“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.
This review is for the 2005 horror film based on a Marvel Comics character. If you were looking for a different “Man-Thing,” sorry, perv.
The Man-Thing is basically Swamp-Thing. He chills in the swamp and murders people if they go into the swamp. Some people go into the swamp, so they get murdered. End of plot.
He looks like a cheap pile of fake kelp and has CGI eyes. His victims die by disembodiment or by having Man-Thing manipulated vegetation fatally sprout from their stupid bodies in 2 seconds. You get breasts, gore, and a stockpile of oil company goons waiting to die for your entertainment. The kills are funny but the “scary” fast motion sequences with loud-as-fuck racket that happen every 10 minutes get a little old. And Man-Thing looks fucking dumb. And there is no story.
In the comics, Man-Thing hates fear. Whenever he senses the emotion, he secretes a corrosive chemical and burns motherfuckers (you can imagine that since he looks like a 7-foot tall pile of walking vegetables, some of them very phallic, a lot of people get burned). Movie Man-Thing hates audiences being interested in a film. And he has this power where he communicates with / controls vegetation like how Aquaman talks to fish. I guess Hollywood was up on their straight-to-DVD High Horse and was like “I don’t know… he ejaculates acidic fear juice… who would watch that?” and then they gave him the ability to look fucking silly and grow plants for their cinematic masterpiece.
The movie tries to explain, with some vague text at the beginning of the film and maybe a dozen words later in the film, that Movie Man-Thing is not a transformed scientist like Comic Man-Thing; he is actually a forest spirit protecting the swamp. Great. Thanks for protecting that swamp, Man-Thing. Maybe they can do a sequel where we see Man-Thing’s slow, CGI asshole cousin all made of sand protecting some uninhabitable square mile of desert.
All kids under the age of 10 fall into a deep coma punctuated by creepy seizures. Most entertaining stretch of the film. Act 1 ends.
A decade later, the still comatose kids suddenly become not comatose and work together to murder / consume the souls of adults. They are incredibly effective at this; despite being bedridden for ten years, they are nimble and tough yet easily defeated by different flavors of head trauma and point-blank gun shots.
As you would expect, a group of survivors band together and try to stay alive while simultaneously trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. What unfolds is a dozen or so clichés stitched together for 88 minutes and a cop-out ending. I am such a sucker; I actually skipped back and watched the ending of the DVD with cast/editor commentary. They didn’t speak on anything that was happening. They spent about eight minutes dissecting how “hot” the barely hot lead actress is.
It’s like Children of the Corn and Dawn of the Dead but directed by douche bags. The adults travel from building to building as they hide from the coma-kids. With each transfer to a new locale, one or more members of the group get murdered. I can’t believe this happened more than once, but there are multiple scenes where a kid is pointing a gun at someone, but before they can pull the trigger, they are shot by an out-of-frame character at the last possible second. You know what I’m talking about: The red wound appears and swells. The shot kid slumps to their knees and we see the character behind them holding the smoking gun.
Gunfire to non-vital and thus impervious zombie body parts inspire looks of surprise and awful-as-fuck dialogue. There are shock cuts around corners and off-screen, implied kills. Some of the makeup is okay and there are some creepy shots of seizing kids.
The Wise Elder character tries to explain early on that the epidemic is predicted by an obscure Bible passage and that the children have risen from hibernation to claim souls as the first stage of the rapture. He is, of course ignored, until one of the survivors, James Van Der Beek, he of the Creek of Dawson, figures it all out and sacrifices himself to a mob of kids. This is great because I was sick of looking at his cheap tattoos. Apparently, the only way to stop them, or slow them down, or make them less violent (it is never clarified) is to voluntarily offer your soul up for consumption. Surprisingly, few characters do this.
A paperback Grapes of Wrath shows up a few times in the film, making me want to puke blood and soil myself. The parallels between that text and The Plague are feeble and superficial. Van Der Beek returns home like Tom Joad does and finds his family is in a bad way. That’s about it. We have no great migration, no comments on human kindness (or human nature), no critique of capitalism, and no complex human relationships. Maybe you could argue that VDB laying down for the kids is like the breast feeding scene in the novel because they involve generous self-sacrifice. Good luck with that.
Welcome to a movie that attempts to take the famous chemistry from the Godzilla vs. films and transfer it to the 11th installment in the Friday the 13th (or 8thNightmare on Elm Street) series. If you sit down expecting to see something revolutionary that doesn’t shamelessly cash in on ideas from the past 25 years, you will be very disappointed.
I remember salivating over the marketing for this film; two of my favorite horror characters were going to face off in mortal combat. It was a horror version of Santa vs. the Easter Bunny. This was when I was really into WWE, so I was basically destined to see this in the theater. The director manages to cram everything Freddy/Jason fans love about Freddy/Jason movies into 95 minutes and the results are anti-climactic. Think about it: Just because I like avocado, toffee, and roast beef, doesn’t mean dumping them down the chute of a juicer is going to make nectar. If you are like me and are a fan of both franchises, you’ll suck it down and believe you love it no matter what while others will be understandably perplexed and bored.
There are plenty of decent looking teenagers misbehaving before they are killed, foggy boiler room dream-murders, “chh-chh, chaa-chaa” Jason noises, and a plot that you could read the newspaper through. There isn’t a minute of this movie that goes out on a limb that isn’t immediately rendered as CGI and lopped off.
At the beginning of the film, fans are already all riled up from the dick-tease ending of Jason Goes to Hell. Freddy is trapped in Dream World because parents of Elm Street have gone to near-Orwellian pains to remove his killing sprees from the newspaper archives and minds of the town. Apparently, Freddy requires mass paranoia and terror in order to operate, both of which have been abolished by the town’s seemingly well-meaning helicopter parents; no sniveling, horrified teens means Freddy has no power. Freddy resurrects Jason and sets him loose on Elm Street, knowing that his murders will result in a renaissance of Freddy-fear, allowing Freddy to kill, kill, kill.
Just like Greek mythology, logical questions about the story have no place here. While some “rules” are set in stone, others are made of Silly Putty. Freddy is weak and can’t kill kids in their dreams, but he can summon dead people from Hell. How can Freddy go to Hell, but not Earth? He is confined to the dream world except when convenient for particular scenes. How is Jason, after so many decades, still so damn quiet and why is his machete five feet long?
The “vs.” part of the film comes in when the movie has about 15 minutes left; a rejuvenated Freddy attempts to eliminate Jason so he can have all the carnage to himself. I won’t ruin it for you, but the fight scenes are what a toddler playing with action figures probably imagines, full of flying jump-kicks, projectiles, and one-liners. Imagine Freddy and Jason as Power Ranger villains and you’ll have the aesthetic of the film correctly pictured.
Objectively, the movie is terrible. But you know what? It is the only movie I have ever seen twice in the theater on the same day. Maybe that means I’m a loser, but maybe it means fuck you, I’m not a loser: C-!
Stay away from this movie like your life depends on it. If you have a soft spot for broke-as-fuck grindhouse movies with plots about as consistent as wet toilet paper, maybe you’ll get something out of this, but you should be ashamed of yourself if you do.
Some eye-patch wearing, Scooby-Doo villain looking motherfucker broods around in the back room of his wax museum concocting potions that he can use to turn Hollywood stars into wax statues so he can display them in his museum and get all excited about it. Actually, they don’t even turn into wax statues; the potions just induce a paralytic state that makes these movie stars look like wax statues of movie stars when really they are just catatonic movie stars, frozen like wax statues. He ensnares a few stars who have wronged him in the past and props them up in his museum. The old studio he worked for had a little party at which his boss purposely disfigured his face for life. Instead of just getting over it like a man, he becomes a mad scientist / wax statue ringmaster who wears, what appears to be, clothing from that Devo video and he abducts studio stars/personnel one by one.
I know what you’re thinking: “Oh, sick! Does he, like, molest them, or jerk off on them, or at least lick them like Sarah Connor’s hospital guard in Terminator 2?!” Nope. He just freezes them and then chills in his lab, which is full of bubbling test tubes and weird tubes and whatnot.
The captured stars are frozen statues, trapped on their respective podiums… or are they? Just when you think you understand the STUPID concept of pretend-wax incapacitated movie stars, all of a sudden they are robots or zombies or hypnotized or something and they follow the orders of the villain. Basically all of them act like an obedient Keanu Reeves. This potion makes the date rape drug look like Tylenol.
The characters are ridiculous and the writing is some of the laziest I’ve ever seen. They try to work in a little sexiness and are not very creative about it. Our hideously scarred villain, who looks like he is made of Michael Shannon and William Shatner DNA, makes out with this girl he is chasing OUT OF NOWHERE before shanking her. One minute she is terrified, but she succumbs to his (un)sexy advances.
The cops get a little suspicious and have inexcusable incompetence, even for a grindhouse movie. They fucking INSPECT the statues and still take forever to piece together what’s happening. There’s a snore-inducing car chase and no gore. The ending is (SURPRISE!) an anti-climactic cop out.
BLOODCRYPT 