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Invaders from Mars (1986)
Deserves another remake by someone talented
The reviews for "Invaders From Mars" here on IMDb are uniformly ridiculous, being written by those who have NO clue about the history of the original film and what transpired after it was completed and shown to the public.
IFM was the brainchild of William Cameron Menzies, Oscar winner for Art Direction on a little picture called "Gone With the Wind" and many critics' pick for best use of Technicolor as designer for Alexander Korda's sumptuous "Thief of Bagdad" in 1940. "Thief" remains one of the top ten films to utilize Technicolor in every sense of the word. No other film comes close.
Menzies took on strange projects after his triumphs, such as "The Maze" in 1953 which used the new 3-D process to tell the story of a man who's really a frog. The 3D effects were very well suited to this foolish Gothic story, especially in the maze sequences. The film flopped, and is now only remember by Menzies devotees.
Along came the real masterpiece of Menzies' checkered career: "Invaders From Mars" in 1953. Menzies wanted to use the 3D process, but was eventually underfunded by the producers of this early sci-fi classic. The sets had been built to show the unfolding story from a child's point of view and disorient the viewer. The lack of 3D robbed the visuals of their impact, yet the story of a child's warning of invasion from outer space remains potent. Potent enough for Tobe Hooper to resurrect the whole damn thing in 1986 with some new whiz-bang effects. This version of IFM, while pouring on the homages to the original film (flawed though it was) is even more unfortunate despite a bigger budget and better known actors.
Hooper's version of IFM is sloppy, lazy, and completely unfocused. He threw out the real tension the original offered by inserting useless comedy sequences and unnecessary effects to cover his myopia. The taut storyline of the 53' version is gone, replaced by SNL skit actors and Louise Fletcher as the teacher who swallows frogs, a character nonexistent in the 53' original. Hooper throws on the nostalgia to those in the know by reconstructing the famous "fence to the sandpit" and having the original David Gardner, the actor Jimmy Hunt (as a policeman) tell his partner "I haven't been up here since I was a kid" as they check out the scene of the sand abductions. Other silly 53' references are: David's school is now the "William Cameron Menzies" Elementary School, and the brief discovery of the original Martian "brain in the bubble" resting atop a discarded file cabinet in the school's basement, briefly seen when a cop's flashlight reveals it momentarily. Other stupid referential visuals litter the film to no avail. The Martians here look like backwards equines, and the "Mastermind" Martian will never be a substitute for the original. The original "brain" was a dwarf woman in amazing makeup (who had no dialog) and stood on a cardboard box for a few bucks and a box lunch according to Jimmy Hunt's adult recollection. Hooper just fails here at the usual 80's remake, expecting that audiences have completely forgotten the original source of this taut thriller.
Watch if you need to. I paid to see this junk when it appeared in 1986. I left early. The 1953 version is fertile material for someone to reassess. Given the richness of the original material, Hooper's version is nothing less than stupid, very stupid.
Maleficent (2014)
The Deconstruction of Maleficent
So, Disney ambushes Gregory Maguire, the author of "Wicked" in this tepid retelling of "Sleeping Beauty" and the unnecessary explanation for the actions of the exquisite villain we love to hate, Maleficent.
Maguire had a brilliant idea once upon a time, his speculation about a wicked woman's progression towards very bad behavior and the reasons behind that transformation changed fairy tales forever. Maguire caught lightening in a bottle, using complex characters and situations to explain a life that ended with a bucket of water. "Wicked" had everything that "Maleficent" does not: compelling characters and a sturdy plot which gave the characters room to move and grow. "Maleficent" is the Dollar General version of "Wicked". For it's tedious running time of 90-some minutes, it plods along throwing 200 million dollars of CGI imagery at you, which is evidently supposed to divert you from noticing the plot holes and jaw-droppingly abysmal dialog. It feels padded out in many places. It's stingy in the extreme and comes across like a puppy that's peed on the carpet. You can't hate a puppy, all cuteness and earnest contrition for the wet spot. "Maleficent" wants your love so badly it's willing to humiliate the best villain Disney ever had.
We love Maleficent simply because she's bad to the bone. Why should we care what happened to her back in the day? Great villains are often just what they appear to be, corrupt individuals who take pleasure in the suffering of others. The original Maleficent owned her darkness, and in the end, died for it. This new, terrible "explanation" for old Mal's bitchery was given to us by the horrid Linda Woolverton's screenplay (Woolverton also scribbled the wretched screenplay for Tim Burton's "Alice in Wonderland). This reimagining of why the old girl was such a meanie nearly turns Disney's Grande Dame of Evil into June Cleaver. All that was missing was a string of everyday pearls and a frilly apron. Let's not talk about the three fairies or the weak retelling of the famous pink/blue fight between them. I wanted to spray them with Raid and watch them die. Now that's evil.
Evidently, the backbone Disney showed in 1959 allowing Maleficent to invoke "all the powers of Hell" in her dragon transformation is all gone. Being a real meanie is bad these days. No one is accountable for doing bad things, they're just misunderstood. Being a meanie doesn't sell merchandise. Being a meanie and dying when you finally get caught doesn't allow for a sequel. Get ready for "Maleficent 2: Forest Frolics". Two stars, one for each of Angelina Jolie's cheekbone prosthetics. A truly depressing film from a once innovative studio.
All Hallows' Eve (2013)
Let's go down to clown town
Think I'll stick my neck out and give this strange little flick a whopping big seven out of ten for actually doing something ambitious. The director, one Damien Leone, obviously has a big love of retro horror, and in "All Hallow's Eve", he drags out all the bells and whistles in an obvious homage to all those trashy grindhouse flicks you rented back in the 80s.
AHE has a number good things, and a number of bad. This is an anthology movie, featuring three short stories and a wraparound to tie everything together. The introductory wraparound story is obviously inspired by the original "Halloween", here we have a babysitter and two tween kids, one boy and one girl, watching old horror movies on TV on Halloween night. The kids are pawing through their trick or treat candy haul when the boy discovers someone has put a VHS tape into his swag bag. Naturally, the kids want to watch the tape, and although she initially objects, the babysitter cranks up the VHS deck and we're off:
1. A girl waiting in a train station is harassed by a fairly, no make that really, disturbing clown. His name is Art. What follows is unpleasant. 2. Woman alone in a remote house runs into some visitors from outer space. Art appears as a painting. "Art", get it? What follows is eventually tedious. 3. Woman stops for gas at a lonely service station. Our disturbing clown is back. He's been doing something nasty in the rest room. What follows is very, very unpleasant.
The wraparound has some good moments, but the kids are annoying and the acting mediocre at best. The babysitter won't allow the kids to watch more than the first story, sending them to bed. She, however, is a curious babysitter so she watches the whole rest of the tape, setting off the final act you didn't see coming. As bad as the first two-thirds of this earnest little flick are, the ending is a real killer. If you were never afraid of clowns before, you might be once this is over.
Very nice use of color and "wear and tear" flickers and jumps exactly like you remember from those old video rentals are present, giving this movie a weird sort of deja-vu. Lots of homages to horror gone by, 70s slashers and 80s serial killers. At first, the use of the VHS feels silly, but by the end it makes perfect sense. If the director could have sustained the level of utterly creepy surrealism found in the last third of this flick throughout the whole thing, he'd have a real classic on his hands. I've seen many other huge budget so-called horror flicks, but not a one of them made me look over my shoulder. This movie did. Hopefully director Leone will make another movie with Art the Clown. Art loves you. He wants to come visit.
Godzilla (2014)
"He's gonna do it!"
We either love kaiju, or we don't. As a life-long fan of Godzilla and his brethren, I've taken the great with the ridiculous, and relished every knocked-down cardboard city that Toho Studios could fabricate for the man in the rubber suit to destroy. Somehow, Godzilla became an icon along the way, even to those who hate monster movies. His take-no-prisoners attitude, physical form, and ability to flatten anything in his path earned respect. The Big G was as recognizable as Coca-Cola, and as indispensable. Love him or hate him, Godzilla cannot be ignored.
So. Here we are in 2014, anticipating the Big G's resurrection, especially after the embarrassment of the 1998 misfire. The new incarnation of Godzilla is something amazing. The first true kaiju to showcase the enormity of this reptile force of nature, using all the tricks in the book to give him life. Director Gareth Edwards has knocked the viewers silly with this epic. He wisely holds Godzilla back until you think you've been had, and then flattens everything with the last act smackdown between the MUTOs and Big G. Godzilla, while not visually present through at least two-thirds of the film, remains a real presence through a number of sly invocations. Remember that even another monster,Dracula himself, the title character of a 400 plus page novel, only appears on about 37 pages. Director Edwards uses this strategy to heighten tension and anticipation. You're thinking about Godzilla from the opening titles. The two MUTOs are the appetizer to the buffet, which is the final sequences of the film. Superior effects and great sound enhance the tasty main course. Godzilla's battle with the MUTOs is often balletic, poetic, and elegiac. Those who hated this film would also have hated a two hour monster battle, claiming it was nothing but fighting, and therefore, boring.
So. Our pal Godzilla proves yet again he can surprise, delight, and yes, even scare jaded viewers who take a minute from looking at their cell phones and annoying the other theater patrons. As I watched the final act of this great monster epic unfold, I kept wondering about Godzilla's ability to breath nuclear fire. Suddenly, the question was about to be answered. My friend, sitting next to me suddenly sat forward and muttered "he's gonna do it". And do it he did. How great that we weren't drowned in specific effects here! Director Edwards did tremendous work by undermining your expectations, giving silence when you expected thunder, and paying a ton of homage to the kaiju epics gone by in a hundred off-hand ways. His gift to the die-hard fans didn't go unnoticed by this viewer, especially in the low-key performance of the great Ken Watanabe as Dr. Ichiro Serizawa. For those who care, or remember, Dr. Serizawa created the Oxy-destroyer, the weapon that actually killed Godzilla in the original 1954 film. Serizawa also perished in that film, but here he is again in a lovely valentine for Godzilla fans. Again, if you never liked these sort of films, why would you think this would be anything other than it presented itself to be? You can't keep a good monster down, and this wonderful take on the Godzilla legend only proved that.
I, Frankenstein (2014)
Don't blame Mary Shelley.
Don't blame Mary Shelley, she'd never have written "Frankenstein" had she known what her monster would eventually become: Aaron Eckhart. Aaron is lost in this mash up monster movie, which is actually about a dozen other dismal creature features thrown into a screenwriter's blender and slopped out onto theater screens. Aaron's too pretty to mess up, so he has some artfully applied scars to show his character's unnatural origin, and at least one shirtless scene to show off Aaron's Hollywood torso because we cannot have an ugly monster who doesn't work out regularly. Aaron actually doesn't have much of anything to do here except run back and forth between warring supernatural tribes, the demons and the gargoyles. Aaron growls a bit, slices and dices the other monsters with weapons bought at the martial arts store next to any local 7-11, and totes around his "father" Victor Frankenstein's how to make a monster journal, which every other creature in this mess is trying to possess.
Warring tribes of monsters has pretty much been covered by the "Underworld" series, which this monster mess is evidently trying to emulate. Aaron needs a franchise to get paychecks from before he's too old to carry off the formula. The actual plot of "I, Frankenstein" has been lifted from the cheerfully campy "Van Helsing" of a few years back, but this retread has none of the happy and stupid hijinks we saw Hugh Jackman involved in. Last time anyone looked, there was no "Van Helsing 2" featuring the Mummy, the Wolfman, the Creature from the Black Lagoon, etc. Poor Aaron, one suspects there will be no "I,F 2" since this first one is flat out awful. Why do all the "human" gargoyle males look like refugees from a 70s leather bar? Why do they all wear fetish medieval football gear? Why is the queen gargoyle wearing a Disney Princess outfit? Why do all the demons look alike? Why do they all spit and slobber before turning into roman candles when they get killed? Why are there no real humans other than the traitorous super-smart scientist chick (who flips through the much desired Frankenstein how-to book and immediately understands all of it) and her weak male counterpart? With all the fireworks, smashing buildings, and warfare in the streets, no one seems to live in the vicinity of the action. All the action sequences are exactly alike here. A number of plot devices are trotted out to prep for a sequel. The viewer looks at all this and tries to stay awake. Aaron needs to find a better franchise before it's too late for him, or go back to indy features where he can actually prove he's a decent actor. "I, Frankenstein" is a waste of everyone's time.
Home Sweet Home (2012)
Duh.
Not many low-end reviews for this shoulda-avoided-it excuse for a movie. It's amazing that someone gave anyone enough money to actually get this stinker off the ground and into Redboxes or mom n' pop last chance DVD rentals at the gas station off an unnamed highway you'll never go near.
Suffice it to say, this is yet another in the "home invasion" genre, where super crazy psychopaths prance around their victims and eat candy (just like Norman Bates) while sexing it up when they're not busy intimidating or killing anyone, just because they want to, see? Here we have two ridiculous psychos, a blonde ditz who loves her candy, and her horndog boyfriend. They rob convenience stores and slobber all over each other when crime isn't being committed. Evidently the horndog is dumber than a box of doorknobs since his cutesy blonde galpal is the brains of the outfit. That's about all the info we have on these two, so let's take a look at the victim.
Naturally, it's a woman with drinking and financial issues. She's isolated herself at the desert home of her now deceased parents because she's a loser who got evicted and has nowhere else to go. Convenient for the nutjobs, who run into this alcoholic mess at a Stop N' Shop where the blonde honey decides to have some fun with this stupid woman, who spills her whereabouts less than 20 seconds after encountering Candygirl. Victim goes to isolated location. Victim drinks a lot. Victim takes a bath and answers the door when the nutjobs show up. She's dressed in a towel, all the lights are on which makes it easy to see inside, and she doesn't do a damn thing to protect herself. Yeah, she has a gun but that means nada in a movie like this. Nutjobs get in (we've already been told the nutjobs have been there before because Candygirl like, has a bitchin' evil smiley face on the soles of her go-go boots leaving happy evil smileys on the floor), Candygirl drugs Victim's wine, mayhem ensues.
Everyone is this mess is stupid. Both nutjobs are marginally intellectually challenged, but Candygirl has a slight edge. Victim just sort of runs around and eventually pulls a Hansel and Gretel move on Candygirl by shoving her into a storage closet, trapping Candygirl and waiting for help to arrive. Horndog is already dead because after Victim chopped off his fingers with an axe (that she immediately drops out the window, boo hoo), Horndog has fallen out of said window (ouch) and begs his honey to take him to the hospital. Candygirl kills Horndog for no apparent reason. Help arrives, Candygirl is hustled out in restraints by one sorta lawman who immediately puts sexy ditz in the front seat. Victim then drives off in the nutjob's truck for no apparent reason (bye bye), and Candygirl must be giving some favors in the lawman's vehicle because it stops moving and just sits in the road. Credits roll while a terrible country ballad whines. The end.
Three stars for Horndog's chopped off digits and his sad death at the end of Candygirl's gun. If you fast forward this stupidity, it only takes about 15-20 minutes out of your life, which is more than enough.
Burlesque (2010)
Best performance by a wax mannequin ever.
Where to start when reviewing "Burlesque"? What's the sound of one hand clapping? I caught this turgid exercise in tedium wrapped around Cher and Xtina Aguilera on cable the other night. "Burlesque" revives a plot that was old in the 1930s. Kid from nowhere shows up in the big city, reveals a hot set of pipes, and voilà, instant stardom! Usually this sort of malarkey starred Ruby Keeler, but since she's long dead, Xtina takes her place. Warner Baxter, he of the famous line "You're going out there a youngster, but you've got to come back a star!" (from "42nd Street" 1933), is also long dead, so Cher takes his place.
Every cliché imaginable occurs here. Evil supposed star of the show who plots to overthrow the ingénue, sassy gay backstage manager, hot boyfriend, impending financial doom, instant last-minute solution to the whole financial problem, love conquers all, roll credits. Also many, many terrible musical numbers featuring the vocal prowess of Xtina. This woman never met a song she didn't beat into submission. This is urban yodeling at it's finest. All songs sound alike, featuring a cast of dozens on splashy sets using Faux Fosse moves. Hey, isn't this theater in financial ruin? Where is the money coming from to put on these huge numbers? Evidently, you aren't supposed to think about this.
Which brings us to Cher, giving the best performance ever by a wax dummy. Yes, she's an icon. She has an Oscar, legions of fans, makes a comeback every two years, and could easily be replaced in this movie by that unused flesh-colored Crayola that sits in the back of the box. One would think that after losing all her Oscar credibility by doing that infamous series of hair care product infomercials, she would have picked better material for a return to the screen. She's given a series of snappy lines that she sleepwalks through, and a really forgettable power ballad to warble. This is a sad situation for Cher, since anyone who paid to see this in a theater went to see her, not Xtina.
So, the state of the American movie musical remains comatose. Everyone involved here seems to have gone into hiding, except for perky Stanley Tucci, who's now embarked on a career path of playing snappy gay characters, and Cher, who went back to Vegas for the 1,000,000 time.
Move Over, Darling (1963)
Smarmy then, smarmy now.
Caught this refugee from the Sixties on television the other evening and let's just say that time has not been kind to it. Doris Day cranked out a series of bedroom comedies during one of the most turbulent periods in American history, "Move Over, Darling" is just another in Doris' canon of "chase me, honey" farces. Even when this flick (and many others like it) were splashed over drive-in screens, they were already outdated. Between the violent upheavals in the country, the Vietnam war, the sexual revolution, and youth counter-culture among other things, Doris' antics would have been embarrassing even in the Fifties.
All the bedroom farces had to offer were Cinemascope and double entendres. "Move Over" has so many smarmy, smutty, and lewd jokes (all of which fall flat) you feel like you just escaped a traveling salesman convention. The wit and sparkle found in "My Favorite Wife", upon which this travesty is based is nowhere to be seen. Doris is certainly no Irene Dunne, and although square-headedly handsome, James Garner is a poor substitute for Cary Grant. Doris is way too old for Garner, so their relationship seems off from the get-go. Also floundering in this dirty joke is Polly Bergen, acting as if she can't get out of whole mess quick enough. Fill in the rest of the cast with future TV "stars", obvious indoor sets that make the Brady Bunch's yard look real, and the beginning of Doris' infatuation with terrible dynel wigs that look like white cotton candy. The whole movie looks cheap, no better than a high school play. The incessant sex jokes and innuendo drag everything down as soon as the cartoon opening credits unspool.
One of the strangest fixtures in these sort of farces is the insertion of at least one "gay" joke. "Move Over" has two: future Laugh-In resident flamer Alan Sues mincing around in a non-speaking role as a court clerk, and Don Knotts. Knotts is first seen fluffing a chiffon scarf around a woman's shoe display, in an entirely lavender surrounding. He also minces, but is soon revealed as a ladies' man when Doris picks him up. It is to be supposed that audiences loved a good chuckle at the nervous nellies on display, but this sort of cheap joke went out of style in the Forties. Still, every one of Doris' movies in this genre contain at least one such scene. Perhaps the director thought it was "hip", but we'll never really know.
This is a movie best forgotten and left on the shelf as a curiosity. It's nearly impossible to sit through, so watch at your own risk.
Dracula 3D (2012)
Get the Raid, Manti-Dracula just crawled in.
"Suspiria", this ain't.
Why Dario Argento attempted to make the one millionth version of "Dracula" is probably the most puzzling thing about this truly terrible version of Bram Stoker's undying novel. By this time, who cares about the Count, anyway? The poor guy has been invoked and re-imagined so many times it's nothing but sad anymore. Argento evidently wanted his shot at the venerable story, but the result is a hot mess that can't even qualify as a cult movie, despite the fact that late in the movie, Dracula turns himself into a giant deadly mantis to kill another extra who didn't know he needed to call Orkin.
The entire movie is shot under incredibly bright light, making even the night scenes looks as if everyone's going to hit the beach as soon as the director yells "cut". This is Transylvania/California. The story is a precariously balanced retread of the superior "Horror of Dracula", Hammer Films breakthrough in Technicolor vampirism that shook the world in 1958. Here, Argento wastes film in a weak copy of the Hammer visual style, reducing the original 1958 color palette of rich autumn hues to something you'd see on the Vegas strip. Hammer's heaving bosoms are now in full view, jiggling all over the place. The subtle eroticism of the 58' version is now stroke magazine fodder. Most damnably, Argento attempts to recreate the seminal scene in which Harker is attacked by Dracula's bride. Instead of the shock of Christopher Lee's red-eyed Count knocking the hell out of the bride, we get T and A and the worst pretend Dracula ever seen, the lousy Thomas Kretschmann in a Z-list sleepwalk performance of one of the world's greatest villains. Oh yeah, he's also blond. Surf's up, Drac!
And so on. We get a seriously truncated version of the original story. Dracula never goes to England. Somehow, all the characters come to him. No hunting necessary. Within ten minutes of the movie's start, we get soft-core porn involving a buff gymrat and a Hustler Honey banging in a barn. Dracula is not only a weak player, but also a very bad CGI owl, werewolf thingy, and again, a giant praying mantis. Who knew? Rutger Hauer shows up late in the game as Van Helsing, gets knocked around for his trouble and Mina shoots the Count, who turns into an ashy replica of himself before blowing up real good.
For Dracula completists only, and even then, on fast-forward. Really, it's that bad.
The Queen of Versailles (2012)
A poke in the eye with a golden stick
David and Jaqueline Siegel, the central figures of "The Queen of Versailles" approach levels of Shakespearean tragedy in this documentary that follows them from the heights of excess to the ugly realities of having no money. Viewers will no doubt be polarized by the Siegels. While we may feel empathy for their plight, we will probably feel some joy at their dilemma and eventual destruction.
Director Lauren Greenfield pulls off an astonishing stunt here by simply allowing the principals involved be themselves. Jackie Siegel is the entitled "queen" of a repulsive parody of that famous other Versailles over there in France. This astonishing Floridian mess would have been the largest single-family home in America. Jackie the Spendthrift becomes increasingly infuriating to the viewer as the proverbial you-know-what hits the financial fan. Thirty years junior to her husband David, she holds court over too many nannies, too many children, a million dollars worth per year of low-cut garments and ugly eBay-bound handbags, and too many dogs (including two dead ones, one of which is stuffed and on display in a glass case, and the other spending eternity as a bizarre drape on the grand piano) which merrily defecate all over a tacky, kitschy, and filthy mansion stuffed with anything and everything. Jackie thrusts her gigantic breasts at anyone who moves and coos at her aging hubby, obviously using sex and her trophy wife status to manipulate him. He, in turn, becomes fairly disenchanted with her by the end of the film, hiding in a trash infested room staring at a big screen TV while attempting to figure out how to save his disastrously gone-awry time share empire. By now, we all know David Siegel lost his shorts in the market implosion of 2008, but that doesn't faze Jackie and her breasts. She continues to compulsively shop and finally admit she has too many kids. She had them because nannies were easily available and so her mothering duties were non-existent. One comes away from this train wreck of excess and greed feeling sorry for the children of privilege who haven't a clue about the real world.
Filled with jaw-dropping scenes of a clueless Jackie attempting to cope with the vanishing money and joining the 99%, the most telling scene here is Jackie, her breasts, and her kids having to suffer the indignity of commercial flight versus their usual private jet. The kids "want to know why ALL of these other people are on their plane". Jackie rents a car and asks a stunned counter-person the name of the driver she'll have. The guy at the counter finally tells her there is no driver. Has her husband's money and the privilege it buys blinded her to the realities faced by the 99% on a daily basis, or is this a staged moment by Jackie, who wants a reality show. If she doesn't know that no driver will be supplied, she's truly delusional inside that golden bubble. If she does know that no driver will be supplied, she's disingenuous and smug, acting for the camera. You decide.
And what of the shoddy grandeur of the so-called "Versailles"? It appears now and then as the film reaches it depressing end. At the last, it's a rotting hulk brightened only by the nightly Disney fireworks from the nearby Magic Kingdom. A true metaphor for the downfall of the Siegels, their colossal waste of money on absolute trash, and most appalling, their continuation of drawing plots to get back what they threw away. Unfortunately for the neighbors, the Siegels aren't gone. The documentary ends with no resolution. However,at this time, through David's shady business acumen, they have bounced back financially enough to try and finish the house. Naturally, Jackie hopes to have a reality TV series. Hopefully she'll be able to hire a full-time poop scooper before the cameras roll.
Martyrs (2008)
Pointless. Vulgar. Pretentious. Ultimately boring.
So, here I am late to the "Martyrs" party, having heard both good and very bad things about the movie. Decided to give it a try, which was a mistake. Notice I say "movie" and not "film", since if you can stay awake through the whole witless enterprise, you'll discover the director has ambitions to create a "Film Experience". He, the director, is in way over his head.
"Martyrs" is nothing more than an expensive grindhouse stinker, despite the glowing reviews here that demand the viewer accept this tedious exercise in repellent imagery as art. It simply isn't. Certainly the gore effects are shocking and disturbing when the movie begins to crank up the level of depravity, but eventually if you don't turn it off in disgust, you become jaded since every type of vicious death is visited ad nauseum in relentless spurts of blood. Cutting. Shooting. Beating. Pounding someone's head into jelly with a hammer. Stabbing. And so on. The ugly parade of death vignettes have a thin plot that defies logic to stitch the separate elements together.
Plot holes abound here, leaving the viewer to wonder if anyone was really in charge of this bloody playacting. The first half of the movie is marginally better than the second. By the time the director springs his "surprise", you don't care very much. The pretentious twist thrown at you fails to resonate in any way because it feels so random. It exists merely to give credence to the torture. The movie succumbs to the idea that we should be given our doses of death in short blackout sequences before tacking on a ridiculous spiritual idea that comes way too late to salvage anyone's dignity. It's as if the director decided he'd throw a bone of "meaning" into the ugly goings-on and make everyone watching feel better about themselves. See? It really was about something, everyone! You're not a pervy creep for watching! It's ART, after all.
No, it's not art. It's stupid. Watch at the risk of soiling your soul. The French are good at many things, among them butter and ham sandwiches, deep fried potatoes, and the Louvre. They aren't so good at horror movies.
Meatball Machine (2005)
Love means never having to say you're infested with an alien parasite.
Let's cut to the chase: Boy meets girl. Both parties are emotionally and sexually stunted. Unexplained alien parasites are wandering around looking for humans to mutate into "Necroborgs" who fight one another to the death. Aliens turn both boy and girl into quasi-alien fighting machines, although they really, really like each other. Mayhem ensues, gallons of blood are spilled, and the boy finally proves his love by "growing" what amounts to a giant penis cannon from his chest and blowing up his girlfriend real good. No one ever said love comes easily.
This ridiculous and zany entry into Japanese splatter lacks a strong story, as well as the two main characters flat-lining in their performances. The earlier and much better "Tetsuo" is the movie "Meatball" is attempting to emulate. For all the wacky Bohemian mutation going on here, the entire enterprise simply becomes the worst thing it can mutate into: boring.
The mutated humans look as if they've been covered in epoxy and rolled around Home Depot creating hardware body shells from stuff mostly found in the plumbing and electrical parts section. Special mention to the rubber hose crew for ripping off the flailing tentacles first seen in John Carpenter's "The Thing". Far too much time is spent on human interior shots, where the parasites do their dirty work. The aliens look like pink versions of 1959's "The Tingler", crossed with those very expensive Hawaiian crab-claw flowers you pay 25 bucks apiece for in an uptown florist shop. The parasites spend a lot of time crying,evidently having sex with themselves, and giggling, for reasons unexplained...until the end of this junk, where you are treated to a ten-minute conversation between two parasites who are evidently pals playing a cosmic game of some sort. The viewer is treated to a final shot of a nasty eyeball thingy spaceship, with a happy voice-over that the games will continue.
By the time this stupid excuse for a movie rolls around, you'll feel like someone repeatedly hit you in the face with a plate of rotten sushi. There is not a single meatball in sight, which is sad. Very sad.
Dead in Tombstone (2013)
All this and epilepsy too.
Danny Trejo is an acquired taste. Since being given cult status by the likes of Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez, fearless Danny has now earned headliner status in movies built around him. Good for Danny, he's paid his dues. That being said, even the iconic presence of Mr. Trejo can't save this direct-to-DVD supernatural western. Trejo has maybe five states of being and facial expression in his acting repertoire. but only two are utilized by the director of this spooky oater. Danny looks grim. Danny looks grimmer. That's all folks. Still he tries, but he's just not cut out for leading man status.
A paper thin plot drags its story out for around 100 minutes here, filling the spaces between the actual story with repetitive gunfights, slow motion death, general mayhem, and an occasional visit to Hell, where the real-life horror show called Mickey Rourke pretends to be Satan (the character is referred to as "The Blacksmith" in the credits). Danny has been betrayed by his homies, the Blackwater Gang. His half brother Red (played by a nearly unrecognizable Anthony Michael Hall) murders him and Danny ends up in Hell. Tortured by Mickey Rourke (in a sleepwalking tour-de-force of acting as Satan), Danny strikes a bargain to win his soul back. Mickey wakes up long enough to accept this bargain using the worst dubbed-in voice for Rourke imaginable. Danny returns to life, and sets out to kill his homies in revenge. End of plot.
This could have been really interesting in the hands of a better director. Unfortunately, no one told the actual director Roel Reiné that he wasn't making a music video. This entire movie is shot in 2-6 second scenes, underlit and too dark to penetrate, too many flashy jumpcuts, etc. If you don't come out of a viewing of this without acquiring epilepsy, lucky you. The end resolution is poorly thought out. Still, the Romanian locations and costumes are worth a look here and earn the first two stars I give. Danny T. gets the other two for really giving his all...I think. Maybe Mickey Monster Rourke slipped Danny one or two of the sleeping pills he must have been gulping down during filming. An interesting/headache inducing flick for those with short attention spans.