Unbeknownst to me, this 2001 cult oddity from Argentinian filmmakers Pablo Pares and Hernan Saez is a sequel to the earlier (and presumably cultier) PLAGA ZOMBIE. General consensus says MUTANT ZONE is the better of the two, in which case I plan to steer plenty clear of the original. It's easy to see why this film has an underground following, since it embraces such fanboy icons as Sam Raimi and Peter Jackson, and I feel like I should've liked it, but the movie left me cold. (Perhaps because at this point I'm extremely weary of Raimi/Jackson homages.)
Pares and Saez attempt to emulate the same frantic energy as BAD TASTE or Tsui Hark's WE'RE GOING TO EAT YOU, but instead of being quirky and frenetic, they simply come off as loud and obnoxious; often watching MUTANT ZONE is like being stuck in a Denny's with a hyperactive child that won't shut up. The film is indeed chaotic, but in a rambling, directionless way as the filmmakers blur through the episodic story like an ADD-afflicted kid with a remote control. (Sorry about all the child-based similes--blame the juvenile nature of the film, or the Troma-esque level of humor delivered in spastic Spanish.)
Nor does MUTANT ZONE achieve--or strive to achieve, for that matter--to be anything more than a clone of the filmmakers' favorite directors, slavishly copying the gory excesses (to a considerable degree, there's grue aplenty to be had here) of THE EVIL DEAD or BRAINDEAD. Like Raimi and Jackson, Pares and Saez can accomplish quite a lot with a next-to-nothing budget, and there are a few slight flashes of ingenuity (such as tying a zombie to a light post with its own intestines), but they're too preoccupied with being imitative that they never pull off anything truly unique.
I'll leave it at that, since I feel a rant coming on about how filmmakers these days are content to replicate their inspirations rather than outdo them. PLAGA ZOMBIE: MUTANT ZONE might cut the mustard when you can seem to remember where you left your EVIL DEAD 2 DVD, but original or refreshing it ain't.
Monday, July 7, 2008
DAY 243--NIGHT OF THE HUNTED
A rare misstep from Jean Rollin, 1980's NIGHT OF THE HUNTED is often regarded by both critics and fans as one of the director's low points (aside from his forays into the porn ghetto, that is). Although the film has its supporters, and it's not without its charms, it can't help but pale in comparison to Rollin's more accomplished works like THE LIVING DEAD GIRL or LE FRISSON DES VAMPIRES.
The brunt of HUNTED's problems lies in its paltry budget, which prevents Rollin from exploring some of the greater possibilities of his script. Supposedly granted complete artistic autonomy, Rollin had to concede to his smallest bankroll yet (though what's the point of having total freedom, when you can't afford to do what you want?); his only requirements were the inclusion of some fairly graphic sex scenes. (Fortunately for Rollin, much of the cast was comprised of performers from the French adult industry.)
Not a true zombie film, at least not in the accepted sense, the plot concerns a young man (Vincent Gardere) who finds an amnesiac hitchhiker (Brigitte Lahaie, looking nothing at all like the hitchhikers I normally encounter) on his way home. Helping her, he takes her back to his apartment, where they rather forcedly fall in love--as well as initiate the first of those prerequisite schtup scenes. Although the sex is no less gratuitous than what's to come, Rollin presents it tenderly, tying it into the characters' relationship and setting up the remainder of the story; when Lahaie is escorted away by a pair of mysterious scientists, Gardere follows them to the apartment-like clinic where the majority of the movie takes place.
After an intriguing set-up, HUNTED starts to falter once it enters the clinic (which bears a superficial resemblance to Cronenberg's high-rise in SHIVERS). Part of it has to do with its prohibitive budget, which allows for little more than some additional skin and brief gore (which includes a memorable scissors-through-the-eyes bit), but it's also due to the source of Lahaie's amnesia--an unexplained disorder caused by a radiation leak that's gradually destroying her brain. Most of the clinic's patients are afflicted with this ailment, so that they wander around aimlessly, mimicking the film's somnambulant pace (except the ones that go crazy, that is).
And while the meandering tone of the picture may inspire fast-forward manipulation, Rollin ends the film with a bitterly romantic moment, in which Gardere and Lahaie are reunited (for good, in an ironic and very French finale), though viewers might be too antsy by then to really appreciate its morose beauty.
Rollin completists will no doubt find some glimmer of interest in NIGHT OF THE HUNTED (aside from a subplot involving the doomed relationship between two young girls, there's little thematic unity to the auteur's other works), but the casual or tyro viewer would be better off sticking with, say, Rollin's THE RAPE OF THE VAMPIRE or even THE GRAPES OF DEATH. At any rate, it's still better than ZOMBIE LAKE.
The brunt of HUNTED's problems lies in its paltry budget, which prevents Rollin from exploring some of the greater possibilities of his script. Supposedly granted complete artistic autonomy, Rollin had to concede to his smallest bankroll yet (though what's the point of having total freedom, when you can't afford to do what you want?); his only requirements were the inclusion of some fairly graphic sex scenes. (Fortunately for Rollin, much of the cast was comprised of performers from the French adult industry.)
Not a true zombie film, at least not in the accepted sense, the plot concerns a young man (Vincent Gardere) who finds an amnesiac hitchhiker (Brigitte Lahaie, looking nothing at all like the hitchhikers I normally encounter) on his way home. Helping her, he takes her back to his apartment, where they rather forcedly fall in love--as well as initiate the first of those prerequisite schtup scenes. Although the sex is no less gratuitous than what's to come, Rollin presents it tenderly, tying it into the characters' relationship and setting up the remainder of the story; when Lahaie is escorted away by a pair of mysterious scientists, Gardere follows them to the apartment-like clinic where the majority of the movie takes place.
After an intriguing set-up, HUNTED starts to falter once it enters the clinic (which bears a superficial resemblance to Cronenberg's high-rise in SHIVERS). Part of it has to do with its prohibitive budget, which allows for little more than some additional skin and brief gore (which includes a memorable scissors-through-the-eyes bit), but it's also due to the source of Lahaie's amnesia--an unexplained disorder caused by a radiation leak that's gradually destroying her brain. Most of the clinic's patients are afflicted with this ailment, so that they wander around aimlessly, mimicking the film's somnambulant pace (except the ones that go crazy, that is).
And while the meandering tone of the picture may inspire fast-forward manipulation, Rollin ends the film with a bitterly romantic moment, in which Gardere and Lahaie are reunited (for good, in an ironic and very French finale), though viewers might be too antsy by then to really appreciate its morose beauty.
Rollin completists will no doubt find some glimmer of interest in NIGHT OF THE HUNTED (aside from a subplot involving the doomed relationship between two young girls, there's little thematic unity to the auteur's other works), but the casual or tyro viewer would be better off sticking with, say, Rollin's THE RAPE OF THE VAMPIRE or even THE GRAPES OF DEATH. At any rate, it's still better than ZOMBIE LAKE.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
DAY 242--DIARY OF THE DEAD
I've never cared for the term "re-imagining," especially since it's usually applied to subpar remakes of films that were often mediocre to begin with, but it's an apt description for George Romero's 2008 film DIARY OF THE DEAD. Romero essentially starts anew, taking another look at the beginnings of his now-legendary zombie outbreak through the filters of various camera lenses and cathode ray tubes.
Perhaps it was the lingering resentment over the slick, name-ridden LAND OF THE DEAD or the unfortunate timing of being released shortly after the similarly-styled CLOVERFIELD, but it seemed as if critics and audiences alike had written off DIARY sight unseen. I myself went in with considerable trepidation, expecting the same warmed-over undead pap that made up LAND.
Call it the power of lowered expectations if you want, but DIARY OF THE DEAD is a solid film.
Right from its opening scene, in which a news crew captures the early stages of the outbreak, Romero recreates the same ominous, apocalyptic feel of the original trilogy, effectively rinsing away any residual traces of LAND. I've stated here before that my favorite part of end-of-the-world zombie films is the beginning of the end, so to speak, as the characters start to realize that something's going seriously wrong. Romero not only nails the sense of impending dread, but he sets it up in the confines of a video-bound student film (that would no doubt have gotten skewered on this very blog). It's a clever, if somewhat thrown away, contrast between fictional horrors and "real" ones, but it also gives Romero a chance to chime in on the fast-vs.slow-zombie debate, which he does with a fair amount of bite.
What I found curious was how much the dissidents berated Romero for using the faux-documentary approach, as if the technique were the sole property of CANNIBAL HOLOCAUST or THE BLAIR WITCH PROJECT. (That'd be like fans of Stoker's DRACULA saying novels can no longer be written in epistolary format.) It's simply a storytelling method, one that Romero uses to reinforce the theme of media and its impact on reality. There's never a moment where it doesn't feel like a work of fiction, and sometimes the format calls for some awkward blocking to get the action, but it's far from the deal breaker critics make it out to be.
Story-wise, Romero doesn't take us anywhere we haven't already been, but with the father of the modern cinematic zombie at the helm it makes for a worthwhile journey. Memorable set-pieces include an abandoned/emptied hospital that recalls the RESIDENT EVIL games (bringing its stylistic influence full circle) and an all-too-brief appearance by a mute Amish farmer (a resurgence of Romero's often-overlooked black humor). There are a couple of slow spots along the way--the sequence involving the black survivalists could've had a lot more tension, feeling more like an potential obstacle that's easily brushed past, and the military-as-reckless-assholes scene bored me as soon as it started (Romero mined this area well in DAY OF THE DEAD, but aside from Brian Keene's novel THE RISING, it's since fallen into tired cliche; at least Romero keeps the moment brief)--but DIARY moves at a brisk clip, incorporating several scenes of action and/or scares without sacrificing its flow. But it's the film's third act, in a fortress-like home equipped with an oh-so-appropriate panic room filled with video monitors, when Romero really takes the character-POV structure as his own, using a multiple-camera approach to goose what could've been just another ho-hum climax.
Much has already been written about Romero's criticism of 24-hour information sources and online communities like YouTube and MySpace, though they're more extensions of Romero's commentary of a technology-dominant society than the overall message. (Odd, that those who called DIARY a rip-off of CANNIBAL HOLOCAUST failed to mention that both films use their documentary-esque format to illustrate how the media can manipulate the truth to one's best interest.) But most of the movie's contempt--and, presumably, the bulk of Romero's ire--is for the character of Jason, who films the majority of DIARY's events; more than once he's condemned for his willingness to stay safely behind the camera lens and "document" the mounting horror than become an active participant in his group's survival. I wonder how potent this would've been during the mid-'90s, when the "If it bleeds, it leads" style of journalism was at its peak.
A sequel to DIARY is supposedly already in the works, and as much as I enjoyed seeing Romero's world through his protagonists' eyes, I really don't think one's warranted. Granted, it's possible Romero may have something new to bring to the equation, but considering the first (or is that fifth?) film's reception, and the seeming ambivalence of his zombies in general anymore, it may be wise to slap the lens cap back on.
Perhaps it was the lingering resentment over the slick, name-ridden LAND OF THE DEAD or the unfortunate timing of being released shortly after the similarly-styled CLOVERFIELD, but it seemed as if critics and audiences alike had written off DIARY sight unseen. I myself went in with considerable trepidation, expecting the same warmed-over undead pap that made up LAND.
Call it the power of lowered expectations if you want, but DIARY OF THE DEAD is a solid film.
Right from its opening scene, in which a news crew captures the early stages of the outbreak, Romero recreates the same ominous, apocalyptic feel of the original trilogy, effectively rinsing away any residual traces of LAND. I've stated here before that my favorite part of end-of-the-world zombie films is the beginning of the end, so to speak, as the characters start to realize that something's going seriously wrong. Romero not only nails the sense of impending dread, but he sets it up in the confines of a video-bound student film (that would no doubt have gotten skewered on this very blog). It's a clever, if somewhat thrown away, contrast between fictional horrors and "real" ones, but it also gives Romero a chance to chime in on the fast-vs.slow-zombie debate, which he does with a fair amount of bite.
What I found curious was how much the dissidents berated Romero for using the faux-documentary approach, as if the technique were the sole property of CANNIBAL HOLOCAUST or THE BLAIR WITCH PROJECT. (That'd be like fans of Stoker's DRACULA saying novels can no longer be written in epistolary format.) It's simply a storytelling method, one that Romero uses to reinforce the theme of media and its impact on reality. There's never a moment where it doesn't feel like a work of fiction, and sometimes the format calls for some awkward blocking to get the action, but it's far from the deal breaker critics make it out to be.
Story-wise, Romero doesn't take us anywhere we haven't already been, but with the father of the modern cinematic zombie at the helm it makes for a worthwhile journey. Memorable set-pieces include an abandoned/emptied hospital that recalls the RESIDENT EVIL games (bringing its stylistic influence full circle) and an all-too-brief appearance by a mute Amish farmer (a resurgence of Romero's often-overlooked black humor). There are a couple of slow spots along the way--the sequence involving the black survivalists could've had a lot more tension, feeling more like an potential obstacle that's easily brushed past, and the military-as-reckless-assholes scene bored me as soon as it started (Romero mined this area well in DAY OF THE DEAD, but aside from Brian Keene's novel THE RISING, it's since fallen into tired cliche; at least Romero keeps the moment brief)--but DIARY moves at a brisk clip, incorporating several scenes of action and/or scares without sacrificing its flow. But it's the film's third act, in a fortress-like home equipped with an oh-so-appropriate panic room filled with video monitors, when Romero really takes the character-POV structure as his own, using a multiple-camera approach to goose what could've been just another ho-hum climax.
Much has already been written about Romero's criticism of 24-hour information sources and online communities like YouTube and MySpace, though they're more extensions of Romero's commentary of a technology-dominant society than the overall message. (Odd, that those who called DIARY a rip-off of CANNIBAL HOLOCAUST failed to mention that both films use their documentary-esque format to illustrate how the media can manipulate the truth to one's best interest.) But most of the movie's contempt--and, presumably, the bulk of Romero's ire--is for the character of Jason, who films the majority of DIARY's events; more than once he's condemned for his willingness to stay safely behind the camera lens and "document" the mounting horror than become an active participant in his group's survival. I wonder how potent this would've been during the mid-'90s, when the "If it bleeds, it leads" style of journalism was at its peak.
A sequel to DIARY is supposedly already in the works, and as much as I enjoyed seeing Romero's world through his protagonists' eyes, I really don't think one's warranted. Granted, it's possible Romero may have something new to bring to the equation, but considering the first (or is that fifth?) film's reception, and the seeming ambivalence of his zombies in general anymore, it may be wise to slap the lens cap back on.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
DAY 241--DEAD THINGS
We may have wrapped up our look at the ZOMBIE BLOODBATH films, but weren't not finished with Todd Sheets just yet (or should that be, he isn't finished with us?). Squeezed onto the BLOODBATH DVD as an added bonus, the 1986 short DEAD THINGS shows that Sheets has been up to his brand of cinematic chicanery for quite some time.
Billed as "A Heapin' Helpin' of Hellbent Hillbilly Hospitality," it's probably more accurate to call it "A Heapin' Helpin' of Ham-Fisted, Hare-Brained Horseshit." A woefully thin entry in the backwoods-killer subgenre, DEAD THINGS concerns a group of city folk who encounter a murderous, and EXTREMELY stereotypical, hillbilly and his Chop Top-wannabe son. City folk run. Hillbillies catch them. Kill them.
Fortunately, a last-minute reveal informs us that the hillbillies are the living dead, and "y'cain't kill what's already dead!" (Though, if I'm not mistaken, the odds were pretty much in favor of the, shall we say, Appalachian Americans.) Thus, this fifteen-minute slice of tomfoolery is suitable for this blog, and therefore worth sitting through.
(Can't find a version of this one to show you, but if you've got Netflix or a similar service, it's worth renting ZOMBIE BLOODBATH just for this painfully amusing short.)
Billed as "A Heapin' Helpin' of Hellbent Hillbilly Hospitality," it's probably more accurate to call it "A Heapin' Helpin' of Ham-Fisted, Hare-Brained Horseshit." A woefully thin entry in the backwoods-killer subgenre, DEAD THINGS concerns a group of city folk who encounter a murderous, and EXTREMELY stereotypical, hillbilly and his Chop Top-wannabe son. City folk run. Hillbillies catch them. Kill them.
Fortunately, a last-minute reveal informs us that the hillbillies are the living dead, and "y'cain't kill what's already dead!" (Though, if I'm not mistaken, the odds were pretty much in favor of the, shall we say, Appalachian Americans.) Thus, this fifteen-minute slice of tomfoolery is suitable for this blog, and therefore worth sitting through.
(Can't find a version of this one to show you, but if you've got Netflix or a similar service, it's worth renting ZOMBIE BLOODBATH just for this painfully amusing short.)
DAY 240--ZOMBIE BLOODBATH 3: ZOMBIE ARMAGEDDON
Todd Sheets's ZOMBIE BLOODBATH series concludes with the 2000 entry ZOMBIE ARMAGEDDON. By now any critique would sound just as redundant as the movies themselves, so I'll try to avoid the obvious (acting, writing, etc.) and stick to the flaws unique to this particular picture.
Kicking off with yet another prologue, the third installment begins as a gaggle of zombies are rounded onto a space shuttle and--in cheesy, primitive CGI--are blasted into space. And while I would've loved to have seen a cheap, amateur-hour zombies-in-orbit film, Sheets keeps the action on terra firma, with a group of BREAKFAST CLUB-inspired high school misfits stuck in detention. (I was pleasantly shocked to see that Sheets's dialogue had improved a little since the last film--though that's a bit like saying your sucking chest wound has finally stopped bleeding--but man, he has GOT to find a better crop of actors.) Sneaking out from under the nose of their pervy, porn-viewing teacher (who's no match for the late, great Paul Gleason, I assure you), the motley band of troublemakers discover the prologue's space shuttle in the bowels of the school.
You may think you've read that wrong, so I'll repeat: the motley band of troublemakers discover A FUCKING SPACE SHUTTLE IN THE BOWELS OF THE SCHOOL.
So the zombies get released and eat people and yadda yadda yadda . . . you guys can be writing these reviews by yourselves at this point. The dimestore gore is splashed around with great abandon, though after three movies it all blurs into one big Karo-saturated mess. What I was more interesting in was where does Sheets find all these extras? There's literally hundreds of zombies in each separate film; I guess plenty of people would jump at the chance to be a cinematic zombie, no matter how insipid or addle-brained. (And, truth be told, the same could be said about me.)
Sheets proves that his plotting abilities still haven't grown, ending the film some stupidity involving the space-time continuum to essentially "erase" the events of the film. (Lord, how I wish I could've done the same with this movie.) He also hasn't figured how to close a story, letting the film linger on much longer than needed before launching into a neverending stream of chuckleheaded outtakes.
I'd like to state for the record that I HATE outtakes at the end of movies. Every once and while there'll be an exception, but more often than not they exist just so the stars can indulge their inner hams. (Here's a fun exercise: the next time you see outtakes over the end credits, watch the actors. The more fun they seem to be having, the crappier the movie itself tends to be.) And that's with movies that're relatively good. Coming at the end of a badly-made, piss-poor shot-on-video atrocity like this, it reveals the filmmakers' ignorance and lack of professionalism. (This reminds me of a similar film set I once visited, where the director was more concerned with getting a good gag reel than making a competent picture.)
With that out of the way, if wall-to-wall bloodshed is your thing, you'll probably find the ZOMBIE BLOODBATH films worth checking out, assuming you can look past their considerable liabilities. (A feat most gorehounds have perfected.) I, however, buckled under the strain.
Kicking off with yet another prologue, the third installment begins as a gaggle of zombies are rounded onto a space shuttle and--in cheesy, primitive CGI--are blasted into space. And while I would've loved to have seen a cheap, amateur-hour zombies-in-orbit film, Sheets keeps the action on terra firma, with a group of BREAKFAST CLUB-inspired high school misfits stuck in detention. (I was pleasantly shocked to see that Sheets's dialogue had improved a little since the last film--though that's a bit like saying your sucking chest wound has finally stopped bleeding--but man, he has GOT to find a better crop of actors.) Sneaking out from under the nose of their pervy, porn-viewing teacher (who's no match for the late, great Paul Gleason, I assure you), the motley band of troublemakers discover the prologue's space shuttle in the bowels of the school.
You may think you've read that wrong, so I'll repeat: the motley band of troublemakers discover A FUCKING SPACE SHUTTLE IN THE BOWELS OF THE SCHOOL.
So the zombies get released and eat people and yadda yadda yadda . . . you guys can be writing these reviews by yourselves at this point. The dimestore gore is splashed around with great abandon, though after three movies it all blurs into one big Karo-saturated mess. What I was more interesting in was where does Sheets find all these extras? There's literally hundreds of zombies in each separate film; I guess plenty of people would jump at the chance to be a cinematic zombie, no matter how insipid or addle-brained. (And, truth be told, the same could be said about me.)
Sheets proves that his plotting abilities still haven't grown, ending the film some stupidity involving the space-time continuum to essentially "erase" the events of the film. (Lord, how I wish I could've done the same with this movie.) He also hasn't figured how to close a story, letting the film linger on much longer than needed before launching into a neverending stream of chuckleheaded outtakes.
I'd like to state for the record that I HATE outtakes at the end of movies. Every once and while there'll be an exception, but more often than not they exist just so the stars can indulge their inner hams. (Here's a fun exercise: the next time you see outtakes over the end credits, watch the actors. The more fun they seem to be having, the crappier the movie itself tends to be.) And that's with movies that're relatively good. Coming at the end of a badly-made, piss-poor shot-on-video atrocity like this, it reveals the filmmakers' ignorance and lack of professionalism. (This reminds me of a similar film set I once visited, where the director was more concerned with getting a good gag reel than making a competent picture.)
With that out of the way, if wall-to-wall bloodshed is your thing, you'll probably find the ZOMBIE BLOODBATH films worth checking out, assuming you can look past their considerable liabilities. (A feat most gorehounds have perfected.) I, however, buckled under the strain.
DAY 239--ZOMBIE BLOODBATH 2: RAGE OF THE UNDEAD
Before we go any further, I just want to reiterate that Todd Sheets's ZOMBIE BLOODBATH films are not a trilogy, but rather a series of movies from the same director that share a similar subject (there's no character or thematic continuance from one installment to the next), nor should one infer a belief on my part that it's so; I'm simply reviewing them consecutively purely for my own convenience.
Now that we've got that out of the way, let's proceed with the 1995 follow-up to the original BLOODBATH, subtitled RAGE OF THE UNDEAD. In my earlier review I chastised Sheets for using the first film as a vehicle for a repetitive collection of one-note zombie gut-munchings; I wonder if he received similar feedback upon its release, because he tries something new for RAGE. Opening with a sepia-tinged flashback to 1945 Topeka, he employs certain stylistic flourishes like black-and-white cutaways and subliminal editing as he sets up what's to be the film's central figure, a robbery victim who's murdered and crucified in a cornfield by his attackers; these techniques don't really work, in that they contribute little more than distracting the viewer from the lackluster acting (a Sheets trademark if there ever was one) and stilted pacing. But you sense Sheets is trying to spread his creative wings a little, so I'm willing to cut him a little slack.
Ironically, you don't realize the strengths of the prologue--the lighting, the camerawork--until the story proper begins, and it settles into the same dunderheaded storytelling as BLOODBATH. A group of teens run afoul of a handful of on-the-lam criminals in a remote Kansas farmhouse, eventually resurrecting the prologue victim as a vengeful scarecrow (who can somehow revive the dead in the local cemetery as well). This wouldn't have been a bad set-up--well, if you'd taken out the atrocious performances and stiff dialogue, that is--but Sheets goes even further, introducing another gang of bad guys who're holding up a deli, and keeping its employees hostage, in a parallel story completely removed from the first.
It's here that Sheets's weaknesses as a filmmaker come to the fore. The hold-up scenes are horrendously tedious, further encumbered with inane acting and lousy writing that make them almost unwatchably ludicrous (and Sheets cannot direct physical action to save his life); hell, when you can't even get a reaction from the rape of a female corpse something's gone seriously awry.
The two running storylines converge for a credulity-straining third act--really, only in an egregious plot contrivance would these two situations ever cross paths--topped with yet another Romero-inspired zombie feeding frenzy. Ho hum, you don't need me to tell you the rest.
Sheets adds a "Satanic" twist this time around, which mostly involves splicing in shots of pentagrams and drawings of goat heads, that gives it little distinction. There's a payoff, if one can call it that, in an epilogue filled with news reports of Satanic-inspired crimes and occultic imagery that goes on nearly ten minutes after the story's over and has absolutely nothing to do with the movie itself.
Or does it? Sheets tacks on a closing crawl saying that we're already ZOMBIES by killing each other and draining our natural resources. (Um, okay, whatever you say, dude.) Misguided pleas for change are annoying enough, but at the end of a lame-brained amateurish gore-a-thon it's to be taken as seriously as the movie itself.
Now that we've got that out of the way, let's proceed with the 1995 follow-up to the original BLOODBATH, subtitled RAGE OF THE UNDEAD. In my earlier review I chastised Sheets for using the first film as a vehicle for a repetitive collection of one-note zombie gut-munchings; I wonder if he received similar feedback upon its release, because he tries something new for RAGE. Opening with a sepia-tinged flashback to 1945 Topeka, he employs certain stylistic flourishes like black-and-white cutaways and subliminal editing as he sets up what's to be the film's central figure, a robbery victim who's murdered and crucified in a cornfield by his attackers; these techniques don't really work, in that they contribute little more than distracting the viewer from the lackluster acting (a Sheets trademark if there ever was one) and stilted pacing. But you sense Sheets is trying to spread his creative wings a little, so I'm willing to cut him a little slack.
Ironically, you don't realize the strengths of the prologue--the lighting, the camerawork--until the story proper begins, and it settles into the same dunderheaded storytelling as BLOODBATH. A group of teens run afoul of a handful of on-the-lam criminals in a remote Kansas farmhouse, eventually resurrecting the prologue victim as a vengeful scarecrow (who can somehow revive the dead in the local cemetery as well). This wouldn't have been a bad set-up--well, if you'd taken out the atrocious performances and stiff dialogue, that is--but Sheets goes even further, introducing another gang of bad guys who're holding up a deli, and keeping its employees hostage, in a parallel story completely removed from the first.
It's here that Sheets's weaknesses as a filmmaker come to the fore. The hold-up scenes are horrendously tedious, further encumbered with inane acting and lousy writing that make them almost unwatchably ludicrous (and Sheets cannot direct physical action to save his life); hell, when you can't even get a reaction from the rape of a female corpse something's gone seriously awry.
The two running storylines converge for a credulity-straining third act--really, only in an egregious plot contrivance would these two situations ever cross paths--topped with yet another Romero-inspired zombie feeding frenzy. Ho hum, you don't need me to tell you the rest.
Sheets adds a "Satanic" twist this time around, which mostly involves splicing in shots of pentagrams and drawings of goat heads, that gives it little distinction. There's a payoff, if one can call it that, in an epilogue filled with news reports of Satanic-inspired crimes and occultic imagery that goes on nearly ten minutes after the story's over and has absolutely nothing to do with the movie itself.
Or does it? Sheets tacks on a closing crawl saying that we're already ZOMBIES by killing each other and draining our natural resources. (Um, okay, whatever you say, dude.) Misguided pleas for change are annoying enough, but at the end of a lame-brained amateurish gore-a-thon it's to be taken as seriously as the movie itself.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
DAY 238--ZOMBIE BLOODBATH
When offering any type of criticism--be it a story critique for a writers' workshop or an employee evaluation--common etiquette suggests beginning with something positive, softening the blow of the impending assessment. Long-time readers of this blog will know I don't usually subscribe to this method, since 98% of my negative reviews have little for them to extol, but in the case of Todd Sheets's 1993 shot-on-video opus ZOMBIE BLOODBATH I can say this: it's not as bad as his previous ZOMBIE RAMPAGE.
Faint praise to be sure, considering the ungodly mess RAMPAGE was, but at least BLOODBATH didn't make the primary act of watching the screen as gut-wrenching as the acting and plotline. I don't know if the DVD was a remastered print (an act akin to having roadkill stuffed and mounted on your wall), but the photography was clear with passable sound quality. And that's about as far as I can go with the compliments.
A title card at the start of ZOMBIE BLOODBATH proclaims it to be "inspired by every zombie movie ever made," or to translate: "We're gonna rip EVERYTHING off!" Kicking off with a nod to HELL OF THE LIVING DEAD, a meltdown at a nuclear power plant (run by higher-ups who rock shirt-and-tie, khaki shorts, and hardhat ensembles) pollutes a nearby cemetery, causing the dead to rise. You can pretty much imagine the rest.
It's obvious that Sheets loves splatter films, particularly the Italian zombie variety; from the DAY OF THE DEAD-like quarry set to the cavalcade of blood, brains, and entrails that get spilled during the meager 70-minute running time, Sheets wants to share his admiration with the rest of us. However, enthusiasm can only take you so far before talent and skill need to step in.
I love gory mayhem as much as the next guy, but without the foundation of a solid story it's simply juvenile theatrics, and you don't need me to tell you that gets old fast. It's bad enough that it's one-note storytelling--the plot consists of various characters getting munched by the living dead, interspersed with several drawn-out and poorly-acted conversations--but even at this basic level the scenes grow repetitive, hitting the same monotonous note (too many moments rely on characters being overtaken by sudden swarms of awaiting zombies that strain credibility--wouldn't you notice thirty or so zombies coming up behind you?). And don't get me started on the performances here; Sheets should've taken some of the budget set aside for latex and Karo syrup and invested in some decent actors that won't sink his movie (like the hilariously unconvincing girl gang). And 1993 was far too late a year to feature a mullet-sporting father (seriously, this thing is so frightening it'd shock a Winger reunion tour groupie).
What annoys me most about Sheets's ZOMBIE BLOODBATH "trilogy" (as we'll examine in upcoming entries) is his attitude, which suggests a complacency at best and complete apathy at worst (at least he doesn't have a strutting ego he needs to showcase); Sheets seems perfectly happy to churn out simplistic, amateur-hour crap. That's fine if he was merely showing his films to friends in his rec room, but by releasing them upon the general public he owes it to his audience and to himself as a filmmaker to strive for better.
Faint praise to be sure, considering the ungodly mess RAMPAGE was, but at least BLOODBATH didn't make the primary act of watching the screen as gut-wrenching as the acting and plotline. I don't know if the DVD was a remastered print (an act akin to having roadkill stuffed and mounted on your wall), but the photography was clear with passable sound quality. And that's about as far as I can go with the compliments.
A title card at the start of ZOMBIE BLOODBATH proclaims it to be "inspired by every zombie movie ever made," or to translate: "We're gonna rip EVERYTHING off!" Kicking off with a nod to HELL OF THE LIVING DEAD, a meltdown at a nuclear power plant (run by higher-ups who rock shirt-and-tie, khaki shorts, and hardhat ensembles) pollutes a nearby cemetery, causing the dead to rise. You can pretty much imagine the rest.
It's obvious that Sheets loves splatter films, particularly the Italian zombie variety; from the DAY OF THE DEAD-like quarry set to the cavalcade of blood, brains, and entrails that get spilled during the meager 70-minute running time, Sheets wants to share his admiration with the rest of us. However, enthusiasm can only take you so far before talent and skill need to step in.
I love gory mayhem as much as the next guy, but without the foundation of a solid story it's simply juvenile theatrics, and you don't need me to tell you that gets old fast. It's bad enough that it's one-note storytelling--the plot consists of various characters getting munched by the living dead, interspersed with several drawn-out and poorly-acted conversations--but even at this basic level the scenes grow repetitive, hitting the same monotonous note (too many moments rely on characters being overtaken by sudden swarms of awaiting zombies that strain credibility--wouldn't you notice thirty or so zombies coming up behind you?). And don't get me started on the performances here; Sheets should've taken some of the budget set aside for latex and Karo syrup and invested in some decent actors that won't sink his movie (like the hilariously unconvincing girl gang). And 1993 was far too late a year to feature a mullet-sporting father (seriously, this thing is so frightening it'd shock a Winger reunion tour groupie).
What annoys me most about Sheets's ZOMBIE BLOODBATH "trilogy" (as we'll examine in upcoming entries) is his attitude, which suggests a complacency at best and complete apathy at worst (at least he doesn't have a strutting ego he needs to showcase); Sheets seems perfectly happy to churn out simplistic, amateur-hour crap. That's fine if he was merely showing his films to friends in his rec room, but by releasing them upon the general public he owes it to his audience and to himself as a filmmaker to strive for better.
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