“Are you eating it or is it eating you?” B-movie gold!
Some old codger finds a puddle of white goo seeping from the earth, so he does what any of us would do: He tastes it. Turns out, it’s not molten bird shit or house paint or toxic waste; it’s a DELICIOUS yogurt like substance! “I can sell this to people!” the old goo-eater exclaims.
The mystery goo is marketed as “The Stuff” and is sold to consumers as an ice cream alternative. The Stuff has no calories, is satisfying, and is addicting like crack. What sucks is that The Stuff is also a sentient parasitic life form. If you get hooked on The Stuff, your body is controlled and then eventually eaten from the inside out. There are tons of scenes where people are orgasmically enjoying tubs of Stuff with shit-eating grins on their faces. Later, The Stuff fatally dumps out of their stupid mouths.
In addition to turning people into Stuff zombies, The Stuff can also maneuver around like The Blob and attack people, making for some hilarious 80’s CGI sequences.
The ice cream industry, suffering from the popularity of The Stuff, hires a hot shot PI to investigate the Stuff company. The PI forms a little Anti-Stuff detective league with an 8-year old kid and a fashion mogul. They do all sorts of shenanigans like blowing up a lake of Stuff, infiltrating a Stuff factory, and fighting hordes of Stuff zombies. These fights are great. Punch a Stuffy in the face and half their skull cracks off, revealing a Stuff geyser.
Paulie from Goodfellas plays an Army general.
There are elements from many of your favorite horror/sci-fi movies: The possessions by a foreign organism like in The Thing; the creepy food product like in Soilent Green; the few unlikely heroes who know the truth and set out to enlighten the public like in They Live. You could also read the movie as an allegory for marketing to middle class America, diet crazes, or the war on drugs. Mingle all this with B-movie charm and non-stop action, and you get The Stuff.
Alas, this dismal creation hath naught to offer. It lacks innovation, and its characters possess no semblance of likability. Every scare it attempts hinges solely upon jarring cuts accompanied by piercing synth stabs that throttle the eardrums most violently, especially if viewing this film in the stupor of an opium binge. The entire affair reeks of pretentious film students, eager to impress with their hollow craftsmanship. I am helpless to shield my eyes from this assault, Dear Reader! In this opium-induced stupor, I am both captive and slave to the abysmal narrative of Smiley, ensnared as I surrender to the seductive allure of the poppy’s embrace!
The unlikeable science-fiction drek Dark Skies, with desperate ambition, weaves three consecutive false climaxes, utilizing the tired device of awakening abruptly from a dream (within a dream within a dream). The result is a harrowing descent into a punishing conclusion, tormenting the viewer with the wretchedness of this alien tale. Smiley, on the other hand, audaciously subjects us to six such instances of false climax, followed by a double twist ending. Within this opium-infused dreamscape, my own skies darken, the boundaries of reason blur, and the fabric of reality unravels. Oh thank God for the poppy!
In the realm of Smiley, it is said that if one visits a particular video chat site and types “I did it for the lulz” thrice, a blade-wielding serial killer shall materialize behind the unsuspecting chat partner, proceeding to commit a gruesome murder. Protagonist Ashley and her dubious companion, lured by morbid curiosity, dare to test this nefarious ritual, only to be horrified when it indeed manifests its dark consequences. Thus unfolds a distressing journey through the labyrinth of paranoia and false scares, accompanied by abysmal acting, woeful writing, and the disconcerting presence of perspiring men engaging in vulgar acts within the confines of their virtual chat chambers. In the most maddening doldrums of my haze, I sought out the accursed chat chamber and tried in vain to configure a sort of feedback loop so that I might afflict myself with the hex of the “lulz,”thus freeing myself from the grip of this vile film.
The cast comprises nameless souls, Z-list attractions from the netherrealm of YouTube, and the sparing appearance of Keith David, who graces the screen for a mere fraction of time. A discerning eye would note the repetitive nature of the extras, for a limited number of souls populate the background, appearing repeatedly like apparitions haunting a forsaken realm. Although I admit, reality took on a most kaleidoscopic nature as the poppy drifted through my consciousness, so it is entirely possible that the duplicate phantoms were slivers of my shattered reality spinning and spinning and SPINNING as I longed for the release of the lulz!
The killer, named Smiley, is dubbed by one character as “the world’s first viral serial killer.” A far-fetched claim, indeed. Would it not be more fitting to deem him the “first emoticon-based serial killer”? For a decade or more, internet horror films have plagued the screens (recall Fear Dot Com), and countless cinematic endeavors have been born from urban legends (consider, for instance, Urban Legend). Smiley himself is a mere mortal, concealed in a nondescript trench coat. Oh, what an ostentatious display of imaginative genius!
Smiley’s countenance embodies what it feels like to view this film as seconds stretch into hours in a bewildering fog of opium: His eyes, sewn shut, and his mouth carved into a permanent, ghastly smile, resemble not only a disfigured, infected big toe, but also my own petrified countenance, no doubt frozen in a ghoulish and vacant gaze for days!
In a disconcerting twist, Ashley’s Ethics teacher speculates upon the possibility of the internet gaining consciousness and evolving into a malevolent force. Smiley, perchance, personifies this malevolence, delighting in the slaughter of those who indulge in lascivious acts within the digital realm… on the very internet itself. How this purported authority on Ethics is qualified to expound upon such matters (and why, in the name of all that is rational, would he discuss them within the confines of an Ethics class?) remains shrouded in uncertainty, akin to the wisps of chest hair protruding from his meticulously groomed attire and the wisps of cloud that shroud my mind.
My deepest solace lies in the conclusion of this accursed film, where none remain to feign performances, to utter senseless dialogue, or to desecrate the screen with their presence. In the quietude that ensues, I find respite from this torment that has plagued my very being. And now, visions of Smiley dance before my half-closed eyes, their ethereal forms shimmering with an otherworldly glow, as if painted by the hand of a mad artist who seeks to carve the lulz into my soul.
The guy who directed Maniac, which I love, and Maniac Cop, which I also enjoy, directs Uncle Sam, a movie about a ruthless “maniac” soldier (named Sam; lolz) who is killed in Desert Storm and then returns from the grave as an evil, murderous Uncle Sam. They could have called the movie “Maniac Soldier,” but I guess they really wanted a guy in an Uncle Sam suit.
Sam’s body is crispier than a sack of tater tots left in a house fire. He looks like Swamp Thing except he’s all black and grey. His corpse is shipped home to his grieving wife and shortly after arriving, Sam wakes up. How? Don’t ask me. The rest of the film is just a lumbering, zombie, Lurch-like, reanimated civil servant villain going on a killing spree and a sub-plot about Sam’s alcoholism/sadism. The “maniac” formula worked to achieve something of a cult following for Maniac Cop but the charm didn’t quite transfer for poor Uncle Sam.
Anyway, Sam’s crispy ass gets a hold of an Uncle Sam outfit and then starts murdering unpatriotic folks during some 4th of July festivities. He puts a little “’Merica” twist on his kills too. The best is the fireworks related death in which an unpatriotic Congressman gets lit the fuck up like a Christmas tree. There’s also some garden shears through eyeballs and an impaling on an American flagpole.
Each kill is pretty well thought out; there are more than simple stabbings and all sorts of goofy shit happens. Isaac Hayes shows up and he’s got a wooden leg. There’s a sack race. Uncle Sam gets shot with cannon balls.
There is some social commentary more transparent than Angelina Jolie, but I still appreciate it. Snippets of conversations about patriotism/pacifism, draft dodging, and the real purpose of soldiers pepper the film. I like that these things are in there and I’ll give Uncle Sam props for trying to make us think (just a little bit) during what would otherwise be a formulaic slasher flick.
Every horror junkie sits through his fair share of poorly-reviewed garbage hoping to find a diamond in the rough. Since Oren Peli’s name was attached to this, and I’m such a fan of his Paranormal Activity movies, I gave it a shot, although the Dish Network info screen had it scored as 1.5 starts. Maybe this one flew under the radar?
Nope. It’s shit. Worse, it’s boring shit. Zero suspense, no sense of danger, and although it’s not a found footage movie, it’s shot in the same minimalist style. You know the drill: It’s dark, the camera’s shaky, lots of screams then cutaways. This approach means that even by the end of the movie, I’m still not sure what I was supposed to be scared of, other than some wild dogs that do damage in the daytime. But I don’t find German fucking shepherds creepy.
Oh, there is a part with a bear. That was kinda cool, I guess.
The only intriguing thing about this snoozefest is the premise: Dumb American kids (along with an Auzzie dude and Norwegian chick) sign on for an “extreme tour” of the town next to Chernobyl that was hastily evacuated after the reactor meltdown. You would think that would make for some cool mutant shit, but you’d be wrong. I guess the things hunting the dumbfuck Americans are mutants, but you never see them clearly enough to shit your pants about them.
The one halfway cool scene is in the trailer. So watch that instead, and thank ol’ Dr. Loomis for saving you an hour and 25 minutes, you ungrateful fucks.
BLOODCRYPT 