This one's going to be a lot shorter than usual, boys and girls, because I really don't have much to say about DANCE OF THE DEAD, a 2005 episode of MASTERS OF HORROR directed by Tobe Hooper. It's not that it's a terrible episode--nor should it be, as it's written by Richard Christian Matheson, adapting one of his father's short stories--but for some reason it left me cold.
Matheson stays faithful to the source material, in this post-apocalyptic tale in which a rave-like club (run by Robert Englund as a vaguely effeminate MC) features corpses "dancing" thanks to the injection of a nerve-targeting drug. The story keeps this angle mostly in the background, preferring to focus on the relationship of a young, innocent girl with a tragic past (Jessica Lowndes) with both her overprotective mother (Marilyn Norry) and a drug-dealing gang (led by THE RUINS's Jonathan Tucker).
DANCE OF THE DEAD isn't bad; it's well-acted, and Matheson's teleplay offers a little more depth than the standard post-nuke zombie tale, even if the drama's not exactly fresh. Hooper's direction is simple yet effective, thankfully abandoning the stylistic trickery--distorted picture, editing so rapid-fire it's hard to determine on-screen activity--that mars the story's first act. But it isn't exactly good, either, failing to make a genuine impact on a narrative, visual, or dramatic level. Too often, it feels like something slapped together to fill a slot in the MASTERS OF HORROR line-up.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
DAY 212--POT ZOMBIES
A couple of weeks back, I'd mentioned that I didn't understand the need to get high to enjoy certain films; today, I'd like to extend that to my dislike for drug films in general, particularly the stoner comedy. Since I don't indulge, a lot of the shared lifestyle-based humor from these movies doesn't quite connect with me (an exception would be something like HAROLD AND KUMAR GO TO WHITE CASTLE, which uses the herb as a means to set up a series of very funny misadventures). So admittedly I'm not the intended audience for Justin Powers's 2006 alleged horror-comedy POT ZOMBIES, but I highly doubt (um, no pun intended) that even hardcore stoners would find this crap amusing.
POT ZOMBIES isn't so much a movie as it is a collection of amateurish skits centered around a crop of toxic "cannibus setiva [sic]," which wouldn't be so bad if these one-dimensional vignettes weren't so repetitive they bordered on the hypnotic. (Note to Powers and his crew: you should be high when you watch this movie, not make it.) Basically, each sketch runs down as such: stoner(s) smoke weed, transform into green-skinned zombies with glowing eyes (a hideously bad digital "effect"), and eat the person in closest proximity (in feeding sequences slightly less convincing than those in ZOMBIE LAKE)--over and over and over for 54 minutes, the mercifully brief running time feeling twice as long. Powers feebly tries to vary the formula a little by spoofing different aspects of the stonerdom, even throwing in a parody of the Columbine massacre, but the film always goes for the easiest, most obvious humor possible, so much that the jokes feel flat even before they're spoken. There's even an appearance by a fan of self-mutilation who allows himself to be hung by hooks A MAN CALLED HORSE-style, but Powers fails to realize the potential in this crude but effective sequence, simply cutting from a zombie holding a hook to the "actor" hanging by the skin of his back. (And speaking of actors, the somnambulant performances suggest the cast was smoking the genuine article.) When Powers runs out of ideas and/or friends, the movie peters out to a lame undead parade, capped off with a "shocking" shot of a full-frontal nude zombie (might as well have taken out an ad that said "Amateur Filmmaker Desperate to be Considered Edgy," dude).
Amazingly, it took four people to write this mess, though with a film this lazy and sluggish I can't imagine an actual screenplay was even written--Powers can't even make lesbian sex interesting, for cryin' out loud. And, as this was produced under the auspices of Troma, we're treated to yet another irritating Lloyd Kaufman cameo. (Y'know, Lloyd, I admire what you've accomplished with Troma, and your commitment to art--whatever form it takes--is commendable, but being shrill and annoying for the sake of being shrill and annoying does not make for worthwhile viewing.)
A few non-funny "disclaimers" stating how bad marijuana really is notwithstanding, POT ZOMBIES actually discourages drug use by showing it to be extremely boring and stupid. (Hopefully it'll discourage talent-barren filmmakers from picking up a video camera.) While there's nothing wrong with making a movie to be enjoyed in between bong hits, some type of storytelling skill and technical prowess, however rudimentary, should be present.
Please bogart this joint all you want.
POT ZOMBIES isn't so much a movie as it is a collection of amateurish skits centered around a crop of toxic "cannibus setiva [sic]," which wouldn't be so bad if these one-dimensional vignettes weren't so repetitive they bordered on the hypnotic. (Note to Powers and his crew: you should be high when you watch this movie, not make it.) Basically, each sketch runs down as such: stoner(s) smoke weed, transform into green-skinned zombies with glowing eyes (a hideously bad digital "effect"), and eat the person in closest proximity (in feeding sequences slightly less convincing than those in ZOMBIE LAKE)--over and over and over for 54 minutes, the mercifully brief running time feeling twice as long. Powers feebly tries to vary the formula a little by spoofing different aspects of the stonerdom, even throwing in a parody of the Columbine massacre, but the film always goes for the easiest, most obvious humor possible, so much that the jokes feel flat even before they're spoken. There's even an appearance by a fan of self-mutilation who allows himself to be hung by hooks A MAN CALLED HORSE-style, but Powers fails to realize the potential in this crude but effective sequence, simply cutting from a zombie holding a hook to the "actor" hanging by the skin of his back. (And speaking of actors, the somnambulant performances suggest the cast was smoking the genuine article.) When Powers runs out of ideas and/or friends, the movie peters out to a lame undead parade, capped off with a "shocking" shot of a full-frontal nude zombie (might as well have taken out an ad that said "Amateur Filmmaker Desperate to be Considered Edgy," dude).
Amazingly, it took four people to write this mess, though with a film this lazy and sluggish I can't imagine an actual screenplay was even written--Powers can't even make lesbian sex interesting, for cryin' out loud. And, as this was produced under the auspices of Troma, we're treated to yet another irritating Lloyd Kaufman cameo. (Y'know, Lloyd, I admire what you've accomplished with Troma, and your commitment to art--whatever form it takes--is commendable, but being shrill and annoying for the sake of being shrill and annoying does not make for worthwhile viewing.)
A few non-funny "disclaimers" stating how bad marijuana really is notwithstanding, POT ZOMBIES actually discourages drug use by showing it to be extremely boring and stupid. (Hopefully it'll discourage talent-barren filmmakers from picking up a video camera.) While there's nothing wrong with making a movie to be enjoyed in between bong hits, some type of storytelling skill and technical prowess, however rudimentary, should be present.
Please bogart this joint all you want.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
DAY 211--DEATHDREAM
A quieter, nontraditional approach to the living dead, Bob Clark's 1974 film DEATHDREAM (also known as DEAD OF NIGHT, THE NIGHT ANDY CAME HOME, and roughly forty-seven others) is an interesting counterpoint to his previous effort, the humorous NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD take-off CHILDREN SHOULDN'T PLAY WITH DEAD THINGS. A much more serious film, it was one of the first attempts to address the Vietnam conflict within the safe confines of a horror film.
Written by CHILDREN's scribe Alan Ormsby, DEATHDREAM deals with a middle-America couple (Lynn Carlin and John Marley, best known for waking up with the horse's head in THE GODFATHER) who loses their son Andy in Vietnam. With a slight nod to the classic tale "The Monkey's Paw," Andy soon turns up in their kitchen, still in his uniform, changed somehow but still apparently alive and well. (I wonder if Stephen King drew inspiration from this film for the Timmy Baterman subplot in PET SEMATARY.) The family rejoices, though their happiness is short-lived when they discover exactly what their son has become.
DEATHDREAM is the kind of thoughtful, downbeat film that could've been made only in the '70s. It works beautifully on its own as a straight horror picture--Andy's almost vampiric in nature, drawing blood from his victims in a manner that foreshadows Romero's MARTIN--thanks to its shadowy photography, haunting ambient sound effects, and an uncanny performance by Richard Backus as Andy, whose cold monotone delivery and slow movement is the perfect vehicle for the undead. (And speaking of MARTIN, this film marks the debut of gore guru Tom Savini, himself a Vietnam veteran.) But DEATHDREAM has more on its mind than just horrifying theatrics; Andy can be seen as a metaphor for the specter of grief that hangs over the families of war casualties. The poor reception Vietnam vets received upon returning home is briefly touched upon, but the film's dark heart lies in the dynamics between father/son (Marley resents his son for being a mama's boy, despite serving in combat) and husband/wife (Marley's contempt for Carlin's obvious preference of Andy over their daughter, played by Anya Ormsby).
The film's low-key method doesn't make for many show-stopping set-pieces, but gets tremendous impact out of the ones it attempts; Backus's murder of the local doctor is a somewhat disturbing sequence (underscored by a slight militaristic drum roll right before Andy goes to work, a subtle and effective touch), as is its chilling finale--as Andy, deteriorating until he resembles Lon Chaney's Phantom of the Opera, wreaks his last havoc.
Of all the great '70s horror films being remade, DEATHDREAM remains one of the few that could well serve a modern upgrade; its metaphorical trappings could easily accommodate such subjects like Iraq and post-traumatic stress disorder. (According to IMDB, there's one in the works under the title ZERO DARK THIRTY from screenwriter Stephen Susco, who adapted Jack Ketchum's RED to the screen.) Often overlooked as examples of prime '70s horror in general and zombie pictures in particular, DEATHDREAM deserves to be sought out by devotees of both.
Written by CHILDREN's scribe Alan Ormsby, DEATHDREAM deals with a middle-America couple (Lynn Carlin and John Marley, best known for waking up with the horse's head in THE GODFATHER) who loses their son Andy in Vietnam. With a slight nod to the classic tale "The Monkey's Paw," Andy soon turns up in their kitchen, still in his uniform, changed somehow but still apparently alive and well. (I wonder if Stephen King drew inspiration from this film for the Timmy Baterman subplot in PET SEMATARY.) The family rejoices, though their happiness is short-lived when they discover exactly what their son has become.
DEATHDREAM is the kind of thoughtful, downbeat film that could've been made only in the '70s. It works beautifully on its own as a straight horror picture--Andy's almost vampiric in nature, drawing blood from his victims in a manner that foreshadows Romero's MARTIN--thanks to its shadowy photography, haunting ambient sound effects, and an uncanny performance by Richard Backus as Andy, whose cold monotone delivery and slow movement is the perfect vehicle for the undead. (And speaking of MARTIN, this film marks the debut of gore guru Tom Savini, himself a Vietnam veteran.) But DEATHDREAM has more on its mind than just horrifying theatrics; Andy can be seen as a metaphor for the specter of grief that hangs over the families of war casualties. The poor reception Vietnam vets received upon returning home is briefly touched upon, but the film's dark heart lies in the dynamics between father/son (Marley resents his son for being a mama's boy, despite serving in combat) and husband/wife (Marley's contempt for Carlin's obvious preference of Andy over their daughter, played by Anya Ormsby).
The film's low-key method doesn't make for many show-stopping set-pieces, but gets tremendous impact out of the ones it attempts; Backus's murder of the local doctor is a somewhat disturbing sequence (underscored by a slight militaristic drum roll right before Andy goes to work, a subtle and effective touch), as is its chilling finale--as Andy, deteriorating until he resembles Lon Chaney's Phantom of the Opera, wreaks his last havoc.
Of all the great '70s horror films being remade, DEATHDREAM remains one of the few that could well serve a modern upgrade; its metaphorical trappings could easily accommodate such subjects like Iraq and post-traumatic stress disorder. (According to IMDB, there's one in the works under the title ZERO DARK THIRTY from screenwriter Stephen Susco, who adapted Jack Ketchum's RED to the screen.) Often overlooked as examples of prime '70s horror in general and zombie pictures in particular, DEATHDREAM deserves to be sought out by devotees of both.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
DAY 210--THE DEAD LIVE
Before I commence with the slaughter, I'd like to address a disturbing trend I've been seeing lately. I'm noticing a lot of micro-budget, I-shot-this-in-my-backyard movies with mind-bogglingly excessive running times. Today's entry, clocking in at just under two hours, is just one of many offenders I've come across; this isn't a bad thing on its own, but given the threadbare nature of the DIY flick, it's a rare case that a film of such length has a story of sufficient depth and complexity to justify it. Writer/producer/director/cinematographer/editor/actor Darrin Brent Patterson's 2003 release THE DEAD LIVE is a prime example of this flaw, bloating a shallow, one-dimensional tale beyond belief with a relentlessly clueless filmmaking "technique."
After a credit sequence over a static-choked screen, a background that renders Patterson's title card all but unreadable, the movie itself starts to roll, and it immediately becomes clear that the staggeringly long takes, extraneous action, and five-second pauses between dialogue is going to be the least of this movie's problems. (With a title as unimaginative and bland as THE DEAD LIVE, is that a surprise?) The story--in which a reporter and her cameraman follow a growing zombie epidemic--begins with faux news footage so clunky and lacking immediacy that any verisimilitude goes out the window; but that's not the (main) problem. The problem is when the actors opens their mouths.
The performances in this movie can generously, charitably, be called wooden. However, wooden suggests the acting found in Ed Wood pictures, or elementary school plays, or the banter that pads out third-rate porno films, and the acting in THE DEAD LIVE never reaches those heights. All of the actors are stilted and unconvincing (to be expected, I suppose, with stars named Mike "Joe Joe Little" Jones in the cast), but Patterson himself deserves most of the blame; playing eight-five percent of the characters, he bungles each individual role by portraying them not as regular human beings, but in broad, unrealistic stereotypes that border of the offensive. (Though the film was shot, and presumably takes place in, Ohio, the cast has a slightly less southern-backwater feel than DELIVERANCE.) People simply don't act in reality the way anyone does in this mess.
Friends, mere words can't describe how wretched and soul-crushingly bad this movie is. (Please, please, don't take that as a suggestion to watch it.) The first twenty minutes alone displays enough incompetence to make Uwe Boll shake his head in disgust; I kept thinking THE DEAD LIVE resembled those pseudo-skits they used to show on AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HOME VIDEOS, only stretched to feature length and filled with astonishingly bad zombies and gore effects. My favorite pieces of ineptitude comes early, as the ever-so-intrepid reporter uses her sharp journalistic skills to determine that dead bodies are sent to the morgue once they're picked up. Wow, the things you can learn watching no-budget horror films!
About halfway through suffering this nightmare I wondered what would happen if Patterson ever hooked up with WISEGUYS VS. ZOMBIES director Adam Maranovich--a concept ten times more frightening than anything conceived here. I tried to imagine it, but my brain--in an act of self-preservation, I'm sure--kept shutting down.
The requisite shout-outs to Savini and Romero are here, as well as the obligatory thanks to Fulci in the end credits (Patterson even goes outside the box a bit to close with a cheap CANNIBAL HOLOCAUST reference). After threatening us with a lame "To be continued . . . ???" tag (let's hope the fuck not), Patterson finally ends with a half-assed "tribute" to the victims of September 11; not only does this crass ploy to liken terrorists with the living dead (and aside from the use of "Let's roll," there's nothing here remotely connected to that day) trivialize that tragedy, it also begs the question: if terrorists really are like zombies, why not make a movie about that (which would actually be an original and thought-provoking take on the subject) instead of remaking NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD for the seven-millionth time?
After a credit sequence over a static-choked screen, a background that renders Patterson's title card all but unreadable, the movie itself starts to roll, and it immediately becomes clear that the staggeringly long takes, extraneous action, and five-second pauses between dialogue is going to be the least of this movie's problems. (With a title as unimaginative and bland as THE DEAD LIVE, is that a surprise?) The story--in which a reporter and her cameraman follow a growing zombie epidemic--begins with faux news footage so clunky and lacking immediacy that any verisimilitude goes out the window; but that's not the (main) problem. The problem is when the actors opens their mouths.
The performances in this movie can generously, charitably, be called wooden. However, wooden suggests the acting found in Ed Wood pictures, or elementary school plays, or the banter that pads out third-rate porno films, and the acting in THE DEAD LIVE never reaches those heights. All of the actors are stilted and unconvincing (to be expected, I suppose, with stars named Mike "Joe Joe Little" Jones in the cast), but Patterson himself deserves most of the blame; playing eight-five percent of the characters, he bungles each individual role by portraying them not as regular human beings, but in broad, unrealistic stereotypes that border of the offensive. (Though the film was shot, and presumably takes place in, Ohio, the cast has a slightly less southern-backwater feel than DELIVERANCE.) People simply don't act in reality the way anyone does in this mess.
Friends, mere words can't describe how wretched and soul-crushingly bad this movie is. (Please, please, don't take that as a suggestion to watch it.) The first twenty minutes alone displays enough incompetence to make Uwe Boll shake his head in disgust; I kept thinking THE DEAD LIVE resembled those pseudo-skits they used to show on AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HOME VIDEOS, only stretched to feature length and filled with astonishingly bad zombies and gore effects. My favorite pieces of ineptitude comes early, as the ever-so-intrepid reporter uses her sharp journalistic skills to determine that dead bodies are sent to the morgue once they're picked up. Wow, the things you can learn watching no-budget horror films!
About halfway through suffering this nightmare I wondered what would happen if Patterson ever hooked up with WISEGUYS VS. ZOMBIES director Adam Maranovich--a concept ten times more frightening than anything conceived here. I tried to imagine it, but my brain--in an act of self-preservation, I'm sure--kept shutting down.
The requisite shout-outs to Savini and Romero are here, as well as the obligatory thanks to Fulci in the end credits (Patterson even goes outside the box a bit to close with a cheap CANNIBAL HOLOCAUST reference). After threatening us with a lame "To be continued . . . ???" tag (let's hope the fuck not), Patterson finally ends with a half-assed "tribute" to the victims of September 11; not only does this crass ploy to liken terrorists with the living dead (and aside from the use of "Let's roll," there's nothing here remotely connected to that day) trivialize that tragedy, it also begs the question: if terrorists really are like zombies, why not make a movie about that (which would actually be an original and thought-provoking take on the subject) instead of remaking NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD for the seven-millionth time?
Monday, May 26, 2008
DAY 209--AMONGST THEM
Here's a rarity, a backyard camcorder production that isn't total garbage. AMONGST THEM--grammatically questionable title aside--is a 2008 short film from writer/director Ian Shirley, and while it fails to deliver the promise implied in its beginning, it's still a lot more tolerable than most amateur dreck.
Shirley gets things started right with an intriguing opening shot, then backtracks a little to set up the actual story. It's these early moments that make up the best parts of the film, as Shirley lays out a prolonged montage of a deceptively quiet landscape that's eerily beautiful, accompanied by an impressively strong score. (No music credit is given, so I'm assuming it may have been lifted from another source, but it's very effective--appropriate without being "creepy," with the immediacy of something from a Jerry Bruckheimer epic; I'm just grateful it wasn't another death metal soundtrack.) Unfortunately, this asset is abandoned after the first few minutes.
The film itself centers on a young girl (Cassandra Moreno) in a typical Romero-inspired end-of-the-world backdrop, taking refuge from the living dead in a so-called "safe house" (which, as it's an unfinished structure, doesn't look safe from the elements, much less a zombie plague). The story focuses on Moreno's struggle to stay alive, not to mention sane, amid dwindling supplies and a growing number of the undead. Shirley captures the endless monotony of her plight with solid photography and a languid pace that's never boring--perhaps because it feels intentional--yet doesn't quite engage, either; it doesn't help that Moreno's character goes through the paces, never bringing anything fresh to the story. I did, however, like the understated, almost subtle look Shirley gives his zombies.
Alas, AMONGST THEM is not without its flaws, and they're considerable. Moreno has a great survivor look, hollow-eyed and desperate, yet her clumsy voice-over diminishes the impact of her performance. The physical action is weak to the point of ridiculousness (blame Shirley the "coreographer" for that), its ineptitude threatening to wreck the film's believable atmosphere. The minimal supporting cast is also laughable, especially the lone human Moreno encounters (gotta love his scream, though). Shirley also pulls a bait-and-switch ending that, though it makes more sense than the denouement initially suggested, still feels like unfair storytelling. I especially liked the acknowledgments in the end credits, which thanks "everyone who was apart [sic] of this short film." You're welcome, Ian!
I'm kidding, though. It really is refreshing to see the "Hey! I'm bored, let's make a movie!" mentality produce something that doesn't make my teeth hurt. Sure, it has its liabilities--liabilities that compromise its effectiveness, make no mistake--but Shirley's technical skills really gave me hope. Save your pennies, Ian, and when you can afford to make a "real" movie, let us know.
Shirley gets things started right with an intriguing opening shot, then backtracks a little to set up the actual story. It's these early moments that make up the best parts of the film, as Shirley lays out a prolonged montage of a deceptively quiet landscape that's eerily beautiful, accompanied by an impressively strong score. (No music credit is given, so I'm assuming it may have been lifted from another source, but it's very effective--appropriate without being "creepy," with the immediacy of something from a Jerry Bruckheimer epic; I'm just grateful it wasn't another death metal soundtrack.) Unfortunately, this asset is abandoned after the first few minutes.
The film itself centers on a young girl (Cassandra Moreno) in a typical Romero-inspired end-of-the-world backdrop, taking refuge from the living dead in a so-called "safe house" (which, as it's an unfinished structure, doesn't look safe from the elements, much less a zombie plague). The story focuses on Moreno's struggle to stay alive, not to mention sane, amid dwindling supplies and a growing number of the undead. Shirley captures the endless monotony of her plight with solid photography and a languid pace that's never boring--perhaps because it feels intentional--yet doesn't quite engage, either; it doesn't help that Moreno's character goes through the paces, never bringing anything fresh to the story. I did, however, like the understated, almost subtle look Shirley gives his zombies.
Alas, AMONGST THEM is not without its flaws, and they're considerable. Moreno has a great survivor look, hollow-eyed and desperate, yet her clumsy voice-over diminishes the impact of her performance. The physical action is weak to the point of ridiculousness (blame Shirley the "coreographer" for that), its ineptitude threatening to wreck the film's believable atmosphere. The minimal supporting cast is also laughable, especially the lone human Moreno encounters (gotta love his scream, though). Shirley also pulls a bait-and-switch ending that, though it makes more sense than the denouement initially suggested, still feels like unfair storytelling. I especially liked the acknowledgments in the end credits, which thanks "everyone who was apart [sic] of this short film." You're welcome, Ian!
I'm kidding, though. It really is refreshing to see the "Hey! I'm bored, let's make a movie!" mentality produce something that doesn't make my teeth hurt. Sure, it has its liabilities--liabilities that compromise its effectiveness, make no mistake--but Shirley's technical skills really gave me hope. Save your pennies, Ian, and when you can afford to make a "real" movie, let us know.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
DAY 208--THE MUMMY'S CURSE
Wrapping up--heh-heh, sorry--our look at Universal's MUMMY films, 1944's THE MUMMY'S CURSE brings the series to a close on a less than resounding note. A step down from the flawed but fun THE MUMMY'S GHOST (my personal favorite of the four sequels), it tiredly trots out the same old story for one more go-'round.
Picking up 25 years after GHOST (someone on IMDB did the math and figured out that, given the skewed chronology of the series, CURSE should rightfully take place in 1997), the movie mysteriously transfers Kharis and Ananka from New England--where they drowned together in a quicksand pit--to a Louisiana swamp populated by ethnic stereotypes. Once again, there's an Egyptian henchman to do the grunt work--Peter Coe, aided by THE FLESH EATERS's Martin Kosleck--this time trying to reunite the re-animated lovers and take them back to Egypt. (Though, unlike the previous films, the human villains are just as bland as the rest of the cast.) And as usual we get a refresher course on the use of tana leaves, as well as a needless five-minute flashback to THE MUMMY'S HAND regurgitating the Kharis/Ananka backstory.
Previous MUMMY films weren't much better--especially in the story department, where plot holes seemed to be dominant feature--but there's an empty-tank feeling to THE MUMMY'S CURSE that keeps it from being as enjoyable. Any continuity from the earlier movies--like, if Kharis and Ananka drowned together, why are they separated? If Ananka was reincarnated at the end of GHOST, why is she acting like a twentieth-century amnesiac?--is abandoned, save for the recycled motions of Kharis and his cronies. (Not even a bandaged Lon Chaney, Jr. can rescue scenes in which people don't notice a huge shambling mummy six inches behind them.) And Leslie Goodwins's traffic-cop direction prevents the film from gaining any steam (one exception is a fairly eerie scene in which a mud-caked Ananka pries herself from the muck); the DVD subtitles say "Footsteps Dragging" whenever Kharis walks, an apt description of the plot itself.
And just like the other films, testosterone gets the better of the hired help as Kosleck tries to take Ananka for himself, incurring Kharis's wrath. Perhaps Universal was as fatigued as the story, since they allow Kosleck and Kharis to be buried alive together in an accident that also destroys the remaining tana leaves, putting an end to the Kharis saga (until the studio resurrected him to star in ABBOTT AND COSTELLO MEET THE MUMMY).
The lackluster finale of THE MUMMY'S CURSE notwithstanding, the series still makes for fun viewing today, thanks mostly for its Saturday afternoon-nostalgia factor--not bad for disposable cinema originally intended for undiscriminating kids. (Unlike this summer's THE MUMMY: TOMB OF THE DRAGON EMPEROR, which will be forgotten by Labor Day.)
Picking up 25 years after GHOST (someone on IMDB did the math and figured out that, given the skewed chronology of the series, CURSE should rightfully take place in 1997), the movie mysteriously transfers Kharis and Ananka from New England--where they drowned together in a quicksand pit--to a Louisiana swamp populated by ethnic stereotypes. Once again, there's an Egyptian henchman to do the grunt work--Peter Coe, aided by THE FLESH EATERS's Martin Kosleck--this time trying to reunite the re-animated lovers and take them back to Egypt. (Though, unlike the previous films, the human villains are just as bland as the rest of the cast.) And as usual we get a refresher course on the use of tana leaves, as well as a needless five-minute flashback to THE MUMMY'S HAND regurgitating the Kharis/Ananka backstory.
Previous MUMMY films weren't much better--especially in the story department, where plot holes seemed to be dominant feature--but there's an empty-tank feeling to THE MUMMY'S CURSE that keeps it from being as enjoyable. Any continuity from the earlier movies--like, if Kharis and Ananka drowned together, why are they separated? If Ananka was reincarnated at the end of GHOST, why is she acting like a twentieth-century amnesiac?--is abandoned, save for the recycled motions of Kharis and his cronies. (Not even a bandaged Lon Chaney, Jr. can rescue scenes in which people don't notice a huge shambling mummy six inches behind them.) And Leslie Goodwins's traffic-cop direction prevents the film from gaining any steam (one exception is a fairly eerie scene in which a mud-caked Ananka pries herself from the muck); the DVD subtitles say "Footsteps Dragging" whenever Kharis walks, an apt description of the plot itself.
And just like the other films, testosterone gets the better of the hired help as Kosleck tries to take Ananka for himself, incurring Kharis's wrath. Perhaps Universal was as fatigued as the story, since they allow Kosleck and Kharis to be buried alive together in an accident that also destroys the remaining tana leaves, putting an end to the Kharis saga (until the studio resurrected him to star in ABBOTT AND COSTELLO MEET THE MUMMY).
The lackluster finale of THE MUMMY'S CURSE notwithstanding, the series still makes for fun viewing today, thanks mostly for its Saturday afternoon-nostalgia factor--not bad for disposable cinema originally intended for undiscriminating kids. (Unlike this summer's THE MUMMY: TOMB OF THE DRAGON EMPEROR, which will be forgotten by Labor Day.)
Saturday, May 24, 2008
DAY 207--DEADHUNTER: SEVILLIAN ZOMBIES
The second half of the DIARIES OF THE DEAD DVD--gotta love those companies trying to foist knock-offs onto an unsuspecting populace--2003's DEADHUNTER: SEVILLIAN ZOMBIES is a Spanish release from director Julian Lara. Don't let the subtitles fool you, this is just as asinine, unwatchable, and altogether time-wasting as any domestic shot-on-video crap-fest.
Unlike yesterday's putrid DEAD SUMMER, DEADHUNTER at least provides oodles of unintentional comic gold, getting underway with the stripper at a bachelorette party losing a chunk of his throat to an intruding zombie (serves him right--since when did strippers stop dancing to answer the door?). And the laughs keep coming, in this BAD TASTE-inspired romp--the film itself makes a prominent cameo--about a slapdash group of zombie-killers; too bad they all look like the members of a third-rate metal band. Ken Foree would've had these punks for breakfast.
Derisive laughs aside, there's still very little about this film that makes it worth watching. Lara's poor direction saps the life out of the many so-called action scenes, making them even harder to sit through by drowning them in an atrocious death metal soundtrack. The attempted humor is lazy and uninspired, with much of its emphasis on zombie crotch-shots and their reaction. (Note: zombies, though having nards, don't feel it when you hit them there.) Even the obligatory Lloyd Kaufman cameo is dull (though to be honest, seeing Kaufman turning up in low-budget shit-flicks is starting to get as annoying as Stan Lee in Marvel films).
Nor does the paltry budget help, none so painfully as the guns that lack muzzle flashes (and in a movie that prominently features firearms, it just gets more pitiful). Lara does amass an impressive number of extras for a larger-scaled showdown, but mishandles it in so many ways that the sequence is doomed from the start; in addition to the aforementioned lousy direction, there's the awful zombie makeup which makes them look like burn victims rather than the living dead, as well as a climactic mall setting that had me seething with its rampant unoriginality (though, fittingly, the scene takes place in what looks like the Spanish equivalent of a Dollar General, which somehow makes it funnier).
DEADHUNTERS ends on a suitably stupid note, vanquishing the zombie epidemic--with remarkable ease--yet setting up a sequel; I don't know if Lara ever went through with his threat, but he did produce a 20-minute follow-up called ZOMBIE XTREME the following year. (No, I didn't find it, and no, I didn't try very hard.) Lara should concentrate more on becoming a more competent director than trying to pass himself off as "the ultimate Spanish horror filmmaker" (his words, conveniently forgetting the likes of Amando de Ossorio and Jorge Grau), because right now he's more like Spain's answer to Andreas Schnaas.
Unlike yesterday's putrid DEAD SUMMER, DEADHUNTER at least provides oodles of unintentional comic gold, getting underway with the stripper at a bachelorette party losing a chunk of his throat to an intruding zombie (serves him right--since when did strippers stop dancing to answer the door?). And the laughs keep coming, in this BAD TASTE-inspired romp--the film itself makes a prominent cameo--about a slapdash group of zombie-killers; too bad they all look like the members of a third-rate metal band. Ken Foree would've had these punks for breakfast.
Derisive laughs aside, there's still very little about this film that makes it worth watching. Lara's poor direction saps the life out of the many so-called action scenes, making them even harder to sit through by drowning them in an atrocious death metal soundtrack. The attempted humor is lazy and uninspired, with much of its emphasis on zombie crotch-shots and their reaction. (Note: zombies, though having nards, don't feel it when you hit them there.) Even the obligatory Lloyd Kaufman cameo is dull (though to be honest, seeing Kaufman turning up in low-budget shit-flicks is starting to get as annoying as Stan Lee in Marvel films).
Nor does the paltry budget help, none so painfully as the guns that lack muzzle flashes (and in a movie that prominently features firearms, it just gets more pitiful). Lara does amass an impressive number of extras for a larger-scaled showdown, but mishandles it in so many ways that the sequence is doomed from the start; in addition to the aforementioned lousy direction, there's the awful zombie makeup which makes them look like burn victims rather than the living dead, as well as a climactic mall setting that had me seething with its rampant unoriginality (though, fittingly, the scene takes place in what looks like the Spanish equivalent of a Dollar General, which somehow makes it funnier).
DEADHUNTERS ends on a suitably stupid note, vanquishing the zombie epidemic--with remarkable ease--yet setting up a sequel; I don't know if Lara ever went through with his threat, but he did produce a 20-minute follow-up called ZOMBIE XTREME the following year. (No, I didn't find it, and no, I didn't try very hard.) Lara should concentrate more on becoming a more competent director than trying to pass himself off as "the ultimate Spanish horror filmmaker" (his words, conveniently forgetting the likes of Amando de Ossorio and Jorge Grau), because right now he's more like Spain's answer to Andreas Schnaas.
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