Zombos' Closet of Horror

Movie Review: The Final Destination (2009) Shades of Death Over Leaves of Grass

Rating 3 of 7: Good

"What are you doing?" asked Zombos.

I dog-eared the page I was reading in New Genre 6. "I'm sorry?"

"You have not written your review of The Final Destination," he said.

"Death goes a-deathing. People die horribly. What's more to say beyond that?

"You see, there, that is your problem. You are not creative enough. Now, I have been thinking of ways you can add je ne sais quoi to your reviews. They have been rather stale lately."

"Really?" I said, but not with much enthusiasm.

He continued, ignoring my lack of enthusiasm. "Yes. For instance, why not look at doing a review in a completely different way."

"Way?" I asked.

"Way." He jabbed his right forefinger into his left palm. "Take The Final Destination." He rested his forefinger on his chin. "Let me think, yes; I have the perfect answer to creatively review it: Walt Whitman." He waved his forefinger for emphasis.

"Walt Whitman?" I asked.

"Yes, Walt Whitman. Leaves of Grass. I hear America Singing. There. Now go, fly with it!" He flew out of the room, leaving me with one of those conundrum in a peanut shell situations we all face now and then. I seem to get them a lot, though. I put New Genre 6 aside and jotted down my review for The Final Destination. If Walt Whitman were a zombie he' eat me for sure after this.

I Hear the Deathly Screaming (in The Final Destination)

I hear Nick and Lori, Hunt and Janet screaming, and cussing, and breathing heavy and hard, their varied shrieks of fear I hear,
From death's mechanics, each one swung with his scythe wide, as it should be blithe
and strong, whilst wacking heads and limbs akimbo, bone and muscle, and formerly high spirits,
into fallow, shallow ground of McKinley Speedway, and everywhere else they run
Nick shrieking his premonitions, he measures his chances, nail and coffin width long, as George (the security guard) runs in fright from his inevitable smackdown, tries hanging himself,
but still no good
Lori hissy-fitting her bewilderment as she makes ready for ignoring death's hooves fastly approaching, or leaves off
salvation by not believing in Nick's foreshadows of graveyard co-ops, for all, coming soon enough,
Hunt bemoaning Charon's dire boatman dirging of what belongs to him in his rotting boat, the pool man cursing the
sticky mess Hunt leaves behind, all suckered innards spouting in fountains of grue, clearing out the pool real fast, as
sparking electrical circuits burn bright (lots of that in this movie, too)
Janet screaming as she drives through her car wash, the bristly-brushes whizzing closer as she sticks her head in their way,
but stay the Grand Guignol hand and spoil the girl, to vain thoughts of
giddily escaping death's plan--
until later, when he can dish it out even worse, of course
Lori's song of mistaken relief, the deathboy's not on his way in the morning, or at nooning intermission, or at
sundowning, to sharpen his blade 'gainst wet red oozing twitching body parts
The delicious grinding of the escalator, or zinging of the shearing metal flying, or the phat tire splatting, or the
air-compressed canister flattening, all in marvelously punctuated 3-D
Each groaning what body parts belong to him or her and to no one else, though it's all mixed up
The day what belongs to death—at night the parade of dead
teens, robustly still dead, or dying, or waiting their turn
Screaming with open mouths, when left intact, their strong outcries in stereophonic crescendos, 'gainst awaiting another destination,
'cause it ain't over yet 'til the fat lady gets hers (or the audience stops coming, but then they'll reimagine, rework, rewrite, rethink, rekindle this franchise till no one else remains, but death grinning over all)

Movie Review: Tokyo Gore Police (2008) What the Hell?

Gooey, hilarious and seriously sick, “Tokyo Gore Police” asks little of Ms. Shiina (a former Benetton model) but fierce poses and great legs. A close perusal of the press notes also reveals her shoe size; perhaps her fans have fetishes of their own (New York Times review).

I grabbed Glenor Glenda's elbow as her foot slipped on the ice water puddling across the Mongolian teak wood floor of Zombos' study. She composed herself, slid the steaming hot mug of Satan's Balls back to the center of her serving tray, and properly presented Chef Machiavelli's frothy and zesty spiced rum-cocoa concoction--splashed with peach-ginger--to our shivering and quite unexpected guest.

"May I get you a blanket...Mister...? Glenor asked.

"Lucifer. Oh, hell, let's not stand on formality; just call me Luc, okay? You're a darling, but I doubt a blanket would help." Lucifer's long red tail waved excitedly as he sipped his drink. "By Tartarus! This drink is wicked bad! And you say your Chef doesn't use any black arts? Amazing! My cook couldn't find her way round a souffle, even with her three heads. Damn creature burns everything. Ah, this sinful beverage is heating up my rump. In spite of all the fur in my nether region I was going numb down there, you know." He winked at our flirtatious maid. Glenor giggled. I cleared my throat. She stopped giggling.

"Oh, jealous are we? You needn't be." He winked at me and flicked his tongue in a devilish manner. Glenor clapped her hand to her mouth stifling another giggle, which was doing its best to burst forth. My withering glance at her helped keep it at bay.

I was desperate. "Zombos? Any luck?"

Trailer Park of Terror (2008)

ZC Rating 3 of 7: Good (but not my cup of tea)

From the case files of the League of Reluctant Reviewers comes this trashy horror, based on the Imperium Comics series, that will make you think twice before eating beef jerky ever again.

The Adventure of the Nauseating Necromancer

I remember it all quite well. It came uninvited in a small brown envelope mixed in with the mail, on a day when the leaves tousled angrily on the limbs of dying trees, fighting against their inevitable descent to lesser heights of vibrancy. An oily pipe smoke fog, so thick it choked the throat and chilled the soul, gamboled in the deserted streets, stirred by winds playfully knocking off the hats of the few brave passersby hurrying along the quiet streets. Darkness had come early this unusual day in October. I twirled my scarf tighter to ward off the dampness. Or was it something else that made me shake uncontrollably as I tapped the brass flamingo knocker against the massive oak door of 999 Transient Street.

"Welcome Mr. Bolton. Good to see you again," said Chalmers. He took my raincoat and scarf as we walked toward the Champagne Room, so named because of the pale yellow light that reflected in sparkling shimmers from its large Waterford crystal chandelier. Chalmers reached for the small brown envelope. I instinctively held it tighter, though I was not sure why. He smiled and went to hang up my coat. I entered the room.

"Punctual as usual," said the unseen man sitting in the Chippendale wing chair facing the fireplace. A lively fire blazed on the grate. "Let me see it," he said in a soothing voice. I relaxed my grip on the envelope and dropped it into the starkly white hand that appeared from the left side of the chair. The envelope disappeared from sight for a few seconds. A light chuckle came from the unseen occupant of the chair. "You do bring the most challenging movies."

Chalmers appeared. "Your drink is ready, and I've taken the liberty of leaving a copy of Mayberry's Zombie CSU for your perusal while you wait."

"Thank you," I said and followed Chalmers to another, smaller room, where a polished Stiegel glass, filled with lightly chilled sherry, waited for me . The cheery, paisley-tailed peacocks embroidered into the linen upholstery of the settee I nestled into were very soothing, and the plump cushioned seat, along with the sherry, had my cheeks on both ends glowing with warmth. I started reading about zombies while the League of Reluctant Reviewers did what few could do or care to; there but for the grace of God and all that as John Bradford would say.

Two Thousand Maniacs! (1964)

Glenor Glenda, our maid, was upside down. Rather, her face was upside down. Or maybe I was upside down. I couldn't tell much through the foggy haze. Suddenly her face changed to Saw's Billy the Puppet's upside down face, leering at me with with those cold, unblinking eyes. I closed my eyes wishing him to go away.

"Good lord, now what?" I heard Zombos say.

"He passed out," she frantically said. "I think he was watching Two Thousand Maniacs! when he fainted."

"Here, then, give me the smelling salts. And stop bending over him like that. Give him some air."

I opened my eyes. Zombos' face was upside down now, leering at me with its stern, accusatory eyes. I wished him to go away.

"You ninny," he said, holding the smelling salts under my nose. "Don't know why you insist on putting yourself through these exercises in self-punishment. If you don't want to see Saw IV, then just don't see it."

He helped me to my feet, though I was still a bit wobbly. "I thought if I prepared myself by watching one of the earliest gore films it would help desensitize me. I have a responsibility to our readers," I explained.

"Oh, I think the five of them really don't want to see Saw IV, either," joked Zombos. At least I hope he was joking. "How far did you get into Herschell Gordon Lewis' Two Thousand Maniacs?"

"The axe scene. When she got her thumb cut off I started getting woozy. The axe scene did me in after that." I sipped the glass of Glen Caren Glenor handed to me. There's nothing like a vatted malt whiskey to bring back the color in your cheeks; bright red color, like the color of freshly spilled blood.

Hostel (2005)

ZC Rating 4 of 7: Very Good

Thank you. It's very exciting for me to be here, especially since I know that there are some people from Slovakia who probably want to kill me for making this movie. In America, Hostel is a very terrifying horror film for many people, but I truly believe it could become one of the great comedy classics here in Eastern Europe. I'm sure you have questions, and about why I made Slovakia look like all of a sudden it's from the 1950s, and what it might do to the tourist industry in Slovakia, and I look forward to answering all your questions and hopefully I will not get tortured to death. (Eli Roth, 'Smash hit horror Hostel causes stir among citizens of sleepy Slovakia')

Whistling. I hate whistling in a horror movie. It's such a pleasant activity, a normal activity; one that reflects a satisfied, joyful—even exuberant state of mind in the whistler. That's why it's so frightening and effective in the opening scene of Hostel. To hear that simple tune casually whistled by one of the "janitors" as he nonchalantly cleans the guest suites, routinely rinsing away the red splatter and body chunks down a drain, will freeze your blood. Just another day at work: just another day in hell; especially for the tourists. And you thought the plane trip was torture.This chilling contrast between the innocuous whistling and the gory evidence of disturbing activity is frightening, setting the gruesome tone for the film. Callous indifference is the theme here with people unconcerned that intense suffering and death are their job. They make money from it so it's okay; providing human cattle to be slaughtered by bored Über-rich seeking ever more intense emotional experiences, dehumanizing themselves in their avid consumerism.

What redeems this film from being a gratuitous exercise in explicit gore and sadistic violence is Paxton, the survivor. He starts out as another hedonistic consumer, but gains a precious sense of his soul while losing two fingers along the way. He is forced to care: he cares enough to take time while escaping to pick up his severed fingers; he also cares enough to rush back into the charnel house, after narrowly escaping the caress of a chainsaw, to save a girl he hardly knows.

His decision sets up one of the more intense and nauseating scenes in a film filled with them. When he finds her, she is missing half of her face, and one eye dangles precariously from its now burned-out socket. That dangling eye does present a problem. Okay, what do you do? At this point I had my hands over my eyes, but through my fingers I could see the flash of scissors as Paxton decides what he must do. You know what's coming, but Roth extends the tense moment into an excruciating eternity.

Roth tickles our fear-bone: the fear comes from being helpless while someone can commit any form of injury on you, and fear also comes from the knowledge that the amoral townsfolk in this creepy village gladly share in this consumerism-from-hell scenario. Even the children are sadistic monsters, roaming the town and demanding tribute; willing to harm or kill for a bag of candy. Being a foreigner in Hostel is a death sentence. The chilling words spoken to Paxton by one of the rich clients sums up the moral decay best: “Be careful: you could spend all your money in there.”

But after a film like Hostel, where do you go? How much torture and depravity can an audience take in a horror film? I'm sure Roth will try and find out.

Hostel a comedy classic? Find out more at Radio Prague.

Hostel: Part II 2007: Hard Horror Has Found a New Home

I wanted to take a long hot shower after watching Hostel: Part II. I felt dirty. The horror genre is a distasteful, discomforting one to begin with; that's what sustains it. It's supposed to both titillate and frighten us at the same time with shocking images, unpleasant sounds, and extreme, sometimes disgusting, subject matter. But then there's Eli Roth's Hostel series, rolling up all those elements into a nice and tidy puke-ball of horrifyingly intense and nauseating brutality. The problem is that he does it so convincingly well.

Unlike another, albeit less gruesome, torture-flick, 1970's Mark of the Devil, there are no gimmicky vomit bags to be handed out here to lighten the experience, though now's the time they'd come in handy. Time was, you went to a horror movie to be grossed-out, but in a fun way. Thrills and chills, and some red spills, but ha-ha, just make believe your sick and keep that vomit bag pristine because it makes a wonderful souvenir.

Of course there are many horror films, from grind-house to art-house, that do their best to make you upchuck your last meal or your complacency, but Roth's fictional Slovakian village, filled with menacing townspeople—including the children—pushes your complacency right out the window, then stomps on it's fingers as it desperately dangles from the windowsill trying to avoid that long fall downward.