Yet another contestant in the DIARY OF THE DEAD short film competition, and the first to make me realize this contest wasn't the godsend I first thought. DANCE, DEAD BOY, DANCE is a comedic take--I think so; it's not funny, but I can't image these guys were serious--on the material. What you get is a "documentary" about a pair of survivors who teach a zombie to play the Dance Dance Revolution video game, a premise so utterly stupid that Charles E. Cullen is probably snickering. Obnoxious, overly self-indulgent, and nowhere near as funny as the uncredited chuckleheads think it is, I was tempted to not include the link and spare you the misery. But then, I'd also deprive you the chance of voting this one down.
DANCE, DEAD BOY, DANCE
Friday, February 29, 2008
DAY 113--GEORGE A. ROMERO'S DEAD
Another entry in the DIARY OF THE DEAD contest (oh, how I thank the gods for this; now I don't have to sweat finding 365 of these damn things--at the rate they're going, I could probably devote the entire project to these videos), GEORGE A. ROMERO'S DEAD is simple: a police detective interrogates a murder suspect about his past deeds, only to find the subject is the reanimated corpse of the great director. While it's not the surprise ending the video description claims--hint, don't reveal your twist in the title--I did like the concept, and I'm surprised it hasn't been done before. The uncredited actor who plays the cop isn't convincing, but the filmmaker(s), also anonymous, compensate with some nice visual touches, namely some decent editing that cribs from THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE and a few interesting zombies.
All in all, not a bad little film.
GEORGE A. ROMERO'S DEAD
All in all, not a bad little film.
GEORGE A. ROMERO'S DEAD
DAY 112--DEMONSTRATION OF THE DEAD
A short film by Mike Lombardo of Reel Splatter Productions, DEMONSTRATION OF THE DEAD is an entry in the DIARY OF THE DEAD contest, in which contestants submit their own media-bites of the zombie outbreak. DEMONSTRATION was the first clip I viewed, and still remains my favorite.
Shot as an on-location news segment about a living-dead rights group, the short's premise isn't exactly fresh, but is played with a clever sense of humor and affection for the genre (I love the protesters' chant, "Hey, hey, George A., how many undead you kill today?"). Fans of written zombies will get a kick out of the "celebrity" cameo by author Brian Keene, who vainly tries to deflect the reporter's accusations. It's a great little bit. (Keene may not be the greatest actor in the world, but he does show some comedic flair--though his reaction to the ending of THE RISING is, shall we say, rather genuine.)
Because it's part of an ongoing competition, I won't include the video here (as is the case with any entries I review, at least until the contest's over), but you can follow the link below and vote Booyah to this well-made short.
DEMONSTRATION OF THE DEAD
Shot as an on-location news segment about a living-dead rights group, the short's premise isn't exactly fresh, but is played with a clever sense of humor and affection for the genre (I love the protesters' chant, "Hey, hey, George A., how many undead you kill today?"). Fans of written zombies will get a kick out of the "celebrity" cameo by author Brian Keene, who vainly tries to deflect the reporter's accusations. It's a great little bit. (Keene may not be the greatest actor in the world, but he does show some comedic flair--though his reaction to the ending of THE RISING is, shall we say, rather genuine.)
Because it's part of an ongoing competition, I won't include the video here (as is the case with any entries I review, at least until the contest's over), but you can follow the link below and vote Booyah to this well-made short.
DEMONSTRATION OF THE DEAD
DAY 111--DEAD ALIVE
Director Peter Jackson found himself in a strange position with DEAD ALIVE (the clumsy, Trimark-inflicted title of what was originally called BRAINDEAD). Th 1992 film had catapaulted him from relative obscurity, but he was still several years away from the groundbreaking LORD OF THE RINGS trilogy, beginning what could be dubbed his fan-boy period--a period, I'm sure, many wish he'd never emerged from.
We're all familiar with the movie, so I'll skip the usual synopsis. The film still holds up well as a slapstick splatter film (splatstick?) but I found it interesting viewing it after Jackson realized his dream of remaking KING KONG. In many ways DEAD ALIVE is a dry-run for that Hollywood epic, not only the references to Skull Island and its racially-insensitive depiction of its natives (not calling Jackson a racist, he was simply mimicking a movie he loved), but it was here that Jackson took his first tentative steps away from the frenetic, Raimi-esque camerawork that marked BAD TASTE to a more in-depth and developed style of filmmaking. It's kind of odd to say, given the movie features a farting pile of guts that moves of its own accord, but DEAD ALIVE's a turning point in Jackson's maturity as a director.
We see it early on, as Jackson establishes a fairy tale-like framework for his story, one that appears to be about predestined love before revealing the most dysfunctional mother-son relationship since Norman and Mrs. Bates. Jackson employs quite a few newfound flourishes--one of my favorites is when Lionel's Mum suffers the effects of the Rat Monkey's bite as he loses his virginity, a bit of thematic symbolism the film will return to later--before doing what he does best: setting in motion a series of splattery but undeniably funny sequences as Lionel deals with his snowballing zombie problem, ratcheting up the tension (on both a character and dramatic level) while carefully raising the outrageousness until reaching its legendary, balls-to-the-wall slaughterfest climax.
As he would go on to do quite famously (or, rather, infamously) in KONG, Jackson allows his climactic assault to go on longer than necessary, dulling the edge of much of its effect; at times during the 30+ minute-long setpiece it feels as though the first two acts were an excuse to stage a wanton, gleefully unrelenting parade of disembowelments, beheadings, and other juicy activities, though as a fan of horror and gore it's hard to hate a sequence which makes the bloodbath Bruce Campbell endured at the end of THE EVIL DEAD look like a refreshing shower. Jackson earned it with his characterization and plot, even if he does get a little self-indulgent.
The culmination of this sequence includes a mutated, oversized version of Mum that also brings to mind Jackson's KONG. The sometimes-awkward but effective puppet serves as not only another homage to the original film, but does an excellent job of embodying the conflict of her relationship with Lionel, best illustrated when Mum intones, "no one will ever love you like your mother," as her womb opens to trap him.
While not exactly cerebral--though it's got plenty of brains, ha-ha--DEAD ALIVE is a curious animal: an intelligent and often tender gore film. Many fans cried foul when Jackson moved on to the more mainstream terrain of HEAVENLY CREATURES, but after pushing the splatter envelope to its (il)logical extreme, the progression was inevitable.
We're all familiar with the movie, so I'll skip the usual synopsis. The film still holds up well as a slapstick splatter film (splatstick?) but I found it interesting viewing it after Jackson realized his dream of remaking KING KONG. In many ways DEAD ALIVE is a dry-run for that Hollywood epic, not only the references to Skull Island and its racially-insensitive depiction of its natives (not calling Jackson a racist, he was simply mimicking a movie he loved), but it was here that Jackson took his first tentative steps away from the frenetic, Raimi-esque camerawork that marked BAD TASTE to a more in-depth and developed style of filmmaking. It's kind of odd to say, given the movie features a farting pile of guts that moves of its own accord, but DEAD ALIVE's a turning point in Jackson's maturity as a director.
We see it early on, as Jackson establishes a fairy tale-like framework for his story, one that appears to be about predestined love before revealing the most dysfunctional mother-son relationship since Norman and Mrs. Bates. Jackson employs quite a few newfound flourishes--one of my favorites is when Lionel's Mum suffers the effects of the Rat Monkey's bite as he loses his virginity, a bit of thematic symbolism the film will return to later--before doing what he does best: setting in motion a series of splattery but undeniably funny sequences as Lionel deals with his snowballing zombie problem, ratcheting up the tension (on both a character and dramatic level) while carefully raising the outrageousness until reaching its legendary, balls-to-the-wall slaughterfest climax.
As he would go on to do quite famously (or, rather, infamously) in KONG, Jackson allows his climactic assault to go on longer than necessary, dulling the edge of much of its effect; at times during the 30+ minute-long setpiece it feels as though the first two acts were an excuse to stage a wanton, gleefully unrelenting parade of disembowelments, beheadings, and other juicy activities, though as a fan of horror and gore it's hard to hate a sequence which makes the bloodbath Bruce Campbell endured at the end of THE EVIL DEAD look like a refreshing shower. Jackson earned it with his characterization and plot, even if he does get a little self-indulgent.
The culmination of this sequence includes a mutated, oversized version of Mum that also brings to mind Jackson's KONG. The sometimes-awkward but effective puppet serves as not only another homage to the original film, but does an excellent job of embodying the conflict of her relationship with Lionel, best illustrated when Mum intones, "no one will ever love you like your mother," as her womb opens to trap him.
While not exactly cerebral--though it's got plenty of brains, ha-ha--DEAD ALIVE is a curious animal: an intelligent and often tender gore film. Many fans cried foul when Jackson moved on to the more mainstream terrain of HEAVENLY CREATURES, but after pushing the splatter envelope to its (il)logical extreme, the progression was inevitable.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
DAY 110--NIGHT OF THE BUMS
1998's NIGHT OF THE BUMS, a steaming pile of Virginia-lensed horse crap, is the first "film" I've encountered by writer/director Charles E. Cullen, a filmmaker of such miniscule talent and astonishing incoherency that good ol' Ed Wood would've sneered in derision at this flick. I've built up a fair tolerance for lousy directors over the years, but Cullen's "technique" feels so intentionally wrongheaded--not in a sense that he's breaking the rules on purpose, but that he's extraordinarily clueless on how to make a movie--that BUMS goes beyond annoying to downright mind-boggling.
Alice Cooper-lookalike Cullen introduces the film in a pointless, meandering segment (I don't recall ever seeing Welles or Kubrick set the scene for their films--hell, even that soulless hack Michael Bay stays out of the picture), before thrusting the viewer into his lunacy. I'll be damned if I can recall the plot--damned if I can remember if there is one--but it has to do with a trio of witches who, for one reason or another, leave bottles of poisoned hooch around town for the local homeless population to consume. Once they drink the stuff, the homeless--or "bums," to use the title's oh-so-sensitive term--become flesh-hungry zombies (they also adopt the ability to teleport, inexplicably shifting from a city locale to the woods to feed on their victims). Such an intricate tale obviously needs as narrator, but instead of sticking to a simple voice-over, Cullen repeatedly cuts from the "action" to a dimestore-decorated set as a whiskey-swilling geriatric fills in the gaps.
Brain-dead storyline notwithstanding, BUMS is really nothing more than series of unrelated vignettes--and a staggeringly dull series at that--alternating between color and black-and-white for no reason, strung together with shitty gore (gotta love the shoddy rubber bat with an extra-long tail on visible wires). Cullen even adds particularly vile segment involving a disemboweled baby, but when a barely-articulate puppet shows up spewing exposition, you realize that Cullen is a certifiable madman (note: NOT A COMPLIMENT!) who's got no fucking idea what he's doing. Then again, you'll figure that out once Cullen subtitles perfectly understandable English.
A brief glance at Cullen's filmography shows another zombie film, THE SOUTH WILL RISE AGAIN. Please, I'm begging you, somebody send me 255 zombie-film titles so I don't have to watch it. My sanity may depend upon it.
Alice Cooper-lookalike Cullen introduces the film in a pointless, meandering segment (I don't recall ever seeing Welles or Kubrick set the scene for their films--hell, even that soulless hack Michael Bay stays out of the picture), before thrusting the viewer into his lunacy. I'll be damned if I can recall the plot--damned if I can remember if there is one--but it has to do with a trio of witches who, for one reason or another, leave bottles of poisoned hooch around town for the local homeless population to consume. Once they drink the stuff, the homeless--or "bums," to use the title's oh-so-sensitive term--become flesh-hungry zombies (they also adopt the ability to teleport, inexplicably shifting from a city locale to the woods to feed on their victims). Such an intricate tale obviously needs as narrator, but instead of sticking to a simple voice-over, Cullen repeatedly cuts from the "action" to a dimestore-decorated set as a whiskey-swilling geriatric fills in the gaps.
Brain-dead storyline notwithstanding, BUMS is really nothing more than series of unrelated vignettes--and a staggeringly dull series at that--alternating between color and black-and-white for no reason, strung together with shitty gore (gotta love the shoddy rubber bat with an extra-long tail on visible wires). Cullen even adds particularly vile segment involving a disemboweled baby, but when a barely-articulate puppet shows up spewing exposition, you realize that Cullen is a certifiable madman (note: NOT A COMPLIMENT!) who's got no fucking idea what he's doing. Then again, you'll figure that out once Cullen subtitles perfectly understandable English.
A brief glance at Cullen's filmography shows another zombie film, THE SOUTH WILL RISE AGAIN. Please, I'm begging you, somebody send me 255 zombie-film titles so I don't have to watch it. My sanity may depend upon it.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
DAY 109--ZOMBIE COP
One of the many shot-on-video duds produced by J.R. Bookwalter in the early '90s (presumably to squander the goodwill he earned with THE DEAD NEXT DOOR), 1991's ZOMBIE COP is a simplistic, one-note bore that tries to mine fresh ground in the zombie field, but doesn't have the necessary script or money to pull it off.
Michael Kemper stars as Gill, a blond-mulleted supercop cursed to undeath during a ridiculously feeble standoff with a voodoo-practicing serial killer (must be a tight city budget, since only two cops get sent to a hostage situation). The killer is named Dr. Death who not only sports the worst Caribbean accent ever attempted--I c'n do betta dan dat, mon--also keeps snacked-upon body parts in his freezer, a detail no doubt inspired by the then-current Jeffrey Dahmer case. Once returned as a zombie, Gill and his partner try to track down Death in as dry and uneventful manner as possible.
Even if ZOMBIE COP wasn't shot on a budget that couldn't get a family of four into Disney World, I could overlook that, but Bookwalter (hiding under the alias Lance Randas) lets so many problems slip through that a lack of funds is the least of his worries. The actors are predictably limp--pay special attention to Bill Morrison as Buddy, the worst actor out of the last 109 films reviewed here thus far--which is at least consistent with the flat, Point-A-to-Point-B storyline; at least DEAD HEAT attempted a little mystery.
Bookwalter also throws in some extremely boneheaded touches, like swathing Gill in bandages, Invisible Man-style (to keep him inconspicuous, no less), and the crappiest convenience store hold-up ever shot (complete with a hideously phony and offensive Hindi clerk), before heading to the woods for a climactic car chase about as removed from BULLITT as you can get. If you like watching community theater washouts hamming it up on the roof of a car as the background slowly lumbers by, ZOMBIE COP will be a little bit of heaven (actually, you'll probably hate this crude, boring mess as much as the rest of us).
Michael Kemper stars as Gill, a blond-mulleted supercop cursed to undeath during a ridiculously feeble standoff with a voodoo-practicing serial killer (must be a tight city budget, since only two cops get sent to a hostage situation). The killer is named Dr. Death who not only sports the worst Caribbean accent ever attempted--I c'n do betta dan dat, mon--also keeps snacked-upon body parts in his freezer, a detail no doubt inspired by the then-current Jeffrey Dahmer case. Once returned as a zombie, Gill and his partner try to track down Death in as dry and uneventful manner as possible.
Even if ZOMBIE COP wasn't shot on a budget that couldn't get a family of four into Disney World, I could overlook that, but Bookwalter (hiding under the alias Lance Randas) lets so many problems slip through that a lack of funds is the least of his worries. The actors are predictably limp--pay special attention to Bill Morrison as Buddy, the worst actor out of the last 109 films reviewed here thus far--which is at least consistent with the flat, Point-A-to-Point-B storyline; at least DEAD HEAT attempted a little mystery.
Bookwalter also throws in some extremely boneheaded touches, like swathing Gill in bandages, Invisible Man-style (to keep him inconspicuous, no less), and the crappiest convenience store hold-up ever shot (complete with a hideously phony and offensive Hindi clerk), before heading to the woods for a climactic car chase about as removed from BULLITT as you can get. If you like watching community theater washouts hamming it up on the roof of a car as the background slowly lumbers by, ZOMBIE COP will be a little bit of heaven (actually, you'll probably hate this crude, boring mess as much as the rest of us).
DAY 108--BLACK VOODOO EXORCIST
Don't let the title fool you; this greasy slice of Spanish exploitation has nothing to do with exorcism, but it was a horror flick released in 1973, which meant somebody was going to cram that lucrative word in somewhere. No, director Manuel Cano--who made an appearance on this blog with his subsequent effort THE SWAMP OF THE RAVENS--riffs off THE MUMMY in this mostly bloodless affair.
What promises to be a gleefully sleazy romp (in a decidedly un-P.C. prologue, two Caucasian actors playing "natives" in black makeup are punished for adultery in a voodoo ritual light on coherency, but heavy on jiggling indigenous titty) soon devolves into a leaden, dialogue-heavy melodrama about a mummified voodoo priest and his search for the reincarnation of his long-lost love (yawn). It's all been done before, and several times since, usually with a greater demonstration of skill.
Here's a more watchable version courtesy of Gangrene Widescreen:
What promises to be a gleefully sleazy romp (in a decidedly un-P.C. prologue, two Caucasian actors playing "natives" in black makeup are punished for adultery in a voodoo ritual light on coherency, but heavy on jiggling indigenous titty) soon devolves into a leaden, dialogue-heavy melodrama about a mummified voodoo priest and his search for the reincarnation of his long-lost love (yawn). It's all been done before, and several times since, usually with a greater demonstration of skill.
Here's a more watchable version courtesy of Gangrene Widescreen:
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