The title of Most Eagerly Awaited Sequel to a Cult Classic from 1999 now goes to Free Enterprise.

Back around '99-00, I remember seeing huge window ads at the local Blockbuster for something called The Boondock Saints, and while I recognized the names, it didn't really get me interested. Then a friend of a friend raved about it a couple of years later, and around that time, Ain't It Cool News had an article about a sequel. A sequel? Well, I had no idea what a fuckin' cult juggernaut this Boondock flick was. So I went ahead and took a chance and bought the uncut Japanese version from eBay (at the time, that was the only version that was untainted by the MPAA) and checked it out.

I dug it, man. It was a lot of fun and I got a kick out of the characters. Over the years, as word kept coming and going on a possible sequel, I discovered something else that bothered me (via the Internet, of course). Apparently, being a fan of this movie makes you as bad as a fuckin' Juggalo, because in the eyes of the hipsters, not only is the movie a piece of shit, but the people who like the movie as well. Many a commenter on AICN or the AV Club would say things like If I found out my friend liked The Boondock Saints, I wouldn't want to be friends with him or her anymore. Wow. I don't understand that kind of sentiment; I think it's safe to say that I'm as nutty a movie fanatic as possible, but I've never hated on someone for liking something I straight up abhorred. I've felt upset at not digging a movie the way everyone else dug, but that's more I Wish I Saw The Same Movie and not at all Fuck You For Not Having My Opinion.

Even the motherfuckers who made that fuckin' Paul Blart: Mall Cop a box-office behemoth, I don't hold a grudge against. Shit, if that shit floats your boat, then god bless ya. Then you got those that go, Hey, fuck that guy Troy Duffy, he's a piece of shit as a human being. Look, I saw Overnight and I know that the director's probably a supreme asshole dickbag, but if you're gonna use the director's personality to judge a film's worthiness, then be prepared to start reading a lot more books. Do you get what I'm trying to say here? Probably not, because I'm an idiot who really liked The Boondock Saints and what are you doing hanging with me?

So, the filmmakers finally got their legal troubles settled and we now have a sequel, The Boondock Saints II: All Saints Day (almost beating out Excessive Force II: Force on Force as my favorite redundant movie title). If you haven't seen the first one, in short, it was about two Irish brothers who start going Death Wish on criminals in the city of Boston. By the end, I felt like I had watched an origin story and the follow-up would be purely about the continuing ownage of evil men by the "Saints". It didn't turn out that way, because when we're reintroduced to the brothers McManus and their father, we see that they are now raising sheep on a farm in Ireland. It appears they went into hiding shortly after the events of the first film, on the run not only from the U.S. authorities, but from soap, razors and clean clothes.

Back in Boston (played by Toronto), some old priest gets assassinated in the same manner the Saints used to take out many a bad guy; double taps to the back of the head, then leaving pennies over the dead guy's eyes. Once the McManus bros get wind of this news, they stowaway on a cargo ship (do people still do that shit in the 21st century? just wondering) and head back to Beantown to take out anyone remotely responsible. Meanwhile, both the Boston police and the criminal underground are scratching their heads wondering if the dead priest is really the work of the Saints. They each have their own reasons for being worried; the Mafia guys are afraid of being attacked and three detectives are freaked the fuck out that their simpatico connection to the Saints will be discovered and it'll be slammer-time for them.

Willem Dafoe was in the last one, portraying a brilliant and queer (in both senses of the word) FBI agent investigating the Saints murders. This time, instead of Dafoe, the sausage fest that is the main cast is made slightly less pork by casting Julie Benz as a brilliant and queer (in only one sense of the word) FBI agent investigating the possible Saints murder. This Benz chick has been carving (pun!) herself quite a niche in anything resembling cool and violent; Rambo, Punisher War Zone, one of those Saw movies, and two shows I never watched but are supposedly among the Greatest Shows Ever Made Oh My God I Can't Believe You've Never Seen It -- Dexter and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Anyway, she's really good here and she's pretty hot for a woman in her forties. Except she's in her mid-thirties.

See, that's something about this movie that I noticed right off the bat -- everybody has aged like a motherfucker here. In the case of Benz, it's probably the harsh lighting employed by the relatively gritty cinematography they went with for the sequel (the first one had a more slick and classical look, which I preferred). Sean Patrick Flanery was a good-looking motherfucker but here it looks like he got into the same car accident as Rose McGowan, the kind of car accident that involves getting into your car and driving over to a clinic for a particular kind of surgery. Norman Reedus could only look 19 for so long before time caught up with him and stapled those sag bags under his eyes. Bob Marley (the comedian, not the dead reggae singer) probably works a lot of late night clubs. The only one who aged well is Billy Connolly, and that's probably because he made the decision to look old back when he was still relatively young. The movie takes place eight years after the first one, but they could've got away with eighteen.

Clifton Collins Jr. has had a great fuckin' year in the '09; he got to fuck up the Enterprise's shit with Eric Bana, he chain-whipped the hell out of Jason Statham, but most importantly, he got to hook up with Amy Adams and Mila Kunis and all he had to do to swing that was lose an arm and a testicle. Now here he is playing Romeo, a guy helping out the Saints in hopes of becoming a part of the team. He's pretty funny as this sort of combination badass motherfucker and overly emotional weepy bastard.

Romeo's also subject to the occasional joke made at the expense of his Mexican heritage. But that's okay, as long as they're funny and besides, there are jokes made at the expense of the Irish, Italian, gays, and I think that's it, actually. Surprisingly, the Chinese get off pretty easy and are only violently killed -- it's like the anti-Crank.

While the brothers are out doing their thing, father Noah (known as the badass Il Duce in the original) stays in Ireland to keep the home fires burning. It is during these occasional cutaways to him that we're treated to flashbacks of his past reminiscent of The Godfather Part II. We see young Noah as he makes his living helping his father at a leather factory, and I guess you can see where this is going, but I don't give a fuck whether I can see that shit coming or not, I still enjoyed watching it happen.

On the whole sons and fathers tip, the sequel also introduces us to the son of the Mafia don from the last movie. He's played by Judd Nelson, and if the mere mention of his name does nothing for you, then I can't fuckin' help you and should leave you be. Jay minus Silent Bob said it best, calling this motherfucker "way harsh". He's not in the movie as much as I'd like him to be, but it was fun to see him do his thing whenever he had an opportunity. It's even better because he's overacting and overacting is the name of the game in Boondockland. You can't overact? Then you're not welcome here.

I don't know how seriously Troy Duffy takes this shit, I mean, past the whole "kill 'em all" wish fulfillment deal, I don't know how much more of this is meant to be taken beyond It's Awesome To Watch Motherfuckers Get Owned, and I really don't care. The way I see it, this is like watching a comic book movie and I'm not talking about The Dark Knight or Road to Perdition, where that shit is played as real world as possible, I mean more like Darkman or Punisher: War Zone where the rules of reality don't apply in this motherfucker and people act like they have dialogue bubbles hanging over their heads, complete with bold letters and underlines. Shit, if you did with this movie what they (unfortunately) did with the director's cut of The Warriors by adding comic book frames in between scenes, it wouldn't feel out of place. Also, I know Darkman was not based on a comic book, but it might as well have been.

I'll be honest though, the first 30-40 minutes of this flick were downright terrible. It was hard to sit through and it got to the point where I thought I was watching not only a shitty sequel but the worst movie of the year. It was suffering from many problems; it was dull, it was desperately trying to be funny when it didn't have to be, the pacing was way the fuck off, and worst of all, it was suffering from sequelitis. I'm talking about the kind of sequel that not only rehashes the same shit from the last one, but then continually makes cute references and callbacks to the first movie. Remember the way Agent Smecker was introduced in the first one? Well, here's the same exact thing but with a woman! It just wouldn't stop and I wouldn't have been surprised if Bruce Willis popped up and said "How can the same shit happen to the same guy twice?" All right, I'd be a little surprised if that actually happened.

But then, somewhere after that tough first and 1/4 acts, the film turns on a dime and actually stops becoming a rehash and starts getting real about becoming a goddamn true sequel. It happens around the moment a particular character's confesses his or her true motivations, and it was like Duffy purposely was leading us on, making us think that the worst case scenario was happening with this movie, all before stepping in, blowing cigarette smoke in faces and going "Uh-uh, faggots. You gay faggots thought this was gonna be some more of the same faggy shit, huh? Nope, I know what the fuck I'm doing, queerbait, because I'm not a gay faggot." Then he'd turn up House of Pain and show off his shitty Fighting Irish tattoo for the 16th time. Because Overnight notwithstanding, something tells me Troy Duffy probably talks and acts like that in real life. He's probably called more people gay then there are gay people in the entire country.

ADDENDUM IN THE MIDDLE OF MY SHIT AFTER THE FACT: In the interest of full disclosure, I'm making all these fucked up jokes about the guy, but I actually met him and his producer Chris Brinker at a Best Buy, back in December '02. My buddy and I were looking at the Boondock DVD's, and my friend was going to buy one for himself. Some dude walks up to us and introduces himself as one of the producers, then tells us that the director is in the next aisle. They had been buying movies as stocking stuffers for friends. He asked if we wanted to meet him. Holy shit, we thought, this could be awesome or this could be how guys in their early 20's get kidnapped and sold to white slavery (or brown slavery, in my case). But there he was, Troy Duffy, and he was really nice, actually. Not an ounce of asshole on him. He offered to sign our DVD's, so of course I bought one, even though I had the uncut Japanese version at home. He used his pocket knife to tear open the plastic from the DVD cases, and on mine he wrote "VERITAS AQUITAS" and the first couple lines from the Latin prayer. On my friend's copy he wrote "Keep it stiff". So that's my Troy Duffy story. I can't speak for everyone else, but he was nice to me and my buddy. And here I am, talking shit about him on a blog. But nobody reads this blog, so it all evens out.

From a certain point on, you (if you're me) start getting into the movie and start digging the proceedings instead of wishing them to end. The rest of the film won me over; the story started to catch my interest, the pacing started to flow right, the jokes started to get funny, and only traces of sequelitis remained in the system (the slow-mo gunfights, the dramatizations of what the agent thinks happened at the crime scene). But those traces were acceptable because it felt more like the kind of stuff that was put there because the fans expect it, not because it was Duffy being lazy. Kinda like how every James Bond movie needs a pre-credit sequence and every Star Wars movie needs a space dogfight and every Pixar movie needs an emotional moment that makes you want to cry in the theater and embarrass yourself because the Pixar people are evil sadistic bastards who want to fuck your shit up and I HAVEN'T FORGIVEN YOU FOR WHAT ALMOST HAPPENED TO ME WHEN I SAW UP, MOTHERFUCKERS! Those aren't comparisons, by the way, just the best examples, so calm down and have a drink or a smoke or something. I really wish Duffy didn't feel the need to give the Benz character what basically amounted to her version of "There was a FIREFIGHT!", that was kinda douchechilly.

Anyway, it comes out to about 1/3 of a shit movie and 2/3 of quality shit. The stuff you expect to see in a Boondock movie is here in spades; motherfuckers get owned, off-color remarks are made, actors overact with terrible accents and a guy shits himself if you like that sort of thing. There are a couple of genuinely awesome lines, quite a few hilarious ones, and plot-wise, Duffy pulls out the occasional ace in the hole -- particularly near the end, and boy is it a beaut. There are also moments in this movie that I would go as far to say have Fuck All to do with the plot but were put in there because maybe Duffy figured he might never have the chance to do so again. My favorite such example is a dream sequence where a character basically gives a speech on how men have to take their balls back and de-pussify themselves.

It suffers from those godawful opening 30-40 minutes and a cheaper look (larger scope in story with only a slightly larger budget to tell it), but aside from that (and that darned sequelitis) I'd say that by the end credits, the flick worked its way to becoming about as entertaining as its predecessor. Was the first one a classic? No fucking way. But it was Good Times, and overall, so was this one. I left happy to see this sequel and look forward to a Boondock Saints III: The Saints Go Marching In if Duffy decides to make another one. Non-fans need not apply and can instead stick to making snarky comments on some message board about those of us who dig this shit.

P.S. I apologize to any Juggalos out there for what I said earlier. I was just trying to make a point, I wasn't being as judgmental as the Boondock Saints detractors. I've never heard an ICP song, but I'm sure they're fine musicians and I'd probably like their stuff so much that I would go out and paint myself in that stupid clown makeup which is all I'd need to complete the look since I'm already fat and stinky. Peace.

I appreciate the invite, but driving to the New Bev would've meant extra gas money and I committed that night to doing things the Cheap Bastard way

My computer monitor ate shit a couple of days ago. I ended up hooking the computer up to my television and it works pretty well. Videos look spectacular but the fonts are a little on the blurry side. Whatever. I'm just letting you know in case I use the wrong letter on a word it's probably because some of these letters look the sane om thc televisiom nomitor. See what I did there?

So I was going to go to the Aero Horrorthon for Halloween, but my friend cancelled due to low-fundage and in the battle between putting your last $20 into either Movie Tickets or Rent, Rent won the fuck out, and by Rent, I mean the amount one pays to not get kicked out of their residence, not the musical about how awesome it is to have the AIDS. Anyway, he was actually doing me a favor because I'm in the same boat, albeit mine is about halfway sunk while his is merely residing in trenchant waters. Boo-Hoo on not being able to go to the Horrorthon but Yay for saving money. After sitting at home for a while, being sullen and drunk, I got the idea that Hey! Why Don't We Watch Horror Movies At Home? and I called my buddy to tell him and there you go.

And there I am, at my friend's place, about to watch a couple of flicks; I brought Trick R' Treat and he brought, uh...um...Paranormal Activity. The former I've never seen and the latter, well, just read my last post. In true finish-your-dinner-before-you-get-dessert fashion, we would watch Paranormal Activity first. In case you're wondering, yes, this was a bootleg, and not only was it a bootleg, it was a bootleg of the original cut that played film festivals for a couple of years before Paramount/Dreamworks decided to buy it. All I knew was that this version was about 10-15 minutes longer and had a different ending. I would give it another shot, plus I had no choice, really. Paranormal was my friend's choice and I'm not gonna be the dick to push that by the wayside just to watch what *I* fuckin' brought. It's called good manners, people, and sometimes, I have them.

(I'm assuming at this point that you've seen PA or don't care if I give anything away, so yeah)

My thoughts? Believe it or not, longer did not mean more painful. In fact, I'll go as far as to say that this version was better than the one currently robbing people of their time and money at theaters. This isn't me turning into Roger Ebert and going from calling the Cannes cut of The Brown Bunny one of the worst films ever made to giving the shorter version 3 stars and Thumbs Up; in the end, I still think the movie's a disappointment. But after watching this longer version, I feel that in their attempt to make Paranormal get to the Good Stuff faster by cutting it down, they (either filmmakers or studio or both) hurt the movie and turned something that was OK-at-best into something that was completely shitty.

First off, they trimmed quite a bit of character moments; now, that may sound like they did us a favor, considering how douchey/insufferable the characters came off in the theatrical cut. But the longer version helps make a bit more sense of it; Katie's change in attitude is more believable. In both versions, you find out that the demon has been more or less a part of Katie's life since childhood, but in the original cut, you get more of an idea of just how badly this has been affecting her. In the theatrical cut, she goes from zero to whiny bitch immediately but in the original cut, you get more of a sense of someone slowly but surely losing her shit. It isn't as sudden and off-putting here.

I'm sure the studio thought all the scenes of Katie looking tired and drinking coffee the morning after was boring and useless, but they're sadly mistaken. If you pay attention, you begin to notice how much more out of it Katie is looking after each haunting; it's getting to her, she's getting less and less sleep out of it -- of course she's gonna start acting more and more irritable and nutty! But since the theatrical cut is missing this shit, it just comes off like this chick needs a couple doses of Shaddafuckup and Chilldafuckout.

While there are more scenes in the original cut, it's also missing a couple that are in the theatrical, but I don't miss them at all. One is the scene where Micah and Katie have just finished making love, talking some annoying shit about how what they did was illegal or something. It's not in the original version and I think it was added for two reasons:

1) make the movie "sexier", whether or not that shit is even necessary
2) make it more of a Man Trying To Protect His Woman type of plot

This is further cemented with the second scene that was added in the theatrical, where after hearing something smash upstairs, our happy couple run up and find that a framed photo of them has been bashed in by Mr. P. Activity, with a big dent directly on Micah's face. In other words, the demon has thrown down the muthafuckin' gauntlet and it's gonna be a muthafuckin' throwdown between Micah and Demon over Katie's hand, kinda/sorta/not really.

Both versions have a scene where Micah is reading a book on demons and shit (since what the psychic told them was that they had a demon in the house) and he tells Katie that demons are evil fuckin' inhuman things that thrive on causing people pain and fucking shit up. So basically, Katie had the fucked up luck of having a demon fuck with her. Later on, there's a scene where Micah shows Katie a story online about a woman who had the same shit happen to her, and from what I remember, that's as far as it goes in the theatrical cut. The extended one goes further in that we find out what happened to that poor woman: she got possessed and there was a failed attempt at an exorcism that ended in her death (she bled to death after chewing her own fuckin' arm off! AIIIEEEE!). The idea here is that the demon then must've searched out another victim afterward and that's how Katie came to play.

I thought the orginal version of the demon was scarier, because all it wants is to cause pain to someone, that's it. It doesn't have some I Want Your Body And That Means Your Man Gots To Go bullshit agenda. But either the filmmakers or the studio people weren't happy with that and decided to fuckin' Entity that shit up with the added scenes, and make it about some kind of otherworldly infatuation. Fuckin' bullshit is what it is.

When put into perspective, the ending of the theatrical version makes a lot of sense considering how Paramount/Dreamworks/Steven Spielberg/Oren Peli/Joe Momma/Heywood Jablome/etc. were already trying to make it more Hollywood by going with more of a shocker BOO! type of finish. Needless to say, I prefer the original ending, it feels like it's part of the same movie. I do hate the super-gay slow zoom-in of Micah & Katie's photo that followed it though, made worse when "Dedicated to Micah and Katie" comes up afterwards. That was lame. There's a third ending that's pretty messed up and would actually make sense if used in the original cut but not the theatrical. Who knows if that one will ever pop up somewhere.

I'm still not a fan, but the original version is certainly better than the one that's currently being loved by everyone who isn't me. My friend and his sister-in-law (the wife isn't big on scary movies and was busy watching the latest Harry Potter in her room) dug it, so there you go. When it comes down to it, the original cut of Paranormal Activity is a creepy/tragic tale about a woman driven to the brink by a force beyond her control, while the theatrical cut is about a couple of assholes who get a visit from a perverted entity looking to cock-block the husband. I'm exaggerating, of course, but you get what I'm saying. I don't, I finished up my bottle of Sobieski, so I really should stop writing but...

The second film of the evening was Trick 'r Treat, a film that not only got every geek and genre website and publication praising it to the high heavens, but even regular people who managed to catch a screening dug the hell out of it -- so naturally Warner Bros. sat on it for a couple of years before sending it straight to video. Because why bother releasing a Halloween movie in October when you got shit like Saw LXIX to contend with? Or maybe it was revenge against Trick producer Bryan Singer; that motherfucker shot a Krypton sequence for Superman Returns that supposedly cost upwards of $10 million and then junked it. If that's true, then Holy Shit. Whatever reason Trick 'r Treat didn't get a theatrical release, it all adds up to Quel dommage.

I think this flick is supposed to take place somewhere in Ohio, but it might as well be Halloween Town, U.S.A. considering all the holiday-related craziness that ensues there. You got four stories being told out-of-order, Pulp Fiction style; one follows an evil kid-killing school principal, another is about some asshole kids going to the site of a fatal school bus crash, you got one where Anna Paquin is being all virginal and alone on such a scary night, and the last is about Brian Cox paying a hard price for being a such a Halloween Scrooge.

Unlike Pulp or even Go, Trick 'r Treat doesn't stick to telling one particular story at a time, it kind of mixes it up and there's a bit of cutting back and forth between some of the shit going on. So in addition to being Halloween Pulp Fiction, this also feels like Halloween American Graffiti. It's got a bit of Creepshow thrown in there as well, since the entire movie is framed as if they were stories from a comic book. Plus, the credits are in the John Carpenter font, which I got a big kick out of and I know that shit wasn't an accident either.

It may sound like some derivative shit going on here, considering all the different movies I mentioned, but it isn't. This flick is really its own thing and it's too bad it didn't get a shot at theaters, but if there's any justice in the world, it'll find a big audience on video. Is it the greatest thing since sliced bread? Not by a long shot. But it's definitely a lot of fun and it hits on damn near everything Halloween related. It's kind of a mean asshole of a film, too, with some ultra dark humor thrown in. I don't want to give away everything, but I'll give out one example of some of the dangers Trick 'r Treat offers the audience --

Zombies.

And not just your regular, garden-variety zombies, but Retard Zombies. Think about that, that means you have laughing zombies with superhuman strength to contend with. A Retard Zombie is almost up there with the teleporting zombies from City of the Living Dead/The Gates of Hell when it comes to inevitable That's Your Ass ownage. If the world is taken over by Romero zombies or even those fast zombies, I'll load up the guns and fight to survive. But make that a Fulci zombie outbreak or an onslaught of Retard Zombies to deal with, and I'll save myself the pain and make like R. Budd Dwyer instead. I wouldn't be able to handle it, the news bulletin alone would make me shit myself. Would blasting reruns of Life Goes On out loud help or would that speed up my demise?

You son-of-a-bitch, that's not funny. My brother is mentally handicapped and I don't --

Stop it. Please stop it. I can make these jokes because I know I will pay somewhere down the line. I'll get hit by a car and become a paraplegic or a Terri Schiavo or I'll get the HIV and live Rent for real or I'll get Alzheimer's or I'll lose control of my faculties and start kicking it Depends style or someone in my family will die in front of me or whatever. What I'm trying to say here, sensitive people, is that I make all the fucked up comments and jokes that I want because God will have the last laugh. He always does. The motherfucker killed his goddamn SON, what hope do WE have? None, that's what. But I digress.

Anyway, this small town, this Halloween Town is a terrible place to live considering the high mortality rate -- even higher if you're a kid. Oh yeah, kids get straight out fuckin' murderized in this flick. Some people say that's part of the reason this didn't play in theaters; the studio thought that kind of shit would be upsetting. I hope that's not true, otherwise we really are beyond help as a society if we can't handle over-the-top unrealistic fantasy kid death. It's not like you're dealing with weeping kids getting shot in the fuckin' head like in City of God. Calm down. But for the record, I'm pretty damn sure more kids get it in this flick than adults.

The evil kid-killing principal is played by Dylan Baker, which is kind of funny because he's an actor who made his mark playing a pedophile in Happiness. After this movie, the talented motherfucker has gone to the other end of the Bad Things To Do To Kids spectrum, from fucking kids all the way to killing them. Anna Paquin is in this movie, wearing a Little Red Riding Hood costume, so you can kinda see where that shit is going, but never mind, it's still fun to watch it happen. I don't know what it is about her, but I started really digging her in *that* way around the time she did The Squid and the Whale. A friend of mine thinks it's because she seems very attainable. I don't know about that, let me look up who she's dating and we'll see about that, give me a second. Okay, she's married to a guy who's about 15 years older than her and still better looking than I can ever hope to be, so fuck her and that ugly gap in her teeth. This is me being hurt. Lash lash lash.

There's a character here named Sam, and I guess you can call him the mascot of Trick 'r Treat. He manages to show up for each story and even becomes a big part of the final one. He's a really cool character, and I wasn't surprised to find out that they already sell little collectible Sam action figures now. I'm not even into the collecting thing, but I'd totally get a Sam if I could. He looks awesome. Maybe in a few years, if and when this flick picks up more steam, we might start seeing more and more Sams roaming the streets for Halloween.

Seriously Warner Bros., what the fuck? This shit was entertaining as hell, it had a cool gimmick, and a character with definite iconic appeal. Also, there be titties here. I'm sure would've done well on simple "Hey, it's Halloween, let's go see a Halloween movie" curiosity. But what do I know? If I ran a studio, we'd have Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man part 7 by now -- and that has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man is playing right now. Whatever, this shit was a fun time and next year when I visit Blockbuster on Halloween night, all copies of this movie better be rented out. I'm talking about Trick 'r Treat now.

After the two movies, I took off and made my lonely trek back home. I stopped at the end of a residential street and could hear music coming from a nearby house, so I U-turned and slowly drove past to check it out -- lots of people standing outside, milling about, talking. I had nothing else to do that night, so I figured, Why Not? and parked down the street. I put on a leather coat, thereby making it look like I put in some effort to my t-shirt and old raggedy jeans ensemble. The jeans, by the way, had a hole right where my left testicle would be. I don't remember scratching my balls that much as to wear down a hole in the fabric, let alone on that particular nut, but fine. So I walked to the front yard, nobody giving a fuck who I was, and I stood near the door pretending to check a text message on my cell but in reality scoping out the inside to make sure if I could get away with what I was intending to do. It was packed. Music and beers and chatting.

So I went inside and acted like I was looking for someone, but in reality checking out the partygoers; I would guess early-twenties, half in costumes, half in regular clothes. There were lots of goth-types, angels, devils, cheerleaders and anything else remotely slutty. I don't know what the guys were wearing, nor did I give anything resembling a fuck. I made it to the kitchen area behind the counter where there were three guys standing near the cooler, talking about the Phillies either winning or losing or whatever the fuck. I opened it and saw nothing but Coronas. These kind of motherfuckers are always drinking Coronas. I grabbed one and walked toward the back patio, where the music was coming from.

One of those little black strobe balls with colored lights shooting from it was placed near the D.J. in the hoodie. This was the only illumination in the backyard. There were about 20-25 people back here, and the yard wasn't that big. The music was really loud, playing some 80's mix that I couldn't put my finger on but I've heard it at damn near any house party. As I drank my Corona, a guy in Dead Presidents makeup nudged me -- therefore scaring the absolute shit out me -- and held out a joint. Because I'm unemployed and my next shit job could potentially be right around the corner (shit jobs always piss test), I had no choice but to decline. I have only the alcohol to soothe me for now. Because when it comes to getting lit after work, society allows you to Chinaski that shit but you sure as fuck can't Cheech & Chong.

After finishing the Corona, I left the house. Not once did anyone stop me or look at me weird. Driving home, I called another friend and left a message telling him to join me for coffee somewhere, preferably a restaurant where we can look at costumed girls coming from parties. I stopped at a Denny's and ate a slice of apple pie (a la mode) while checking out what I came to look at. It didn't seem as sad and pervy then as it does now. My favorites were the two girls who were wearing football jerseys, knee socks, cleats(?), very very short shorts and had what I can best describe as hair that looked very P.J. Soles. They looked like potential victims in any 80's slasher movie that involved a sorority sleepover. I never heard from my friend, so I finished the pie, and went home to sleep. During all of this, time went back an hour. Not far back enough, if you ask me.

Then we ate at Zankou Chicken and watched Inglourious Basterds at the $2 theater, and all was well again

The weather is a cruel fucking cunt who likes to play with you, toy with you. It makes it gloomy and cold and rainy, and then when you get accustomed to that, nearly getting sick in the process, along comes to the goddamn heat. So you open the window, try to get some air in. Then the neighbor's kid decides to start bawling because it didn't get the toy that he wanted or the chocolate ice cream he craved or most likely, he's just being an asshole, like most kids. So you close the window, bake inside, and try writing...this.

OMG I JUST SAW THE SCARYIST MOOOVIE EVAR!1 I CANT BELIEVE IT PARANORMAL ACTIVITY IS GONNA GIVE YOU DA NITEMARES!!!!1 OMGZ BRING YOUR FRIENDS DIS MOOOVEEE IZ BOMB1 I WATCHED WITH MY EYES CLOSED BOO! NO! AAAAIIIEEE!11!!

You're going to be seeing a lot of that in the coming weeks, and I wish I could be amongst that misspelling choir, I really do. Unfortunately, I came out of Paranormal Activity not feeling that way at all.

So we follow a young couple in San Diego, Micah and Katie, and they seem to be having a pretty decent life going; nice house, Katie goes to school (which means she doesn't have a job), Micah is a day trader (which means he doesn't have a job), they live in a good neighborhood and they have a big screen HDTV. In other words, I can't relate to them in any way and there goes any chance for sympathy.

When the movie begins, our lovely couple have been dealing with some weird noises and shit coming from the house, and Micah figures it's time to invest in a new video camera and some sound equipment to further investigate this activity of the paranormal variety. It's almost like Micah knew that this footage would one day end up transferred to 35mm, so he bought a big fuckin' high-end camera with a big mic and light attached to it. This cam looks like the kind of shit they probably filmed the last Robert Rodriguez or George Lucas film with, even though the image quality isn't as good as theirs.

In the bedroom, he puts up the camera and sets up the hard drive and his sound recorder, so off he and Katie go, off to slumberland. And that's when all the scary shit starts to happen -- or at least, the supposedly scary shit. Mostly sounds and doors opening of their own accord --

OK, just as I was typing that shit about scary noises, my cell phone BEEPED and VIBRATED and it scared the shit out of me, because things were really quiet for a while, aside from the clickety-clack of the keyboard. What just happened was 10 times scarier than anything in this goddamn movie. And that's the problem.

So yeah, our couple slowly starts picking up evidence of there being Something In The House, so they call up some psychic dude who actually comes off as the real deal. Just like a doctor, he senses something is wrong and rather than doing anything about it, he writes them a recommendation to see a specialist in the field and probably charged a shitload of money for it. The psychic tells them that his specialty is ghosts and shit, and what seems to be haunting their crib is a motherfucking Demon, and he isn't equipped to deal with that shit. He's like Dan Aykroyd's cameo in Casper; "Who you gonna call? Someone else!" and then he waddles his fat ass away in that ill-fitting Ghostbusters uniform and goes off to make another shitty movie.

Katie's like Fuckin' call that Demonlogist! but her husband's like Fuck That and I think part of his refusal to call for help is because of that unfortunate affliction most men suffer from, known as Inflated Testicles. Men usually suffer from a smaller case of IT in the form of not wanting to pull over and ask for directions, or refusing to call the plumber and instead wanting to fix the sink themselves, but Micah has a much more advanced and dangerous case.

He thinks he can deal with this Demon situation himself, a fuckin' day trader who loves to record everything -- banal conversations that mean nothing to anyone who isn't sleeping with either of them, brushing teeth, using the toilet, arts & crafts, dinner, more banal conversation, arguments, feet, stock portfolios -- everything EXCEPT sex, for which he grows sudden consideration about. Or maybe he knew if anyone else watched this footage, that shit was gonna look low-budget sex-wise and figured it was better to not record it, so then afterwards he can brag about what he and Katie just did was illegal in 13 states. What, necrophilia?

Another part of his refusal to call the Demonologist comes from being a Genuine Stupid Dumbass. Half the shit that his wife begs him not to do, he fucking does, and then he pulls that "You told me not to X, but you didn't say I couldn't Y" kind of bullshit. This guy is a douche, and looks like one too. If his wife wasn't such a drama queen nag, I'd hate the motherfucker.

I'm not fond of either one of these award-winners. I know her name's Katie, but I wouldn't be surprised if her full name was Katie Plus 8, because that's the kind of insufferable wench she is. She looks like Rachel Dratch shoved into the Telepod with Pam from The Office and later on, we discover that the Demon has a thing for the (not-so) little lady, and sometimes it comes off like she really likes the attention because it gives her the opportunity to piss and moan and be all ME ME ME even more than fuckin' usual.

Jesus Christ, lady -- that chick from The Entity was getting ghost-raped on, like, a daily basis and she handled that shit like a fuckin' saint and she was getting GHOST RAPED. Fuckin' Christine Brown kept her shit together better compared to you and that chick fuckin' KNEW she was getting dragged to Hell in three days. You're just dealing with the otherworldly equivalent of that perverted touchy-feely uncle everyone keeps the kids away from every Thanksgiving. Calm The Fuck Down and get yourself a reality series.

At one point, the Demon appears to fondle Katie's bare foot a bit while she's asleep, which convinced me that she was being haunted by, in fact, the spirit of Stuntman Mike from the extended print of Death Proof.

Listen, man, I'm not a hater (for the most part) and I'm actually a pretty positive guy when it comes to movies. I don't go into a movie expecting to dislike it, no matter if the trailers or reviews tell me otherwise. I want to like a fuckin' flick, and I'll give it all the chances I can give, all the benefits that doubt has to offer. Having said that, fuck this piece of shit.

This goddamn movie is getting hyped up like a mutha, and I dialed that shit down to avoid lofty expectations. I went in and asked for two simple things: 1) Scare me. 2) Entertain me. And I was more than willing to accept one out of two. See, I'm easy to please. But Paranormal Activity accomplished neither of those two tasks I so politely asked for. I was bored for the most part, and I couldn't give a shit about the characters involved. That's like Strike 6, if there was such a thing as six strikes in baseball.

It wasn't until the last ten minutes or so that things started remotely resembling the movie I paid $8.75 (EIGHT SEVENTY-FIVE! And that was a matinee discount!) to see. It wasn't until then that things got a little creepy, but you know what? Too fuckin' little, too goddamn late, Oren Peli. I'll give you this -- I'm proud that this shit put you on the fuckin' map and now you're the Big Man in Hollywood and Spielberg wants to produce your flicks and all that. Congrats, dude, I hope you kick ass in the biz and make some serious money. But it ain't coming from me no more, that's for fuckin' sure. I'll wait for your next flick on DVD, IF that.

Afterwards, I found out that the stuff I almost kinda liked at the end was spoiled in the trailers, so I'm glad I didn't see those beforehand, otherwise I'd have no positives left. Oh wait, I'm sorry, there is one other thing I did kind of dig -- the end credits, or should I say, the lack of end credits. The movie ends with some bullshit "So and So did this. So and So did that. This, That, and The Other were never this and that", followed by the 2009 Paramount Pictures All Rights Reserved screen, and following that, about a couple of minutes of Black Screen with creepy rumbling Paranormal Activity In The Hizzy sound. It made everyone slowly get creeped the fuck out, expecting something to happen. That was the best part of the movie. The only part.

Some people in the audience seemed honestly scared by this movie, a couple of them telling each other they would have problems sleeping that night. Wow. I hate being Larry David at the beach, but that's how I felt after watching this -- increasingly upset at not getting what other people are apparently getting out of it. Your Mileage May Vary is the saying, right? I don't know, man.

There's some shakycam cinematography, and while it's not that bad, it can still be taxing on some, like one of my friends. He eventually left halfway to get some air. We told him afterwards that he didn't miss much, and the more I think about it, the more I think he probably had a more entertaining time watching the people outside. Couples, people by themselves, families, cute girls, douchebag guys, fat ugly assholes like me. Probably overheard interesting things being said by passersby. That's what I think, anyway.

It's pretty apt to call this flick the Blair Witch Project of the 00's, in more ways than one. First off, it uses the same "found footage" approach in telling the story; in Blair Witch, we're supposed to be watching the film and videotapes left behind by the missing film crew and in Paranormal, there's an opening disclaimer thanking the families of the main characters for allowing them to present this video footage (and make a shitload of cash from). Also, it's a lot like Blair Witch in that motherfuckers are hyping the shit out of this as being the Scariest Movie You'll Ever See. I kinda liked Blair Witch, and never understood the hatred from people who didn't. After watching Paranormal Activity, I now understand more than ever.

The New Beverly popcorn is so cheap, it makes me get down on my knees, cry, and thank God/Allah/Yahweh for allowing such reasonable prices in 2009

My current financial situation demands constant denial of things that once brought me joy, but God Damn It All if I'm going to deny myself a trip to the New Beverly Cinema for their 2nd annual All Night Horror Show. So yeah, I went. Seven flicks, one of which was a "secret movie" we wouldn't find out the name of until the moment it projected onto the screen. You've probably seen most of these movies, so don't expect me to really get into them. I'm probably just gonna tangent this fuckin' thing every which fuckin' way. Advanced warning.

I know a lot of people were saving seats for their friends, because I was one of them, but there had to have been a few motherfuckers in there who were full of shit, trying to give themselves buffer zones; quite a few people were left standing in the aisle during the first movie. Usually, I'm all about the buffer zone, but in these kind of occasions, you gotta give that shit up.

So Phil Blankenship comes out and does his intro, and was it me or did he seem a bit down? Is it some rose-colored lenses shit making me remember him being a bit more energetic in last year's Horror Show? Or am I confusing him with that one guy from the Aero whose name I can't remember because it's been a goddamn eternity since I went to THAT place too. Anyway, I hope Phil wasn't too bummed out or anything and maybe his mind was just elsewhere because he and the other New Bev staff were busy busting their asses just to give us motherfuckers a good time.

That's why I will never host a party -- because you can never completely partake in the fun when you're too occupied running back and forth making sure the booze doesn't run out or that there's enough chips or that no one throws tissue in the toilet and Goddammit, who put tissue in the toilet, now it's clogged! What? You want to use the bathroom? Sorry, it's clogged. I don't know, some asshole who didn't know how to read because I put a goddamn sign on the door saying not to put motherfucking toilet tissue in the goddamn motherfucking toilet! Go piss outside. What? Well, fine, DON'T come back! Yeah, you too, asshole.

The first movie, Dog Soldiers, I caught on DVD in '03 by myself, and while I enjoyed the movie, it's definitely a much more fun experience to see it with a packed crowd. Soldiers versus werewolves, lots of splatter, occasional movie references, what's not to like? The tone reminded me a lot of Marshall's most recent film, Doomsday, which didn't get much love when it came out. People gotta understand that The Descent might just be an anomaly in his oeuvre; that one was a tad more serious and deeper compared to Dog and Doomsday and it sounds like the fanboys will never forgive him for it if he doesn't make something in that vein again. Fucked up, yes, but I can't hate on the fanboys for feeling that way either, because I'm guilty of the same shit when it comes to Joe Carnahan; he's either the director of Smokin' Aces and Blood Guts Bullets and Octane or he's the director of Narc, and I would be a lot happier for the latter filmmaker to return ASAP and the former to take a nice long break.

Halfway through the movie, an older gentleman came in and like 20% of the attendees at the beginning, stood in the aisle. He then started having a silent conversation with no one but the empty space in front of him; he was gesticulating like crazy and his mouth would open real wide like he was yelling, but no sound came out. I looked for a Bluetooth earpiece on him, but couldn't see one. That occupied my mind for a good 10 minutes. Then he walked over to the front row and sat down.

Intermission. There was a couple sitting in the row ahead of me and they brought pillows. To me, that's a very dangerous decision to make. I mean, pillows mean comfort and comfort means sleep and sleep means BAD BAD BAD when you're at a movie marathon. I'm sure they didn't care if they nodded off during a flick or two, but still, you might as well be reading Playboy in church, as far as I'm concerned. People brought in food from the outside, mostly Papa John's and Domino's and for that, I say, thanks New Bev for turning a blind eye to that. Very cool. Having said that, I really wish quite a few of these motherfuckers would throw their goddamn trash away. Phil would come in with a bag asking people to throw their shit away, and you still had people leaving their shit behind. What the fuck. You need a weepy Native American tomahawking a few of these jerks to get the point across.

The next movie was called The Burning, a story about one man's struggles with gonorrhea *rimshot*. No, it's Bob & Harvey Weinstein's attempt to cash in on the success of Friday the 13th with their own summer camp slasher. I saw the uncut version of this once and thought it was kind of dull, save the occasional kill scene, in particular one taking place on a raft. Thankfully, it plays a hell of a lot better (read: unintentionally funny) with an audience, and this viewing felt a lot faster because of it. It's a trip to watch some of these actors before they became famous (or at least established) like Jason Alexander, Fisher Stevens, Ratner from Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Strozzi from Last Man Standing and Holly Hunter (whose character shoulda been named Blink, because that's how long she appears on-screen, it seems).

Turns out this print (the only surviving one, according to Phil) was missing the raft scene, which is tantamount to watching a print of The Untouchables without the train station sequence. Basically, a bunch of campers get owned by Cropsy the killer while they're on a raft. Later on, one of the characters finds the bodies and the aftermath now comes off like No Country for Young Campers since we never saw them get murdered. But I guess what you don't know won't hurt you, because the film still worked (relatively speaking) without it; the discovery of the victims, along with quick flashcuts of the raft murders during the climax, could make it feel like an intentional holding-back-information type of deal to anyone with no idea of what was supposed to happen in the movie, like my friends.

Speaking of whom, one of my buddies turned to me -- after noticing not only the Weinsteins' name but Brad Grey's as well -- and asked if all it took to become a major Hollywood player was to make a shitty Friday the 13th clone? It certainly doesn't hurt. Anyway, I found one of the Weinsteins' credits at the end as "Editorial Consultant" frighteningly prophetic, considering how in another ten years, these sensitive souls were going to be infamous for going Cropsy on many a filmmaker's final cut.



Another intermission, more trailers, and then the 3rd film, House by the Cemetery. This is the third time I've seen it, first time projected in 35mm, and I'm going out and calling this my favorite of Fulci's horror flicks. Some people prefer The Beyond or The One Where The Chick Pukes Her Intestines Out, but this is the only one that has genuinely creeped me out. In addition to taking place in a nightmare world where Fulci long ago told Logic and Sanity vaffanculo, all the other elements come in and work together beautifully; the English dubbing of people already speaking English, the little boy who sounds like a little girl, red herrings like that spooky babysitter with the Brooke Shields eyebrows -- it's already unsettling, and you haven't even been introduced to Dr. Freudstein yet.

We were told that the print for this movie was "interesting", which is another way of saying that it's got a lot of wear and tear, lines, scratches, jump cuts, purple specks, a kind of flapping sound during one of the reels, quick snippets of unrelated moments in between scenes, and the main title credits use an alternate theme. At least it was still in its proper color and hadn't turned into that pinkish hue. It was all good though, because it added a welcome grindhouse vibe.

You can always count on Fulci to give you at least one Holy Shit moment, and my fave would have to be little Bob's head being held against a door while his father is trying to hatchet through on the other side. Nice. In addition to a Holy Shit moment, you have a decent amount of WTF's as well, and I think the majority of them were taken up with extreme close-ups of eyes. Boy, does Fulci love him some eyeballs, and if he can't show them to you, then he'll sure as shit have someone go on about them, like that dude in The Beyond; "The eyes, the eyes!". Motherfucker loves eyeballs like Dario Argento loves...uh, eyeballs.

There's a trailer for House and I want to offer a virtual pat on the back for the person who decided to get the late, GREAT Brother Theodore to do the voiceover. If you don't know who that is, then you just don't fuckin' know. Go Google that guy for some awesome times, he did a lot of interviews on Letterman and made that gap-toothed staff-fucker look like Craig Kilborn and by that, I mean he made him look like a giant douche who fancies himself funny. If there was ever a movie of my life, I'd have wanted him to play me -- either him or the actress who played the drunk, rich lady on Will & Grace, for no reason other than it would be so goddamn random. Anyway, EVERY horror trailer should've had Brother Theodore narrating them, and here's why:


The scheduled "secret movie" turned out to be HBO's Tales from the Crypt Vol. II, featuring three episodes from the first season. It was cool to see something that I was used to seeing on television projected onto the big screen, in a nice 35mm print, no less. Too bad the episodes weren't so hot. My favorite of the three was called Lover Come Hack to Me, because it was kinda funny but mostly because someone had the balls to say Hey, you know who we should get to do some steamy soft-core Skinamax-style sex scenes? Amanda Plummer. Normally filmmakers use the She's All That technique by casting a hot piece of ass and just putting her hair up in a bun and giving her glasses to wear to come off as plain jane, mousy or even ugly, but here they actually made the admirable move of finding someone who isn't known (at least not in my galaxy) for being sexy and tried their absolute goddamned hardest to turn Mono into Dolby Digital, looks-wise.

The second story was called Collection Completed, starring M. Emmet Walsh (who got some cheers in the audience when his name came up) and Mrs. Roper from Three's Company (who didn't). I remember seeing this one as a kid, and it depressed me then and it depressed me here as well. But that's me, I'm strange. Mary Lambert directed this episode, she also directed Pet Semetary but I will always remember her as the director of a Sega CD video game called Double Switch which was basically a PG version of Night Trap starring Corey Haim and R. Lee Ermey, and if you don't know what I'm talking about then that probably means you were getting laid at the time. Speak for yourself, man. I was able to get laid AND get my video games on. Fine, fine.

The last one (written by Fred Dekker, who got applause during the credits as well) was something about Lea Thompson being a whore (the character she plays, I mean) and selling her looks to a pawnbroker. Then I got up and did a typical Fat Fuck move by going to buy popcorn when I wasn't really that hungry to begin with. I was kinda done with the Tales from the Crypt "movie" at this point and just waited for it to end.

When Phil came up afterwards and asked the audience if they enjoyed what they just watched, someone in the audience made the comment "Thanks for sharing your DVD collection" to which Phil responded with "That was a film print, you asshole." I laughed so hard at that. Look, if anything, I was probably as disappointed in the "movie" as he was, but it was obviously a film print we were watching, and apparantly that wasn't going to stop Snarky McSnarksnark from saying what he had to say for the sake of saying SOMETHING. The way Phil responded was also hilarious because he never raised his voice and remained as low key and deadpan as he had been all night, but you just fuckin' know that every syllable of his comeback was completely drenched in Go Fuck Your Mother. Shit, for all I know, he could've been Phil's friend, and they were just fucking with each other. But it still made me laugh whenever I thought of it.

During the intermission, one of my friends decided to take his leave and get some sleep. I stood up in the aisle to see him off and to avoid butt-numbing. There I was, comfortably talking to my friend and just then it hit me -- I had asked for lots of butter on my popcorn (because I'm disgusting and have no shame). I had placed the bag on my lap during Tales from the Crypt, and I'm usually very careful about that because eleven years ago I did the same thing and ended up getting butter on my lap and -- FUCK, NOT AGAIN! I looked down at my lap, and right there, directly on my crotch was a nice big round stain. So in case any of you happened to see a fat, ugly asshole who was nonchalantly standing in the aisle and jawing away having apparently pissed himself and seeming OK with it, yeah, that was me. My buddy had a great time the rest of the night not believing it was butter.

I wasn't tired at all during the marathon, but I'm sure getting tired writing about it. Gonna have to half-ass the rest of this one.

We were going straight on till morning without intermissions from here on out. Superstition followed and it was around this time that I noticed Marc Heuck in the house, and he appeared to have spent most of the time in the aisle, and I swear I thought I saw him fixing or cleaning something near one of the seats. Helpful guy. Anyway, yeah, a couple of clergymen are trying to get an old house in the woods fixed up so a reverend's family can stay there, never mind that the place has been the site for a few freak accidents and deaths in the past. It all comes down to an evil witch's revenge for having been drowned in a nearby lake in the 1600's or something, because that's what people did to witches back then.

Ms. Witch had a vibe to her that reminded me of the kind of evil lady you normally see in a Sam Raimi joint; she wouldn't look too out of place threatening to swallow your soul, is what I'm saying. Superstition started off strong, as movies tend to do when they include a severed head getting microwaved, but it slowed down massively in the middle. First third and last third are best, because that's where the cool kill scenes and the majority of ridiculous dialogue reside ("Shut your bitchy mouth!"). It was worth it, though and would make a fun trash movie viewing at home.

The guys who produced this movie went on to produce the Rambo and Terminator flicks, but they also produced Showgirls and Cutthroat Island (which still makes them awesome, if you ask me). Supposedly this was a Canadian production, which really threw me off because usually I can spot a Canuck flick a mile away; this one looked like it was shot in California, and maybe it was, maybe that's why I never caught that Great White North vibe. Plus, I didn't find any last names that ended in UX or RE or EE or ON in the end credits and that's usually the last giveaway.

Fight for Your Life was the next flick, and I've seen this movie already, in fact I own the DVD (although in reality, the movie owns *me*), but it is definitely something else to experience with unsuspecting audience members watching this for the first time. If you take two parts The Desperate Hours, four parts 70's Grindhouse, one part Seediness and half a bottle of 100 proof Hatred, throw them in a blender and hit Frappé, you end up with this tasty concoction. I never knew J.F. Sebastian could be this big a piece of shit to his fellow man, but he is, taking an African-American family hostage with the help of his two fellow prison escapees and letting loose with the most fucked up racial invective not heard since the last Klan meeting in Alabama or the last New England Patriots game.

People were laughing throughout, probably a mixture of uncomfortable Did He Just Say THAT? and unapologetic I'm Sorry, Racist or Not, That Shit Was Fucking Funny. Perhaps people were getting out of it what William H. Macy said he got out of reciting so much offensive dialogue in the film version of David Mamet's Edmond -- a "wicked pleasure".

It's an unabashed audience manipulator, getting you so worked up that you can't wait to see these assholes get theirs, and when they do, it is as pure a goddamn movie high as one could get. I wouldn't call this a fun movie, but it's worth a watch for sure. The print we saw was titled Stayin' Alive, which according to the DVD was the "black" version. There's no difference between the "white" and "black" version, except that the trailer for the latter features a black dude's voiceover saying things like "...it will make you get down and shout 'I am PROUD to be a black man!", "Get 'em Mama!", "Yeeeeah!" and "Now let's all stand up and cheer the brotha who taught America the meaning of the word Courage!".

So far the Last Man Standing alumni have been doing a good job representing tonight, between J.F. Sebastian in this movie and Strozzi in The Burning.

By now, the couple in front of me had fallen victim to their comfortable pillows (they would eventually leave halfway through the next movie).

Mindwarp: An Infinity of Terror was the name of the final movie, but it turns out that is just the alternate title on this print of Galaxy of Terror. For a second I thought they were switching flicks on us and giving us the Bruce Campbell movie of the same name. This was my first viewing, and for a while I thought we were getting a straight-up Alien rip, but instead it's a nice little crossbreed between that movie and Solaris, making it a proto Event Horizon. A group of astronauts go to some planet and end up getting attacked by their manifested fears. The best/worst example of this is when a poor girl who is afraid of worms ends up getting raped by a giant one. I want to know who the fuck came up with THAT idea, and when that happened, did at least one person turn and go "What are you, fuckin' high?" or did they start snickering and maybe one boisterous lad said RIGHT FUCKIN' ON and gave the idea man a high-five? Maybe the writer was once made fun of by a chick he slept with, and she went around telling everyone else that he was hung like a worm and ever since he's been like I'll Show Her...

This flick's got a cool cast; Joanie Minus Chachi, Robert Englund, the guy from Blue Sunshine who ended up creating Red Shoe Diaries, and muthafuckin' Sid Goddamn Haig. Wow, Mr. Hand is also in this movie, so now between him in Galaxy of Terror and Ratner in The Burning, Fast Times at Ridgemont High is also getting repped tonight at the New Bev. The ship's captain is played by Grace Zabriskie, who I've always been a fan of ever since she scared the shit out of me in Wild at Heart. She's like a female Harry Dean Stanton, and like Stanton, she has the ability of infecting her performances with just a slight amount of odd, whether or not the role calls for it. Like House by the Cemetery and Superstition, Galaxy of Terror is indiscriminate about who gets killed and how badly they get got. It's pretty goddamn relentless, and I gotta give it some serious points for that. I liked it.

James Cameron worked on this movie as 2nd unit director, and he impressed a couple of Italian producers enough that they decided he was the sucker to direct their Piranha sequel. So there you go, if it wasn't for Galaxy of Terror and that insert shot of maggots crawling on a severed arm, we wouldn't have Titanic. Take that as you will.

They showed a Tom and Jerry cartoon after the last movie, and then it was all over. Phil gave us "I Survived the All Night Horror Show" pins, we thanked him, and went outside. It was around eight o'clock and completely overcast and gloomy. What better way to end a fun night than with a shitty morning; Sunday Morning Coming Down in-fucking-deed.

Crows are assholes

I mentioned in my last rambling that Willem Dafoe is among the group of actors that I'm always happy to see whenever they pop up in a movie. If you can't give me titties, then give me an actor I'm fond of, that's what I say. Well, here's his latest role in a flick called Antichrist. My bro Dafoe stars alongside actress/singer Charlotte Gainsbourg as "He" and "She", not to be confused with the music duo She and Him featuring actress/singer Zooey Deschanel.

This is a film written and directed from Lars von Trier, and if you've never seen any of his films or have any idea what kind of dude he is, well, he's the kind of guy who is born with the name Lars Trier and then somewhere along the way decided to add "Von" to it. That should tell you everything about the kind of motherfucker he is. But I have to admit it, I've liked all of his flicks so far. Half of them I expected to hate, and they ended up winning me over. It's the man behind the movies that kind of puts me off, I guess. Whatever. At least he backs up all of his shit talk.

The movie starts off with the characters He and She getting it on in the shower, and because the entire sequence is shot in ultra-stylish black & white slow-motion, it looks like some kind of a perfume ad -- only I don't know of any perfume ads that feature penetration shots of a penis entering a woman's vagina (as opposed to a man's vagina?). Anyway, if you happen to know such a perfume ad, make with the YouTube link NOW.

So it's all good in the monochromatic hood, except that they also have an infant son. If that wasn't enough to spoil the proceedings, the little tyke has managed to open the baby gate and is roaming free in their apartment while Mom and Dad continue to bang away. And if that wasn't bad enough, the little bastard decides to get the ball rolling on his parents writing a Grammy winning song based on him by opening the window and falling to his death. You see him hit the ground, but to the filmmaker's credit/debit, the kid lands on heavily snowed-up pavement, meaning no splatter, so you can open your eyes now.

The black & white prologue ends and the first chapter (yup, we got chapter headings up in here) begins in color. After passing out at the funeral, She wakes up at a hospital and finds out that she's been more or less out of it for the past month. She's been beating herself up over her son's death, and while He tries to tell her that it wasn't her fault, she reveals that she's known about her boy's habit of opening up the baby gate for a while now, and she did nothing about it. So she's all fucked up.

Against her doctor's wishes, He decides to put his therapeutic skills to the test (he's a therapist) and help his lady get through/over her pain -- whether she likes it or not, it seems -- and the next half-hour or so of this movie is him treating her less like the mother of his son and more like some fuckin' 10:30 appointment by talk talk talking the shit out of her and taking notes and whatnot. For a therapist, this motherfucker likes to get all Scientology about shit, making his wife flush all her prescriptions down the toilet, and I swear early on he makes some kind of comment about how he's grateful that he isn't a medical doctor. He's got his ways.

Well, whatever they are, they don't seem to be working, because when She isn't crying her eyes out, she's banging her head against the rim of a toilet bowl and then jumping in bed, begging He (Him? Whatever.) to fuck her. I forgot how or why, but He gets the idea to take his wife on a trip to a cabin somewhere in a forest called Eden, and while I'm sure this flick takes place in the state of Washington, this is a Lars von Trier movie, so they must've shot this shit in Denmark or somewhere that isn't the good ol' USA and tried to pass it off as such. The filmmakers almost get away with it too, except the trains are too nice and everyone's driving the kind of compact cars that scream Mentos Commercial.

So, yeah, they're in the woods now and he does some more therapy shit with her and she's like No, the ground is burning my feet and he's like Whatever, now tell me what scares you the most so I can write it down on top of this pyramid I drew. This kinda stuff goes on for another twenty minutes or so, but you're still with it because you know somewhere along the way the other shoe's gonna drop, and when it does, it's going to fall from the wrong foot (that's a little inside joke for those of us who've seen the movie. It's not a funny joke, come to think of it, so my apologies).

Willem Dafoe's "He" character is hearing his lady out and taking it all down on paper but not really taking into consideration all the shit she's been telling him, for example, the thesis she was working on last summer about "gynocide" and how maybe men were right to kill women because, well, because they're women. Sure, none of that stuff should concern him. But during one of his nature walks, He finds a deer running around with a baby deer hanging dead from its pooper, and I think it's safe to say that the shit just got real -- real fucked up. And just when he doesn't think it's gonna get even weirder or more fucked up, he runs into a fox chilling out under some tall grass, chewing on its own fuckin' stomach. Okay, that's enough fucked up weirdness, he figures. Nope, it doesn't end there. The fox then looks at Dafoe, opens its mouth and says -- SAYS! -- "Chaos reigns", which is either the fox's way of telling Dafoe that the world is fucked up and evil (well, duh) or it's just bragging about having been to Fantastic Fest this year and being in on some inside joke those motherfuckers been sharing.

I've pretty much given away the first half of the movie, and the reason I don't feel bad about it is because 1) I'm an asshole, and 2) There's even more fucked up places this movie goes to that I haven't talked about. This is a movie that should be seen with your significant other, or your special lady friend, or better yet, a blind date (as long as they are of the vaginerial persuasion) and I say this because they're precisely the LAST people you should be seeing this fuckin' movie with. Because I'm all about the awkwardness, you see.

This movie has been getting strong responses (both good and bad) from critics like Roger Ebert. Ol' No Jaw has been going on about how Antichrist has been sticking to his sleep like a 12-year-old's nocturnal emission, but I would suggest taking that kind of talk with a grain of salt, because I remember his review of M. Night Shyamalan's The Embarrassing Disappointment (aka The Happening) where he went on about how it reminded him about how we're doomed to destroy each other or something. If it had been a good movie about killer wind rather than a shitty one, who knows how strongly he would've taken it. Methinks the gentleman is getting a touch too sensitive in his old age, and this is coming from one of the most overly sensitive motherfuckers on the planet (when I'm sober).

Perhaps I'm the wrong guy to hear from when it comes to a movie like this. I'm sure most people would come out of this movie completely fuckin' shaken, based on the reports I've read about people fainting at Cannes or walking out in disgust. Me, I was mildly disturbed, and even then, it was narrowed down to two physical acts committed late in the film. Maybe that's all it takes for most people to lose their shit, but unfortunately I've become too jaded to that sort of thing, due to being the kind of asshole who didn't say No whenever I was asked "Hey, do you want to see something REALLY fucked up?" as he or she clicked on Favorites.

Dafoe is awesome as always, but I really have to give it up to Gainsbourg for putting herself out there in the role of She. This is one of those "nakedly emotional" performances you always read about, and that's already above and beyond for homegirl, but then she goes even further and takes the "naked" part literally for a few scenes as well. It's one thing for a filmmaker to come up with some really nutty situations and actions in a script, and it's another for that filmmaker to direct an actor into performing said actions, but it's a whole other fucking ballpark when it comes to the actor actually agreeing to do that shit in front of a camera and crew. I've never met Charlotte Gainsbourg, but based on this movie I can tell you she's got bigger balls than me, that's for fuckin' sure.

Some people are accusing this film as being misogynistic, and I can see how and why they would think that, but I can't agree. Personally, I figure Antichrist is not being negative on any one particular sex but is instead calling out the fatal flaws with both. Whether you're a man who tends to work things out on the rational level or if you're a woman who's coming from an emotional standpoint, you're still a human being and therefore, you're both fucked because it's in your nature to be douchebags and there's nothing that can be done about it. Or something like that. There's also the whole religious and spiritual implications that I won't even begin to try to figure out, but that has more to do with me being dumb than anything else. Either way, von Trier comes off as a cheery motherfucker, doesn't he?

Lars (we're on a first name basis) seemed to have been on a "make the image as ugly as possible" trip for close to two decades now, but Antichrist is his best looking flick since way back in the day. Even when it's not shot in Perfume Ad Vision, it's got a nice look to it, even though some scenes do suffer from the blurriness that seems to be the downside of shooting in HD. I hate when that happens; one moment you're watching crystal clear images of Antonio Banderas owning motherfuckers with a machine gun or Kevin Spacey teaching young assholes how to cheat at blackjack, and the next moment it looks like you're watching PBS circa 1982. What the fuck, HD people, isn't this supposed to be the future of movies? Fix that shit.

Overall? I dug it. Sure, it gets draggy in the middle section, but the first and (especially) the last third make up for it. Here is yet another Lars von Trier flick that I ended up liking. What the fuck, Trier? Why must you continually disappoint me with your triumphs? For once, I want to see a movie from you that will justify me wanting to punch your incredibly punchable face.

One of the characters is named "Rick Rape", and as a fan of alliteration, I'll give 'em that, but that's about it.

Fuck. I've been going through the songs on my iPod and I can't listen to half of them now because they remind me too much of better times. Shouldn't that be the reason why I SHOULD be listening to them? Anyway, three well-reviewed movies opened this weekend: Zombieland, The Invention of Lying, and Whip It, but because I only had $3 on me, I went to the discount house and watched Gamer instead.

Gamer is the second film of the year from the tag team duo Neveldine/Taylor (Crank: High Voltage being the first) and stars Gerard Butler with the Quagmire shaped head as a guy serving time on Death Row for something we will all know he was either framed for or had a good reason for doing. In the meantime, he's volunteered himself for a game called Slayers where he and other Death Row inmates give up control of their bodies so they can act as living, breathing avatars for rich asshole kids to play them online, involving them in real-life Call of Duty type scenarios. If the Slayer can survive 30 missions, he or she can go free, and it happens to be that Butler's character (named Kable) is a couple missions away from the Promised Land.

Dexter from Dexter is the villain of the piece, a sort of cooler and more douched-up combination of Bill Gates and the motherfuckers who created Grand Theft Auto. You're supposed to figure that he's an odd duck because he does things like smell everything he comes into contact with; he sniffs a potato chip before eating it, or he'll sniff a woman's hand before kissing it. Of course, he gives up this little quirk halfway through the movie, I suppose because the filmmakers were too busy making everything XXXTRREEEMMEE that they forgot to give a fuck about shit like character continuity. Personally, I knew this guy was an asshole when I noticed he wasn't wearing socks with his expensive suit.

So while Kable is stuck fragging fuckers for freedom, his wife on the outside is trying to make ends meet by volunteering herself in one of Dexter's other online inventions, Society. Like Slayers, Society involves human beings letting other human beings control them like a video game, only here it's in a real-life Second Life environment. That means that fat, disgusting, sweaty, dirty motherfuckers in power chairs turn on their computers, log in, take control of people like Mrs. Kable and dress her up in crazy outfits (no matter the style, it all screams Slut) and try to pick up other Society members. I really liked the idea of this and it had potential, but because this isn't being made by filmmakers interested in anything more than People Suck as a theme, it doesn't go anywhere other than, you know, People Suck.

Of course, there is an underground gathering of people who hate the idea of being controlled by others, and they call themselves the Humanz, and they are led by Ludacris, which makes perfect sense. They try jamming into the television and computer signalz to give warningz about what Dexter and his programz are doing to people and that they should stand up, unplug and fight the power, but no one seems to care. Mr. Cris and the Humanz obviously have never seen The Running Man, otherwise they'd know that people will only revolt if they are shown a video that incriminates the person they are following and exonerates the man they thought was guilty. Luckily, Neveldine/Taylor *have* seen The Running Man, so I guess you can guess how the movie's gonna end now.

It's a shame when you see a movie with potential for a kick-ass time completely shite it, and it's even worse when you consider the wasted talent. Like, I've never seen Dexter, but I understand that it's The Greatest Show Ever Made (alongside Mad Men, Breaking Bad, The Wire) so it's kind of a head-scratcher that this is the movie he decides to make during hiatus. I noticed that shit happens with big stars from the small screen; fuckin' Tony Soprano never came close to matching his Sopranos work doing flicks like The Last Castle and The Mexican. The guys from Nip/Tuck get Fantastic Four and The Stepfather Remake as their rewards. The only actor who got a movie worthy of his talents is Jeremy Piven with that shitty comedy The Goods.

Now you have Dexter in Gamer. I'm sure it's a money thing. Or maybe he did this movie because he liked the idea of having a genuine song-and-dance routine late in the film. What's that, you ask? Yup, there's a full-blown number with Dexter crooning "I've Got You Under My Skin" while Kable owns a bunch of his henchmen, and that should have been yet another WTF Moment in a film full of WTF Moments, but no, I'm still yawning over here. And that's fucking sad.

Alison Lohmann also shows up, looking like she was dragged out of hell (See what I did there? Komedy!) and straight to the set. I wish I could say more about her, but there's really not much to her role, so that's it. Kevin Bacon's wife plays a kind of Barbara Walters type, John Leguizamo is doing his character actor thing, Ludacris is damn lucky to have been cast in Crash, Keith David appears in one scene just to remind you how awesome this movie ISN'T being, Lloyd Kaufman has a quick cameo (this motherfucker could probably produce a far more entertaining version of this flick with a far smaller budget) and then you got Ms. Zoe Bell, appearing long enough for you to go "Is that Zoe Bell in cornrows?" before her head gets exploded.

Terry Crews is also in this movie, and every time I see him in a movie, I smile. Some website once had an article about actors who make a movie something like 20% better simply by appearing in it. To be a Twenty-Percenter, you can be well known and you can star in a movie, but you can't be a Movie Star. They're either very talented or very likable or both -- Willem Dafoe, Jane Lynch, and the aforementioned Keith David, for example, are Twenty-Percenters (to me, anyway). I'd have to add Terry Crews to that list, and I guess his role in Idiocracy might have a lot to do with that. Anyway, he has the best goddamn role in the movie, playing a psycho ringer thrown in to fuck up Kable's shit. It's so over-the-top and go-for-broke, that it's just too bad the filmmakers were not making the same movie Crews was acting in.

The teens/young adults sitting behind me seemed to dig it all; a lot of WOW and KEWL and OH SHIT was exclaimed at the explosions and blood and sparks, and I'm glad they were having a good time, because I honestly found it boring. This kind of shit worked in Crank: High Voltage because the content and style were never more made for each other, but it does nothing for Gamer. All the XXXTRREEEMMEE filmmaking reeks of desperation here, and so do the rampant attempts at bad taste. Like with the Crank movies, it seems to come from more of a "Ha ha, I bet this will really piss people off" type of assholery which I guess is fine if you know what the fuck you're doing, but it just comes off like some lame-ass poseur shit when Neveldine/Taylor try to pull it off here. You have a scene where the snarky dipshit video gamer in charge of Kable is dealing with all these girl fans online, and they all have screen names like "Kumdumpstaz" and I guess you're supposed to be like That Shit's Fuckin' Hilarious Bro WOOOOOOOO or something, and yet I'm just trying not to yawn over here, you dig what I'm saying?

So why'd you buy a ticket then, asshole? I know, I know, but I thought I'd get a fun, brainless action movie at the very least. But not only is it surprisingly joyless, it then tries to have it both ways by wallowing in severed limbs, blood-spattered lenses and juvenile humor and then suddenly throwing in some super slow-motion and dramatic music in an attempt to fool you into thinking that this is About Something. Don't you get it man, why do we do this to ourselves? The violence, the controlling of weaker people, why? We watch and cheer as these monsters destroy each other...but doesn't that mean WE are the monsters? ask Neveldine/Taylor before they take another hit of ecstacy and high-five each other while laughing their asses off at the sight of their high-priced hooker eating cocktail franks from a doggy bowl because they paid her to do so.

When the occasional moment of emotion that isn't tainted in Hate creeps into the frame, it feels fake as fuck coming from these filmmakers. You can tell they're as uncomfortable with it as Major Payne was when that little kid gave him a hug. These motherfuckers only work in the area of Fuck You and that's why the Crank movies worked and not this one -- shit, the second one literally ends with a Fuck You to the audience. They seemed to embrace their true soul, the Inner Asshole with that movie, but here they're flirting with shit they should have nothing to do with because they are incapable of pulling it off; concepts like Love and Sympathy are totally alien to these guys so they shouldn't even fucking bother.

You have a movie full of cool shots but all the flashy visuals in the world won't mean a fucking thing when the audience can't give one iota of a fuck about the subjects within the well-composed frame. There's a Blade Runner reference when we see Mrs. Kable being made up exactly as Daryl Hannah's Pris character, so I guess that means they're BR fans? But if that's the case, they must only be fans of the atmospheric cinematography and the vast futuristic production design and not of the themes and characterizations.

The discount house was also playing Ponyo, and I should have just bought a ticket to that one again.

Enough of my rambling, let's move on to some ranting. I was reading a review for the latest volume of 42nd Street Forever, a DVD compilation of old trailers from the 70's and 80's, mostly grindhouse fare. The reviewer spent most of the piece talking about how In His Day people took chances going to see these movies in seedy, rat/homeless infested grindhouse theaters and that the kids today are watching these movies in clean, safe environments like the Alamo Drafthouse and you'll never get it kids, you'll never get it, and that's why you're all a bunch of irony drenched hipsters who act like you're all above these films. I guess it's no surprise that he manages to put down Tarantino for this as well. Ugh.

While he has a point about how the element of danger is gone, and that I never knew the experience of smelling urine and watching drug deals go down at the other end of the aisle, I hate the way he generalized the young grindhouse fans of today. Basically, we're all snarky douchebag kids who go out to see these movies to laugh at (rather than laugh with). Now, sure, there's a healthy number of people like that who go to see these movies, but I also know a lot of people who watch these flicks hoping to like them. We don't always want to see The Room, you know.

First and foremost, I want my grindhouse flick to be an honest-to-goodness cool movie. If it turns out to be shitty, well then, fine, I'm going to try to have some laughs with it, because if it's a bad movie, at least be entertaining about it. My last rambling was about a movie called Massacre Mafia Style, and as cheaply made and rough as it may have been, I thought it was a genuinely good flick. Of course, I have to season my review of it with lots of Dick and Asshole, but that's because I'm not a good writer, so I have to snark it up even when I'm being complementary.

I'm all over the place here (and hungover like a mutha, which is why I'm out of Sobieski) so my sudden anecdote here shouldn't come as a surprise, but here goes: I remember when I went to the New Beverly last year for their first horror movie marathon. People were into the flicks, giving mad respect to the U.S. cut of Argento's Phenomena, Fulci's Zombie, and The House on Sorority Row (the original, bitch!). When we laughed, it was because something funny happened and when we applauded, it was because we totally dug what was going on, not because we were being ironic about some shit.

Well, then they put on a movie from the 60's called Teenage Mother, and I'm sorry, but that movie was TERRIBLE and it seems like most of us in the audience agreed on that. Slowly, but surely, the joint turned into an R-rated, not nearly as cleverly written version of MST3k as people started yelling stuff at the screen and laughing at the on-screen proceedings. We had our fun at its expense, and then the movie had the last laugh by climaxing with graphic footage of an actual birth. The movie that followed was called The Power, and I guess a few people still thought we were in Teenage Mother mode, because they would yell out stuff during the first 5 minutes. And do you know what happened? They were shushed by the rest of us. That's right, the people in the New Bev were telling the others to shut the fuck up because Goddammit, We're Giving This Movie A Chance To Prove Itself. The Power turned out to be kinda lame, but we gave it a shot, we didn't come in wanting to mock it and as it turns out, none of us did (or maybe we were too tired by then). I don't know what my fucking point is, with this anecdote and my ramblings in general. I just keep going and going like some fuckin' asshole. I'm sorry.

Death rides an Econoline van

I don't know how, but an old friend I haven't seen for years got my contact info and now I'm getting calls and letters from him in prison. He's excitingly going on about how he's getting out in December and how he's going to change his life around (attempt number 6, I believe) and how he can't wait to kick it with me like old times. This is a man who supposedly shot a rival gang member in the belly at his doorstep, by the way.

I guess what I'm trying to say here is that if you don't see any more ramblings on this site about a month after December, that's probably because I'll be fuckin' dead, most likely having caught a volley of 9mm and .22's that were meant for him, courtesy of one of the many malcontents he's probably wronged. Merry Christmas. To be honest, the state of my depression kinda has me wishing for death anyway, but I want to be the one who calls it, not some shaven-headed asshole who thinks the two greatest movies ever made are American Me and Blood In, Blood Out: Bound by Honor.

Mimi, the main character from Massacre Mafia Style (aka The Executioner) would probably hate those movies, since he doesn't seem to be a fan of the gangs anyway. (How's that for a segue?) Not that he's any better; the guy is a gangster who will give long monologues on how the Mafia ruins the image of the Italian (Sicilians, in particular) but then has no problems putting a motherfucker on a meathook in such a way that the poor schmuck's eyeball is poked out -- and that's after strangling him to death.

Yeah, this Mimi is something else and so is his story, for which I will be giving a rundown to ya'll. At the age of 15, his "Lord of Organized Crime" father was deported back to Sicily, so Mimi had to leave as well. For the next 16 years, Mimi lives life, gets married, has a son, and becomes a widow (cancer, not gunfire). He decides to go back to the good ol' U.S.A. and get a piece of that American Dream (Mafia Style) that was so rudely taken away from his father -- so what if the old man was acquiring said dream illegally?

Mimi arrives in Los Angeles, hooks up with an old fat friend of his named Jolly, and off they go. Now, I was completely fucking hammered on Sobieski when I watched this, so mine is not the most clearest of memories when it comes to what exactly happened, but here I go. Mimi and Jolly kidnap a mob boss named Chucky from church, cut one of his fingers off and send it over to Chucky's underlings along with a ransom demand. They go ahead and pay it, so Chucky is let go. Then Mimi and Jolly go to Chucky's son's wedding to talk to him about going into business! What balls! Because Chucky used to work for Mimi's old man, he lets bygones be bygones and allows Mimi and Jolly to do their thing. I don't know, man, that's something I'd always be a little sore about. I don't think they reattached that shit, so it's gone for good. I would at least have to take off a thumb or two before forgiving a motherfucker, that's for sure.

Having forced Chucky's hand (by way of finger), Mimi and Jolly decide to hit the streets and take down the bookmakers and pimps who are cutting in on the action. This is done by apparently going to the same bar over and over again (this is a very low budget movie) and shotgunning them point blank. Again, maybe I was too drunk, but I swear Mimi was killing a lot more women than men. They also try to scare a huge black pimp named Super Spook into giving them his girls (to use in porno flicks, but more on that later) but he's not having it, so instead, our boys figure they could sweet talk him by calling him nigger. For some odd reason, this does not sit well with Mr. Spook. So they crucify him (for real) and make some kind of joke involving Jesus Christ being black.

Oh yeah, there's a lot of matter-of-fact racism in this flick, and as off-putting as that might be, I guess you can say that the filmmakers were just keeping it real. I mean, you're gonna make a film about hardcore criminals who are just as hardcore about their heritage and then you're going to have them regard people of other races and ethnicities as equals? Nah. Having said that, some of it does feel a little like wish-fulfillment from the writer/director; you have a skinny short dude and a fat out-of-shape dude, both of Italian heritage, giving a tall strong black man the business to his face. They're acting like that bit Eddie Murphy did about Italian guys coming out of a Rocky movie, only without the Jujyfruits up the ass.

When people aren't getting Massacred Mafia Style or being called "moulinyan", they're given heartfelt soliloquies by Mimi. These monologues are things of beauty; they start off slowly, and then when you think paisan's gonna wrap it up, he goes into overdrive. It is then that you realize that you are no longer hearing dialogue, but in fact getting a lengthy discourse on What's Wrong In Society from the writer/director, Duke Mitchell, who also happens to be the same guy who plays Mimi. It's like somewhere along the way he got off the script and started to speechify his real thoughts. Something tells me that many a friend of Mr. Mitchell have been addressed similarly after a few drinks or so with the dude, or maybe that wasn't the case at all and this was paisan's chance to let it all out.

Among the things that bother Mimi (and perhaps the filmmaker as well) are the loss of the good ol' days, when there was a code to being a scumbag piece-of-shit criminal; and the destruction of the Italian image by scumbag piece-of-shit criminals like himself (at least he's self-aware). Mimi gives one of these diatribes to Chucky, and rather than telling him "Motherfucker, aren't you the same guy who chopped off my fucking finger one reel ago?!" he just nods solemnly, like he just got dropped some major fuckin' science.

With each following scene, Mimi's hair turns from dark to gray, which I means that years are going by. Either that, or being a Mafia Style Massacrer ages you as fast as being President of the United States (have you seen how Obama looks now?).

So the film follows Mimi and Jolly living life, while ending everyone else's; at one point they even go as far as shooting a motherfucker in the eyeball on live television. In between whackings, Mimi hooks up with this chick and Jolly has a little gay dog that he's real fond of, so you probably know how THAT'S gonna end up.

Meanwhile, back is Sicily, Pops is getting news of Mimi's exploits and is none too happy about it because it doesn't look good or some shit like that, I don't know. He has his guy go to L.A. to beat some sense into Mimi, which he does: SMACK "This is from your father!" SMACK "This is from your son!" SMACK "And this is from the Holy Ghost!". He then gives him fifty-grand and an ultimatum -- stop the killing and start a legitimate business or suffer the consequences. Some more gray hair and a mustache later, Mimi and Jolly are now dipping their toes into the water that is the porno movie biz. They decide to make their own porn flicks by using Super Spook's stable as talent, and well, you already know how that ends a few paragraphs ago.

Killing a pimp so you can steal his women and use them in your porno movies does not qualify as standard legitimate business practice, in fact, it draws a hell of a lot of heat on you. Mimi's girl Liz understands this all too well, since she overheard one of Chucky's guys drunkenly blab about how they're going to set Mimi up and do a little Mafia Style Massacring of their own. Liz tells Mimi all of this during a post-coital chat, doing the audience a favor by having her breasts hang out during the whole scene.

They don't know who exactly in Chucky's crew is going to do the dirty work, so Mimi and Jolly decide to go out and start shooting, strangling, stabbing & eyeball-impaling the fuck out of anyone remotely connected. They shoot up an office building consisting of mostly black employees, and once again it makes a drunk motherfucker like me wonder if this was just a coincidence or if shooting holes into many an African-American did for Mr. Mitchell what Arnold blasting pigs in a police station did for James Cameron (and me). Whatever. On their way from another completed massacre, they bump into Chucky's son and kill him as well, dropping his body off in front of Daddy's house.

It's all for naught, all this killing, because Chucky hires some outside hitters to take Mimi and Jolly out. Jolly is MMS'd first; he goes to a restaurant by himself, and the servers arrive with a plate of Recently Deceased Gay Dog before filling this fat fuck full of .45's. Later, Mimi comes home and not only finds Jolly's body on his bed, but Liz hanging dead in the shower. His calm and rational response is to blow up Chucky and everyone else at the son's funeral by way of hidden explosives. At least Chucky and his wife don't have to live the rest of their lives missing their boy. That's me justifying Mimi's horrendous (but ballsy and awesome) act.

Mimi then goes back to Sicily, giving up on trying to do Cosa Nostra American Style. His father welcomes him with open arms and is glad to see that he's back and here to stay. Mimi then goes on another beautiful tangent about how the old ways are no longer respected "out there", and that the street corners that were once run by the Italians, Jews, Irish and Polish are now all run by the black man -- how dare they seems to be the subtext -- and that Organized Crime is on life support and that there is no law to lawlessness anymore. The young criminals no longer respect/fear the old ones, long-haired hippies are bringing dope home for their parents to take(!) and the shadowy secrecy of the Mafia Don lifestyle is now common fodder for books and movies ("The most successful fuckin' motion picture in the history of show business is you!").

The old man is like Whatever and tells Mimi about the young son he left behind. He tells him that he's been raised clean, going to the best schools around the world and living a life that has nothing to do with the Mafia, and he will not grow up to be his father or grandfather. A tearful, hug-filled reunion follows; Mimi and his son go for a walk to catch up on things and to meet the boy's special lady friend. Later, they get together with other family and friends for dinner. The son cuts a loaf of bread and tosses the first piece to Mimi. Just as Mimi catches the slice -- BOOM -- he takes a blast of gunfire to the chest. Turns out there was a four-barreled gun hidden in the loaf, and the son used it on him. The old man then looks at the son, and I guess this means that he's now a man and I guess this is the movie's way of telling us that the sins of the father, the child is father to the man, evil never dies, the circle of life, etc, etc, blah blah blabbity blah. Whatever it means, it's an awesome way to end a movie. The End.

This is a mob flick done Grindhouse-style, featuring some very raw acting and visuals, but it's a lot of fun and I was surprised by how much I ended up liking it. Usually you have to deal with a lot of dead spots in these kinds of movies, even when they have brief running times like this one, but there's always something to keep your interest here; tough guy talk, violence, titties. Some scenes have a darkly comic approach to them, sort of a proto-Tarantino type of thing going on; the opening scene featuring Mimi and Jolly killing a bunch of people is done to a cheery old Italian song. The dialogue can be very funny at times too, and while I don't know how serious those speech scenes are meant to be taken, I don't care, because they are awesome to watch either way. I understand that's the third time I've used the word "awesome" in this rundown, and for that I win an award: The Small Vocabulary Dumb Schmuck Award. I'd like to thank my teachers for trying to teach me and I'd like to thank myself for not learning.

Duke Mitchell (né Dominico Miceli) was a nightclub singer and all-around entertainer, most famous for hooking up with a Jerry Lewis lookalike and doing their spin on Martin & Lewis. He wrote, produced and directed this, his first movie, and you can definitely see that he had more entertaining flicks (and hopefully better made) in him. Unfortunately, he passed away a few years later, leaving behind an unfinished film titled Gone with the Pope. Based on the footage I've seen for that flick, it looked like he was definitely taking things up a notch in Awesome. Shit, that's four times now.

The cool news is that Sam Raimi's editor and Sylvester Stallone's son have been busy putting Pope together for a DVD release. Massacre Mafia Style, meanwhile, is coming out next month in a two-disc DVD set in October, but get this -- it's limited to 500 copies. So if you want your racist Italian mob killers in crystal clear digital picture and sound, you better snatch up a copy right quick. Me, I'll stick to my shitty VHS version (under the title The Executioner); in a weird way, I think the poor quality adds to the seediness of the movie. Besides, booze and gasoline take up most of my budget nowadays, anyway, so I have to come up with something.

Now if you'll excuse me, I now have to look up some gothic designs online to print out and mail to my friend in prison so he can have them tattooed to his leg. Because that's what friends do for each other (especially when they're afraid of getting shivved at their front door in the middle of the night). I need a time machine. I need to go back and tell the 3rd grade version of me to say No to friendship. Then I'm gonna go to the 7th grade me and tell me to make a move on Ms. Travers in Social Studies. Worst case scenario, she says no. Best case, I get a whole lot of much-needed confidence and my life begins a trek through a different path, one that will most likely lead to bigger and better things. I guess the lesson here, people, is this: If you're a school teacher, pick the biggest loser in class and sleep with him. And if you're a student lucky enough to have that happen to you, SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT IT.