Hellbound (1994)

Well yes sirree, I sure have wrangled myself a good one. That's right, here we have a rare and exotic species, endangered even, if only because some wackos have decided to stop giving Chuck Norris money to be in ridiculous action movies. Oh wait, that wacko is his brother! Talk about family strife! No seriously, there's no other way that this movie could have been created besides due to the combined powers (special rings and everything!) of the dastardly Norris brothers. This film also marks a sort of tribute. Yes, sad to say, but Hellbound is one of the last Cannon releases (so last that it's not even listed), and since almost every d-list Chuck Norris movie I have on my shelves erupted from the desperate minds of the dudes over at Cannon, I can honestly say I'm a bit torn up about it. This movie appears to be little known, and it's always sad when you're not the first name up on imdb despite the fact that you are the only exact title match; now that's discrimination. In other news, have you ever heard of a Norris supernatural thriller? And I thought I'd seen it all. But as so many fans seem to comment, it turns out Norris can kick anyone's ass, and that includes the big D, Dadd-io, "hope you've guessed my name," scene-stealing Satan. I guess I never should have doubted him. But no, this movie is seriously out of control. We seem to skyrocket from 12th century demon dinosaurs doing battle with Lionheart lads to early nineties Chicago/Israel where Norris and his partner meet up with only the most helpful of English-speaking street urchins, get the gal, and prepare themselves to do battle with the greatest evil of all time in an effort to save the Universe from the Apocalypse. Dayum, he's good. For me, the most hilarious part is not a grotesquely $1 applique finger-nailed Devil with crazy eyes and body parts that explode into a shower of blue sparks ripping people's clearly propped hearts out while making sure his hair remains tangle-free. No no, it's actually the fact that the film was put together in 91, but not released until 94, and let me tell you, fashion changed more than you'd think in those three few years. It's actually sad how hideous some of these outfits are. Aqua suits with high-neck black t-shirts? Cleopatra dreads? Talk about a second-rate MV wannabe! Oh well; I'm pretty much at the place where I'm not ashamed to say that Norris can do no wrong (at least on the screen [you fucking republican!]). And anytime the battle between good and evil goes beyond terrorism to the Big Bad and the supernatural suckers, I'm a much happier movie-goer. Keep on keeping on.

Final Judgment: "Norris in his most epic outfits fighting his most epic enemy!/The trailer takes me on a mystical journey through the low-budget nineties!/I don't understand what or why just happened, but I understand that I'll never be the same again!/Upon rewinding, our tape attempted to self-destruct!/Chuck Norris, you're my hodunk American hero!"

The best part may just be these extremely exclusive and oddly offensive copyright credits. Oh wait...maybe Israel is getting the better deal here?...Well, if there's a position opening for interstellar copyright law enforcement, sign me the fuck up.

Copyright Holder

© 1993 CANNON PICTURES, INC. and GLOBUS GROUP LTD. (copyright for the entire universe, excluding Israel; on print)

Next of Kin (1989)

Well, today is clearly a very sad day. I know that my movie collection will never sit on its shelves the same way again, and those of us who long for the rebirth of the 80's now know that we are too far gone to ever return to those days of sparkly glory. But let's not focus on the grim, unspeakable; instead, I have viewed and enjoyed this 1989 masterpiece, new to my brain but not to my shelves, and I have declared it amazing. I mean, come on: anytime Swayze's first line in a film is "like a junkyard dog," you know you're in for something smooth and spectacular. The greased back mullet ponytail was another indicator, and the beat-up, waist-less fedora and Southern twang just sealed the deal. It's a pretty simple story of angry cop + familial reinforcements go after the mob in a bloody Chicago war, but the hillbilly angle really adds something new and shiny. And that thing just happens to be a mountain militia with absurd amounts of random weapons and an arsenal of animal calls that not only serve as communication devices but acts of confusion. Did I mention the fiddle-playing? In the final showdown, they show a veritable assembly line of pb&j sandwiches and coffee in thermoses with the clear indication that they're off to war. We see shotguns, bows and arrows, rifles, crossbows, flying axes, flying knifes, and then there are the fists! So who's on each side of this classic battle of big families? Well, Swayze is the hero of course, with brothers Liam Neeson and Bill Paxton, and Helen Hunt by marriage. And they're facing off against none-other than Adam Baldwin and baby faced (yes, he's only 24 in this!) Ben Stiller. Wowzah! What a whoppa of a cast! There are also hounds and snakes, deer heads in fridges, leaps onto moving trains, pinball gags, the handcuffed destruction of a drum set, creepy pedophile laughs ("wanna play on the teeter-totter with me? he he"), the knowledge that this clearly happened before plucking eyebrows was popular (I'm looking at you Hunt), crazy bum ladies poking trash, of course, and Papa John and co. delivering pizzas. Too good my friends! Too fucking good! And while we can never reclaim what is lost, at least the period of 87-91, the ultimate pinnacle of Swayze's career in film, can still languish in original format in my dingy basement apartment. Now, that's love.

I deem it: "The penultimate of Country Justice!/Rocking music and righteous moves bring order to the land of Chicago crime!/Seriously, I want to go to Kentucky!/Patrick Swayze was born to play the leader of the Mountain Militia!/Nobody does it better.

RIP Patrick Swayze

"you don't mix rap and hum music, they're different flavors!"

For an equally awesome and seriously in-depth post on this fine flick, now with even more made-up words (did you know that was possible?), check out this crazy's site.

Erik the Viking (1989)

This flitty feature is an underappreciated gift from the lesser known of the Monty Python directors: yes, that other Terry, Terry Jones. I'm not going to sugarcoat it for you: this flick is pretty bizarre. It definitely has that Monty Python feel, but in a more subtly auspicious way that has you not quite sure if you're actually watching a comedy. Rest assured, it is a comedy. A black comedy, a UK comedy, but a comedy at that. I actually made a little cheat sheet so I could be sure and mention the most tickling of attributes from this delectably dark-chocolate delight. So here goes: a dragon with an angler lure and feather filled nostrils sneezes a Viking ship across space and time, a crazy shrivel faced ethnic woman warns of danger, a carved horn resounding causes damage to the drums, an Asian slave driver screams in stereotypes, atonal chords and banging machines make everything sound more exotic, the berserker is foaming at the mouth, and the ship falls off the edge of the world and plummets through space and stars to land in a world of blue sand where the gods are children with laser guns and you are greeted by zombies past. Is this the point where I a reassure you that this is a comedy again, and not some other-worldly psychedelic adventure? Oh wait, it's both! Yay! Apparently the director was completely unsatisfied with this drug-induced masterpiece, because he actually had his son re-edit it (taking out a full 25 minutes!) to try and make it better. I don't know about stealing pieces of a film, but I hope to darwin they got rid of those god-awful fade-to-blacks. What's up with those? They're the sure sign of a low-budget tv masterpiece, and I don't know why anyone would want to put Tim Robbins in such a limboingly low position. The superman music was also bizarre (at least when you consider the Vikings + Gods + cracking jokes angle). Over all, the movie may seem a little slow as you're enjoying it, but in hindsight all the skits are pretty hilarious and substantially wacky enough to make any Saturday night a bit hazy.



Final Judgment: "The sun rises after 1000 years on this golden gem of the geriatric periods!/The uglier, hairier little brother of the Monty Python greats!/Atonal music makes my toes tingle!/The quest for Angel Pussy always begins with Tim!

SLAVE-DRIVER (subtitled) Row!  You  incomprehensible,  horizontal-eyed,
Western trouser-wearers! Eurgh! You all  look  the  same  to  me! How I
despise your lack of subtlety  and your joined-up writing! You,
who have never committed ritual suicide in your lives!
SLAVE (whispering to his neighbour) You know, I don't think it would be so
bad, if we knew what he was saying...
SLAVE-DRIVER SILENCE! Unceremonious  rice-pudding  eaters!  How  I
abominate your milk-drinking and your  lack  of ancestor-worship and your
failure to eat your lunch out of little boxes!

Everything Else (August)

The Tesla Seal of Approval strikes again:



Jawbreaker (1999)




























The Ghost and the Darkness (1996)




























Fast Times at Ridgemont High (1982)

Quick Change (1990)

Apparently the Murray fever (and no, that's not just a different name for swine flu) has struck us, because we have been wolfing down his lesser known films like a hot sandwich on a cold day. Yes indeedy. And while this dastardly New York comedy is actually the only directorial debut to Murray's fine name, it's certainly no black spot. Either way it's clear: this has Murray prejack written all over it. The cast is really pretty top-notch, with Geena Davis, Phil Hartman, Randy Quaid, Tony Shaloub and others, a veritable dream team of second string singers in the funny house. Basically, the entire film revolves around a bank heist, executed with Murray in a clown costume of course, and the subsequent failure to get out of the city. The plot is really irrelevant, since we all know that the only reason we watched this film (and no, it's not for the oddly unclear cover art) is to see Bill Murray spout off a bunch of one-liners. And spout he does. He also managed to high-jack the plot in a delectably devilish way so that he has a reason to play different characters in different impromptu comedy situations. Is that a wagon bell I hear? All in all, he's quite hilarious. I could lose Quaid. Shaloub is confusing at best (is that Arab impression still PC?). And Davis is her constantly classy-sassy woman-self. It's certainly not the best of Murray's movies. But it's definitely good for a chuckle. And in these economic times...

Final Judgment: "Finally, I can feel good about rooting for the bad guys!/A whole lotta sass and just a touch of sassafras/More like Quick Change into Murray's pocket!/You show 'em Murray: classic means never going out of style!/Anything with a Monster Truck is fine by me!

And to see the real masters at work....

Videodrome (1983)

Well, I'm never going to tell anyone I have a media obsession again. Oh no; I didn't even begin to know what obsession was until I turned on this creeper. In fact, I'm still reeling a little bit. I'd say I don't remember the last time I felt this uncomfortable, but that would be a bold-faced lie: the last time I felt nearly this disconcerted was watching Blue Velvet. Shit, that movie is creepy. And this one is right up there with it. It's not just the S&M and the frequent nudity. No, it's not even the grotesque hallucinations of self-mutilation and organs and betatapes. Nor even the graphic snuff films. Although the giant dildo disguised as a Japanese doll and that pretty little Japanese girl in traditional geisha makeup started to cause the butterflies to stir, not even that made me squeal aloud in terror. No, no: it was actually when that chick burnt her breast with a cigarette and then he smelled the end of it in lust that I knew that I was never going to forget this movie. And I'm not alone. This shit is critically acclaimed, although it has made next to nothing. I'm sure the careers of James Woods and Debbie Harry didn't suffer (she even showed her tits!) But, it's hard to believe that this flick only cost 5$ million when the effects are so good. We're talking epic makeup/digital/claymation type moving media with gyrating tapes and beta-eating stomachs. The whole thing is horrorific, that's for sure. I'm still trying to process the brainwashing tumor, warping reality with hallucinations, assassination angle. And I think it might take a while. In the meantime, I can occupy myself with images of stomach mutations and penetrations, Harry tits, the uncomfortable realization that some people are turned on by this and the overwhelming desire to stay away from the TV.

I deem it: "Grotesquely generational and seriously psychedelic!/A festering virtual reality of wired weirdness!/The first and last time I'll even consider the remote possibility that someone thinks James Woods is attractive!/The Bible of our sickest conspiracy theorists abides with stories of the apocalyptic virtual future!/Death to Videodrome; Long Live the New Flesh!

"The taping mechanism is all self-contained; you don't have to do anything now except hallucinate."
"I can't cope with the freaky stuff."
"Watching tv will help patch them back into the world's mixing board."
"Your reality is already half video hallucination."
"The television is the retina of the mind's eye in these times."
"Reality is less than television."

Running Scared (1986)/The Man Who Knew Too Little (1997)

Ahoy friends. I have been on a somewhat-lengthy hiatus to the gorgeous land of green (long life to the W-A), and I now return with a gentle slope back into internet. I've decided to start this slide with a comic duo of light-hearted proportions in the form of Billy Crystal and Bill Murray, two of the most influential hilarities of the eighties and definitely at the top of the pissing myself list. First of all, it can be no coincidence that they have almost the same name: no no, there are no coincidences, like the miracles of jesus, there is surely no way that two men so fated for the fortune and fame of Hollywood comedy could coincidentally have such a cute connection. Secondly, both Bills find themselves in the curious state of being equally and awkwardly ugly, not to the Farley extreme, but certainly notable as is almost a comic necessity. I mean, aren't fat chicks nice to make up for the chunk and ugly dudes hilarious to keep people laughing at something other than their faces? That's what I've been told at least. And these fine gentlemen find themselves now in the clean-cut but still cuttingly cuddly comedies released over a decade apart and yet still swimming in a similar vein (paddle through the blood my friends, paddle through the blood) that you see before you. While Running Scared manages to stand apart with its absolutely outrageous array of 80's costumes, Too Little carries with it a degree of planning that pays off in the most high-jinxed of ways. Oh high-jinxes, how I love you. I mean, that's all I really need to tell you, right? Billy and short-shorts? Bill as a bumbling yet oddly suave Theatre of Life participant? Come on already!

Final Judgment: "Long live the sharp-witted ugly kids (may your enemies die without sons)! = Hilarity ensues!