders, there is a 1979 movie entitled Friday the 13th: The Orphan.  Or just The Orphan.  They splashed a calendar page on the poster that has nothing to do with the movie, but I’ll take it.

I watched it last night.  I took copious notes.  Being Friday the 13th and all, WordPress didn’t save anything.  Not even a midpoint draft.  For a minute, I thought I dreamed the whole thing, but I can’t forget typing out “shitty music, again” repeatedly and my dreams are usually way more interesting than note taking while drinking a Caipirinha.

No matter, I can sum that shit up in long story (not so) short form.  I probably wasn’t going to read any of those notes anyway.

It’s the 1920s or thereabouts.  A creepy kid’s parents die.  The movie opens with the kid narrating a funeral in such a way as to sound insane.  No, you didn’t miss anything, that’s just the cold intro into the mind of David, a deranged little orphan.

His aunt comes to take care of him and she won’t let him have any toast because he might cough.  Yes, really.  Aunt Martha’s got issues.

The maid; the live-in African gentleman (seriously, he’s just the dead father’s buddy/business partner from Africa who has extended-stay guest privileges, gives the boy an elephant gun pistol (I take this from the movie, don’t get picky) and smokes him up hooka style); and the neighborly, letch, ginger Uncle Pennybags-looking Billy variously pledge to help the boy.  They’re all selfish and full of shit.

Naturally, the boy takes to praying to a stuffed chimp on an altar, wearing no shirt and generally goes Tarzan Backyard Edition.  Lots of flashbacks go into just how shitty the parents actually were.  Akin, the African man, kills the boy’s chicken, Apple Betty, at the behest of Aunt Martha and rolls out smoking a cigar in his new car, courtesy of a juicy Aunt Martha payoff check.  See ya, Akin.  Enjoy your vacation.

The boy hears some voices, gets agitated, and Aunt Martha kills his dog by slamming it in a door accidentally.  The boy has had enough of reality and lying liars and then people die.  The boy finally has some toast, with raspberry jam, cooked on the end of a fireplace poker in the family fireplace.  All’s well that ends well!

I have to tell you, I thought this movie was shit.  Then a funny thing happened.  It got weird.  Really weird.  Weird is right in my wheelhouse.  The shitty music became perfect.  The annoying flashbacks became artistically surreal.  There was a stuffed chimp and a pet chicken.  The annoying child became my hero.  They all got what was coming to them.

Despite what you see in the trailer, Charlie the Chimp is never alive and the Friday the 13th date is never mentioned (to my knowledge).

 

There are three songs listed in the credits.  “I Need to Live Alone Again” by Janis Ian, “Don’t Make Me Laugh” and “Did You Ever Dream” written by Teo Macero and Carl Sigman – performed by Judy Roberts.

Janis seems like a fine artist, but when you put that song with this movie, what you get is saccharine insanity.  Saccharinsanity.

It’s the perfect song to play alongside Friday the 13th Part VI: Jason Lives.

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