The epistolary musings of Blogcritics Aaron Fleming, of Generic Mugwump, and The Duke De Mondo, of Mondo Irlando, presented at regular intervals by way of appeasing scholars of the popular culture and also minimizing the profits of possibly paramilitary-linked bootleggers.

Matters relating to The Hills Have Eyes (2006)

The Duke De Mondo Writes To Aaron Fleming

Dear Aaron,

I write to you from a boarding house situated seventeen kilometres west of Sligo and not a shit's fling shy of Mounthillydale Abbey, wherein, you'll be delighted to note, I have found temporary employment as a crucifix between the hours of 7 a.m. and 6 p.m. Monday-Friday and 3 p.m. to 5 p.m. every second Sunday in the month. The Abbey has become something of a home away from prison for me, and it is also the very spot, I might add, wherein I first encountered Father Emmett Mustard Delaney, the fellow to whom this epistolary narrative somewhat loosely relates.

It was whilst hanging from the neck of Sister Mary Shrinewipe some three days ago that Father Delaney first caught my eye. He was pacing the floor of the chapel in a terrible funk of the brain-bags regarding the recent spate of lycanthropic delirium afflicting the inhabitants of the nearby parish. A truly abysmal situation it all is, my friend, scarcely an hour goes by without a man sexing an Alsatian or gobbling the bejeesus out a virgin's very diddy-bumps.

Father Delaney, he was muttering and swearing and reeking of solvents, aye, the air all lashed and torn with any amount of fucks and whores and bastards. Sister Shrinewipe, she approached the cleric cautiously, all cooing on about "Worry none, Father" and "Sure maybe we could take ourselves off to the picture-show of an evening, get your mind off of this wolverine devilry."

Father Delaney grudgingly agreed, and, after ridding himself of a fair ol' erection was gnawing the legs something savage, we all made our way to the movie house two miles south of the Abbey.

The priest barked at the usher in a manner suggesting that not only didn't he care what picture he saw, but also, he'd be fucked backwards cross a thicket if'n he'd pay a penny for the privilege. The usher, a God-fearing lad with a wild case of the tongue-boils, he lisped all about how of course, Father, and might he suggest screen three, which, as of not very long ago, had been playing host to an unrated picture from the Americas, work by the name of The Hills Have Eyes, a remake of yonder Wes Craven number from the year Blessed Elvis done shat himself to death.

It makes sense, of course, that the horror cinema of the seventies is proving so appealing to filmmakers of the nowadays. American horror was, for much of that decade, loaded to the bell-end bindings with political commentary and subversive attack. Those pictures were cynical, questioning, paranoid and frightened by the direction we were headed, and so aye, if any set of flicks is going to be relevant to the nowadays, it's going to be those numbers about how we're all fucking fucked.