It wasn't under the best of circumstances that I saw DEVIL HUNTER, Jess Franco's 1980 grungy attempt to cash in on the burgeoning jungle/cannibal genre. The print that I viewed was not only edited, with the copious frontal nudity pixellated out (what, are we in Japan all of a sudden?) and an unfortunate "letterboxed" transfer consisting of a troublesome black matte across the lower third of the picture. So it's no surprise I didn't enjoy it, though with such a tedious and lackluster movie, I doubt a pristine Criterion Collection presentation would've fared much better.
After a brief introductory scene DEVIL HUNTER morphs into a silent, almost surreal montage of images and distorted electronic music that, as it's used for padding rather than artistic purposes, ends with no payoff; in fact, the film is largely made up of quick, repetitive shots (of bloody breasts, a close-up of teeth chewing flesh, endless tribal dances) without context that make it hard to determine just what the hell is going on. The wafer-thin plot concerns an actress (Ursula Fellner) on location in the African jungle who gets kidnapped and the Vietnam veteran (ZOMBIE's Al Cliver) who rescues her; but the real "star," if that's the right word, is the bug-eyed cannibal-zombie-whatsit who roams the scenery, chomping on the hearts of sacrificial victims.
For much of its running time, DEVIL HUNTER plays like a softcore version of Joe D'Amato's PORNO HOLOCAUST. Only instead of unattractive Italians humping each other's brains out we're treated to drawn-out but ultimately tame scenes of sexual sadism as Fellner is tormented by her captors. It's a long, slow ride, the kind of film that feels as if half an hour's elapsed when in reality it's been only five minutes; a lot of Franco's movies are uneventful, but they usually cast a stylish hypnotic spell that makes up for a lack of action--here, we get Franco at his hackiest, so no such luck.
The only real action occurs at the climax, when Cliver battles the cannibal-zombie dude (who belongs more in an alien-invasion flick with his red-rimmed golfball-eyes) at the top of a cliff, though thanks to the miniscule budget it fails to convey much immediacy. We simply see Cliver fighting the zombie--the latter's pixellated member wagging away, until Franco cuts to the bottom on the cliff, the creature lying in a tiny pool of blood.
If you really must see this, exert a little effort into tracking down an uncut print; the movie still won't be great, but at least you can see more of what's going on (such as Franco's lecherous camera angles--hey, if he's gonna linger on female genitalia, we might as well be able to see it). Insomniacs, your version awaits you via Netflix.
Monday, February 25, 2008
DAY 106--HELLO AGAIN
Shelley Long's decision to leave CHEERS at the height of its popularity to pursue a film career ranks as one of the biggest career gaffs in recent history, a move so misguided that even David Caruso makes fun of her for it. And although Long's post-CHEERS resume is peppered with clunkers, it's a sure bet that this 1987 alleged romantic comedy clunks more than the others.
On the surface it would seem the movie'd have a shot at least at mediocrity, given a screenplay by COMPROMISING POSITIONS author Susan Isaacs and a cast that not only includes Long (who, in the rare chances this film gives her, retains some of the effervescence that made her a TV star), Gabriel Byrne, Sela Ward, and Corbin Bernsen, all of whom are capable of carrying scripts beneath their talents. (Most surprising to me was the DAY OF THE DEAD's executive producer Salah M. Hassanein filling the same role here; even CREEPSHOW's Carrie Nye has a brief turn as a gossipy socialite). But the movie lies inert throughout its entire running time, so much that it'd be more interesting to watch outtakes of these actors interacting between takes.
The basic premise--Long, the accident-prone wife of ambitious plastic surgeon Bernsen, chokes to death and returns one year later to find her family, save for the her wacky New Age sister who brought her back, has moved on--is problematic but serviceable. Working against the film is Long's character, a klutzy housewife with such low self-esteem she belongs on Dr. Phil's show rather than the arm of a seven-figure spouse. It's hard to wring laughs out of a scene in which such a person, or anyone for that matter, chokes to death on a chicken ball, but with the right comedic touch it could at least play on a broad, slapstick level. Director Frank Perry doesn't even try, who style is merely slapping together a series of scenes that, in correct chronological order, presents a semi-coherent idea. Once Long comes back from the dead, she finds that not only is her son a happy businessman and husband, but that her gold-digging friend Ward has moved in on Bernsen. This brings up the movie's second biggest flaw--we're supposed to feel sorry for Long's family, even though they're clearly happier now that she's gone, and it's supposed to be a tragedy that Bernsen's no longer in love with her; but hey, he's a career-minded douchebag that married his wife's best friend before she was cold in the ground! Long's just as better off without him as he is her! Yet we're supposed to give a shit!
Wait, I'm forgetting the kicker: unless Long finds true love before the next full moon, she'll become dead again. And despite clear indications that this is a good thing, the script force-feeds us a clumsy, labored "romance" with hunky doctor Byrne that never for a split-second generates anything resembling chemistry.
What purpose does this movie have to exist? The story itself has no conflict, no specific problem that needs resolved, and its execution creates drama that isn't there rather than letting it evolve naturally. Comedy comes in the form of Long's repeated pratfalls, which wear out their welcome somewhere around the ten-minute mark and show no signs of disappearing, even though they're increasingly annoying. Even the climax (I'm being charitable here, though with such a shallow excuse for a plot it's hard for the end to be anything but climactic) is as improbable as it is cutsey-poo, a suitably pat denouement for such a non-story.
You know what would make for better viewing? ANYTHING.
Don't believe me? See for yourself:
On the surface it would seem the movie'd have a shot at least at mediocrity, given a screenplay by COMPROMISING POSITIONS author Susan Isaacs and a cast that not only includes Long (who, in the rare chances this film gives her, retains some of the effervescence that made her a TV star), Gabriel Byrne, Sela Ward, and Corbin Bernsen, all of whom are capable of carrying scripts beneath their talents. (Most surprising to me was the DAY OF THE DEAD's executive producer Salah M. Hassanein filling the same role here; even CREEPSHOW's Carrie Nye has a brief turn as a gossipy socialite). But the movie lies inert throughout its entire running time, so much that it'd be more interesting to watch outtakes of these actors interacting between takes.
The basic premise--Long, the accident-prone wife of ambitious plastic surgeon Bernsen, chokes to death and returns one year later to find her family, save for the her wacky New Age sister who brought her back, has moved on--is problematic but serviceable. Working against the film is Long's character, a klutzy housewife with such low self-esteem she belongs on Dr. Phil's show rather than the arm of a seven-figure spouse. It's hard to wring laughs out of a scene in which such a person, or anyone for that matter, chokes to death on a chicken ball, but with the right comedic touch it could at least play on a broad, slapstick level. Director Frank Perry doesn't even try, who style is merely slapping together a series of scenes that, in correct chronological order, presents a semi-coherent idea. Once Long comes back from the dead, she finds that not only is her son a happy businessman and husband, but that her gold-digging friend Ward has moved in on Bernsen. This brings up the movie's second biggest flaw--we're supposed to feel sorry for Long's family, even though they're clearly happier now that she's gone, and it's supposed to be a tragedy that Bernsen's no longer in love with her; but hey, he's a career-minded douchebag that married his wife's best friend before she was cold in the ground! Long's just as better off without him as he is her! Yet we're supposed to give a shit!
Wait, I'm forgetting the kicker: unless Long finds true love before the next full moon, she'll become dead again. And despite clear indications that this is a good thing, the script force-feeds us a clumsy, labored "romance" with hunky doctor Byrne that never for a split-second generates anything resembling chemistry.
What purpose does this movie have to exist? The story itself has no conflict, no specific problem that needs resolved, and its execution creates drama that isn't there rather than letting it evolve naturally. Comedy comes in the form of Long's repeated pratfalls, which wear out their welcome somewhere around the ten-minute mark and show no signs of disappearing, even though they're increasingly annoying. Even the climax (I'm being charitable here, though with such a shallow excuse for a plot it's hard for the end to be anything but climactic) is as improbable as it is cutsey-poo, a suitably pat denouement for such a non-story.
You know what would make for better viewing? ANYTHING.
Don't believe me? See for yourself:
DAY 105--DAYBREAK
ATTENTION FILMMAKERS:
Due to the multitude of cinematic sins perpetrated by DAYBREAK, a 2007 short film from Will Turner, I've devised this list of things to keep in mind (because I'm tired of seeing the same shit over and over). So before you and your friends take the camcorder to the backyard, remember:
--Make sure the music you place over action sequences is appropriate. I like ska as much as the next guy, but it doesn't exactly convey the proper mood of a zombie film (unless your story takes place at a Reel Big Fish concert). If it's all you have available, do without. If it's part of your "aesthetic," get over yourself.
--Having a roomful of obnoxious gaming nerds sitting around talking about zombie-related what-ifs does not count as either characterization or foreshadowing. And for the obligatory screenshot of an established horror classic, always use the original version of DAWN.
--Slow zombies or fast zombies. Choose one or the other.
--Zombies are the soulless, sentient husks of the dead. Therefore, they should not cry out in pain when you hit them.
--Shaky hand-held camerawork is a tired and overdone technique. It sucks when done properly by professionals, Done by amateurs, it's nausea-inducing.
--Zombies in red gym shorts are scary, but not in the way they're supposed to be.
--Just because you really, really like zombie movies doesn't mean you're qualified to make one. A film, even one that runs fifteen minutes, tells a story, and let's-run-from-the-zombies-until-we-die or zombies-have-taken-over-the-world-and-I'm-all-that's-left isn't a story. This is especially frustrating when you assemble scenes that show a considerable amount of potential then fizzle without any payoff.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled bitchfest.
Due to the multitude of cinematic sins perpetrated by DAYBREAK, a 2007 short film from Will Turner, I've devised this list of things to keep in mind (because I'm tired of seeing the same shit over and over). So before you and your friends take the camcorder to the backyard, remember:
--Make sure the music you place over action sequences is appropriate. I like ska as much as the next guy, but it doesn't exactly convey the proper mood of a zombie film (unless your story takes place at a Reel Big Fish concert). If it's all you have available, do without. If it's part of your "aesthetic," get over yourself.
--Having a roomful of obnoxious gaming nerds sitting around talking about zombie-related what-ifs does not count as either characterization or foreshadowing. And for the obligatory screenshot of an established horror classic, always use the original version of DAWN.
--Slow zombies or fast zombies. Choose one or the other.
--Zombies are the soulless, sentient husks of the dead. Therefore, they should not cry out in pain when you hit them.
--Shaky hand-held camerawork is a tired and overdone technique. It sucks when done properly by professionals, Done by amateurs, it's nausea-inducing.
--Zombies in red gym shorts are scary, but not in the way they're supposed to be.
--Just because you really, really like zombie movies doesn't mean you're qualified to make one. A film, even one that runs fifteen minutes, tells a story, and let's-run-from-the-zombies-until-we-die or zombies-have-taken-over-the-world-and-I'm-all-that's-left isn't a story. This is especially frustrating when you assemble scenes that show a considerable amount of potential then fizzle without any payoff.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled bitchfest.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
DAY 104--ZOMBIE LAKE
Often considered the nadir of the zombie subgenre, ZOMBIE LAKE is undeniable bad, and up until a few months ago was an easy contender for my All-Time Worst List. However, after this most recent viewing I couldn't help but detect a glint of . . . is craftsmanship too generous a word? Four months of embarrassing amateur productions has wreaked havoc on my perspective.
This 1980 Spanish-French co-production is frequently miscredited to Jess Franco (who was considered for the project, but dropped out over concerns of the low budget--a telling statement if there ever was one), but in actuality directorial duties were handled by Spaniard Julian de Laserna and French auteur Jean Rollin under the shared pseudonym J.A. Lazer. (Rollin also makes a brief appearance as a detective.) Given the film's obvious lack of funds and abbreviated shooting schedule--Rollin allegedly started with only two days' prep--it's a wonder it's even watchable, though having Rollin behind the camera helps immeasurably (I realize I may not be giving de Laserna his due, but ZOMBIE LAKE's best moments are consistent with Rollin's work).
Bad-movie buffs have a soft spot for ZOMBIE LAKE not for its story (lightweight tripe involving dead WWII soldiers emerging from the titular lake and preying on the inhabitants of an idyllic French village), but for its sheer incompetence; marvel at the opening sequence in which a nude sunbathing beauty (one of many--one thing the film's good at is padding) is attacked by zombies when she finally goes for a dip. Continuity errors aside, how can you not love a scene where undead soldiers lurch around the bottom of a pool, complete with strands of seaweed floating past a distinct exit sign. Evidently the filmmakers loved it too, since they repeat this scene at the movie's midpoint, upping the fleshy ante with a busload of teenage volleyball players. (I wouldn't be surprised if watching this bit with its opportunistic angles of splayed pubescent crotch lands you on some FBI list).
ZOMBIE LAKE is filled to the brim with unintentionally amusing bits that're entertaining in their own right--the eyesore design of Howard Vernon's mayoral office, gloriously low-rent battle sequences, the cheap green zombie makeup that rubs off onto their victims when they "feed"--but one notable aspect is a heartfelt subplot between a young girl and her zombified father. While no one's going to mistake it for something out of TERMS OF ENDEARMENT, it's apparent that Rollin was trying to elevate the film beyond mere hackwork, even if he wasn't entirely successful. He did, however, sow the thematic seeds that's he'd explore to much greater effect in the subsequent LIVING DEAD GIRL.
Add to the mix the placid pastoral atmosphere often found in Rollin's films and a recycled Daniel White score (rehashed from THE AWFUL DR. ORLOFF and FEMALE VAMPIRE), and you've got a tasty Eurotrash cocktail that won't win any awards but goes down easy and satisfying.
This 1980 Spanish-French co-production is frequently miscredited to Jess Franco (who was considered for the project, but dropped out over concerns of the low budget--a telling statement if there ever was one), but in actuality directorial duties were handled by Spaniard Julian de Laserna and French auteur Jean Rollin under the shared pseudonym J.A. Lazer. (Rollin also makes a brief appearance as a detective.) Given the film's obvious lack of funds and abbreviated shooting schedule--Rollin allegedly started with only two days' prep--it's a wonder it's even watchable, though having Rollin behind the camera helps immeasurably (I realize I may not be giving de Laserna his due, but ZOMBIE LAKE's best moments are consistent with Rollin's work).
Bad-movie buffs have a soft spot for ZOMBIE LAKE not for its story (lightweight tripe involving dead WWII soldiers emerging from the titular lake and preying on the inhabitants of an idyllic French village), but for its sheer incompetence; marvel at the opening sequence in which a nude sunbathing beauty (one of many--one thing the film's good at is padding) is attacked by zombies when she finally goes for a dip. Continuity errors aside, how can you not love a scene where undead soldiers lurch around the bottom of a pool, complete with strands of seaweed floating past a distinct exit sign. Evidently the filmmakers loved it too, since they repeat this scene at the movie's midpoint, upping the fleshy ante with a busload of teenage volleyball players. (I wouldn't be surprised if watching this bit with its opportunistic angles of splayed pubescent crotch lands you on some FBI list).
ZOMBIE LAKE is filled to the brim with unintentionally amusing bits that're entertaining in their own right--the eyesore design of Howard Vernon's mayoral office, gloriously low-rent battle sequences, the cheap green zombie makeup that rubs off onto their victims when they "feed"--but one notable aspect is a heartfelt subplot between a young girl and her zombified father. While no one's going to mistake it for something out of TERMS OF ENDEARMENT, it's apparent that Rollin was trying to elevate the film beyond mere hackwork, even if he wasn't entirely successful. He did, however, sow the thematic seeds that's he'd explore to much greater effect in the subsequent LIVING DEAD GIRL.
Add to the mix the placid pastoral atmosphere often found in Rollin's films and a recycled Daniel White score (rehashed from THE AWFUL DR. ORLOFF and FEMALE VAMPIRE), and you've got a tasty Eurotrash cocktail that won't win any awards but goes down easy and satisfying.
DAY 103--DEATH CURSE OF TARTU
DEATH CURSE OF TARTU, an early horror offering from Florida schlock-peddler William Grefe, treads some pretty well-known ground: a long-dead Native American (Seminole? I don't think the film specifies, since one character simply refers to himself as "an Indian") rises from the dead when his final resting place is disturbed, a concept I'm pretty sure was old hat even in 1966.
After a neat gag involving the opening credits (in which they're presented on parchment found in Tartu's crypt--a money-saving move that gobbles all of Grefe's creativity) we're introduced to a scenario that'll become all-too-familiar: a gaggle of photogenic but personality-bereft teens head to a remote location--in this case, the party capital of the Florida Everglades--for a good time and run afoul of the titular menace. Crap-film aficionados may be previously inoculated for TARTU's stall tactics (such as long stretches of dialogue, extended "stalk" sequences that are light on suspense but heavy on the lulz, and gratuitous musical numbers--I still refuse to believe people once danced like that) before getting to the murderous fun. Those looking for a wall-to-wall bloodbath will be sorely disappointed, as Grefe barely pushes the parameters of a PG-rating, but what it's missing in the red stuff it compensates with knee-slapping hilarity (check out the early scene in which an anaconda "devours" its victim, as the actor wraps the snake around himself while emoting like a mofo).
Though his kill scenes are bad-movie gold, from the painfully fake rattlesnake attack to the annoying redhead who gets her arm gnawed off by an alligator, Tartu makes for a poor zombie. He doesn't do much more than open the lid of his coffin, preferring to take the form of "wild beasts" to spread his curse. He does climb out of his grave for the final ten minutes, though he inexplicable transforms from a skeletal zombie to a flesh-and-blood warrior for a weak showdown with the lead (before buying the farm in a pool of quicksand).
Fans of awful cinema might get a charge out of DEATH CURSE OF TARTU, but even they might need the assistance of Joel and the 'bots to make it through. The morbidly curious may want to give it a go, but I gotta tell you: I've seen cold molasses move quicker than this.
After a neat gag involving the opening credits (in which they're presented on parchment found in Tartu's crypt--a money-saving move that gobbles all of Grefe's creativity) we're introduced to a scenario that'll become all-too-familiar: a gaggle of photogenic but personality-bereft teens head to a remote location--in this case, the party capital of the Florida Everglades--for a good time and run afoul of the titular menace. Crap-film aficionados may be previously inoculated for TARTU's stall tactics (such as long stretches of dialogue, extended "stalk" sequences that are light on suspense but heavy on the lulz, and gratuitous musical numbers--I still refuse to believe people once danced like that) before getting to the murderous fun. Those looking for a wall-to-wall bloodbath will be sorely disappointed, as Grefe barely pushes the parameters of a PG-rating, but what it's missing in the red stuff it compensates with knee-slapping hilarity (check out the early scene in which an anaconda "devours" its victim, as the actor wraps the snake around himself while emoting like a mofo).
Though his kill scenes are bad-movie gold, from the painfully fake rattlesnake attack to the annoying redhead who gets her arm gnawed off by an alligator, Tartu makes for a poor zombie. He doesn't do much more than open the lid of his coffin, preferring to take the form of "wild beasts" to spread his curse. He does climb out of his grave for the final ten minutes, though he inexplicable transforms from a skeletal zombie to a flesh-and-blood warrior for a weak showdown with the lead (before buying the farm in a pool of quicksand).
Fans of awful cinema might get a charge out of DEATH CURSE OF TARTU, but even they might need the assistance of Joel and the 'bots to make it through. The morbidly curious may want to give it a go, but I gotta tell you: I've seen cold molasses move quicker than this.
DAY 102--VAMPIRES VS. ZOMBIES
With a title like VAMPIRES VS. ZOMBIES you'd expect a battle royale of the living dead, the kind of monster-rally picture they don't make anymore. At the very least you can imagine a movie in which both vampires and zombies occupy a significant amount of the plot (or the screen) together. I'm guessing writer/director Vince D'Amato conjured a different scenario, since his 2004 film is a tepid vampire melodrama that attempts to be ambiguous and mysterious, but is simply confusing (or would be, if anyone gave a shit).
The movie kicks off with a WTF-inducing based-on-a-story credit by J. Sheridan LeFanu (note to D'Amato: just because your main character is a lesbian vampire named Carmilla doesn't entitle you to some royalty-free prestige; it does, however, make you look a clueless oaf) and progresses without the restraints of logic and cohesion. If D'Amato was interested in making a tamer echo of the myriad softcore girl-on-girl vampire flicks that'd be one thing, but by trying to "deepen" his film with a zombie subplot he accomplishes a whole lot of head scratchin' and not much else. Is this a pending-apocalypse set-up? From the precious little background D'Amato provides, it seems that only one radio station is aware of any zombie threat, and even they aren't exactly nonplussed. The zombie scenes themselves are brief clips arbitrarily shoehorned throughout the plot, feeling like an afterthought when somebody remembered the living dead were hot.
But even the limp vampire storyline suffers from an overall dearth of passion and conviction, as if no one involves in the production really cared (even the obligatory lesbian sex scenes lack spark). And if the director couldn't be concerned with his story and characters, why should we?
The movie kicks off with a WTF-inducing based-on-a-story credit by J. Sheridan LeFanu (note to D'Amato: just because your main character is a lesbian vampire named Carmilla doesn't entitle you to some royalty-free prestige; it does, however, make you look a clueless oaf) and progresses without the restraints of logic and cohesion. If D'Amato was interested in making a tamer echo of the myriad softcore girl-on-girl vampire flicks that'd be one thing, but by trying to "deepen" his film with a zombie subplot he accomplishes a whole lot of head scratchin' and not much else. Is this a pending-apocalypse set-up? From the precious little background D'Amato provides, it seems that only one radio station is aware of any zombie threat, and even they aren't exactly nonplussed. The zombie scenes themselves are brief clips arbitrarily shoehorned throughout the plot, feeling like an afterthought when somebody remembered the living dead were hot.
But even the limp vampire storyline suffers from an overall dearth of passion and conviction, as if no one involves in the production really cared (even the obligatory lesbian sex scenes lack spark). And if the director couldn't be concerned with his story and characters, why should we?
DAY 101--KILLING SPREE
Tim Ritter, the videotape era's answer to Herschell Gordon Lewis and best known for TRUTH OR DARE: A CRITICAL MADNESS, followed up that slice of shot-on-video dementia with this 1987 tale of jealousy and revenge. Now, it's been a long time since I've seen TRUTH OR DARE, but even with the unreliable nature of memory it's hard to believe both features were made by the same person. Short on ingenuity but unrelentingly long on tedium and wasted opportunity, KILLING SPREE manages to cram an entire half-iota of story into 85 minutes.
Asbestos Felt--love that name--stars as Tom, an average schmo undergoing a little marital strife (though Felt's not a completely abysmal actor, he resembles more a roadie for the Allman Brothers Band than your typical everyman). See, Tom's a wee bit on the insecure side; not only does he not like the idea of his wife having a life outside the home, he tends to get insanely jealous--literally--when it comes to other men. When Tom finds his wife's diary, filled to bursting with purple-prosed descriptions of her fantasies of every male in the neighborhood, he finally snaps and embarks on the titular spree, setting up a dry, by-the-numbers series of increasingly asinine murders complete with buckets of cut-rate gore.
Formulaic plot aside, Felt's character is so hollow and one-dimensional that it's impossible to muster any concern ot sympathy. He's pushed into madness with no real motivation other than plot necessity, leaving his actions without emotion or impact (nor does it help that Tom's "tortured" voice-overs are too overwrought to be anything but mockable). Throw in some lengthy, pointless conversations, a couple of idiotic dream sequences, and some so-called comic relief (in the form of a constipated old lady who steals Tom's Fangorias) and you've got youtself one seriously interminable yawnfest.
And zombies? Yeah, they're here, appearing about fifteen minutes from the end as Tom's victims return from the dead to exact their predictable revenge, spouting inane puns and posing as a gimmicky plot contrivance.
If your cinematic tastes run toward the home movies of the criminally depraved, you might be able to tolerate KILLING SPREE. Those more attached to their wits will want to look elsewhere.
Asbestos Felt--love that name--stars as Tom, an average schmo undergoing a little marital strife (though Felt's not a completely abysmal actor, he resembles more a roadie for the Allman Brothers Band than your typical everyman). See, Tom's a wee bit on the insecure side; not only does he not like the idea of his wife having a life outside the home, he tends to get insanely jealous--literally--when it comes to other men. When Tom finds his wife's diary, filled to bursting with purple-prosed descriptions of her fantasies of every male in the neighborhood, he finally snaps and embarks on the titular spree, setting up a dry, by-the-numbers series of increasingly asinine murders complete with buckets of cut-rate gore.
Formulaic plot aside, Felt's character is so hollow and one-dimensional that it's impossible to muster any concern ot sympathy. He's pushed into madness with no real motivation other than plot necessity, leaving his actions without emotion or impact (nor does it help that Tom's "tortured" voice-overs are too overwrought to be anything but mockable). Throw in some lengthy, pointless conversations, a couple of idiotic dream sequences, and some so-called comic relief (in the form of a constipated old lady who steals Tom's Fangorias) and you've got youtself one seriously interminable yawnfest.
And zombies? Yeah, they're here, appearing about fifteen minutes from the end as Tom's victims return from the dead to exact their predictable revenge, spouting inane puns and posing as a gimmicky plot contrivance.
If your cinematic tastes run toward the home movies of the criminally depraved, you might be able to tolerate KILLING SPREE. Those more attached to their wits will want to look elsewhere.
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