Review: Isolation (2005)

Genetic experimentation has been a trusty staple in the book of horror damn near since its advent.  Encompassing the fear of the unknown with the fear of science and man's ever-willingness to mess around with Mother Nature, the topic always sparks debate and controversy ripe for dramatic license.  Not to mention that it affords the opportunity to portray more strange things to go bump in the night for our enjoyment.  Isolation takes the well-worn premise to pasture and fertilizes a truly scary scenario involving bovine gene manipulation gone horribly wrong.

We are first introduced to Dan, who is a struggling rancher on an inherited bog farm.  To subsidize his dwindling profits he rents an adjacent structure to a scientist named John, who is making progress in new fertilization techniques.  Rounding out the slight cast is Dan's ex-girlfriend Orla, a veterinarian who still assists in the care of the animals; and a mysterious couple squatting illegally on the land who may be possible fugitives from the law.

During the difficult birthing of a calf, Farmer Dan is forced to kill both parent and offspring much to his shocked dismay.  An inspection of the bodies reveals anomalies present in their anatomy that presumably lent to the unfortunate incident.  This becomes the least of Dan's worries however, as both humans and cattle swiftly become victims to a monstrous mutation faster than you can say "where's the beef?".  Can this deadly abomination be contained and eradicated before it seeks hosts beyond its secluded origin?  Watch the suspenseful barnstorm that follows for the answer.

And that is the meat of Isolation in a nutshell.  It's very reminiscent of films like Alien and The Thing, yet the somewhat derivative plot is greatly enhanced by excellent atmosphere, strong performances and some real hair-raising sequences.  Those with weak stomachs will likely find all the convincing carnage hard to digest, most especially the various livestock mutilations depicted.  Director Billy O'Brien wisely refuses to reveal too much of his Bovineal (sic) beast, instead opting for slight glimpses that accumulate to disturbing effect.  The pacing is excellent and leaves little room for any interest withdrawal.  Additionally, the film's dark foreboding ambiance adds to the restrained yet jarring imagery, making for an enjoyably upsetting experience.

Isolation offers a solid script, fine acting, admirable FX, an unusual setting, and some polished photography all cloaked by a wonderful score.  I dare say we have here a nearly perfect creature feature.  It keeps you engrossed until the end, no small feat considering we've all seen these types of fanciful forays before.  Another fine example of how ol' Mama N. can be a real bitch when you step on her toes, or in this particular instance, hooves.  Recommended by yours truly and The Food and Dairy Council.

Review: Blood Sabbath (1972)

What do you get when you infuse a tender love story with equal parts witchcraft, folklore and sixties psychedelia?  Well if Brianne Murphy's Blood Sabbath is any indication, you get one seriously heady brew of horror, exploitation - and yes, if you can believe it - even some inklings of romanticism.  Those wiggidy-wild seventies, I tell you what!

The fun begins with an ex-Vietnam vet named David roaming the countryside with an acoustic guitar and a head-full of bad war memories while some sappy psychedelic folk-rock provides the soundtrack.  A hand painted combi-van full of lively hippies passes by and they stop to seemingly offer David a beer, but instead a chick showers him in suds and flashes her tits before the gang tear off down the road laughing hysterically.

That night while camping out in the woods, David is awoken by an adjacent orgy comprised of the vanload of vagrants from earlier.  Four naked girls decide to turn their attentions to the slumbering soldier, but he runs from their front lines faster than a cheetah on crack; amusingly knocking himself out in the process.  I'm guessing all the day and night continuity issues during this sequence likely hindered his perception.

The next morning he is revived by a water nymph named Yyalah who quickly retreats back into the lake from whence she came, barely speaking a word.  A weirded and bearded fellow named Lonzo takes David in, offers food and shelter, and admonishes him when he's told of the strange encounter earlier.  After a day passes without finding his object of amphibious affection, the young man questions whether or not the woman was even real.  He does eventually encounter the water-wench again and she takes him to a cavern where they make out, look adoringly into each other's eyes and are deviously spied on from above.  Yyalah suddenly tells David their love simply can't be and leaves him blue-balled and distraught.

The snooping sorceress turns out to be Alotta, Queen of Witches (played by Dyanne Thorne of 'Ilsa' infamy) and she confronts Lonzo expressing her intent to make this new found man-meat one of her minion.  Lonzo tells Alotta to back off, he will supply her with a virgin child as he has done every year, but nothing else.  (Every man has his limits, you know.)  Determined, Alotta proceeds to perform a topless love-spell to win David's affections exclaiming, "no rest shall he know until beside me he lies!"

Lonzo then invites David into the village for the annual harvest celebration.  He overhears a conversation between Lonzo and the local padre and learns of the villager's dependence on sacrifices to insure the success of their crops.  The young man also angers the cleric by asking him how to rid himself of his soul.  Now riled, the peeved priest visits Alotta to insist on stopping the rituals; however, she tempts him with booze and naked neophytes to buy herself time and puts a curse on him.

Meanwhile David, still yearning for that perfect soul-less existence, asks Lonzo if he can take the place of the latest sacrifice and offer his unwanted soul to Alotta, to which the old man hesitantly agrees.  Now as we all know, good rarely comes to those who use their soul as a bargaining chip, and this tale is no different.  Well I take that back, it is pretty different, but I think you know what I'm saying.

For fear of spoiling all the fun I'll spare little more detail, but rest assured that there are plenty of dramatics left to keep you neatly enough amused.  There's the actual "Blood Sabbath" to attend; lots more naked witchyness to ogle over; "Alotta dancing" in a groovy sequence where the wicked witch glamours herself as Yyalah; a few corny montages; some awkward line readings; some welcome sprinklings of violence; and even a possessed combi-van.  I did mention all the naked witchyness, right?

Yes, Blood Sabbath offers a little something for everyone, most especially for those who enjoy deliciously bad films chock full of camp and circumstance.  Give up your soul and have fun with it. 

and the awards go to:

*Anthony Geary as David, for frustratingly kicking over a pail of water and complaining to Lonzo" I want her so much!" and "my world has no meaning without her!" after only encountering his nautical nymph ever so briefly.

*Susan Damante as Yyalah, for explaining to her newly beloved "you are of the land and I am of the sea, you have a soul and I do not" and "if I were to love you completely I'd die."

*Sam Gilman (pictured) who turns in the most earnest performance here as Lonzo, telling David forebodingly "this place was never meant to be your destination.  This place means only loneliness."

*and Dyanne Thorne as Alotta, Queen of the Witches, who seems to excel at playing strong-minded devious women with strange accents and a penchant for shedding clothing.
The lady has some moves, too.

Review: Die You Zombie Bastards! (2005)

Die You Zombie Bastards! is self-professed to be the world's first ever serial killer superhero, rock 'n' roll zombie road movie romance and I find that moniker quite difficult to refute, surprisingly enough.  Director Caleb Emerson takes cues from a number of different genres and half-bakes them to purposeful imperfection in this outlandishly ludicrous low-budget trash epic.

We flashback to 1970, Hell Island (somewhere in The Bermuda Triangle we're told), as a spaceship suddenly crashes down from the heavens.  Forward to present day, where Paleoarchaeologist triplets Shannon, Britney and Nikki are investigating the remote isle to prove or disprove the existence of the fabled half man/half fish "Amphibious Guy" (aka "amphibi-cock", aka "merciless fish-cunt").  During the night they're awakened by the creature, but fail to capture him before he flees back into the sea.  As they sulk over his escaping they are attacked by an unseen assailant and vanish into thin air.

We then cut to (fucking) Pittsburgh, where we are introduced to cannibalistic serial killer and wanna-be superhero Red Toole and his charming wife Violet - "two pearls in a kashmir sky".  Red bestows upon Violet the remains of some camping stoners he killed and they enjoy a bit of playful gut-munching together.  Violet, in exchange, gives Red a box filled with garments for his superhero ensemble: a wave cap, yellow booties, a red suit, a pair of skin-undies with severed penis attached and a cape made of human flesh.  The intimate moment is interrupted by police officers inquiring into the missing sisters.  Despite Red standing in a pool of ooze and holding a severed arm, they find nothing peculiar with the display as they ask a few cursory questions and leave.

Back at Hell Island we get to meet Baron Vaklav Mummyhead Von Nefarious, the evil sub-genius behind the girls' kidnapping.  His plan is to conquer the world by making zombie slaves of its inhabitants with his 'Enormo-Zombotron' which utilizes alien technology procured from the fallen craft we saw at the beginning of the film.  But first on the agenda is turning the girls into mindless playthings for his amusement ("yummy-bums" as he refers to them) and has them pound his large freakish penis with hammers.  It is when Nefarious next abducts Violet, hoping to make her his bride, that a wrench gets thrown into his dastardly desires.

Red begins a journey to find his missing wife at all cost, donning his ridiculous superhero outfit, naturally.  The cops are of no help, which leads him to a clairvoyant Rastafarian named Barundeb Duttah (who inexplicably keeps a topless white girl chained to his wall that plays Operation and cackles maniacally whenever the buzzer sounds).  While enjoying a bath Duttah tells him the story of CoconutHeadFaceMan, a Bahamian fable about a sicko who sprinkles sand from his toenails onto lover's heads before "scaring them very badly".  He then gives Red a magical conch shell as a form of defense during his perilous quest.

Now as you can probably tell from this far into my synopsis, Die You Zombie Bastards! is about as convoluted and intentionally silly as they come.  And this approach will ultimately make or break the film for you - keep in mind we're just 30 minutes into it.  It's completely amateurish on all technical fronts, has heaps of juvenile dialogue, lots of goofy sight gags, foolish flashbacks, comical montages and an admittedly retarded sensibility; however, if you're a bad film enthusiast you really can't help but to be entertained by a large percentage of the shenanigans.

As things progress further, our Toole follows clues that lead him to Sweden and Super-Inga (Russ Meyer, anyone?); we get to hear the "howendous" story of Olaf The Cheese Demon; we travel to the hills of West Virginia in search of real-life rockabilly legend Hasil Adkins; offered a rendition of "Girl In Minnesota, She Loves Them Bacon & Eggs" by the same; we have an emotional meeting with Red's father ("Da!"), who had been presumed dead; and finally he has his fateful confrontation with Nefarious for the big showdown involving zombies, ninjas, robots, an army of disobedient dog-men and giant 'Warlord Mosquitoes'.
And I think I might have spotted a kitchen sink in there somewhere, too.

Enough of the chit-chat though, on to the tally.
A respectable amount of nudity, some mild and inept gore, several exploding heads and 2 time-lapsed meltdown sequences
1 Ray Harryhausen homage
1 Iron Maiden reference  ("scream for me Long Beach!")
2 Motorhead references
3 different roles by deceased porn-legend Jamie Gillis
Gratuitous Hasil Adkins
Gratuitous sausage-eating
Gratuitous nipple-on-toe action
Gratuitous use of the term "rubber dick"
and 1 seriously rockin' soundtrack

and the awards go to:
* Tim Gerstmar, as Red Toole, for over-acting his fucking ass off in nearly every scene and only becoming a mildly bit irritating in the process.

* Pippi Zornoza, as Red's wife Violet, for telling Nefarious "you are clearly the product of faulty upbringing" upon their initial meeting, then later claims, "you know, this is all just starting to be not that scary.  I mean everyday you come in here, you're doing something weird like you're gonna fuck me, or you're gonna make me suck your dick, like you're going to take over.  It's just not that scary.  Redundant, yes.  Scary, no."

* Sandra Kennedy (pictured), as the sex-hungry Super-Inga, who looks great, slaps a sausage link against her cheeks and tells a distracted Red she wants to "baby-sit his cock".

* Sadie Blades, as Nikki, who exclaims "it's too hot for research, or for clothes" before convincing her two sisters to come frolic with her in the water au natural.

* Geoff Mosher, as Baron Nefarious, for asking the captive sisters "now who is going to play with my ass?"; for telling his lab rats in a flashback "everybody into the pool", before shoving them down his trousers and adding "my darlings, feast upon my testicles!"; and, most amusingly, for giving Violet fish-gills so that his "blasphemous tube of pork may dance upon your tonsils forever more."

On a scale of 1 to 10 rubber dicks slathered to the hilt with peanut butter, I'd give this a solid 7.

Review: Bad Biology (2008)

Writer, director and film historian Frank Henenlotter is certianly one of Horrordom's most unconventional voices.  His wonderfully over the top features are few, but they have all been inventive, subversive and highly comical to say the least.  Basket Case, his first feature, earned well deserved cult status and later even warranted two sequels.  Brain Damage, his decidedly twisted comment on drug addiction during the Reagan Era came at a time when others were playing safe, and it stands as one of the most deviant works of the 1980s.  Then came Frankenhooker, where he would protract more laughs than shocks, but his trash aesthetic and extreme tendencies still made it a camp classic.  Silent since 1992, Henenlotter finally returns to the scene with this inspired bit of lunacy that proves that the old fart hasn't lost his edge.  In a time of so many slick productions and high falootin' concepts, Henenlotter again comes along and does things the only way he knows how - the independent way.

Bad Biology's premise is typically bizarre in keeping with the director's exaggerated inclinations.  Jennifer, an aspiring photographer, is born with seven clits. You read that right - not one, but seven.  She struggles through life with enhanced sensitivity and an insatiable sexual appetite which she cannot quench. This disposition inevitably leads to the demise of her chosen partners in a violent frenzy during copulation.  Her advanced chemistry also enables her to give birth to deformed babies within thirty minutes of coitus and she thinks nothing of discarding them like used candy wrappers.  Jennifer frequently addresses the audience as she struggles to find the ultimate orgasm in a series of deadly amusing encounters.  I should also mention that she photographs her victims in their final death throes in a novel work in progress she coins "Fuck Face".

We also meet Batz, another sexual oddity.  To compensate for penis size ridicule as a youth, he injected steroids into his member to a very frightening degree of success.  His manhood is now of tremendous proportion and has a mind of its own, causing many an awkward moment.  The ladies on the receiving end of his freaky phallus experience endless orgasms which promptly renders each of his lovers completely useless.  In lieu of a compatible mate, Batz gets by with a self-made monstrous metal masturbation machine when the pressure becomes too much.  He also often has to sedate his wacky willy to keep it under control, but its tolerance to the chemicals has gotten out of hand.

Now in theory these two should be unnaturally perfect for each other, don't you think?  Unfortunately, you won't find out whether that is so until almost the end, but there's enough zany things going on to keep your mind firmly in the gutter in the meantime.  And that is definitely where it belongs to enjoy a story of this particular mold, I assure you.


Bad Biology might just be Henenlotter's most accomplished film, at least stylistically.  His direction and production values are a little more polished than previous efforts, but are still well below the standard of the mainstream.  The visual effects are somewhat crude (think Troma), but put to creative use; sometimes bordering on the surreal.  In addition there are plenty of what-the-fuck moments to keep you delightfully disturbed.  The acting is typically amateurish, but really nothing to complain about - this isn't exactly high art here.  Bad Biology is not nearly as gore drenched as past adventures and it does try a little too hard at times, but it succeeds in being both edgy and a lot of fun.

Henenlotter proves once again that bad taste and comedic sensibilities can work well within the Horror genre if done cleverly.  Good natured, yet inherently perverse, Bad Biology thankfully approaches its absurd subject matter with its tongue tucked very firmly in cheek.  I'll admit it actually seems rather tempered when held up against his earlier entries, but it still feels like a breath of fresh air in an all too formulaic climate.  If you are already a fan of the director then Bad Biology is a no-brainer - it does for sex precisely what Brain Damage did for drugs.  And if you happen to be new to the wild world of Henenlotter, then I do believe it's time you get acquainted.  Bravo for brazen bravura!

Review: Last House On Dead End Street (1977)

"I think I'm ready for something that nobody's ever dreamed of before. I'll show 'em what Roger Watkins can do".  Er, make that Terry Hawkins, sorry.  You see, it's pretty easy to get things confused when watching Last House On Dead End Street.  For starters, what was once a 3 hour film called The Cuckoo Clocks of Hell was trimmed down and edited by the distributors into an extremely schizophrenic 75 minutes, then retitled to cash in on the popularity of Wes Craven's notorious shocker.  In addition, the film was initially conceived and produced by director Roger Watkins while he was on an admitted amphetamine binge, which had to have had its own disadvantages.  He casts himself in the lead as a frustrated filmmaker, and one gets the feeling that the production must have served as a kind of catharsis for Watkins - or at least one hopes.  The acidic tone of both the film and his performance indicate a very real resentment toward the industry and it's this hostility that gives Last House On Dead End Street a nasty aesthetic far removed from any common mainstream sensibilities.  It almost seems as much an excursion into Watkin's own damaged psyche, as it does an excursion into terror.

The film begins with Terry being released from prison after serving a one-year sentence on a drug conviction.  Intent on creating "really weird films", he uses some of his old contacts in the industry to help finance and sell a new kind of thrill.  "Nobody's interested in sex anymore", he explains, "they're looking for something else."  He hooks up with a former associate, Ken, who has the necessary equipment and has been making cheap porn films for a producer named Palmer.  We’re also offered a little back-story on Ken, which amounts to him doing some time in the loony bin for getting a little too friendly with some cows in a slaughterhouse.  "You know how horny you get, you'd stick it in a mud puddle if you could find one" he insists.  Different strokes, indeed.  Terry then coerces a cameraman named Bill to join their little troupe as well.

Next, we are privy to a way-out happening being held at Palmer's residence, where his kinky wife is allowing herself to be whipped by a mentally challenged hunchback while a bunch of stoned onlookers heckle and cheer.  Meanwhile, her husband is having a meeting with a disgruntled investor who is looking for something edgier than the by-the-numbers smut Palmer's been pimping as of late.  They've heard of this Hawkins guy who wants to make new kinds of films (snuff films, it is revealed) and they agree to look him up.

Utilizing an abandoned warehouse, Terrible Terry and his merry band of depraved deviates begin to capture real death on camera.  He dons a Zardoz-like Greek mask, while the others wear those creepy semi-transparent masks that have since become nearly a staple prop in horror pictures.  Eventually Palmer and his associates get greedy and decide to cut Terry out of the proceeds from these felonious film endeavors.  And as you can probably imagine, Terry doesn't exactly take too kindly to the matter.

Last House On Dead End Street is admittedly a very crude and primitive structure.  For starters, it was filmed on grainy 16mm stock and even the best of transfers still bleed a bit and retain a fuzzy look to them.  Moreover, the editing is painfully haphazard, the narrative often meanders and the post-production dubbing job is quite simply beyond reproach.  Then add to that the cacophony that comprises the overall sound design: we get echoey voice-overs from the psychopath's perspectives; monologues from other characters (often during static or seemingly disjointed scenes); strange choral loops punctuated by screaming and maniacal laughter; and the underlying score, which is comprised of highly distorted psychedelia and film-library selections.

Now whereas technical limitations of this measure would normally hinder most efforts, here all these various elements combine to make an almost hallucinatory experience for the viewer.  Whether it was intended or not, there is a sense of disorientation and alienation that is evoked through the inconsistencies; while the warped kinetic energy on display feels a little too real for comfort.  Think of an art-house film made by The Manson Family and you might be following the path of least resistance.


The shock-pieces in Last House On Dead End Street are undoubtedly what makes it popular among cult film enthusiasts.  There's some real slaughterhouse footage likely to upset any PETA-friendly individual; a strangling; a throat slashing; a branding, a bizarre violation via deer-hoof; death by power tool (several years before Abel Ferrara went drilling); and in its most alarming sequence, a bound woman's body is dissected and disemboweled.  Some of these scenes may look tame and unconvincing now, but there's a wild evil behind every act that almost feels authentic.

LHODES is about as bleak and nihilistic a film as you are likely to find.  There is some narration at the end that feels grossly out of place stating that all the parties involved were later apprehended and are serving time in prison.  Not part of the original presentation, this was tacked on by nervous distributors as a kind of disclaimer to hopefully ease any negative reaction by audiences.  Once made, it sat in limbo for nearly 5 years before finally making its 42nd Street debut in 1977, horribly truncated and re-edited.  One can only wonder what other madness might have been captured on those lost reels, but what remains is still a genuinely unsettling and provocative horror film - even by today's standards.

Review: Next Door (2005)

aka Naboer

Next Door is a Norwegian thriller that could be favorably compared to some of the darker works of Roman Polanski, or maybe David Lynch.  It is an intense exploration of sex, violence, paranoia and obsession - which doesn’t break any boundaries in storytelling - but is highly watchable and perfectly executed.

In the film's opening, John’s girlfriend Ingrid has returned to claim some of her belongings after having left him for another man.  John attempts to make sense of their breakup during her visit, but Ingrid refuses to discuss the matter, obviously uncomfortable in his presence, only stating that she's spoken of their relationship to her new love interest.  John becomes confrontational upon this discovery and Ingrid quickly takes her leave.

John then meets Anne, a neighbor he didn’t know he had, who asks his aid in moving a piece of furniture in her apartment.  He also meets her roommate Kim and the provocative pair admits that through the thin walls they know all about John’s separation.  He leaves rather alarmed by the odd exchange and is later told privately by Anne that Kim had once been assaulted by the previous tenant of his flat.

John's next confrontation with Kim results in some rough sex between them, which seems to revolt the young man after its conclusion.  Both women soon begin playing strange head-games with John, seemingly in an attempt to get him to admit and accept his dysfunctions.  Then Kim provokes him into another tryst with her and this episode becomes even more violent than before.  As things progress John becomes increasingly confused as to what is real and what isn't, forcing him to come to terms with his aberrant past.

Pål Sletaune's direction is almost flawless.  Kristoffer Joner truly puts in a powerhouse performance as a man pushed to his limits, while the three women are equally persuasive in their own respective roles.  The film is beautifully photographed, well-scored, has challenging subject matter; is punctuated by arresting images and it elicits a true sense of claustrophobia.  In fact, the atmosphere is almost too foreboding, making a reveal near the end a little obvious, but still very impressionable.

While Next Door might have a tad bit of predictability working against it; on the bright side it's composed thoughtfully enough to keep you engrossed throughout.  It pulls you down into its mystery and rarely lets you up for air.  The mixture of sex and violence might shock more sensitive viewers, but I found this aspect of the narrative, honestly, the most refreshing.  It's a very compelling and edgy psychological shocker that deserves to be seen by a wider audience.

Review: Hanger (2009)

It would seem that director Ryan Nicholson is on a mission to be crowned the undisputed king of trash exploitation cinema.  His perverse and audacious offerings make the work of Troma and other like-minded miscreants look almost wholesome, in fact.  His vile visions have a way of getting under your skin like an acute cancer you learn to accept, knowing the discomfort will thankfully only be temporary.  Nicholson obviously has his tongue deeply in cheek when he's dredging ideas from the bottom of the cesspool and this approach has made his past efforts unpredictably entertaining.  Unfortunately with Hanger the attempts at humor are far too juvenile and forced to have any impact, therefore it just kind of wallows in its own stale odors.

The idea is pretty simple and pretty repugnant.  A pregnant hooker is given a coat-hanger abortion by her pimp and she dies in the process.  Her baby's body is discarded into a trash bin and later discovered, still alive, by a homeless man who raises him.  One of the hooker's regular "johns" is convinced he's the father and inexplicably comes to collect the now affectionately named 'Hanger' off the streets on his 18th birthday.  He's offered a job, a chance at stability - and probably most appealing of all - an opportunity for revenge.  "Payback's a bitch of a whore", as the tagline boldly emphasizes.

The film is populated with absolutely deplorable characters.  After the extremely graphic abortion sequence administered by the pimp Leroy ("come to papa you little bastard!"), we flash forward 18 years to where "The John" finds Hanger and takes him under his wing.  He attempts to get the lad laid, but this only results in a repulsed prostitute getting her head crushed in by a car door ("who's the freak-show now, bitch!") and then they bond over their shared bloodlust.  Hanger's then given a job at a waste recycling plant where he meets Russell and Phil, who share some alarming disfigurements (and preoccupations) of their own.  Key players aside, we also have Leroy's charming harem of whores Foxy White, Smashy and Trashy (the latter actually uses her unkept vagina as an instrument of torture at one point); a voyeuristic foreman; his overly stimulated daughter, who can't keep her fingers (or her ball-point pen) away from herself during work hours; and a plethora of other assorted skanks and low-lifes to nicely color up the background.

There's gore, shit, some gratuitous nudity and on-screen masturbation, laughably inappropriate stereotypes, streaks of misogyny, plenty of bad racist jokes, a pedophiliac Santa Claus and a roofie-spiked pizza, tampon tea, breast-milk, breast-biting, flame-throwing, stoma-fucking, a microwaved dog, cameos by Lloyd Kaufman and Debbie Rochon and some Class Of Nuke 'Em High footage.  All strung along by some of the most unpolitically correct dialogue and situations to ever escape a film lab.

Now admittedly on the surface that might sound like good times; however, by the conclusion you can't help but feel that Hanger is a little too desperate in wanting to shock and offend.  All the characters are very thinly etched and completely unlikable.  The dialogue is very hit and miss with most of the jokes a good many rungs below sophomoric, often falling flat under the weight of wretchedness transpiring.  It does have some crazy set-pieces and a nice bit of eye candy that helps digestion, but the entire affair comes off as more obnoxious than anything.

I certainly applaud Nicholson for making the kinds of films he wants to make, don't get me wrong.  They've all been fearless celebrations of bad-taste and that's usually my kind of party.  But Hanger just seems to try too hard for its own good.  I look forward to the next amoral atrocity Nicholson brings to the screen, he's won me over as a film-maker to watch, but I suppose even I must set my standards a bit high on occasion.  I do a lot of things high, actually, but I digress.  Imaginative and outrageous though it may be, ultimately Hanger suffered from one major hiccup I couldn't ever get past no matter what my state of mind - general stupidity.

and the awards go to:
*  Dan Ellis as "The John" who confides to Hanger in a moment of reflection "I thought I felt you kickin' on my dick one time and it gave me the willies, thought it best to leave it alone" - referring to his dead mother's money-slot
*  Ronald Patrick Thompson as Leroy the Pimp who recalls to Rose "you wore this (dress) the first night I turned you out" before assaulting her and her unborn baby with a clothes hanger; then later asks The John "you ever heard of a Dirty Sanchez, motherfucker? Well this is a Dirty Leroy! This bitch ain't douched for days!" before letting Trashy share some of herself with him.
*  Candice Lewald as naughty Nicole, the foreman's daughter, who strips down twice for some self-lovin' and when hearing someone peeping in on her through the window inquires, "Daddy, is that you again?"
*  Ryan Nicholson, because at the very least he's composed one of the sleaziest and most bizarre films I've seen in some time.  That alone might make it a minor masterpiece to some, what the hell do I know?

Review: Gothic (1986)

Ken Russell’s name is not necessarily synonymous with Horror. Some of the director's films (most notably The Devils and Altered States) indeed contain some horrific elements, but in Russell’s world these tangents are generally used to keep his audience open to whatever particular excesses he decides to revel in.  And make no mistake, a Ken Russell film is usually about excess.  Controversial, flamboyant, visually arresting, thought-provoking: all these things can be said of any of his many varied works.  What he brings to Gothic, his only real attempt at traditional Horror, is a sense of wild and reckless abandon. “A little indulgence to heighten our existence on this miserable earth” Lord Byron exclaims during the denouement, which is surely the intent of Russell’s tempestuous and twisted fairy tale.

To preface Gothic, it should be known that the creation of two literary classics can be directly traced to a fateful meeting in 1816 between the illustrious poet Lord Byron, his personal physician John Polidori, soon to be author Mary Shelley, her husband Percy and her step-sister Claire Clairmont.  During their time together Byron read aloud horror stories and encouraged his guests to stretch their imaginations in the hope to create something fantastic themselves.  Afterward, Shelley would write Frankenstein, while Polidori (using an abandoned Byron contribution) would compose The Vampyr - the first story to actually romanticize the vampire myth and undoubtedly provided inspiration for Bram Stoker.  But enough of the history lesson, let's get on to the festivities at hand.

We are quickly introduced to our esteemed ensemble as they arrive at Lord Byron’s sprawling villa in Switzerland.  Soon they are all reading ghost stories, playing hide and seek, taking opium, drinking laudanum (a liquid opiate) and satisfying their sexual urges.  A séance highlights the occasion, in which they attempt to conjure and summon their darkest fears to fruition. Under the influence and open to suggestion, they each channel their personal demons, fueling within them both creativity and madness.

Ever the auteur, Russell skillfully captures all the hysteria in grandiose and unconventional fashion.  The treatment is robust in bizarre and surreal imagery.  There are breasts with eyes, a demonic dwarf, living mannequins, leeches, rat munching, the requisite snake (seemingly a Russell favorite), hallucinatory sequences and fish-eye lensings, along with enough exuberant dialogue to keep any intellectual’s attention. Gothic succeeds in serving up a bold and heady mixture of trepidation and transcendentalism in equal parts.

The entire cast is excellent. Gabriel Byrne and Julian Sands give brave and highly flourished performances that, alone, could carry the bulk of the film. But this isn't to take away from Myriam Cyr and Timothy Spall’s respective portrayals of dysfunction which are quite engaging also, while Natasha Richardson in her film debut as Mary Shelley is flawless.

I really wouldn’t recommend Gothic to lovers of more modern fare; however, being that the title of the film bares its exact point of reference this should come as no real surprise now, should it?

Ken Russell would go on to endow the work of Bram Stoker two years later with his underrated and very entertaining Lair Of The White Worm, which I would also recommend.  Now I’m off for a swig of laudanum, for purely medicinal reasons of course.

Review: Axe (1977)

aka Lisa, Lisa

This rusty rural revenger starts off with three thugs who put up in a seedy hotel to await the arrival of a colleague who they proceed to kill in a violent struggle.  The hooligans then go on to rob a convenience store and assault the female clerk, before they finally seek shelter in a remote farmhouse far out in the sticks.

The house is only occupied by a young woman named Lisa and her invalid and mute “grandfather”, who at first glance seem to present no threat to the intruders.  The treacherous trio forcibly make themselves at home and - as these things normally go - one of the crooks eventually gets a little too ‘touchy feely’ with the lady.  It’s more than chicken necks that’ll be on the business end of Lisa’s little axe before the roosters crow, you rest assured.

Axe is a small film.  It has an obviously small budget, an admittedly small plot, a small cast and small effects; however, the atmosphere carries more girth than a Republican at the poor people's buffet.
Director Fred Friedel’s minimalist approach leaves a good many things open to interpretation and it all translates unfavorably.

Firstly, Lisa’s markedly detached manner suggests previous trauma of an unknown sort. Could “grandfather” (curiously, he doesn’t appear to be that old) have lent a hand in her disposition?  Is his immobility and silence the product of Lisa’s wrath, or just some tragic accident?  And just where the heck is the rest of her family?  Friedel insinuates all manner of foul through some discreet editing which raises the viewer’s suspicions without ever offering any answers.  This general ambiguity in the narrative gives Axe a menacing undertow and an admirable creep factor.

The direction and pacing do feel a bit too reserved at times, but some assured photography and performances make up for it.  Axe mounts the suspense in tidy little increments without ever getting too frenzied, giving it a slow simmer.  Actress Leslie Lee in the lead as Lisa stands out especially; she carries a unique presence and her "damaged" portrayal is quite convincing.  Something must be said for the discriminating score as well; it's strange, yet beautifully haunting, augmenting the dramatics more than the shocks which adds to the film's already unique climate.

Axe will not please the sleaze or gore-hounds; the onscreen sex and violence is marginal and brief, so those looking for beaucoup blood and boobs need not apply here.  Interestingly enough, it's more of a matter of what we don't see in the film over what we do, that makes it effective. Yes, there’s a pretty girl with an axe.  And yes, she will use it.  But what drives her to kill with such apparent ease becomes the most frightening prospect.  Something we are never sure of.  Chop that up to being intentional or just lazy storytelling, either way it suggests possible terrors beyond what we're seeing, turning Axe from something diminutive into something monstrous.

Theatrical Trailer

Review: Dead Hooker In A Trunk (2010)

Ever wake up after a particularly hedonistic episode of partying to discover that the details of the night's festivities are fuzzier than koala balls?  Maybe a complete stranger is found snoring in bed next to you.  Maybe you can't find your wallet.  Or the pants you were wearing that you left it in, for that matter.  And where'd those bruises come from?  How did I even get home?  Or possibly - at least if you’re the Soska Sisters - you discover a dead hooker most curiously stuffed into the trunk of your Firebird.  Don't you hate it when that happens?

The twin siblings in question are only referred to as Badass and Geek.  Their friend Junkie (can you guess this lady's demeanor?) wakes up at their place after a rowdy rock show the night before.  She asks Badass if she'll take her to score some drugs and Geek asks if they'll pick up her old bible-thumping friend Goody Two-Shoes on the way.  Seems harmless enough, until a foul smell is detected wafting from the trunk and the quartet is compelled to investigate.  Enter one dead hooker.  What follows plays out like a deranged variation of The Trouble With Harry - no one is sure how she got there, where she came from and more importantly, what to do with her.

Numerous complications arise at every turn before they can agree on how to dispose of the body.  While waiting at the drug den for Junkie, other pushers arrive to put a hurtin' on their competition and all hell breaks loose.  A chainsaw is produced, intestines spill, Badass ends up wasting nearly everyone in sight and her poor sister loses an eye.  Then they have to contend with police officers, Goody Two-Shoes' weak stomach, Junkie getting her arm temporarily separated and the trick's pimp showing up to retrieve his rightful property.  Of course there's also the small matter of the person who actually did her in and his own intentions.

Dead Hooker In A Trunk is a raucous, swiftly paced film full of seemingly random plot developments that sometimes negate plausibility, but doesn't suffer much for it.  The tone is admittedly a tad uneven and the editing occasionally leaves you confused as to when things are happening; however, considering there is also no real concern for consequence in most of what transpires, it gives the film an anything-goes attitude that sucks you right up into its nonsensical vacuum.  It does hold the limitations of any low budget DV film (especially in the audio dept), but the highly spirited delivery certainly makes up for that, preventing this Dead Hooker from ever becoming a stinker.

In addition to starring in the film, the sisters Soska also wrote, produced, directed and filmed it.  They also share the bulk of the other principal production credits, including the effects (which are honestly some of the best I've seen in a DV feature), along with their co-stars C.J. Wallis and Loyd Bateman.  The dialogue is sharp, the acting is commendable, the photography is ambitious, the violence is well choreographed and it even offers a little something for the gore-hound.  The accompanying soundtrack is no slouch either, contributing nicely to all the excitement.  For such a self-contained and modest effort, Dead Hooker In A Trunk shows an amount of skill you have to admire.

These tenacious twins have assembled an undeniably energetic and inspired effort that does precisely what it intends to - entertain.  Yes, a few things develop during Dead Hooker In A Trunk that go against logic and it bares some technical hickeys; however, for an unpredictable and action-packed black comedy of exaggerated proportions you can't ask for much more, even from the mainstream.  More indie film-makers should aspire to what they've accomplished here.  I nearly orgasm to think what these two talented vixens could be capable of on a much larger budget.

and the awards go to:
*  Sylvia Soska as Badass, who doesn't take shit from anyone and after having dispatched of Cowboy Pimp and asked what she was thinking, answers "gee, wouldn't it be nice if this fucking guy wasn't fucking dragging me down the fucking road."
*  Jen Soska as Geek, who calls the police on her sister and Junkie and says to them "I already told you, they're picking up drugs. I don't know what kind. Lots probably, knowing them" right before her eye gets knocked clean out of her skull.
*  Rikki Gagne as Junkie, who tells Goody Two-Shoes "I can take care of myself, I don't need your fussing over me" moments before losing an arm to a passing truck.
* John Tench as the Cowboy Pimp, who rides up on horseback and remarks to Badass before lassoing her "I reckon you got my whore."
*  C.J. Wallis as Goody Two-Shoes, who despite being an accomplice to all manner of criminal activity believes he'll still be let into heaven and asks Cowboy Pimp's corpse "you ever been skull-fucked after an ass-rape?" then adds "Jesus doesn't love you."
*  and finally to the illustrious namesake, the dead hooker in a trunk, whose presence conveniently makes all the ensuing insanity possible.

Review: Island Women (1980)

aka Gefangene Frauen

Producer, writer and director Erwin C. Dietrich is well known in foreign film circles as a kind of European equivalent to Roger Corman.  His company became a spring board for countless other talent and is probably best known for financing some of Jess Franco and Antonio Margheriti's glossier productions.  The savvy Swiss would churn out hundreds of titles in the 70s and 80s, many of which he would direct himself.  It was inevitable then that Dietrich would see the release of a women-in-prison flick or twenty, being that it is a virtual corner-stone in the big-house of exploitation.

Since sex and sleaze is unarguably the name of the game here; it is to what degree of the scale your own tastes lean that will likely determine your enjoyment factor of these types of films.  Dietrich's directorial efforts in this area are far less offensive (and imaginative) when stacked up against the likes of Franco and some of their other prurient peers; however, his sense of eroticism and attention to production values seems a little more acute.

"Somewhere in South America" we are privy to a secret meeting between President Marco and his comely female commander-in-chief, Carla.  Concerned over a pending UN investigation that might expose their forced prostitution ring, the two officials agree to round up the local talent in a bogus brothel raid and export them to "Rat Island" until the heat dies down.  After agreeing to each other's terms, Carla's own debriefing becomes the next matter of importance, as she undresses and masturbates for the President on his couch while he leers approvingly and puffs a cigar.

The brothels are busted and the working girls are rounded up and sent to the remote island.  Herded into an arena like cattle, Carla introduces herself to the convicts before sending them to the showers to get stripped, hosed down and verbally abused in preparation of a physical exam.  This equates to a deviant doc securing the ladies in stirrups and inserting a finger into their vagina to see if "everything is in order".  Then they're hustled to their cells and ravaged by the guards at lights out.  A couple of minutes of simulated sex follows, after which barred babe Rita comments, "well that was a pleasant surprise."  Another answers, "More than that, it was fantastic."  These aren’t exactly your typical women in peril, obviously.

More hanky panky follows: first between Carla and her head-guard Juan, who enjoy an indiscriminate hump on the beach; then the guards are shown getting their jollies with the jailed jezebels again.  Next we move to the arena, where inmate Lisa has been chosen to nudie-fight against one of Carla's henchman.  She emerges victorious and her efforts earn her a graphic groin-grinding session with the Commander.  Seemingly shaken after this incident, Lisa convinces the other girls to plan an escape and another trip to the doctor's stirrups provides the perfect opportunity.

Can Lisa and her band of bawdy bimbos successfully escape Rat Island with their lives?

Especially considering a political coup conveniently erupts at the very last moment to further complicate their plight?

Not to even mention the fact that our escapees are wearing absolutely nothing but their shoes!

It's a real nail-biter right up to the very end, I'm tellin' ya!

Ultimately, Island Women is about as harmless a WiP film as you are likely to see.  As long as you don't find lingering split beaver shots and a few scenes that border on hardcore alarming, then your comfort zone is assured.  It uncharacteristically offers very little in the way of violence and unsavory situations.  The few moments of perversity that do transpire are certainly tamer than what was fashionable at the time.  So if ever a women-in-prison film could almost be labeled as light-hearted, Island Women may be it.  I personally found it endearing in all its senselessness.

and the awards go to:

* France Lomay who turns in the best performance of the film as Lisa and asks cellmate Rita after their first medical exam "do you think that stupid doctor put his finger up all the other girls?"

* 70's Euro-sleaze starlet Karine Gambier as Carla, who does practically everyone in the film and tells the creepy doctor before seducing him, "I want your medical opinion on my health."

* 70's French porn starlet Brigitte Lahaie as Rita, who simply looks amazing in whatever position she happens to find herself in (most often on her back) and expresses to the other girls, "I'd rather work for nothing than live without sex. I can't help it, I need sex."

* The head guard Juan, who relishes hosing down the ladies in the shower and remarks to Rita "you got the kind of body I like to work on", then adding "you got a nice puss."

* The peculiar doctor who cuts out and reassembles photos of naked women, can determine the status of a woman's health by simply fingering her vagina for a moment ("everything is in order, next please") and says to Carla, "your body is definitely a work of nature for me to examine, you know?"

Review: Giallo a Venezia (1979)

aka Giallo In Venice

If you are one to measure your enjoyment of an Italian Giallo by its relative sleaze factor, then you might consider Mario Landi's Giallo a Venezia the greatest thing since black gloves.  It's trashy, crude and devoid of any real style; however, the extreme nature of the film definitely earmarks it as one of the nastiest Giallos to ever be produced.  It is for this reason alone I might recommend searching out this rare title if you're an enthusiast of the genre.  You know, for bragging rights.

We initially open to a tight zoom of a man's crotch being repeatedly stabbed by scissors.  After that auspicious intro we cut to suave and cocksure Inspector DePaul, who is called in to investigate a strange double murder along the Venice canal.  The female victim has been drowned, then drug ashore; while the male victim has been brutally attacked and found with drugs in his pocket.  As it turns out, the two bodies are that of a married couple by the names of Fabio and Flavia.

The Inspector and his trusty bald side-kick Maestrin proceed to question suspects in the case.  DePaul visits Flavia's good friend Marzia, who uncomfortably reveals to the badge that Fabio was a sadistic cocaine addict with some major sexual dysfunctions.  She relates to DePaul some instances of Fabio forcing his wife to indulge his perverse whims to achieve arousal.  During this interrogation Marzia receives a number of threatening calls from an obsessed ex-boyfriend.

Maestrin later tails Marzia when she meets with Marco the coke dealer and expresses her concern over the heat having come a knocking.  He tells her to calm down and smarten up, dismissing her anxieties.  Meanwhile, a young man in shades is intently watching this meeting from a distance.  Hmm.  Another murder transpires before DePaul gets a tip and makes contact with an old love interest of Flavia's.  He also relates some lurid stories to the Inspector which further describe the deceased couple's bizarre relationship; however, DePaul suspects the man is also hiding something that might tie him in to the crime.

The killer then strikes again by striking a match, before capturing Marzia and painting the most unsettling sequence in the film: she's assaulted and bound naked to a table, where the assailant produces a large knife and begins graphically sawing off her leg exclaiming "I have to do it. It's for your own good!"  When Marzia passes out, he quickly slaps her back into consciousness just to increase her agony.  The maniac is captured soon after, but insists to the detectives that he had nothing to do with Fabio and Flavia's deaths.

And so the beat goes on…

On a technical level Giallo a Venezia offers nothing of interest.  The photography is mechanically static and strictly serviceable.  The low production values give the entire film a rather cold look which actually amplifies the seemliness of it all, especially during the more violent episodes.  Additionally, the score achieves little, being largely uninspired and chock full of what I would have to call z-grade porn music at best.  A compliment can at least be given to the performances of the actors, as they all throw themselves very believably into their roles - thin though they might be.

The story, although minimal, is actually pretty engaging and suitably knotty.  It strings you along as any good Giallo should and throws a curve ball or two at us before its unpredictable conclusion.  That's all great.  However, it spends way too much time loitering on all the strange sexual escapades for it to ever gather any real suspense.  A couple of brief and bombastic killings break up a film largely padded with one increasingly ugly and perverse sex scene after another, to the point of tedium.  So you've been warned.

For other crazy adventures in Landi-Land I humbly suggest Patrick Still Lives (1980), another over the top sleaze-fest with slightly higher aspirations and enjoyment factor co-starring Mariangela Giordano again.  And yes, she gets naked quite a bit and very bad things eventually happen to her.  (Some also might remember Giordano as the woman who gets her breast bitten off in Andrea Bianchi's schlock-filled zombie opus Burial Ground.)

and the awards go to:
* Jeff Blynn as Inspector DePaul, the habitual hard-boiled egg eating detective with poofy feathered hair who enjoys the occasional joke at a victim's expense and says, "I swear that this logical aspect will drive me nuts!"
* Mariangela Giordano as Marzia, for playing another woman of loose morals who enjoys showing off her shapely figure and tells Marco, "You bastard! I could ruin you!" before she gets slapped around and lets him have his way with her.
* The unknown man in the dirty movie theater who whips it out and masturbates while Fabio lets him grope Flavia.
* Gianni Dei as Fabio, who quite simply plays his sleaze-bag role to perfection.
* Leonora Fani as poor Flavia, who is forced to endure all manner of sexual humiliation and abuse throughout the entire proceedings.
* The rolling-eye gag in the charred head.
* And finally to director Mario Landi, for doing things without an inkling of pretension or artistry; whether it be an exterior scene, a scuzzy lovemaking sequence, or a graphic close-up of a woman's vagina being stabbed.  Oh, what?  Hadn't I mentioned that one?