Spored to Death Special Report: Otakon 2008

Welcome back Sporefans. Many of you are wondering why there was no movie review last week. Well it may come as a shock to you, but I do other things besides watch bad movies. Some of you might remember that last year I posted A Look Inside Spored to Death Publishing, and it seems that its becoming a custom that each year I post a tale of high adventure, which may or may not contain some fictional aspects. Much like Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter Thompson, it will be up to you to judge what is truth and what is fiction; even though I made it as obvious as possible. Regardless of your opinion, I now present to you:

Spored to Death's special coverage of Otakon 2008!

Last weekend I took it upon myself to mosey on down to Baltimore, Maryland to check out Otakon 2008. My therapist told me it would be a good idea to get out of the house more often, and Dr. Giggles is rarely wrong; so I took his advice and hooked up with a pair of strange people on a trip into madness, chaos and cat girls.

We embarked upon our journey at the ungodly hour of 11 o'clock in the AM. The sun rained its radiance down upon us, birds filled with foul droppings sang happily in the sky while thinking their little bird thoughts of what to eat and where to poop; and I couldn't have been in a more wretched mood if you put a hand grenade in my pants. The contents of the bottle that I had consumed the previous night demanded that I find another bottle and consume its contents.

We set off in a Southward direction, down the path referred to as "Smuggler's Run" by the people who refer to such things in that way. My companions informed me that we would be blessed with the soothing music of Larc 'en Ciel, The Yellow Monkey and Nightmare; all of which helped soothe the savage beast that bashed the inside of my skull and threatened mutiny on the good ship midsection which sailed the rocky seas of my stomach. I was handed a map which lacked an X, but would hopefully lead to treasure; or at least Baltimore.

And crab. Did you eat crab? He ate two.










Baltimore is home to large ornamental ships. Not to be confused with boats. Click on any of the pictures to get a larger view!


The road was long but not treacherous, full of twists, turns and traffic; leading ever Southward toward our intended destination. Several hours passed and many adventures were had, but those are tales for another time. Our arrival at the hotel on the outskirts of Baltimore put us within reach of our final destination, but my companions and I decided to rest before tackling the madness and mayhem which inevitably waited for us with baited breath just a short ride away.

I refer to, of course, the problem of finding parking in Baltimore.








Unfortunately you can not park inside the submarine. Its a museum or something.


That being said, if you can find parking in the city of Baltimore during Otakon while a nearby an Orioles game gets underway at 5 PM on a Friday afternoon, you can handle any and all weirdness that you might encounter once you actually arrive at the Con. Not knowing what lay ahead of us, I turned to my companions for advice.

"I needs me a cat girl," exclaimed the bearded man, "I brought my tranquilizer gun! I'm gonna bag me a cat girl!"

"I want some Hello Kitty DVDs," replied the well endowed woman, "Hello Kitty's so cute!"

This would certainly be a trip to remember. Now all that we required was parking.

A sea of gleaming steel boxes was all that stood between us and the wonders and madness of the Baltimore Convention Center. We pushed ever forward through the tide, inching toward the parking deck off of Calverton Street, which taunted us as only a shady oasis from traffic for a mere $10 a day could. Gotta love event parking.








Otakon wasn't the only neat thing we found in Baltimore. Check out this Lamborghini parked on the street.


As we approached I noticed somewhere off our port bow was a scantily clad girl with furry ears. "Cat girl ahoy," I cried as the bearded man leveled the darkened steel of the tranquilizer gun. He fired wildly out the window but hit only the wide bottom of a passing nun. Once she was felled, the remainder of the pack of nuns scanned the area for the unknown assailant; for only a deviant of the highest caliber would dare to shoot a nun in her backside.

"Go! Go now!" I shouted, as a gaggle of black and white garbed women turned on the traffic, rulers in hand as they searched the cars for the perpetrator. The nuns were closing fast as we weaved though four congested lanes of traffic. Our car barely grazed the side of a purple cab headed to some destination where a pimp was undoubtedly waiting for a ride to the supermarket. The well endowed woman let out a cry as a man dressed in black clothing with a large sword strapped to his back filled the view of our windshield. He barely had time to spit out a half-eaten corn dog before the collision. He vaulted at the last second trying to leap over the car. Sadly, the poor soul fell short and was affixed to the windshield, which prevented us from realizing that we had shot down the wrong side of the entrance of the parking deck into oncoming traffic. The wiper blades and cleaning fluid proved no match for our obstructing visitor, who's cries had alerted the nuns to our position.

"Oh my god, I'm gonna die," he screamed while hanging on for dear life.













Baltimore is home to "Ride the Duck" tours which allow you to tour the city in an amphibious vehicle. Here, Angry Toast contemplates taking a tour.


With desperate grace the well endowed woman twisted the screaming hunk of steel on to two wheels, tilting the entire frenzied party as we passed over several oncoming cars. It was then that I noticed that we had lost all but the most recalcitrant of the nuns who clung to the back of our car with frightening zeal. She swung wildly with her free arm, attempting to hit anything and everything that would come within the reach of her ruler. The fury of the nun must have endowed her with unrealistic strength as she climbed atop the roof of our speeding vehicle. She lashed out with her handful of hickory hate, closing in on our unsuspecting guest who had camped out on our windshield.

"Look out, you fool," I cried, "She's got a ruler!"

The poor bastard barely had enough time to deflect the blow from the nun's hickory truncheon. They fought like madmen atop the speeding automobile, serenaded by our screams as we careened around the deck looking for an open space. They say that the gods of fortune pity fools, and that day we must have been most foolish. Somehow we had managed to weave our way into the bowels of the parking complex, possibly locating a previously unknown level of Dante's Inferno. At the bottom of the deck lay one remaining parking spot, stuck between two large SUV's. With no time for delicacy the well endowed woman spun the car around, backing into the spot with expert precision. The car barely had time to settle into park as we bolted from the vehicle. The sound of the engine dying still rang in our ears as we sprinted for the stairwell.













Remember that scene in Ghost Busters when Venkman asked to be informed when they reached a specific floor so he could throw up from climbing all those stairs? You don't? What's wrong with you. Anyway, we saw this in the dealer's room, someone made it. It's not a prop or a shot from the movie. Click the picture for a better view.


The nun and the costumed man fought atop the car as we ran for our lives. As I climbed the stairs after my companions I heard a cry from the parking deck behind me. Someone shouted "There can be only one!" as I took the stairs two at a time, scrambling for freedom and sanity. To this day I still can't determine who was the victor in that brutal underground conflict.

Emerging from the stairwell, we had come face to face with downtown Baltimore. It was quite an impressive sight as costumed Anime fans and Orioles fans mingled with the local residents amidst the backdrop of the inner harbor. Shops and restaurants lined the far side of the street giving us only a glimpse of the harbor and the small boats that gracefully passed over its surface. Over the years the local residents have adapted to the yearly convention, accepting that people with crazy hair and fake weapons would be walking their streets for a weekend. You could find a vendor on every street corner selling everything from bottled water to food to glow sticks. Shops advertised discounts for anyone who came in dressed in a costume. A copacetic symbiosis had evolved between Baltimore and the Anime convention, giving off a vibe that might have given Woodstock a run for its money.










I'm not sure what Anime this is from, but these guys sure are dedicated.


The Baltimore Convention Center stretched three city blocks with streets running in between the major buildings. The buildings were connected by a second floor sky walk which passed over each of the streets, allowing visitors to roam from one building to another without ever having to fear traffic. Although it was the first day of the convention, the lobby of the nearest building seemed sparsely populated as many of the convention goers would not arrive until Saturday. We asked one of the guests where we could procure our convention passes, and were told that we would have to go down to the main entrance of the first building.

I feel that I should point out that whoever designed the Baltimore Convention Center was probably a sadist of the highest caliber. The center is constructed in such a way so that if you need to reach a specific area of the center the only way to get there is to exit the building and walk around it in its entirety. While the individual buildings are connected via sky walks, the area inside the second floor where you enter the building may or may not connect to other parts of the building. Indeed Cochran, Stephenson and Donkervoet, the architects who designed the center are probably having a good chuckle as they read this.

If they read this.

They're probably not going to read this.













A young man and his companion cube.











This young lady built up quite a Katamari. I'd say it was at least 1.3m large! Now let's make it into a star!


Once we found the main entrance to the center, my companions and I set about obtaining our passes to the convention. My companions, who only needed access passes had no trouble obtaining entry. I however, required an official press pass to the convention; a back door to the inner workings of Otakon, necessary to obtain the real story about the deepest secrets of the convention. I had questions; questions that needed answers desperately. How did they manage to organize a convention with a capacity for 25,000 guests every year? Did the organizers sacrifice goats to a heathen god in exchange for the powers needed to bring this mammoth building under their sway? Or was it the work of a highly intelligent super computer which housed a never before seen artificial intelligence capable of scheduling all of the videos, panels and special events in this monstrous three day orgy of Anime fandom.

"Good day sir," I said to the young man running the registration booth, "My name is Spored to Death and I am here to cover this convention for Spored to Death Publishing. I believe that my editor has called ahead and acquired a press pass for me to attend this convention. I am here to procure this press pass, and have the proper credentials and visas with me to assure you of my identity."

"I'm sorry, you're who?" replied the young man.

"I'm Spored to Death, with Spored to Death Publishing," I replied, "Now if you'll just give me my press pass I'll be on my way to conduct my interviews."

"I'm sorry sir, but we don't offer press passes at the convention."

"What?!" I shouted, "How can you get by without the good favor of the press? My readers want to know what goes on here! They demand the real story, not some hopped-up white wash that only panders to the powers that be! I need to get in touch with the seedy underbelly of Otakon to really understand the operation you people are running here. I need access to the back rooms where people of power decide the fates of thousands over tables of drugs, money and naked women!"

"Sir, there is no seedy underbelly to Otakon. We're just an Anime convention."

"Lies! All lies," I screamed. If only I could make enough of a scene I might be able to bully a press pass out of the kid yet. "I know that you know what's going on here! You've been skulking about in the darkness with the rest of the villainous scum who exploit the masses and prey upon their fears. You stall because you don't want the public to know the truth! But the public must know and will know. Your press releases can't possibly feed the demand for knowledge that spreads throughout the world even as we speak. Don't attempt to obfuscate the will of the public. That's my job!"

"Sir, I just volunteer for a few hours at the booth this weekend. What the hell are you talking about?"

Stonewalled. This one proved to be more shrewd than he appeared. No matter. There's more than one way to skin a cat. "Very well. I'll buy one of your visitor passes. How much does that go for?"

"Sixty-five dollars sir," the young man said with hints of both relief and annoyance in his voice.

"Very well, but I shall need a receipt for my editor," I replied pulling a heavy satchel out of my briefcase, "Also, I should ask this up front... do you accept payment in pennies?"

Forty-five minutes later I had my visitor's pass to the convention.













Because of my antics people are no longer allowed to pay for Otakon with pennies. If you try they send robots after you.


It took an hour to get acclimated to the environs of the convention center. Throngs of people moved through hallways and across vast carpeted areas between small islands of snack carts, video rooms, a makeshift cafe, panels and events. Our initial attempts to navigate the seas of Otakon were nothing more than a learning experience. We had initially set out for the video gaming hall, but found ourselves unable to gain access though the direct route, which would carry us through the walls of the Baltimore Convention Center. Horrible chains of carbon linked together in a seemingly innocent white wall; but under its bright surface lurked the evil of impasse.

Eventually we found our way to the Artist's Alley and beheld the wonders of some great talents. While all the entries were impressive, sadly I only thought to grab a couple of business cards from the artists in the stalls. One artist in particular showed an impressive amount of patience and fortitude, and I hope that she makes it big before she goes blind working on a level of detail that would frighten most human beings. Huzzah to you!

After we drank our fill of the Artist's Alley we broke for dinner. Baltimore was riddled with upscale restaurants waiting eagerly to suck the money from our pockets in exchange for luxurious food and drink. Luckily this was a business trip, and I planned to hike up the bill and send it to my editor.










One of our first sights in the Artist's Alley were these hand made plushies. You want them. You know you do.


Once our bellies were full with food, the well endowed woman received a call from Machine, a compatriot who also happened to be at the convention. "There's a rave going on, come on over to the rave!" So we set off in search of the rave, around and around the exterior of the convention center. Machine's directions were obscure; undoubtedly he was in the middle of having a good time when he called. We spiraled about aimlessly and clueless, seeking out the "main entrance" to the building. We followed the sounds of music and frolicking until we could see the lights through the deep recesses of the windows, casting the darkness away with their dancing rainbow hues.

Then we saw the nuns.

They were waiting for us in force outside the entrance. One nun kept leaning on the others, obviously still under the effects of the bearded man's tranquilizer darts. We dared not proceed, for they would be on us like large monochromatic flies on so much crap. I felt that it was time to retire to the sanctity of our hotel.

Then some fear and loathing happened.

The next day we set out for the convention from our hotel, but first, a quick stop at Arby's. Yum. After filling our bellies once again we set out to the convention center, this time armed with knowledge gained from the mistakes of yesterday. At once, we seized upon an opportunity to storm the dealer's room; exposing it for the capitalistic orgy that it was. And we partook in that orgy, buying various baubles and trinkets, videos and compact discs. At some point during this hedonistic embrace of the dollar I was separated from my companions, and when I found them once again they had both sprouted ears and tails.









Some of the items that were aquired at Otakon.


"Cat people!" I screamed, and ran for the exit. My companions chased my down, and luckily I was not bitten in the scuffle. One could only imagine the spelling and grammatical errors of a reporter typing with fur covered paws. "Back! Back, you fiends!" I cried as I was summarily tackled and dragged off to eat lunch.

After a few pints I returned to my senses. Once calmed by the inebriating effects of alcohol we returned to the convention and wandered down once again into the Artist's alley.

Then we ate crab.










Go back and buy a plushie. Do it now! It's a zombie plushie, what other justification do you need?


The bearded now cat-man pointed out that one of his friends had set up a booth in Artist's Alley. She was talented and quite friendly. She pointed to the doll sitting on the corner of her table and told us that she had created all of the clothing for the figure.

"By the way, my little doll is also anatomically correct," she pointed out, "I have some more at home like that, but I didn't bring them this time." The fear rose up in my guts again. I had to get out, away from the nice girl with the creepy dolls. I grabbed my companions and we headed out of the art room pausing briefly to pick up some stationary from the artist we had met the day before.










Believe it or not, this is actually a different doll from the one mentioned above. This doll is owned by someone who was working at the chainmail table from Rabbit Dance Designs. I did not ask if it was anatomically correct, nor did I think to check at the time. Check out their website if you're interested in purchasing chain mail or chain mail jewelry.


"We've yet to make it to the video game room," I pronounced, "We'll all be fools if we can't make it to the very first place we set out for. Come on, this way!" We circled round the building yet again until we found the entrance to the appropriate building; but where there was only a small group of conventioneers the day before was now a swelled mass of costumed characters, milling about the floor and pausing occasionally for impromptu photo shoots. We pushed our way through gently, trying not to upset the delicate balance of the crowd, until we found our way to the doors of the game room.










This was just a small section of the room where the cos-players were gathering. I wasn't kidding about it being like a sea, you could crowd surf across most of the room but I would advise against it. The drop from the second floor is a little... intense.


"Yo, don't come in here," a uniformed guard said quietly, but we waved our passes and walked by undeterred. It was as if I had gone back to the halcyon days of my youth; there before me were rows upon rows of high definition televisions all sporting fighting games, shooting games and strange Japanese games the likes of which I had never seen before. The days of old had risen again; the days when you could walk into an arcade and play a myriad of fighting games for only a quarter. The good old days, the all or nothin' days. Hours passed as I stared in amazement and the sharpest graphics of the latest games side by side with classics and not so classics that time had left behind.










I may or may not have been hallucinating at this point, but I think Vega and Dee Jay were about to duke it out in the dealer's room. As always, click the picture for a better view.


After a few hours my companions tired, and I conceded that it was probably time to find some place to rest. Upon exiting the game room, we encountered a cos-player that I had never seen before. Over the two days at the convention (and during my previous conventions) I had seen many different levels of cos-players performing many different roles. There were people dressed like characters from Dragon Ball Z, Pokemon, Hellboy, Final Fantasy, Bleach, Kenshin, Naruto, Tonari no Totoro, Gurren Lagann, Crayon Shin Chan, Death Note, Sailor Moon and countless other Anime titles.

But I've never seen anyone cos-play as Hard Gay before.

For those of you who don't know, Hard Gay is a Japanese comedian who... well, he does stuff. To people. In public. You see Hard Gay is a... well, just see for your self. Go on, don't be shy. The story will sit right here while you watch.

Here are some shots of the cos-player who came as Hard Gay.










There is no caption in the world that would do this shot justice.













Hard Gay hard at work on a cos-player's sword.


Are you done? Have you had enough Hard Gay? All right, lets move on.

After our chance encounter with the leather clad cos-player, we decided it would be refreshing to get some ice cream from one of the ice cream trucks parked outside the convention center. While paying for my cone, I heard a voice from somewhere in the line behind me.

"Look Agnes, it's one of them," said the hushed voice.

"Weren't there three heathens before," asked a second voice.

"There were, but I don't see the other two," replied the first voice as I decided to try and disappear into the crowded street.

"What about them? Those two right over there," the second voice pointed out.

"No that can't be them. They didn't have cat ears and tails. These people clearly do. Therefore they can't be the one's we're looking for," the first voice said as I moved into a crowd of people passing by.

"He's getting away," cried the second voice as I broke from the crowd, leaving my companions behind. I ran about twenty feet down the sidewalk, looking to join a crowd of people who were not dressed in costumes so that I could blend in; but the crowd parted at the last second to reveal a gaggle of nuns. There was no avoiding my collision with the burly sister who even as I approached swung her ruler forward to greet my face.

The next ten minutes were a blur. The memory of the event is a jumbled mess of black and white flashes, pain, fear and loathing. In case you were wondering, most nuns wear comfortable shoes underneath their habits, but at least one set of shoes were steel toed work boots which found my kidneys with horrifying accuracy. Do these puritanical penguins practice their kicking skills to the plexus, positioning their blows for maximum pain? Perhaps.

The savage beating continued for some time. I couldn't say how long, maybe thirty seconds, maybe five minutes. The concept of time was as distant as a far reaching horizon with promises of wealth and splendor; a luxury I couldn't even imagine as splintered pieces of ruler scratched up my arms while I shielded my face from the blows.

I don't remember when it ended, so I must have had a concussion. I woke up in a pool of blood on the steps of the convention center. It couldn't have been for too long as the sound of sirens approaching told me there was more trouble still to come. I climbed up the steps on all fours and fell over into a shrubbery. "Damn it," I screamed, "the least they could have done was let me eat my ice cream first!"










There were way too many great pictures from the convention. We ran into Hellboy in the dealer's room as well.


I stumbled down the steps of the convention center as blood ran down my face decorating my shirt. "Cool costume dude," a young man cheered, "Who are you supposed to be?"

"Huh? Who me? I'm, uh... that guy from Fight Club. The one that lost."

"Oh cool," cried the pretty young girl hanging from the young man's arm, "Can we get a picture of you?"

I held up my thumb and tried to smile as best as I could. "How'd you get the blood to stay on your teeth like that," the young man asked, "All my fake blood keeps running off and I swallow it."

"Trade secret," I replied.

I found my companions by the ice cream truck. Not only were they unharmed, they seemed happy.

"We need to leave. Now," I said tersely.

"What happened to you," asked the bearded man.

"Nuns. Everywhere, nuns. They're after me, and they're coming for you next." I looked around, they could be anywhere. I needed to get out of the city before they caught up with me again.

"You mean the nuns from the parking deck," asked the well endowed woman, "They complimented us on our ears, and bought us ice cream."

"Don't eat that!" I cried. "It could be poisoned. With, uh.... nun... poison." I paused, realizing what a crazed madman I must have sounded like. "I need a disguise, or we'll never get out of here alive."

I surveyed the area and found a small store. "Follow me. My life depends on it."

"But I'm not done with my ice cream."

"Look," I screamed, spinning around on my companions and screaming through my clenched teeth, "Nuns! Beat! Me! Up! Let's get the hell out of here!"

I purchased a clever disguise at the store. There would be no recognizing me now, I looked like a completely different person. All we had to do was reach the car and we were home free.









Alternatively, I could have used the "box technique" to make my escape, but I'll save that trick for next year.


Parking was $24.

It was the single most important purchase of my life. We fled Baltimore with the dogs at our heels; Dalmatians with rulers for teeth and iron feet. But we sped on into the night up I-95, away from the madness; safe... at least for a little while.

Inevitably someone needed to pee.

We stopped at a rest stop somewhere in Delaware. After cleaning the blood off my face in the restroom, I exited to find my bearded companion speaking to a man dressed as Mario. The faux plumber seemed to be engaging my companion in some sort of illicit deal. My companion received a wad of cash and handed over his tranquilizer gun.










The well endowed woman acted as my photographer on this trip. This explains two things. First, it explains why there are no pictures of half-naked cat girls. Secondly... well, maybe you should just read the wikipedia entry for Yaoi. Next year I'll give a camera to the bearded man as well; for fairness.


"Are you coming from the con," I asked Mario as I walked up to the pair.

"Nope, I'mma goin' to the con," he replied staying in character.

"Watch out for nuns," I said as my companion and I walked off, "They hate it when you shoot 'em in the ass."

"Nuns," Mario asked, his accent slipping, "What Anime are they from?"

I didn't answer. Indeed, I didn't have an answer. Only a strong yearning to be back on the road and to put distance between us and my monochromatic assailants.

We piled in for the last leg of the journey, back up Smuggler's Run into the heart of New Jersey. "So, did we all have a good time?" I asked, wiping my hands on my bloodied shirt. My companions were happy. They had not known the cruel lash of the hickory rulers as I had. I said nothing, but knew that even if it mean more beatings at the hands of angry nuns, I would return the next year. Who knows, perhaps I too would embark on a hunt for one of the elusive cat girls of Otakon.

Nah. Better off just bringing one with me. That way no one gets shot in the ass.


But why take my work for it. Check out this video of Otakon 2008, and the madness.



I'll definitely have to go back next year.

Dee Snider's StrangeLand

Welcome back Sporefans. I must admit that today's review is a strange one indeed. Not because the movie was so strange. There was no subject in this movie that hadn't already been touched upon more explicitly by an episode of TV's CSI. No, today's review is strange because we are posing a question; a question about the author and main actor of this movie. For today, we're reviewing Dee Snider's Strangeland; and I must put fourth the following: Is Dee Snider a genius, or a moron?













At first this might seem like a simple question to answer, but lets examine the movie before we jump to any conclusions. Strangeland is about a man who goes by the name of "Captain Howdy", who is played by none other than Dee Snider himself. Captain Howdy (who's real name is Carleton Hendricks apparently), lurks about the Internet hoping to lure teens to his creepy old house. Once there he tortures the teens in an attempt to show them enlightenment through pain. Wait, wasn't that the plot to Hellraiser?

Keep in mind that this movie was released in 1998, and that means that it was written and shot around 1996 or 1997. This is when the Internet was expanding and people were starting to think that going online was "cool". Only a scant few years before this, people thought that the Internet was a magic place where people could mentally merge with computers. Ten years prior to that concept, people thought that any computer was full of tiny people who lived tiny virtual lives while you played video games. With a few minor setbacks, the movie concept of the Internet has progressed toward a more realistic portrayal of what the Internet actually was at that time: a place where people go to look at naked pictures and generally act perverted on dial up. In this regard, Dee Snider is a true genius, showing the American viewing audience what AOL's hourly rate was all about.

Unfortunately that wasn't his intention; but even a blind man hits the baseball once in a while.












Captain Howdy certainly lies about himself on the Internet. He is obviously neither a pirate nor a cowboy.


No Snider's true intention, or at least the one that seemed apparent when watching the film, was to introduce Americans to some sort of BDSM underground culture; a culture that seeks revelation through inflicting pain on themselves (or others) while rejecting the conventions of modern society; a culture that also only seems to exist in Hollywood movies. Seriously, after you've seen a bunch of wire-heads hanging out in a bar in Johnny Mnemonic, a bunch of Vampires hanging out in a slightly better bar in Blade, or a bunch of party-goers hanging out all over New York City in Strange Days; then watching Dee Snider hang from his nipples by meat hooks surrounded by rejects from the Mad Max movies isn't that shocking or original. In fact, the concept of bars that cater to counter culture are so popular in movies that they often destroy the counter culture that they seek to emulate; or at the very least commercialize it. I could name countless other examples, like the rave scene from The Crow, but I think we're getting off topic. The point I'm trying to make is that Hollywood thinks that we party way harder than we do; but only people with money can get a party like the one's depicted in films off the ground. Legally, anyway.

The fact that the counter culture exists was not meant to be the most shocking point of this movie. The throngs of pierced masses all attend these functions of their own accord; but Captain Howdy forgets all about safety words when he abducts the teens and subjects them to unnecessary piercings which may or may not be sterile. The principle terror in this movie comes from Captain Howdy's torture of these (so called, but most likely not) teens; but his motives are not to harm them, but to give them enlightenment and welcome them into the world of fake underground BDSM cults.










Captain Howdy really does hang out with the wrong crowd.


Unfortunately we know this because he spends a great deal of time in the movie spouting out ridiculous self-righteous monologues about becoming enlightened through pain. I guess that's how he justifies shoving a large needle through a guy's "special parts", or hanging Robert Englund by his nipples. Did I mention that Robert Englund was in this movie? Ironically the man once cast as a serial killer/phantom who kills teens in their sleep is now playing a redneck who is angry at a guy who kidnaps teenagers and does horrible things to them. But I digress...

After about twenty minutes of Captain Howdy preaching to his captive audience, all of whom have had their mouths sewn shut so they couldn't drown out his horrible monologues with their screams; it became very apparent that Strangeland is about 65 minute too long. But wait! Detective Mike Gage (played by Kevin Gage: what a stretch) bursts in on Captain Howdy while Howdy is torturing little Genevieve Gage (played by Linda Cardellini). He manages to arrest Howdy, and the movie looks like its about to wrap up.

30 minutes in.










Detective Gage learns about "the Internet".


But wait! In true 1980's music video and movie fashion, Captain Howdy is found not guilty by reason of insanity and remanded to the care of a mental health facility; where, with the help of some happy little pills, Captain Howdy changes from a demented, pierced and tattooed psychopath into a mild mannered nerd complete with sweater vest and glasses. For some unknown reason he decides to move back into his old home, which has now been vandalized by angry townspeople. The townspeople are so angry, in fact, that they try to hang poor reformed Carleton from a tree. This fails, of course, and the repressed Captain Howdy once again emerges from Carleton's psyche to hang more people from their nipples.










Angry townsfolk run over Carleton's happy pills. Can you say symbolism boys and girls?


Without a doubt, this movie is terrible. I do not recommend most people attempt to watch it, as it will cause you undo pain. But, there lies the crux of my dilemma, for I can't help but wonder if the point of this movie was to cause its viewers pain. Are we, the audience, to be enlightened by the pain of having to watch this movie? If so, would that make Dee Snider a genius? Or is he a moron who just got lucky? Well, today Sporefans, you get to decide in our latest Spored to Death Publishing poll.



I must admit, even after enduring the pain of this movie, I don't feel enlightened at all. However, I can't share the pain because I can't find the trailer for this movie. But I can think of a way that people can reach enlightenment without the painful torture of painful torture. Don't believe me? Just listen to this kid:



Enlightenment in a bottle. See you next week. And take that large green chicken with you when you go, it's freakin' me out man.

Harry Knuckles and the Pearl Necklace

The first sentence, Sporefans, is undoubtedly the most important sentence in any novel. Luckily I'm writing a movie review, so it doesn't matter quite so much. I speak much about words now, because last week I installed google analytics on the Spored to Death tome to see if anyone has actually been reading this blog. Apparently, what matters on the Internet is not what words you type, but the pictures and keywords you have on your site. I say this because most people who aren't on the Spored to Death mailing list find my site by using google image searches. Their keywords draw their gaze to this dark... well dark green corner of the web. Keywords like "lloyd garner" moron, garth marenghi's dark place region 1 dvd and things stuck in peoples anus's.

Hey, I don't judge. And I can think of two reviews (namely Manthing and Anus Magillicutty) where there are major themes of things stuck in peoples anuses. Besides, I'm just happy people are looking at my website, even if it is only for a second, and only to see if there are strange things stuck in people's backsides.

By the way, there are no pictures of that here. Only words. Bland, boring words; which only allude to the object/butt interaction that some of you apparently so crave. Don't give up though, I hear that there are many places out there that cater to your butt lust. For you few who are not satisfied with movie review fare, I urge you, search elsewhere.

But come back and read the review when you're done.

But enough about people's butts. There will be no more dereliction of booty around here! It is now time to get down to business with this week's review. In hindsight I should have gone straight into the review, but in the end I couldn't help but be tempted by the opportunity to make a few cheap shots at the unsuspecting backside of humor.














This week we'll be taking a look at Harry Knuckles and the Pearl Necklace. Harry Knuckles is brought to you by the people who gave us Jesus Christ: Vampire Hunter... and the letter C. Back in the day, I reviewed Jesus Christ Vampire Hunter and found it to be a great movie. Now, with a budget of $50,000 Canadian dollars (about $49,000 American) Lee Demarbe, Ian Driscoll and Phil Caracas once again set out on the high seas of movie making. But will the cast and crew from J.C.V.H. be able to once again plunder American DVD dollars away from the likes of Stargate: Atlantis season 4, the unrated edition of The Ruins, and Sleepwalking. Or will Hollywood once again successfully keep our Canadian friends from plundering their DVD booty?










Lloyd Kaufman and Phil Caracas get a drink together while contemplating the success of Harry Knuckles and the Pearl Necklace. You know there's gonna be a good time when Lloyd Kaufman shows up, and then immediately gets drunk.


OK, I swear I'll stop making butt jokes.

Soon.

Well, to answer the question stated above about plundering the booty... I don't know. Mostly because imdb.com never posted the box office results for the movie. But enough about the money, lets talk about the movie. Harry Knuckles is about a private detective and adventurer named Harry Knuckles (Phil Caracas), who has (take a guess) hairy knuckles. Harry must undertake a quest to retrieve a necklace, or beat up a yeti, or something...










Harry fights a Scotsman. Here, the Scotsman is using the dreaded Scottish double nipple twister, made famous in the movie Braveheart.


Well, in truth, I'm not sure exactly what the point of this movie was originally; but Harry takes a job from two busty, female Canadian secret agents (Nancy Riehle and Emma Maloney) to retrieve a valuable pearl necklace that was stolen from a museum by a yeti. Also joining Harry in this quest is his friend and former star of the ring Santos (Jeff Moffet), who plays a larger part in this movie than he did in Jesus Christ Vampire Hunter.

After the yeti fight, the point gets a little hazy, partly because I don't want to ruin the plot for you; but mostly because I had been drinking heavily. Harry fights a plethora (hah, you thought I was going to say menagerie, didn't you?) of outrageous bad guys, good guys, morally ambivalent guys and the yeti.

Did I mention the Yeti was also a cyborg? I should probably mention that.










Harry bites a Yeti. Hope you've had all your shots.


I won't get too far into the details of this movie, as I think its worth seeing for yourself, but I will address one of the major complaints that some people had with this movie. It seems that some of the viewers at our "lets get drunk and watch movies night" thought that the wrestling scene where Santos fights several wrestlers hired by the busty, female Canadian secret agents went on for too long; much like this sentence. To those people I say: you have obviously never had to sit through a Triple-H Wrestlemania match. If you think that a ten minute wrestling match is eight minutes too long, you've never seen the dreaded "main event sleeper".

Also, I thought that the Santos sex scene was much worse than the wrestling match. Both of which, by the way, occur in rings.

I just want you to know, that as you read that last line I felt you cringe. Your collective discomfort was actually so great that it became a tangible entity. Either that, or I ate some bad fish.










Do you ladies want to see Jeff Moffet without his shirt on? No? Why not?


Wrestling disputes aside, this movie was definitely worth the $12.99 plus shipping that I paid for it. Although it might be a bit hard to follow at times Harry Knuckles and the Pearl Necklace features some great humor and some of the best camera and editing work I've seen in a long time. Sure, I have some unanswered questions like "Why did the mysterious villian, who shall not be named, want the pearl necklace again?" Also, "Why is there whiskey all over my shirt?" and "Where are my pants?".










Believe it or not, that's writer Ian Driscoll under that bag. And, no, he's not wearing the bag in shame; he's the unknown gas station attendant.


I should say something like "kudos to Lee Demarbre for putting together that amazing chase sequence at the end of the movie", but then I'd have to hit myself in the face for using the word "kudos" in a sentence. That's the talk of the likes of people from Ebert and Roeper country; and we don't take kindly to the likes of those uppity movie snobs around here. We just don't trust people who do strange things with their thumbs and fingers here at Spored to Death Publishing; as you never know where those questionable digits might have been.

But I digress. We're here to talk about Harry Knuckles, not questionable fingers. For those of you who enjoyed Jesus Christ: Vampire Hunter, Harry Knuckles and the Pearl Necklace is familiar territory you should probably take the time to explore. On the other hand, if you couldn't handle the campy goodness of Jesus and Santos as they battled an army of blood sucking fiends, you're probably not going to like Harry Knuckles either. These movies aren't for everyone; but then again if you're here reading this; chances are that you're one of the few that can enjoy a movie of this caliber. And if you're not, well I can recommend you go to somewhere more mainstream. I'm sure they'll point you in the right direction.

OK, I couldn't get a trailer for Harry Knuckles, but here's a clip of the Back Seat Film Festival of 2006 which has some shots of Harry Knuckles. Just look for the Yeti. This looks like my kind of film festival!

Zombie Strippers

Welcome back Sporefans. This week we've got an extra special pop-review. I did not intend to review this movie, and it was not on the list of movies I had released for upcoming review, but when I saw this movie I knew that I had to review it. I must offer a word of warning concerning this weeks review:

There will be no pictures.

None. Not a one. I can't put up any pictures from this movie, because this week we're reviewing Zombie Strippers starring Jenna Jameson and Robert Englund. As I have mentioned previously, I don't host adult content or language on this site. (If you want that sort of thing, there's a whole Internet full of it out there just waiting for you. Go on, we'll just wait over here... where its clean.) Seeing as the movie Zombie Strippers is a movie about zombie strippers, I can't very well show you any stills from this movie. About 70% of the scenes involve one or more of the actresses being on screen without clothes. Okay, sometimes they wear shoes, but mostly without clothes.


Odd, there are no pictures, but the captions remain. What could it mean?


Did I mention that this hasn't been released on DVD yet? The only way you can only see this film is in select theaters or on the On-Demand service from cable and satellite providers. I know that some of you are rushing out to the video store now to see if you can pick up this movie, but you might want to wait and let me do the review first. After all, this movie has a plot. You're not just going to watch it for the naked girls.

Or are you?

If you are, then you'll be pleasantly surprised to learn that while Zombie Strippers reeks of production quality not seen since Ed Wood movies, it also contains excellent humor, great direction and superb performances by its cast.

No, not that... actual acting.

The movie is about a genetically engineered virus that turns people into zombies. The major difference in this movie is that women who are infected retain their cognitive abilities. Guys just turn into flesh eating zombies. This is also pretty much what happens to the audience when you watch this film. The following is a typical conversation you might overhear while watching this movie:

Woman: Wow, this movie is actually pretty funny.

Man: Boobies! Whoa! Look at 'em all!!!

Woman: You really are a jerk, you know that?

Man: Huh? Did you say something?

Woman: Yeah. I said, you're sleeping on the couch tonight.

So what do you do when your zombie experiment goes awry as they so often do in these movies? You send in a crack team of Army or Marines or... something... into your top secret government lab to exterminate the zombies. But when one of the soldiers gets infected, he has to escape to the only place around: an illegal strip club. This is where he hangs out until he turns completely into a zombie and decides to nibble on the neck of the star performer Kat (Jenna Jameson).


Wow, if you could only see the picture that I didn't post here. I guess you'll just have to use your imagination. Or watch the movie. That could work too, I guess.


At this point, you are probably wondering why anyone would ever decide to make a zombie virus in the first place. I didn't, but I usually have low expectations for these films. After you've seen thirty or seventy zombie movies, you stop asking these questions. This was a mistake on my part, as it was actually important enough to the movie to get addressed. The explanation in the movie is that if a soldier were killed on the battlefield, they would rise from the dead and continue to fight. Additionally, as the soldier was already dead, they would have no fears; making them the most fearsome warriors who ever thirsted for human blood in the history of warriors who thirsted for human blood.

But what would it do to strippers?

After rising from the dead like Jesus with bazongas, Kat decides it would be a really great idea to get back on stage and take her clothes off again. I mean, once you fall off a horse you need to get right back on it, right? Now that Kat has been freed of any self conscious fears that she might have had when she was alive, she can now take her clothes off better than any woman has ever taken her clothes off before.

To music.

Once Kat becomes the uber-stripper, the men who frequent this illegal night-spot all develop a taste... for zombie strippers. No, I don't mean that they eat her, I mean that living girls can no longer strip to the standards that Kat has set. She's raised the bar, or in a stripper's case raised the pole. No, not that one; the one they dance around! Soon, all the strippers are confronted with a dilemma of slightly less than epic proportions: become a zombie, or give up stripping!

Of course, the decision is easy for the goth chick Lillith (Roxy Saint), who immediately jumps up and asked to be turned into a zombie. Soon Kat has a small cadre of zombie strippers who, after showing off their corpses on stage, take several of the guys to the private rooms for a free show and private dinner. Apparently zombie strippers like to play with their food.

After the girls have finished with dinner, they wind up leaving quite a mess. Enter Robert Englund as Ian, the mysophobic strip club owner who must choose between his revulsion and his greed. Despite his over-riding OCD about being germ free he conspires to lock up the newly made man-zombies and collect a nice cut of the profits from the zombie stripper's shows. He is assisted by former stripper Madame Blavatski (Carmite Levite) and Paco the janitor (Joey Medina), both of which provide some of the funniest moments in the movie.

While this movie was a feast for the eyes it was also a feast for the mind. Writer and director Jay Lee filled the script with both complex and low brow humor for an interesting blend of comedic style and wit . There are plenty of jokes about philosophy: the name of the town the strip club is located in is Sartre, Nebraska and Kat reads from Nietzsche at several points (apparently he makes more sense when you're dead). But the low end humor is also present in the fight sequence close to the end where one of the strippers spins around the pole causing a whirlwind, and Kat uses some billiard balls as projectiles launched from... well lets just call it an incredibly unlikely place. I'm usually disappointed by someone who wears two hats in the production of a movie, by Lee has pulled it off by having, I dunno... what's the word? I use it so rarely around here.

Talent.

It must be talent, as I couldn't be swayed by anything else, could I? In conclusion, if you have to choose between watching Zombie Strippers and spending another evening watching some insipid movie from America's entertainment factory, choose Zombie Strippers. You'll be pleasantly surprised; and then immediately eaten.


No poll this week Sporefans, as blogflux keeps crashing. It has failed me. FAILED!!!

Last time I posted the trailer for Zombie Strippers. This week, have a taste of the opening night of Zombie Strippers as we join the cast at the premiere. Its so exciting, its just like a real Hollywood movie, but without all the undue hype.

The Deaths of Ian Stone

Descent. It's a downward motion. Sometimes a descent is a leisurely glide gently moving toward the Earth, like that of a bird landing soaring on a calming wind. At other times descent is a sudden burst of speed, a rapid fall which catches you at the last moment and hurls you back up into the air. Still other times descent is long, slow, boring and inevitable; such as when you listen to Coldplay; or, if you're a goldfish, like when your lifeless scaly body is sent upon that last great voyage into the greater unknown via that porcelain whir-pool in the tiled room of your two legged owners.

Welcome back to the tome, Sporefans. This week's review is a symbolic journey; a journey that descends from a pretty decent beginning into a sloppily crafted mid-point before it finally tips and crashes to a terrifying halt; full of sound and fury, ultimately signifying nothing. I hope you'll join me in this allegorical experience as I attempt to demonstrate exactly how terrible watching this movie was through imaginative story-telling, and perhaps some interpretive dance.

I think it goes without saying that I'm going to blow the ending of this movie for you.

Read the descending text at your own peril.

I present to you, The Deaths of Ian Stone.














My first attempt to construct a proper metaphor for the pain and suffering caused by watching this movie ended badly, as I tried to express my disappointment with a 1:96 scale recreation of the Hindenberg air ship. Sadly, that idea went up in flames. While applying burn cream to what was left of my eyebrows, I hit upon the idea that maybe I should use words to convey this idea, rather than a balloon filled with a highly combustible substance.

The following review is entwined with an allegorical story of a young man on a journey which parallels the experience of watching this film. Hopefully the review will be more entertaining than the movie.

Upon first reading the description for this movie, I was a bit intrigued. The Deaths of Ian Stone is another one of the Horrorfest 2008 8 films to die for. The premise of this movie is somewhat original. A young man named Ian Stone (Mike Vogel), is killed (repeatedly) by dark and mysterious forces. However, instead of remaining dead, Ian awakens in a new but slightly different life after each death.







This isn't about that money I owe you, is it? Cause I will totally pay you back... next Tuesday.


And now, on to our allegory. Picture if you will, a young man about to embark upon a voyage. To where, I cannot say. Mostly because it doesn't matter. At this point it would be wise to name our representative protagonist, as it would be confusing to call him "representative protagonist" throughout the story.

A lesser writer might be inclined to name this character something like "Mr. Metaphor" or "Story" or "Plot Device"; but not I dear Sporefans. No, I shall not resort to such un-originality. I have not been pigeon-holed by the Hollywood machine, nor have my creative energies been sucked dry by the ever hungry entertainment industry forcing me to churn out sub-standard movie plots to fill contractual obligations.

Let's just call our representative protagonist "Mr. Night" and leave it at that.

So on the start of our journey the young Mr. Night boards a plane in the metaphysical plane going to his inevitable and final destination. The plane is comfortable, well lit, and not full of livestock as planes are frequently depicted in Indiana Jones movies. The stewardess is attractive and friendly, and the alcohol is complementary. Such is the beginning of the Deaths of Ian Stone, a warm happy environment full of promise and free liquor.

As the movie continues, Stone finds that he's being stalked by strange creatures. These creatures seems to be attracted to the dying and appear to feed off of some ethereal energies emitted by expiring humans. Most people can not see these creatures, but as Ian spends most of the movie being reincarnated we can assume that he is not like most people. During his second incarnation Ian meets an old man (Michael Feast) who warns him of the dangers of the mysterious entities who seek to kill Ian once again.










Buddy, your hands are really cold!


Back in the land of metaphors, the stewardess approaches Mr. Night and informs him that the passenger sitting next to the emergency exit is uncomfortable with the responsibilities of sitting next to the emergency door, and asks our reluctant hero if he would mind exchanging seats. With a slight feeling of trepidation Mr. Night accepts this solemn and serious duty, and is moved to the seat next to the emergency exit. As he settles in to his new seat he notices a small boy staring at him. The boy's face is covered in chocolate and he stares intently at Mr. Night.

"Hey there little guy," Mr. Night stammers, "My name is Mr. Night."

The boy does not respond, but stares at him coldly. After an uncomfortable minute of trying to ignore the child, Mr. Night finally asks "What's your name?"

"Plot device," the boy responds flatly.

Indeed, you too would feel a cold knot in your stomach if you were watching The Deaths of Ian Stone and saw a sage old man warning Ian about monsters who are out to get him, and telling Ian to protect Jenny (Christina Cole), Ian's sometimes girlfriend in this crazy mixed up world. Indeed, while it doesn't derail the movie, it is an ominous portent of things to come.










Ian prepares to get some dental work done by a dominatrix/monster. Unfortunatly this was the only doctor his dental plan would cover. Perhaps next time Ian won't go with "G'narg the eater of 1000 souls dental insurance."

Or perhaps he will. Maybe he's into that sort of thing.


As the movie continues Stone flees his supernatural pursuers while trying to get Jenny to remember their previous lives together. The movie progresses fairly smoothly until about half way in when it is revealed that Ian is not human, but of the same race as the creatures who are pursuing him.

Perhaps its me. Perhaps I have become jaded, or cynical with time. Perhaps I'm just crabby and irate. But when one of the key plot twists in a monster movie is "The protagonist is also a monster!" I tend to look unfavorably upon that movie. When you couple this with "The protagonist is a monster more powerful than the monster's who are out to get him/her," my revulsion grows exponentially. This cheap and tawdry move by Brendan Hood, the author of this rapidly descending film, takes an otherwise decent film and covers it with glitter and stickers. I haven't seen such juvenile one ups-man-ship since I was in grade school.




Summarily, someone should pay dearly for this crap. Luckily we have an allegorical scapegoat waiting by.







Not only is this guy about to be devoured, he's also soiled himself.


This turn of events in an otherwise decent movie is the beginning of the downward spiral of the plot. The allegorical representation of this effect would be if Plot device, the creepy and chocolate covered child sitting next to Mr. Night were to open the emergency door of the plane and hurl Mr. Night into the azure void for no apparent raisin. While I fully understand that the plot to my allegorical tale lacks motivation or subtlety, so too does the plot of the Deaths of Ian Stone; and I hope that this lack of intricacy truly reflects the emotional and psychic trauma inflicted upon me from watching this movie. I will not address how a small child possesses the strength to throw a grown man from an airplane, nor how the plane does not depressurize hurtling all the passengers inside the plane into the sky; for it truly does not matter.

It is just a crude allegory, after all.

The final slice of salt covered lemon thrust into the open wound that is the movie entitled The Deaths of Ian Stone comes in the form of the final "plot twist". The reason that the other Reapers are after Ian is due to the fact that Ian has the power to kill other's of his kind. Apparently the Reapers are immortal unless a very specific set of circumstances is fulfilled which gives them the power to kill others of their species. Very specific circumstances that are highly improbable. Something that most people would not associate with the power to kill. Something that you would find in a low budget movie from the 1980's.

In order to kill one of their own kind a Reaper has to find true love.










It seems Mr. Stone has a few more scars since the last time we saw him. That's what happens when you let a crazy dominatrix/monster do your dental work... and perform a few unnecessary surgeries...

You don't even want to know what she did with the rubber ducky.

You do want to know, don't you? You're really sick, you know that? Sick!


It is at this point that our allegorical hero Mr. Night ends his vertical journey, but not impacting with the Earth. Instead, he is impaled on a radio antenna atop a large building, creating an end befitting the allegory of watching The Deaths of Ian Stone. Truly this movie came crashing to a terrible halt in a gruesome and tawdry display of bad writing. How... how I ask you, could this movie or this allegory get any worse than the sappy Hollywood pleasing ending which makes a mangled mess of what was otherwise a decent premise?

Oh. Also, finding true love gives Ian the ability to bring his deceased girlfriend back to life. Cause, you know... he had to stab her.

Did I mention that Mr. Night was impaled by the radio antenna in the most humiliating and painful way possible? You know what I'm talking about. But... at least that's an end fitting of this ending.


OK Sporefans, against my better judgement I'm going to post the trailer for The Deaths of Ian Stone. I think watching this trailer is a waste of time, so if you're like me, you'll be watching this instead.

Nightmare Man

Every year After Dark pictures releases 8 films to die for. Inevitably one of them always sucks. Last year's entry of suckitude was The Gravedancers, a film I decided not to review... for now. This year After Dark pictures released a couple of not so great films, but the one that stands out the most from this year's lot is Nightmare Man.














I'm going to start off right now by saying that I'm going to ruin the ending of this movie for you. It's really not worth watching, so I don't consider it to be a big loss. If you want to see this movie, stop reading.

NOW.


Otherwise keep reading.


I knew you would keep reading. This further adds merit to my claim that this movie sucks. Not even warnings of spoiling the ending will avert your eyes from the horrors I am about to unfold. You, dear Sporefan, are wise, and can now spend 89 minutes of your life doing something more productive.

In Nightmare Man a woman named Ellen (Blythe Metz) falls into some form of psychosis after getting a freaky ancient African fertility mask. Believing the mask to be evil, Ellen now thinks that there is a masked man or creature who is out to get her. I guess she should have read the description on eBay more carefully.

Her husband decides to get her help and files paperwork to have her committed in a happy fun sanatorium somewhere amidst the rolling forests of California. On their way out to said sanatorium, their car breaks down. Hubby (Luciano Szafir) decides to take a walk to get some gas, leaving his deranged wife to fight off...

THE NIGHTMARE MAN!

...which is just some guy in the freaky African fertility/demon mask. I swear the thing is designed to scare you into having a child. In no other way could this mask ever possibly be construed to have anything to do with fertility.










Boo! Get pregnant! What, is this not working for you? I could get the mask from Satan's Little Helper if that what turns you on.


Meanwhile, four friends Mia, Jack, Ed and Trinity (Tiffany Shepis, James Ferris, Jack Sway and Carrie Ann Mo... err, I meant Hanna Putnam) are having a party in their remote cabin in the woods. This cabin is so remote that if anything should happen... anything... like a masked killer were to stalk the inhabitants or something unusual like that... the police would not be able to reach it in less than three hours.

But Ellen makes it there in about 5 minutes or so. Did I mention that they have working electricity?

Let's examine exactly how long a three hour trip by car is, shall we. Let's assume that after the occupants of this cabin called the police that they responded to the call promptly. I mean, people are being murdered, so its safe to assume that the police are on their way and not sitting around somewhere doing nothing. Lets also posit that the police en route to a homicide in progress would not be driving at the speed limit, so they would be travelling on I-5 en route to the mountains at somewhere between 60 and 115 miles per hour.

This would mean that the police officer en route to a homicide in progress was somewhere between 180 and 345 miles away. Given that I-5 runs for 796.53 miles in California, and that police are more concentrated in heavily populated areas, I would have to conclude that there are only two police officers in the entire Northern half of California. Either that, or they called in some out of state back up.














OK, so this movie does have some redeeming qualities.


This movie was written and directed by Rolfe Kanefsky. I can only assume that Mr. Kanefsky has issues with spatial relation. However, I have to give Rolfe some props for a couple of decently funny murder scenes; my personal favorite being the one where the boyfriend stands in front of an open window vowing to avenge the death of his girl when his chest is perforated several times with arrows from the crossbow that the campers dropped early in the movie.









So, how exactly did the killer get your crossbow again, hon? I just want to be sure before moving away from this big window where there's plenty of light.


But what kind of supernatural being uses a crossbow to kill? If you guessed that the killer was a real live person just wearing a mask, then you're correct Sporefans. The movie makes it pretty obvious that someone wants Ellen dead. Someone who probably took out a large life insurance policy on her. Someone who was going to have her committed to a loony bin. Someone who hired some schlep to wear a mask and scare the crap out of his wife. Like the meteor that killed the dinosaurs, this plot device looms over the whole movie; and it should be a surprise to no one when this revelation lands and blots out the sky with giant clouds of crap. Like a train wreck in slow motion, we all saw it coming but no one could do anything about it.

I guess that Mr. Kanefsky realized that he showed his plot twist too early, because he decided to sink all of his foreshadowing into the first plot twist and none into the second. When the masked killer finally corners Ellen and prepares to kill her, she turns into a demon for seemingly no apparent raisin.

Then she kills a lot of people.

Ellen and Mia duke it out, and when Ellen dies the Nightmare Man jumps into Mia. Then the credits roll and your left with a mixed feeling of disappointment and shame for having wasted so much of your time on this piece of crap.



Click for a Latin-English translator.


If I had to draw some sort of parable to this movie, I would say that it was like that episode of Scooby Doo where they find out it was the old man who would have gotten away with it had it not been for those meddling kids. It really doesn't matter which episode of Scooby Doo you pick, they're pretty much all the same. Its even got the same thinly veiled sexual tension between Daphne and Velma, or was that just my imagination? Well its just like that, except at the end Shaggy turns into a demon and eats the rest of the gang. So, yeah, that's pretty much Nightmare Man in a nutshell. Scooby Doo, but with demonic possession.

Believe it or not, I actually found the trailer to this movie. Unfortunately I'm borrowing a computer at the moment and am having trouble getting the file to embed, you're just gonna have to do it the old fashioned way and click the link.

See you next time, Sporefans!

Procrastinating

So I seem to have some computer woes. I know that you've all been waiting patiently for the new review, so here's something to keep you occupied in the meantime..

Choose your favorite movie villain!!!

Here's how it works: I'll give you a brief lowdown on four movie villains, and you pick which one you like the best. Think of it like the Oscar's for fictional characters, but you get to vote and its not decided by a shadowy board of members operating from obscurity.

Or, if you like, pretend that you are a member of a shadowy board of members and that you're operating from obscurity in your own home. Love that Internet don't cha?

The contestants are the following:













First, up is Pinhead from the movie Hellraiser. Pinhead is not only famous for his stylish haircut, but also for his sadomasochistic love of ripping people apart with barbed chains as well as a few well timed barbed comments!

"Your suffering will be legendary, even in Hell." -Pinhead.











Second is Mola Ram, from the movie Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Politician by day and heart ripping priest by night, Mola Ram sports evil on multiple levels. Plus, he betrayed Sheba. Oooh.















You can't have a movie villain contest without the Joker from the movie Batman, or at least without comments about his funny purple gas. Maybe he should have that checked out by a doctor.
















Last, but not least on the list is Richter from the movie Total Recall. I couldn't get a decent shot of the character, but as its Michael Ironside it doesn't matter. Our of all the villains listed here, Ironside is the guy who is most likely to actually be evil outside the movies. I mean... uhhh... I'm sure he's not, but... uhhh...

Please don't kill me Mr. Ironside.