Twenty-five years after a plague resulted in Scotland being quarantined, a group of scientists and soldiers must fight marauders in the wastelands to find a cure and save the remainder of Great Britain.

I figured I’d hold off on this for a bit, in respect to Hey Internet, Stop Being Such Cynical Effing Douchebags Blog-a-Thon day.

Doomsday was fucking dire. In fact, it was the worst movie I’ve seen since Transformers, with which it shares so much. I never walk out of movies, but if I hadn’t gone with J., I would have left halfway through without looking back.

Considering the critical tongue bath it’s getting from genre fans, I can only imagine that it’s a matter of time before someone accuses me of hating Doomsday because it was derivative of previous post-apocalyptic movies. I hate writing an anticipatory defense, but that wasn’t the case. As a matter of fact, I’m an admirer of the post-apocalyptic sub-genre, derivative movies, and especially derivative post-apocalyptic movies. I’d be willing to bet that I own more knock-offs than I do the movies that were copied.

My only hope walking into Doomsday was that Neil Marshall would not only play off the surface elements of these films, but also attempt to match their craftsmanship. Unfortunately, this was one of the most inept, frustrating action movies I have ever seen, with absolutely no sense of pacing, composition or suspense. What makes it especially baffling is that Marshall has shown that he has a good eye for these elements in his previous movies. Maybe Doomsday was so big that it got away from him.

Any movie where I spend most of the running time wishing I was at home watching 1990: The Bronx Warriors or Phoenix The Warrior is a complete waste of time.

The Third Mother, a witch of unimaginable power, is unleashed upon Rome, and a woman with a mysterious past must find the courage to try and stop her.

It’s always difficult to disassemble and examine a Dario Argento film. Not unlike the riddles his characters encounter in his films, closer examination can reveal new insights and even the smallest newfound detail can affect your perception of his work. More than once I’ve revisited an Argento film and come away with an entirely different reaction from my first viewing. It’s why committing to a stance is so intimidating.

The conclusion to the Three Mothers trilogy is so completely unlike the other two installments, and the majority of Argento’s work, that at times it seems to be a reaction to those earlier films, if not outright parody. Perhaps the most noticable difference is in the attitude of the main character, Sarah. Gone are the plucky heroines and amateur sleuths of Argento’s early career, their curiosity replaced by indifference and outright cowardice. Sarah spends nearly the entire movie running away from her obstacles rather than facing them head-on. Where characters in Argento productions of the past willingly took a path through Hell to satisfy their curiosity, Sarah takes a cab.

So much of Argento’s work is about mysteries and secrets. In what seems to be a refutation of his earlier obsessions, Argento reveals everything in Mother of Tears, stripping the supernatural of its mystique. Where before Argento would build his themes upon visual cues and hope that his audience could keep up, here everything is laid out in lengthy scenes of exposition. Characters are carted out at regular intervals to reveal layers upon layers of backstory and mythology, almost all of which are useless to the heroes. The madness caused by The Third Mother is similarly underwhelming. We’re told that there’s a violent epidemic taking place, but with few exceptions the acts of carnage are almost mundane, with muggings and minor acts of vandalism being the most prominently displayed. Even the acts of heroism are almost an afterthought. It’s as if Argento spent his youth scratching away at the natural to find secrets and the supernatural underneath, only to dig even further in his later years and find his way back to the mundane. This is most strikingly apparent in the appearance of the Third Mother herself, who is clothed in allure and mystery for most of the film, only to disrobe at the climax into something far less satisfying than what we were originally presented.

The vaccuum created by this rejection of the fantastic is filled by copious amounts of nudity and gore. Most of the kills, if lacking the visual flare of his earlier set-pieces, are extremely effective in their execution. It’s the one aspect of the film that seems to have roots in decades past, containing the same unrestrained glee and passion that Argento is renowned for. One sequence in particular is loaded with such deviancy, brutality and ritual that it made half the theatre scream out loud.

Whether you would find the above appealing or not, and I can already see that this is going to be a divisive film, there were a few aspects of Mother Of Tears that rubbed me the wrong way. The aforementioned exposition is provided by at least five different people when only one or two would have been sufficient, and the protagonists spend a great deal of time travelling to and fro in order to gain this knowledge, so much so that there were times I thought I was watching a travelogue. The person sitting next to me actually fell asleep. No, really. She was snoring. Also the line delivery was deplorable for the majority of the film. This was especially pronounced when compared to those instances when purely physical acting was on display.

While I’m currently convinced that Argento deliberately set out to confound the expectations of his audience, glimmers of which could be seen in Phenomena and Opera, and that despite a few rough patches it’s a trip worth taking, ask me again tomorrow. I may have changed my mind.

Jay C., proprieter of The Documentary Blog and occassional Horror Roundtable contributor, has posted a video review of Equinox over at Film Junk. Not only is it a great overview of why you should check out that creature feature, the review looks nicer than the film itself. If I made video reviews I’d feel like a chump right about now. Jay has promised future installments if this one is well-received, so check it out and let him know that you’d like more.

In a world where slasher villains actually exist, a documentary crew follow an aspiring masked maniac as he prepares for his first professional kill.

Sometimes concepts that look good on paper should stay there. The idea of a killer being filmed, either by a crew or by himself, is one that’s played out numerous times to variable success. What made those movies work was the absurdity of the documentation playing off of the serious nature of murder, allowing the audience to ignore the ramifications of what’s happening onscreen until they’re so far in that they themselves are implicated in the crimes.

Based on fictional killers rather than real-life killers, Behind the Mask piles absurdity upon absurdity and somehow manages to make the sum more dull than the parts. Not unlike superheroes, evicting slasher villains from their fantasy world and bringing them down to our level robs them of what little interest they possess.

As if that weren’t enough, Behind the Mask has got to be the single most pedestrian slasher movie I have ever seen. I’m not sure if the filmmakers were attempting to pull a Lichenstein and deliberately make their film technically incompetent in order to overemphasize the failings of the sub-genre, or if they really have no talent for suspense. I do know that if you’re going to parody or emulate something you should at least attempt to match, if not better, the originals. And slasher movies don’t really set the bar so high that you’d think this would be impossible to achieve.

There are a few highlights. Robert Englund is wonderful as the obsessive Doc Halloran, though he’s criminally underused, and Scott Wilson and Bridgett Newton shine as a couple retired from the slasher game. I almost wish the movie had been about the three of them instead. I am grateful to Behind the Mask for one thing. It prompted me to watch some adequate slashers to remind me why I enjoy them in the first place.

For what are sure to be more complimentary views of Behind The Mask, make sure you check out the Final Girl Film Club.

I received tickets to an advanced screening of Grindhouse for Wednesday night, but I’m waiting to see it with J. so I was unable to attend. My friend Rony graciously took my place and agreed to provide The Horror Blog with the following review. In addition to being one of the original contributors to the old HorrorCast, Rony has also accompanied me on many cinematic excursions, including The Messengers, Blood + Chocolate, Night of the Living Dead 3-D, Ghost Rider and numerous other horror movies of dubious quality. Our “man-dates” and the shouting matches we had afterwards will be one of the few things I will miss when I leave Ottawa. Thanks, man!

Usually the hype for a movie can ruin it for you. You have high expectations but soon find yourself not as fulfilled as you’d originally hoped. Well let me tell you that no hype will ever bring Grindhouse down, unless you don’t like awesome. Do you like awesome? Do you?! I do, and that’s why I was blessed with a ticket to watch a sneak preview of Grindhouse.

Both movies were so friggin’ awesome that I would punch a baby to see it again! Although when watching the first half hour of “Death Proof” I was thinking ‘Son-of-a-bitch get on with the smashing already’. I would have wished the order was different because “Death Proof” was slow in the beginning and then kicked so much ass later, and “Planet Terror” was a non-stop zombie killing ride. If they were to start off slow and then kick things into high gear then you wouldn’t feel your ass getting numb.

Planet Torror was my favourite of the the two but I think it was because I’m a zombie lovin’ man. They were a bit different from your traditional zombies, like taking different twists on the sub-genre (eg. talking, running, etc.) from a bunch of movies and then smashing them into one movie with a fucking sledge hammer. This movie was hysterical and gross at the same time. If I had to describe how I was feeling during the movie it would go like this “Hahaha… Oh my God! BLAAAAAH(puking), hahaha, RUN DUMMY, RUN!! Hahaha. Fuck it’s over, I want more!!” One thing I really friggin’ hated that took me out of Planet Terror was Fergie. Why they chose her to be in this movie is beyond me. Even though she was only in the movie briefly, I hated every second of her on the screen. I don’t hate her music or anything, I just hate it when singers make the move into film and do a really shitty job. To be fair, they did do a nice long ass shot of her, but you can see that in any of her music videos. Also, Tarantino had a cameo in Planet Terror as “Rapist #1″ which is not entirely accurate. He should have been called “Attempted Rapist #1″. I cringed a bit during certain parts of Planet Terror and I hardly ever do that.

The trailers inbetween the movies were classic grindhouse and stuck really close to the old ones, which was awesome. All were good but I was hoping for a bit more from Rob Zombie’s trailer. Not too sure why, but it didn’t impress me as much as the others did.

Death Proof did chug in the beginning and I had to listen to all this boring stuff, which might not have been so boring if the first movie didn’t rock so much. Tarantino did his thing with the whole old school jive talkin’ dialogue like he always does. It’s so “Tarantino” that if you were to close your eyes it would seem like you were listening to Pulp Fiction. After the lengthy chit chat, in comes some full out, balls to the wall car driving. If you’re a gearhead, then you will blow your load at the awesomeness. Kurt Russell in this movie is one of the kings of cool and it reminded me why I love his movies. He’s not only badass, but he’s also downright friggin’ hilarious. Although I was hoping for the raspy voice like he did as Snake Plisskin, but oh well.

I was extremely glad I went because this double bill was totally worth skipping out on work and standing in line for an hour. Each movie had it’s lows and each had it’s super heroin eye injecting, face punching, groin grabbing, scream at the top of your lungs awesome highs. You will find yourself cheering throughout the length of the movie and if the person beside you talks you will want to rip out your chair and throw it directly into their mouth, instantly killing the A-hole. At the end, if you still have feeling in your legs, you should stand up and give a flying high five to the person beside you.

A man returns to his hometown to uncover the decades-old mystery that resulted in his wife’s murder. With puppets.

I think it’s admirable that after creating the Saw franchise and initiating the recent trend of gritty horror films James Wan and Leigh Whannell have decided to take a step in a different direction with their follow-up film, Dead Silence. Unfortunately, they haven’t started with a clean slate, bringing with them a load of baggage from Saw that muddies the proceedings.

Dead Silence is filled to the brim with characters discussing what’s going on without very much actually happening. Stories and folktales are evoked, added upon, then proven untrue, making for a very frustrating experience. The scenes where Wan most emulates silent films and the old Universal horror movies prove to be the most effective, particularly in their use of sound, but these elements are immediately undercut by machine gun editing and a techo-metal soundtrack so as not to lose it’s core audience. The whole thing is wishy-washy, never completely having faith in its own vision.

While the acting was touch and go, with Donnie Wahlberg standing out as the most sardonic cop this side of Tom Atkins, lead actor Ryan Kwanten gave the blandest performance I have seen in years and was one of the main reasons the film tanks. To be fair, his presence was in keeping with the pace of the rest of the movie, where seemingly important plot points were revealed with little to no emphasis placed upon them. Sure we learn why everything is happening to the characters, but the answers are delivered in such a matter-of-fact manner that not even the victims register shock.

A complicated storyline doesn’t necessarily equal a complex one. And it should be noted that despite all the CGI, elaborate sets and stattaco editing, the creepiest part of the movie was a simple tableau of an old lady with a ventriloquist’s dummy sitting on her lap. I just wish there had been more of an emphasis on that.

It’s 1984 and best friends Timmy, Doug and Barry spend their summer reading comics, fighting bullies, and making the best damn fort in town. Their vacation gets cut short as an ancient evil awakens, prompting all three boys to face not only the nightmare under the cemetary but also the monsters already living in their own homes.

I’ll admit to a bit of bias. I’m well within the age range necessary to share many of the same experiences of a young boy in 1984. References to such pop culture detritus as Dio, Thundarr, Doctor Who and The Defenders are scattered thoughout, and while I certainly got a kick out of having a mirror held up to my own childhood, I wonder if the same could be said for readers outside of that age range. Regardless, this is obviously a love letter to Brian Keene’s own childhood and probably couldn’t be written any other way. While I’m sure the specific nostagia will be lost on many, those near universal aspects of summer vacation will no doubt resonate with anyone with lots of time on their hands and a forest or park nearby to waste the days exploring.

One of the most intriguing things about Ghoul is it’s scale. Everything takes place within one corner of a small community, essentially everything that can be found on the way to and from the houses of the three protagonists. In its way this is in keeping with the point of view of someone just entering their teens, before the world opens up and where their little corner still contains everything they need. Also of a smaller scale, and even more daring, is the threat itself. The ghoul of the title is presented as being a pathetic creature, damned to eat the flesh of the dead exclusively. Even the creature admits its deficiencies, comparing itself unfavourably to vampires and other more powerful monsters.

This isn’t to say the book doesn’t have its faults. The pacing is erratic at times, particularly since there doesn’t seem to be much driving the characters on in the beginning. Ghoul is a real slow burn, with the protagonists taking nearly two-thirds of the book’s length before they even realize that there’s something unnatural going on. And the description of the locale is a little overdone, in one case repeated almost verbatim from an earlier passage.

It’s to Keene’s credit that the characters and their everyday nightmares are engrossing enough to make up for a general lack of overt horror. In so many ways he’s able to find just the right tone to portray the teenage boy, such as placing the emotional worth of a comic book collection on the same level as a friend’s personal safety. In at least one regard Keene excels, and that’s in pulling no punches. Cruelty both great and small creeps through Ghoul, and no one is safe either physically or emotionally. And just when you think you’ve had enough heartbreak and pain, along comes a coda to knock you back on your ass, grateful that you made it through the entire thing. Time has a way of making a monster out of us all.

Young Hannibal Lecter has his world torn apart by the atrocities of the Second World War, and vows to track down the men who killed his baby sister, gathering the skills he’ll need along the way.

Unlike many, I don’t believe remakes, sequels, adaptations and other ancillary films somehow cheapen the original source. These cinematic hanger-ons are usually pretty easy to ignore and/or forget. In the case of the offshoots of Silence of the Lambs I find that task to be even easier than most, since they barely resemble their father. In fact, I think that’s why I enjoy them as much as I do.

With Hannibal Rising (and Hannibal before it), the adventures of Lecter take a turn for the baroque with a mixture of beauty and brutality that is very rarely presented on the big screen. And where Blood and Chocolate tried to add some Old World charm to an All-American story, Hannibal Rising dives right in, without a single North American character in sight, a risky manouver for a major studio release. In many ways the entire movie is about a world recovering from and trying to forget a war that has left scars still fresh and sore. Every character is haunted, either by what they witnessed or by the acts they themselves commited. Even the setting has two faces, alternating between lush mansions and grimy back-alley markets.

No one can match Anthony Hopkins’ turn in the role, so why bother? Gaspard Ulliel provides just the right amount of guile, camp and irrational ruthlessness to raise the proceedings to the level of Grand Guignol. The gore, while sparse, is on par with other recent “torture porn” films like Hostel and Pan’s Labryinth in being highly effective when it does appear. If I had any real complaint it would be that the film is a little slow in parts, with a great deal of exposition. But really, anyone who has seen any of the previous films, or any serial killer movie in general, will already know what to expect walking in.

The anti-hero gets a bad rap. Critics and modern audiences seem to demand that their protaganists be portrayed as somehow relateable to their own lives. Why should we always drag fictional characters down to our level? Why can’t we let them be slightly ridiculous and over-the-top? And with all the lumbering brutes that dominate the slasher genre, isn’t it about time that we had a villain who possessed a level of refinement?

The Messengers follows a dysfunctional family composed of a father, mother, sullen teenager and mute toddler as they escape the big city and a tragic past for life on a sunflower farm. Unfortunately for them, their new home is inhabited by spirits who communicate their sorrow in physically harrowing ways.

I’ve never understood the appeal of The Messengers directors the Pang Brothers. The Eye was only passably entertaining, and Re-Cycle was one of the few films I have ever considered walking out of. Maybe it’s because The Pangs were among the first successful South Korean creators to come out of the Asian horror boom, but taking into consideration all the talent coming out of that country I can only imagine their days are numbered. If so, The Messengers may be the nail in the coffin.

Plot-wise, the film plays out like three or four movies mixed together, but unlike most I found those disparate horror conventions worked fairly well. Where the cross-breeding failed was in its mixture of styles. The inclusion of the rather overplayed Asian ghosts with the other more Western menaces was a good idea gone horribly wrong and didn’t do either camp any favours. The Messengers other major failing is in its characterization, with the underlying tension between family members turning out to be both a let-down and downright unbelievable. The impression one gets time and time again is that this family has almost no concept of either personal safety or responsibility for others. They constantly let each other out of their sight when it would be inadvisable in real life, let alone during a crisis. I was half expecting a character to fall off the roof because another character holding the ladder saw something shiny and let go to investigate. These people are precisely why natural selection is a great idea.

Surprisingly, there are a few good ideas buried in The Messengers. It’s tricky to plausibly keep the victim of ghostly encounters from fleeing and never coming back, but in the case of a relatively powerless and voiceless teenager there really isn’t any choice. Having the protagonist chained to the location by social pressures, rather than imprisonment of a physical or mental variety, is a novel idea that would definitely resonate with the intended audience. What teenager doesn’t feel as if they know all the answers, yet no one is willing to listen to them? While Kristen Stewart is only passable in the role of the family’s daughter, she excels in screaming, sobbing and freaking out, and that puts her well above the rest of the cast who hack out their roles. Another interesting characterization is that of the youngest child, able to see the ghosts but unable to voice his observations. The intriguing part about his role is that at almost no point in the movie does he realize the extent of the danger circling around him. There is something refreshing about watching a character in a movie react to blatant horror with awe and wonder.

To its credit, The Mesengers is one of the best of the bunch for PG-13 horror films of the past few years, though that’s about the most damning praise I ever hope to heap on a movie. Recommended only if you’re a sucker for recycled J-Horror (via Korea), jump scares or butt cracks.

As some of you may already know, Mom of Movie Mom’s Reviews is my all-time favourite online film critic. Unfortunately, she rarely looks at horror movies, but when she does it’s always worth a read. She’s surprisingly knowledgable about the genre, and though she tends to rate horror movies lower than most, her critiques tend to be pretty fair-minded. The one aspect that Mom excels at is in trying to impart a lesson that parents can teach their children based upon what they’ve seen. Obviously this can be a little forced for a horror movie, particularly one in which few parents will be taking their kids. This time out Mom reviews The Hitcher, and once again we get one to grow on.

“Families who see this film should talk about what might have gone differently had Jim and Grace cooperated with the police officers; although they were suspects, the two young students could have appreciated that the officers were following protocol, and instead of resisting could have talked calmly with the police to clarify the situation. Parents should also discuss road safety with teenagers and decide on procedures to follow in specific situations (what to do, for example, if they see someone standing on the road with a broken-down car).”

Thanks, Mom! You’re the best!

One of my favourite movie theatre experiences was in 3-D. J. and I attended a screening of Friday the 13th 3-D in Montreal a few years back that was being held as part of a comedy festival. The tickets were a little expensive, but if I had known just how much fun I was going to have I would have happily paid twice as much. Say what you will about the gimmick or the quality of the film, but there was no denying that Steve Miner was well aware of how to stage a shot for maximum 3-D effect.

I bring you this preamble to show that, though I’m by no means a 3-D expert, I do have some fairly recent 3-D experience. With that out of the way, please take my advice and stay the fuck away from the recent release Night of the Living Dead 3-D. This is by far the worst movie I’ve seen all year, with a meandering storyline, complete lack of suspense, and downright pitiful acting. In fact, it’s the second worst zombie movie I have ever had to sit through, and considering the dozens of shoddy undead flicks I’ve exposed myself to, that’s saying something. It’s one of those movies you want to like so much that when something even slightly cool happens you feel like cheering, even if that scene would have only been a mediocre shot in any other film. The only bright spot in the film is Sid Haig’s performance as the mortician, and even that only comes after over thirty dreary minutes of characters feebly debating whether they should use the phone or not. When Haig spoke I almost believed that someone else had written his lines for him. Either his performance is a testament to his acting abilities in deciphering the script, or he improvised. Either way, as great as he is it still doesn’t come anywhere near saving this mess.

You’re probably asking yourself why I’m even bothering talking about the plot and characterization when all that you really expect from a movie like this is some cool 3-D effects. Unfortunately, if there was anything worse than the above criticism it would be the shoddy use of 3-D. I don’t know if it was the glasses, the projection or the film itself, but the movie was barely in 3-D. You could still see blue and red lines throughout, lessening the impact of the gimmick. Reading a few other reviews and comments on the film, I noticed that it wasn’t just my screening that was affected by this. Not that it matters, because with the exception of one or two moments almost nothing was staged in a way that showed off the 3-D. Some shots moved too quickly to register, while others were composed in such a way that they ended up in the bottom corner of the screen, lessening the effectiveness. Even worse were the missed opportunities. If you’re expecting disembodied limbs, decapatations, bared breasts and other assorted body parts leaping off the screen at you, prepare to be very disappointed.

I could have forgiven Night of the Living Dead 3-D if it were just bad, and I could have even given it a pass if the 3-D wasn’t up to par, but when it fails on every single possible level it’s just disheartening.

The Horror Blog’s New York correspondent, JA of My New Plaid Pants, has braved The Splatter Zone and returned to take apart the off-broadway production of Evil Dead - The Musical. I rip off more links from My New Plaid Pants than you can imagine, so if you get a chance I encourage you to take a peek.

Evil Dead - The Musical

I’ve been to Universal Studios three or four times in my life - what can I say, I’m a big Jurassic Park fan - but I’ve never gone to see Beetlejuice’s Rockin’ Graveyard Revue, a live show in which the “ghost with the most” rounds up all the classic Universal Monsters (a la this very site’s Monster Rally - only instead of of a brutal fight to the death, it involves song-and-dance routines set to what I expect to be some approximation of “rockin’” tunes) where they, I assume, entertain the kiddies in a spectacularly cheesy fashion, fangs not included.

But now, yes, the characters may’ve changed, the curse-quotient amplified up to 11, the sexual innuendo distinctly somewhere between a PG and a mild PG-13 (no boobies!), and something tells me the front rows at the Beetlejuice show, filled with toddlers and their weary parents, are never spritzed with red-dye-infused corn syrup, but all these distractions aside, I’m guessing that witnessing Evil Dead: The Musical is somewhere on par with what happenin’ at that Rockin’ Graveyard scene.

Now, I know the Evil Dead films are hardly Tennessee Williams we’re talking about here. The source material - the first and second films thrown into a blender, a light dusting of Army of Darkness sprinkled over the top – is a cult classic because of the deep, deep silliness with which director Sam Raimi and star Bruce Campbell approach the ridiculous story. But Raimi’s exaggerated tracking shots, Campbell’s Stooge-mimicry and genius at delivering a line, thrown together with an, at times, genuine creepiness, not to mention gallons upon galloons of every-color-of-the-rainbow gore, somehow added up to the perfect concoction – a sort of post-modern splatter comedy, where everything is making fun of itself while at the same time going straight for, yes, the jugular. They wanted to pick their teeth with your funny bone, if you will.

That sense of irreverence is taken to the Nth degree with the stage show, but sadly, because of the limitations of having to, you know, stand in front of a live audience and not actually be chopping the actors to bits but rather rely on rather shoddy improvisations of the violence – a beheading in shadow behind a screen, for instance – the gore, which nicely leveled out the silliness in the films, and made them something you knew you couldn’t watch with dear old Mum (Mum was an intestine-spewing demon in the basement, actually), is overtaken by the campiness and what’s left is, well, a demon in a sequined jacket doing dance moves ripped off from “Thriller”.

There was one genuinely creepy moment on stage – the infamous rape-by-tree-branches scene, of course – that I thought worked, but this show exists primarily for laughs, and it does get them, but it somewhat swallows the soul of the material in the process. Again, yes, not the Bible they’re reenacting here, but with the balance slipping way into camp-territory, the film’s charms dissipated into endless clouds of dry-ice smoke and bad puns. You got the feeling, with the films, that Raimi wanted distinctly to accost you, to make you want to barf mid-laugh; the only thing that felt accosted after the stage show were my eardrums.

But with all that said, there were laughs to be had. At first, actor Ryan Ward as Ash seemed too slight in frame to be playing our Bruce Campbell stand-in, but as the show went on and he began spouting the familiar lines (”Gimme some sugar, baby” gleefully included) and coating himself in fake blood he became far more convincing. By the time he’d slipped the chainsaw on his stump and spoke of his “boom stick” he’d won me over.

The women were, perhaps appropriately, completely indistinguishable from each other, except for actress Jenna Coker as Ash’s sister, Cheryl, who was the chief bearer of the bad puns and cheerleader-happy dance moves, which she did with an unfortunate relish that led to much of the ratcheting up of the camp-factor to a level somewhere in the vicinity of beyond bearable. Yes, the badness of the puns was commented upon and done on purpose, but she delivered them with such lick-her-lips glee that it slid rght back from aren’t-we-clever? into just plain badness again. And Brandon Wardell as Ash’s friend Scott did his best Stifler impersonation.

The music was fun - with such titles as “Do the Necronomicon” and “You Blew That B**** Away”, how could it not be? – but the surprising stand-out was Daryl Winslow as Jake (the hillbilly character from Evil Dead 2) singing “Good Old Reliable Jake” as some sort of Meatloaf-inspired power ballad. By the time he’d gotten to his next number, “Ode to an Accidental Stabbing”, he’d become my favorite person on stage.

So in the end what you get is a show that is trying too hard. It takes the already exaggerated tone of the films so far in one direction for laughs that the screams are pretty much snuffed out. The much-hyped “Splatter Zone” – the first few rows of the audience where you’re supposedly hosed down with so much gore they provide raincoats – appeared to, by the end, be more of a Trickle Zone. Somewhere between remembering their Michael Jackson dance-moves and, you know, not actually being decapitated, the actors had other concerns and I, well I just wished for a good eyeball down the throat.

For more information on the show, visit the Evil Dead - The Musical fansite.

A small town in Kansas is thrown into turmoil by the appearance of a mushroom cloud on the horizon.

Bill over at DisContent gets it right when he says that Jericho is “a bit soft in the belly”. Jericho is a show that has a number of great moments, many of which tap into those Cold War memories people of a certain age share, that unfortunately lacks the overall level of suspense that this kind of program requires to succeed.

I remember watching a stand-up comedian performing a routine about the original Kansas-based nuclear apocalypse thriller, The Day After. He pointed out a scene in which people are rioting at a grocery store and you can see cashiers working hard keeping everything in order. His question was, what kind of overtime do you get during the apocalypse? A similar sense of ignorant calm pervades Jericho. You actually see waitresses working at the local tavern mere hours after a mushroom cloud appears on the horizon. Only a few townspeople seem to have any idea of the gravity of their situation.

One of the fallacies of the many dark suspense serials that came out on the heels of Lost was in taking things at a snail’s pace and only slowly giving out answers to the questions being posed. The reality is that most successful serials actually answer those questions both early and regularly. What they do is replace said mysteries with new ones. They keep the pump primed. It may be too early to say, but the first episode of Jericho seems more like that of the disasterous Invasion than of the show which it no doubt wants to emulate.

Whatever little sense of panic created in the premiere is quelled quite easily by the good folk of Jericho, meant perhaps to emphasize the level-headed rationality of some fantasy version of small-town America. Practically the only reason to watch a show like this is to place familiar characters into an unfamiliar situation and see how they react under the pressure, something which Jericho so far hasn’t come close to establishing. The only way that I can see Jericho succeeding in the long run is if it became something of an anti-Lost, in which characters familiar to one another slowly become strangers and where old secrets aren’t necessarily revealed but created and acted upon. In short, the decline of civilization. I’m intrigued enough to keep watching, but not for long.

I’m going to make you my Wi-otch!

Four pretty teenage boys descended from witches and born with magic powers must fight an evil force in their midst.

The Covenant is one of those films which I cannot recommend to anyone without losing whatever little credibility I’m still clinging to. Still, it exceeded my incredibly high low expectations.

This is one of the most vapid, shallow pieces of entertainment I have ever seen. The Covenant not only departed from any reasonable attempt at storytelling but couldn’t even keep within the confines of its own rules for more than ten minutes at a time. Plot lines established in the beginning disappeared to make way for 11th hour story elements. Characters followed the same route, suddenly disappearing from the scene or even worse, simply standing around doing nothing at all. Everyone looked as if they were cast from the same hard body mould, making it nearly impossible to differentiate between characters unless you were a 14-year girl with a subscription to Tiger Beat. Any attempt at suspense failed miserably. The lead-up to the final confrontation had all the urgency of going down to the corner store for a litre of milk. And as for scares, there was only one small scene that even attempted to establish the danger of the occult. As a matter of fact, despite lip service to the ramnifications of excessive use of witchcraft, no visible damage was done and the what little bit of theme the film tried to establish was lost on the entire cast. Forget Harry Potter; if the evangelicals want a scapegoat than they should look no further.

Really, I could go on forever. So how could I possibly enjoy a train wreck like The Covenant? Because it’s a big, beautiful, campy, homoerotic train wreck, of course. The second I saw the trailer with all those high cheekbones and confused attempts at meaningful stares I was hooked. You know you’ve struck gold when the biggest concern for the characters is that using their powers will cause them to age and look icky. I kid you not, this is like a big-budget David DeCoteau film, and if you know what I’m talking about you’ll enjoy every smouldering moment. Scenes of ripped, hairless jocks waking up covered in sweat and jizz are scattered about like so many Reese’s Pieces, leading us further into a world of manly grappling, locker rooms and low-slung swimming trunks. The entire audience was composed of guys confused about the stirring in their pants and the teenage girls taking notes for the slash fiction they’ll write when they get home. It makes me grin just thinking about it.

Was it worth it? Hell, it was worth it for the final scene alone, quite possibly the most divinely anti-climatic finale I have ever witnessed. Could I recommend it? Not on your life.

“Hi, iguana. I’m going to call him Jub Jub.”

A woman cursed to have snakes burst from her body is smuggled in from Mexico by her husband, a shaman who hopes to find a cure for her ailment in Los Angeles. Unfortunately, her condition deteriorates after they stow away onboard a train filled with unsuspecting passengers.

A co-worker watched Snakes on a Train a few days before me, and he attempted to warn me away from it. He also told me that if I happened to enjoy it he would lose all respect for me and begin to question my sanity.

It won’t be the first time, Rony. And I doubt it will be the last.

Snakes on a Train is a southern-fried exploitation rip-off on the cheap that steamrolls over every continuity gaffe, erratic pacing, shoddy make-up effect and bad CGI snake that make up the majority of its running time. Under all the trappings inherent in this low-budget shocker there beats a cold, black heart, one that gleefully pulls out nearly all the stops to make you either wince, give a high-five, or deliver both at the same time.

This is the type of movie where the sets are filthy and nearly everyone is a scumbag. Even the people who should have it together the most are using lightbulbs for bongs. Vulgar and sometimes strangely inappropriate swearing is scattered throughout, breasts are bared under duress, some of the only nice people in the film get torn apart and gratuitious homoeroticism runs rampant. I only wish my floors were sticky to add to the ambience.

The standout performance, and the glue that holds the whole thing together, is Ryanne Ruiz who plays the cursed snake woman. She grimaces and squirms so well that she actually manages to sell the lacklustre make-up, and she seemingly has the ability to make small sections of her face uncontrollably twitch independent of the rest of her body. But the most admirable aspect of her performance is her willingness to stuff her mouth full of snakes at the slightest provocation. By far the best special effect in the entire movie is watching Ruiz roll tiny, live snakes around with her tongue. This is precisely the kind of virtuoso performance that makes doing this blog worthwhile.

This isn’t a masterpiece by any means, and the shocks are more of the grossout type than from fear, but if you’re looking for a slutty, vicious lay of a popcorn flick you could do a whole lot worse.