Blogcritics

Announcement: Short-content feeds

Phillip Winn — Sun, 26 Aug 2007 12:00:00 EDT

Sunday, August 26, 2007, marks the switch of all Blogcritics.org article feeds from full-content to short-content. This is the result of several converging factors, and is unfortunately a permanent decision (as permanent as any decision can be on the web, that is). We are aware of all of the reasons that this is a Bad Idea, and we are aware that some of you will be quite upset about having to click on something to read the free content, and we're sorry. Unfortunately, despite great effort, full-content feeds are not currently economically viable. Two other factors are involved: full-content feeds have resulted in an unprecedented level of content theft, with BC content appearing on many websites, usually spam sites, without attribution or permission. This duplicate content causes a cascading set of problems, not the least of which is that search engines generally aren't favorable to duplicate content, and don't always guess correctly. Finally, our RSS advertising partner is strongly in favor of short-content feeds. We hope that you'll continue to subscribe to BC via RSS, and when an article grabs your eye, it's only a click away, still free on the BC website. Thank you for your understanding.

B-Movie of the Week: Ninja Death II

T. Rigney — Thu, 28 Jun 2007 20:47:11 EDT

The impending death of analog television will inevitably claim the lives of the hundreds of low-power television stations sprinkled across this country like tiny red pimples on your bed-ridden grandfather's oversized posterior. WBLU in Lexington, Kentucky has already been seized by the same greedy corporation responsible for pumping Telemundo into the homes of countless illegal immigrants nationwide, leaving this spiffy little city without any independent television stations to speak of. Gone are the days of the midnight movie, the Sunday afternoon matinee, and my personal favorite, the indispensable kung fu theater.Ninja Death II, with a little editing to excise the pointless nudity and gratuitous sex, would have fit nicely within my former employer's cozy line-up of classic public domain comedies and Don "The Dragon" Wilson action vehicles. In fact, the majority of the titles found nesting inside Mill Creek Entertainment's incredible 50 Martial Arts Movie Pack would have been welcomed additions to our stable of ultra wonky celluloid. As a guy who discovered his untapped passion for B-grade cinema thanks to several locally-operated television stations, it saddens me to think that this cost-effective form of televised entertainment will gradually disappear once the world has collectively jacked into the digital arena.Thankfully, we still have films such as Ninja Death II to fall back on. The sequel to one of the craziest low-budget kung fu movies of all time picks up conveniently right where the first one left off. After relaying a few interesting tidbits of information regarding Tiger's storied past to his young student, the one known only as The Master clocks himself on the forehead and promptly drops dead. Devastated by the loss, our fearless hero begins training in the ways of Royal Kung Fu, a style which obviously requires lots of straining, flexing, and the occasional splash in a nearby stream. His new teacher -- a cranky blind chap with a sharp wit -- is on-hand to make sure Tiger doesn't screw things up.Lurking suspiciously behind the scenes is The Grand Master, a stylish fiend who begins to suspect that two of his minions are, in fact, aiding Tiger in his quest to destroy this sadistic sect of nimble ninjas. More importantly, this dastardly villain has recently misplaced his prized possession: a hulking masked madman who has been brainwashed to do The Grand Master's evil bidding. As secrets slowly begin to emerge from the woodwork, Tiger will be forced to use his considerable kung fu prowess to defeat a seemingly endless supply of sword-wielding warriors who are hellbent on his complete and utter destruction. And if he has time, he'll mindlessly rape a virgin. Yikes.The opening 30 minutes of Ninja Death II are nothing more than a quick overview of the first film, giving those who are unfamiliar with the storyline a chance to sink into the action with a bare minimum of head scratching. Of course, the plot soon twists itself into a tasteless food court pretzel, forcing those who weren't paying close attention to ponder aloud the sudden appearance of several new characters. And just when things are starting to really pick up, the film ends abruptly with the same silly sequence used to wrap up the first installment. It's lame, yes, but at least the anonymous filmmakers didn't expect you to swallow the whole thing in one sitting. How impossibly selfless and considerate!In terms of unstoppable action, Ninja Death II is surprisingly tame. There are a few interesting confrontations, I suppose, but nothing that equals the hilarity contained inside the first chapter of the series. You will, however, be subjected to creepy erotic encounters, the forced deflowering of a homely virgin, and lots of lingering shots of our hero's sweaty man-chest. If that sounds like an evening of family fun to you, by all means, have at it. Personally, the lack of outrageous action and quotable dialogue left me a tad disappointed. Here's hoping the insanity increases considerably in Ninja Death III. At this point, there's really nowhere to go but up.Ninja Death II isn't exactly the mind-blowing kung fu experience I was hoping it would be. The fight sequences are few and far between, the 30-minute flashback is a drag, and the uncomfortable sexual encounters are entirely pointless in the grand scheme of things. To be fair, Ninja Death did set the bar kind of high, leaving this puny sequel to languish in the realm of shattered expectations. If the Gods are accepting my poorly-worded prayer requests, Ninja Death III will return the franchise to its rightful place in the kooky kung fu universe. As it stands, I'm a little apprehensive about continuing my adventures with the childlike martial arts hero they call Tiger.I just hope he doesn't rape me in my sleep.

T. Rigney was specifically designed for the mass consumption of B-grade cinema from around the world. His roughly translated thoughts and feelings can be found lurking suspiciously at The Film Fiend, Fatally Yours, and Film Threat. According to legend, his chaotic, child-like scribblings have cured cancer on fourteen different life-supporting planets.

B-Movie of the Week: Ninja Death

T. Rigney — Thu, 21 Jun 2007 13:58:18 EDT

Bad kung fu movies are a great way to mindlessly burn away an otherwise gloomy afternoon. Few cinematic experiences can deliver the same kind of unbridled mirth obtained from witnessing a poorly dubbed martial arts movie, especially if the film in question is stuffed like your mother's Thanksgiving turkey with horrible dialogue, ridiculous fights, and a whorehouse teeming with every venereal disease known to mankind. One of the easiest ways to acquire such a picture is to say your prayers every night and to sacrifice the remains of your childhood pets to the all-knowing, God-like, dog-shaped figurine in the sky. Or so I've been told, anyway.I received the hopelessly obscure kung fu opus Ninja Death when I dropped several crisp American dollars for the Martial Arts 50 Movie Pack, a box set filled with some of the lamest and most hilariously awful kung fu flicks I've ever had the privilege of owning. It's a treasure trove for the bad cinema aficionado, a cheap cardboard container housing all sorts of questionable martial arts booty. You know you're just aching to purchase a copy for yourself, you impossibly randy bastard.The story concerns itself with a guy named Tiger and his misadventures while managing a small Chinese brothel teeming with exotic female companions. Naturally, life is as dandy as store bought candy for our mildly ridiculous hero, that is, until a group of shady Japanese characters open a bordello on the other end of town. And when I say shady Japanese characters, I mean ninjas. Nimble ninjas, the kind that wear solid black outfits and wield extremely sharp swords. Needless to say, the competition is deadly serious about providing incredible customer satisfaction at cutthroat prices.The ninjas, it would seem, are led by the mysterious Grand Master, a sinister fellow who is desperately searching for a man with a unique plum flower tattoo plastered prominently across his hairless chest. Tiger's mentor, a gentleman known only as "The Master," believes this new threat is linked to his pupil's storied past, prompting the old man to prepare his student for the battle to come. Once the obligatory training sequence is out of the way, Tiger and The Master are forced to contend with a number of bizarro enemies as their lives quickly spiral out of control. Can these two bumbling heroes stop the Grand Master from accomplishing his sadistic mission before the film ends abruptly?Since the epic Ninja Death saga has been broken into an easily digestible three-course meal, I've decided to approach each segment as an individual film. I also recommend that you do the same, allowing at least a 24-hour gestation period in between chapters. Why, you ask, should you wait one full day to continue this awe-inspiring narrative? Because, dear readers, consuming this life-altering kung fu extravaganza in one sitting could cause serious damage to basic bodily functions, including loss of eyesight, permanent erectile dysfunction, and a particularly nasty case of pink eye. You've been warned.With a name like Ninja Death, one should expect to find the following off-brand items peppered throughout the film: lots of ninjas and a considerable amount of death. Thankfully, the filmmakers -- who have kindly removed their names from the opening credits -- didn't skimp on the essentials, serving a generous portion of violent martial arts wizardry to those hungry for such fattening fare. The numerous fight sequences are suitably outlandish and appropriately cheesy, thanks in part to a cast of unbelievably kooky characters and their impressive arsenal of goofy ninja weaponry. The hulking brute in the devil mask is a personal favorite, a man designed specifically to appeal to the eight year-old boy lurking inside every moronic kung fu fan. It's okay -- I'm there for you.The most appealing aspect of this film, however, would be the English dub soundtrack. Midway through the picture, everyone develops a zany British accent, replacing the dodgy American-tinged voice work heard during the first action-packed thirty minutes. The transition is subtle, mind you, but you'll pick up on it sooner or later, I'm sure. The quality of the dub, of course, allows for a number of infinitely quotable moments, the kind of garbage you'll trade back and forth with your nifty MySpace pals for months to come. It's bad poetry in motion. Simply marvelous.Ninja Death is the ultimate martial arts party movie, an off-beat kung fu adventure overflowing with gratuitous violence, pointless nudity, uncomfortable sex scenes, bawdy humor, and lots of spiffy expletives. If the sequels are as genuinely absorbing as the first entry, yours truly will be a very, very happy camper lost in a forest filled with enormous psychedelic mushrooms. As it stands, Ninja Death is reason enough to drop a small wad of sweaty cash for Mill Creek Entertainment's satisfying Martial Arts 50 Movie Pack. It's a bad kung fu fan's dream come true. With ninjas.And death.

B-Movie of the Week: Mountaintop Motel Massacre

T. Rigney — Wed, 13 Jun 2007 03:50:10 EDT

The next time you decide to spend the night at one of those locally owned motels situated suspiciously in the middle of nowhere, be sure to check your room for the following items: poisonous snakes, flesh-eating rats, and an elaborate tunnel system created by the psychotic old lady who runs the joint. If your room contains one or more of the aforementioned items, run frantically through the surrounding woods until you stumble across someone who can help you locate the nearest redneck township. Heed my words, weary travelers!The obscure 1986 genre travelogue Mountaintop Motel Massacre is yet another putrid blemish on the mom & pop lodging industry, portraying these unfortunate business people as impossibly disturbed individuals with an insatiable lust for murder, madness, and mayhem. Using Alfred Hitchcock's masterpiece Psycho as a guideline, director Jim McCullough spreads his own unique hillbilly butter all over this painfully familiar slice of generic white bread. It's not the finest slab of cinema you'll ever pay money to witness, mind you, but it does manage to provide a rainy evening's worth of entertainment if you can overlook a set of wonky hand-crafted flaws.After accidentally filleting her daughter for stupidly experimenting with the dark arts, Mountaintop Motel manager Evelyn Chambers slowly begins to lose what's left of her deranged little mind. To help soothe the voices rattling around inside her skull, she torments the paying customers with a nasty selection of bugs, critters, and reptiles. These diabolical activities soon become an insufferable bore, forcing this grandmotherly nut job to exponentially increase her psychotic tendencies. Using a dusty series of underground passages to accomplish her lofty goals, Evelyn effectively slices and dices her way through the odd collection of guests who have made the questionable decision to spend the night at the motel. Can they band together and stop this crazy old woman before she kills again?Drenched in eerie atmosphere and scored with the noise scooped directly from a schizophrenic musician's nonsensical nightmare, Mountaintop Motel Massacre is a lot more interesting than it has any right to be. What passes for a story is basically an inbred redneck redux of Psycho, with a demented old lady in place of the immortal Anthony Perkins. Though the groundwork itself may seem very familiar to those who spend way too much time indoors, McCullough's execution of the material couldn't be more different. If you enjoy watching elderly people stumbling through narrow passageways, this flick was tailor-made just for you. Congratulations, loser!Since this film was released by the notoriously bland New World Pictures, one shouldn't expect earth-shattering performances from its cast of pasty white unknowns. Anna Chappel, Major Brock, and Bill Thurman are probably the best of the bunch, turning in respectable if somewhat limp performances in their respective roles. The rest of the cast, sadly, is either wooden, forgettable, or just plain awful. To be fair, this is a low-budget slasher from the 1980's -- expecting anything more is just silly. You know better than that, boy.A friendly word of advice to horror buffs searching for buckets of blood and guts: don't bother. The violence found scattered throughout Mountaintop Motel Massacre is decent, yes, but it's certainly not what you'd expect from this kind of brainless genre release. That said, some of the murders are surprisingly gruesome, powered by some competent special effects work from somebody named Drew Edward Hunter. Kudos to you, kind sir, for giving this otherwise mediocre flick a shred of valuable street cred.Jim McCullough's Mountaintop Motel Massacre is an oddity, and it should be approached as such. Expecting anything else would be an exercise in serious delusion. However, if you're someone who appreciates bizarre horror flicks from an era that seems to have an endless supply of them, perhaps this obscure outing is worth a look-see when there's nothing else to do with your spare time. Keep your expectations as low to the ground as possible, prepare yourself for some slower moments, and keep an eye on your tattered bathroom rug.Who knows what kind of elderly freaks are lurking just beneath your soiled linoleum?

B-Movie of the Week: Big Bad Wolf

T. Rigney — Thu, 7 Jun 2007 11:39:25 EDT

Allow me to present a helpful hint for aspiring genre filmmakers around the world: If and when you make the questionable decision to give your horrific cinematic monstrosity the gift of gab, you should pay very careful attention to the words and phrases that pour from his/her/its blood-stained maw. Many directors have attempted to inject some much-needed humor into their horror-based production by allowing their hairy creations to spout off at the mouth whenever the urge strikes them, only to watch in absolute terror as their celluloid offspring fails to elicit anything other than a few unintentional chuckles from its intended audience. Sometimes silence can speak volumes.Director Lance W. Dreesen's nouveau werewolf opus Big Bad Wolf suffers greatly from what I like to refer to as Chatty Villain Syndrome, or CVS. Warwick Davis' Leprechaun series, while obviously not a barometer for what the genre can accomplish, is another franchise stricken with this oh so deadly disease, as are the last few Nightmare on Elm Street entries we've been forced to nibble upon. I've always held the belief that villains are much more frightening and intimidating when they're not trying to make me wet my diapers with the kind of ribald humor only mentally-challenged fifth graders would find remotely appealing. After all, nobody likes to die laughing.Big Bad Wolf, on the other hand, has something going for it few werewolf flicks can claim, namely an engaging, well-scripted narrative worthy of your dwindling, media-saturated attention span. The inclusion of '80s bad-ass Richard Tyson (Three O'Clock High, Kindergarten Cop) is also a huge golden bonus, allowing this intimidating, square-jawed nightmare of a man to do exactly what he does best: scare the unsweetened Jesus Christ Superstar out of me. Had this intriguing concept come packaged with an interesting creature that didn't upchuck ridiculously cheesy one-liners all over his would-be victims, perhaps Dreesen's clever little film wouldn't strongly resemble a neutered puppy whimpering sadly in a soiled cardboard box.Awww. Poor puppy.The story, choking desperately on its borrowed plotlines, follows the nerdy misadventures of teenage outcast Derek Cowley (Trevor Duke). When he's not busy desperately trying to make friends with a couple of brainless fraternity clowns or pining endlessly for best friend/sexy auto mechanic Samantha (Kimberly J. Brown), our virginal hero is trying to determine whether or not his abusive stepfather Mitchell (Tyson) is a shape-shifting member of the lycanthropian race. With the help of his devilishly handsome uncle and his lifelong fellatio-prone sidekick, Derek must unravel the mystery behind a series of horrific murders before he and his crew become a plate of tasty name brand dog food -- the kind that makes its own gravy. The horror!Though I'm quick to poke Big Bad Wolf's ticklish storyline with my trusty Ball Point Pen of Giggling Cinematic Justice, I was actually more interested in the character's struggle to stop this suburban werewolf than the end result of the titular creature's gore-encrusted midnight snacks. There's a surprising amount of depth to be found here, that is, if you can get past a painfully trite opening sequence that involves not only a walking, talking, wise-cracking wolf man, but a particularly foul, bestiality-tinged rape scene as well. Of course, chances are you'll be thrusting your fingers towards the stop button long before his wolf dork gets down to serious womanizing business.A quick question for all the genre fans in the house tonight: What crucial element is essential to the successful creation of a balls-out werewolf picture? If you're one of the pasty individuals who boldly proclaimed "Decent make-up effects!" to a room full of stuffed animals, pat yourself firmly on the back until you have achieved sufficient self-satisfaction. Unfortunately, the effects department is where Big Bad Wolf falls painfully short. For the film's wolf-oriented sequences, Richard Tyson appears to have been dipped in a vat of pine tar and covered with several pounds of unsanitized pubic hair, resulting in a hilariously awful sight gag that is compounded exponentially by the atrocious dialogue that flows like spoiled Cream of Wheat from his barely functioning mouth. Good or bad, it's definitely unique.On the performance end of town, the film is unexpectedly tight. Trevor Duke and Kimberly J. Brown do wonders with their respective roles, giving you plenty of reasons to keep watching long after the thrill of a talking werewolf has shuffled off its mortal coil. And while Richard Tyson does an incredible job of making my anus quiver with unbridled fear, he seems a little befuddled when it comes to delivering his comedic catch phrases. Everyone else is either pleasant, uneven, or forgettable. I'll let you figure out the specifics for yourself. Why should I have all the fun?Before you decide to pick up this Big Bad Wolf from the local Humane Society, you should adequately prepare yourself for a meaty selection of cornball dialogue, a creature design that lacks both a believable creature and a solid design, and twenty minutes worth of material that smells a little too much like Wes Craven's outhouse floater Cursed for me to be anything other than completely uncomfortable. However, if you can overlook these flaws and embrace the film for what it is, the underlying theme of abusive relationships and how they affect the human condition will lovingly curl up at your misshapen feet.And, possibly, piss on your trousers.

B-Movie of the Week: Breaker! Breaker!

T. Rigney — Tue, 29 May 2007 18:17:38 EDT

When one takes a moment out of his or her busy schedule to ponder the many men and women who have portrayed stereotypical truck drivers on the big screen, the grinning face of karate master Chuck Norris isn't something that normally passes before the mind's eye. In fact, I had absolutely no idea that my tenth favorite action icon had ever situated his spin-kicking rump inside the smelly cab of a snazzy cargo-hauling, diesel-powered big rig until just recently. When a co-worker gleefully suggested I immediately investigate the film in question, I promptly procured a slightly-worn VHS copy and parked my pathetic posterior precisely in front of my persnickety television set.Breaker! Breaker! is without a doubt my all-time favorite Chuck Norris movie, far surpassing both Invasion USA and Code of Silence in terms of pure, unadulterated cheesy action mayhem. It's the quintessential '70s American martial arts picture, a painfully shallow excuse to throw 90 minutes worth of spin-kicking, third eye-concentrating nonsense at your already faltering senses. The story is about as structurally sound as a cardboard outhouse in tropical storm, of course, though I doubt this will matter much to the sort of cinematic freaks who will flock to this incredibly underrated Norris masterpiece.Sporting a shiny upper lip and a surprisingly genuine demeanor, Chuck Norris literally set my house ablaze with his staggering turn as John David "JD" Dawes, an arm-wrasslin', truck-drivin', brother-lovin' sum-bitch who won't hesitate to kick you and your whole family through multiple shoddy pinewood walls if you so much as look at him the wrong way. If that meaty slice of information wasn't enough to melt the cotton bloomers off your near-sighted great-grandmother, JD is also a kind, gentle soul who wants nothing more than to teach the world how to discover the inner strength gained from proper daily meditation.Unfortunately for world peace, things take a brutal turn for the worse when our hero's baby brother mindlessly pilots his truck into Texas City, California, a tiny podunk town governed by the cruel and unusual Judge Trimmings. Once John David receives word that his sibling is up to his skinny little neck in slack-jawed redneck trouble, he hops into his pimped out eagle van with one thing on his mind: Dispense an unprecedented amount of karate justice to the opportunistic hillbilly pot scrubbers who have wrongfully kidnapped his brother. Can JD completely destroy this worthless town and bed the local female rebel before time runs out? You know he will, girlfriend.Even if you dismiss Breaker! Breaker! as a simple late-'70s oddity, you can't deny the power of its underlying message. I can assure you that every single person who shops at Wal-Mart within these thrifty fifty United States takes their frozen food products for granted, never stopping to think about the inherent risks involved when shipping these chilly items across the country. Breaker! Breaker!, besides providing lots of giddy karate mischief at wholesale prices, gives you an in-depth look at the dangers generally associated with the TV dinner industry. Those "tasty " nuggets of processed meat and vegetables don't just magically appear overnight in your grocer's freezers, dear readers. It takes a virtual squadron of brave men and women to deliver these treats to your greedy overworked stomach juices.Utilizing his then-untapped skills as a dramatic actor, Chuck Norris captures the endless struggle of your average American truck driver with deadly pinpoint accuracy. JD Dawes is essentially your prototypical man's man, a no-nonsense karate guru who, among other things, likes to snake his way into the panties of any woman brave enough to face the interior of his stylish blue van. While most beer-swilling white guys sporting oily mullets will appreciate his rough and tumble approach to truck stop bullies, gap-toothed women from around the world will swoon over his rippling muscles, his goofy warm smile. So inspired was I by Norris' drippy charisma that I've based my latest batch of cosmetic surgeries around his physical appearance in Breaker! Breaker!My parents are so proud.Those of you thirsting for some patented Carlos Ray Norris action will surely find this cinematic teat worthy of a long, slow suckle. Some of the fight sequences are actually quite thrilling, while others strongly resemble drunken frat boys play fighting on the sidewalk outside of any locally-owned, all-night strip club across the globe. Sometimes you just have to accept quantity over quality, I'm afraid. Like guzzling cheap off-brand beer just to get drunk, you'll have to finish the entire movie before the proverbial buzz kicks in. Sorry if that spoils the party for everyone.Breaker! Breaker!, I've been told, will rot your teeth. It'll make your parents worry about you, turn your friends bitterly against you. When you admit your approval of this film to your church's conservative congregation, they will roll their eyes at you, pray for your blackened soul on bended geriatric knees. However, your snobby friends in the TV dinner industry will sing your praises for appreciating a film that tackles their daily lives in such an impossibly realistic fashion. If I were an employee of an international frozen foods company, I'd want my children to experience this film every day of their pitifully insignificant lives. It's like a yummy microwave meal for the human condition.Don't forget to cut a slit in the film before cooking.

B-Movie of the Week: Boy Eats Girl

T. Rigney — Wed, 23 May 2007 21:19:02 EDT

Did you happen to read the tagline of this charming review on your way through the door? In case you were wondering, that's my brand-spanking new philosophy on life. If someone's going to tell me I have cancer, the black plague, or some other potentially fatal disease, I want the news delivered with an accent. Doesn't matter what kind, mind you, as long as it's not American. For some bizarre reason, everything just sounds better that way. Call me crazy; call me anti-American; hell, call me pro-accent. Regardless of what you say about me, it's not going to change the fact that anything delivered with a "foreign accent" is much more fascinating to behold. This, of course, may help to explain why I loved Stephen Bradley's Irish-lensed zombie comedy Boy Eats Girl a lot more than I probably should have.What can I say? I'm a sucker for them Ireland types.Here's the setup: Nathan (David Leon) loves Jessica (Samantha Mumba), and Jessica, it seems, loves Nathan. But, as it usually goes with silly high school romances between best friends, they just can't seem to tell one another how they truly feel. After Jessica misses a potentially touchy-feely encounter with her beau-to-be, Nathan is convinced she's just blowing him off. It doesn't help matters any when he sees Jessica catching a ride with the town's resident playboy, a sleazy fellow who is just aching to see what's lurking beneath her skirt.Feeling down in the dumps and bluer than the Cookie Monster with a batch of sugar-free biscuits, Nathan fashions a noose from his bedroom ceiling and foolishly tests the limits of his suicidal tendencies. Moments later, his mother enters the room, knocks poor Nathan off-balance, and sends him into the Great Beyond.Fortunately for everyone, Nathan's mom discovered an ancient spellbook in a secret chamber of the local church earlier that day, thus allowing this mourning parent to bring her dead son back to life. However, his resurrection doesn't come without a few grisly side-effects. To put a finer point on it, Nathan is now a flesh-munching, card-carrying member of the living dead. Despite his best efforts to control this unnatural hunger, our zombified hero eventually bites a few of his dimwitted classmates, setting off a horrific series of events in the process. Mild pubescent hilarity slowly ensues.It's quite obvious that director Stephen Bradley and screenwriter Derek Landy have seen Shaun of the Dead one too many times; their like-minded script is peppered generously with the same kind of gruesome lovestruck humor found in Edgar Wright's certified zombie classic. Though the teenage hijinks unfold like an Irish version of a generic CW high school drama, there's enough bloody gore and unbridled zombie mayhem to keep genre fans adhered to their great-grandmothers' plastic-covered loveseats.That said, the red stuff really doesn't start to flow until the final act, culminating in an over-the-top finale that appears to have been heavily influenced by a very popular, very gory New Zealand zombie film from the early '90s. For fear of ruining the surprise for everyone who desires to partake in this lightweight outing, I'll keep the details of this juicy moment a secret, since I'd hate to detract from the film's one true gross-out moment. Let's just say that Mumba is capable of much more than belting out watered-down pop songs over synthetic drum loops. Who knew?Despite a bevy of cornball dialogue and the employment of over two thousand tired high school cliches, most of the characters found roaming the halls of this lukewarm comedy are actually quite likable. Again, I'm not entirely sure if my fondness for these paper-thin teens is due to the genuine, honest to God talent of the cast or if I'm just a big ol' pasty sucker for an Irish accent. This theory continues to boggle my squishy little brain 24-7, and I'm more than a little embarrassed to admit such a thing in print for all to see. Besides, I'd like to think that I can tell the difference between a solid performance and a charming accent.Don't tell anyone, okay?My only major concern with Boy Eats Girl is that it may be a little too pedestrian to succeed as a full-fledged zombie picture. While we do get lots of flesh-ripping carnage and several gooey death sequences, they always feel a little too safe for their own good, as if the filmmakers were intentionally restraining themselves from soaking their flick in sticky gore. By the time we finally get to our daily allowance of undead violence, the film has almost run its course. What a shame. That's not to say Stephen Bradley's horrific love story is a complete and utter failure, mind you. Heavens, no. In fact, it works rather well as a mindless teen comedy.Just not as a full-on horror film.At the end of the day, Boy Eats Girl is an interesting way to spend 80-odd minutes of your astonishingly simple life. It's a brisk, fast-paced tale of a boy, his mates, and the girl he loves. With zombies, of course. However, if you're looking for the same masterfully crafted experience other horror-laced romantic comedies have to offer, you're going to be sorely disappointed with this one. Boy Eats Girl is as shallow as the high school setting it attempts to satire, and while that may rub some people the wrong way, I found it to be rather charming -- in an oddball kind of way, of course. Then again, maybe it's the accents.One can never be too sure about such things.

B-Movie of the Week: Latin Dragon

T. Rigney — Thu, 17 May 2007 11:19:37 EDT

Displayed prominently on the DVD artwork just above the title of Scott Thomas' snappy martial arts flick Latin Dragon lies a very, very bold statement. This incredibly ballsy tagline reads, and I quote, "Finally... a Latino action hero." Surely you jest! If I'm not mistaken, there have been countless Latino kung fu masters/action icons sprinkled throughout the world's rich cinematic history, all of whom were devoted to delivering high-quality thrills to a community that is oddly overlooked at the local cineplex. Though this neglected group may not have oodles and oodles of action heroes ready to thrust their feet into the necks of whatever evil doer happens to be in town that week, they at least have a few to choose from. Right?Wrong! Dead wrong!While I can't say whether or not 2004's Latin Dragon is the first action-oriented motion picture to cast a strong Latino chap in the lead role, I do know for a fact that its the first flick of its kind to feature a Ray Romano impersonator as the film's proverbial hero. The resemblance is so strong, so brutally uncanny that it almost detracts from the flick's fine selection of spellbinding kung fu wizardry. If you can shake the strange feeling that Peter Boyle is seconds away from stepping into the frame and delivering one of his patented snarky one-liners, most action fans should get a shiny spin kick or two out of this enjoyable Latino-centric extravaganza.Martial arts maniac Fabian Carrillo stars as Daniel Silva, a supposed war hero who returns to the old neighborhood after escaping from one of those mythological foreign prisons one rarely sees on what passes for American news networks these days. Much to his heavy-lidded dismay, Daniel's old stomping grounds have been overrun by an army of tattooed gang bangers led by a trigger happy punk named Paco. Eager to set things right, our hero begins dispatching his unique brand of bone-breaking justice as soon as his feet hit the pavement, a decision which angers a few evil white guys who are pulling the silly strings from behind the scenes.Why would a pair of fine upstanding blokes such as Gary Busey and Lorenzo Lamas need a Latino gang to do their dirty work? I'm glad you asked. It seems that Busey is eager to take control of this particular stretch of land in an effort to turn a quick buck, leaving him no choice but to hire a few local goons to persuade those who are holding out on him. What he didn't anticipate, of course, was the meddling of a former military assassin trained in the ways of the martial arts. Can Daniel prevent these nefarious knuckleheads from destroying what's left of his community before he loses everything that ever mattered to him?When Latin Dragon made an unscheduled appearance on Lexington's last independent television station sometime last year, I immediately dismissed it as yet another generic action wannabe starring Gary Busey and a host of quasi-professional unknowns. Instead of suffering through what I thought would be an excruciatingly painful two hours of alternative Sunday afternoon programming, I picked up a book on how to get cheap red wine out of white polyester pants and promptly fell asleep in our cozy second-hand desk chair. Ah, those were the days.However, once director Scott Thomas' latest low-budget effort Plane Dead had finished wowing me into a giddy frenzy, I figured it was only fair that I give Latin Dragon another shot at providing yours truly with 90-plus minutes worth of solid entertainment. One can only imagine my shrieking schoolgirl delight when this modest martial arts vehicle managed to bring a toothy yellow smile to my goofy Caucasian grill. Yes, the story is insipid and simple, the acting is nil, and the plot twists can be spotted doing donuts in the middle of the freeway during rush hour from fourteen miles away. But it's also a lot of fun, something that cannot be said for the many like-minded productions I see clogging the arteries of my favorite local video store.What prevents this flick from becoming yet another faceless kung fu outing is Scott Thomas' knack for kinetic action sequences and some damn fine fight choreography from Fabian Carrillo. Ray Romano jokes aside, the man is quite good at what he does, regardless of his questionable talents as a dramatic actor. If nothing else, Latin Dragon gives its rising star dozens of opportunities to deliver some hardcore hand-to-hand damage, including a very cool final reel showdown with everyone's favorite B-grade tough guy Lorenzo Lamas. Note to Art Camacho and those who would follow in his tiny footsteps: Lamas needs a production that puts his considerable talents to good use. The guy has been wallowing in the trenches for way too long.Someone get this man a decent script yesterday, people!If you're the type of guy or gal or pre-op transsexual who enjoys campy action flicks supported by some very engaging action sequences, Latin Dragon is definitely worth a rental. Scott Thomas and Fabian Carrillo do an admirable job without ever taking themselves too seriously. More importantly, these talented individuals give the Latino community a chance to see a genre flick that doesn't portray them all as moronic mean-spirited thugs. We can only hope and pray this trend will continue well into the future. In the meantime, I'm keeping my fingers crossed for that Ethiopian knock-off of The Matrix Rosie O'Donnell told me about last week.Who's with me?

B-Movie of the Week: Plane Dead

T. Rigney — Wed, 9 May 2007 17:52:15 EDT

Let's face the bitter facts, dear readers: Like it or not, zombie flicks are apparently here to stay. Despite the fact that video stores across the globe are saturated in cheap, low-budget undead productions from a neverending stream of emerging talent, up-and-coming filmmakers still rely on this dodgy subgenre to help propel their wonky careers into the proverbial stratosphere. And as some of you well know, only a small handful of these pictures are worth seeking out; the rest, I'm afraid, should be immediately dumped into your local neighborhood cistern and stricken from our collective memory. I'm sorry, but it's the only way humanity will survive.I'll bring the shovel if you supply the moonshine. Deal?Anyway, if you're in the market for an action-packed, direct-to-video zombie film that attempts to shake things up a bit, perhaps you should schedule a meeting with Latin Dragon director Scott Thomas' enthralling undead splatterfest Plane Dead, also known as Flight of the Living Dead. While it may bear a striking resemblance to a certain Samuel L. Jackson vehicle involving snakes and planes, don't let the similarities dissuade you from experiencing this superior horror outing for yourself. Popcorn zombie productions are rarely this genuinely exciting.When random groups of rogue scientists suddenly decide to transport their oh-so-mysterious cargo from one clandestine location to another, I'm sure they all choose to fly commercial. If nothing else, it allows for the maximum amount of bloody carnage should their dangerous luggage accidentally unleash a zombie horde on the unsuspecting passengers. Sure, they may sully their precious reputations in the process, but it makes for a lovely little anecdote once the legions of the undead have been properly contained. I speak from experience.Who will fearlessly battle endless waves of shrieking zombies when they burst through the floorboards, chew up the flight attendants, and steal seats from the first class passengers? If you said Richard Tyson, Kevin J. O'Connor, David Chisum, and Kristen Kerr, then give yourself a firm pat on the backside. This unlikely group of makeshift heroes will ultimately band together in order to save everyone who's still alive from becoming a fleshy chew toy for the eternally damned. Can they successfully land the plane before the United States government blows them out of the sky, or will all their efforts be in vain?If you only see one monster movie that takes place thousands of feet above the ground in your lifetime, Plane Dead is definitely the way to roll. Director Scott Thomas and his talented crew have crafted one of the best low-budget zombie pictures to come down the ol' pipeline in quite some time. Granted, the film is certainly not the most original slice of empty-calorie cinema you'll see this year, but it does manage to inject some serious fun into a subgenre that could use a little cheering up. Those of you who have grown tired of these so-called "mature" zombie flicks should definitely pick up this insane little number whenever it runs screaming into a video store near you sometime soon.Speaking of running and screaming, the good zombified folks in Plane Dead aren't afraid of breaking a sweat when it comes to acquiring their chow. I personally don't have a problem with fast-moving zombies, regardless of what horror purists may have to say on the subject. The undead buggers in this particular effort are lean, mean, and quick to gobble you up. They also have a tendency to pop through floors, mirrors, and whatever else happens to be in their way at the time. If this controversial technique prevents you from checking out Scott Thomas' thoroughly entertaining horror opus, then shame on you and yours, buddy. You don't deserve to have fun.On top of a smart script and some break-neck pacing, Plane Dead is also supported by a bevy of very talented second-rate thespians. Though the names and faces may not be instantly familiar to your average movie-going schlub, those of us who spend much of our free time swimming in murky B-movie rivers will be thrilled to see a few old favorites on board this gooey little flight. Besides the four I've already listed, the prospective viewer will be treated to the cinematic stylings of Dale Midkiff, Erick Avari, Todd Babcock, and Derek Webster, among others. Everyone does a fabulous job keeping the tone light and breezy, a trait that allows Plane Dead to rise to the surface of the straight-to-video universe.If you can overlook the fact that this picture is essentially a Snakes on a Plane knock-off with dozens of flesh-eating zombies in place of some lousy CGI reptiles, I think Plane Dead will satisfy the horror-hungry monstrosity living just beneath your sickly skin. The film never once takes itself too seriously, nor does it stop to dump unnecessary exposition or character development onto your weak and weary shoulders. It may not reinvent the wheel, mind you, but it does manage to stuff lots of undead action into a slick 90-minute excursion into a subgenre that could use a fresh coat of blood red paint. Hey, if you're going to make a zombie picture in this day and age, you might as well try to do something a little different with the material, even if you do steal the idea from someone else.Keep your snakes, naysayers; I'll take my chances with the pretty ghouls.

B-Movie of the Week: Illegal Aliens

T. Rigney — Thu, 3 May 2007 14:45:58 EDT

It's no industry secret that morgue-ready celebrities make wonderful marketing gimmicks. Professional Hollywood freakshow Courtney Love is well aware of that fact, as are the owners of Elvis Presley's oh so profitable estate. America's increasingly morbid curiosity with the lives of the recently deceased is becoming a very big business; I'm sure countless entertainment agents across this glorious nation are encouraging their lightweight clients to consider suicide as a shifty form of career advancement. After all, nothing moves product like a bloated, maggot-ridden corpse.A fine example of this macabre theory in motion is director David Giancola's intentionally campy B-movie extravaganza Illegal Aliens, starring that mind-boggling entity known only as Anna Nicole Smith. Were she still attempting to walk and talk and breathe at this very moment, nobody would give a good goddamn about this so-called motion picture. It would have been dumped into the retail marketplace with little fanfare whatsoever, promptly fading into obscurity as soon as it hit video store shelves. Assuming, of course, that anyone would want to stock this turkey in the first place.However, thanks to the opportunistic bastards at MTI Home Video, we now have the luxury of sitting down with Anna Nicole Smith's final attempt at going Hollywood, a thoroughly trashy affair that lacks any sort of redeeming qualities whatsoever. It's cheap, it's stupid, and it barely qualifies as anything other than a posthumous curiosity from a dead chick nobody gave two farts about when she was a living, breathing member of the human race. Fortunately for those of us who thrive on this kind of low-budget nonsense, Illegal Aliens is a deliriously trashy good time. A masterpiece of moronic cinema, you ask?You'd better believe it, buddy.If you take a look at its cinematic DNA through an electron microscope, you'll discover that Illegal Aliens is essentially a Charlie's Angels knock-off with extraterrestrial babes in place of the hairless monkeys from Ivan Goff and Ben Roberts' mid-'70s television classic. To put a finer point on it, three airhead aliens in the former of curvy American bimbos are the only thing that stands between us and total extinction. Things get particularly ugly when one chick's otherworldly ex-boyfriend arrives on our planet dressed like former pro wrestler Chyna, which is a serious fashion faux pas in any galaxy. Cars chases and countless explosions ensue. Can these busty buffoons stop their manly arch-enemy before the moon crashes into the Earth?I'm not kidding.It's incredibly sad and embarrassing that I enjoyed this movie as much as I did. Though I wanted to hate Illegal Aliens with every inch of my tiny little soul, the film kind of marches along to the beat of its own weird one-armed drummer, forcing you to give in to its goofy charm despite yourself. It reminded me of the kind of stuff I used to watch on USA's Up All Night back in the '90s. I know for a fact this flick is truly God-awful, but that didn't prevent me from sitting back and letting that thick, moldy cheese clog my razor thin arteries. To be brutally honest, there's no way yours truly could ever hate a movie that makes good use of mind control suppositories. Sheer poetry.None of this could have been accomplished, of course, without the assistance of America's own Anna Nicole Smith. She's the very definition of a bad actress, right down to her pathetically lame attempts at physical comedy. When she's not attempting Amanda Bynes-style pratfalls or spouting poorly pronounced Trimspa taglines, our favorite post-millennium dead actress can be found watching retooled reruns of her infamous E! reality TV show with her empty-headed cohorts. It's truly a unique sight to behold. Had I the words and the talent, I would describe every scene in painstaking detail. Alas, I am just a lowly Internet blogger, and cannot accurately convey the atmosphere of this picture using my limited vocabulary and rudimentary skills.However, if anyone should receive my coveted Overachieving B-Movie Actor Award for their "work" in Illegal Aliens, it's Joanie "Don't Call Me Chyna" Laurer. I'm not sure what kind of crystal meth they were shoving up her nostrils at the time, but it must have been some high-quality Kentucky trailer park kind of stuff. Her turn as Rex the alien is simply awful, yet impossible to look away from. You've been warned. Or encouraged.Let me make one thing clear: Illegal Aliens is a dreadful excuse for a motion picture. If the stupidity doesn't irritate your delicate sensibilities, the quality of the performances surely will. That said, I enjoyed every last second of it. Why? It's simple: Illegal Aliens is a terrible B-movie that knows it's a terrible B-movie. This isn't something you'd invite your snobby film buddies over to dissect scene by scene while sipping glasses of expensive imported wine your parents picked up during their last trip to the Parisian countryside. This is a beer movie, a gather-up-your-friends-and-have-a-laugh movie. If approached as such, I doubt you'll have anything to complain about once the film has had its way with you.Rest in peace, Anna. Lord knows you deserve it.

B-Movie of the Week: Ernest Goes to Camp

T. Rigney — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 22:29:00 EDT

As an admittedly sensitive child, there was nothing more disturbing than watching lovable nimrod Ernest P. Worrell getting the snot knocked out of him by the late NFL defensive linesman Lyle Alzado in the seminal '80s classic Ernest Goes to Camp. I still bear the deep emotional scars this experience left behind, though I do try my best to cover them with makeup and smiles. It's the darkest scene in the movie, for sure, shadowed only by the oh-so depressing song spit forth by the toothy goofball himself five minutes after being pummeled into submission in front of a group of impressionable children. To this very day, watching Ernest eat dirt and pour blood is very difficult to endure.So why would a grown man not unlike myself want to re-watch something as obvious and moronic as Ernest Goes to Camp, you ask? That's a difficult question to answer, dear readers. Very difficult, indeed. My first instinct is to rush to the film's defense, to declare it a misunderstood masterpiece that has never received the proper recognition it rightfully deserves. But when I really stop for a second and ponder the question, I'm left with the sneaking suspicion that I simply have very poor taste in movies. I knew it was bad, mind you, but I honestly didn't think it was quite as horrible as this.Don't tell anyone that I like it, okay? Thanks.For those of you who had better things to do in the late '80s, let me give the skinny on what's up with this forgotten cinematic doodad. Kentucky's own Jim Varney stars as the titular character, an empty-headed country boy who spends his days attempting to keep everything in tip-top shape down at Camp Kikakee. Though his actions are slightly misled by his wonky good intentions, Ernest tries his hardest to maintain a high level of happiness around the camp within the limits of his capabilities. This, of course, leads to a number of mildly hilarious sight gags involving angry badgers, razor-sharp knives, and lots of low-rent pratfalls. Typical slapstick nonsense. You know the drill.Things get even more difficult for Ernest when he agrees to oversee a group of troubled urban youths who are scheduled to attend the camp over the summer. Like most people, these cocky kids have a little too much fun at our hero's expense, forcing him to overcompensate for the lack of respect he receives from his misguided charges. The strength of their budding friendship will be put the ultimate test, however, when a strip mining mogul seizes control of the land and orders everyone to pack their bags and hit the road. Can Ernest and his young braves topple corporate America using nothing but turtle paratroopers, rancid cafeteria food, and one volatile exploding toilet?Not having watched Ernest Goes to Camp for nearly twenty years, I was surprised by how much I still enjoyed its simplistic charm despite some dodgy leaps in logic. The film's message, presumably, is this: if you get your ass handed to you by a muscle-bound foreman with a full beard, immediately rally your friends, stockpile a collection of makeshift weapons, and assault your arch-enemy and his innocent companions when they least expect it. Solving problems peacefully isn't something Ernest is too worried about, especially when he's got a highly-trained squadron of sky-diving reptiles hidden somewhere in his cabin. That's pretty freaky if you ask me.In fact, the entire picture is rather mean-spirited and more than a little cruel to its cast of characters. For example, one scene finds our buddy Ernest attempting to break up a fight in the camp's mess hall, only to have one of the kids crack him in the face with a plastic tray for his trouble. With the item in question planted firmly upon his face, another lovely little child smacks him in the grill with a skillet, causing Ernest to stumble backwards, crash into a Coke machine, and fall face first upon the floor. Insult to injury: the soda machine then topples over onto his back. This kind of hateful stuff is peppered throughout the film, as if watching poor Ernest getting degraded by everyone else wasn't bad enough.But who am I kidding? I thrive on this kind of brain dead nonsense, which may help to explain why I'm still able to watch Ernest Goes to Camp without clawing mindlessly at my gut like a sick animal on the verge of mental and physical collapse. Jim Varney is endlessly charming, even when his antics negatively affect the welfare of his close personal friends. As long as parents approach this material as a harmless throwaway comedy void of any important messages regarding life, love, and happiness, I think everyone would probably get a chuckle or two out of this dated little picture. Good times? You bet.While other childhood favorites have appeared somewhat tarnished upon recent viewings, it's good to know that Ernest Goes to Camp is still something I can toss into my unfaithful DVD player whenever I'm in the mood for a cheap laugh. I don't expect everyone to appreciate this silly nugget of '80s comedy as much as I do, of course, but I do hope it finds its way into the hands of those who would most appreciate its goofy charm. It's a wonderful introduction to the Ernest P. Worrell universe, though I do highly recommend approaching the sequels with extreme caution.Know what I mean, Vern?