Advent of Atrocities - Day 3: Nurse (2013)

So, at the end of Nurse, we find out that Abbie the killer nurse is actually Sarah Price, who had been living under a fake identity after escaping the mental hospital she'd been committed to after killing her father as an 8-year old.

That's right. I just spoiled the whole plot in the first sentence. I did this because:
A) I'm an asshole, and
B) To make the point that the film's plot is entirely beside the point.

This "twist" is just tacked on to make it seem like Nurse is telling an actual story. But the glory of Nurse is that it manages to be a great time despite lacking such fundamental things as story and character development. Further, it creates a new horror icon for the ages. Abbie Russell stands tall among some of the most sinister villains in the genre. And to think, I fully intended to skip this one.

I never wanted to see Nurse. It looked like nothing more than a cheesy, money-grabbing excuse to show boobies in 3-D. And it kinda is. But in a good way. The narration is sharp and funny, delivered in Paz de la Huerta's drawn-out monotone that kills every one-liner the script throws at her. At one point, she has just offed her therapist by seducing him in his car, shooting him up with a paralytic, then letting the car roll backward into traffic where it promptly gets totalled by a semi. As the victim's bloody corpse smashes through the windshield, she narrates, "Larry made me come after all."

Half the reason Nurse didn't initially appeal to me was that I never thought too much of Paz de la Huerta. Maybe she's pretty, but not in a way that appeals to me, and I figured she was cast because of her willingness to take her clothes off (SPOILER: She does.), but aside from the killer script, she's the reason Nurse is so much fun.

Her part is written so she doesn't really have to act. She just has to vamp like crazy. But somehow she ends up being a totally compelling character and hilarious to boot. Her every line is simultaneously overplayed and underplayed, if that makes any sense.

The fun part of Nurse is watching Abbie gleefully (yes, she remains stone-faced, but the glee is implied) dismantles her new coworker, Dani's entire life, all the while justifying it to herself. When Dani graduates from nursing school, Abbie takes her out on the town, drugs her drink, sets her up with a 3-way, and takes photos to use against her. None of this is out of spite, by the way; Abbie has quite the thing for Dani. But Dani's got a boyfriend she needs to get rid of. Everything Abbie does is completely malevolent, but she still sees herself as the hero of her own story.

The violence in Nurse is pretty strong throughout, but the last 15 minutes becomes a pretty decent bloodbath, The gore isn't stomach-turning, but the blood does flow freely. Nurse isn't a pull-the-covers-over-your-head-and-sleep-with-all-the-lights-on horror movie. It's a wicked, mindless hoot for a drunken Saturday night. So there's your weekend. You're welcome.

Advent of Atrocities-Day 2: Stage Fright (2014)

If you're of the opinion that the concept of a Horror Musical is just too goofy to work, you're absolutely right. The genres are too at odds to play together and create anything but an unwatchable mess. But throw in a 3rd genre, and you're on to something.

Stage Fright is a Horror-Comedy-Musical that works precisely because the horror is dialed down to the point where it's not actually a horror film, but a horror-themed musical comedy. While there's nothing scary about Stage Fright, there is some pretty decent gore that will keep the sickos among us happy.

What's most surprising about Stage Fright is how well is holds up as a musical. The songs are insidious ear-worms that get lodged in your brain for weeks at a time. I've spent the last five days spontaneously bursting into the refrain, "I'm gay, I'm gay, but not in that way." And the film's lead, Allie MacDonald sings the living shit out of her songs. Stage Fright even boasts an opening starring the all-singing, all-acting Minnie Driver, who suffers a wonderfully horrible murder in her dressing room.

Stage Fright takes place at a youth theater camp called Center Stage that is run by Meat Loaf Aday, which is, of course, the mark of quality. Theater geeks should be just as into this movie as horror geeks, because it directly caters to them. Center Stage is populated by theater-geek caricatures who have found their refuge, a place where they are free to express their innermost selves without fear of abuse from peers and parents. Then, of course, the fear begins.

One of the movie's cleverest gags is that whenever the killer sings, he does so in an over-the-top metal wail, backed by searing doom-metal guitars.* When he delivers his pre-kill one-liners, he does so in that same ridiculous voice. The one-liners are all theater-related cliches so awful that they become highest art. And please do yourself a favor and listen to the closing credits medley with every song performed by this same metal band. It's a trancendant experience.

For a movie about the brutal murder of teenagers, Stage Fright is a fun, light-hearted romp that will keep you laughing until ear-worms make your brain explode.

*Full disclosure: I don't know Deathklock from Mastodon, so I'm pretty sure I've mislabeled the metal sub-genre.

Advent of Atrocities - Day1: Found. (2014)

"My brother keeps a human head in his closet."

Now that's my kind of opening line! But I didn't appreciate it right away. I knew the concept behind Found: What if a 12-year old horror movie fanatic found out his brother was a brutal, slasher-style serial killer? I was kind of disappointed that there was no build-up to his discovery. No emotion. Just a monotone stating of the facts.

My disappointment was misplaced. Found knows what the hell it is doing.

There's a blurb on the DVD cover from Elvira, Mistress of the Dark that describes the film, "As horror as horror can get." This 6-word summary pretty much renders my review unnecessary, but then, I never claimed to be necessary.

At it's heart, Found is a family drama with a focus on characters and relationships, a rare enough commodity in horror, almost unheard of for a slasher. One could argue that Found isn't really a slasher at all, since it bucks most of the genre's conventions. The body count is low, we don't actually see the majority of the murders, and the masked killer is revealed, maskless, at the beginning of the film. So if Found is not formally a slasher film, it at least was conceived and executed by filmmakers with a deep and abiding love for the genre.

I found out about Found at Beyond Hollywood, a movie site dedicated to highlighting foreign and genre films. It's based on a novel by the site's editor, Todd Rigney, who I've been reading for years. And let me tell you, the man has impeccable taste in movies. And he's done what I've only dreamed of: taking his expertise in cinema and creating his own movie. And a hell of a great one at that.

Found is the hardcore horror hound's horror film. Set somewhere in the late '80s/early '90s, the movie will give viewers of my generation the added treat of nostalgia for making the trip out to an honest-to-gods video store, complete with the lurid VHS covers in the horror section, situated right next to the becurtained adults-only closet of mysteries.

The most slasher-like part of Found is the movie-within-a-movie, Headless, which looks and feels like a genuine late 70's exploitation film that was slightly too underground to make it to the shelves of your local Blockbuster.

I'm the world's biggest sucker for coming-of-age stories, even the sweet ones. But throw in a macabre element and I'm in Heaven. Stand By Me, comes to mind, along with Hearts in Atlantis and Joyland. But honestly, Stephen King has never made anything this dark and outright disturbing. There's always an element of heartbreak in coming-of-age stories, and Found taps into that sadness expertly. Marty, the film's narrator and protagonist is in fifth grade and struggling to reconcile his adoration of his older brother Steve with his newfound knowledge that Steve is a serial murderer. To complicate things, both Marty and Steve are huge horror fans whose shared love of horror films is their one real point of bonding. So when Marty finds out that his brother's life is basically a horror movie, he can relate on some level. The thought of turning him in to the police never crosses his mind, even though he is a caring and sympathetic kid. As he's holding one of his brother's severed heads in his hands (he's not bad, just fascinated by death), he thinks, "At one point, it had thoughts and feelings, and it kissed somebody it loved. Now it's just a bloody head in a bowling ball bag."

The two brothers' relationship is central to the film, and while we're obviously supposed to sympathize with Marty, the movie goes out of its way to also paint Steve in a somewhat sympathetic light. We know from the film's first line that he's a psycho killer, but he's no faceless Michael Myers. No embodiment of pure evil. He's crazy, for sure, but capable of caring about people. Half the film's tension comes from wondering how far his love for Marty extends and whether he'd ever intentionally hurt him.

Now is the time to warn you that Found is extremely low-budget, which shows from time to time in the props and the performances. Look past it. There are no out-and-out bad performances in Found, just the air of inexperience surrounding some of the actors. Ethan Philbeck as Steve, for instance, has no other acting credits to his name (at least according to IMDB) and his inexperience shows. But that doesn't stop him from being super-creepy in most scenes and downright terrifying in the end.

The end. What can I say to express the sheer horror of this film's ending? You know, right from the opening moments, that this is a story that can't end well. The majority of the film's run time is spent making sure you care about the characters, and then... fan, meet shit. I must applaud Found's use of male nudity to amp up the ickyness factor sevenfold, as well as its determination to make the viewer do all the nasty work of imagining what we're not seeing. Then the final shot... FUCK. Just FUCK.

So if you don't mind your horror low-budget and you love it degenerate, soul-crushing, and nasty, go tell your boss you're sick ('cuz I know you're reading this at work), go home, and stream this from Amazon ASAP. Better yet, order the DVD because it's less than 8 bucks, and it comes with the full, uncut versions of two of the movies-within-a-movie featured in the film.

When you're done, come back and thank me profusely in the comments.

Advent of Atrocities Challenge

I don’t have to tell my frustrated followers that I don’t write enough. My output for the last 2 years has been nothing short of pathetic. Meanwhile, my list of kick ass horror movies that I’m just dying to tell people about grows ever longer. Here’s the problem: I always feel like my blog entries have to be grandiose, well thought out, and contain tons of screen caps that take hours to get. By these standards, blogging becomes too daunting, and I throw on a flick instead.

Which is why I’ve cleverly chosen the busiest time of year to set a challenge for myself: An Advent Calendar of Atrocities. Each day in December, leading up to Christmas, I will post a blog entry on a great horror movie I’d like to share with you fine folks. Some days they might be a paragraph recommending something. Other days I might run off at the fingertips, gushing for 2000 words about some flick that has captured my imagination.

That’s 24 days of tiny, bite-sized gifts for you. And if any of y’all are feeling the spirit of the season, I challenge you to create a blogging advent calendar of your own, and we can totally cross-linkify.

Should I fail this challenge, may the Krampus roast my chestnuts on an open fire. Now let the holiday giving begin!

Marvin Out

Canary - A MMM Original Short Story

It's been ages since I tried my hand at fiction, but when the challenge came, the possibilities were just too enticing to pass up. The challenge came from Chuck Wendig at his blog Terrible Minds. Participants were asked to post a story of 1,000 words or less. The story was to be a superhero story mashed up with another subgenre of your choice. First on the list was Splatterpunk Horror. How could I resist?

Let me know what you think in the comments. Unless, you know, you didn't like it.

Canary
by Marvin the Macabre

I write this as an act of desperation, aware it is probably my death warrant. But the world must know. After all, that’s what he really wanted me for: A witness. Why else would the world’s most mysterious, solitary crimefighter sign up for the sidekick mentoring program? And why are my duties limited to carrying his gear and cleaning up blood? I was at the top of my class at Sidekick Academy for fuck’s sake! Voted most likely to graduate directly to the rank of crimefighter! But no, I wanted to do things the right way; to learn from a legend. When The Jaguar choose me, I almost wept with joy.

Then I met him. There was something wholly unnerving about his gaze. Like he was looking down on some lesser being. I chalked it up to the refined art of intimidation. The beaten, bloodied criminals he took down never failed to mention those eyes.

My first days at Rothman Estate (did I mention his secret identity is Elias Rothman, spoiled rotten heir to the Rothman biogenetic fortune?) were a lesson in humiliation. The first thing he did was strip me of my name. Inspired by Jaguar, I had cultivated an identity that bespoke power and tapped into that archetypal energy. I was the mighty Kodiak.

“You ain’t no Kodiak,” he mocked, “not even a cub. You want an animal name? Fine. You’re Canary.” Even as my stomach revolted, I made no outward sign of my displeasure. I assumed he was breaking me down to build me up again. I knew I’d been getting an ego at academy. Excelling at everything and outperforming your peers by a factor of three will do that. So I accepted his training methods as painful, but necessary. Thing is, after five years he hasn’t even attempted to teach me anything.

I think Ubermensch is on to him, at least a little. There’s little trust and no love between them. As for Mr. Mind, he’s a complete fraud. I stood not five feet away from him, my mind screaming RESCUE ME! and he just walked away with a tiny nod and an oblivious grin. Mostly Jaguar keeps me away from the other supers. He’ll see one coming and order me to some menial task a safe distance away. He refuses to join the Crimefighters Coalition for obvious reasons.

I’ve known for years that Jaguar had crossed a line, but I thought I could tough it until the end of my apprenticeship. That all changed last night. In the past, it’s always been criminals. Filthy fucking murderers and rapists so reprehensible that a court of law almost seems too good for them. Almost. But last night when I saw that glint in his eye and his teeth-bearing half-smirk, I knew it would end badly.

As usual, we were parked in the Jag-Car listening to the police band radio when he heard about a noise complaint at a frat party. “Three blocks away,” he said, “Let’s roll.”

As he stomped his accelerator to the floor, I objected, “It’s a noise complaint Eli, shouldn’t we wait for…”

“Not while I’m in costume!” he barked.

“Fine. Jaguar, for Christ’s sake.”

He slammed to a screeching, smoking halt. “Take the Lord’s name in vain again and I will fucking END YOU!” he shrieked, so completely unhinged that I couldn’t even stammer out a “Yes Sir.” After glaring at me for a good 30 seconds, he pulled the car to the curb and turned off the headlights.

“There it is.” He pointed to a white two-story half a block away. “We’ll wait until the police have come and gone.”

“Couldn’t we just leave it to the police?” I asked, the timidity in my own voice disgusting me. He responded with an elbow to the teeth. We waited. I bled.

As soon as the responding officer left, we walked in the open door. Jaguar was careful to shut it behind him. Inside, the music was back to blaring. It was one of those Heaven and Hell parties. The upstairs was decked out in billowing white sheets and feathers, while cleavage-bearing angels served crystalline liquors from sparkling shot glasses. The basement would be a red-lit S&M den with sorority girls in leather domination suits slinging Hellfire shots from between their breasts.

Jaguar flung a throwing claw into the stereo, reducing the pounding dubstep beat to a sparking electric white-noise drone. After a collective “What the fuck, bro?” the place fell silent under Jaguar’s bestial presence.

“There’s drugs here,” he announced. “You’ve got one chance to turn them over.” He stared them down, his gaze so commanding that those nearest instinctively emptied their pockets, producing near-empty bags of herb, pipes, and a tiny vial of blow. Jaguar extended his clawed hand as if to accept the contraband, then lashed out with a roundhouse kick to the face. The scrawny stoner stayed down, so Jaguar headbutted the next in line. Blood exploded from the jock’s nose, covering Jaguar’s mask with a red mist. He grinned. His glare penetrated deeper into the crowd. “There’s more,” he demanded.

No one dared come forward. All were silent save the tearful pleading of some hipster with a Jew-fro. It was nonsense. The standard ”Don’t hurt me I’ll do anything you ask” gibberish.

“Cut yourself,” said Jaguar.

“What?”

Jaguar tossed a blade at his feet. “Cut yourself,” he repeated. The hipster hesitated. “Pick it up,” demanded Jaguar. He did as he was told, raking the blade haltingly across his forearm. “Not there,” said Jaguar, “your throat.”

“What?”

At this, Jaguar unleashed an ungodly howl and slashed with his claws, tearing half the boy’s throat out. His head lolled forward as the arterial spray doused a dozen partygoers. Jew-fro slumped to the floor, his head offset from his neck at a sickening angle. Screaming erupted and the stampede began. Jaguar bellowed above the din, “Do you WANT another noise complaint?”

Some people think Jaguar’s claws are fake, something he fashioned himself. They’re half-right. The claws are real, but he also made them. Biogenetics empire, remember? Eli began his career with clawed gloves, but they didn’t satisfy him. He wanted to feel the muscles tear beneath his fingers. He wanted to kill, not with tools and gadgets, but with his own body penetrating the flesh. His kills used to be quick and efficient, but tonight he toyed with his victims like a housecat.

He grabbed one of the fleeing fratboys and shredded his neck lengthwise. He slashed at it over and over until the last threads of flesh tore free. He held the dripping head high, presenting it to the crowd. “DRUGS KILL!” he shrieked. Then he grabbed the nearest girl and slammed the severed head into her own repeatedly. The sound of bone fracturing quickly gave way to the wet slurp of blood and brain.

Even as he attacked, Jaguar expertly kept his body between the crowd and the exit. When they made for the back door, he commanded me to guard it. I made for the back of the house, if only to escape the carnage. People were trickling out onto the back porch, but in the madness of escape, it was becoming clogged with half-trampled bodies all clawing at one another to get to safety. I tried to keep order. I even broke out the back window for them, but only a few more escaped before the opening became a jammed-up writhing mess of panic.

Jaguar finished up in the front room and made his way to the back. He chuckled at the sight of the human traffic jam, then took a running start, and slammed his shoulder into them. Did I mention that Jaguar has superhuman strength? Nothing like Ubermensch, who can throw trains, but more like a gorilla. It was more than enough to snap ribs and crush internal organs. Injured bodies piled in front of the door, and Jaguar jumped up and down on them like it was some demented bouncy house. The blood and piss flowing from beneath the pile of bodies flooded the kitchen floor, nearly to the stairwell.

Oh shit the basement! The music was still pounding from below. They had no idea what was happening here in Heaven. While Jaguar was distracted, I searched for another staircase out of his sight. When I got to the main room, the sight dropped me and I puked onto the viscera-strewn carpet. But I picked myself up and soldiered on, stepping carefully around the still-twitching bodies. With each step, I could hear the squish of the blood-saturated carpet. It was already soaking into my shoes.

There was no second staircase, and Jaguar invaded Hell before I could warn them. Jaguar unseated the party’s “Satan” from his infernal throne and installed himself there. Anyone who tried to scramble up the stairs took a throwing claw in the back. Once Hell’s denizens knew they were trapped, the Underworld’s new king began his reign.

As much as I want to reveal this monster’s depravity to the world, I’m unable to detail the events that came after. Even now my mind attempts to erase them from memory, my sanity’s final effort to save itself. Suffice it to say that Jaguar commanded his subjects to inflict incomprehensible cruelty on one another, and not one of them left alive.

As per usual, Jaguar left a calling card indicating the slaughter took place at the hands of some super-villain. When the police arrived, he made a show of desperately searching for survivors. They always believe that schtick.

I wondered who he’d lay the blame on this time. Surely not one of his old stand-bys.  Mr. Twisted was in jail. Necro Joe has “thrown himself” off of a parking garage. None of the others would have been capable of the atrocities the police would discover. So he made up a new one. When the police arrived, they found, placed just outside the front door, a tiny wire cage containing a dead canary.

I can hear the steel-reinforced clunk of his boots on the floor above me. Oh God, I think he knows I tried to help them escape. I’ve written my confession, but how will it ever find its way out to the world? I only hope justice finds a way.

What's in Your Slasher Survival Kit?

My first thought, upon being contacted by Man Crates to dream up my ultimate horror crate was:

But that's not exactly what they were looking for. Man Crates is a company that puts together manly gift crates that must be opened with a crowbar. The themed crates range from customized bar sets to zombie apocalypse survival kits. They challenged me to concoct a crate specifically designed to help you survive a horror movie. They didn't offer me any kind of compensation in return, but I decided to go for it because A) They're a really cool company and I'd be super stoked to receive any one of their crates as a gift, and B) Because it sounded like fun.

The topic was really wide open, so to focus this post, I've given myself a few ground rules:

1) The crate will be specific to surviving a SLASHER flick--there are way too many horror subgenres to create an all-purpose kit, and I wouldn't have the first idea of what to put in a violent haunting kit.

2) No weapons--Sure, that would be the first thing you'd want, but it's too easy. Sure, I'll take a flamethrower, a Desert Eagle for each hand, and a box of grenades. Sorry, but the real horror movie survivor needs to improvise their own weapons.

3) I tried to make it plausible that Man Crates could actually put all these items in a crate. Therefore, no jetpacks, no crotch rockets, and no magic wands.

4) I wish to stress that because most slasher film survivors are female (final girls, if you will) please consider this a (Wo)Man Crate as well.

Without further ado, I Present the Montana Mancave Massacre Mancrate:

Item #1: LED Flashlight

So, this is a slasher movie--obviously it's going to be dark, most likely you'll be in the woods or at least an unfamiliar place. Sure, the dude coming at you with a branch saw is dangerous, but do you realize the amount of damage you can do to yourself bumbling around in the dark? A light source is a must.

But wait, there's more! If you've been keeping up with flashlight technology, you're probably aware that modern LED flashlights can pack a whole lot of blindness into a tiny, energy-efficient frame. Go with a flashlight of 2000 lumens or more and you'll blind that maniac, giving you a much-needed advantage. Seriously, shine this puppy directly in their eyes and they'll be seeing spots for a good 15 minutes.

Let's not stop there. The Cree flashlight pictured above also has a waterproof casing of aircraft-grade aluminum, 5 brightness modes, 4 metal spikes for self-defense, and an alarm to alert people to your location. Or if you want to get hardcore and go hands-free, you could always go with the 5000-lumen headlamp.

 

Item #2: Make sure to bring your CAT

That's Combat Application Tourniquet, and when the guy wearing your best friend's face as a speedo hacks half your hand off, you're going to want to stop the bleeding ASAP. Well friend, that's the magic of the CAT. It goes on quickly and you can do it with only one good hand.

You'll want to select a brand that goes on the same way for both arms and legs, because seriously, when you're bleeding to death, you're not going to remember two separate application techniques.

Also, in the spirit of improvised weapons, you could probably strangle someone with it.

That's all well and good for your extremities, but what if you get stabbed in the gut? That leads us to:

Item #3: Quick Clot

There's a good reason cops and soldiers carry this stuff on them at all times. It will save your freakin' life--simple as that. A roll of QuikClot gauze contains an inert mineral called kaolin that initiates blood clotting and can achieve hemostasis in as little as 3 minutes.

Do be aware that this is a temporary measure and you won't have all night to get to the hospital. It will save your life if you suffered your grievous wound while luring your pursuer into an industrial meat grinder. But if he's still giving chase after you've found time to apply QuikClot, you may not have much fight left in you.

Item #4: Cell phone signal booster

Want to avoid those deadly cat and mouse games altogether? Try packing one of these sweet babies.

We all know the killing won't start until you're safely within a cell phone dead zone. Here's where you turn the tables on your own personal Leslie Vernon. Sure he's planned your slaughter oh so carefully, mapping out the exact limits of the cellular reception in his killing grounds. But did he consider every angle? This might just give you the advantage you need to survive.

Call a tow truck and GTFO before he can even unsheath his elk-gutter.

Item #5: Survival Knife

Look, I know I said no weapons, so consider this a tool. 

What, are you going up against a machete-weilding ex-wrestler with this tiny pick-stick? Hells no. But might you use it to cut through your duct tape bonds? Certainly. Could you possibly sharpen a stick into a lethal spear with it? Why yes! There are literally millions of uses for a blade beyond driving it through your would-be killer's pig mask.

And as a bonus, you could also drive it through your would-be killer's pig mask.

This particular survival knife comes wrapped with a length of all-purpose paracord (another must) and a fire-starter tool.

Item #6: A good pair of gloves

Never underestimate the importance of your fingers. When all else fails, you may find yourself pummeling your assailant with only your fists. Your fingers will get bloodied, bruised, and possibly broken. And have you ever seen a horror movie survivor defeat the villain with punches? Never. You'll have plenty more escaping to do after the fisticuffs, and if your hands are through, so are you. I recommend finding yourself a good pair of tactical gloves with hard polymer knuckle plating and cushioned insides to keep your hand in one piece.

If you're not into fist fighting, you're still going to have to do some grabbing, grasping, and climbing on all sorts of unpleasant surfaces. And how many times have we seen someone grab the edge of a door only to have their hands slashed? Well wouldn't you know it, that's what steel mesh gloves are for! Okay, so actually their often used by butchers to avoid flaying themselves open, but if it's good enough for meat-cutting professionals, it should certainly work for you in a pinch.

But seriously, why mess around? Go whole hog and get yourself a nice pair of slash-proof sleeves. Remember, unprotected skin is a slasher's playground.

Item #7: Knee/Elbow pads

You may view these as inessential, but when you're doing a marine crawl through a tunnel filled with splinters of human bone and teeth, you'll thank me for it.

Item #8: Tactical goggles

The one piece of gear that is absolutely essential if you find yourself in a Lucio Fulci movie. Eye trauma was the man's bread and butter. They also protect your eyes from arterial spray should the person next to you have his throat slashed. Add a steel mesh face mask if you want to look super-intimidating (although I'm not sure Jason's going to be deterred).

Item #9: (Optional) Foldable Grappling Hook

Let's be honest, you've always wanted one of these daddies.

Batman's got one, you're gonna want one.

While this might not be the most useful item in your personal bug-out bag, it will be just the ticket when you are trapped in a pit and told to put the lotion in the basket. And as survivalists everywhere will tell you, it's better to have a grappling hook and not need it, than need one and not have it.

Item #10: (Extremely Optional) Autograph book

If you can survive a night with Michael Meyers AND manage to escape with his autograph, there's a horde of horror fans who would pay top dollar for it on Ebay. If you've got to go through Hell, you might as well make some scratch off it.

And there you have it. Now let's all sit back and pray that the good folks at Man Crates actually make this an official crate. And send me one. 

New Review: Deliver Us From Evil

Oh, you thought I meant here. No, the review is up on From Midnight with Love. Please check it on out.

Also, forgive me for slacking on the Uwe Boll-fest, there have been personal matters. Next up is Seed, then probably Stoic. To tide you over, here's some papier mache jack-o-lanterns I made last Halloween.

Jasognome - One of my horror-themed garden gnomes.

Reconsidering Uwe Boll: Part One - Rampage (2009)

“How can you not have heard of this movie?”
My soon-to-be brother-in-law explained that Rampage was exactly my kind of movie. A dude makes his own body armor and goes on an epic shooting spree. First he bombs the police station so the town’s first line of defense is in tatters, then he stalks the streets, going from building to building to take out everyone hiding inside. The few remaining police arrive and open fire, but it's useless. He mows them down and continues the massacre, specifically targeting people who had pissed him off, but also taking out any and everybody along the way. My kind of movie indeed. It sounded nearly identical to a short story I'd conceived of years ago, but never got around to writing. I was intrigued. How had this one sneaked past me?

He pulled the movie up on his laptop as I giddily waited for the mayhem to begin. Ominous music plays over production company credits, then an abstract out-of-focus shot of some trees. A shitty car pulls into a turnout in the woods. More credits. White text on a black screen punctuated by bits of movie. A young man gets out of the car and takes off his black shirt. Dang, I know that actor, but from where? More credits. Now he's throwing his clothes into a metal barrel and dousing them with gasoline. It's nearly one minute into the movie and I'm far too excited about what is to come. The ominous music continues to slowly swell... and then the horror begins. Another credit suddenly appears, staring me in the face with a sinister smirk. That most dreaded of credits: An Uwe Boll Film.

My expectations plummeted. One minute I'm anticipating a hitherto unknown masterpiece; the next I'm preparing for a joyless slog through an incompetent, exploitative mess of a film that I'd have to pretend to like. That or tell my future family member he has deplorable taste in movies.

Totally understandable if you assumed Uwe Boll's Rampage was a live-action adaptation of this.

Then the miracle. Despite everything I thought I knew about Uwe Boll, the crowdsource-crowned Worst Living Filmmaker and modern-day Ed Wood, I fucking loved it! This new Rampaging Boll is utterly unrecognizable from the hack who churned out tax-shelter video game adaptations for the better part of the aughties. This was the single most hated director of our age. His reviled name is synonymous with the worst kind of schlocky movies, not the kind that are so bad they're good, but the kind that are so bad that they make you angry for having wasted your time. Just what was going on here?

I'm still not sure what to think. Has Boll been unfairly judged all along? Did he actually improve as a filmmaker but nobody noticed because they were too busy hating on him? Or was this just some weird fluke and he made a decent film on accident? Let's examine some of the evidence, find out what exactly made Rampage so good, and see if we can surmise some answers.

The Cast

All the performances (aside from the inappropriately calm barista) are uniformly good, from Matt Frewer’s well-meaning, but over-bearing father to Shaun Sipos’s YouTube-ranting, all-talk, coffeeshop revolutionary. But the true standout is Brendan Fletcher as the shooter, Bill Williamson. I remember him giving a solid, awkwardly creepy performance as a mentally-challenged person in Terry Gilliam’s Tideland, but mostly he’s one of those where-have-I-seen-him-before character actors you vaguely recognize but can’t quite place. Not anymore. Watch Rampage and you’ll start recognizing him left and right. Pop in Freddy vs. Jason and you’ll be like, “Oh shit, Brendan Fletcher’s in this? Oh yeah, he was my favorite character in this movie, why didn’t I remember him?”

As Bill Williamson, Fletcher has an awkward charm. When he's passing as normal, he's polite and reasonable, though the cracks start to show when he gets confrontational. He's also a classic wiseass with a comeback for everybody. Even in the middle of the bloodbath he'll crack an ironic, deadpan joke. But he’s also a ticking time-bomb of rage, furiously pumping iron while listening to a barrage of alarmist news stories and AM radio doomsayers. And woe be unto him who screws up his Macchiato. In the excerpts of his YouTube manifesto, Fletcher's reptilian eyes are off-the-scales creepy, and his unfazed demeanor during the shootings is chillingly real.

The Style

The dialogue in Rampage is mostly improvised, giving the film a naturalistic feel and ensuring the actors aren’t just rattling off stilted script-filler that could risk turning them into cardboard placeholders rather than fully-realized characters. The camerawork is handheld, which will be off-putting for those bothered by the technique, but I thought it was fittingly chaotic. The first 3rd of the film is all character and dialogue-driven preamble to the massacre, which will be boring for those looking only for a quick fix of blood and guts, but this is important stuff. When something like this happens in the real world, that’s the first question everybody asks, “How could anyone do this? What drove them to commit these atrocities?” A film like this attempts, at least partially, to answer this question. Then it walks you, in graphic detail, through the Hell that ensues.

Is it exploitation? 

A resounding Hells-Yes! But is that all it is? All horror movies are, by definition, exploitation films because they exploit our fears. They use violence, or possession, hauntings, disease that deforms our bodies, or even muthafuckin snakes on a muthafuckin plane to simulate the fear we would experience in those situations. In a way, all movies are exploitative, as they manipulate our emotions, from love to sadness to anger. There may be an element of “Too soon,” distastefulness to Rampage, and the cynics among us might chalk it up to a cheap attempt to cash in on real-world tragedies. But fuck that noise. This is horror at its most potent. In the 80s, it was all slashers, all that time, and why not? This was the era of Richard Ramirez and John Wayne Gacy. There was a very real fear that some psycho could chop you up and store you in their basement freezer. But ever since Columbine, our national fear has shifted to mass murder in crowded places. The closer to reality a horror film gets, the more potent it is, and honestly, the more important it is as art.

The Meaning

Why does Bill Williamson do it? He has his reasons, which he states explicitly in the end, but Boll shows us not only the killer's words, but his world. He is constantly disrespected by his parents, his boss, his goddamned barista, and even the waitress at the chicken restaurant. He fills his hours in the echo chamber of negative sensationalist media coverage, warping his perspective. But to be fair, there’s a lot of truth in that same media coverage. So much inhumanity and indifference. A pervasive cultural malaise that can actually infect a susceptible person and prey on their violent tendencies. This ain’t no House of the Dead. This is genuine cultural commentary. It’s actually surprising how few movies have been made about mass shootings, given their pervasiveness in American life. And true to form, no one dares show it as unflinchingly as Uwe Boll.

Favorite scenes

To be perfectly honest, as much praise as I’ve heaped on this movie, much of the titular rampage comes off as rather clinical. There’s so much violence it becomes numbing. It is only in those moments where the killing-spree slows down and focuses on the victims as individuals that we really feel the gravity of the murders. As such, here’s a rundown of my favorite moments (Minor Spoilers ahead):

Reloading
Bill has machine-gunned down dozens of people in the streets and they have finally scattered and found shelter. One unfortunate woman is boxed in with nowhere to hide. As Bill is reloading, he spots her and says congenially, “Oh, hi. Scary shit, huh?” Then as he’s popping in a fresh clip, “Here we go,” and guns her down from ten feet away. It’s brutal.

The Beauty Salon
The streets are empty and everyone’s in hiding, so Bill’s got to go looking for them. He enters a Beauty Salon, herds the employees and patrons into a corner and has himself a little breather. He takes off his helmet and has a drink of water while the terrified women plead for their lives. He responds by mocking them with, “Chirp chirp chirp chirp,” effectively saying they’re merely a bunch a pretty little birds and nothing they can say will get through to him. You can guess how the scene ends.

The BINGO Parlour
Skip this section if you haven’t seen the movie. I really don’t want to spoil it.
Bill hits the jackpot with his next stop, A crowded BINGO parlour where the docile retirees could triple his body count in two minutes. But there’s no screaming, no panic. No one bats an eye at him. He briefly terrorizes the clerk at the snack counter, then goes on to snatch a BINGO ball and calls out the numbers, ensuring that everyone finally notices him. But still, no fear, hardly a change in their facial expressions. Then he just quietly leaves, muttering, “You guys don’t need my help at all.” Classic.

Is this a fluke?

That’s what I had to wonder as soon as the credits rolled on Rampage. Maybe the quality of the film had less to do with Uwe Boll than it did the acting chops of the cast. Brendan Fletcher served as co-producer, so his contribution is unquestionable. The one and a half Boll movies I’d seen before this (I turned off House of the Dead halfway through, and thought Bloodrayne was a goofy-but-enjoyable guilty pleasure) suggested I shouldn’t give too much credit in the direction department. Then I watched Seed, a film Boll had made two years earlier. Seed is deeply, perhaps even fatally flawed, but absolutely powerful in its nihilism. In short, a movie that sticks with you for quite awhile. So I have to conclude that no, Rampage was not a fluke, and the trajectory of these four films suggests a Uwe Boll that has vastly improved as a director, and is no longer worthy of the internet’s ceaseless ridicule. But I want more evidence. I’ve got to figure out this enigma. I must immerse myself in this man’s filmography and try to separate that gr-Uwe from the Boll-shit.* Won’t you join me?

*Okay, this joke only works if you know the man’s name is pronounced “Ooh-vay Bull,” if then.