Secret Lair of The Z-Man

Z13RMD - #10: Halloween II (2009)

2010-03-02T19:42:00.000-08:00

My morbid curiosity got the best of me and I checked out the sequel to Rob Zombie's remake of Halloween. I thought he did a decent job with the original, though a lot of "purists" didn't care for the story changes he made. Because Halloween II is so similar in tone and execution to the original (remake), my comments on this one could really apply to either.

I appreciate what they've done with Michael Meyers - for such an iconic character, his back story has always been sorely sparse. Unfortunately in this installment they've tried to lace the simple story of a troubled childhood with visual symbolism -- a woman on a white horse, of all things -- and it totally clashes with everything else in the film. Every time that horse shows up, I swear we're watching a Rob Zombie music video.

Zombie also penned the script, and it shows. I can't think of a line of dialogue that doesn't contain at least one instance of "fuck," and not in that chuckling Kevin Smith way. Every single character comes across as on edge; it's like everyone is either just about to have a complete mental breakdown, or rape a small animal. It might seem appropriate considering the genre, but what actually occurs is that the viewer is constantly uncomfortable, even (especially) in the non-horror scenes. It's the kind of stuff that makes you feel like the world is a worse place than it actually is. Makes me wonder what sort of a person Zombie is.

Another Zombie-ism is the excessive gore and violence. Being a horror buff, I'm usually immune to this stuff, but the cinematographer has a way of making it all seem too real. And does Meyers really need to stab every victim fourteen times? The sound effects have been over emphasized to an almost puke-inducing level: it's like having a microphone inside the throat of a victim as their head is very slowly removed. The thing is, I know that Zombie infuses all of his work with this crazy, adrenalin-drenched manic violence, and it always makes me feel slightly ill, but I just keep coming back! Makes me wonder what sort of person I am.
On a positive note, the suspense and cinematography are top notch. The "jump" moments were well placed; if only they didn't invariably end in a science class dissection I'd be a huge fan of this flick. The image itself has a grainy quality that is reminiscent of the original Halloween flicks, though is probably just a filter run over digital video, or maybe the gain feature on the cameras turned up for the dark scenes. Still, for someone with fond memories of 70's and 80's cinema, it's a nice touch. As far as Halloween sequels go, not a bad installment.

Z-Man sez: 5/10 (with a vomit advisory)

Z13RMD - #9: Bride of Frankenstein (1935)

2010-02-21T09:20:00.000-08:00

Heyo! As promised, Z-Man's 13 Random Movies of Damnation returns for another installment! At this rate I might be done in time for next Halloween. I've been busy with various projects and my weekly Twilight Zone blog, so this blog has been on the back burner. A few months ago an associate contacted me and asked that I be the "guest blogger" for his website, which podcasted a radio show that he recorded in England. It was a fun show, great music, and I could see potential in the talent, but the radio station shut down and the project has come to an end for now. Here's wishing Anjohn and all the blokes at Cult Blitz much success in the future, preferably the near-future. Their shows may still be online when you read this, so take a listen.

So presented for you, the discerning patron of the Z-Man's secret lair, is the last *sigh* unpublished article I wrote for the Cult, completely unedited for continuity with this blog.

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Secret Lair of the Z-Man Presents: Bride of Frankenstein

Legal Disclaimer: The following editorial does not necessarily reflect the opinions of the staff of Cult Blitz, but if they have one iota of intellect they think exactly like I do about all things, always.

Hey there Blitzers (or is it Cult Members? What do you call yourselves? Thieves, Murderers, and General Malcontents?) The Z-Man returns with an article so controversial that it requires the preceding disclaimer. It's always vital to protect the innocent when you're about to bash a piece of beloved cinema history. As followers of my blog will recall (all ten of 'em), during my annual horror movie extravaganza in October I watched, for the first time in its entirety, the Universal Studios version of Frankenstein from 1931, and was blown away by the depth of the characters and the general quality of the film. After I watch a particularly good movie (or a rather bad one) it is my custom to go online and read the Wikipedia / IMDB entries. What I kept seeing when I was reading about Frankenstein were references to the sequel, Bride of Frankenstein, alongside claims that it was on par with, if not superior to the original. This I had to see.

Bride of Frankenstein opens in the home of Mary Shelley, the author of the book which was the inspiration for these films. Mary's happy-go-lucky disposition clashes with everything I've read about her tragic life, but I'll forgive this out of place recap of the first movie based solely on the smile brought to my face by the awful faux-British accents.

The action starts just as the first movie ends, with Doc Frankenstein and son (The Monster) presumed dead in the burning windmill. I enjoy when sequels try to piggyback on their forebears, especially when the first film ended with a tone of finality. Halloween II did this, and I consider that to be one of the best horror sequels. (The original, that is. I've still yet to see the remake, but it's on my list.) So Doc Frankenstein (henceforth referred to as "The Doc") is recovered from the rubble and presumed dead by people who don't know how to check for a pulse while The Monster (henceforth referred to as "Frankenstein") murders a few unfortunate bystanders and escapes into the wild.

The Doc awakens and decries his previous goals of creating life, as if that act alone absolves him of guilt. He's visited by his former mentor, Dr. Pretorious, who urges him to continue his work, proposing that they create a mate for Frankenstein. This doesn't jive with the tagline of the movie, "Warning! The Monster demands a Mate!" as the baseless idea to create The Bride was Dr. Pretorious's all along.

Meanwhile, Frankenstein wanders through the countryside, basically filling out the movie's runtime. At one point he meets a blind man *rolls eyes* who teaches him to speak and, to some degree, think logically in the span of five minutes. Frank gets captured, escapes, and through some movie magic happens upon Pretorious and is able to understand that the creepy doctor wants to make him a "friend." Pretorious gets Frankenstein to kidnap The Doc's new wife to blackmail The Doc into helping with the creation of the Bride. Somewhere in there Pretorious finds time to invent the telephone (anachronisms FTW!) The Doc creates The Bride, who for whatever reason is the same actress who played Mary Shelley. The Bride doesn't immediately fall for Frankenstein, so he pulls the handy-dandy Lever To Blow Up The Castle.

The end.

This just doesn't compare with the original. Frankenstein was a study in human frailty with a clear-cut line of action. This has so many pointless scenes that it feels like a narrative delineated by a six-year-old using action figures. Useless characters (see: cackling old woman) are given too much screen time while the titular Monster ambles about aimlessly until the final scenes. The characters have vague motivations and go through complete personality overhauls without provocation. In one scene The Doc is absolutely morally opposed to creating The Bride, forced to comply with Pretorious's plot at the risk of his wife's life. In the next scene he's grinning from ear to ear, overjoyed to be working again, and even gives us his patented "It's alive!"

Frankenstein does the same. The movie builds him up to be a victim, even more so than the original, but the second Pretorious promises him a mate he's all too eager to kidnap a helpless woman. I can't stand what they did to Frankenstein's character in this movie. He was originally a wild animal masquerading as a human, just a being that reacted to stimuli with basic impulses. That's cool, scary, and it says something about the nature of humanity. Here Frankenstein is suddenly ten times smarter; he learns to speak (something like ten words total) with ease, and often comes across as if he's completely cognizant of his situation, just doesn't know the words to express his opinion, opting to mime his ideas. I read somewhere that Boris Karloff hated the idea of having Frankenstein speak, though I can't find the reference at this moment and am glad that I don't have to annotate a blog like I used to annotate scholarly essays.

If I can find it, I'll post my undergraduate essay on the German movie Lola Rennt. It's amazing what passes for "scholarly" these days.

So why is Bride so often praised over Frankenstein? I can't imagine. In the reviews I've scanned I see many unqualified references to a self-referential "camp" factor in the film, as if it was intended as satire. I don't see that - it just feels like a soulless attempt to copy the atmosphere of the classic original. If you want satire, try Bride of Chucky, easily my pick for best Child's Play movie. Much has been written on homosexual readings of Bride of Frankenstein, largely due to the sexual orientation of the director and some members of the cast. Pretorious comes across as gay, but I don't see that as a major factor of the movie. And then the "film buffs" will point out every crucifix in the film, as if it has some bearing on the plot. To quote the up-and-coming critic Zachary Helton (yeah, it's me), "... not every story is a parable for the life of Jesus. Do they just hand out English degrees?"

(This nugget of witticism hails from my weekly Twilight Zone blog. Self-promotion: success.)

The best praise I can give Bride of Frankenstein is that script aside, it's very well-made. The image quality is sharper than the original, and the set decorations really catch the eye. Even if they did screw up Frankenstein's make-up, it's a visually pleasing film. The Bride has a neat character design; it's a shame she's only in the last five minutes. The greatest spectacle of the movie occurs when Dr. Pretorious shows Dr. Frankenstein the creatures he's managed to create in his experiments - 5 inch tall human beings that he keeps in glass jars. Yeah, it's a pure WTF moment -- it kills the grave tone of the film and raises the question why Pretorious needs Frankenstein's help at all -- but it looks great. I still don't know how the glass jars manage to bend the light from the bluescreen background. Like I said, it's an aesthetically competent production, but it suffers from a weak plot, illogical dialogue, and ill-defined characters.

Restaurant Review - Las Margaritas, Chattanooga TN

2009-11-21T18:01:00.000-08:00

I have a nasty habit of dining alone, which tends to confuse and occasionally terrify people. Often I have a notepad with me (as I do anywhere I go) and this raises eyebrows. "Is this guy a food critic?" they're all wondering. Well, if they want to provide me with better service and food prepared just a little more carefully, I'll take it! And in return, maybe I'll critique them!

I've been in the mood for a margarita all week. I'm always in the mood for some special treat, so I like to withhold said treat from myself, use it like a carrot on a stick, and tell myself that when I've done something I can be proud of, I may have the treat. And although I won no great victory this week, I still got my treat.

I noticed the sign by chance today as I was driving around. Located on the top floor of a shopping plaza, Las Margaritas is easy to miss. From the street it almost looks like an empty space due to a large stairwell and the dark atmosphere inside. When you can't find a parking place, you'll know you're there. Try the nearby side street or the closed Green Life groceries across Hixson Pike.

The interior's tastefully decorated. It has Chattanooga's signature warehouse-chic look: brick, exposed support beams, high ceilings. You'll find some of the trappings of a Mexican restaurant like pinatas and colorful tapestries, but none of those damned gaudy neon murals depicting Aztec Warriors and similar nonsense.

The staff was friendly if not overly aloof (due to my food critic nature). I have a feeling they went and found the best English speaker to serve me. Everything seemed to take a second longer than usual, which in a Mexican restaurant means just slightly below the speed of light. A very nice lady even came around and attempted to strike up a conversation in her elementary English, which unfortunately centered on solo dining, as if I needed to be reminded. Given her age and the pride with which she carried it, I'd wager that she's the owner.

The chips and salsa arrived as did the moment of truth; you can usually gauge a Mexican restaurant based on the chips and salsa. The chips were thicker but with a good consistency. No salt. And the salsa... wow. That's good. That's... delicate.

Mexican food is one of my two favorite cuisines, but nine times out of ten you end up getting the exact same food no matter where you go. It's big and cheap and chocked full of sodium, and the only real differentiation hinges on how much heart burn it gives you. Typically the salsa for any restaurant varies in two ways: consistency and predominant flavour.

The consistency was perfect: very small chunks, but low overall water content. The kind of stuff that will stick to your chip. The flavour was where things started getting interesting. Sometimes I'd get a bite of white onion. Other times there would be the flavour of cilantro, or green onion. And it wasn't until I was nearly done with my salsa dish that I started to get that tingling that us spice-masochists crave. It had a nice variance without being overbearing. I think that's a good way to describe the entire meal, actually. Las Margaritas is about moderation.

In order to more accurately judge every Mexican restaurant I go to, I always order the same thing: chicken burrito, refried beans. I used to have rice in there, but carbs this, calories that... Sometimes I'll be served a monstrous forearm-sized burrito, which is nice for the cost/quantity ratio, but do you really need it? My plate arrived decently portioned and attractive enough. Chowing down, I noticed two things missing – grease and salt. Shredded chicken will often have at least some orange grease, but every bite here was primo. The refried beans were unsalted, which I at first marked as a negative, then realized that there was salt on the table. Optional salt! What a health-coup!

But seriously, everything just seemed so healthy. Where Mexican food usually wins fans is with over-salted food and absurd portions. Here the ingredients and sauces were allowed to shine, and it made me appreciate the food even more. I left without that sick, post-overeating feeling. Like I said, moderation. Even the margaritas were less sweet than I'm accustomed to, and that was a treat as well. Las Margaritas is the French food of Mexican food.

I can't wait for summer, because the patio is huge and I could see myself having some good times here. I've still got to go back and sample the guacamole and queso, but I'll save that for a time that I'm not so very alone (self-deprecating joke here folks, not a cry for help.)

Las Margaritas is located at 1101 Hixson Pike (and not "Haxon Peak" as their website would have you believe). It's just around the corner from our beloved North Shore, stays open till 11 on the weekends, and swears to God that you can get a 32 oz Bud Light for three bucks, but I'll believe it when I see it.

If you're going to go, remember: travel alone, carry a notepad, and try to look like you're trying to look inconspicuous.

For those of you who skip to the bottom of a review to see how many "stars" or "chefs' hats" a place gets, let's just say that it's good.

A new story

2009-10-26T14:50:00.000-07:00

Here's a story I wrote in August but just recently typed up. If you like it, pass the word along! And if you can think of a publication that would publish this sort of story, let me know!

Making a Name for Himself
By Zachary Helton

It's 2026, and the lights go out. The audience raise their voices and clap their hands, do everything in their repertoire to fill the performance hall with solid, unbroken sound.
A single spot light beams down from the rigging above the stage. It highlights... nothing. It's a decoy. The light blinks, surprised to shine upon an empty stage. It darts about wildly, scanning for its target. The audience laughs.
Doors at the back of the hall are thrust open. The spot swings its arc of light wide, illuminating the star of the show. He squints his eyes and grins ear to ear.
The audience explodes into a bout of applause and laughter that puts their previous hysterics to shame. By God, they love him.
Back-up dancers surround him, dressed in the hyper-stylish brand name garb of wealthy high school students. They sashay and twirl down the aisle, splitting the crowd like a squadron of Moses's. The only one they care about walks in the middle of the dancers, shuffling towards the stage awkwardly, still smiling a toothy smile, waving at the shapeless, screaming mass of humanity that loved him sooo much.
He was lifted to the stage by his dancers, picked up from under the arms and held aloft like Jesus on the cross. Then they spun him in slow circles, and he looked more like a pair of sunglasses at the Stop 'n Go station.
The music faded down to a dull roar and He stepped up to the microphone, center stage. The crowd discovered its ability to be quiet. He beamed out at them, the blissful creasant beneath his nose quivering and earnest and moist. He took a prolonged preparatory breath and addressed His people.
"I... mm thank you... coming to this show. You're great." He giggled and snorted, then became momentarily embarrassed and hid his face behind his shirt sleeve.
Again the audience trilled. They were great! He had said so! They cheered and jumped up and down in place as the band struck up the lead-in to the first song.
Cody Compton was helped to his position by a dancer who made the interaction look like a playful duet. In the control booth an underpaid audio technician counted down the beats as the band played on. At the appropriate moment he hit play on a studio-recorded and manipulated track of Cody singing. On the stage Cody launched into his spastic dance routine. The composition was such that he appeared to be freestyling throughout most of the piece, with his backup dancers circling him, playing out their memorized choreography. He smiled and shimmied as he spun.
He was Cody Compton, teen sensation, and he was mentally retarded.
***
It is 2009, and the dressing room door slams. To call it a dressing room doesn't do it justice. Valor curtains are hung to cover the drab, bare walls. Plush chairs and couches have been brought in, because everyone knows that Caprice would never sit in a folding chair. A veritable buffet of finger foods and fresh fruit sits spread out on an ivory tablecloth – untouched. This is no dressing room. It's a makeshift mansion, a throne room – at the very least a dressing "suite." But regardless of the nomenclature, the door still slammed.
Caprice enters, all height and no width. She glistens with sweat. Her spandex-and-Lycra outfit extenuates her new breasts, easily 7% of her body weight. She frowns.
Her manager, Elliot Stevenson, and the stage manager look up, their conversation cut short by her entrance. They stand.
Elliot opens his mouth. "That was..."
Caprice singles the stage manager out with her index finger. "You. Fuck off."
The stage manager fucks off out of the room graciously, as if the command had been prefixed with a "please."
Elliot starts again while Caprice pours herself a vodka tonic. "that was a hell of a show. Best one since..."
"Did you find me a movie yet?" was the only thing Caprice wanted to speak of.
"...Vancouver," Elliot finished. "You were so energetic. I'm working on the movie still."
"You were 'working' on the movie last week." Caprice downed her drink and poured herself another, this one a double. "This face and these tits print money. Tell me why you can't find me a movie. Does Hollywood not like making money anymore?"
Elliot lit a cigarette. Anything to stop himself from saying what was on the tip of his tongue.
"Last week you decided you wanted to make movies, and this week I made some calls. But it takes time to get into a new industry. If you wanted to do a duets album I could get you in the studio first thing tomorrow with twelve of the top forty artists, but I need another couple of weeks to get you on the set with Tom Hanks."
Caprice inspected the catering. "Tom Hanks? Is he going to play my grandfather? Get me Ashton Kutcher, and I want a dance scene."
Elliot walked over to a stack of papers and pretended to make a note. "I suppose I'm a writer now, too," he murmured.
Caprice selected a single grape from the extensive layout. Now she breathed deeply, scrunched her brow. "How much longer is this tour?"
"Three more weeks," Elliot said. "Then we'll get you up on the screen."
"I need you to make me an appointment when we get back home. For an abortion."
The cigarette fell from Elliot's mouth. "You're pregnant?"
"No, I get regular abortions just to be safe," Caprice spat. "Asshole."
Elliot stamped out his cigarette. It left a scorch mark in the carpet that wasn't going to come out. "Do you know who the father is?" he asked. His mind flashed to the tabloids, the myriad of young men who, largely through luck of birth, found themselves in possession of sufficient time to sculpt their bodies to perfection.
"Christ, there's no telling," Caprice said. "Doesn't matter; fathers are boys with kids. This sucker's coming out." Caprice patted her washboard.
Elliot was quiet for a long time.
Caprice went to a duffel bag, tossed into a corner alone, and changed out of her leggings. More comfortable, she went to the table and began to fix herself another drink. She misjudged in pouring the tonic; its foamy head spilled over the lip of the glass. She went to sip as much of it as possible, but Elliot took the drink from her.
"You're going to have this baby," he said.
Caprice looked at him as if he'd spontaneously begun speaking Latin. "What?"
Elliot downed her overflowing drink in one mighty gulp. "You're twenty-three..."
"Twenty-two," she corrected.
"Twenty two, and you've been kicking ass since you were seventeen," Elliot continued. "But sales are down. Your last two albums didn't come close to 'Mischievous.' Now's the time to reinvent yourself." Elliot was pacing the room now. "You've been a sex symbol and a woman of power your entire career. But nobody nowadays goes more than five years on one stchick. You gotta' keep it fresh."
Caprice watched him pace with a concerned expression. She poured herself another.
"So we do a 180," Elliot concluded. "Sex symbol – no more. Now, you're the holy mother! No... better: the hard-working single mother." Elliot snatched Caprice's drink away and downed it as well. He flung the glass away and grabbed her by the shoulders, passionately. "Caprice, you're going to be the next Madonna."
Caprice blinked at him, her expression blank. "That sounds good," she said. "Hey, can I get a cigarette?"
***
It's 2026, and the stage lights go down on the second encore. The flood lights blink on without remorse for the dilated pupils of the audience. They squint like newborn kittens and smile dumbly at one another, as if to say, "did you enjoy that?" "Why yes, I did." "Me as well."
____ isn't a big girl. She's rail-thin and about five feet tall with a bob haircut that her mother did in the bathroom the previous night. So as she struggles against the current of humanity flowing towards her, making space where there is none, it's a near-miracle that she's not crushed underfoot.
By some divine intervention she makes her way to the door beside the stage. All that stands in her way now is a bouncer with pec muscles each rivaling the size of his head and twenty-odd hysterical fans. But ____ is too meek, or polite (and what's the difference, really?) to push ahead of them. The bouncer rolls his eyes and turns away a pair of punk chic girls with colorful bursts of neon in their hair.
"If you don't have a pass," the bouncer proclaimed in his I-eat-glass-shards voice, "then you're not getting in. Go away."
There are disappointed groans and then the crowd is a much more manageable size. Two boys and a girl, a few years older – college students, probably – flash official-looking badges on lanyards around their necks. They smell funny. The bouncer gives them a quick glance, glancing at the girl just a little longer than the others. He grins and they're admitted.
It's just little ____ now, standing there before a man five times her body mass in the ever-quietening performance hall.
"Do you have a pass?" he asks in the nicest tone his gruff voice is capable of.
She shakes her head vigorously and reaches into her tiny purse and withdraws a folded piece of paper. Lips pressed tight together, hands shaking, she presents it to the giant.
He takes the paper in his giant's hands and looks it over with his giant eyes. His eyebrows strain to touch his cheekbones. "What the hell is this? It looks like you printed it out on the computer.," he says.
____ doesn't think it appropriate to say "hell" in front of a fifteen-year-old girl, especially not a sheltered one. "I did print it on the computer," she agrees, shaking her head enthusiastically. "That's how they sent it to me. I won a contest on the website."
The bouncer looks at the print-out coupon in the center of the page. It promises unrestricted backstage access for the concert at this location, on this date. It also looks like it had been Photoshopped by a fifteen-year-old. The bouncer looks down at the girl, her eyes hopeful and imploring, and now nearly as large as his own giant's eyes. Hell, there were less credible things on the internet – conspiracy theories and pyramid schemes and free love.
The bouncer folds the paper and puts it back in her tiny hand. He smiles his giant's smile and says, "congratulations," and lets her in.
____'s little heart races as she makes her way down the darkened corridor towards the dressing room. This was happening; this was really happening. In under a minute she is going to be in the same room as – possibly touching – a Star. A real Star from television and movies and albums. She stops halfway down the hall and takes a series of deep breaths. She is getting dizzy from the thought of it, but she has to push on, has to meet Cody Compton and fulfill her destiny.
The dressing room door is adorned with a stereotypical yellow star with Cody's name is big cursive letters. It's opened a crack, but ____ knocks anyway. Immediately an answer comes, "come in!" shouted gleefully by a trio of voices. ____ enters the spottily lit room. She sees the source of the voices now – the college students – and they see her, standing there in the doorway, small and meek and hyperventilating at the simple perceived nearness of the Star.
The trio burst out into laughter.
The girl has a small video camera with her that she wields with impunity. ____ has just become another deliberately ordered grouping of bits and bytes on a future YouTube video.
When their laughter subsides, another laugh comes from behind them, this one less rehearsed and arrhythmic, but somehow more genuine. When they hear it the trio laugh even harder and turn back to face its source. The girl with the camera takes a few steps back to frame up her red-eyed cohorts and the figure that could now be seen – Cody Compton himself.
____ almost hits the floor. Cody has changed – or been changed by the assistant leaning against the wall – into street clothes. Cody only wears the latest trends; ____ knew for a fact that his outfit was a pairing of garments featured on mannequins in Abercrombie and Fitch's throughout the country and probably exported to others as well. But his face is all his own. His blond hair is expertly colored and styled by a professional in a way that redefines style. His eyes, mysterious hazel, are always half open due to his condition: permanent, dreamy bedroom eyes. And his lips curled up and to the right, a look Elvis Presley had to try to achieve. He was a Down's Syndrome Adonis.
The girl was back in his face again, her digital toy struggling to maintain its autofocus. "What's your favorite song to sing?" she asked in a deliberately diminutive voice.
Cody blinks a few times and bobs his head forward. His mouth opens like he will answer, but no sound issues forth. The assistant perks up, removes his headphones, and places a hand on Cody's shoulder.
"What's the question?" he asks in a tone of authority.
The girl clears her throat awkwardly and one of the boys chimes in. "She asked what his favorite song is."
"Cody," the assistant says, "what's your favorite song?"
After a few seconds Cody turns his head to face the assistant. He seems surprised and delighted to see him. He gazes at the assistant intently.
"Song, Cody. Don't you like signing "Girl like you'?"
Cody stares at him some more. One of the college boys snorts. The other smacks his arm.
"No, " Cody decides, "I don't like that song."
"No?" the assistant asks in a hurt tone, "but you told me you love that song! 'Girl like you, girl like you, " he says in a sing-song manner, "why can't I meet a girl like you?' Isn't that your favorite?"
Cody shakes his head slowly, then faster as recollection sweeps over him. "Yeah! I like that song!"
The college girl smiles and nods and records.
"Say," the assistant asks pleasantly, "what's the camera for?"
"We're with the press," the girl explains. "Boston University Herald. Cody's got a huge college fan base."
"I bet he does," the assistant says, observing their eyes.
"Get in the shot," the girl directs one of the boys. "Make him get you in a headlock."
The boy chuckles and moves to Cody's side, forcing the teen's arm around his throat. Cody is bewildered and slightly frightened by this.
"Come on Cody, smile," the girl says. When that fails she begins flailing her free arm wildly, making baby noises at him. Cody watches, still fearful.
____ is stunned. They're mocking him! He was a Star and they were no-names and they were mocking him! Why did no one stop this?
The assistant does. "If you're done with the academic questions," he says, placing a hand in front of the camera's lens, "then you can leave."
The college children become quiet and red. They play it off as if they were just playing a game with Cody and depart.
The assistant helps Cody into a chair and turns his attention to ____, who had barely come in the door. "Do you have a pass?" he asks.
Again she produces the folded paper and again it is met with scrutiny.
"Where did you get this?" the assistant asks.
"I won a contest on codycompton.com. I had to send an e-mail saying why I thought Cody was the best performer and I said that the way he..."
The assistant cuts her off with a wave of his hand. "Probably some project the web guy had before he got fired, "he reasoned. "Did you want to talk to Cody?"
____ lets a slight gasp as the assistant stands aside, his body language indicating that she is worthy of nearing Cody. She takes two timid steps forward. Cody glances up, noticing her. She opens her mouth to speak but no words come. They stare at each other, mouths agape, while the assistant looks on, trying to keep respectfully silent.
____'s planned speech comes back to her in bursts now, completely without order.
"Cody, you are my absolute favorite singer. You're my idol! I love it so much when you look at the camera, in that one song they always play on VH1, you look so cute." She blushed. It was spilling out of her now. "I think you're the best, because you didn't back down and let your... disability keep you from reaching your dreams, and I figure if you can be a Star, then I can be one, too. I'm going to be someone some day. I was thinking I'd be an actress since I can't sing good... I mean well, and... you're my inspiration. I want to be just like you!"
It was an impassioned speech, and she might have hugged him if she hadn't been scared half to death of his greatness. Cody turns his head away.
The assistant pulls a handkerchief out of thin air and wipes some drool from Cody's chin. In response to her heartfelt outpouring of emotion, he said, "aw, that's nice." He draws Cody's attention with a few snaps of his fingers and says, "Cody, this girl likes you. What do you say?"
Cody thinks long and hard, and just as the assistant thinks he should prompt the Star again, Cody bashfully grins and says, "I like you, too."
His expression is priceless, like a child addressing his mother. ____ thinks she might melt.
The assistant asks Cody, "you hungry, buddy? Want something to eat? You want some french fries?" He turns to ____. "He loves french fries. Are you hungry? Want some?"
"No thank you," ____ says. "Actresses can't eat french fries. Are you Cody's friend?"
"I'm Mr. Compton's personal assistant, the nameless man says with pride. "I'm with him 'round the clock. Right, Cody?"
There is a thunderous rapping at the door. It hasn't been properly closed, so the fourth rap knocks the door completely open. It storms a lumpy, frazzled woman, much older than her age. She's made every concession to maintain her youth – her baggy eyes are barely visible under a thick application of makeup. She's attempted to contain her middle-age sprawl with clothing two sizes too small. But nothing can be done about the tired aura that she radiates, the price of living the good life for too long.
"Is Elliot here?" she rasps, not looking at or addressing anyone in particular.
"He was here at intermission, but he had a teleconference with the..." the assistant starts.
"Fire the caterer!" the woman interjects. She has spied Cody's personal snack table and charges through the room to get at it. "There wasn't any cheese in my room."
The assistant leaves Cody's side to provide the woman with a plate and napkin. She dumps a fistful of assorted cheese cubes she's snatched up onto the plate and takes it. From the assistant's other hand she takes ____'s backstage pass.
"What's this? Why are you showing me this?" she demands through cheese-clogged teeth.
"I was just holding it," the assistant says. "It's this young lady's backstage pass."
The woman takes notice of ____ for the first time, but only for a second. Offhandedly, she says, "looks fake."
"I think the web guy made it," the assistant says.
"That explains a lot," the woman says. "The website looks like a retard designed it. I hope that retard never finds work again."
____ observes this silently. Who is this terrible woman?
The terrible woman scans the room. "Where's the cocktail bar?" she asks.
The assistant coughs up his best fake laugh. "They didn't get Cody a bar. Your son's only sixteen."
"So I have to walk all the way back to my room for an adult beverage? Yup, goodbye caterer." The woman takes a handful of french fries onto her plate and sits in a nearby folding chair.
____, her attention miraculously taken from Cody, approaches the woman. "You're Cody's mom?"
The woman glares at the assistant. "Why is she talking to me?" she asks.
The assistant, bound by duty, takes ____ by the arm. "My apologies," he says. "She was just on her way out."
"'Are you Cody's mom?'" she mimicked. "I could spit. What are you, twelve? They don't even know who I am anymore!"
The assistant looks constipated. He leads ____toward the door.
Caprice shoots up out of her seat now, absurd anger in her eyes.
"Don't leave when I'm talking to you!" She addressed ____ directly for the first time. "My name is Caprice And in my lifetime I've sold over 80 million albums! But nobody cares anymore! 80 million was a lot ten, twenty years ago. We were up against a crap economy and digital piracy. If I was still in the game I'd have twice as many sales as him!" She points a manicured nail accusingly at Cody, who had four of the fingers on his right hand in his mouth. "What do we pay you for?" This, at the assistant. "Get out; you're fired!"
The assistant smiles politely and nods. He has learned it best to say nothing. He leads ____ out by the arm. ____ was glad to be out.
"Well, I apologize for the situation, but I hope you enjoyed meeting Cody Compton," the assistant says as they navigate the dimly lit hallway back to the auditorium.
"Thank you; I did," is all ____ can think to say. She has a bad feeling in her stomach. The door ahead of them opens, streaming light into the hallway and giving birth to long shadows. A man in his fifties darts in, stuffing a phone into the inner pocket of his jacket. He has a presence about him that marks him as a problem solver.
His eyes meet the assistant's.
"Who have you got here?" he asks.
"This is... um..."
"My name's ____," says ____.
"She won a contest, on the website," the assistant explains. "The web guy didn't tell anyone..."
"Actually, that was me." The man takes ____'s hand and shakes it delicately. "Elliot Spencer." He then addresses the assistant in a quiet, rushed tone. "I've been trying to run the website and manage Cody since Caprice fired the web guy. Forgot to tell the promotions manager about the contest."
Seamlessly he turns his attention on ____ again. "Are you leaving already? Did you get to meet Cody?"
"Yes, I met him..." her voice trailed off.
"The meet-n-greet was cut a little short," the assistant intones.
"Caprice again?" Elliot asks.
The assistant nods. Elliot groans.
"It's none of my business," ____ says, "but she's really jealous of Cody."
Elliot and the assistant are quiet.
"Shouldn't she be happy for her son?"
Elliot isn't a PR specialist, but he knows bad publicity when he sees it.
"Caprice is..." he stops, and starts again. "Show business is stressful. It's a lot of hard work, more than anyone realizes. And when you get used to the fame and feeling important, then suddenly it's gone, that can make you... bitter."
"It's like you lick all the icing off first," the assistant offers, "but then you still have to finish off the bland cake, and it's been slobbered on."
"Don't help," Elliot says.
"____ wants to be an actress," says the assistant.
"Well now you know it's not easy being in the public eye. Everybody's got an opinion, and thanks to the internet, they all share it."
____ nods. "There are some terrible things on the internet about Cody."
"It's a good thing he can't read!" Elliot jokes. No one ever gets my jokes, he thinks. He puts an arm on the assistant's shoulder. "Why don't you run and check on Cody?"
"I would, but I've been 'let go' by Mrs. Caprice.
This makes Elliot laugh. "And I suppose she's going to take care of her son? Get back in there." Elliot gives the assistant a hearty slap on the back that sends him hurrying back to the dressing room. Now alone with ____, he goes down on one knee to meet her face-to-face. "People love being cruel, but you have to look past it. A record sale's a record sale. Every ticket sale is just one more smiling face, whether they're laughing with you or at you. Cody loves it because he doesn't know any better." Elliot suddenly wishes he could take that last part back. The girl, in his eyes, has too much for the gossip column at this point; she's empowered.
"Listen, don't quote me on any of this, about Caprice, or Cody, or the fans. Don't go blog your head off."
____ looks sadly into his eyes.
An idea occurs to Elliot. "You want to be an actress? I know a kids' manager in town. You've got the figure for it. Maybe you can keep this to yourself, and I'll get you an audition?"
____ shook her head decisively. "I don't want to be a celebrity anymore. I'd rather be someone else."

For those who like paranormal activity...

2009-10-25T17:28:00.000-07:00

I'd be remiss if I failed to turn you on to a couple of supernatural podcasts that I couldn't do without.

Jim Harold does an interview show with experts in just about every paranormal field: The Paranormal Podcast. You've probably heard them decried as kooks, but have you ever really listened to a UFO researcher or a psychic? Don't believe everything the media tells you; decide for yourself.

Also be sure to leave a comment if you've had an experience of your own; you could be a guest on his new show, Campfire!

Along the same lines but very different is Mysterious Universe. This is more a "news of the weird" show, where the hosts read stories and analyze them a bit. It gets points for the professional sound of it, and the Australian accents of the hosts: they always make me feel like I'm listening in on secret scientific discussions with professors.

Give them both a shot. They go great together, like The Daily Show leading into Colbert.

Z13RMD - #8: Paranormal Activity (2007)

2009-10-25T17:22:00.000-07:00

Z-Man's 13 Random Movies of Damnation

#8: Paranormal Activity (2007)

This wasn't originally planned to be one of the Random Movies of Damnation, but I figured people would probably be wondering what all of the hoopla was about. The movie was made two years ago and has done the film festival rounds, but took some time to attract a distributor. When I saw the preview, I said, "Oh, it's Blair Witch Project in a house." ... and I was right. That's exactly what it is. Luckily, these would-be film auteurs brought a tripod, so it won't make you motion sick like Blair Witch.

For the ill-informed, this is what it is: a couple moves in together and discovers that they're being harassed by some pissed-off supernatural entity. And they film it.

I should really stop comparing it to other movies and rate it based on its own value. It's not like I take every black and white movie and say, "well, it's just not Citizen Kane." That's not to say that Blair Witch is Citizen Kane in any sense, and Paranormal Activity is far superior in my opinion. The build-up is slow but steady; I typically don't mind a lot of exposition in my movies as long as there is payoff, but by 30 minutes in I was getting a little bored. Then... something happens. It's nothing spectacular, nothing you couldn't recreate effortlessly with your own camera, but by this time you've gotten so used to the mundane lives of the main characters that your reaction is on par with theirs. It almost hypnotizes you into believing this is really happening, which is no small feat in our desensitized world of media overload. The movie progresses slowly on as the supernatural entity ups the ante night by night. You could literally hear every girl in the audience(as well as Matt Brigman) take a deep breath and hug themselves every time the couple onscreen turned out the lights to go to sleep. Never before have I heard so much nervous laughter in a theatre. It was an entirely new experience.
Aside from the paranormal goings on, the movie's predictable and boring (just like real life!) The girl is a student who never seems to need to study or go to class, and the guy is described as a "day trader," a job which apparently consists of living in a huge house and never ever working. Naturally the phenomenon takes a toll on their relationship and they begin to bicker, just as in Blair Witch and Open Water (or as I like to call it, "Mia, are you asleep? Do we have to watch this?") As opposed to those films, though, this one does seem to have something approximating a storyline, which makes it far more entertaining yet less believable.
I didn't like the trailer at first; it had the feeling of Viral Marketing Lite. I don't care how many people screamed at the test screening – they tried this angle for Hostel and that movie was a trite piece of shit. They really have to do this, though, because there aren't enough exciting or "jump" moments in the complete film to fill an entire trailer.
There was also the "Demand It" aspect of the marketing campaign. They made it sound like the only way to get the movie playing in your area was to go online and sign a petition. I did so, only to have my inbox flooded with updates about various music events coming to Chattanooga. After three attempts I finally got that shit to stop coming to my inbox, then discovered the next day that it was already playing here anyway. A web search says that it got a wide release on October 16, 2009, so the whole "Demand It" thing was a scam, a plot to rally the people of the country together, proclaiming, "just because we don't live in LA or NYC doesn't mean we don't want movies!"
The movie was reportedly made for $15,000, which I must assume went entirely into marketing. As of this writing, it has the highest gross-to-budget ratio of all time, making 2500 times as much as it cost to make. And just today, a sequel has been greenlit. Expect failure.
That said, it's a shiver-inducing film and probably the best thing at theatres right now, so you should see it. As a fan of actual paranormal phenomenon, I was impressed.

Z-Man sez: 7/10

... and I had a hell of a time trying to get to sleep afterward.

A haiku

2009-10-23T20:39:00.000-07:00

For our most esteemed Japanese readers:

Nothing is so bad
As this coffee shop jerk-off
Talking politics

Update Shmupdate.

2009-10-18T20:25:00.000-07:00

13 Random Movies of Damnation will continue, though probably not meet its Halloween deadline. I don't like to get out of the spooky mood right after Halloween anyway; that makes me view Halloween as a terminus point, and I can enjoy it no more than I can a Sunday night. While I value the self-imposed deadline, it is important to see it in the context of real life and actual deadlines. I'll be starting a new job tomorrow and that will -probably- dig into my time. I've enjoyed the Hell out of most of these flicks, and rushing to meet deadlines will hurt my enjoyment greatly. Frankenstein, in particular, has sparked my imagination, and I'm itching to check out its direct sequels and remakes. In the meantime, Andy has been generous enough to do thorough coverage on Death Bed. It may just save your life.
Also be sure to check out and subscribe to my new blog about The Twilight Zone. I watch each episode, exactly fifty years after it was originally aired, and... you know, talk about it. It's cool as hell.
I'm going to be focusing most of my free time in the coming months on two projects: (1) a comedic web series, because everybody loves to laugh. (B) a book. I'll be using an outline I devised about ten years ago, but I'm thinking of changing the setting from a Lord of the Rings-y world to something else... is post-apocalyptic overused?

And as if that wasn't enough, Daron sent me proof that the trees are after us!

Z13RMD - #7: The Amityville Horror (1979)

2009-10-16T22:37:00.000-07:00

Z-Man's 13 Random Movies of Damnation

#7: The Amityville Horror (1979)

One of my big interests is the paranormal. It makes sense, then, that The Amityville Horror, the book, has been at the top of my reading list for a while, despite constantly being bumped down by Sci-Fi from authors I keep hearing about. So I figured while I was doing this series I'd take a look at the movie incarnation to tide myself over until I have time for the book.
The big deal about Amityville is that it is a reportedly true story, which goes something like this:
On November 13, 1974, Ronald DeFeo, Jr., 23 years old, living with his parents and enamored of heroine and LSD, walked through his house and shot his parents and four siblings with a rifle while they slept. How did no one wake up with that much shooting going on? Unknown.
Thirteen months later the Lutz family buys the house at a bargain price, and move in with their three children. 28 days later they flee from the house, citing all kinds of crazy, paranormal demon-like events. Strange boils, voices, crucifixes turned upside down, green slime oozing from the walls(!!), ect. They're not shy about telling their story, and soon a book deal is struck, followed shortly by a movie adaptation.
A lot of you probably think the story is absurd. You're not alone. Various parts of the story have been picked apart and proven to be false. Almost everyone involved in the case seems unable to provide a single, consistent story. The murderer, DeFeo, has changed his story numerous times, and appears to be completely off his rocker. The Lutz's stories, while each horrifying, are very different. They comment that it's as if they "were each living in a different house." It should be noted, however, that each was given a lie detector test, and each showed to be telling the truth. Even the priest that was called in to bless the house has changed his story over the years, once telling police that he never entered the house, and later saying, on TV, that he entered and a voice commanded him to "get out." Could it be that whatever was in the house scrambled people's perceptions and memories?
DeFeo's public defendant once stated that he and the Lutzs had concocted the story together: he in order to strengthen DeFeo's insanity plea, and the Lutzs for the fame. But can you ever really trust a lawyer?
The movie itself is a brilliant recreation of these events, as described in the book, which is admittedly not a 100% accurate recreation of the "true" events. The film is dark and atmospheric, and don't be surprised if you find yourself paying a little more attention to the creaks your house makes at night. This era of film making, from the late 70's to the late 80's, has always been my favorite. Maybe it's just nostalgia for my childhood, but the film gave me a warm, happy feeling despite the action occurring onscreen. After watching Amityville, I finally feel like it's really October.

I can't end this without talking briefly about Margot Kidder (that's Lois Lane to most of you.) Margot is gorgeous in this film, a true beauty. I wish I could have met her in 1979, and not in 2004, when we did happen to meet.
Tallahassee isn't a small town, but the relatively young age of most of its inhabitants, college students, combined with their transient nature, has made it such that there isn't much of a "community" to speak of. Therefore, there isn't such a push to plan big events. I was psyched when I heard about the 1st (actually only) annual Tallahassee Comics Convention. My room mate, girlfriend, and I got on our nerd shirts and headed to the convention center. It was abysmal. The thing happened in a medium-sized meeting room with a few vendors and some guys who took every opportunity to dress up like Storm Troopers. Naturally my girlfriend was the only female in attendance, so every time we approached a new table all conversation of "favorite Mr. Spock quotes" ceased so that they would seem more macho... or something. Actually she wasn't the only female, because the big draw of this mocker... ahem, convention was "meet two Lois Lanes!"
So we had Margot Kidder, and hot-as-hell Erica Durance from Smallville, right? Incorrect. Lois Lane number 2:

83-year-old Noel Neill, from the 1948 Superman serials. Don't get me wrong, she was rocking it out, wearing her sequined Superman logo shirt and getting ten bucks a pop for autographs. People were hugging her and she was having a blast.
Margot Kidder looked like she was going to fucking murder someone.
She was probably unaccustomed to such small venues for starters. It also didn't help that no one wanted her autograph; the nerdlings were avoiding her booth like woodland animals fleeing the forest prior to a natural disaster. I picked up some old issues of The Huntress and we left.
Or so we thought. There wasn't much going on in the convention center that day, so only a single door was unlocked for us to leave by. Margot was standing outside, blocking our exit, screaming into her cell phone. We all just looked at each other and stood there for an abnormally long period of time. I was about to suggest that we might be able to break into the kitchen area and escape through the loading docks when it began to rain. Margot came inside.
She regarded us as though we were an extension of the conversation she was having on the phone. "Fucking Delta! Can't even talk to a person, and when you do they just put you on hold!" Then she blinks, and I swear to God she's another person entirely. Sweet, demure, she asks if we'd like free autographs. My girlfriend is too stunned to respond, and I can't quite figure out the best way to say "I hate Superman and your movies are one reason why." My room mate comes to the rescue, busting out a Superman issue and saving us all from The Wrath of Lois Lane. We smile and shake hands and exchange brief pleasantries, then the three of us dash, through the rain, away from her.
Her Wikipedia entry says she has bipolar disorder, and spent some time institutionalized. I'm thinking of adding to, quoting my buddy Josh: "That is a scary bitch."

But really, bipolar disorder is nothing to joke about, and I hope against hope that what I suffer from is just general discontent, and not early warning signs.

Getting back to the movie, Superman was often laughable, spinning the world on... oh right.
The Amityville Horror is the quintessential haunted house movie. It's really a horror flick that, regardless of the truth behind the story, makes you believe that it could really happen. Think The Exorcist, except it doesn't turn your stomach and generally make you feel sick. It's been argued that the success of The Exorcist might have been part of the inspiration for the Amityville hoax, if indeed a hoax it was. The film itself builds at a slow but steady pace, relying on your imagination more than you'd expect. The ending seemed anticlimactic, but if the family had had a face-to-face encounter with the undead, I would have been rolling my eyes. Besides, that's what we have Poltergeist for. Regardless of what really happened in that house 35 years ago, the movie remains a solid, creepy tale that will outlive all involved.

Z-Man sez: 7.5/10 (Which is sort of cheating; if I was going to do tenths of a point I should really assign 100 point maximums.)

Z13RMD - #6: Frankenstein (1931)

2009-10-14T20:42:00.000-07:00

Z-Man's 13 Random Movies of Damnation

#6: Frankenstein (1931)

I've never really sat down with any of the classic Universal Studios 1930's horror flicks. Sure they're iconic, and we owe a lot of our modern day mythos regarding these creatures to these films. Vampires weren't sexy until Lugosi donned the cape, and I recently heard that silver bullets had no effect on werewolves until Universal stepped in. As a child I taped a marathon of these films from TBS, but four minutes in I was bored to death. So I went through each movie, fast forwarding through all of the odious "plot development" and only watching the bits where the monsters appeared. It was for the best; there was no way I could have appreciated the subtle nuances of Frankenstein at that age.
We all know the story (more or less), so nothing to give away there. What surprised me about Frankenstein was that it blew away all of my preconceived notions about it. I had this image of an off-the-wall mad scientist, a fierce monster, a loony assistant, and a few innocent bystanders to keep us anchored in reality. Nothing of the sort.

Dr. Frankenstein is a complex character, young and brilliant and driven. He's been called mad for his theories about creating life, so he's shacked up in an old windmill, carrying on his research in private. He's willing to risk his reputation to do something truly unique with his life; we should all be so ballsy. I found myself identifying with him: relentless dedication to his craft, a complete disdain for the sanctity of human life, and unwavering pride. And his most famous line, one of the most-copied lines in cinema history... you know the one. "It's alive!" Perfect delivery. It's not overdone at all. This guy has just created life, so it's only natural he'd be a little excited.

The good doktor's assistant isn't a major player here, but tells us something about human nature. I'm referring, of course, to Fritz. Not Ygor, that was a later movie. Fritz isn't a snarling human mutant, but a rather mundane guy who happens to be a hunchback. The bell tower wasn't hiring, so the only job he could get was robbing graves and doing general bitch-work for Frankenstein (this was pre- Equal Opportunity). We almost feel sorry for him, until we see the way he treats The Monster. Being the perpetual underdog, he's all too eager to treat The Monster like crap. It's not often he meets someone below his station in life, and he enjoys feeling superior. Aren't we all guilty of this?

And The Monster. You'll see a lot of jabber about his name not being "Frankenstein." Well, it is. Sure, Doc Frankenstein never names him, because he never really thinks of him as a person, but he is the doktor's son. So his name should be (No First Name) Frankenstein. Simple. The point of The Monster being a child is driven home time and again. Dr. Frankenstein gets married towards the end, and everyone wants to know when he's going to have a child (followed by awkward pauses). When The Monster escapes, the first place he goes is a small house in the wild, where he meets a little girl who has just been left alone by her father as well. The two play together, furthering the parallels between them. The little girl drowns, and The Monster is burned alive for it. The moral goes out to the parents in the audience: if you create a life, you are responsible for it.
Frankenstein isn't perfect, just damn near. The exposition in the beginning goes on for just a little too long. A scene could have been cut out by combining the characters of Dr. Frankenstein's father and (whoever that other guy was). I feel like they explain Frankenstein's perception in the public eye three times in a row. Also, they seem to make such a big deal out of Fritz stealing a "criminal brain" for The Monster instead of a "normal brain," but I fail to see how this factors into The Monster's personality. He doesn't act like a criminal; he acts like a kid who occasionally throws temper-tantrums. Where the beginning is drawn out, the middle and end seem condensed. Lots of things happen just to progress the story. Frankenstein tells his friends and family to "go away" while he opens the door to invite them inside. He also is all too eager to decide to scrap his project at the first sign of trouble. A few more scenes of The Monster adjusting to life would have been gratifying. And the very beginning, where we are warned that the following movie might be "too scary"? What are you trying to do, talk down to your audience? It was in bad taste here, and it was in bad taste when they copied it for The Screaming Skull, which thankfully was torn asunder on Mystery Science Theater 3000. (@ 3:25, but finish my review first, ok?)

The fuzzy focus on such an old movie gives the whole thing a dreamy, ethereal feel. Not seeing it in sharp contrast makes me criticize the sets and costumes less, and accept the story and its messages more. The Wizard of Oz lost some of its magic in my eyes when I saw it on DVD for the first time. Suddenly I saw where the sets ended and the backdrops began, and I couldn't suspend my disbelief to the same extent. Luckily Frankenstein still holds up today, and its messages of human cruelty, personal ambition, and parental responsibility are eternal.

Z-Man sez: 9/10

Z13RMD - #5: Drag Me to Hell (2009)

2009-10-12T21:00:00.000-07:00

Z-Man's 13 Random Movies of Damnation

#5: Drag Me to Hell (2009)

Something I could not wait to get my hands on was Sam Raimi's Drag Me to Hell. It's not often that I refer to a film as belonging to a specific actor or director, as I feel that most of the credit goes to the screenwriter. People will ask, "hey did you see Leonardo DiCaprio's new flick?" and I'll respond (smugly), "it's hardly his. He was just the fortunate asshole who gets paid obscene sums of money to do the least amount of work on the set and claim all of the glory." But Drag Me to Hell belongs to Raimi. Legend has it that he and his brother came up with the story as part of a writing exercise to get the juices flowing when they were working on Darkman. Production was put off for years while Raimi was busy becoming a household name with the Spider-Man films (not going to rant about Spidey 3, not going to rant about Spidey 3, go to my happy place, go to my happy place...) Raimi's been something of an inspiration to me; Army of Darkness is probably the reason that I wanted to make movies in the first place. The blend of comedy and horror/action made me realize that there were people out there, outside of my insignificant home town, who were like me. Guys like Sam Raimi and Bruce Campbell who made movies on the weekends with their cheap home video cameras who delighted in rubber skeletons and slapstick humor. It is so good to see him out of the spandex scene and back in horror.

The action revolves around a bank employee who denies an old gypsy woman a repayment extension and is cursed for it. Not "you're a bitch" cursed, mind you, rather "you will suffer the eternal hellfires" cursed. The story is straightforward as the woman has a series of terrifying experiences and learns of the occult in an effort to free herself from the curse. Between this and Psycho, I can't see how a young woman would ever want to work in a bank.

The film starts with the old 80's Universal logo, a nod to the best era for horror movies and the decade that gave us Evil Dead. A nice touch, and one that reminds us that this isn't going to be one of those current capture-torture-disembowel horror flicks like Texas Chainsaw Massacre 6. There might just be some value to this production. The movie itself is reminiscent of Evil Dead in a number of spots, particularly the way that humans possessed by demons look and flail about. There's also the trademark Raimi Quick Cuts – a series of one second long takes during scenes of terror that takes us through an action quickly and emulate the adrenaline rush that the characters must be feeling. It's a beautiful thing and it doesn't cost a dime.

Nice segue into the effects. Too much CGI, as is always the case with movies these days. It's reportedly much cheaper than real, physical special effects. I really wasn't expecting that from Sam Raimi, who cut his film making teeth figuring out how to make demons melt and hands revolt against their owners. My girlfriend described the CGI as "cartoony," and I tend to agree. I feel like CGI should only be used when absolutely necessary. The creeping shadows on the walls? Hmm, if only there was something that cast its own shadow in the presence of a light source. ... oh yeah, EVERYTHING does that!

My only other complaint is that the twist ending is painfully obvious fifteen minutes before the conclusion. I am usually every filmmaker's dream audience member – I'll believe anything and hardly ever connect the dots until the film spells it out for me. But I saw the ending coming a mile away. It was so obvious that I thought it was an intentional misdirection. It wasn't.

For fans of the Evil Dead trilogy (the "trilogy," not the "franchise" which has grown to include terrible video games, godawful comic books, and lunch boxes that have never housed anyone's lunch), you owe it to yourself to see Drag Me to Hell. It has a definite classic appeal and gives me hope that we might see another couple of decent horror movies produced within my lifetime. It'll get you in the spirit of the season if nothing else. It's out on DVD and whatever that other format is called today.

Z-man sez: 7/10

FOR RENT

2009-10-11T14:06:00.000-07:00

By Zachary Helton

"You should be careful if you're going to be here for long," the young officer had said. "Vast majority of the time, the perpetrator returns to the scene of the crime." He had fixed his eyes on Luther's, displaying what appeared to be an earnest concern for the older gentleman's safety. A more experienced cop had overheard this and given the younger a hard, openhanded slap on the back of the head.
"Don't tell him that horse shit," he'd said, and, addressing Luther, "he probably learned that on Perry Mason, or whatever they're showing instead of Perry Mason these days."
Luther hadn't responded; he'd already gotten all of the information he required from these lazy bums, namely "who's going to clean up all of this God damned blood?"
Not us sorry that's not our thing we just write them up you're going to need new carpet that's for sure.
There was a time – Luther's memory was getting spotty but he was pretty sure on this point – there was a time when a couple of capable young men would have seen an older man's predicament and offered a hand, come by after their shift, help a senior rip up some carpet just because it was the right thing to do. But now they had cell phone calls to take, video games to play, e-mails to write. So Luther was alone, on the floor just outside of the bedroom in the chilly house, trying to negotiate the tip of his crowbar under the line where the wood of the hallway met the bedroom's carpet. His back kept him from bending over to do it, or taking a knee. Hell, his knees kept him from doing that too. He sat, legs partially crossed with the tool in his hand like some prone child tapping blocks into holes.
Down on the crowbar he pushed and up came the edge of the carpet. From there it was a simple matter of ripping the carpet to the nearest corner, after which he had much more leverage. He didn't have to pull it far; the blood stain covered most of the floor.
Damn it Greg, he thought to himself, couldn't you have done the old lady in on the linoleum? What did my carpet do to you?
He shouldn't joke, he knew. But he hadn't said it aloud, and he couldn't be held accountable for what was...
Luther dropped his corner of carpet and pressed a pair of fingers to his lips. He'd almost retched. There was more blood under the carpet, a lot more. It'd soaked right through the carpet and the padding underneath and when he pulled it all up it was like peering into a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and the smell...
He wasn't going to do this one alone, that was for sure. Six properties and he hadn't had to call in outside help for repairs in eleven years. But he'd need help on this one, and help that wouldn't talk about it later.
I'll drive into town, pick up a few Mexicans. No more than two hours work, half an hour here and half back... better do it first thing in the morning. Are ants attracted to blood?
With great effort Luther lifted himself off the floor and stood to stretch his back, noting that he'd left his crowbar on the ground. He contemplated it for a second, decided that it was where he'd need it tomorrow anyway.
He'd inspected the second floor now, or at least the parts he could get to without ruining his shoes. Carefully, squinting to see individual steps in the near-darkness, he made his way downstairs. The electric company couldn't have already heard that the house was vacant. How long had the family been without electricity? Couldn't they afford candles? How do people sink so low?
It didn't help that it was coming up on November. Days were getting shorter all the time. Out the window the sun was approaching the horizon, another old man past ready for the bed. Luther decided that he'd have a quick look around. If he was going all the way into town tomorrow he might as well get everything he'd need to make the place rentable again.
Won't get shit for it he resigned himself. Nobody wants to live in a murder house. Scared of ghosts and bad mojo and the like. Too much real bad shit in the world to worry about the fake bad shit. Didn't get shit for the place last go around neither. "Too isolated." Used to call that "privacy," but now they'd rather bunk up next to each other like the Chinks.
The room closest to the back door was, Luther thought, perhaps the most unsettling. More unsettling than the cockroach paradise that had once been a kitchen, now three trash bags deep, years worth of coffee ring stains permanently painting the counters. Worse than the bathroom, the tub's surface a cracked desert wasteland of dried mold. Possibly worse than the slaughterhouse of a master bedroom. Luther opened the door to the worst room and saw nothing at all. Bare white walls, not so much as a hint of a disturbance in the grain of the shag carpet. The other rooms had been chaotic, filthy, but this one didn't look like it had been stepped into in the two years the family had lived there. Why?
Luther was timid to enter. What did they know that he didn't? Did it smell bad? He sniffed. No, it smelled better than the rest of the house, that was for sure. He paced the room, checked every corner, but nothing seemed out of order. Had they needed a clean, unblemished spot in the midst of the apparent insanity that had taken hold of their lives? Was this the manifestation of some obscure obsessive-compulsive disorder? Could medical science really have terms for the kind of mentality that leads a man to snuff out his entire family?
Luther stared out the window at the line of trees set off from the house. He recalled meeting Gregory Russo for the first time. He'd called and set up an appointment and met Luther at the house. The two of them had walked from room to room, undoubtedly walked through this very space, and Greg had checked out the house while Luther had checked him out. On paper Greg looked like a real loser: bad credit, no education, spotty work history. But experience had told Luther that you don't know a man until you know a man. He'd served with men just like Greg in the big one, men whose bravery and valor hadn't been factored into their credit scores. Greg hadn't fought a war; so few of his generation had. Still, he seemed honest, and the rent check had always arrived on time. Nothing had seemed off about the man until they had shook hands and walked outside that first day. Luther imagined he had come alone, but walking out onto the carport he saw a woman in the front seat of Greg's Honda. She didn't wave, didn't smile. In the back seat, two young girls -- twins, perhaps -– were engaged in an animated discussion heard only by themselves. They never got out of that car, not once the whole time Luther was there.
The sun touched the horizon now, a hazy orange ball warning the Earth's inhabitants that it was time to go home. It must be six thirty, Luther estimated. He couldn't verify this: in the rush to get to the property after the police had called he'd forgotten his watch, and he had never owned a cell phone. "Who the hell would I talk to?" he'd rasped to the nurse who had gone over his paperwork when he'd broken a finger. No wife, no kids, no worries.
Just ask Greg.
Luther left the room, his absence making it completely empty once more. He pulled the door to; he liked the room better that way.
One more room to assess, and he'd purposely saved it for last. He had a feeling that he'd wish to leave immediately after looking in on the girls' room. Maybe it was too sad, these dead little girls glanced once in the back seat of a car. Maybe films had spooked him on the idea of twins. There had been that one with Jack, back when the Twilight Drive-In was still in business and Luther had any desire to take a girl out. Luther wasn't scared of twins or ghosts or movies, but the diminishing light and absolute quiet made him suddenly wish he were anywhere else.
The girls' room was a mess, but at least nothing seemed wildly unusual about it. The ground was littered with toys – stuffed animals and dolls and broken crayons and other things obscured by shadows. Luther's eyes were immediately drawn to the walls. Barely a square inch of wall under the four foot level was free of... "artwork." Crayon pushed hard into the walls, big chunks of wax accumulated at the inception of every stroke.
Great. Luther added sandpaper and paint to his mental list. Staring at his defiled walls, repeating his list over again to promote memory, it struck him that not one bit of the cacophony of wax before him depicted a discernible figure. No trees or houses or smiling stick figures labeled MoM. Just swirling masses of random color – dashes of red and smears of brown. There was nothing so definite as a circle or a square.
Only one bed, he noticed. Did they share it? It would have been a tight fit, if the girls had grown at all in the two years since he'd seen them. There were no sheets, just a series of brownish-yellow stains on the mattress. They slept directly on the mattress, then. Or maybe the cops had taken the sheets off and hauled them to police headquarters as evidence. They hadn't told Luther how the girls had died. The wife had most likely been done in with a hand ax - a fact that Luther confirmed after checking the tool shed he kept on the property. But no one had said how the girls had died, and this room wasn't nearly in the same state as the upstairs bedroom.
Probably never get that ax back, Luther lamented.
There was a scraping from below. Three, maybe four seconds. Luther froze, listened, dreaded. He exhaled. Only rats, he thought.
"Only" rats? Had the darkness made him that susceptible to paranoia and superstition that he was relieved to have rats on his property? Rats were an expensive burden to rid yourself of, and if they were down in the basement there was no telling what sort of nest they'd made for themselves.
I'll have the Mexicans check it tomorrow, he decided.
He turned toward the door and asked himself if there was some specific reason he was avoiding looking in the closet. "Sissy coward," he said softly. He opened the closet.
A few miniature outfits hung from clothes hangers on a bar Luther had hung himself over twenty years before. Tiny shirts and pants that could have fit large dolls... Luther had to look away. The bottom of the closet had a good layer of toys just like the room, but something metallic caught Luther's eye. The sun had set now, and he had to squint to make it out. Kicking aside a stuffed unicorn, Luther saw beer cans. A dozen or more beer cans, partially crushed and stuck away in a corner. It hit him that he'd been registering the smell of old yeast since he opened the closet, but just now thought about it.
I guess they drank when they played with the girls, Luther thought. Hoped. It was an unpleasant thought, but better than...
He didn't have to think it. He was interrupted by the scraping sound again. It was longer this time, more insistent. Luther shivered despite himself. It was a huge basement. There could be a hundred or more rats in there. But why would they stop and start like that?
Luther left the room abruptly. The main hallway was pitch black. The end of it was marked only by a rectangle of pale light – the open door. Quickly, but not so quickly as to admit his fear, Luther pushed through the darkness. His left hip grazed what he remembered was a small table. It stung, would probably leave a bruise, but at the moment Luther didn't want to make noise and draw attention to himself. It was silly, he knew. Attention from what? Rats? He held his breath until he had emerged from the door, swiftly pulling it closed behind him.
The outside calmed him some. It was chilly, but not so late in the year that he could see his breath yet. The cold was sobering, and the surrounding countryside looked serene in its early-night blanket of blue. He walked at a normal pace to his pick-up truck and got in.
Luther sat there for a second and regained his composure. In the floorboard of the passenger side he found a light jacket and put it on. Beneath it was a large flashlight, the heavy kind with a handle.
I need to go see how many rats are down there. See if I call the exterminator or just buy traps. More than that, maybe, he needed to prove to himself that he wasn't losing his mind.
He saw the lights come up over the hill before he heard the sound of the engine. The overwhelming fear he'd experienced in the house washed over him again. His blood ran cold as the source of the lights came into view. A small four-door sedan. Too dark to get the make on it. Was it... a Honda?
"Vast majority of the time, the perpetrator returns to the scene of the crime."
Surely Greg wasn't coming back to pick up something he'd forgot. Hopefully the bastard had left the state, the country even. Hopefully he'd gone right into town, rented a room, and swallowed the business end of a shotgun. Hopefully he wasn't coming back, cross-eyed and crazy as the night he'd murdered three people, Luther's good ax in his hand, planning on staying in an empty, lightless house where...
The car puttered past and rounded a corner, out of sight.
Luther chuckled quietly and got his flashlight.
It wasn't that his bravery had returned. He was still in the grip of a fear he hadn't known in sixty-four years, since he'd laid in that ditch with the dead men and listened to the endless explosions. Luther needed to go back into that house to remind himself that there was nothing to fear in the dark, that nothing could be more terrifying than the capability for cruelty of the human heart. But as he approached the house he could not bring himself to gaze into the windows, so fearful was he of seeing anything but emptiness.
When he reached the front door he fumbled for his keys, only to realize after stabbing them into the lock that he hadn't locked the door in the first place. The door opened with a penetrating creak. Luther put his light on. Its illuminating cone gave form to the house's sparse interior. Instinctively he flashed it up the staircase, as if the swiftness of his motion would scare away tormented souls. There was nothing there.
He stepped down the hallway lightly, knowing that the sound of his own footsteps might cause his heart to race even more still. Funny, he thought, how everything looks so much different at night. He passed the table he'd bumped upon his escape minutes before, but didn't stop to push it back against the wall. He cast the light to his left, shone it in the girls' room. The decorated walls didn't just look defiled now, they looked sinister. Luther looked away. He stood before the door under the stairs, the door to the basement. He didn't want to go in; he very much did not want to go in. But he knew that he wasn't leaving until he inspected the basement, and he had a very strong urge to leave. Just then he heard a tapping from above – probably just the house settling or a squirrel on the roof or something else mundane, but it reinforced his desire to vacate, so down into the basement he went.
The first thing that hit him was the stench. There must have been a burst pipe or something. A heavy, pervasive fecal odor hung in the air. Luther lifted his shirt over his nose in an attempt to filter the smell. It didn't help much.
The basement was large – the length and width of the entire house – and unfinished. Mold stuck out from the seams where cinder blocks connected to make the walls. Pipes and wires traversed the ceiling, but Luther couldn't pick out the leak. As he'd suspected, the Russo family hadn't stored anything in the basement; they didn't have much. Luther checked the walls but saw no holes for rats to enter and exit from. He turned his attention to some stacked up cardboard boxes. A few contained Luther's old books and albums. Things he'd never look at again but sentimentality wouldn't allow him to discard. So he kept them at this house, which boasted much more storage space than his own. The last tenants had left a few boxes, too, much to Luther's chagrin. He'd told Greg Russo that he could keep what was in them or he could throw it away, just not to complain. There was nothing of any real value, Luther had already thought of that. Just some chipped plates and dishes, and some Christmas decorations.
Behind the boxes, tinsel and wreaths had been strewn on the floor. A foot-tall plastic Santa had been swept into the corner.
Luther turned slowly to face the box behind him that should have been empty but wasn't. The flaps on top were pushed back and a figure stood up and looked at Luther with lifeless eyes that seemed unaffected by the brightness of the flashlight.
Vast majority of the time, the perpetrator returns to the scene of the crime.
Sometimes they never leave.

Z13RMD - #4: From Hell It Came (1957)

2009-10-06T22:32:00.000-07:00

Z-Man's 13 Random Movies of Damnation

#4: From Hell It Came (1957)

There are very few things in this world that I am afraid of. Some people lay awake at night worrying about sickness and death, or poisonous beasts and insects or vengeful spirits. To all of these concerns I respond with a disdainful "pfft" sound created by passing air through teeth pressed against my bottom lip. My greatest fear is something much more sinister. It's something that I must deal with every day.

Trees.

They're always there, dwarfing us, standing silent, waiting. What are they thinking about? Why don't they speak?! They supply us with oxygen, but ask for nothing in return. What's their angle? I don't trust the "mysterious benefactor" act one bit. And digging through Warner Brother's archive of black sheep projects, I've unearthed a documentary that may provide clues as to their intentions.

From Hell It Came is one of the countless movies that became the title of a Misfits Song. But close scrutiny reveals that the Misfits (post-Danzig) changed the title from "From Hell It Came" to "From Hell They Came." Clearly they realized that the leafy menace wasn't a single entity, that the trees are united against us (except for the bonsai trees – they couldn't hurt anyone).

Note to self: contact Jerry Only. He may know how to combat the trees.

Released in 1957, From Hell It Came fell out of circulation for a long time, probably due in part to the fact that it's boring as fuck and nobody wanted it. It was only a few months ago that Warner Brothers started offering it directly from their website, but IMDB chatter states that when you order it, they send it on a DVD-R! That's the el-cheapo type of DVD that you can burn yourself, the kind with a limited lifespan that your buddy gives you porn on when your girlfriend is out of town. Naturally, when I came across a copy a few years ago taped off French TV (with French subtitles, no less), I had to have it.
From Hell It Came is the story of some American doctors who go to an unnamed island to cure the inhabitants of an illness called "jungle rot." Is that a euphemism for syphilis? All of the islanders are white people who speak in a strange, stinted manner, so I think we can pretty safely say that this island is located somewhere on Lake Ontario. The plot revolves around a guy doctor who wants to marry a girl doctor. The problem is that the girl doctor is scared of commitment. Oh, there's a killer tree in it, too, but that doesn't really come into play until 45 minutes in.

If you've lost track of time, there should be about 5 empty beers for every person viewing the film by the time the tree shows up. That leaves twenty-two minutes for our arboreal antagonist to carry out his revenge. Said revenge is achieved through... um... walking at people. And a chick gets thrown into quicksand. The natives attempt to destroy the tree with fire (stupid Canadians, you can't kill a tree with fire!) Finally the Americans come to the rescue (as always), and end the tree's reign of terror with guns. Remember that: they're weak against guns. The ending brings a tear to my eye; it's just so... patriotic. The natives renounce their witch doctors in favor of medical science ("We know now that American magic is better.") The girl doctor is saved from the tree by the guy doctor, and decides that she's not as free spirited as she thought, and she'd rather be cooking him dinner than traveling the world and curing "jungle rot." God bless America, and God bless the 50's. Every red blooded American should watch From Hell It Came, and remember a time when men were men, women were women, and trees looked nothing like trees, but were still a diabolical menace which must be stopped.
As I write this, there's a small group of trees right outside my window. I have to go now. Should anything happen to me, rest easy knowing that I died exposing the truth about our green neighbors. Ready your hatchets! The day of reckoning is upon us!

Z-Man sez: 2/10 (0 for the film itself, 1 point for the patriotic values, and 1 point for telling us their weakness [guns!])

Death Bed (1977)

2009-10-05T11:53:00.002-07:00

Something I won't be reviewing (can I honestly call these stream-of-consciousness rants reviews?) will be Death Bed. A few months back I get a call from Andy, but I was busy cooking so I didn't pick up. Ten minutes later my phone tells me that I have a new voicemail. I pour myself a cup of coffee and go sit on what passes for a back porch in Boston and fire that sucker up.
I wish I could record my voicemails and post them online, because this was a classic. Andy shares my love for terrible cinema, so when he found out there was a movie about a bed that eats people, he had to have it. In ten minutes he describes every aspect of the movie, including the ending sequence which comes out of left field. So I downl... "purchased" Death Bed and bugged Rachel to watch it with me. Eventually she gave in, and what followed was MST3K worthy. It has a plot that's impossible to follow, and death sequences that run upwards two minutes as the bed engulfs people in what looks like thick beer foam. I was going to review it in full, but I watched it 2 months ago and my memory sucks, so I don't feel that I can give it the berating that it so richly reserves.

And I'm sure as shit not going to watch it again.

So for the curious and the brave I dug up a couple of clips. You can skim through those and save yourself 75 minutes of anguish. To make it up to you, I'll link you to Patton Oswalt's take on it; that'll leave you with a smile.

Watch this space for a short horror story I've written, coming soon.

Z13RMD - #3: Theodore (2009)

2009-10-04T20:49:00.000-07:00

Z-Man's 13 Random Movies of Damnation

#3: Theodore (2009)

A quickie but a goodie this time around, and everybody needs to go watch it first. If you're reading this, you either
1)Love me dearly
-- or --
2)Are bored to death

and probably both. You have ten minutes to spare, so grab the film from the producers' website.

Now then, wasn't that fun? Two things grabbed my attention when I saw this. First, the title. Theodore brings to mind my buddy Theo, and one of the Chipmunks. Theo's a big horror fan, so it seemed fitting that we have a movie to better represent him than Theodore Rex, which was horrific in its own ways. Theo, this one's for you.

The second initial draw was Lloyd Kaufman.

Lloyd is the creator of The Toxic Avenger and benevolent god of Troma Entertainment. I met him at a convention once and he was a really nice guy, even if he probably wiped his ass with my first script. I give mad props to anyone who can take a film that contains images of hot women masturbating to pictures of vehicular homicide victims, and turn that into a franchise including an animated series, a Nintendo game, and children's toys. I like to think that Toxie is beating the crap out of some Ninja Turtles in someone's attic.

So I liked Theodore. It was atmospheric, original, and to the point. The dissolving bar scene looked neat, and I never found myself bored. Kaufman isn't going to win any awards for his portrayal of the bartender (except, perhaps, at his own Tromadance festival), but his version of "acting" fit his role perfectly. You can't help but look at this bartender and go, "why is he talking like that? What's wrong with him? I'm scared!"
As far as acting goes, thumbs up to the Main Guy in a Suit. MGS puts on a stellar performance as a complex, multifaceted character. He manages to be both an asshole and a douchebag, simultaneously. It's like getting Dennis Leary and Ben Affleck in the same movie and not having to pay them!
The lighting was pitch perfect for this brand of horror. Super-dark, with colorful lights conveying the seedy appeal of a dive bar. Only one gripe in this department, and it's the above shot of Lloyd. I like the lighting, and the dark shadows it creates on his face, but why would this lighting situation ever occur in a real bar? The bartender would be blinded and unable to see his customers. It's just odd compared to the reverse shots we get of the Guys in Suits.
The one failure of the short is its continuity. Guys in Suits pull up to a barn. Cut to the inside of a really swank bar. Wait, how is that supposed to be inside of that barn? There weren't even signs or lights outside. So we see this hopping bar, and it dissolves to closing time. Guys in Suits enter. Did they take a really long time to get up the stairs? Have they entered an alternate dimension- version of this bar where everyone has already gone home? Kaufman isn't even the bartender in the scene before the dissolve. I guess they were trying to show that the bar had been packed, but wasn't now, but chronologically it just doesn't feel right. I would have started with the dissolve, done Guys in Suits pulling up (perhaps as another car is leaving), then have them enter to meet Lloyd and Theodore. Later in the same scene Lloyd looks to his right at Theodore, who should be on his left. It's a minor gripe, but every second counts in a short.
Theodore is a cool character. There is definite franchise potential here. He's got a schtick like all the classic movie monsters: Jason kills horny teens, Freddy comes in your dreams, and Theodore cuts people's heads off to replace his own head. Neat. Here's hoping this is a test shoot – sort of a video calling card to be used to garner financial support for larger projects. I'd watch a Theodore feature. "By the end of the night... you will give him head!" And Theodore II, in which we learn Theodore's tragic origin story as an underappreciated hair dresser. As well as Theodore 3: Bride of Theodore. She can cut off your tits to replace her own, thus constantly augmenting her bust.

I hope my girlfriend's mom isn't reading this. Hell, I kinda hope no one is reading this.

I see nothing but potential here. Even current Hollywood giants like Peter Jackson and Sam Raimi cut their teeth on low budget horror projects. A look around the Infested Films website shows this to be the most professional-looking thing they've shot to date; they're learning. Already they've reached out to Troma – could be some up-and-comers here. And don't get me wrong, I loved Poultrygeist, but Theodore looked much more professional than anything Troma's produced in-house. It's not perfect, but it's also not Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning. $14 million?? How much of that was spent on coke, really?

Z13RMD - #2: Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning (2006)

2009-10-02T21:06:00.000-07:00

Z-Man's 13 Random Movies of Damnation

#2: Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning (2006)

I don't like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre movies. Why then, have I seen all six? Morbid curiosity, I guess. Not to see the gore effects, plentiful though they may be. Curiosity if there's been any originality whatsoever. Texas Chainsaw Massacre was the series that started the horror remake craze, and I'm not referring to the 2003 version. If you're not familiar with the series, the plot goes like this: some young 20-somethings stop for gas in some Podunk Texas town and are taken to the house of a family of cannibals who get their kicks by mutilating their supper. This is the plot of virtually EVERY SINGLE FILM in the franchise, and arguably Rob Zombie's House of 1000 Corpses as well. (That's two Rob Zombie references in two reviews - and I have at least one more planned.) With the exception of the second film (the only one I've ever enjoyed), they're all remakes of the original; most contain the same scenes and set pieces! You know it's not over until a blond crashed through a window. The second film in the series stands out to me because it almost comes off as a parody of the slasher sub-genre of horror that was so popular in the 70's and 80's. Dennis Hopper plays a Texas sheriff who takes the fight to the cannibals a'la Ripley in Aliens, and it's snicker-inducing. Hell, the original posters for TCM2 were a takeoff on the posters for The Breakfast Club.

This is a very self-aware movie.

Oh man, see what I've done? I've avoided talking about this movie. I'm trying to change the subject because... it's just uncomfortable. The working title of the film was Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Origin. This had to be changed because the film contained no actual origin story. We find out that Leatherface was adopted (maybe that's why he's so angry?) and we see where his mask comes from (surprise surprise... it's the face of some douchebag he killed), but we never quite find out why this family is murderous and cannibalistic. I understand that the meat packing plant closed down, but did you really have to resort to cannibalism? Couldn't you just raise your own live stock? Is it really wise to sustain a family on college kids who happen to be wandering through town?

Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning isn't for people with weak stomachs, decent taste, dignity, or who may be pregnant or may become pregnant or ever intend to impregnate someone else. One of the rites of passage into manhood is watching a scary movie with a girl so that she'll get scarred and look to you for protection, allowing you to feel her boob. But the movie isn't scary – it's just goddamned repugnant. The theoretical girl in the above situation would spurn your advances, disgusted at excessive gore and perhaps realizing that we, as humans, are just gore that hasn't happened yet. "Get away from me, you fleshy blood sack!" she'll scream as she escapes into the night. Don't worry yourself though; it's not like you were going to be capable of scoring anyway. The sheer amount of diced, chopped, chainsaw-ed human flesh is enough to make your cock retreat into your body. We're talking dangerous shrinkage.

Upon writing this, three days after viewing, I'm still looking for my penis. If found, return to me immediately. Reward offered.

Horror, especially exploitation horror like this, has always thrived on pushing the envelope. More death. More dismemberment. More blood. It's so unnecessary! Show us a silhouette or just let us hear a scream while we fix our gaze on some nondescript piece of scenery. I guess I'm grumpy because I'd just fixed up a salmon quesadilla and I really couldn't finish it after watching Leatherface's mom's water break, followed by a montage of knives slicing through skin.

Yes, I said salmon quesadilla. If you're an avid ZJH fan, you remember the Mancake incident. I'm fucking Doktor Frankenstain in the kitchen. Mancake was an unfortunate setback, but it'll all be worth it when I come up with an original food product that doesn't ooze, poison, or beg to be euthanized. You think that guy just said "hm, I'm going to put pizza... on a bagel!"? Hell no. He was in the kitchen every night, trying to perfect a mustard-based salsa, or figuring out how to pickle oranges. Hm... pickled oranges...

See? See?! I did it again. I do not like thinking about this movie! I'm just going to wrap this up now, and make an appointment with the hypnotist no have all memory of it erased.

It wouldn't be an objective review if I didn't at least try to point out something they did right. The cinematography wasn't half bad. Most horror movies these days rely on dark lighting and shaky camera work to make the audience feel like they're "really there" (or perhaps just to hide shoddy work). I hate that, and Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning didn't do that, so kudos. The washed out colors really matched the arid Texas setting, and fit with the feel of the original film. But where were the establishing shots? I had no clue what most of the sets looked like. "Oh, she's hiding under a table? Where in the room is the table? Where is the killer? Oh look, blood." The cast was composed of a bunch of no-names that you'll never hear of again, desperately trying to pull off performances that consisted entirely of lines like "please don't do this" and the classic "you'll never get away with this." The shining star here is the drill sergeant from Full Metal Jacket("I bet you're the kind of guy that would fuck a person in the ass and not even have the goddamn common courtesy to give him a reach-around!"), but why is a guy who worked with Kubrick in a shit-show like this? Do you think he does any real acting? I wish I could get paid to insult people all day.

It also wouldn't be an objective review if I left you feeling like there was anything worthwhile in this atrocity. So here's a few observances of suck-dom:
A hot biker chick? For real? Last time I checked girls had to be over 300 lbs and like to wag their meth-shriveled titties at cameras to ride motorcycles. This girl looks like a young, sexier Demi Moore. So when she makes references to wanting to violate the other chicks in the movie, I thought, "ok, here's a subplot I can get behind." But... denied. She gets killed, seemingly randomly. Every death in the movie is like that. There's no build up, no suspense. It's just, "well, another ten minutes are up, time to murder another one." It's a hostage situation, not a movie.

I can't understand why the TCM flicks haven't become direct-to-video affairs yet. Hellraiser and Leprechaun are more than happy just to drop a load onto Blockbuster shelves every two or three years. The only thing that I think could salvage this series if if they decided to hop on the kitsch-train and put Leatherface in space. It worked for Friday the 13th (a series with actual good films) as well as Leprechaun, Hellraiser, and probably others. Leprechaun in the Hood has such a cult following that it got its own sequel, and has probably sold more copies than the first movie (which has Jennifer Aniston – watch it!)

And so we get to the crux of the matter, the thing that really irks me: the money factor. The 1974 original was made for $140,000. In 2006 Hollywood produced the exact same movie for $14 million. That's 100 times the cost of the original for what is essentially an exact duplicate! And they made stupid money on this schlock. And now, after careful consideration of the mountains of money they're surrounded by, the studios will undoubtedly greenlight Untitled Texas Chainsaw Massacre Film #7. And not to spoil anything, but it's going to be about a bunch of 20-somethings, cannibal family, yada yada.
It's good we can download films now and not support them. Sequels get made based on earnings, not merit, and I'd wager that most of the audience members left that theatre hating this movie. It's important to remember, though, to pay for the things you enjoy. That way we get more Spider Man 2's, and less Spider Man 3's. As a certain blue-skinned Captain used to say, "the power is yours."

Now if you'll excuse me, I have oranges to pickle.

Z-Man sez:
On a scale of 1 to 10, this one is... um...

The holocaust. Out of ten. Holocaust/10. It's not technically a number, but this isn't technically entertainment.

Z13RMD - #1: White Zombie (1932)

2009-09-30T20:14:00.000-07:00

Z-Man's 13 Random Movies of Damnation

#1: White Zombie (1932)

Allow me to set the scene: I was on a beer run and saw a run-down looking discount grocery store. Common sense should dictate that you need a license to sell alcohol and this place wouldn't have any, but I was on four hours of sleep and in something of a zombie-like state myself. The store was set off the road up a hill in what was probably once a lively shopping plaza, but was now deserted save for the aforementioned store and a "discount tobacco supply" that just screamed "drug trafficking front."
The store had a limited number of items, but mass quantities of what it did have: a pillar of pickle jars, a mountain of instant mashed potatoes. The prices weren't actually that low and the expiration dates were coming up, so I navigated through the toothless hillbilly hoards in the direction of the exit. Then it caught my eye: Halloween DVD's, 99 cents.

99 cents?! That's less than a dollar!

They were what you'd expect: ancient public domain flicks badly encoded onto single layer DVDs, stuck into thin cases, sold by weight and not content. This can be a good thing; I can actually say I've seen "You Bet Your Life" with the always-entertaining Groucho Marx thanks to such releases. None from this batch looked particularly interesting, but one title stuck out: White Zombie.
I was vaguely aware this was a movie, but intimately familiar with the band of the same name. I'm no metalhead, but White Zombie's brand of metal-rock has always appealed to me, and I'm a sucker for any band that takes a horror theme. I figure if Rob Zombie named his first big band after this flick, it's either really really good or really really bad... and I like both of those kinds of movies.

I swear I'll talk about the movie, but first we have to look at the packaging; that's the real treat. Bela Lugosi (Dracula from Universal's iconic 1931 version of the story) is the headliner for both films on this discount disc. In addition to White Zombie, we get Invisible Ghost, another flick you can probably find for free online. I should mention that: no need to pay 99 cents for White Zombie; it's been archived here for free. The back of the case boasts that the disc is "Compatible with All DVD Players," in other words it's Region 0 so they can sell the same stock anywhere in the world. The disc has a version of the official DVD format logo, just not the official one. I wonder what would prevent them from using the actual logo? Also, the films are purported to be in color, even though directly above this statement we have eight screenshots that say otherwise. As for features, this lovely collector's edition of the 1932 classic White Zombie (and also Invisible Ghost) has "SCENE SELECTION AUTO START". How thoughtful. Scene selection. For a movie. Oh, you shouldn't have.

AUTO START means that as soon as you pop this sucker in your DVD player the first movie plays. But I enjoy the whole package, so I took the time to find the "Menu" button on my player and was sent to a silent, static screen featuring two mock-up movie posters with associated "PLAY>" buttons. And below that... BONUS.

BONUS.
A fullscreen image of some of the other public domain movies this company has reproduced for nickles and dimes, and their web address. There's not even a button to get back to the previous menu. You are stuck here. So you might as well get real acquainted with your DVD remote, or get up and eject the disc, or just shove fingers up your ass to see how many you can fit in there because YOU ARE NEVER LEAVING THIS MENU ALIVE MOTHER FUCKER!!

I'd give you the web address, but it doesn't work anyway. Better not to dwell on it.

As a film (rather than a DVD EXPERIENCE), White Zombie is... enjoyable. At the outset, a young couple travels through Haiti in a horse-drawn carriage. The driver stops when he sees

Bela Lugosi sporting some Ras Al Ghul beard-age. Lugosi (whose character's name, we finally learn at the end of the film, is "Murder", no I am not making this shit up) walks up to the carriage awkwardly, slowly, reaches in and takes the woman's scarf. Just them, Murder's henchmen lurk over a hill, causing the driver to shout "zombies!" and hasten the horses on. All the woman can remark is "that man took my scarf." Lady, there are zombies outside. Zombies. It was a nice scarf. Very long. And white. But. Zombies. For crying out loud.

... which is exactly what I thought until a comprehensive web search (really just IMDB and Wikipedia) revealed that this is supposedly the first zombie movie ever created. Holy smokes. You have my attention now, White Zombie.
So it makes sense that no one seems to care about the "zombies!". Moments later we're given a brief description of what a zombie is, probably new information to audiences in 1932!
Without giving away too much of the plot (also I've been drinking and I'd like to wrap this up before I can't write anymore), I'll comment on the quality of the production itself. There were numerous instances of missing footage, probably magnetic tape that had deteriorated beyond salvation prior to archival. Characters would occasionally teleport about the room, reappearing in mid-sentence. Being as old as it is, the DVD transfer looked like ass. Hairy ass. Audio drop outs, perpetual flicker, some celluloid tearing... and I was eating carrots while watching it, so I didn't pick up on half of the tinny audio anyway. Maybe that's why I still have no clue how half of the characters know each other. I suspect some of it wasn't addressed, however. The performances were a mixed bag – a mixed bag where every element in said bag is a turd. A lot of scenes looked unrehearsed. There was one in particular where I swear one of the characters fucks up his line and cracks a smile. But time is celluloid is money, and this wasn't a studio production, so the first take is the only take. As for Lugosi... how I long for the days when being creepy-looking and not talking much was considered acting.
Watching old movies is sort of like looking at art your kids did in Kindergarten. Technically speaking it sucks, but you love it anyway, and you can see the seeds of future greatness. White Zombie is chock full of excessively long takes, boring wide shots, and dissolves between scenes. Jesus Christ the fucking dissolves. It was like,
"Hey Herb, check out this sweet transition I can do between scenes."
"Holy Great Depression! Do that. Every time!"
That was the case for the first half of the movie. Reportedly, the director had to leave halfway through production, and Bela Lugosi himself stepped up to direct a few scenes. Now I don't know if they shot this film in chronological sequence, but I did note a significant difference in quality between the first half and the second half.
I was smacking myself in the head the first time I saw a wipe transition between scenes. There are two types of people who get to use wipes: George Lucas and people who are doing parodies of George Lucas. The first one was almost like a test run for what was around the corner: an actual split-screen sequence. The effect was a little choppy, but it worked. Visually pleasing as it was, it was also at a plot point where a lull starts to head for the climax. That's what we call synergy... I think.
If for nothing else, I appreciate White Zombie for paving the way to today's zombie explosion, and also for getting it right. It is revealed that the zombies aren't actually the risen dead, but living people under a witchdoctor's drug/black magic powers. It acknowledges the actual origins of the zombie phenomenon, and for that alone it deserves praise. It's actually a fun flick, if not methodical and predictable. I'd recommend this to anyone who likes film history, early horror, or just being arrogant about having seen things that others haven't.
Or burly, hairy men.

Z-Man sez: 6/10

Z-Man's 13 Random Movies of Damnation

2009-09-30T20:07:00.000-07:00

Announcing

Z-Man's 13 Random Movies of Damnation

A look at 13 horror movies that were selected simply because they happened to be nearby. I always watch a lot of horror in October, and I figured this time I can be as entertaining for you as I am to myself when I watch these. They'll probably lean towards crappier films because bad movies are always more fun to watch, but I haven't seen any of these myself yet, and who knows? I could be surprised. So link your friends in, leave comments, watch them yourself, wash the dog, and enjoy.

Pancakes, coffee, and lesbians - breakfast of champions?

2009-08-02T12:57:00.000-07:00

And now, because I know you've all missed me, I have a blog to make. I proudly declare that I, this very morning -

MADE PANCAKES!

This is significant for two reasons. First, I don't like sweets, and I'm not a big bread person. If it were possible to gain all necessary nutrition from meat alone (with the occasional vegetable for flavor), and affordable to do so, all I would ever eat is meat. I'm a real man's man. I made the pancakes because Rachel loves them, and what Rachel wants, I scurry to get.
Secondly, it is significant because I've never made them before, and the results were... humorous. Maybe not It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia humorous, but possibly South Park on an off-night humorous.

I plopped the batter into the "pan," not a "skillet" as indicated in the instructions. I mean, wtf is a skillet? Isn't that what cowboys used over campfires? So I'm looking at this big whitish blob in the pan, and I think, "aren't pancakes smaller than this?" So I check the box. The amount of batter I've prepared is sufficient for 14 pancakes. I've used half of my batter on this one. This isn't going to be some mere pancake. What I have in this pan right here is a MANCAKE.

MANCAKE gets flipped - no small feat - and I discover that I've burnt it slightly. Oh well, live and learn. I turn cook the other side to pure perfection. Oh yeah, I have the hang of this now. I'm a pro.
MANCAKE is set on a plate and I get ready for pancake #2. Just the slightest bit of batter this time... great. Got it. Hm, I'm getting hungry. Hungry enough for a MANCAKE. I fork into this bad boy, no need for syrup, as I've used chocolate chips. Yeah, I'm pretty much the best boyfriend eve... shit! Pancake 2 is burning! That's pretty much inedible. Toss it, start again.

As this is going on, MANCAKE is starting to leak. Uncooked batter. It reminds me of that scene in Alien Resurrection, where Ridley finds all those other clones, those malformed abortions that paved the way for her. MANCAKE is incomplete. MANCAKE shouldn't be. MANCAKE spits up white innards, moaning, "kill me... please, God, kill..."

Dammit! Pancake 3 is starting to burn. I flip it - not too bad. I'll eat that one. And MANCAKE. MANCAKE can be redeemed.

I ended up with about 7 pancakes - MANCAKE, two burned ones, bits and pieces of one strewn about the kitchen due to a flipping fiasco, and three actual, edible pancakes. Rachel got those. MANCAKE was put back in the pan several times in a sad, mislead attempt to cook the center. MANCAKE's center never did solidify, but he did get nice and burnt. I ate him out of sheer pity.

R.I.P.
MANCAKE
"Rest now; your suffering is at an end."

Speaking of breakfast, here's another little observation about living in the north.

Coffee. It's a warm, black liquid. That is coffee in its basest form. I go into Dunkin Donuts and order a coffee, and they ask if I want it "regular." Yeah, absolutely. Regular, black coffee. Usually if I'm having gourmet coffee I put some skim milk in it to mellow it out, but when I'm drinking this workin-Joe near-water swill they call coffee from a doughnut shop or McDonalds, I just have it black. Now imagine my surprise when this fellow hands me a concoction of (1) part coffee, (1) part half-and-half, and (1) part sugar. I didn't lose my cool. I very politely inquired as to what the fuck I was holding. He insisted that "regular" meant lots of cream, lots of sugar. Well that sweetsy shit went right down the drain, and he drew me a proper cup of brown water.
I assumed that this guy was just touched in the head, but sure enough, on my next trip to Dunkin Donuts (these things are every third business in Boston) they asked me if I wanted my coffee "regular." I said "yes" because I did, didn't I? I see this woman bring out HALF A CUP of sugar and pour it into my cup. Luckily I stopped her in time. Otherwise things might have gotten ugly.

The Starbucks here have soy milk. Go there instead.

What else do I have to report? I finished a short story and will try to type it up soon. Yes, I still write on paper, with a pen. Imagine that. I'm hoping to get it published in a sci-fi anthology magazine so that I can have some actual, paid writing experience under my belt so that I can act even more pretentious about my craft. I had a job interview, and I've been jogging and watching a lot of...

OH YES, THE LESBIANS. This was one facet of moving that I never saw coming. The Boston lesbians are world-class lesbians. If you're a lesbian, or a little bi-curious, or just want to get drunk and experimental, come to Boston. Having lived in the south, I assumed that all lesbians were plaid-shirted biker dykes from hell. "Lipstick" lesbians were invented by pornographers to sell $45 VHS tapes. ... or so I thought! (Small plug - for more on the evils of discount pornography, check out Andy's Blog, particularly the entries in the "Procurement of Pornography" series.) Not a week goes by that I don't see some girl - nay, an attractive, young professional lady - that catches my eye. And beside her, another attractive young lady. And between them, a pair of clutched hands. So I do a double-take. Inevitably they will stop walking for one reason or another, and they'll embrace. Come on, come on... I'm thinking. And KERBLAM!! Hot lesbian lip action, right on the subway / street corner / Dunkin Donuts.

I think I could get used to this city.

(DISCLAIMER: I make no judgment call on your sexual preference. You are free to rub any part of your body on or in any other body part of a willing participant. I simply want to state, for the record, that when two women do it, it gives me wood.)

Thanks for your time. I'm available for articles, features, screenplay input, and birthday parties.

Z-Man: He's not just movies anymore!

2009-07-12T16:22:00.000-07:00

So I grew tired of waiting for my screenplays and comic book scripts to be made into consumable media. Movies are expensive and artists are involved in their own projects. I'm reading more these days, trying to remember how to write prose. I'm really enjoying it: written fiction allows for much more creativity than film for the writer. The governing rules are more lax. A movie is a protagonist who undergoes a change, three structured acts, and a love story with a happy ending. Lame. Predictable.
In my build-up to completing a novel I'm doing some short fiction to flex my muscles, and to see if there is, in fact, any muscle tone left. Below is a piece I did for an NPR contest. The only stipulation is that it be able to be read in three minutes. Have a look and tell me what you like (and more importantly, what you don't like).

He was nearly out of breath by the time he got to agriculture headquarters. The receptionist, tinted red by the light of her tiny window, eyed him with professional indifference, waiting for him to state his business. His hand, over his heart, covered the name tag on his grey uniform.

Impatient, she started, “how may I hel...”

“I need to see the head of agriculture right away!”

A slight grin twitched to life. “Name and appointment time?”

“I don't have an appointment. This is very important! Tell him that I've figured out the soil degradation problem!”

“I'm Clerical class; I don't know what you're talking about.”

He huffed and turned his gaze to the window. Outside, miles of shriveled crops languished under artificial skies. “Produce prices are through the roof. We have to throw out twice what makes it to market.” He waited for a glint of recognition in the woman's eyes. “I can fix it.”

“Oh,” she said absently. Something on her monitor had drawn her attention away. “Would you like to make an appointment, then?”

“I would like,” he said with bewilderment, “to speak to the head directly! This is a dire situation!”

“The head is booked solid until March eleventh.” Her grin was gone. “Would you like to make an appointment?”

“Fine, then. But could you tell him... all the sod we put down... the Martian soil is leeching off the minerals.”

“If I could just see your Science Division I.D. I can schedule you in.”

“I'm not Science Division,” he admitted, knowing what was coming. “I'm a Soil Man.” But she had to have seen the dirt under his nails; she had to know.

“I'm sorry,” she lied, as she was deriving some morbid pleasure from his failure, “but the head doesn't converse with anyone under Level 6.”

“I know, but this is an emergency! The colony could be without vegetation in two months!”

Finally the false professionalism dropped from her voice. “Science Division solves problems. You're just a Soil Man.”

“I know, but I'm closer to the problem; that's why I can see it better. I tried to contact Science Division, but they don't converse with anyone under Level 5! How am I supposed to get their attention at Level 2?”

She was growing bored. “Tell it to your supervisor.”

Finally the civility dropped from his voice. “I tried to explain it to that pressed-shirt moron, but he had no clue what I was talking about! He only has that position because his parents were Level 4!”

Her hand was on the button before he finished speaking. “Sir, your tone is threatening and your inflammatory statement about a superior individual will be recorded.”

In no time flat a pair of Level 1's, men with unnatural arms and violent eyes appeared and physically removed the Soil Man from the office. On the sidewalk outside, the Soil Man turned his head to the heavens, yelling to be heard on the upper floors of the structure.

“It's the nitrates! Check the nitrates!” He stood there, pleading, for a few more moments before he turned and walked away, picking the dirt from beneath his nails.

>>END>>

Now comes the burden of title. What should I call this one? "Ease of Entry" - "Access" - "The Soil Man" - "(your suggestion here)"
Drop me a line!
- The Z-Man

Welcome to my first blog: People suck all over

2009-07-10T13:41:00.000-07:00

Upon Suffering a massive pay cut in Florida, I lit out for the grand, open North: Boston, where incomes are higher and job opportunities abound.

Shit. Only one sentence in and I've already blown my punchline. I've constructed this sucker backwards. Everybody has navigated away, except my mother, who thinks every word is Pulitzer material.

My declaration of intention o move to Boston was met with a combination of confusion ("Why Boston? That's so random.") and outright laughter ("That's ballsy!")

How do you respond to that? I chose, "why, thank you!"

I didn't think it was so unusual to pack up and move to a big city. I'm in my mid-20's; isn't that what we do? ... when we're not busy getting married, reproducing, climbing the corporate ladder, and desperately trying to tell ourselves that our actions and trials have meaning? But people reacted like this was an unheard-of pilgrimage. "Well, I'm packing up the car and leaving for the second moon of Pluto!"

Pluto. No longer a planet. People were furious when that reclassification happened, people who had never expressed outrage at rape or genocide or Spider-Man 3. "This is bullshit, maaan! You can't just say it's not a planet anymore! I'll reclassify you! You're not an astronomer; you're a bitch!"

So, moving to Boston. Right. I'm from the South. I say that without reservation, because like "planet," it's just a label. I don't see much difference in various regions of the country; people are the same all over. They're greedy, manipulative, self-obsessed and scared to death that their creature comforts are going to be taken away from them. And by and large, they think that their way of life is preferable to all others. The reactions I got to my move to Boston were enough to make you think that the Civil War was still raging.

My grandfather is an old southern man. He grows his own crops, has a wife who serves as cook and maid, and has probably never had his hand on a computer mouse. Yeah, I'll put five bucks on that. To quote him, "Bwah. What would you want to go be one of them Yankees for?"

"Yankees." He really said it. Spat it, actually, as if through gritted teeth whilst harvesting corn. "Yankees" are rude, uppity, talk too fast, and live in tiny, expensive apartments. The latter, at least, is true.

Before I forget, a funny anecdote regarding my grandmother. This petite, hard-of-hearing woman lives solely to prepare the next meal, and has never expressed a strong opinion about anything, save for this: We were watching television one day and one of those commercials comes on that features a baby digitally manipulated to appear to be speaking. I hear "grandmar" utter, "oh, that's horrible." What, grandmar? "I can't believe they'd do that to a baby. Babies aren't supposed to talk. That's just wrong." The look on her face is all fear and disgust. I didn't know that she had these emotions. All over a talking baby!

So I get to Boston, and during my first week I'm sitting at lunch with my girlfriend and some acquaintances. I'm asked where I'm from and I respond, "Georgia." Eyebrows are raised. "So, like, Atlanta?" No, actually, a few hours away.

At this point, the guy gets a look on his face, as if to say "Oh dear. I've found cat shit in my burrito." What comes out of his mouth is "Oh. So you're really from the south."

I'm fairly certain that most of America(TM) lives outside of major cities. I'm not positive what northerners think the south is like, but I see them envisioning a Walmart parking lot full of neglected trailer homes populated with unwashed Neanderthals in overalls. I'll have them know that some of us live outside the Dollar Store.

Actually, I'm not sure that anyone in Boston knows what a parking lot is. It's sort of like the side of the road, but parking is free and there are a plenitude of open spots. More of my rants on driving and parking in Boston to follow, believe me.

To a northerner, a "southerner" is rude, uneducated, talks too slowly, and enjoys Nascar. The latter, at least, is true.

Is the great north/south divide really still so obvious? What about people in the Midwest? Do they have stereotypes for us? Do they choose sides in these fights? And where do we get these preconceived notions from anyway? How many Bostonians have ever been to "the south"? Small towns are the same all over, regardless of geographic location. The only things that change are the funny accents, and they're all funny.